“Be not hairsplitters, my friends!“ or Who drew a lilac on a ceiling? Part 1Summer evening is fine. Along streets balls of poplar down rush, the silvery acacia hung languid clusters. The beginning of June - trembling, painful month. You do not know what to wait - whether for closeness before a thunder-storm, whether freshness after it. Whether that and another together.
The delegation from three people queued up to the small lodge semi-hidden by grapes and an ivy. More precisely, from two and a half. Father, mother and I four with half years. We came to ask to graduate to our master Karl Ivanovich Estenvolda him our repair.
It is boring for me. I begin to turn on the place and I am imperceptibly released from a mother`s hand. Out of the corner of the eye I notice a monaural teddy bear, a blue bucket with a scoop and a shabby ball. Karl Ivanovich has no children therefore the origin of these things is mysterious. They lonely roll in the middle of the yard and cause in me burning desire to play with them.
Do not allow to play to me, naturally. The phlegmatic three-colored cat arises suddenly on a board fence and, contemptuously taking of us a view, begins to wash. She washes with enthusiasm and knowledge of business so on all yard its gruffish smacking is carried. I very much want to approach a cat, but at this moment on all court yard the falsetto is distributed:
- It is good - sh - sh to be licked! And well, get an otsyudova - and - and!!!
The cat disappears with a sound speed. I distinguish in the depth of the yard the lop-sided couch with a crumpled cover. Over a couch the stout woman in a white sundress inclines.
- Carlos, get up, smart guy! People came, it is impossible so!
- And - and - and! I - I - I! And well - at - at!!! - rushes from a couch.
- Carlos - and! - the woman asks.
From a couch something long rises, thin and unimaginably shaggy. It is also our master Karl Ivanovich Estenvolde, in Carlos`s popular speech. The Zapoyny drunkard, the liar and the artist from God.
What improbable wind of destiny brought it in Baku, nobody knew. Said that it a good sort that, it seems, to it relatives on some far and old line the artist Kiprensky, that “the favourite of fashion legkokryly“. The hypothetical descendant of Kiprensky was thin, eternally tousled and shabby life very much. When it is sober, to it is not present equal in work. The movements its perfected, and an eye is sharp-sighted and sharp-witted.
When it did repair at my grandmother … Oh, it was the poem! Neighbors from all its noisy montinsky yard ran together to look at work on Karlushina. And also with what the grandmother was at odds (at the real, madly temperamental neighbour`s quarrel ran together! It to you not anemic intellectual disagreements and shy clarification of truth!) and those which even could not utter a name of Karlusha, and said something it seems: “Ouch, Hectare - arlushya, ouch, malades“ (quite so, with the Baku extensions of vowels, where without them, darling!).
It was necessary to see how Carlos, having blinked an eye, with an accuracy of the druggist mixed paints to achieve the necessary shade as soft as if at a panther, throws concerned walls, writing out a pattern, lightening, shading, rubbing clean or, on the contrary, condensing dabs to insinuating velvet blackness. Ran off, peered, ran up, conjured, again ran off and, depending on impression, or sang “Tone it is white to a nezha“ (it meant that it is happy, and Salvatore Adamo`s song only confirms it), or clutched at the head and pulled out a decent shred of hair (meant the return!) .
Walls blossomed, became covered illusive zhemchuzhno - a blue pattern infinite arabesok. A strict white spot with a cherry pattern the fireplace fitted into them, and soon the room reminded the small palace from the Arab fairy tales. The grandmother threw victorious views of neighbors, those delightfully clinked languages, and Carlos was invited to a table where the dish with amber pilaf already smoked. Karl Ivanovich`s body got warm from tasty food and hot tea with cookings, and the soul blossomed from praises.
- Ouch, Carlos! - the grandmother exclaimed, treating him. - The price to you would not be if did not drink.
- What to do, Tamara - hanum, - that sadly swung the head. - I cannot, the soul at me grieves.
- Ý - e, you that - the child, perhaps? - the grandmother became angry. - What is not enough for you? Clever fingers, a roof over the head are, the piece of bread and butter will always be. And so you drink that - the soul ceases to grieve?
- So I do not feel melancholy, - answered Carlos, and his hryashchevaty nose utykatsya in a glass with tea. - You speak, clever fingers. And to whom I will transfer them who will adopt my skill?
The only son of Karl Ivanovich was missing in the war. Was gone to young people, did not manage to present with grandsons the father. Dark history was with this son. Whether really was gone, whether was taken prisoner and did not return. Said that Karl Ivanovich tried to look for it, but the attitude towards ethnic Germans after war was not especially benevolent, and to it “advised“ to stop searches. What he also made. Accurately put a leaf with the notice on the son in a box from - under fruit drops, corrected points on a nose and any more never mentioned about the son. Even during hard drinkings. And forbade to speak to the wife about it.
- Get it together, - the grandmother persuaded. - You are adult, elderly already, and look how you go. Make toilet.
- And - and - and! - waved Carlos`s hand. - All right, I went. Till tomorrow.
