Время дороги / Time of the road

Part One

Prologue

The snacks stopped at Emmaus (there is such a village on the entrance to Tver). At the very end, on the left side of the road, there's a block shop and a café. We were hungry, we were still in a wedge, but we couldn't stop, but we're all here. That's how we turned around. Smanilo, of course, the name. It's a joke to say, Emmaus! Kafeshechka the most sillage: two tables on the street, two on the inside. I wanted to hide from the burning, the heat wave, so we picked an "inner" option, content at least some semblance of cool. Behind the strong, impressive guy in a white shirt. He's obviously chore "after yesterday," and it hurts to watch, but his good-natured buys. We're ordering sandwiches, tea, soda, and a guy, mumbling and Pozjovyvaja, starting to serve us. He's painfully recalling where he is, confusing himself.

And why Emmaus? I couldn't ask you that.

But our bartender understands the question:

-Well, on the way to Jerusalem ...

What is that? To our New Jerusalem?

-Oh, yes.

So before he does, he's south of here.

The Russian Federation ... Not Palestine.

He's finally handling the tea and sandwiches, and we're sitting at the table. There is nothing to say where we are to Luke with Kleopoj, but we, the sinners, pray, we break the bread here ... Maybe he's right: "Russia," big Whopper. And imagine everything in it-and Emmaus mine, and Jerusalem, and even Mt. called is on the Solovki ... Just Poraskidano everything, you know. When did we go straight? Vkrugolja more.

In addition to the name, is there anything else?

There's nothing. The village is like a village.

Is it okay?

I don't know, they say one half is "sitting" and the other is "guarded," that's how I heard.

It's like a zone, isn't it?

I don't think I live here.

Then a real hostess came in. Young, dexterous, dragged breath a few packages with juice and yogurt.

I'm going to go? -Easy exhaled guy.

-Go, go, she called him by name, thank you is tremendous, so I helped you.

Tanya moved to Emmaus from cheats, back to her parents. In every visit, she'll be greeted as if only we were waiting. She's doing pretty good. Here in Emmaus, the "truckers" are stopped, and tourists, and all people travelled, are also coming in.

Chita, what's worse?

No, it's impossible to live there. Everything is abandoned, muffled, lack ... It's all right.

It must be beautiful places.

Yes, Hill, yes, Baykal, but it's better to live here.

When we came out of the café, we almost ran into new visitors. They were laughing, fashion, sat in a noisy table. People will come and come here, and every night there will be dinner in their homes for the inhabitants of this unacceptable Tver village, someone named Emmaus.

and heated the cabin Uazika again, haze the hot road, the tires of the sizzle on the asphalt ... Tver we promahivaem on a bypass, not stopping. We're going to have a few hours to catch up to the night in Novgorod. A usher view of the distant panorama of the houses, the Ognistye dome ... Tver. That sounds like a firm. Portly city, hard rock of Rus.

How many years did he have that red nickname?

And Nalepilas The grudge against the towers, the walls, the heads of the cathedral, the Merchants Udaltsov razvorotistyh ... And it was our Pushkin passing on the city embankment. It's worth it, looking: I think it's all familiar, and the city of the other is not going to take it to Tver, but to the Kalinin. What's the Kalinin? Right, Strange ... And the ladies are strange, and the governor is not positive, and the other person has become ... And then it's nonsense: the road, they say, goes not to the Peter Province, but to Leningrad Oblast. Well, Gogol, the Perfect Gogol, gentlemen!

And the road flows under the wheels, the Rowan, does not give before falling behind the back of the bakhrom shoulders ... Our path is the arrow, we tearing north, is there something waiting for us? In the front, tight the highway tape rises from time to time, smooth breasts. What heavens are changing over us, how long I've waited for you, summer ...

In May, as I was walking the garden of my old jacket, I knew about how I would live this summer: I would live at the garden window and write. And since I knew that, I didn't think about it-I thought I'd make some money that I could both live and write, so it's not too far from home. It was dusty and windy, and I waited for green and warmth. For some reason, there was a lot of heat waiting, but I didn't think it would be like this summer to go through cities and monasteries, in the heat, in Oise, in a box of books, in a shipping agent, but, simply, in Razvozchika Orthodox literature. Vasilitch helped me build this temple. They looked at me, said they needed a forwarding agent, preferably without little children and dangerous habits, and that I could probably start this case right from next Monday. And it was up to me to go to work at the same time, and then to the temple.

