Vacations crumble. Online reading of the book Krosh's Vacation by Anatoly Rybakov. Vacations Krosha Rybakov vacations Krosha read summary

The story is about how 9th grade schoolchildren had a summer internship at a motor depot that patronizes their school. Krosh did not have technical inclinations; he wanted to get a job in a car during practice so that he could drive it. But together with Shmakov, Peter ended up in the garage. At first they were not trusted with anything, they only observed. In the garage, the workers considered Krosh small, but after he showed them his license, albeit a child’s, it impressed everyone. Gradually the guys got involved in the work.

Igor worked in an office, walked around the workshops and filled out forms. He behaved as if he were the deputy chief engineer. He loved to hang around among the elders, to be the center of attention.

At a class meeting after a week of practice, Igor proposes to restore the decommissioned GAZ-51. All the guys support him. Krosh suggests, before taking on such a difficult task, to look at the condition of the car. Nobody listens to him. As always, Igor offers something, and if it doesn’t work out, everyone is to blame except him.

Krosh suggests drawing up a defective statement. At this time, in Lagutin’s desk he finds bearings that he was supposed to put on the car. The car came out of the garage with old parts. The boy cannot believe that Lagutin can do this to the state - sell the bearings and take the money for himself. Krosh realized for himself that Lagutin is a swindler.

Krosh, Shmakov, Vadim and Igor live in the same yard. Igor did not introduce the others to his adult friends. I was shy. Vadim, as a friend, was hurt by this.

The next day, Vadim announced to all his classmates to collect everything that could be useful for their car. Just at this time, new shock absorbers disappear. Krosh guessed who took them - Lagutin. Immediately, losses were discovered in other warehouses. All the missing items, except for the shock absorbers, ended up in a warehouse reserved for schoolchildren's cars. Igor began to blame Vadim for this, although he himself was to blame - it was he who told Vadim that the director allowed things to be collected in workshops. From this moment on, Vadim leaves Igor’s influence. The guys asked for forgiveness. Students were told to look for shock absorbers.

The guys were advised to restore the decommissioned car, which is located in Lipki, as it is in the best condition. Krosh, Shmakov, Igor and Vadim followed him. There was an accident on the spot: the guys overturned the car. Krosh, Shmakov and Vadim stayed overnight in the car, as they were ashamed to return to the city without anything. And Igor returned home, supposedly to warn his relatives. When the children and the car ended up in Moscow, the parents made a fuss. The director reprimanded Zuev. Krosh wants to write a statement because the guys are to blame. Igor dissuades him, and Zuev doesn’t care.

Igor tells Krosh that there are rumors that Zuev took the shock absorbers. The boy decides to talk to Lagutin. The mechanic distorts the schoolboy’s words, and the entire car depot already knows that Krosh thinks that Zuev took the shock absorbers. They look at Krosh reproachfully. The boy suffers, because he wanted what was best.

Vadim finds shock absorbers and shows Krosh. They decide not to take them and thereby find the thief. In the evening at the dance, Mike dances with Lagutin. Krosh decides never to talk to her.

The next morning the shock absorbers were not in place. The boys studied the tracks: some from the Volga, others from the all-terrain vehicle. Krosh tells Shmakov about everything.

The students were given an advance. Krosh spent almost the entire day thoughtlessly. Shmakov still had them intact.

Krosh nevertheless writes a statement that Zuev was not guilty in Lipki. The director gets angry and asks not to interfere in his business.

The restoration of the car progressed slowly. Only Krosh and Shmakov did almost everything. But then all children were prohibited from doing repairs during working hours. At the meeting they decided that they would do this after their shift, and the foremen would help them. Things went faster.

On Sunday, Krosh and Shmakov decided to go swimming in Khimki. Vadim imposed himself on them. In the yard I meet Igor, who is tinkering with his brother’s Muscovite and cannot fix it. Krosh and Shmakov help him. Igor, under fear of another car breakdown, takes the boys to Serebryany Bor, where it is much better. There he meets his friends and moves away from his classmates. In the end, everyone gets acquainted and swims together. Krosh pays attention to the traces of the car in which Igor’s friends arrived. They are the same ones at the crime scene.

Krosh talks to Maika again and tells her the story with the shock absorbers. The guys decide to talk to Igor honestly. Igor invites his friends to the Volga and it turns out that they did not take shock absorbers. But this could have been done by the person to whom they gave their car for repair. And it was Lagutin and a friend. After some time, the whole class knew the story with shock absorbers. Lagutin looked sideways at Krosh. Krosh and Shmakov talk with Lagutin. In the evening, dispatcher Zina comes to Krosh. The boy convinces her that if shock absorbers are found, then nothing will happen to Lagutin.

On the last day of practice, the car is finally ready, the ill-fated shock absorbers have been found, and the director of the car depot first scolds and then praises Krosh for his honesty.

The boy peers intently into the distance. What do his eyes see? Mysterious images flash through children's dreams, like the songs of birds. But what have we done to make the kingdom of fantasy next to us forever?

Netsuke – boy with a book

I will describe the events that took place in our house. I will also describe the events that happened outside our house.

I will write in the first person. That's what it's called in the literature. Instead of “he” say “I”. Not “he went,” but “I went,” not “they hit him on the neck,” but “they hit me on the neck.”

My book will be edited so that the reader will think that it was written by a real writer. If you don’t do this, then some books will be read and others will not. And if it is edited, then everyone reads it and no one is offended.

There will be several heroes in my book.

They all live in our house. I know the residents of our house well—my adult life was spent there. From the age of ten. Now I'm sixteen. Only Kostya lives on another street. A bit of a mysterious guy. He’ll walk through the yard with his suitcase, and that’s it. And in the suitcase there are boxing gloves. Kostya is a boxer, a black, thin guy.

I met Kostya when Veen and Igor were just in the yard. And I was also just in the yard. I watched as Veen wiped down his Volga. Igor felt his chin and also watched as Veen wiped the car. Before this, Igor got hit in the chin and now, caring about his appearance, he felt it. I will tell you later why and from whom I received it.

Veen pointed to the spare tire:

- Shall we get up?!

Igor was busy with his chin. I helped lift the wheel and tightened the nut on the holder.

- Why are you called Krosh? – Veen asked.

Once again, I had to explain that my name is Sergei, and Krosh is a nickname shortened from my last name Krasheninnikov. At school they always shorten last names, especially a long one like mine. So it turned out “Krosh”.

Explaining this to Veen, I thought that he probably hadn’t read the story “The Adventures of Krosh” - it was described in detail there.

Then Kostya appeared and we met.

- Shall we go for a ride? – Veen asked me.

