Rus Articles Journal

Once in May

once in May

Sometimes in life there are such moments when you suddenly understand what is with you, suddenly, besides your will, there is something surprising and wonderful. You are not under the influence of drug, you are not intoxicated with alcohol and not drugged by any vital success, like a prize in a lottery of the large sum or receiving a favorable sinecure, nothing of that kind, and too time overflows you such delight of life, such violent triumph of heart that time as if fades in a delightful moment of the moment, and you do not understand where you what is with you, you are living still or already died and sit on a fluffy cloud which carries you to pastures of Heaven, and white angels blow in your honor.

Such moments before in my life was two. The third happened to me during my trip across Germany, in the capital of Berlin. There was a month May. Month when the Berlin weather generously dips you into even cool sunshine, deafens by singing of birds even in the downtown and causes slight dizziness from the spring aromas consisting of a sweet smell as if the blown-up lilac clusters even more sweet and at the same time muffled smell of lindens and some in general unimaginable fragrances of spices and spices on Turkish - the Arab bazarchik which, being closely interwoven each other, also get and are interwoven, in turn, into your brain, forcing you to smile to unclear happiness blissfully. This year May turned out rainy, almost like where - nibud in Kiev or Minsk, and aroma of a rain also stuck to perfumes of lilac and spices.

That`s it in one of such days when Joachim undertook to play the guide and dragged me nearly through all Berlin, we appeared near some ordinary-looking building when gray Berlin clouds which differed in nothing from clouds Kiev or Minsk ran, and in a second loaded respectable German a rain. Unlike clouds which, judging by an external bloated and gloomy look, quite could descend for clouds of any nationality, a rain a nationality just had. It was German: uniform and ordered, with an accurate sound falling on a pavement and also accurately blowing up on it huge bubbles. I still thought what bubbles has to be from the fact that in Berlin even pavements are washed with shampoo.

Not to wet through, Joachim involved me in the foyer of the gray building, asked something the porter, and, smiling from ear to ear as if that told him that he just won no more in the German lottery, it is not less than exactly one thousand euros, in two steps podskakat to me and joyfully barked:

- We go on a quiz!

- Where? - I did not understand.

- On “Duel“, a quiz where it is possible to win up to one hundred thousands of euros - smiled from ear to ear Joachim.

Germans - the strange people. They, almost like and we, Slavs, inhabitants of northern latitudes, with the sustained Nordic character - as we know from favourite cinema, - and, nevertheless, all the time smile and to something rejoice, is sincere as children. While the Russian person even for an easy grin does not see any occasions, the German squints from ear to ear and all the time exclaims “Fine!“, “Perfectly!“, “Perfectly!“. Well, or at the worst, friendly smiles. And even they are angry as that not angrily.

I am not a fan of quizes and any shows where play for money, but this time, having given in to persistent pleasure of Joachim, obediently followed him. We got into the elevator, arrived to some floor (I because ahead of me there was so tall man that from - for his shaven nape I could see only a ceiling did not manage to make out figure on the elevator panel), and went to some hall. I was absent-minded all the time. Whether from - for smells of the Berlin streets whether for what other reason, but I blissfully wanted to sleep. I still thought that women on the ninth month of pregnancy so have to feel: happy and sleepy.

We took seat on our places, workers several times checked the equipment, lighting and warned us how to behave, at the same time all the time smiling and thanking public, and that in reply thanked workers and too is grateful smiled. All were terribly polite, and nobody was nervous.

Game began. To two curbstones standing opposite to each other, the leader invited two participants, two men. Those were presented, something joked, the leader joked too, participants joked in reply. Generally, jokes did not stop, all had an excellent mood, Joachim had fun as the child, and it was only boring for me well.

And suddenly when one of participants, on the simple question “As the Capital of Cameroon - Yaounde or Uaga - the Arch Is Called“, with a wide smile left game, I saw it. She was called Brigitta. It is very difficult to me to undertake its description because I am afraid that I will not be able to give also the 100-th share of what in it struck me and pulled out from a spring Berlin lethargy. However, I will try though already now, having only thought of how it is better for me to draw its image, I give in and I become flustered, even without having begun.

Typical words to which all of us got used and which we pronounce every time, without reflecting, it seems “beautiful“, “nice“, “charming“ and so forth, from - for their frequent use in relation to the most different women, and in general objects, for me lost the magic meaning long ago. I am afraid that the word “beautiful“ for me in general lost any meaning. Beautiful bag. Beautiful bed. Beautiful woman. All the same that just bag, bed, woman. To tell about the woman that she is beautiful - not to tell for me anything. In each woman such set various, unlike at each other, unique lines and hyphens, lines and shades, shadows and echoes that it is necessary to call each of them the separate word. And every time in a new way.

Each young woman - not the car and even not a graceful beautiful horse that she could be characterized by several words, let also very best. I very much love horses and I understand them not worse than some konnozavodchik, I admire them and I consider them much better than people, but even the most beautiful Arab mare, on the beauty and grace, in the most man-to-man private talk, I would not dare to compare to the simplest young girl. Could not.

Brigitta was not beautiful in modern understanding of the word. This, long ago lost himself, the term was here out of place. And, nevertheless, what me struck at once and filled to the brim as a transparent glass expensive wine, this full feeling of its absolute naturalness and a nastoyashchesta. Those two qualities, or extremely rare, or that I am afraid, already absolutely died off among present Russian women who I look for and never I find.