But I'm Orthodox, what's the problem? Ten days spent on training: I walked in the warehouses remembered these books, how many and where they were, dived at random, ruffling pages, where they were for a couple of minutes, and where I forgot about everything ... The rest is digested in the course of the case: the itineraries are generally known, and there are maps, telephones and addresses. Instructions and comments were made orally, Seryoga, up to the very departure. I felt sure and finally went along with my chauffeur-partner in my first day voyage. All you have to do is make sure that you go to the book product with half a dozen monasteries, yes from a dozen temples, camp and meals, as recommended (but more discretion), for all four days, to return alive and not to take.

That's how my summer trips began. We were leaving and coming back, the rains were loved and therefore rare, and there was always silence between trips, the temple work. In the temple, a different life ...

As long as we're going, all the forest areas, the forest's everywhere. He suddenly marginalized the fields and villages from the road and still does not fall out of sight, and after us, far from the untiring, seizing moment, in a moment takes over the space from the horizon to the route, it runs close to the road of mixed, often-pine, and the birch lawns ... And all this is repeated over and over again, but it's not tiring. Slide your eyes all over the surface of the variegated-green earth, on forests, along the open plain, with a series of villagess and towns, and suddenly Osekaeshsja, like vzdjornutyj on trolling: a Temple with bells! And it's only now that everything has beauty and meaning.

In general, a temple-whatever it is, it's just a dome-it comes to it, it becomes the end of any landscape, its aesthetic dominant. It seems to me that nothing more exalted, welcome and content natural Harmony will not be created by mankind. Put the church in the Egyptian pyramids, and all the views all to it, and all the greatness of the pyramids will turn into a meaningless pile of rocks. I don't know what can be according to the nature-the creation of God as much as the temple is human. Take any depressing, traveled of the neighborhood, but if you see any church in it with a kupolochkom, it's going to pull out the whole picture, just like the neighborhood of sorrow, which finally got rid of its own inferiority.

Our little Moscow temple against faceless swingers is like a quote from Pushkin on partsobranii. Every temple is an individual, a breeding ground; This is natural, because sanctified and that has been nurtured a divine personality. The temple is, of course, an island. I had a chance to love our island. In the morning, let's before the stoplight: The Sun on the cross is on time. Yes is on the mountain; Alexander Prokopych pours from hose flower and asphalt; We talk at the fence, polite beggars and dogs are suitable ... I'm going to the warehouse; In the warehouse, the wind is playing doors, and the keys are falling and ringing; Digging in the records, on the shelves, walking into the basement ... The heat came; The chauffeurs at covered Smenkah are crawling under the miserable our UAZ. Thirsty. And there are quiet people in the temple, putting candles, choosing books; There are no plasters in the box, and you can sit by the candle drawer while there are no Andreyevna, and open "six days," but not at all: Ask the holy water. The canon is already in the candles, with the icons as if they were watching and waiting, and waiting; I guess, I know, I have to. But then, then ... I remember ... The orders are not enough today, for lunch.

Lunch is a glorious business, with everyone you've never seen, peremolvitsja you can, he'll pick everybody up, they'll get everyone down the store. I look at them-all so different; The truth is that the gem from the stone is not to be distinguished until the shlifanut on it. The windows are wide, and there's no good. And yet there is a poplar smell. It's all warmer, borscht and tea; After tea Blestim, like in the bathhouse.

Dark. Maybe there'll be a thunderstorm. Called to unload, urgent. Wear a few packets at once, Otduvaemsja, leave-return; Wear and clap, wear and clap ... Otduvaemsja, the seventh can, don't talk. On the outskirts of the Riza ... Gnuvshis on the crane, it under stream. The storm changed its mind, but came Vasilich, embraced, chatted; Tomorrow's thirty again. In the Temple of Pray; Before virgining someone's back with backpack, like a membrane: asking for something, and I can see it right from the lessons ... Djorgajut the sleeve: Another machine with a print run; Clap-clap, fill the floor and piles, towers; The cross really under the shirt ... There's no breeze on the street. Masha calls the evening, the street runs and runs, and it's coming and going.