- With pleasure.

-Where is Nora? – Veen asked.

“Here she comes,” Igor answered, massaging his chin.

Nora in black fishnet stockings. I hate to look at these black stockings. And her voice is hoarse from smoking.

Igor nodded at me:

- Krosh will go too.

-Are you sorry? – I asked.

-Did I say anything? Nora, did I say something?

Nora shrugged.

Nora and Igor left the tenth grade, as if in order to earn work experience. In fact, they are too lazy to study. Nora walks around in black stockings, and Igor hangs out at Mosfilm, acts as an extra, but he still won’t be counted as production experience.

We raced along the Garden Ring. Passengers looked at us from trolleybuses. Veen looks like a young professor: gray whiskey, white shirt with rolled up sleeves, tight trousers, black shoes. Nora sat next to him like a duchess. Kostya has the impassive face of a boxer who doesn’t squint when he gets hit in the face. Igor was chattering as if his brother was going to give him his Moskvich. I was just driving.

Veen is an art critic. I can’t stand art critics, they interfere with listening to music, interrupting it at the most interesting point. And when on the radio a person mutters something in an indistinct voice, it is impossible to either read or study... “Frederick entered the living room and said... Laura sadly shook her head... Oh, Frederick...” Dirty! But Veen is an art critic in fine arts, and this is a completely different matter: art critics in fine arts do not interfere with listening to music. In addition, Veen is a collector, collecting art objects. And although I only met him in the yard, he did not seem like a bright personality to me. Igor and Kostya carried out some of his instructions and assumed such mystery that I was bursting with curiosity. This was a side of life that I did not yet know. I knew other aspects of life well, but this one was still weak and I wanted to get to know each other.

We turned off the Garden Ring and stopped in an alley near Gorky Street. Veen turned around and looked at Kostya and Igor. They, without saying a word, got out of the car. And Veen smiled at me. His smile meant that I should stay. I stayed.

We sat in silence: me, Veen and Nora. Then Veen and Nora exchanged a few phrases. Since they spoke quietly, I did not listen.

In the ninth grade, Nora was courted by a pop artist, and there was a scandal throughout the entire school. Norina’s grandmother, an honored social activist, called the bureau of the Komsomol organization to her place; I was then a member of the bureau. At first we didn’t want to go, but then we went, taking into account the grandmother’s age and her services to the public. We stood in front of grandma like guilty schoolchildren. Nora was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and shaking the ashes into a flower pot. “If anyone goes astray,” my grandmother said, “then it’s the team’s fault—they overlooked it.” When grandma was young, it was different... But our educational work is weak, and we neglected to look after Nora.

Grandmother said that Nora’s parents are busy people, honored artists, and she, grandmother, is also a busy person - she writes memoirs about Stanislavsky and other outstanding personalities. These memoirs are of enormous importance for the education of the younger generation. And by not educating Nora, we are preventing her from educating the younger generation. This is the kind of Benz the old lady gave us!

But she gave an even bigger benz to the stage director. She gave him such a Benz that the poor pop artist was sent on a long tour to the Fergana region.

Such parsley happened to Nora this winter.

Igor and Kostya returned. Without saying a word, we got into the car. Veen turned on the engine. We rushed back home along the Garden Ring again.

In the courtyard, Veen said:

- Let's come to us.

Portraits, portraits, portraits... Nobles in caftans with lace jabots and lace cuffs, royal generals in gilded uniforms, ladies with high hairstyles, aunts in salops and caps, merchants in fur coats, similar to the great playwright Ostrovsky, girls with bows, boys in velvet suits...

Closets, cupboards, desks, secretaries, sofas, chaise longues, and card tables were crowded together. There are chandeliers on the ceiling. All this, as Veen explained, is ancient and valuable. There are even strings on two chairs, as is done in museums, to prevent people from sitting on the chairs. I was surprised that Nora, Igor and Kostya sat on such a valuable sofa. Nora even climbed up with her legs. I thought that this furniture could not be used. It turns out that it is possible. You can't just sit in chairs tied with string - they're broken.

Nora was smoking. Igor was sorting through tapes, Kostya was leafing through a book. We settled in well, to say the least.

In a glass cabinet there were tiny figurines made of wood, stone, and porcelain on shelves. This is a netsuke, a Japanese miniature sculpture, I saw them at the Museum of Oriental Cultures.

– There are unique specimens in my collection.

Having said this, Veen took several figurines from the shelf and placed them on the table. They depicted peasants, monks, horsemen, children, masks, flowers, birds, animals, fish.

I'm mediocre at painting. Like it, don't like it - that's all I can say. But I can’t say why I like it or don’t like it. I don’t understand at all about still lifes, landscapes, and all sorts of abstractions. I like paintings of people. My favorite painting in the Tretyakov Gallery is “Religious Procession” by Repin. Remember the boy with the crutch? How much joy and hope there is on his face, how he is all directed forward! Now a miracle will happen, he will straighten his back, throw away the crutch and be like everyone else... I like that! But how the paints are applied and how the light is distributed - I don’t understand that.

Veen picked up the figurine of an old man with a high tuft of hair on his head and a long sparse beard. The old man held the hem of his robe with one hand and clutched a scroll in the other. The figurine was only the size of a cigarette holder, and it was still clear that this old man was a sage. There was something eternal in his face, in the long wrinkles, in his thin, emaciated body. His high forehead and squinting Mongolian eyes expressed calm and wise insight. It takes a lot of work to carve such a tiny and expressive figure from wood.

- Sage? – I asked.

“Sage,” answered Veen, admiring the figure. – The work of the great master Miwa the First from the city of Edo, eighteenth century, cherry wood. For a layman it is nothing, but a connoisseur will appreciate it.

I felt a little uneasy - in essence, I was also a layman.

“Art belongs to those who love it, understand it and defend it,” continued Veen. – The person who preserved “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” for us did no less than the person who wrote the “Tale.” Schliemann, who discovered Mycenae, surpasses its creators - they built the city, obeying necessity, he discovered it, led by a love of art. What would happen to Russian painting without the Tretyakov brothers?

In response, I recalled the words of Pushkin:

“I awakened good feelings with the lyre” - that’s the main thing.

– What did I say?! – Nora said maliciously.

This remark meant that Nora was warning Veen: I am not suitable for their company. This didn't surprise me - Nora and I can't stand each other.

“Krosh, you’re a Baptist,” Igor announced.

- But Pushkin said it!

– Pushkin lived a hundred years ago. Stone Age.

“Children, get ready for school, the cockerel crowed a long time ago,” said Nora.

- Are we getting cocky? – Veen noted disapprovingly.

