As for the story itself, I liked it. The madness of the main character is clearly conveyed. His love for animals was tender, but only at a distance. As soon as he realized that he was receiving more than enough love, when it became something so close to him, so important that it finally reached all the depths of his soul... and at a depth where light does not penetrate, various creatures are hiding carefree and unnoticed... just one of these creatures broke out through his all-encompassing love. Everyone has their own dark side, their own madness, their own love of impunity and cruelty. Everyone sometimes wants to scream, break, hurt themselves and others, just to feel alive. Pain is an integral part of life, associated with almost all truly important feelings. And it becomes the brightest in the blink of an eye, as soon as the rest of the senses are dulled. But usually, when choosing “to hurt yourself or someone who won’t be known about,” a person chooses the second for very clear reasons. Here we go main character did the same.
He was mad from the very beginning. From the very beginning, there was more of an animal in him: he was unattached and indifferent to people, he was too quiet, calculating (like a predator preparing to jump). He made one single mistake - he said specifically about the walls (well, who would doubt it, because what else could be spinning in his head after such a long and grueling job of sealing his body in the wall). And the image of a cat returning for revenge. A kind of crime and punishment.
But still, there are shortcomings in the story, and quite noticeable ones. By the way the images are revealed (without unnecessary explanations and, more importantly, clues through which logical chains could be drawn), I conclude that the purpose of the story was precisely to “scare.” The images are shown too briefly, practically not filled with feelings that are not important to the plot. On the one hand, there is nothing superfluous, on the other, there are too few feelings, and too much thirst for evil, and this evil is shown too superficially (again, there are few feelings, because they are the key to understanding all the sacraments). The story lacks depth. The superficial horror is shown very well... but it is the living feelings that create the depth, and they are lacking here. This is a very big minus. But it is typical for the majority short stories so much so that it has practically become a feature of the genre.
Marina Serova
Black cat
Marina Serova. Black cat. M.: Eksmo, 2009. ISBN 978-5-699-3306
It was necessary for private detective Tatyana Ivanova to set herself up like that - to chase after the main suspect in order to end up being arrested for his own murder! Colonel Kiryanov of the Ministry of Internal Affairs approached Ivanova at the request of his friend. The famous detective was required to find a girl whose parents had died. The father left his daughter an inheritance that, it would seem, no one claims. But a holy place is never empty; other applicants have also turned up. They kidnapped an orphan, and now they got serious about Tatiana...
- Just look how pretty they are!
- Why do I need them?
-... how fluffy...
- Where should I take them?
– ...it’s a pleasure to even look at it!
- Yes, I won’t even have time to look after them...
So, without much success, I tried to fight off my next clients, for whom I had just completed an investigation and who stubbornly insisted that in addition to the fee, I would certainly take a kitten as a gift.
These people were engaged, as a hobby, in breeding Persian cats and highly praised the next litter to me, constantly using the word “extreme people.” Apparently, this was supposed to mean that the resulting kittens were a very pure breed, but every time I was itching to say that in my profession I have enough extreme sports even without kittens. But I restrained my desire so as not to offend people who, from the bottom of their hearts, offered the best they had.
The kittens were indeed very cute and incredibly fluffy, but I firmly remembered that with my lifestyle, if I wanted to have a pet, I would definitely have to hire special person who would look after him. Just so that the unfortunate animal does not die of starvation while I spend the whole day chasing another scoundrel. Therefore, having explained as politely and tactfully as possible that, even if I wanted to, I could not accept such an expensive gift, I finally found myself on the street.
It was a wonderful June day. The task turned out to be not too difficult, I did not feel particularly tired, and, apparently, this factor, combined with good weather and the fee I had just received, awakened in me a long-forgotten childhood desire to take a walk. Just wander the streets, not thinking about anything and enjoying fresh air.
But then the thought occurred to me that if I wandered the streets completely alone without any specific purpose, those around me might misunderstand me. So I decided to take a walk a little differently.
“I’ll drive to the center,” I thought, “and there I’ll sit down at a table in some street cafe, order myself coffee and smoke and stare at passers-by, like in the good student days, when we ran away from lectures.”
No sooner said than done. About twenty minutes later I was already walking along one of the central streets of our city and looking for a suitable place among the numerous summer cafes, which, on the occasion of the warm season, multiplied like mushrooms after the rain.