They say that the Russian women the most beautiful in the world. At what most often this axiom is repeated by those who further Kaliningrad never left, but to achieve a female arrangement or to become stronger in the unsteady feeling of such rare courage, wishes not less the others. I, perhaps, would agree that behind a cordon, they, in lump and, are physically less attractive, but at more close acquaintance of it did not dare to claim. Though, it is sure, the formula “Beauty in the opinion of Looking“, as before, is nowadays not less actual, and it is necessary to look at things under different corners. Therefore, we will leave everything as is, and we will write off my delight Brigitta rather for my May nirvana - so I think and to the Russian women will be pokoyny.

Brigitta was high growth. From the place as far as I could judge, it was not less than a meter of eighty. Big shoulders of the swimmer, the developed breast and the same developed hips, all in an ideal proportion, is no more not less. The long, extraordinary thin, unmodernly extended fingers, as at blagorozhdenny heroines of cloths of Karl Bryullov. It, continually, took away the light, twisted in dense spirals “ripe“ hair, whose disobedient springs for an ear, for this purpose only that those, again and again, in a second, jumped, cheerfully springing up down, on the former place. It had a big mouth and the full, always smiling lips. She smiled childly, at all without coquetting, and it was visible that the wide smile she does not try to be pleasant at all, and on the contrary, hesitates of it a little, for certain suspecting about that great power which is behind it and continually escapes outside. Her forehead was rather not womanly: too sloping and “clever“. The nose was a straight line, a little hitched up up, it is slightly less than put proportion, in comparison with other features. Eyes … deserve an eye the certain head, and in them as I suspect, and there was the main unclear magic, as always the magic is unclear and happens. (My God as I am banal!) . In the childhood you for certain read Hoffman`s fairy tales. Imagine two gofmansky deep where - nibud between Schwarzwald and a dense dark, suddenly saddened by the run cloud, suddenly filled in with the sun, but there is more sun, lakes. Two German, cold, warm, lakes.

At all the physical development from it there were invisible waves not of force and rigidity, even dryness as it is often felt in asthenic Germans, and waves of healthy feminity, health and at the same time softness and maiden reverence.

That`s it, - I came across approximately exact word! - maiden reverence. It was trembling. Or, as speak, Americans of “vibrant“. In total in it, in its movements and gestures, vibrated, sent signals of life and health. And still promise of close and obscure happiness. Unclear happiness. As if, it is enough to stand nearby, to plunge into her smile, to dive into eyes, and it is possible to choke and to go to a bottom, to undines and mermaids, in strong confidence of the deadly happiness.

It was dressed simply, without vychur and a claim for glamor, and at the same time with some natural taste when it is not necessary to be ashamed of either the slightest detail, or the slightest fold - nor their owner, nor her vis-a-vis: in simple black jeans which fitted, but did not fit to feeling of a nagost, her strong hips; in an ordinary sweater with “throat“ which sat on it ideally, emphasizing almost perfect breast, but not vulgarly when the look looking, will - bondage, does not undress, examining, and shy slides as if being confused the courage that then again, inadvertently, again to concern, touch, and without having sated, to want to touch again these virgin lines.

Her laughter was childish, not in harmony with her large body at all, and she laughed charmingly inattentively. She answered questions or quailing, looking down in a floor that in a second to shoot them, all the time at the same time smiling, then to quickly lower them, having been embarrassed and when you only desire to admire her maiden confusion to shoot them up, at you again, and then again down and again up. This natural confusion, with an easy flush on alabaster cheeks, these shots eyes, not coquettish, trained, semi-false, concerned so that began to dry up in a throat and to knock in temples. As if with their help you touched the youth and purity. But nervousness it by no means was not that you test at communication with skilled women, and as in youth when all that on everything, inadvertently hand in hand, a look in widely open eyes, the first inept kiss on the cheek.

The confusion and a natural maiden childness of Brigitta were charming. Its naturalness oddly, at distance, forced me to feel the cynicism, the roughness and imperceptibly accrued as skin, platitude. And did not make everything that I would not tell now in relation to it - would be rough, trite, me disgusting.

As the call was her laughter! As it is not affected and pure! As it is sincere and melodious! My hearing was unworthy it laughter, and it was a shame to me to hear it as it would be a shame to the one who did not deserve the received favor.

Startled and unclear to themselves, drunk and become stupid, I, the cynic and an ironist, sat and did not trust himself. I precisely in the years knowing that there is no love also cannot be, and there are only a stupidity and self-deception as knocked by the head about a bell of happiness and eternal youth, sat and mentally innocently kissed this ringing, honest laughter, these pure, not turbid lake life, this image of foreign German woman. This phantom which, of course, would disappear try to touch I it a hand.

Game ended. Brigitta lost to the rival, having at the same time won whether eight, whether ten thousand euros. Promised to go on this money to the girlfriend to New Zealand. Charmingly, loudly laughed. Told something. I do not remember that. I slept. Dreamed in reality. Joachim took me by an arm, having considered that I do not remember where it is necessary to move. We came already to the filled-in street some to “shtrassa“, and went to have a bite “a curry Wurst“, the German sausages with seasonings. I automatically chewed the smoking sausage, the smiling Joachim spun something about ridiculous Russians, and I said goodbye to Brigitta, mentally kissing its huge as life, a smile and its children`s laughter, without having woken up yet, but already understanding that the dream ended, the buninsky sunstroke passed, and ahead of me real and such others life waits again.