- We love Krosh. “Let’s kiss, Krosh,” said Igor.

- Don't make any noise! – I warned him.

“Get dressed quickly, the sun is looking out the window,” Nora continued, “The woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest...”

“Friendship does not tolerate such jokes,” said Veen, “and without friendship there is no person.” An individual is crushed, but in a group a person is leveled. Threes, fours, fives - that's who conquers the world.

“The Three Musketeers...” I said.

- Remarque! – said Veen. – But Dumas’s heroes conquered the world, Remarque’s heroes defend themselves against it.

“Three tankers, three cheerful friends,” Igor sang loudly.

“Good feelings...” Veen spoke again. – The best feeling is friendship. There is only one conviction - in your comrade, only one faith - in the beautiful creations of man. Everything passes - ideas, views, beliefs, but this figurine will live forever. It was held in the hands of kings and generals, writers and philosophers. If time did not erase fingerprints, it would be possible to create a fingerprint album of many great people. If we learned to create sculptural portraits of people from fingerprints, they would be more accurate than those created from the skull.

Damn, maybe this figurine was held in the hands of Napoleon or Balzac, some Mikado or the Goncourt brothers! Great idea! It’s strange that Veen expressed it so casually, Nora and Igor sat calmly on the sofa, Kostya silently leafed through a magazine.

“Maybe fingerprints still remain,” I said, “very tiny, unnoticeable, but with the help of a super-powerful electron microscope they can be detected over time.”

“Perhaps,” Veen agreed. – But even without that, the ancient thing tells a lot. Collecting art is educational. Each figure is an epic, and her search is also an epic. Collecting is a gigantic labor and copper money. However,” Veen looked at me in a special way, “we live in the age of new alchemy, and copper sometimes turns into gold.”

I didn't quite understand what he meant by this.

“Gathering is a competition,” Veen continued. “We collectors know each other well and keep our searches secret.

This time I understood what he wanted to say.

- I'm not a talker.

– I need helpers. Kostya and Igor are helping. Do you want to help too?

- With pleasure.

– The world of art will enrich you spiritually and help you become a cultured person. Do you want to become a cultured person?

– For one success there are twenty failures. But you will always make money on small expenses.

I must have blushed a lot. To receive money for help, for a service!.. But, on the other hand, I’m tired of turning to my mother for every dime. And I need a tape recorder.

“You shouldn’t have secrets from your parents,” Veen continued, “but you don’t have to tell them everything.” Everyone has the right to privacy.

Logical. After all, I don’t tell my parents everything, just like they tell me - everyone has the right to a private life.

“My parents don’t interfere in my personal life,” I said.

For me, friendship is a natural thing, I never thought about threes and fives. Of course, a large company is too cumbersome - one wants to go there, the other wants to go there. But the question is, what are the threes and fives for? But in a team, a person is not leveled at all; the team is a moral category. So it was necessary to answer: the collective is a moral category. But, as always, a smart idea came to me when the argument was already over.

But I also understood that we couldn’t judge Veen by these words. A person must be judged by all his thoughts, at least by his main thoughts. And the main thing in Veen is his love of art. And, like any enthusiastic person, he is somewhat one-sided, he believes that the subject of his passion is the main thing.

You also need to be more tolerant towards Nora - she is a woman after all.

As for Igor, he is blabbering. Pushkin is the Stone Age, he said that too! My heart aches when I read Pushkin, I give my word! “Accept a collection of motley chapters, half-funny, half-sad, common people, ideal... immature and withered years, a mind of cold observations and a heart of sorrowful notes...” Who else could say that? Only Pushkin!.. “How often in sorrowful separation, in my wandering fate, Moscow, I thought about you...” Eh?! “Wandering fate”...

But Igor is not without a sense of humor, and a sense of humor is the main thing, without humor there is no person. After Pushkin, my favorite books are “Dead Souls”, “The Good Soldier Schweik” and “The Golden Calf”. I can re-read and re-read them. I can also re-read and re-read Chekhov – you’ll laugh out loud, honestly! But Chekhov has stories, and I'm talking about novels. We once played a game: what ten novels would you take with you to a desert island? I named “War and Peace”, “Dead Souls”, “Red and Black”, “The Good Soldier Schweik”, “Quiet Don”, “The Golden Calf”, “The Three Musketeers”, “Lost Illusions”, “The Gods Thirst” and "Leather Stocking" I would have named more, but only ten were possible. But if you asked me whose collected works I would take with me to a desert island, I would answer - Pushkin! I would take the collected works of Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin with me to a desert island.

I liked Kostya the most in this company. All day he didn’t say a word, either in the yard, or in the car, or at Veen’s apartment, but he liked him the most. A wonderful guy, a boxer, but he doesn’t give in, doesn’t use his strength. I like such silent guys.

There are people who have everything in sight, with them it is simple and clear. But there are others - mysterious ones, they always occupy my imagination. It happens that a person looks mysterious, but upon closer examination he turns out to be a fool. But in this case this was not the case. There was something mysterious, even tragic, about Kostya. I felt it when he walked across the yard with a suitcase in his hand. And the fact that he was silent all the time only strengthened this feeling.

When the next day Kostya and I went to carry out Veen’s instructions, I was pleased to walk down the street with him, to sit next to him in the subway car. Everyone thinks that he is an ordinary skinny guy, but he, a first-class boxer, can move so hard that only a memory will remain of the person. There were some impudent people standing at the door of the carriage, obstructing the entry and exit, one even touched Kostya with his shoulder. I thought Kostya was going to scatter them, but he calmly walked past. I was amazed by his endurance. However, first-class boxers, or even masters of sports, could also be standing at the door.

“In the ancient history textbook,” I said, “all sorts of amphorae and vases are drawn.” I didn't think I'd have to do this.

Kostya didn’t answer. He sat, somewhat lounging (I was used to resting in this position between rounds), with an impassive expression on his medal-winning face.

“It’s an interesting idea to create a living portrait using fingerprints,” I continued. – Don’t you have any books on fingerprinting?

- How long?

– Are you going to wag your tongue for a long time?

Gloomy guy! Not much fun to deal with. No, let Veen give me independent assignments. I will carry out today’s assignment with Kostya, and the next one – only on my own.

We got out of the metro on Arbat Square and walked along Gogolevsky Boulevard. Kostya was silent, only occasionally saying: “There, here, here, there.”

I stopped.

- Throw those “here and there”! Where are we going?

“On Sivtsev Vrazhek,” he muttered through his teeth.

On Sivtsev Vrazhek he showed me a gray house.