Suddenly I noticed something that made me stop for a minute. In the middle of the week, at the height of the working day, sitting at a table in one of the cafes was none other than my old friend Vladimir Sergeevich Kiryanov, a police lieutenant colonel and an extremely busy, and most importantly, disciplined person.
While I was thinking about what kind of out-of-the-ordinary circumstances forced Kiryu to leave his office during working hours and whether I should now reveal my presence and greet him, he himself noticed me and waved his hand for me to come over.
- Tatiana! By the way! Sit down, we're talking.
Besides Kiryanov, there was one more person sitting at the table. He was a middle-aged man with a rather heavy build, with a very worried expression on his face. Taking a closer look, I noticed the same expression of extreme concern on Kiri’s face.
– Here, please meet Nikolai Petrovich Semenov, my old friend and generally a good guy. Kolya, this is Tatyana. I didn’t have time to tell you... Well, in general, you can also say - an old friend...
- Old?
“Well, not so literally... in the sense of a long time ago,” Kirya inattentively justified himself, whose thoughts, quite obviously, were occupied with something else.
I realized that the interlocutors were busy with some really serious problem and they had no time for jokes right now.
“...yes...friend...” Kirya continued. – A friend, one might say, a fighting one. I had the opportunity to... eat more than one pound of salt together... yes... She worked for us at one time, now she works independently. I think this is just what you need.
“Just a minute,” I decided to intervene in this nostalgic speech. – Maybe someone will let me know the essence of the matter? It is possible, and even very likely, that I am exactly what someone needs, but I think it wouldn’t hurt to take an interest in what I need.
– Sorry, Tanya, we’re all talking about our own things here... Of course, Kolya will explain to you now. But first, tell me, how is your time? Are you investigating anything right now?
- I just finished the job.
- Is that so? Well, that's very good.
- Do you think so?
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that “old friend and good guy” Kolya turned to Kiryanov with some problem of his own, which he, for some reasons still unknown to me, considered it more convenient to entrust to me. That is why he asked if I had anything to do right now. And that is why, of course, he is not at all interested in the fact that, having just finished the investigation, I would like to rest a little.
“Of course, good,” Kirya confirmed my guesses. – After all, if you are free now, then that means you can help us.
It was useless to dissuade him.
- And with what? – I asked without much enthusiasm.
- You see, this is the thing... Kolya... he needs to find one person... a girl. But the problem is that this girl is... well, how can I put it... in general, no one. That is, it doesn’t even make sense for me to accept an official wanted statement from him. Because, you understand, on what basis? And worst of all, this girl has no relatives who could submit such a statement officially. Basically, she's an orphan. Here you go. And you definitely need to find it. Because the consequences can be... the saddest. Therefore, in my opinion, the most effective action here will be through unofficial channels, and you, as a private detective, yourself understand... the best option. Of course, I will always help you in any way I can - of course, if you undertake. – Kirya looked at me questioningly.
Marina Serova
Black cat
Marina Serova. Black cat. M.: Eksmo, 2009. ISBN 978-5-699-3306
It was necessary for private detective Tatyana Ivanova to set herself up like that - to chase after the main suspect in order to end up being arrested for his own murder! Colonel Kiryanov of the Ministry of Internal Affairs approached Ivanova at the request of his friend. The famous detective was required to find a girl whose parents had died. The father left his daughter an inheritance that, it would seem, no one claims. But a holy place is never empty; other applicants have also turned up. They kidnapped an orphan, and now they got serious about Tatiana...
- Just look how pretty they are!
- Why do I need them?
-... how fluffy...
- Where should I take them?
– ...it’s a pleasure to even look at it!
- Yes, I won’t even have time to look after them...
So, without much success, I tried to fight off my next clients, for whom I had just completed an investigation and who stubbornly insisted that in addition to the fee, I would certainly take a kitten as a gift.
These people were engaged, as a hobby, in breeding Persian cats and highly praised the next litter to me, constantly using the word “extreme people.” Apparently, this was supposed to mean that the resulting kittens were a very pure breed, but every time I was itching to say that in my profession I have enough extreme sports even without kittens. But I restrained my desire so as not to offend people who, from the bottom of their hearts, offered the best they had.
