The castles were big.
The 1961 year. The summer. The holidays. A military ship from India arrives in Odessa port with a friendly visit. Indian marines are sent to the shore for dismissal.
At this time, in Odessa itself, somewhere near the port, a little boy cries his mother small coins to exchange for foreign coins. He collects a collection of old and foreign coins and just can not miss such an opportunity to exchange for a collection of new coins. His mother would give him five, ten, fifteen copies. At the end, probably, perceiving the seriousness of the moment, he gives his son another fifty copies. And here, he quickly runs out of the gate, turning toward the historic center of the city, where, he knows, meetings and fairy coins are waiting for him. The hand involuntarily turns the ringing coins in his pocket.
He was very lucky today. After leaving two quarters from his home, he encountered a troubled foreign mariner. The Hindu was tall, in all white, welcomingly smiling.
Change, said the boy, stretching his blood on his palm for exchange. The Hindus leaned, looking at the contents of the child’s palm. I took a handful of coins out of my pocket and sat down. They were unusual and therefore attractive. Some coins resembled chamomile, others square with a hole in the middle.
The boy immediately began to offer options. The smallest, his five kopecks, he offered for a copper Indian. 10 for a square with a hole.
Twenty for a chamomile with a three-headed tiger. A half remains. And here, he saw among the glare of the petty to the pain familiar Soviet metal ruble. The decision had not yet matured in his head, but his hands had already offered the sailor to exchange our penny for the ruble. The Hindu went out. What happened seemed to have made him very happy. He kicked the boy on his shoulder and offered to walk with him into the city center.
His feet pulled the boy to Tyrus. At the time, Tyr was a rare entertainment for children and is therefore extremely desirable. It was located in the basement of the well-known street in Odessa. He was shot with small-caliber guns and rifles. There was also a bullet "Maxim", possibly for beauty. The bullet cost a rage of money – 10 kopecks, that is, a kopecks more than a milk ice cream. The sailor gave the boy a ruble. He boldly walked to the seller and put the money on the bench with the words: “Uncle, ten bullets, please.” After counting the bullets, he asked, "Where have you learned to speak Russian so well?" "I am Russian," the boy was frightened, taking the bullets from the stand.
I was six years old. In the summer, under the sun on the beach, I became like
and Maugli. I don’t remember how we broke up with a sailor from far away India. But his warm attitude toward me, his kind laughter of childish tricks, along with his coins, have remained with me to this day.