I have enough brains to realize that they are obviously small.

I will tell you a story that happened to my girlfriend many years ago. Following her words.

Then Katya met the guy and brought him to us for someone’s birthday. Japanese-shaped silent boy of 5 years older than us, she introduced him to Pavlik, he grabbed everyone's hands, since then we periodically crossed by acquaintances, at concerts, in short, communicated a little bit.

It was a little strange that Pavlik did not respond neither to Paul, nor to Pasha, nor to other derivatives, but we were accustomed, Pavlik so Pavlik. Moreover, among our acquaintances was Natasha, who wanted her to be called Taia and Darya, who fell into hysteria, if she was called Dasha, it was possible only Dashka, Darya, Darva and there was something on D, I don't remember already.

Four months passed, Katya and Pavlik decided to get married, stood in line with ZAGS after the New Year's Eve and filed an application for a "beautiful date", after some time we received invitations, in which we were invited to the wedding of Catherine and Dmitry. We call her and wonder where Pavlik went?

And she answers, you can imagine, I only learned in a row that Pavlik, it turns out, is his name. He is Dmitry. Dmitry Stepanovich Pavlik.

Fuck, we called a man by his name for a few months, it was uncomfortable.

Increase the salary!
It is done!
Fuck me, not myself.

It was in the late 1990s, at the time I was about 5-6 years old. My parents, as I think, and everyone at the time, were strictly forbidden to open the door to strangers. Every morning they went to work and said, “Don’t open it to anyone until we come in the evening and open it to you.” I was an obedient companion in this regard to such an extent that one day my grandmother decided to come to us, but naturally I did not let her be afraid to get a whisper from her parents for not fulfilling the order. Grandma, by the way, acted with understanding and said that she would come in tonight. One day, my grandfather decided to come. Naturally, I did not let him go, too, for which I was sent three letters and the door opened with the key he had. Despite the fact that it was my grandfather, I was so scared that somebody would enter the apartment that I, as a guerrilla, stood forward in the passage and started screaming that he would be killed away, because his parents did not allow anyone to let go! Naturally, my grandfather answered me with a weary lust, left the bags from the country in the kitchen and quietly left, closing the door behind me, leaving me stuck and reconciled to the defeat in the hallway. When the parents came, they laughed so and did not understand my childhood outrage, but made amendments to the rule that grandfather and grandmother can go home.

He was on a business trip at the factory, in a press office. The press more or less

civilians, but one... An enormous unknown of what gathered swamp,

dirty (or covered by God knows what), thundering like the Victoria Falls and

It creates a cloud of dust around it. The Industrial Masterpiece

end of the 19th century.

The local workers and engineers called this press briefly and gently.

My mother Mia. The etymology of the name: a few years before it came to them

the Italian to install on the press programs purchased by the factory for his

The Firm. When he saw this terrible press, he could only say, “O mom.

by Mia...”

And it all happened on the same day!

Ordinary travel in electric. The most different people. Everyone tries to do something during the trip. A grandmother and granddaughter sit in front of me. Small five or six years. We touched, we went.



Like all the children of his age, the boy has questions:



Grandma, how many stops are there?

"Look out the window of Mish (I will call it so), we will not pass by.

How long do we have to go?

for a long time. Take an apple and try it better.



And all in that spirit. Grandma tries to guess the scanwords, and the little one clearly distracts her, distracting her with questions. I try to read. And then, forty minutes later, the boy suddenly asks a question quite unexpectedly:



Was Lenin an Indian?



My grandmother was not prepared for such a turn. I thought at first what I thought. Grandma asks, suddenly he heard, and the little girl repeats her question:



Is Lenin an Indian?



I was stressed. Why an Indian? I began to listen more carefully.



What did you do, Misha?

What if he was the leader?

It is right, the leader. You don’t have to be an Indian in this case. He was the leader of the proletariat.

“He was the leader of the Red Army,” parishes Misha.

Okay the red. The pale faces. The grandmother explains, adding even more color to the understanding of who Lenin is.

Was he the leader of the pale faces? Was he an Indian from the Blind Faces tribe?

No, it is not right. He was the leader of ordinary white people, but only red people.



The little one thought. He obviously could not understand how it was. And white and red and the leader, but not the Indian.



Red or white? The boy asks again.

“White,” the grandmother answers, and thinks. No, the white were enemies, says the grandmother out loud.

Lenin is an Indian. It summarizes Misha.”