The kittens were indeed very cute and incredibly fluffy, but I firmly remembered that with my lifestyle, if I wanted to have a pet, I would definitely have to hire a special person to look after it. Just so that the unfortunate animal does not die of starvation while I spend the whole day chasing another scoundrel. Therefore, having explained as politely and tactfully as possible that, even if I wanted to, I could not accept such an expensive gift, I finally found myself on the street.
It was a wonderful June day. The task turned out to be not too difficult, I did not feel particularly tired, and, apparently, this factor, combined with good weather and the fee I had just received, awakened in me a long-forgotten childhood desire to take a walk. Just wander the streets, not thinking about anything and enjoying the fresh air.
But then the thought occurred to me that if I wandered the streets completely alone without any specific purpose, those around me might misunderstand me. So I decided to take a walk a little differently.
“I’ll drive to the center,” I thought, “and there I’ll sit down at a table in some street cafe, order myself coffee and smoke and stare at passers-by, like in the good student days, when we ran away from lectures.”
No sooner said than done. About twenty minutes later I was already walking along one of the central streets of our city and looking for a suitable place among the numerous summer cafes, which, on the occasion of the warm season, multiplied like mushrooms after the rain.
Suddenly I noticed something that made me stop for a minute. In the middle of the week, at the height of the working day, sitting at a table in one of the cafes was none other than my old friend Vladimir Sergeevich Kiryanov, a police lieutenant colonel and an extremely busy, and most importantly, disciplined person.
While I was thinking about what kind of out-of-the-ordinary circumstances forced Kiryu to leave his office during working hours and whether I should now reveal my presence and greet him, he himself noticed me and waved his hand for me to come over.
- Tatiana! By the way! Sit down, we're talking.
Besides Kiryanov, there was one more person sitting at the table. He was a middle-aged man with a rather heavy build, with a very worried expression on his face. Taking a closer look, I noticed the same expression of extreme concern on Kiri’s face.
– Here, please meet Nikolai Petrovich Semenov, my old friend and generally a good guy. Kolya, this is Tatyana. I didn’t have time to tell you... Well, in general, you can also say - an old friend...
- Old?
“Well, not so literally... in the sense of a long time ago,” Kirya inattentively justified himself, whose thoughts, quite obviously, were occupied with something else.
I realized that the interlocutors were busy with some really serious problem and they had no time for jokes right now.
“...yes...friend...” Kirya continued. – A friend, one might say, a fighting one. I had the opportunity to... eat more than one pound of salt together... yes... She worked for us at one time, now she works independently. I think this is just what you need.
“Just a minute,” I decided to intervene in this nostalgic speech. – Maybe someone will let me know the essence of the matter? It is possible, and even very likely, that I am exactly what someone needs, but I think it wouldn’t hurt to take an interest in what I need.
– Sorry, Tanya, we’re all talking about our own things here... Of course, Kolya will explain to you now. But first, tell me, how is your time? Are you investigating anything right now?
- I just finished the job.
- Is that so? Well, that's very good.
- Do you think so?
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that “old friend and good guy” Kolya turned to Kiryanov with some problem of his own, which he, for some reasons still unknown to me, considered it more convenient to entrust to me. That is why he asked if I had anything to do right now. And that is why, of course, he is not at all interested in the fact that, having just finished the investigation, I would like to rest a little.
“Of course, good,” Kirya confirmed my guesses. – After all, if you are free now, then that means you can help us.
It was useless to dissuade him.
- And with what? – I asked without much enthusiasm.
- You see, this is the thing... Kolya... he needs to find one person... a girl. But the problem is that this girl is... well, how can I put it... in general, no one. That is, it doesn’t even make sense for me to accept an official wanted statement from him. Because, you understand, on what basis? And worst of all, this girl has no relatives who could submit such a statement officially. Basically, she's an orphan. Here you go. And you definitely need to find it. Because the consequences can be... the saddest. Therefore, in my opinion, the most effective action here will be through unofficial channels, and you, as a private detective, yourself understand... the best option. Of course, I will always help you in any way I can - of course, if you undertake. – Kirya looked at me questioningly.
Black cat in a white room
Elena Ivanovna Mikhalkova
Investigations of Makar Ilyushin and Sergei Babkin
“Masha opened the door with her key, and she heard voices from the room. Makar was explaining something measuredly, and from time to time he was interrupted by Sergei’s low voice.
