It was celebrated in the anniversary department of Viktor Petrovich, a modest worker on the remaining boxes of Russian electronics. When the warmth of wishes and toasts had already filled those who had gathered and their eyes shone, it was time for fairy tales and tricks from the fleeting life. It was also from Viktor Petrovich, or simply Viti, if you compare it with the time of the bicycle.
In his youth, thirty years ago, full of excitement and interest in his business, he successfully studied in postgraduate studies, but already had a family. And in the brigade of the same postgraduates and candidates of sciences in the summer he travelled north, building and earning to live and create in the winter. It was called
“Riding on a shuffle,” if anyone does not know. They wandered on these shabashka all the light summer north day, like the peasants in distress, when “day year feeds.”
They built a road. She was carried out from a huge pile of bullshit at the nearest station. With the shoulder, he and his partner loaded a slice into the incoming cars at the pace of “take more, throw on, while flying – rest.” Nearby there were Koreans in the same bunch.
Most of them did not know the Russian language, but the interpreter (a Korean who spoke somewhat Russian) explained that they were from the DPRK (North Korea). Why or under what economic-military agreement-exchange they obtained from us, Vitya did not understand, and it does not matter.
The Koreans worked like the Koreans, that is, the spin did not spread, but we did not give in to them. Or even the opposite. Somehow, while there were no cars, he went down to the water supply column to rinse his face. The Tolmacher filled the boiler with water. He, looking at Vitya, giving up his seat at the water singer, nodded his head and said sympathetically, like a wise brother to the younger disobedient:
“What is Tyler? by Tiago! He was a witch, he had to learn!”

Viktor Petrovich told this fairy tale the last time fifteen years ago, because now laughed only those who, say so, remembered the song of Pakhmutova “Furious Structure.” Young Nina, a new designer, asked if she understood correctly that they worked in the summer “like,..., well, like the Tajiks now”, and that summer earnings could then be the whole year, well, just do nothing?
Victor Petrovich breathed, sneered and said nothing more.
He recalled this morning, a gray Tajik in a brigade of gastarbayters, the broken wheeled blocks of the rebrick in front of the passageway of the institute. He accidentally met him with a glance, and they for some reason struck each other. Victor
Petrovich now knew why: They were from one lost country, from one common youth, and both knew one thing, and also their common:
We change the rivers, the countries, the cities.
Other doors, new years
And we have nothing to do with ourselves,
And if you go, just nowhere.