The hat

The story of my friend Marat, who has been thirty years old, as he moved from his Tatar village to Moscow. Further from his face:

...A year and a half ago, I came to a bat in the village for a couple of days.
On the first evening, he pulled out and got his most, most, most favorite knife.

(Oh, it must be said that Marat is an avid knife man, he has eighty pieces of them in his collection, no less. Well, loves a man, that’s the matter.

At first I dreamed of him for a long time, then I decided and started saving money. I spent a long time spending, accumulating, waiting for a discount and finally ordering a friend who was flying to the United States. For somebody can nothing special, the knife - like a knife, well, beautiful, well, steel is good, claps pleasantly, no more, and my soul warms. I confess that the first days I even put it under the pillow to get in the dark at night and “click” a couple of times. You do not understand. Yes, I’m a maniac, I know and I’m not proud of that.
So, I had to cut off a bitch. My father went out, began to look for scissors, and I pulled him out of his wide pants.
Dad stretched out his hand, asked to look, put on his glasses, scratched his scratch finger, said, "Oh, what a beautiful guy" and added - "Maratek, son, maybe you will give a bat a knife. and? I’ve never seen anything like that, but you’ll buy it in Moscow.”

Here I thought strongly – it was a serious choice, just not a choice, but a blow to the breath. On the one hand, his father is seventy-eight, his mother has buried him, he lives here alone, he is bored.
Well, what happiness has he in life, and how much he has left? If I refuse, I will never forgive myself again.
On the other hand, I could not say the price of the knife either, or he would go crazy if he found out that his son bought himself a folded knife for one hundred and ten thousand rubles. I bought it for a whole year, I refused a lot.
But there was nothing to do and I, with almost no shaking hand, stretched out my knife and lied that I was not sorry at all, I would still buy.

Since then, a year and a half has passed and here, recently, I finally went out to see the old man, and at the same time with my "sweep" to see.
I arrived late in the evening, didn’t even have time to wash my hands from the road, hugged my bat and asked, “How does your American knife live there?”
My father cleverly blinked to me and quietly sat behind my mother’s treadmill, ordered me to squeeze and knocked something on my head. I open my eyes – I see myself in the mirror in some foolish peach hat.
Here is, says, wear, marathon, for health:
Do you like? And the size, I guessed. This is great, enough for a lifetime.
I like it (I like it)
Well, well, you will be there in Moscow the most fashionable and the head will not freeze. How well it all worked. Imagine, a month ago, I was sitting at home, with your knife pulling out the cloves for a tail, there looked at one man from an old job. Word by word, I saw a knife and burned straight - sell, sell, I initially refused, yet your gift, but this fool says - "Sell, I give you four thousand ladies for it." I didn’t go and I sold it, of course. Then, from retirement, I added a little bit and sold you this hat for seven at the marketplace. Take good health and remember your father.

The teaser in the kitchen whispered the batya, and I sat in a phthaline hat and watched in the mirror, as if on the piercings, tears rolled on my cheeks. You will say nothing. Why seek an old man?
My father came back from the kitchen and laid before me a lengthy barley bag.
I opened... there was my knife in it.
My father grumbled and said:

What, Martha, is it going on? I joked, I joked. I immediately realized how much it costs, I wasn’t a fool at all. Here, the bag is wrapped so that the handle does not scratch. Take it back, I’ve already played. Wearing a hat, the hat is nice, warm.

I love the uncomplicated Tatar humor.