– You’ll go up to the third floor, apartment eight, two bells, Elena Sergeevna. You will say: from Vladimir Nikolaevich. If you give her this package, she will give you another. Repeat.

– Repetition is the mother of learning, and who is the father?

Satisfied that I had puzzled him, I put the package in my pocket and entered the entrance. The package was very tiny, it looked like it contained a spool of thread. But I knew there was netsuke there.

A woman with dyed hair and a cigarette in her mouth led me into the room, closed the door tightly, turned her back to me, looked at what was in the bag, hid it in the closet and handed me another bag, also with netsuke. Then she walked me to the door and looked to see if anyone was on the stairs. All this without taking the cigarette out of your mouth.

-Where to now? – I asked Kostya, finding myself on the street.

- To Plyushchikha.

On Plyushchikha, a fat young man with glasses opened the door for me. His jaws were moving back and forth. I thought he was chewing gum, but he made a swallowing motion, burped, and I realized that it was not chewing gum. He didn’t come into the room with me, he took the bag and slammed the door behind me. And he didn’t inspect the stairs: apparently he wasn’t afraid of competitors.

I returned to Kostya. He said:

- Now we’ll go to one house. I will talk, and you listen.

I wanted to answer that I had no desire to talk to him or anyone else. But he didn't say anything.

Igor met us on Komsomolsky Prospekt. He glanced sideways at Kostya and said: “Everything is fine.” I didn’t ask what exactly was okay, I decided not to ask anything at all. It was clear that Kostya and Igor were not inclined to talk. Actually, Igor is a talker. But now they were not inclined to talk.

Igor remained on the street. Kostya and I entered the large courtyard of the new house.

In the back stood an old wooden outbuilding, the kind that remains after old houses are demolished.

And the room we found ourselves in was also old. The ceiling is unnaturally high, the curtains are dark, heavy, threadbare, the furniture is worn out and boring. Everything was marked by despondency and impoverishment.

And the owner of the room was also old and heavy. I feel sorry for fat old women, they are completely helpless. There was something humiliating in her searching gaze; I even felt uncomfortable, as if I was doing something bad. And I didn't do anything bad. And Kostya didn’t. He looked at the netsuke.

The figurine depicted two little men, poor musicians, with high-cheekboned Mongolian faces, narrow slits of eyes and flattened noses. A tiny wooden sculpture, the size of a matchbox, no more. The musicians walked through the rain and wind, their rags fluttering, their yellow faces scorched by the sun. One man had his hand on a tiny drum. From the expressions on their faces, from their stretched mouths, it was clear that they were singing something plaintive, monotonous, and familiar. Eternal wanderings, eternal deprivations... The legs are tiny, the head is large, the cheeks are drooping, only one hand is visible, the proportions are distorted in such a way as to emphasize their expressiveness. It’s simply amazing how all this could be conveyed on such a tiny piece of wood.

- How much do you want for it? – asked Kostya.

“They told me it costs fifty rubles,” the old woman answered hesitantly.

I widened my eyes... Are these figurines really valued that much?

Kostya put the figurine on the table.

– You need to evaluate her.

– It’s difficult for me to go to an antique store.

- Send someone.

“I have no one to send...” The old woman looked pitifully and searchingly at Kostya. - How much would you give?

- Since you value it so dearly, you need to go to an antique store.

– Still, how much would you give?

“One of my friends exchanged an excellent netsuke for a nesting doll,” said Kostya. – Better appreciate it in an antique.

- Where will I go... How much do you think it costs?

“The maximum is fifteen rubles... And then...” Kostya picked up the figurine again, “I take it because I collect works by Tomotada or under Tomotada.”

“It’s genuine,” the old woman said hastily.

– Who can prove this? – Kostya put the figurine on the table again. “You might be able to sell it for more.”

“Okay,” the old woman sighed, “let it be fifteen.”

Igor was waiting for us on the street, and we went to the kebab shop. Their order was unknown to me; all I had to do was obey it and not ask questions. When a person is surprised at everything, he looks like an idiot.

Perhaps the figurine of musicians does not cost more than fifteen rubles. But it’s unpleasant to see how people haggle; there is something market-like, shop-like about it, something of cheating and cheating - who will fool whom. It's something in the store! The price is hanging. If you want, buy, if you don’t want, don’t buy, if you have money, take it, if not, leave. More, less - what does it matter? And Kostya was bargaining. And with whom? With an unfortunate old woman. I should have said: “This is dear to me,” or even better: “I’ll think about it,” and left. It is humiliating for a man to bargain.

When dad goes on a business trip, mom and I have lunch in the dining room. I usually order pancakes with jam. It surprises me that people order, for example, cutlets with pasta. After all, pancakes are much tastier.

But Igor asked mockingly:

-Are you in kindergarten?

And he ordered kharcho soup, kebabs and one hundred grams of three-star cognac.

To avoid getting drunk, I leaned on the oil. They say that the oil forms a film on the esophagus that is impenetrable to wine vapors. I even read about it somewhere.

- Good job chopping butter! – Igor was surprised.

The oil almost made me sick, but my esophagus was reliably lubricated, and no cognac was scary for me. I drank a full glass. Let Igor and Kostya not think that they are dealing with a boy.

Igor said instructively:

- You need to sip the cognac. Abroad they drink it only after meals, with coffee.

- How long have you been from Paris? – I asked.

- Is this food? Are these kebabs? – Igor continued to struggle. – Kharcho should be served in pots, shish kebab should be cooked Karski style.

“He’s a great expert,” Kostya remarked mockingly.

Kostya understands people, you can’t take that away from him. It’s not even that Igor is bragging - he talks too loudly, as if he’s speaking not for the interlocutor, but for those around him. And those around him may not be interested in listening to him, perhaps someone else’s conversation interferes with their own thoughts.

Holding his hands under the tablecloth, Igor looked at the musicians.

- This is a thing! How the varnish is applied, huh! What color, unique!

I am mediocre in art, I have already admitted this. It’s better to honestly admit that you don’t understand than to pretend that you understand when you don’t understand a damn thing. And when people start talking intelligently about art, it makes me sick. When Igor starts blabbering: “Light, color, genre,” you want to hit him on the back of the head.

“If you say the word “color” again, you’ll get hit in the back of the head,” I warned Igor.

He replied calmly:

“You are a dark person, Krosh, the sense of beauty is alien to you.” You don't even understand what kind of netsuke this is. The most unique thing!

- How do you know?

“I know everything, I know so much that I’m no longer interested in living.”

- Erudite! – Kostya grinned.