“... because the rules prohibit it,” she heard a fragment of a phrase before she looked into the living room, where her husband and Makar Ilyushin were sitting in front of a backgammon board, one with a tense expression on his face, the other with a carefree one...”
Elena Mikhalkova
Black cat in a white room
Masha opened the door with her key, and she heard voices from the room. Makar was explaining something measuredly, and from time to time he was interrupted by Sergei’s low voice.
“...because the rules prohibit it,” she heard a fragment of a phrase before she looked into the living room, where her husband and Makar Ilyushin were sitting in front of a backgammon board, one with a tense expression on his face, the other with a carefree one.
- Masha! – Sergei jumped up, noticing his wife. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”
- Hello! “She kissed her husband on the cheek, sank into a chair with relief and stretched out her feet, tired from her shoes. – Finally, I’m home... Makar, did you beat him?
- If only! – he responded, grinning. – I’m trying to explain the rules to him first. How's the party, Mash?
She shook her head.
– I don’t even know what to answer. I feared the worst, but everything went well. Except...
She fell silent, looking at the board on which the blue and green stones taken from her vase were arranged.
“We’ll return the stones,” Sergei hurried. – You didn’t finish. Except for what?
“Riddles,” answered Masha, looking away from the pebbles. - One simple riddle. Nonsense, of course, but no one guessed it.
-What kind of riddle? – Ilyushin became interested. - Who is so small, gray, and looks like an elephant?
- No. – Masha laughed involuntarily. - By the way, who is this?
- I won’t tell. First, your riddle.
“It’s such a mystery...” she drawled slowly. “The man walked into an empty room, holding a thick notebook in his hand. Spent ten minutes there. Then he left, but the notebook was no longer with him. And she was not found in the room. Question: where was the notebook?
Makar and Sergei looked at each other.
“I thought you had a real mystery...” Sergei drawled disappointedly. “Do you want me to hide thirty notebooks in our room, and you won’t find a single one?”
- No, you don’t understand. The room was completely empty. Only walls, and more...
– And another roll of wallpaper along one wall, and an old trellis near the other. Not even old, but antique. But there was nothing in it, we examined it carefully...
Masha hesitated and ran her thin fingers over her temples.
“I really can’t understand where one could hide a notebook in an empty room,” she admitted, raising her gray eyes to her husband. “You won’t believe it,” I thought about it all the way. And I still can’t stop thinking. And the argument is stupid, childish...
- So there was an argument?
- Yes... Something like a bet...
“You know, Masha...” Sergei resolutely slammed the board, and the pebbles rattled inside. - Tell me everything first. Makar, do you mind?
- No, I’m interested too. I can beat you at backgammon.
Masha looked at both of them carefully, made sure that they were not joking, and said:
– The party was at the Grozdevs’. They are peculiar people...
The party was at the Grozdevs'. They were considered peculiar people - of course, solely because of Alevtina Grozdeva, the wife of Anatoly Ilyich. Her originality was enough for two, and, perhaps, it was even better that Anatoly Ilyich did not lay claim to his own originality. “My wife is a vegetarian,” he liked to quote a famous film, explaining his wife’s new ventures. – This makes me a vegetarian to some extent. Do you remember where this is from?
Usually no one remembered.
Anatoly Ilyich, a forty-five-year-old red-faced man, massive, like an overfed hog, looked like a butcher. He really knew how and loved to cut meat and kept several high-quality, expensive knives in his apartment for this purpose, which he did not allow his sophisticated wife to access. However, Alevtina Dmitrievna did not even attempt to use knives, or to cut meat. She was a convinced vegetarian. Anatoly Ilyich, in contrast to his favorite quote, not only did not share his wife’s passion for vegetarianism, but also ridiculed it in every possible way and in the evenings he gladly showed her his own fried steaks, from which a pinkish liquid flowed out when cut. When he, wiggling his fleshy nostrils, moved his face over the plate, feigning ecstasy, Alevtina frowned contemptuously and went into the other room. Anatoly Ilyich, left alone, slowly ate the steak, savoring every bite, and did not deny himself the pleasure of a satisfying burp as he passed by his wife. And, of course, apologize with the most repentant air.
