He spent an hour there and an hour back. On the trolleybus. As they say, from the end to the end. It was when there was no traffic in the city.
At first – it was about six months ago – he was dumb looking out the window. Then I thought he was wasting time. I started learning French for some reason. Why exactly French? He himself did not know. I got a self-taught. Record the phonetic exercises. In the film.
He lived in one area and worked in another. The subway appeared later. A trolleybus and only a trolleybus. You sit on the bench so that you are not pushed, and you go. boring to drive. In the opposite. When you learn, time goes faster.
Twenty years, like a day. and resigned. Because of pension.
Home was not boring: there was the Internet. French could be improved.
Then he and his wife moved to the village. Tired of the city. The apartment is for a married son. And there, in nature.
The house is good. Two rooms with one door. One room from another. The ancestors wanted them. Per, and specifically, a separate bowl was made.
I brought a garden. And he, a former city worker, looked like a simple village man. He shaved every three or four days. He wore old pants, filled in boots, sometimes black calas on his bare leg, shirt colored on his shoulders. There is no place to dress in the village.
Gas in the house. Summer water in the garden. Beds and beds, a small chicken family - you can live.
No need to miss. Because a reasonable person will always find a job. He will never sit without work. Only sometimes when they get tired. Or after the bath.
A friend from the city called. Asked to give it to his friends. A couple from Moscow. Very intelligent. He agreed.
Apartments have appeared. Polite and educated people. Gorky liked it. The village liked it too. A man went out into the yard with a computer and was writing something. 2 or 3 hours. On the grass, a couple of references. His wife painted.
The Aquarius. And the village street, and the chicken family, and the grass grown near the fence.
He wrote something, she painted. In the evening we went for a walk. We did not communicate with the owners of the house. Sometimes something at home.
Very friendly and educated people. Watching them is a pleasure. Because culture, because sophistication, because sophistication.
He once pulled out a crap from the street. The residents went out to sit on the bench. Suddenly I heard French. He immediately dropped everything inside, and then rose again - from enthusiasm. And he deliberately moved closer to the speakers to listen and enjoy. And to communicate is to communicate!
The artist said, “Look at this man. All his life he cuts urticaria, and in winter he screams at the window. And he needs nothing. A primitive village. You look: a brush, an old shirt and boots. Time stopped at him. Probably from the 19th century.”
And the man writer answers, “Yes, and we’re all about spiritual problems. All about them. The eternal search for meaning that escapes.
The owner of the house laid his hair, wiped his hands on the old pants. And in French he said, “You are not looking for meaning there. There is no pride or pride in him. There was not and will not be.”
He has a good pronunciation. There are no mistakes in speech. He knew that not. I didn’t want to see them pale, their faces stretched out. They ran after him, drowned. And questions, questions: “Who are you? What kind of man are you?”
He turned and said. Again in French: “And I am a dispatched Decabrist. The Lord Nicholas sent. Participation in the Uprising. Since the nineteenth century it is here. In the summer I crack. “In the winter I’m at the window.”
George is hot.