“This netsuke speaks of the frailty of everything earthly,” Igor continued to rant. – They were famous musicians, but became beggars. Sik transit gloria mundi... Work of Tomotada from the city of Kyoto, eighteenth century. Tomotada is Japan's second greatest master...

-Who's first?

- Miwa. Miwa is the first of Edo. But I even like Tomotada more. Look at these musicians, what a job! The price is right for her.

Piece! One hundred rubles! Is this trinket really worth that kind of money? This means that Kostya cheated the old woman.

“It’s not enough for anyone to take one and a half pieces,” Kostya said calmly.

This outright cynicism outraged me.

-You deceived the old woman!

- Why? – Kostya answered calmly. “In an antique they would have given her a tenner at best.”

- So, have we benefited the old woman?

“In a certain sense, yes,” said Igor.

- Interesting!

– If she had been an amateur, she would have received more. What if I ran into a swindler? What does the old woman want? Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. When I offered her ten, she even hesitated,” said Igor.

-Have you already visited her?

– Who do you think found this netsuke? – Igor announced proudly.

Igor reduced the price, and then Kostya took the netsuke.

– Doesn’t this operation seem fraudulent to you?

- Not at all! – Igor answered. – What did this netsuke cost the old woman? Nothing! There was a figurine lying around the house. Who purchased it, when, where, for how much – no one knows. Is this the result of her work and energy? Before attacking the real thing, a true collector will spend months, or even years, searching, losing a lot of time and money. Do you want him to buy at the highest price? Then it’s easier to go to an antique store and buy the best collections of netsuke. But this will no longer be collecting; true collectors do not act like that. Got it, Krosh? And if you understand, then eat it. You drink, not snack.

Igor worried in vain: the cognac had no effect on me. My esophagus is securely lubricated, I could drink just as much more, please! Excellent kharcho! Excellent kebab! And for all his shortcomings, Kostya is a nice guy!

It’s not clear how the plate I pushed away touched the wine glass - the wine glass stood far to the side... The wine glass went somewhere, and the tablecloth went somewhere, Igor with the shish kebab went after the glass, Kostya followed the tablecloth... Instead of them, our apartment appeared, then the old woman , then someone else, then there was a bottomless emptiness, then I again saw the kebab shop, the tablecloth, Igor and Kostya with a glass of Borjomi in their hands.

I drank Borzhom, it became easier, but I didn’t want to move my tongue. Something cloudy rolled up from my stomach to my throat, and then I felt dizzy. Then it rolled back and became easier. Everything from kharcho and shish kebab, Igor is right - they don’t know a damn thing about cooking here. Kharcho should be served in pots, shish kebab should be fried Karski style. It wasn’t because of the cognac that I succeeded: my esophagus was reliably lubricated with butter. At the memory of the butter, I again felt a rush from my stomach to my throat.

“Your tan is gone,” Igor noted.

A glass of hot tea with lemon warmed me up a little, but it was still dreary and disgusting. I will never eat kharcho again, I will not eat shish kebab, damn them!

“Don’t be upset, Krosh,” Igor remarked condescendingly, “I started out like that too.”

– It’s not because of cognac at all.

- That's right, from Borjomi.

Kostya sleeps on a cot in the loggia - a tiny, glassed-in balcony. Boxing gloves, a jump rope, and a training suit hang above the folding bed; on the bedside table there is a Speedola transistor and the Soviet Sport newspaper.

Kostya sleeps here only in the summer; in the winter he sleeps in the room. Half of this room is occupied by a library - Kostya’s father is a designer, the other half is a piano - Kostya’s sister studies at a music school at the conservatory. She is twelve years old, but she is already composing music and practicing the piano eight hours a day. Persistent.

A wonderful thing is a loggia. It feels like you are hanging in the air and seeing the whole of Moscow. And this is a separate room. I dream of having a separate room. And it would be nice to take up boxing.

– You know, Kostya, I would love to take up boxing. Just for self-defense.

Kostya remained silent.

– Many people are misled by my small height. In fact, I’m not weak at all, I just don’t know the tricks. I thought about mastering sambo techniques, but now I see that boxing is better. In sambo you have to come into contact with the enemy, but in boxing you hit once and move on.

- I'll show you to the coach.

– Is it too late to start at sixteen?

- Just right.

Damn it, what if the coach finds my data and I become a real boxer? Maybe a junior champion in his weight category. Colossal!

“The sooner you show me to the coach, the better.”

- At least tomorrow.

He's a rude guy, but it's okay, you can be friends.

Kostya’s father entered the loggia, sat down on the edge of the bed, stroked his knee, looked at us and smiled. And Kostya looked at the wall and answered his father’s question: “How are you?” – answered coldly:

- Nothing.

– Tomorrow we will test a small car. We suffered with her.

Kostya was silent.

- It will be an excellent car, speed is one hundred, gasoline consumption is four liters.

I felt uncomfortable: Kostya was defiantly silent.

“Every citizen of the Soviet Union should have a car,” I intervened in the conversation. – In our century, a car is the same as a bicycle in the last century. In the West, cities are suffocating from an excess of cars, but in our country there is enough space.

Kostya’s father nodded his head approvingly and stroked his knee—is it bad for him, or what? And he looks like a healthy man, plump, tall, good-natured.

- What do you think? – he asked Kostya.

- I don't care.

I was amazed at such a boorish answer. I, too, sometimes have quarrels with my parent, but if he takes the first step towards reconciliation, then you also have to be human.

-Are you in a quarrel? – I asked Kostya when we were alone.

Kostya didn’t answer.

“There’s no point in quarreling with your parents—you still have to make peace.”

Kostya was silent.

– Does your father work at a car factory?

“Yes,” he finally answered.

There was a locker above the cot. Kostya opened it, and I saw a small figure there.

- Show me.

The Japanese boy was squatting with a book on his lap. But the boy was not looking at the book, but somewhere into the distance, his thoughts carried away far, far away. There was such clarity, purity, dreaminess, such joy and affirmation of life in his face that it was simply incomprehensible by what means the artist achieved this. And I realized that in front of me was a great work of art.

“This is the great master Miwa the first - “Boy with a book,” said Kostya.

-Are you collecting too?

– No... Well, there’s one lying around... Don’t tell Veen about this netsuke. Don't even say you saw her at all.

- Look!

– Who do you take me for?!

In the courtyard people were crowding around the fountain. The fountain is the center of the architectural ensemble of our yard. It is repaired every summer until the fall, when there is no point in running the fountain. And still, every launch of the fountain is a major event in the life of our home. And, of course, Petr Shmakov was jostling in the crowd. It seems to me that Shmakov does not appear in the courtyard at the moment of events, but events appear when Shmakov appears.

