Durakizma from our life ofour management started repair in the cell, next to our office. Through our office the gloomy workers bedaubed with smelly paint who drilled, sawed and knocked so that it was impossible to catch the neighbor at meter distance not that the client on other end of phone hung around two weeks. Our cases, phones and ourselves became covered by a thick dust layer which with persistence ate during our gentle time, eyes and lungs. We became friends, and at the end, having reconciled, almost got to like dirty workers who became an integral part us, and we are them. And here, that day when we almost become deaf and covered with dust, were ready to contemplate brand new kabinetik to which the management nephew was almost ready to move almost came, and here it became clear … that, despite all this office beauty - white plasterboard walls, a huge light window and are fresh the painted floor, there forgot to bring communications. Well, that is, neither the socket, nor the switch, nor a uniform wire there, at all tension of sight is observed … by
At all dramatic character of situation and tragedy of faces of attendees, I cannot keep from a Homeric laughter, letting also about myself: it it was necessary to try so, and? Also I apologize for a hackneyed colloquialism: through an ass, the Lord, through an ass, and not differently, a lot of things at us.
My chief, and straight away rushes into an office, excited as the stallion on spring, neighs - rules to send something to someone there. To send - to send so. Two nuts to the client to the brotherly city of Orenburg. Well, naturally courier service or how it is called there? “Dieychel“, “Em And Em“, “Ti En Ti“ - melodious, as dynamite ton after explosion, the Russian names. It doesn`t matter. I walk in a reception to find out as they send any correspondence and other there. In a reception I am sent to supply because at most that they, in a reception, happened to send is a registered mail. In supply on me with astonishment look as at the alien who just landed on the alien plate directly in their office, and send me to accounts department. From accounts department after with accounting patience explain to me that I should sign the contract with the recipient, to receive “TsMR“, “TTN“ and “ST“, I run away itself, having understood that one higher education and ten years` experience in the Belarusian shady business establishments I have obviously not enough …
To put it briefly, having passed the first level, I, at last, get out to will - hi fresh wind, hi the yellow sun, hi the sad passerby! - I go on mail on purpose … (to watch the beginning). Having approached the pretty girl on that side of a transparent embrasure, I tenderly filter: “Deshka, to send me“. Then, “deshka“ stretches me a scrap with the inscriptions “Sender“ and “Recipient“. I write “The Orenburg region, Orenburg“, the street, the house and a surname of the addressee and I stretch the filled scrap to “deshka“. That attentively studies it, presses on computer keys, then studies again, opens some thick book, something looks for, does not find, looks at me.
- There is no Such index - she looks at me almost with love.
- How is not present? - I am verified with the brought abstract - Everything correctly.
“Deshka“ looks in the book again:
- There is no Such index.
- As is not present. At me is.
“Deshka“ obviously in perplexity, and here dawns on it:
- And you where send a parcel post?
- How where? To Orenburg. To brotherly Russia.
- And, and I thought, you across Belarus.
About the fact that there is no Orenburg in Belarus and cannot be, I very much am silent. “Deshka“ works further.
Only ten minutes later she stretches me green color the receipt and tells magic words:
- Fill in English.
- What? From what … understands
“Deshka“ that its request, to put it mildly, sounds originally, and slightly becoming covered by a flush which does it to prettier, it finishes off me:
- Well, or in French.
- And in German it is not obligatory for you? - maliciously I am interested.
Twenty more rumple fillings and refillings of the damaged forms, and I am free, though is a little thoughtful. The Ukrainian Embassy in Minsk in which speak with you in Russian is For some reason remembered, all information is hung out in Ukrainian, and questionnaires, as well as by the Belarusian mail, are filled on “purely“ English to mova.
My eyepieces broke. I go to expensive boutique (the devil pulled me there to be dragged). Inside dark Sissi Ketch works “êîíäèøí“, at mirror walls, behind a rack. The young woman with saloon manners. Pleasantly. Shows me one model. The second. Third. I am capricious, I am obstinate (you would have a look at the prices - you would like to bryknutsya on a floor and in a violent cry to overdrive legs not that to writhe a grimace).
At last I show me points of my dream. Titanic frame, “anti-patch of light“, as light as a feather. Feet - nuta. The price, however, not that “bites“, tears to parts so that bones crackle. But, I decide not to press close on a denga and fragments of glass to get. I pay. I leave. In three days I again there.
Already on the street I notice some spot which, as the cataract on the right eye in a distance prevents to zrit. I check. I come back. I am indignant. The fragment of glass is changed, and here I again on ways home. I go out of the bus. Weather is excellent. Birdies. Kids. Girls. Bemts! Something arrests me attention. I am dumbfounded. I am blinded! Carefully I remove points. In one hand - one half, in another - another. My titanic the miracle - eyepieces - dream of a short-sighted miopist is refracted so shine on the sun. And on an internal storonka small, such humiliating font watches at me the inscription “ Made in Franse “ *.
* Correctly not “ FranSe “ and “ FranCe “.