Alevtina Dmitrievna played the role of the sufferer, forced to endure the plebeian habits of her husband, flawlessly. Anatoly Ilyich performed the “beefsteaks” routine three times a week, and three times a week genuine sincere surprise, giving way to disgust, was reflected on his wife’s face. And then, when her husband paraded past, demonstrating in every possible way the satisfaction from dinner, she wearily closed her eyes for three seconds, and if during these three seconds a grateful spectator happened to be nearby, he would have appreciated the painedly knitted eyebrows, and the contemptuously curved lower lip, and the careless hand gesture: “Get out, man.”
Her friends delicately sympathized with Alevtina Dmitrievna. But only in a low voice and only occasionally, when she herself encouraged their sympathy with a hint. Everyone knew that Anatoly Ilyich, who, oddly enough, was not a butcher at all, but a partner in the Grozdev and Kalugin legal agency, provides for his wife and her parents, as well as Alevtinin’s younger brother and his wife, who live in another city. For this, the friends believed, Anatoly could be forgiven for his plebeianism, his refusal to profess vegetarianism, and his rude ridicule of his wife. To Alevtina’s credit, it is worth saying that she shared the same point of view.
Alevtina Dmitrievna herself was a sophisticated woman. She liked it when they talked about her like that, and to fully comply with this image, she constantly went on diets, achieving aristocratic thinness. Actually, the reason for her vegetarianism was solely concern for her figure, and Anatoly Ilyich, to her great chagrin, guessed this: although Alevtina did not give up trying to convince him that only concern for animals made her refuse cutlets, meat soups and chops.
Having married Grozdev ten years ago, she left her unloved job and took up what she really had a soul for - enjoying life. This activity, which seems easy at first glance, is not mastered by everyone in practice. But Alevtina showed abilities. She enjoyed furnishing her apartment, took care of herself with pleasure, attended theaters, concerts and exhibitions with no less pleasure, and in general led the unburdened life of a wealthy lady who considered herself an intellectual.
The house was equipped taking into account her requirements, which Anatoly called whims, and Alevtina herself called necessary conditions for a comfortable life. It was because of them that she was considered an original. Alevtina couldn't stand it
Page 2 of 2
technology in any form, from microwave ovens and ending with computers, and insisted that they should not be in the apartment. She had to endure the car as the lesser of evils, and over time she even learned to drive it tolerably. But the huge plasma TV that defaced the living room was hidden behind a rotating panel that cost almost more than the TV itself.
“Everything that runs on electricity has a negative effect on the brain,” Alevtina explained to the curious. – I’ve seen it myself many times. Read Stephen King's story "The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet", he wrote about this very correctly.
Alevtina Dmitrievna did not like progress and more than once said how good it was to live in the eighteenth century, when there was no modern technical madness around. In this she would not be original if she had not followed some rules in life: she never flew on airplanes, preferring a train or sea voyage, stubbornly avoided modern materials, including in clothing, and even wrote not with a ballpoint pen, but with a fountain pen. Serving the cult of refined aestheticism next to her husband, who slurped over steaks, was not easy, but Alevtina Dmitrievna held on.
“Alka is an eccentric,” Marina, one of her two close friends, said about her. “But she’s always been like that.” And her eccentricities suit her!
Marina was right about this. Alevtina - tall, flexible, arrogant and languid - suited her eccentricities. Perhaps it was precisely attracted by the combination of ancient romance and acumen that Anatoly Ilyich married her at one time. He appreciated in his wife the fact that she did not play at decadence, but sincerely tried to live it, and, rudely laughing at her, at the same time agreed to hide the laptop in a drawer, upholstered with a special material that shielded who knows what kind of radiation.
The party to which Masha was invited was dedicated to two reasons at once - the Grozdevs’ move to new apartment and Alevtina’s birthday. The first for Grozdeva was much more important than the second, because she looked for an apartment for a long time and carefully. A prerequisite was a park nearby - she loved to walk in the mornings, writing poetry while walking.
The result of her search was a five-room apartment in a new building near one of Moscow's large parks. Alevtina didn’t like new buildings either, but the location of the house was so good that she accepted it. They didn’t have time to properly furnish the apartment, and one of the rooms was completely empty, but Anatoly Ilyich decided not to postpone the party.
“While you, my dear, are furnishing your bedroom, another six months will pass,” he told his wife bluntly. - So call whoever you want, but now. Don't have a suitable table for your kitchen? What are we eating on? What does old, unsuitable mean? Cover it with a tablecloth, it will be suitable.
Alevtina rolled her eyes, but did not argue with her husband.
