In the 91st year of starvation, he translated a book about Winnie Pooh. The publishing house remained quite, the book quickly sold, inspired by the success, decided to become a translator. I received an order for a new translation, this time “Mary Poppins” – then we only had one volume out of four. In order to translate books, they had to be found first. I decided to call the American culture attache. I picked the consular number from the reference book, I was redirected to the attache's office. Answered a gentle man’s voice. I said that my name is XXX, that I am a translator of children's literature, received an order, but in Leningrad, unfortunately, books were not found, and that I would be very grateful if Mr. Attache found it possible to help me in the organization of delivery. And a kind voice replies to me: “Serega, fucking, whom are you pretending, what fucking translator are you?”
It turns out, my one-of-a-kind YYY arranged to the consulate as a driver. The same cultural attraction. The books, by the way, were delivered six months later, but so far the publishing house went bankrupt. I am not a translator of children’s literature.