When I saw Shmakov, my mood darkened: the new friendship with Kostya was replacing the old, time-tested and tested friendship with Shmakov.

Why should a new friendship interfere with an old one, tested by time and trials? Can't the three of us be friends? Shmakov is a wonderful comrade and can also take up boxing, he has all the data for this.

Shmakov discussed the technical problems of the fountain with pensioner Bogatkin. Shmakov didn’t understand anything about this, but he was great at talking to pensioners and found a common language with them. And the pensioners look at me as if they are considering whether to hit me on the neck now or a little later.

I seized the moment when pensioner Bogatkin turned away.

- Listen, Shmakov, do you want to take up boxing?

- For self-defense.

– Who should we defend ourselves from?

- From the one who attacks.

- Nobody will attack me.

– Today I was at the kebab shop with Kostya and Igor, they had enough of a hundred grams.

- Speculators, gang.

- Well, in any case, Kostya is not a speculator; his sister is at the conservatory.

“You can speculate not only at the conservatory, but also at the Philharmonic,” said Peter Shmakov.

I didn’t attach any importance to Shmakov’s words. He does not know that Kostya and Igor are carrying out orders from Veen in the interests of art. And when I start to be friends with someone, Shmakov speaks skeptically about this person. But his decisive refusal to take up boxing confused me: Shmakov would not refuse in vain, he has practical acumen. And one cannot help but admit the fact that not the majority of humanity is involved in boxing.

At home, mom and dad were discussing a trip along the Volga. One of these days they are leaving by ship along the Oka, Volga and Kama. He was driving me. I've already swam twice - mortal boredom. One time everything went well, but the third time - sorry! And mom and dad love. Well, to your health!

I took up the encyclopedia. We have two of them. One is Brockhaus and Efron, the other is TSB, Bolshaya Sovetskaya.

The Brockhaus and Efron Encyclopedia was published at the end of the last century. Despite this, it contains many interesting facts. It is interesting to know how people looked at the world eighty years ago; sometimes it looks quite funny. And you see how far humanity has come forward.

“Boxing is a kind of fist fighting, consisting in the art of striking the opponent from the head to the stomach inclusive... Competitions often end in blood and mutilation... They stop only when one of the opponents finishes the other so that the latter becomes unable to continue the fight.”

If we ignore the naive expression, then there is little tempting in the definition itself. Blood, injuries, blows from head to stomach... You won't be happy! It doesn’t matter how it goes in the stomach, but if you hit a person in the dome, he will eventually go stunned.

TSB is a modern encyclopedia. Something in it is sophisticated in connection with the cult of personality. But it is unlikely that the influence of the cult of personality affected the article about boxing.

“Boxing is a sport, a fist fight... The purpose of the fight is to incapacitate the opponent with a blow to the most sensitive part of the body... - knockout... A knockout is accompanied by a semi-conscious or unconscious state, most often occurring as a result of a blow to the chin or stomach.”

This definition is more scientific. But “a blow to the most sensitive part of the body... The chin or the stomach. Unconscious state..."

It’s nice, of course, to become a world or European champion. But if they make you spit up blood, slap you in the stomach, hit you in the head, and plunge you into a semi-conscious, or even completely unconscious, state, then it is better to become a checkers champion. And one of our guys became a table tennis champion, he also understands everything.

Still, it’s inconvenient to just give up. Yesterday I stuffed myself, but today I’ll give up. And perhaps boxing is not as scary as it is written in the encyclopedia. I've seen boxing on TV many times and didn't notice any injuries or blood. The boxers jumped in front of each other, delivering rare and, apparently, not too painful blows with their gloves. And maybe the coach won’t want to accept me - there won’t be any places or I won’t have the data - let’s say my arms are too short, with short arms you can’t reach your opponent, he’ll get you.

On the way to Tsvetnoy Boulevard, where the sports club is located, I said to Kostya:

- What if they don’t accept it?

- Everyone is accepted.

- No one is turned away?

– Only for those who study music.

- Why?

– May damage lips and fingers. You don't play the saxophone, do you?

– I don’t play the saxophone... But I thought about going into jazz as a drummer.

I immediately calmed down. If parents are involved, then options are possible.

We drove in silence for a while, then I said:

“I keep thinking about the netsuke that we bought from the old woman.” Somehow it turned out badly.

- What's not good? – Kostya asked gloomily.

- In essence, we deceived her, the old woman. Of course, collecting is a risk and so on... But I really feel sorry for the old woman: she probably lives on her pension. This money would be of great use to her.

-Are you stupid or smart? – asked Kostya.

- That is?

– Did they pay for you at the kebab shop? For beautiful eyes? And keep quiet.

- I will return this money.

“Don’t hold me back,” Kostya said contemptuously.

– And I don’t want to know any of your netsuke anymore.

- Nobody is asking you.

The trolleybus stopped and I got off. Kostya didn’t even look after me. Well, to hell with him! Shmakov is right: I found myself in the company of speculators. Art world, damn them! Collectors, geniuses, unfortunate dudes, parasites! On occasion, I will tell them everything that I think about them. You have to be principled: integrity always wins, unprincipledness loses. Unhappy traders, resellers!

I didn’t want to go home, so I went to a sporting goods store. There is a poster on the door: “Citizens buyers, you are served by students of the trade school.” It would be more correct to write “students”. Almost all the saleswomen in the store are pretty pretty girls.

The prettiest girl is Zoya, from the sports shoes department. Shmakov hangs out at her counter all day long, preventing people from trying on sneakers. Shmakov is convinced that he has more rights to Zoya than I do - she is tall, and Shmakov believes that I should like small and thin ones. If we meet girls, Shmakov immediately aligns himself with the taller one. By the way, I also like tall girls. Not as big as Nora, but at least not small. It is known that contrasts are attracted: brunettes like blondes, fat ones like thin ones, cheerful ones like serious ones, tall ones like small ones, talkative ones like silent ones. I explained this to Peter Shmakov many times. And in general, rubbing someone else with your shoulder is stupid.

To be honest, I like Mike the most. But Maika left for the whole summer, and just before leaving, she and I had a great argument about one book - I forgot what it was called, it was very awkward, and I didn’t remember. And I didn’t remember the writer, the writer was still unknown. An unknown person, he immediately wrote a book about a neurasthenic. There are many neurasthenics in our age, so I wrote about one.