That’s why the Grozdevs’ housewarming party was celebrated in a half-empty apartment, and pots of flowers given to Alevtina (she didn’t like cut flowers and considered them dead) were placed on every free surface. In the dining room, Masha touched a cone-shaped dark green turret, similar to a juniper, a couple of times and moved it to a shelf in the corridor, overcoming the desire to stand next to it and turn into some kind of cactus so that no one would notice or touch her.
A mutual friend introduced her to Alevtina, and Grozdeva, having learned that Masha writes poetry, immediately invited her to a housewarming party. Masha did not delude herself that the invitation was caused by personal sympathy. Alevtina Dmitrievna wanted to dilute the prosaic guests, most of whom were Anatoly Ilyich’s colleagues, with a creative person. “You’re a poet,” she said to Masha, smiling. “It will be very interesting for me to talk with you about poetry, believe me.”
Masha was not going to talk to Alevtina about poetry, because she hated such conversations. And she herself did not consider herself a poet. Masha wrote exclusively poetry for children, never attempting “adult” poetry, but Alevtina did not consider it necessary to take this into account. Writes poetry? Writes. So he's a poet!
Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version (http://www.litres.ru/elena-mihalkova/chernaya-koshka-v-beloy-komnate/?lfrom=279785000) on liters.
End of introductory fragment.
Text provided by LitRes LLC.
Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version on liters.
You can pay for the book safely by bank transfer Visa card, MasterCard, Maestro, from a mobile phone account, from a payment terminal, in an MTS or Svyaznoy salon, via PayPal, WebMoney, Yandex.Money, QIWI Wallet, bonus cards or any other method convenient for you.
Here is an introductory fragment of the book.
Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained on our partner's website.
Now everyone is writing books. Especially the ladies. Dontsova, Robski, Ksenia Sobchak, Madame Vilmont. There are no numbers for them. I tried these dishes prepared by ladies' hands. Horror, of course. But no - horror, horror! Edible. In any case, more edible than the culinary works of some venerable writers, winners of all sorts of bookers and schmuckers.
Leo Tolstoy said about such literature: “It’s like living in meat: you chew, chew and spit out.”
I don’t even mention Sorokin. One girl of frivolous behavior, when asked: “Does she read Sorokin?”, answered: “What are you talking about?! I don’t put such words into my mouth.”
There are also books written by politicians. I say “composed” because the motto of all these books is the same: not a word of truth! It happens that a person has just climbed into a high government chair, and already bam! - memoir.
Yeltsin, for example, in those rare moments that he had between government activities and continuous drunkenness, he managed to compose two thick volumes.
Our wonderful writer and great wit Yuri Polyakov designated this genre as follows: “Memoirs of a rapid response.” The secret to concocting such memoirs is as simple as a stool. You sit a “literary Negro” opposite you with a voice recorder, put on an inspired face... and off you go! You can compose so much during your lunch break!..
The book you are holding in your hands is not dictated or composed - there is not a drop of fiction here. It's not autobiographical either. What is my biography... I didn’t fight, I didn’t serve in Stalin’s camps, I didn’t conquer Chomolungma, I wasn’t a hero of labor.
50 years in art and twenty in politics, it would seem that there is something to talk about. But it is not about art or politics. The more I learn about art, the more I realize that I understand nothing about it. What can we say about politics! This is such a mysterious and dirty side... I’m not a stalker to take readers there on excursions.
Nevertheless, the book has been written, what is it about?
While reading the memoirs of the great master of cinema Federico Fellini, I came across this revelation: “The director often does not understand what his film is about. That is, he understands, but intuitively, with his heart, but cannot express it in words..."
The same can be said about this book: I don’t understand what it’s about? Mostly, of course, about people. And mostly about famous ones. It could be defined like this: unknown about known.
But, of course, it’s not just about that. There are “knowns about unknowns”, there are also observations that some may find interesting, there are reflections that some may seem naive, and there are simply “about nothing”...
P.S. Why is the book called “Black Cat”? Why not? It's about cats too. About cats, dogs, parrots, even lions. “Black Cat” is the trademark of the film “The Meeting Place Cannot Be Changed.” I came up with this cute cat myself and drew it with charcoal on the wall. And I wanted to call the film that - “Black Cat”.
They didn't allow it. So let there be at least a book.
