Nikolai Ivanovich once had bees. He was very proud of them. From time to time, Nikolai Ivanovich dressed himself in a terrible robe, roasted something like a puppet with a whal, burned an incomprehensible mixture and smoked a bee. Smoke should calm the bees. However, whether the smoker in Nikolai Ivanovich had the wrong system, whether the bees themselves were wrong, but they, smoking, first began to wickedly chew, then gathered in the roy and hanged on the branches of our apple. There was a feeling that the most dissatisfied were those who did not have enough space in the depths. Or at least in the middle class. Because there was no smoke there. This is due to the banal desire to warm up. Then Nikolai Ivanovich was dealing with the smoke between the pebbles and the apples, saying, "Someone is rushing into the beekeepers, eating their striped mother," as if accusing Bilin of trying to monopolize the market. No matter how there was, and no matter how we tried to bury faster, the bees were ahead of us: periodically bitten were me, the wife, the child, the dog.
From time to time, Nikolai Ivanovich suddenly appeared at the open window of our kitchen, pulled out a litre bowl of flower honey, shouted "Hello be", left the gift on the window and quickly left.

A bee was stolen from Nikolai Ivanovich. He was very worried. I immediately suspected that the legend of theft was invented by Nikolai Ivanovich in order to give weight to his own achievements in the field of beekeeping, and at the same time to hide the bitter truth about the sale of beekeepers. But the fact remains: the bees are gone. Nikolai Ivanovich for some time slowly crafted a dirty stalketer, but then found himself again: he started a stalketer. The meat was excellent. He ate his own food, sold something, served food to his neighbors.
Nikolai Ivanovich lived alone - his wife died long ago. Sometimes family and children came in. The more was our surprise, when periodically from the site of Nikolai Ivanovich was: "Now at x@y went!". The sound of a blow. It was like breaking furniture.

Sometimes we bought smoked products from Nikolai Ivanovich. The process of trade on his part took place with some silenced discontent: it was clear that Nikolai Ivanovich was a greater fan of the process of manufacture and consumption, rather than the implementation.

One day I was rolling in a hamac under an apple tree and reading, sometimes looking at the same branch where the roy was once gathering.
I heard Nikolai Ivanovich. He stood by the fence, holding a huge dish with meat in his hands. Go to me! Let it, let it. not for long.
After leaving the book on the pen, I headed to the neighbor. The site of Nikolai Ivanovich looked uprooted - after the loss of bees, the old man became more negligent with circumcision and chestnut. Near the kitchen there was smoke. Nikolai Ivanovich waited for me at the cherry tree. Through the branches of the cherry, crushing by the smoke, walked a thin cat of mysterious blood.
Nikolai Ivanovich pulled me into the kitchen and sat down at the low table. What is the best breakfast? is right! and simple. So that there is no choice. The bread and the meat are our food, he stroked, filling with one hand the stools, and the other laying out appetizing smoked foods on the plates.
So go for...
“Mau,” the cat quietly interrupted him, crossing through a cherry branch to the open window.
A. Go here and go here.
The cat jumped from a tree, climbed to the doorstep and sat down, tactically not crossing the threshold. Nikolai Ivanovich took a small piece of meat and dropped it to the cat.
“Go for life,” he ordered rather than offered a toast, making it clear that the value of life should not be discussed.
- Here everyone says: chicken to bite on this, fish on that, pork on the fifth, this on the tenth, strawberries there, cherry cherry, berry, oatmeal, and I think so.
“Meu-miu,” again his cat interrupted him, slightly, with only one head, invading the kitchen.
This time, a little bit of the beggar flew away.
What did I stop at?
Nikolai Ivanovich, and your cat?
and no. None of None. Like no one. She is waiting for her husband, - Nikolai Ivanovich pointed to the side of the groves of the topinambur.
I looked out the window and saw a man. He was a red mini tiger with a sharp face, decorated with combat scars. and. and. He never asks for food. Grandma is sending. Here is the fire of the fox, Nikolai Ivanovich explained, insulting the cat both in the species and sexual sense. The Truth! - Nikolai Ivanovich recovered, slightly reducing the incidence of insults.
“Truth,” I repeated after him. Nikolai Ivanovich, what happened to the bees?
– Oh, he shrugged his hand. A long history.
And yet...
“Lomehus,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, sending a ruby piece of meat into his mouth.
The Lommers? - Polite I clarified, more conveniently arranged on the sold sofa.
and yes. Maybe heard? In Science and Life, the article was once.
No, I have confessed.
- Here, for example, ants, - began to explain Nikolai Ivanovich. They live in ants. It is an entire city. Maybe the country. Workers, servants, builders, military, food workers. There is power, of course. Where without her. In business almost everything. Except for the sick.
by Meowu! The cat struck so accurately that Nikolai Ivanovich threw the buzzman out of the plate without even looking at her, although she was not on the threshold, but entirely inside the kitchen.
He fell over the day again. Somewhere there, at the waterfall. He asks to eat. And ants will eat even the wounded. No to the unemployed. Unemployed and can crumble.
This is such a society. Everything in it works somehow. But if there is a lamehouse... a lamehouse is like that. The Cossack. and sent. He puts eggs in the ants. And still knows how to distinguish a special tasty but poisonous hernia. Kind of like a drug. The ants slice this shit and they begin to poison. It is like unwavering drunkenness. They begin to hate their own ants. Or just be indifferent to him. They do nothing all day. They go unnecessarily here. There is another word. U to! They are tossing! They can still have children. Their children are no longer capable of anything. Neither work nor race to continue. They just eat, drink and have fun. Gradually, such degenerates are becoming more and more. The ants country is degenerating. The state begins to die. What is the respect for the home? Especially for the state. No one does anything at all. It does not extract food, does not guard borders, does not clean the territory, around dirt, hunger, bombers, drunkards and addicts. Civilization is coming to an end.
Nikolai Ivanovich, what about your bees? I did not resist.
Honey is bad to give. and bitter. Something has broken out in their society. The Lomechus were allowed to win.
Thus the frogs settle in the ants.
What is the difference? Bees and ants are close relatives. If there are some, it may also be in...
by Meu! - the cat said demandingly, standing on his back legs and trying to reach the vibrants to the proviant.
Nikolai Ivanovich grabbed the healthiest piece and carefully placed it in front of her mouth. Ta immediately grabbed him with his teeth and quickly carried into the groves of the topinambura.
Maybe someone else, he ended his thought.
Nikolai Ivanovich, if not a secret. And without insults. And who you are constantly screaming at...
At this point, the cat that returned to the kitchen has already tried to squeeze the meat from the dish without any "measures".
I just got to go to H&M!! Nikolai Ivanovich stumbled, kicked his leg and powerfully moved his fist around the table. Humility is second happiness. So what did you want to ask...?
Yes is no. Nothing...

We drank a little more of the tincture, I thanked Nikolai Ivanovich for the meal and returned to the hamak. I was waiting for a collection of stories by Fazil Iskander.