Maika objected that he was going through adolescence. And I said that there is no such thing as adolescence. For example, one of our guys, Mishka Taranov, the son of the famous Taranov, once wrote a letter. “To those who want to read,” he titled his letter. Mishka wrote that his father was a great man, and he, Mishka, was a nonentity and did not know whether he should continue to live. I spread it out on four pages. Everyone said it was a transitional age, and I told Mishka: “It’s stupid to compare yourself with your father. When your father was sixteen years old, he was probably even more of a wimp than you are now.” These words had a great effect on him. He immediately changed; now he is unrecognizable. Previously, he didn’t even play football, but now he dances the twist better than anyone in school.

Maika objected that the hero of the book wants to get away from the hustle and bustle, wants to have a hut in the forest and live away from people. In response, I referred to Polekutin, the tallest and strongest guy in our class; we call him Papa. As soon as he grabs the deuce, he announces that he will become a beekeeper, raising bees in an apiary. I have nothing against beekeepers; any work is honorable, but you must have a calling for any work. A beekeeper must love all kinds of midges and insects, but Papa has purely technical inclinations. I gave this example as proof that the desire to have a hut in the forest can arise in any person and does not prove anything at all.

And girls also like it when there are a lot of criminal words in a book. They call it “verbal discoveries.”

And I don't like swearing. I hate it when people swear, especially in front of women and children. I try to get in the face of the guy who swears in front of women and children. In a work of art you sometimes have to reproduce one curse word or another - literature reflects life. But we should not forget that fiction is belle letre, beautiful writing. In our yard you sometimes hear this... but should I really put this belle letre into the book I’m writing now?!

Maika said that the hero of the book is a product of capitalism. May be I do not know. But I am always suspicious when a person makes excuses for capitalism. At an agricultural exhibition, one of our guys stole an apple. At a class meeting, this guy stands up and says: “Forgive me, brothers, it’s not my fault, the birthmarks of capitalism are to blame.” We saw it! Where, one might ask, did he get the birthmarks of capitalism at the age of sixteen? He had never seen capitalism.

And I also told Mike that I wouldn’t trade Stendhal’s Julien Sorel for a thousand of these neurasthenics. Maika objected that Julien Sorel was an ordinary seducer. I replied that if a woman does not want to be seduced, then no one will seduce her. Mike announced that I don't know much about this. I said I knew more than she did. And he also told her not to get excited, but to remember the last minutes of Julien Sorel...

“Fortunately, on the day when they announced to him that it was time to die, the bright sun illuminated nature, and Julien was courageous... “Well, everything is fine,” he thought, “I’m not losing heart at all...” Never before the head was not in such a poetic mood as at that moment when it was about to fall from the shoulders ... "

Maika said that the age of sentimentality is long gone. I replied that the term “sentimentality” is used by callous and heartless people. And at that moment I realized that friendship with Mike does not oblige me to anything. Moreover, even before we argued with Mike, I already liked the saleswoman Zoya from the sports shoe department. I liked them in different ways: Mike in an intellectual way, Zoya in a different way. And after we quarreled with Maika, I began to like Zoya even more.

Only Shmakov Petr interfered. Not because he rubbed me off with his shoulder - I myself can rub off anyone. And because Shmakov didn’t like anyone except Zoya, it means his feeling was deeper than mine. And I didn’t want to interfere with his deep feeling.

Now Shmakov was also standing at the counter, wiping everyone off with his shoulder and talking to Zoya. Zoya did not pay attention to the buyers. You have to put yourself in her position - it’s not very pleasant to look at other people’s torn socks. There are subjects who do not at all take into account the fact that they are being served by a girl. Of course, all work is honorable. But if I were the director of a store, I would assign male salespeople to sell everything male, and female salespeople to sell everything female.

- Why are you so serious? – Shmakov asked me mockingly.

This is how he usually talks to me in front of girls, he wants to show the girls that he is an adult and I am a teenager. Dumb. I can't stand his stuff. And I answered:

- Shmakov, don’t be a dunce.

But to be honest, I was pleased to meet Shmakov. Shmakov acts more with his shoulders than with his head, but he never lured me into speculation. And, like a true friend, he warned me that Igor and Kostya were hard workers. But I didn’t tell him that he was right - I knew that he would answer: “Who was warned?!”

Zoya stood behind the counter, a tall, plump girl with fluffy hair. When she walks through the yard, the plumbers look after her - that’s how they like her. Beautiful, you can't say anything. Shmakov Peter stands like a statue and does not take his eyes off her. So what?

It’s a different matter at the skating rink... Something new, mysterious, exciting appears in the girl, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkle. And when you ride hand in hand with her or lace up your shoes, you feel like a man, especially since you have to protect her from hooligans. And Shmakov even stands at the counter like an idol, you can’t move him from his place. And I walked around the store alone.

I wandered around the store, admiring the new motor boats and thinking about Veen. He will ask why I don't want to deal with him anymore. And I will answer: I don’t want to participate in the burning of old women. I don't want to.

But when I came to Veen, he asked me something completely different:

– How are you feeling after yesterday?

I didn’t immediately realize what he was asking. Then I realized:

- It's all gone.

“It’s inconvenient to lag behind your comrades,” Veen continued. – You can be forgiven, Kostya can’t be forgiven – he’s an athlete, a boxer. You can't drink - that means you can't. Right?

What could I answer? A boxer really shouldn't drink.

“Igor knocks down Kostya,” Veen continued. - A strange guy, but he might have some taste.

Veen was wearing a knitted jumper and a white shirt. He was still slim and athletic for his age.

“Igor is in a hurry, fussing, and often acts thoughtlessly. This is the netsuke. – Veen reached out to the closet and took off the shelf a figurine of musicians, the one that Kostya and I bought from the old woman. – Igor assured that he had found the original, but it turned out to be a copy. And Kostya is good! I told him to evaluate it first, but he didn’t listen. However, anyone can make a mistake, right?

What could I answer? Indeed, anyone can make a mistake.

“I’ll lose five rubles, or even ten, on this scam.” Do you have your passport with you?

End of introductory fragment.

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Anatoly Rybakov

HOLIDAYS KROSH

Netsuke - boy with a book

I will describe the events that took place in our house. I will also describe the events that happened outside our house.

There will be several heroes in my book.

They all live in our house. I know the residents of our house well - my adult life was spent there. From the age of ten. Now I'm sixteen. Only Kostya lives on another street. A bit of a mysterious guy. He’ll walk through the yard with his suitcase, and that’s it. And in the suitcase there are boxing gloves. Kostya is a boxer, a dark-haired, thin guy.

Veen pointed to the spare tire:

Let's get up?!

Igor was busy with his chin. I helped lift the wheel and tightened the nut on the holder.

Why are you called Krosh? - asked Veen.

Explaining this to Veen, I thought that he probably hadn’t read the story “The Adventures of Krosh” - it was described in detail there.