Chapter one. Stories. Essay
Three Russias
I had the opportunity to live in three eras. In Stalinist Russia, in Khrushchev-Brezhnev and in the current criminal country.
When Stalin died, I cried. My mother cried, whose husband was taken away by the mustachioed leader, and my grandmother, who lived a far from sweet life under Stalin, cried. The whole people cried, except, of course, those who understood what was happening in the country. But they mostly lived in the capitals and were close to the highest hierarchy, or had an indirect relation to it, like one of our friends who served ten years for serving as a housekeeper in the Pyatakov family.
True, entire peoples, through whom Stalin's skating rink passed, cried with joy - Chechens, Ingush, Balkars, Karachais, Kalmyks, Crimean Tatars... Well, and, of course, two million prisoners roared with happiness, sitting in the camps - the real heroes of Stalin's " five-year plans,” which built the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station and the White Sea Canal, Norilsknickel and the Dzhezkazgan mines, which produced ore, oil, gold, silver and tungsten for the country, “forging Victory.”
On March 5, 1953, my friend, Vadim Tumanov, was walking in a column of Kolyma prisoners to work. Someone whispered to him from behind:
Vadim, I heard: He dropped his tail!
A minute later the entire column of prisoners was rioting with joy. The guards began shooting over their heads.
There were, there were people who understood. But 250 million did not understand!
In 1949, I deceived the district Komsomol committee and added a year to my age in order to quickly become a Komsomol member. I wanted to be like Oleg Koshevoy and Seryozhka Tyulenev.
In 1956, there were rumors that Khrushchev read a closed report at the congress about Stalin’s cult of personality. Soon its contents became known not only to party members, but also to the entire population.
This year began a new era for me. The era of insight.
Growing up, I learned a lot about myself and my country. The history of my family (as, indeed, the history of every family), like a mirror, reflects the history of the country. My great-grandfather Trofim Vasilyevich is a blacksmith. Grandfather Afanasy Trofimovich is a rural teacher. In the tenth year of Soviet power, he was deprived of voting rights. For what? Although rural, the intelligentsia are an unreliable people!
He became "dispossessed." In order to avoid being exiled, he went to work where he was exiled - to the city of Solikamsk. There were dozens of concentration camps there.
My future father was sitting right there. He was a Don Cossack. But he did not stay in Solikamsk. He served his time, came out, met my mother, “gave birth” to my sister and me, and moved on to Siberia.
Like every living person, I lied a lot - to friends, comrades, all sorts of superiors, and my loved ones. But from a high podium or in his films, he never lied. Was it easy, existing in art, in an ideological department, so to speak, without sinning against your conscience? The temptation was great: to be favored by the authorities, to please Suslov himself... This was followed by extraordinary titles, state bonuses, tchotchkes on the chest, comfortable living conditions, tempting trips abroad...
In those days I was filming something unimaginative (in Their opinion): “Robinson Crusoe”, “Tom Sawyer”, “The Children of Captain Grant”... Now - when there is freedom of speech, when you say what you want - I would still make these films in the same way. There was once an opportunity to sin, to go against your conscience. When I was working on the film “The Meeting Place Cannot Be Changed.” This is not so much a detective story as a social film. We could have lied or kept silent... But we managed to resist. “The Meeting Place”, although with some difficulty, appeared on blue screens.
That's why the film lives for so long - three decades. Right now, as I write these lines, in the next room, where the TV is on, they are showing it - for the thousandth time! - “The meeting place cannot be changed”, all five episodes are non-stop.
April '85 arrived. Gorbachev spoke and announced a revolution from above - perestroika. Called on every citizen to personally participate in the fate of the fatherland.
I threw myself headlong into the maelstrom of public life, into politics. My civic position could not help but be reflected in my films.
So this is already the third Russia in my memory. I live and work in it to this day.
Ooh, prisoner!
I didn't have a father. All conversations about the father in the family were suppressed. As an adult, I realized: my mother did not want to spoil the children’s biography, she wanted them to receive higher education. I myself had a life - you couldn’t imagine a harder life, so at least the children...
I remember: when my grandmother was angry with me, she grumbled:
Ooh, prisoner! The spitting image of a father...
“Yeah, so my father was a prisoner...” There was no one to ask - both my mother, my grandmother, and my grandfather had died by that time. He asked his sister to write to Rostov (we knew that he was a Don Cossack).