Erich Maria Remarque Arc de Triomphe plot. Arc de Triomphe by Erich Maria Remarque

Comme un fou se croit Dieu nous nous croyons mortels.

I

In accordance with the law, Cincinnatus Ts.'s death sentence was announced in a whisper. Everyone stood up, exchanging smiles. The gray-haired judge, leaning to his ear, breathed, said, and slowly moved away, as if he had come unstuck. Then Cincinnatus was taken back to the fortress. The road wound around its rocky base and went under the gate: a snake into a chasm. He was calm: however, he was supported while traveling along the long corridors, because he placed his feet incorrectly, like a child who had just learned to walk, or fell in exactly where, like a man who saw in a dream that he was walking on water, but suddenly doubted: Yes, it’s possible is it? Jailer Rodion took a long time to unlock the door of Cincinnatus's cell - the wrong key - there was always fuss. The door finally gave way. There, on the bed, the lawyer was already waiting - he sat, immersed up to his shoulders in thought, without a tailcoat (forgotten on a Viennese chair in the courtroom - it was a hot, thoroughly blue day), and jumped up impatiently when the prisoner was brought in. But Cincinnatus had no time for talk. Let loneliness in a cell with a peephole be like a boat leaking. It doesn’t matter,” he declared that he wanted to be left alone, and, bowing, everyone left.

So, let's get to the end. The right, still unfinished part of the unfolded novel, which, in the midst of delicious reading, we lightly felt, mechanically checking how much more was left (and the calm, faithful thickness pleased our fingers), suddenly, for no reason at all, turned out to be completely skinny: a few minutes Soon, it’s already downhill reading - and... terrible! A pile of cherries, red and sticky blackened before us, suddenly turned into separate berries: the one with the scar rotted, and this one shriveled, shriveled around the bone (the very last one is certainly hard and unripe). Terrible! Cincinnatus took off his silk sleeveless vest, put on a dressing gown and, stamping his feet to stop trembling, began to walk around the cell. White on the table Blank sheet paper, and, standing out against this whiteness, lay an amazingly sharpened pencil, as long as the life of any person except Cincinnatus, and with an ebony sheen on each of its six edges. Enlightened descendant of the index finger. Cincinnatus wrote: “And yet I am comparatively. After all, I anticipated this finale.” Rodion, standing outside the door, looked through the peephole with the stern attention of a skipper. Cincinnatus felt a chill in the back of his head. He crossed out what he had written and began to quietly shade it, creating a rudimentary ornament that gradually grew and curled into a ram’s horn. Terrible! Rodion looked through the blue peephole at the rising and falling horizon. Who felt sick? Cincinnati. He sweated, everything went dark, he felt the root of every hair. The clock struck four or five times, and their casemate time off, peregrination and revelry behaved appropriately. Working with its paws, a spider, an official friend of the prisoners, descended on a thread from the ceiling. But no one knocked on the wall, since Cincinnatus was so far the only prisoner (in such a huge fortress!).

After some time, the jailer Rodion came in and offered him a waltz tour. Cincinnatus agreed. They began to spin. Rodion's keys were jingling on his leather belt, he smelled like a man, tobacco, garlic, and he hummed, puffing in red beard, and rusty joints creaked (not those years, alas, swollen, shortness of breath). They were carried out into the corridor. Cincinnatus was much smaller than his cavalier. Cincinnatus was as light as a leaf. The wind of the waltz fluffed the light ends of his long but thin mustache, and his large, transparent eyes squinted, like those of all timid dancers. Yes, he was very small for an adult man. Martha used to say that his shoes were too tight for her. At the bend of the corridor stood another guard, without a name, under a gun, wearing a dog mask with a gauze mouth. Having described a circle around him, they smoothly returned to the cell, and then Cincinnatus regretted that the friendly squeeze of fainting had been so brief.