Felt approach of hard drinking of Carlos in advance. Began to rush about uneasily on a court yard and two tiny rooms. Then it was locked for about two weeks in the smallest - not the room, and it is rather, to a closet, and roamed in plenty. The wife only listened to his cries and a ring of the broken bottles and spoke in beard:
- Tyrant! There is no death on you! The devil is sinewy!
Once Karl Ivanovich worked in a repair shop. For inexpressible talent rather gift, it was forgiven by all, but then ceased. There was a new chief, it was necessary to leave. And began to earn additionally privately. But when worked … As the grandmother`s neigbour spoke, it were “the ishtuchny goods, ne haltur“.
There was Karl Ivanovich hard drinking hard. Gloomy, tousled more, he for hours sat on the pressed-through couch in a court yard. The wife threatened to throw out it, but to a couch the master tested almost fatherlike weakness. Having been tired to rage, the wife reconciled, covered a couch with an old cover and finally waved on it a hand. In the summer Karl Ivanovich slept on it, and in the winter long sat, having stared in one point.
Worst of all it was necessary to those customers whose repair coincided with Karl Ivanovich`s hard drinking. For about two one or three weeks work stopped, on rooms lonely brushes, tubes with paint and brushes rolled. Customers clutched at the head and amicably went to ask Karl Ivanovich. Also my parents went, having captured me as the appendix. Nobody hopes for success of negotiations. I am not counted. To me it is cheerful.
- Carlos, - indecisively there begins the father. - Well, you understand, rather finish, the better both for you, and for us.
- Yes, Karl Ivanovich, - mother assents. - Rather would come. Our girl managed to miss on you.
- My friends! - grandiloquently begins Carlos - be not hairsplitters!!! Day, two, well they solve?! I told - I will finish, and I will finish. To Estenvolda keeps the word!
- Yes we understand that finish! - the father begins to lose patience. - But only when?!
- About - about - about! - thoughtfully utters Carlos. - You so raise a question?! My friends, you want to have work of the painter or you are interested in art values?
Mother is ready to sprinkle with laughter, but, having seen the warning gesture of the woman in a white sundress, restrains. Silence hangs in heated mid-air.
- Tomorrow I will be! - drops Carlos.
- Precisely? - mother exhales. - You will not forget?
- My dear, I am to Estenvolda, but not some market dealer! Told - I will be, means - I will be! - And here words it are interrupted by the most vulgar hiccups.
The father pulls mother a hand and speaks something in beard. Judging by a grimace on his face, the father mentally allocates the master with not really flatter epithets. Does not notice Carlos of it. He looks in the center of the yard and, at last, sees me.
- Lyamashenka, child! - he mutters, and the liquid tear appears in corners of his eyes. - Came - old to Carlos to visit. Ah you, my hand bell!
It nicknamed a hand bell me for an unremitting and ringing voice. In the childhood I was garrulous. Carlos rummages in pockets and pulls out the toffees which stuck together, sprinkled with dust.
- You will allow, my friends? - he looks at parents.
- Ah, no, - mother hasty answers. - Sweet is impossible for it - teeth spoil. Thanks a lot.
That sweet is impossible for me I hear for the first time, but I was always indifferent to sweet therefore toffees do not inspire me.
- You want a floret? - the master asks. - Masha - and, give to the child a flower!
Silently there is a woman with a small cluster of an acacia in hands.
- Take, the child, - stretches me Carlos`s branch and smiles almost toothless mouth. I take a flower. It spicy and thinly smells of vanilla.
- Ah you, garangushik!
This only word which knows Carlos on - Azerbaijani. In his lips garangush - the swallow is a highest extent of admiration. He says it slowly and somehow elegantly: - wounds - kushik! It amuses me, and I roar with laughter.
- Yes wait you! - addresses Carlos parents. Those cannot wait to leave the house twined an ivy and grapes long ago. - Let`s talk to the child though soul to have a rest! Well what you love, Lyamashenka? The floret is pleasant?
- I siyen yubyyu, - I answer. Artful “l“ and “đ“ still are not given me.
- At - at, you, my gold! - be touched Carlos and suddenly dawns on him. - And you want, I to you on a ceiling will draw a lilac?
Until mother and the father was stunned exchange glances, I already jump on one leg and I shout:
- Yes - yes! I want siyen on a potoyka!
- Karl Ivanovich, - carefully begins mother, - do not listen you to her. It child. What lilac on a ceiling? It is such work, then it is unknown how it will look. Perhaps, the room will seem dark and …
- Darling - ceremoniously proclaims Karl Ivanovich. - I do not know whether the name of the artist Orest Kiprensky is known to you. And so I am his lineal descendant. Understanding of art - at me in blood! If your child reaches for fine - do not deprive of it this pleasure. I from you will not take spare cash, I have paints. And if says to Estenvolda what will draw a lilac garden on a ceiling - means, he will draw it!
- Very well, - the father puts an end. - We wait for you since morning tomorrow.
On this optimistical note we leave Karl Ivanovich`s house.