We're moving Torzhok. What a name! How much fun is it in him? It seems that this place, Oborotistoe and fortunate, has said such a mild name. A little Torzhok-here you Tvorozh, and a cone, and a fluffy. I like these names, or we have cities that are strict, like the Emperor's footsteps: Moscow ... St. Petersburg ... Novgorod ... Tver ... And between them torzhok like a naughty step! A different case is VYDROPUZHSK. Is the otter puzhalaing people here, or has it ever been, one of the uninvited guests of pugnut who is going to say? There was a big otter.

And wait for the next none so devotional. For a reason, they live in language for a reason. Unsolved poetry is ours. Here, please, Holoholenka. and? As her CEOs, as the rest of the world cherished, the souls did not regret, such "adorable winter doll" put the language of's, exhaling it as a word ... Where is she now, exactly? I can't see anywhere, one echo left. , vs. Not to drag, but "suggested," to know, not arses pupy, and in the hunting of dragged rook of laden, it was nearby. In the town of Vasnecovskaja River with the bridge and water ... -Black log; Sitting against to the back of his head, brooding man. A month later, when we drove back here, I didn't believe it again. Not in a shirt, but in a T-shirt, sitting and looking at the Kepchonki. And before him, the road, cars, continual a caravan of cars ... What do you look at? Let's keep going. Bahmara. God knows where she came from and what it is.

How do we not mention how to pass the names of roadside snack bars in our countryside? What's not going to come up, and "Cat House" and "Daisy," and some "Kuzmich", or simply "tavern" ... But those are our words, which are appropriate. I'm about the others, about the foreign. They are followed by the desperate impulses of the soul of the village Grey converter. They are not embarrassed by the surrounding realities of old potatoes and milk-rounded chickens, huts with slaughtered trims ... Welcome to some Nord or Colombo, to Laguna, and even to the fiesta. But don't you call the Bull "Mercedes" ... The local Bahmarec entitled his sarajku with a piece of plywood-"Mary". It's interesting to see an Englishman Natknuvshegosja in his English countryside on squash "Agrafena" ...

Kuzhenkino. After him, birch, parsley beard. Complex ... Very much said, but it means only the extreme in-house of the village or suburb. We to Novgorod Earth. Edrovo. And it immediately resonated with the resinous spirit, calling Ax on the cast gun. As long as we go, the same Reozeristyjed edge ... Valday. Something solid, with hair: Uncle Valday, who doesn't know. Mironegi. In the old man, quietly and peacefully settled here men with Onega. It's okay. Yazhelbitsy. Well, it's something of a birth. It's fresh. Kiseljovka, Kuznetsov. And it's going to be good in a common symphony. Here comes the Kresttsy. That sounds great. We're definitely stopping here.

The people here Chin Pekat Delicious pies: You want cabbage, you want a potato and a dill, you want with a svininkoju juicy, you want with rice and egg and roasted onions, you want to eat with apples, you want to do whatever you want! There's tea with samovar on the TABURETK, and there's coffee, and there's milk. It's worth it to trade against every house his household-parents and children and old people. The product is kept hot-who in the soldier's big Thermos, who's got a pot of telogrejkami and blankets. They offer friendly and inexpensive. Do not sit idly by and've for a scarce life. What's amazing is that after all the time we've been through the towns and villages, we're never going to meet like this.

We're moving the suburb of Novgorod. There's a low flat with some creeks, on the right, a narrow channel was erected behind the trees and went parallel to the highway, looking at Tenist water, Amber backs, arms-waving, boats, oars arrows with drops, stationary fishermen ... The great Novgorod greets us with a long alley, where we rolled to the very center and fall right to the bridge. From here, Sophia, the Kremlin walls and the Val, and the sea and the light Volkhov under the bright evening sky ... We are looking for a Deshevenkuju hotel, we are being explained, we're showing, we're looping, tychemsja the unfamiliar, and finding her a modest, half-bared, with amenable Administratorshami, and settled on the fourth floor in a double room with no amenities. A tiny toilet with three lavatories was found on the floor; Water is not given here often, so first we bathe under Siplymi strujks the salted body, and then we walk down the hallway, puffing, substituting skvoznjachku for its wet torsos. Then we go down, buy the groceries, and climb up the desert staircase, and move the legs on one of the hunger feelings. For dinner, we allowed ourselves a beer and bit sprats, a piece of Kostroma cheese and a big white bread.

