My mother of a friend half a century ago went to graduate from the depths of Rostov University, at the corresponding very young age. I don't remember why she stopped on the way to Taganrog, as she often drove almost without money, but with a ticket - in Rostov, her relatives met her. Walking through the dusty Taganrog all day, in the evening in the local bus she could not stand and decided to eat the last sandwich with cheese left at home. To her sorrow, the cheese turned out to be slightly cluttered – it was summer in the yard. The girl looked at this desirable sandwich with doubt for a long time, and finally began to carefully clean the mold. Nearby was a prominent strong Caucasian for fifty. He gallantly told the girl that although the plushed cheese is among the most expensive in the world, it is not the one that should be. And he just goes to a special store, where the cheese is fresh and special, and that he wants a piece of this wonderful cheese to give her.

Missing the guy's tentative offer by the ears, the girl amusedly noticed that it was just how many centuries it was necessary to grow such a planted mold, so that something delicious would come out of it. The Caucasian cried out and stated that the mold in expensive cheeses is the most common, it's all about cheese and technology. Here, in her head, the first alarming bell ringed for this sincere lie. But the man was old and looked very positive. And then just a couple of stops, there was probably a hypnosis session - she saw his medal appearance, a significant figure, hot eyes, tragic folds on the lips, and was simply enchanted by his speech. They talked and walked long afterwards in the evening streets around the promised special store, which she had almost forgotten.

But looking into her glowing eyes, the temperamental Caucasian suddenly broke through – he just suffered. He said that he works as a secret aircraft designer, but there is no point in this secrecy, because anyway his work does not go in series all his life and therefore is unknown.
Hearing this, the girl woke up, looked at the clock and asked about the promised cheese – her train was about to depart. The man dive into a store, more like a warehouse, and returned from there shining with a small circle of cheese, looking really fresh. After taking the cheese, the girl embarrassedly asked if he was married. “No, not married!” the man answered confusedly. It was a failure – the girl’s question was a check shot. The stranger looked cared for, well dressed and generally a winner of women’s hearts. Shortly after saying goodbye, she already in the train with cheese in her teeth began to repeat the fairy tale prepared for university enrollment "The cheese fell, and there was a mess with him...". Here she laughed – the rapidly abandoned muddy Caucasian really looked like a crumbling, confused crown when separating.

That would have been the story in the quiet family annals, and not even mine, but recently I accidentally saw one TV show and on fresh tracks dive into Google. As cautiously expressed by journalists, the girl then met “a man very similar to” Roberto Bartini. This man, having spoken, could tell her much more – that he is, for example, an Italian baron, who gave all his fortune in the amount of ten million dollars to help the starving of the Soviet republic. It was strange, and it was pure truth. And in terms of his aviary work, he was humble - of his sixty models, one in the series went.
It set world speed records, and built six hundred bombers of this series under the name ER-2, which from the beginning of the war to its end bombed Berlin. The bomber was so secret and looked so unusual that during emergency landings it was occasionally shot down by our own. The designer himself also looked unusual and effective.
I often fell in love with him. Like his planes, Bartini also shot down ours – before the war, he got the Stalin tithes, which he sat from call to call. Much of what this man could boast, the girl at the time to tell was generally meaningless – another completely secret designer Sergey Korolev considered him his teacher, and once said: “Without Bartini there would be no companion.” After the detachment, Bartini was sent to Taganrog, where he actually used public transportation for quite a while. He never got on the bus, despite his age. Finally I got a search for the topic of expensive Italian cheeses with mold. As it turns out, this is the most ordinary. It really comes out of the air, like all the prison rot that has fallen on this man – it turns out, the whole thing is in the cheese itself.