I finally found him. The encounters, whether by indiscriminacy or by ecstasy, gave the most contradictory information. And there were no indicators or advertisements, of course, not the universes. “He” is the ORS, the work supply department. Shops were such, but not for everyone, but for a certain caste. In oil-producing areas - only for oil workers, in metallurgical - for metalworkers, along the railways for railway workers and so on.
Inside it is empty. Only behind the shelf is the seller's ass. Yes, in the corner a certain old lady humbly hid, does not buy anything and - for some reason immediately understandable - no one is waiting, just standing. “And you don’t cough, young man.” I presented my papers. Is there a tuff? No, maybe there’s a clutter? Also not, but is it? Oh, I’m lucky, weigh five kilos, please. And this? You have a lot of abundance here. Also 5 kilograms. “I put my bag up. The set is essentially modest, but in ordinary shops there is nothing but a "tourist breakfast" and some seaweed in the banks. And the other ugliness is unhealthy, absolutely uneatable. At the end of the joke, as with the thistle and the condensed, I ask, “Is there cheese? Is there? Are you serious? One and a half pounds, please. “I can’t,” the seller replied. “Let’s give four hundred.” – Maximum four hundred grams. – “Let’s give four hundred.” – What kind of cheese, I didn’t even think of asking, there were, it seems, three names throughout the RSFSR, all not delicious, but it was cheese. and cheese.
The old lady quietly approached the doorstep. I noticed her hands, large, dark, strained. She hadn’t seen it before, hiding it under the blanket. The cloth is squeezed, somewhere carefully squeezed, tied around the waist of an indefinite color of an old but clean dress. “Daughter, do you sell me cheese?” “You can’t,” the saleswoman usually answers. “The young man can, he’s a traveler, but you, Momma, can’t.” You are not angry with me, my daughter. Forgive me, my daughter.”
I walked to the door. He turned and went back.
The grandmother...
She raised my blinking eyes on me. There was endless patience in those eyes. And obedience – whatever happens – is absolute obedience. Like a horse belonging to a wicked master. They whisper her constantly, it hurts, of course, but so it should be. Otherwise it cannot be.
What, my son?
I pulled her a wrap with cheese: “Please take it, grandmother. It is for you.”
At first she couldn’t believe it. Like the same struck horse, which suddenly instead of a knot was pushed up with oatmeal. No, it doesn’t happen, I’m dreaming. Then he swallowed:
God will bless you, son. I get the money now. Now, where are you, my son? Take the money, my son.
I was at the door, “Thank you. I don’t need your money.”
I am a tough person, not sentimental at all. But here I walk along the paths to my refrigerator section and I feel the tears boiling under the centuries. Tears of anger and powerlessness.
I crashed into the wagon. The bag told the mechanic: “You’re on duty today. “I’m sitting on my bed, I sit. I see the same thing: huge brown palms, accustomed to hard work since childhood. And the eyes, once radiant, and now the blind eyes on the wrinkles face. And most importantly: Impossible patience and submission in them.
The mechanic on the table alternately puts supplies on the table: "Oh, and the rice is overwhelmed! You are good boss. Here we have what? It will even be useful. I turned around and said, “Listen, boss, and if... what about you? Why are you so upset? Happened what?“!”
Nothing happened, I cried back. Everything as usual. As usual.