We're lying down, limping, with open windows and a complete absence of mosquitoes ... We were awakened by a normal street noise, vletavshijed free into the room, and bright sunlight, in which sleep became a shame. I was thinking that the so-called "day noise", ninety-nine percent, consisted of car noise.

The Cathedral of Sofia is extremely astonishing. The Temple of God's wisdom seems to be the created of unprecedented simply that's understood wisdom. It's a single song of volume. All of his seemingly contradictory parts, all of his different in sizeing protrusions and apse sounded together, complementing one another with a strong "voice", and all of them are truly powerful, passing upward stone xopom. Inside the high stone forest ... In the cold pillars are the flowers and shapes of the mural, somewhere in the deep flickering of the golden iconostasis ... In this are for centuries, the temple wanders on the stone plate of a tour and curious, skittish as fish in the aquarium. The prayers of the old Novgorod as if were under the sets of silver haze. The cathedral is also a museum, but the pillars of the walls are not exhibits. The northern wall rests on the power of Svjatitel John Novgorod ... At that time there was a fierce siege of the city. Gardens, by, looted by the villages. Novgorod had no soldiers, no strength, no more than one hour. There was an open church, and Svjatitel never walked out of the temple. As he prayed before the Savior's icon, he heard the voice: "Take the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ on Ilyin Street, put it on the city wall, and see Salvation to the city." This image is the omen of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Now he stands against the right free under the glass, the very old, the real, the small. Still visible to the Shcherbinka from the choking arrow fired at the time of the assault ... The arrow hits the icon, and in a quiet onapovorachivaetsja from the enemies presence to the city. Everyone sees the tears in the sight of the virgin ... And then the sudden crazy panic drops the enemies off the walls, they're terrified of running, tramplinging each other. The shock covers the fact that it is possible to approach and attach to this shrine, even to stand before it.

Part Two

Prologue

Denjochek gave us a rest. What it's called is to come to you. It was a very bad day for this, and the good half had to be spent on a frank idleness, and only at night, sitting under the apple tree with his potjortym Notepad, squeezed some of the lines out of the pen that were satisfied.

The days of the day have been extended, and my daily train and Pleasure Road to the temple has resumed. It started from a home-door in the Moscow town: I walked to a gate shortening from a bunch of gifted onesed Apple, crossed the highway and hurried to the station, walking along the "fortresses", "dormitories" and "castles" on both sides, with each section invariably ogorazhivalsja a blind high fence, and little by bit, this leg of the road has been turned into an exclusion corridor. And since this phenomenon was of a total nature, once unique (each with its osobinkoj) the streets of the village became a Zaurjadnejshuju corridor system. There is nothing to look at in this hallway, and the eyes are pushed up clinging the top of the pine tree, puddlesing the sky between branches ... Then I went down the slide, and I went up again, but it was more spacious, it's a real Villa Street, a railroad move that's a year zahlamljonnomu on the garbage dump approach (the inevitable reaction to the alien's unsettled environment-"not our land"-and the indigenous mass culture of the Earth-"no care"). Leave relocation, was raised on Zasmorkannuju and Zapljovannuju platform, with scurrying dogs under the feet of the gloomy population, and was included in the waiting for an El. There have been different episodes ... I remember two teenagers gonjavshih an empty bottle of "sprite." After another Tychka, the bottle flew off the platform, leapinging through the rails in the bushes for the fill. Long kid in a baseball cap jumped off the platform after the toy, but he found it while he returned to the platform feed her buddy, the train showed up. Long made some unsuccessful attempts to jump up to the top: he was not only hindered by his weak hands, but also by laughter. They both had a distinctive systems laugh, and the train was buzz. An older man, without his power, began to give him his hand, but every time his offer was ignored ... An ambulance flew a few seconds after a self-confident teenager managed to put itself on a rig. "You know what could have happened!" "You could have."-as old lanky. "What do you want, old man?" "My life, not yours," stunned his kid. -

"You can imagine what might have happened right now!" is not a her person. "So what?"-returned his long. The man was mumbling, turning to the others, he never understood, it didn't. The boys, pushing and laughing, continued to drive the bottle ...

