And you are familiar with belarusky plant?
Many state Belarusian enterprises, - well, or that ten - another of plants and factories if to be up to the end truthful that I happened to see, are quite tolerable, a photo - and a cinematic image - illusion, with everyone romashechka and buttercups, a little faded there, but, nevertheless, not absolutely erased caramel candy wrapper which you will develop - it seems, as well as it is possible to eat, - lo and behold, and there inside, only a caramel stump, with the jam which flowed out half which wants to be thrown out more, than to put to itself for a cheek.
In the beginning, the external lepota which is accurately induced by works of gardeners, janitors and business executives, really cast easy euphoric nostalgia on days past, “to days of youth fresh“, forcing to think, as inside it can be also cozy, as well as outside.
Facades of buildings are whitewashed, before an entrance a two-three of beds with well-groomed flowers, low shrubs, trees. On a checkpoint with an obligatory Soviet turnstile, surely strict security guard who just like that will not pass and will not let out even the whose person and a figure he knows by heart as the person and a figure of the zhyonka on which he is married thirty years. Here and there, on walls, orders and invitations hang different, painfully familiar of the recent socialist past, the announcement. “In the Palace of railroad workers evening “To a lump for thirty will take place“. We invite everyone“, “To the mechanic Fedorov caught in a state of intoxication strict reprimand“, “150 years since the birth of the English poet Denkins“ and so forth appears.
Further accurate doors - an entrance to monastery of ITR - inzhenerno - technical workers, the old, but purely washed up tiled floor, a board of leaders of production with gloomy persons, on walls traces of recent repair, on the left the road to shops. If to go directly, by shops, that is the high probability for the casual guest not to spoil the first impression about modest cosiness and an obvious ukhozhennost, let and fashionable foyers, offices and bureau, but, at least, on - Belarusian accurate very narrow corridors, offices and offices are not new. (I remember the first visit on the enterprise. The feeling was it: the Soviet corridors, familiar since the childhood, with hot scents of a broom and a mop. Creaking wooden doors and the same wooden window frames with the cracked paint and the cracks stuck for the winter with the paper tatter which is hanging down at the ceiling. Wooden tables - school desks. And behind them the same persons. As doors, windows and tables. As corridors with traces of a broom and a mop. Not beautiful and smiling, but simple, pleasant and to disappointment acquaintances).
And here if to go on the left, on the road conducting in shops and further to garages, warehouses and subsidiary farms, then the probability of disappointment with each step importunately will increase, until, there will be yet no desire to turn right there and, having run headlong back, to rush, by accurate walls with traces of modest repair, by an honor roll with sad faces, by a creaking turnstile and the strict security guard to appear outside where, it is for some reason breathed somehow in a different way.
Having appeared for the first time in epicenter, already striving to become the family, plant, I felt such familiar and unpleasant feeling of universal loneliness, melancholy and a hopelessness as if I was the got lost traveler where - nibud in the Kalahari Desert or in mountain chains of the Himalayas.
In shops the archaic, stultifying deafening noise machine equipment, “collected by own efforts still in 60 - e“ - it is still proud sounds from lips of many as it would be possible with the right to be proud of strong pradedovsky bast shoes of own production in a century when all walk in convenient sneakers and the varnished shoes. All these machines constantly fail, break and make marriage, “which we do not have, and cannot be“. Here and there it is possible to see people in quite not greasy overalls, with not absolutely coarsened hands and with intelligence signs on faces. These are technicians, technologists and other repairmen, by own efforts submissively pochinyayushchy this antiquated a miracle - to technician.
Sometimes, in some alkovchik or behind a grid - a fence, aloof from all other machines as if an exotic animal from the far-away overseas country, it is possible to meet some foreign unit shining freshness and fashionable design, “Made in China“ or even “Made in Germany“, from a look which to a throat rises a lump, tears gather in the eyes and covers feeling of self-pity. And, despite fair feeling of objectivity of the intelligent person, there is a wish to believe that “it is better there foully: both the grass is more green, and people are kinder“. And here … And here, as always.
On a backyard cold garages with same, as well as machines, regularly breaking wheel equipment from which blows as universal cold and melancholy. Badly warmed warehouses with rusty creaking gate behind which even more rusty pieces of iron of all forms and the sizes whose mission does not know itself a zavsklad, but which it stores as an apple of the eye are stored. Some “necessary“ stuff is stored decades there (I own eyes saw on one of rusty huge pokers of mission unknown to me the label erased from time with date 1964).
Further, on perimeter, through the smashed asphalt, rain pools and spots of fuel oil, some rumpled barrels, some bent equipment, for certain, military years, a heap of the fulfilled slag and metal garbage look out.
The picture similar to that which I saw at plant of construction materials on the suburb of our city by which walls and a checkpoint I quite often went. Same bleached facade, in the summer florets, protection box, and everything, it seems as anything. Normally. “Is profitable“. But once, seeing off the tipsy friend in some of holidays through backyards and territories of this combine, I was nearly fatally struck with that surreal landscape of chaos and ruin, real unreality, and painful phantasmagoria which overtook me unawares there. I as if appeared on a backyard of a slaughter of terrible huge mechanisms, terminators and cyborgs who as superfluous covered now with the iron bodies all this latrine. The huge iron containers of different forms which rusted and bent it is sad also in too time with hatred looking at me fragmentary holes - eye-sockets. The cranes mutilated with time and work from which in a dirty tatter wires - veins hanged down. Heaps of the beaten brick twirled in knots of metal and construction debris by sepulchral hillocks stuck out on the right and at the left. And from the sky, on these corpses of former nice work and eternal glory slowly fell unreal bezhevo - the pink snow which is ruthlessly painted by exhausts of pipes of combine from what there was suddenly panic feeling that I am in one of mad Salvador Dali`s pictures under the name “Nuclear Winter“ or “Cemetery of the Killed Cars“.
In one of brick, without signs of former plaster and paint, the building, through the opening reminding an entrance or a manhole inside it is noisy, is furious and with short wind huge sore heart, appear, of all combine knocked. Boom - ooh, boom - ooh, boom - at - ooh.
By, shuffling sapozhishcha, the gloomy dirty worker who is strewn lightly with pink snow proshlepat. Behind a gray wall the rattletrap began to roar. Afterwards began a bark huge shaggy barbos, uvidavshiya us leaving gate of plant.
The impression was the most depressing - to tell the smallest. And in all this discomfort, a restlessness and gray gloom living people still worked. People from flesh and blood. People something else feeling and thinking. People on something hoping. And as in the movie “Terminator 2“ where the main character Sara Connor cuts out a knife on a table of “No fate“ - “There is no destiny“, I wanted to call this vale of melancholy and despair of “No hope“ - “Without hope“.
Of course, the author could be reproached with one-sided bias, picturesque subjectivity and favorable to him, for any of several reasons, unilateralities, the caused simple personal reasons, like a dissatisfaction with working conditions at the enterprise, a salary or meek passion to some economist or the secretary who far-sighted preconsidered the head of department or the director. And all this would be correct. The roots of our misfortunes branching fruitless escapes of the withering trees always go to the soil of our unfulfilled desires. But in mine couples, I could be very happy situation, a salary and the reputation deserved in recent years rather and it is clever to keep mum in a cam. However, internal conscientious discomfort, despite the lucrative post, and all occasions to the become not second, but the first nature for my many contemporaries, corporate fidelity - that it is similar to fidelity the homeland or party of our fathers and grandfathers, nevertheless, importunately does not abandon me.