Then Kostya appeared and we met.

Shall we go for a ride? - Veen asked me.

With pleasure.

Where's Nora? - asked Veen.

“Here she comes,” Igor answered, massaging his chin.

Nora in black fishnet stockings. I hate to look at these black stockings. And her voice is hoarse from smoking.

Igor nodded at me:

Krosh will go too.

Are you sorry? - I asked.

Did I say anything? Nora, did I say something?

Nora shrugged.

We sat in silence: me, Veen and Nora. Then Veen and Nora exchanged a few phrases. Since they spoke quietly, I did not listen.

In the ninth grade, Nora was courted by a pop artist, and there was a scandal throughout the entire school. Norina’s grandmother, an honored social activist, called the bureau of the Komsomol organization to her place; I was then a member of the bureau. At first we didn’t want to go, but then we went, taking into account the grandmother’s age and her services to the public. We stood in front of grandma like guilty schoolchildren. Nora was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and shaking the ashes into a flower pot. “If anyone goes astray,” my grandmother said, “then the team is to blame - they overlooked it.” When grandma was young, it was different... But our educational work is weak, and we neglected to look after Nora.

Grandmother said that Nora’s parents are busy people, honored artists, and she, grandmother, is also a busy person - writing memoirs about Stanislavsky and other outstanding personalities. These memoirs are of enormous importance for the education of the younger generation. And by not educating Nora, we are preventing her from educating the younger generation. This is the kind of Benz the old lady gave us!

But she gave an even bigger benz to the stage director. She gave him such a Benz that the poor pop artist was sent on a long tour to the Fergana region.

Such parsley happened to Nora this winter.

Igor and Kostya returned. Without saying a word, we got into the car. Veen turned on the engine. We rushed back home along the Garden Ring again.

In the courtyard, Veen said:

Let's come to us.

Nora was smoking. Igor was sorting through tapes, Kostya was leafing through a book. We settled in well, to say the least.

In a glass cabinet there were tiny figurines made of wood, stone, and porcelain on shelves. This is a netsuke, a Japanese miniature sculpture, I saw them at the Museum of Oriental Cultures.

There are unique pieces in my collection.

Having said this, Veen took several figurines from the shelf and placed them on the table. They depicted peasants, monks, horsemen, children, masks, flowers, birds, animals, fish.

Sage? - I asked.

“Sage,” answered Veen, admiring the figure. - The work of the great master Miwa the First from the city of Edo, eighteenth century, cherry wood. For a layman it is nothing, but a connoisseur will appreciate it.

I felt a little uneasy - in essence, I was also a layman.

Art belongs to those who love, understand and defend it, continued Veen. - The person who preserved “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” for us did no less than the one who wrote this “Tale.” Schliemann, who discovered Mycenae, surpasses its creators - they built the city, obeying necessity, he discovered it, led by a love of art. What would happen to Russian painting without the Tretyakov brothers?

Netsuke – boy with a book

I will describe the events that took place in our house. I will also describe the events that happened outside our house.

There will be several heroes in my book.

Veen pointed to the spare tire:

- Shall we get up?!

Igor was busy with his chin. I helped lift the wheel and tightened the nut on the holder.

- Why are you called Krosh? – Veen asked.

Explaining this to Veen, I thought that he probably hadn’t read the story “The Adventures of Krosh” - it was described in detail there.

Then Kostya appeared and we met.

- Shall we go for a ride? – Veen asked me.

- With pleasure.

-Where is Nora? – Veen asked.

“Here she comes,” Igor answered, massaging his chin.

Nora in black fishnet stockings. I hate to look at these black stockings. And her voice is hoarse from smoking.

Igor nodded at me:

- Krosh will go too.

-Are you sorry? – I asked.

-Did I say anything? Nora, did I say something?

Nora shrugged.

We sat in silence: me, Veen and Nora. Then Veen and Nora exchanged a few phrases. Since they spoke quietly, I did not listen.

But she gave an even bigger benz to the stage director. She gave him such a Benz that the poor pop artist was sent on a long tour to the Fergana region.

Such parsley happened to Nora this winter.

Igor and Kostya returned. Without saying a word, we got into the car. Veen turned on the engine. We rushed back home along the Garden Ring again.

In the courtyard, Veen said:

- Let's come to us.

Nora was smoking. Igor was sorting through tapes, Kostya was leafing through a book. We settled in well, to say the least.

In a glass cabinet there were tiny figurines made of wood, stone, and porcelain on shelves. This netsuke, Japanese miniature sculpture, I saw them at the Museum of Oriental Cultures.

– There are unique specimens in my collection.

Having said this, Veen took several figurines from the shelf and placed them on the table. They depicted peasants, monks, horsemen, children, masks, flowers, birds, animals, fish.

Anatoly Rybakov

Krosh's holidays

Netsuke – boy with a book

I will describe the events that took place in our house. I will also describe the events that happened outside our house.

There will be several heroes in my book.

Veen pointed to the spare tire:

- Shall we get up?!

Igor was busy with his chin. I helped lift the wheel and tightened the nut on the holder.

- Why are you called Krosh? – Veen asked.

Explaining this to Veen, I thought that he probably hadn’t read the story “The Adventures of Krosh” - it was described in detail there.

Then Kostya appeared and we met.

- Shall we go for a ride? – Veen asked me.

- With pleasure.

-Where is Nora? – Veen asked.

“Here she comes,” Igor answered, massaging his chin.

Nora in black fishnet stockings. I hate to look at these black stockings. And her voice is hoarse from smoking.

Igor nodded at me:

- Krosh will go too.

-Are you sorry? – I asked.

-Did I say anything? Nora, did I say something?

Nora shrugged.

We sat in silence: me, Veen and Nora. Then Veen and Nora exchanged a few phrases. Since they spoke quietly, I did not listen.

But she gave an even bigger benz to the stage director. She gave him such a Benz that the poor pop artist was sent on a long tour to the Fergana region.

Such parsley happened to Nora this winter.

Igor and Kostya returned. Without saying a word, we got into the car. Veen turned on the engine. We rushed back home along the Garden Ring again.

In the courtyard, Veen said:

- Let's come to us.

Nora was smoking. Igor was sorting through tapes, Kostya was leafing through a book. We settled in well, to say the least.

In a glass cabinet there were tiny figurines made of wood, stone, and porcelain on shelves. This is a netsuke, a Japanese miniature sculpture, I saw them at the Museum of Oriental Cultures.

– There are unique specimens in my collection.

Having said this, Veen took several figurines from the shelf and placed them on the table. They depicted peasants, monks, horsemen, children, masks, flowers, birds, animals, fish.