So I sat down on the train and went to Moscow. Who would tell me what our trains are: with broken windows, with filthy wind porches, with petty trade and stray musicians; With anecdotes, spirits, bottles; With maps, smoke, crossword puzzles, fights; With eyes in tears, in words, in Mother's words; With the Duma and Zabytjom; With hours, minutes, eyes, shoulders, silence; With hope, screaming, and feeling? What are they, our trains?

The train started walking. I was walking through my Moscow, but it wasn't my Moscow. I crossed her every day, slid her sidewalks in storefronts, ads, yards, and didn't hear her-the one, the beloved, the sweetest mother, the big village. I was the embodiment of not "third Rome," but the third world is something new, gromozdjashheesja with ugly attempts to go west, Lakejski cynical, having Moscow, and quarter name. I felt like varivajut in the concrete womb of her residue. But the temple barely appeared, one, the other, the third ...-and the asking metaphor itself: they're not in the teeth. Bypassing the building blocks, once as houses, approached their temple.

Here, I have my own soul-the icon Svjatitel Nikolai, in a small salary, with a book in hand ... I don't know how to say this, but a man needs someone's wise, translucent look into his soul, without that. The icon starts and ends the working day.

The warehouse was waiting for new arrivals: books arrive and decrease, I know, on the tide of the sea. People come, order, and we take get. It's simple. That was the day before yesterday. Read and thought mixed up in a lot of things: far and ahead; Recalled, swarmed in the minds of events and human histories, and the history itself (as a category of memory) seemed to be in the form of a large and continuous present, in which all that was "before" and what would be "after". And there were days of houses; Houses are unorganized; Houses of full civil yearning; Houses of elites, houses that have been ruined; Homes, houses, houses.

Ten days after my first trip, I was summoned by Andreyevna one morning and asked to prepare for a new departure.

"The Kursk's direction!" Day for the charges: wind and dust, assortment, loading of a car, boxes, boxes, paperwork, jokes, valuable instructions-in the morning. In the morning, the partner is late, asphalt up, heats up, a little nervous. And we're leaving. Darting away from the Moscow furnace, in traffic jams, at traffic lights, in the E.R., but again in the crash. We are silent, we izdyhaem patiently until we vyryvaemsja at the end of the city-through the bloodied Sun route.

Tales

On the bridge, over the Oka, I remembered a crocodile tale.

As if one of the locals had started to take over those things. Whether the farm wanted to arrange and hunt a crocodile skin, whether to argue that it was a suitable habitat for them ... Really, what's the worst of Neal? I lived in Pskov Woods, chimpanzee family! Well, one of the specials, at least, has been successful and grown. But somewhere he didn't see the master, and the alligator Ubeg.

Boss, son of a-son, quiet, nobody said anything. And then one day at the local bathing, this reptile showed up ... At first, he was not taken for a crocodile, laughing, called who "Churkoj", who "the log," was thrown into it, what it's going to take. He may not have been expecting that, so he might have opened his mouth. Well, that's clear: Siganuli, like those torpedo boats, ashore! They called the police. The precinct guy's strong, he doesn't like conversations, shoot him. It's a joke. Well, it's clear again-our people-they remembered the Totoshu and the Kokoshu, the crocodile gene. Embarrassing, begging, even pushing to start. Well, as much as the precinct tried, but never got his hand in the holster. Enough, and the brutal away, left the object! And no more declared. Until winter is almost. And as the Ledkom became eye to capture, he was, poor and out. Shaking, the tooth is not on the tooth. I pity him, stroked, words say affectionately, let's telogrejkami a coot. Where's he going? And him to one old woman alone, and I barely had four men to get him out, so Fougasse waved. But his grandmother went out. In the pair of milk, on the grass, on the leash, he saved, in short, death is an animal ... The manual is just like a ponytail, the main water is scared, the river's no good. In what way! Kids is holding on, loves to be messing with them, and they're cruising on it. They say the wool began to grow, a boar, they say it looks like. That's the story.