The clock struck again with banal sadness. Time passed in arithmetic progression: eight. The ugly window turned out to be accessible to the sunset; A fiery parallelogram ran along the side of the wall. The chamber was filled to the brim with twilight oil containing extraordinary pigments. So, the question arises: what is that to the right of the door - is it a painting by a cool colorist or another window, painted, the likes of which don’t exist anymore? (In fact, it was a sheet of parchment hanging with detailed, in two columns, “rules for prisoners”; the curled corner, red capital letters, headpieces, the ancient coat of arms of the city - namely: a blast furnace with wings - and provided the necessary material for the evening glow.) The furniture in the cell consisted of a table, a chair, and a bed. The lunch that had been brought long ago (the death row prisoners were given the director's grub) was cooling on a zinc tray. It got completely dark. Suddenly a golden, strongly infused electric light spilled out.

Cincinnatus swung his legs off the bed. A skittle ball rolled diagonally in my head, from the back of my head to my temple, froze, and went back. Meanwhile, the door opened and the prison director entered.

He was, as always, in a frock coat, held himself perfectly straight, with his chest stuck out, one hand thrust over the side and the other behind his back. A perfect wig, jet black, parted in wax, fit smoothly around her skull. His lovelessly chosen face, with fat yellow cheeks and a somewhat outdated system of wrinkles, was conventionally enlivened by two, and only two, bulging eyes. Moving his legs evenly in his columnar trousers, he walked between the wall and the table, almost reached the bed - but, despite his dignified density, he calmly disappeared, dissolving into thin air. A minute later, however, the door opened again, with a familiar grinding noise this time, and, as always, in a frock coat, with his chest stuck out, he entered.

“Having learned from a reliable source that your fate has now been decided,” he began in a rich bass voice, “I considered it my duty, my sir...”

Cincinnatus said:

- Courtesy. You. Very. – (This still needs to be arranged.)

“You are very kind,” said some additional Cincinnatus, clearing his throat.

“For mercy’s sake,” exclaimed the director, not noticing the tactlessness of the word. - Have mercy! Duty. I always. But why, dare I ask, did you not touch the food?

The director took off the lid and brought a bowl of frozen stew to his sensitive nose. He took a potato with two fingers and began to chew powerfully, already choosing something on another dish with his eyebrow.

“I don’t know what other foods you need,” he said dissatisfiedly and, cracking his cuffs, sat down at the table so that it would be more convenient to eat the pudding cabinet.

Cincinnatus said:

– I would still like to know how long it will take now.

– Excellent sabayon! You would still like to know how long it will take now. Unfortunately, I don't know myself. I am always notified last moment, I complained many times, I can show you all this correspondence if you are interested.

- So maybe next morning? - asked Cincinnatus.

“If you are interested,” said the director. – Yes, it’s just very tasty and satisfying, that’s what I’ll tell you. And now, pour la digestion, let me offer you a cigarette. Don’t be afraid, this is only the penultimate case as a last resort,” he added resourcefully.

“I’m asking,” said Cincinnatus, “I’m not asking out of curiosity.” True, cowards are always curious. But I assure you... Even if I can’t cope with the chills and so on, it’s nothing. The rider is not responsible for the horse's trembling. I want to know when - that's why: the death sentence is compensated by exact knowledge of the hour of death. The luxury is great, but deserved. They leave me in that ignorance that only those living in freedom can endure. And one more thing: in my head I have a lot of things I’ve started and different time interrupted work... I simply won’t do it if the time before execution is still insufficient for their orderly completion. That's why.

“Oh, please, don’t mumble,” the director said nervously. – This, firstly, is against the rules, and secondly, I’m telling you in Russian and repeating: I don’t know. All I can tell you is that your betrothed is expected to arrive any day now - and when he arrives, let him rest and get used to the situation, he will still have to test the instrument, if, however, he does not bring his own, which is very very likely. Isn't the tobacco a bit strong?

“No,” Cincinnatus answered, looking absentmindedly at his cigarette. - But it only seems to me that according to the law - well, not you, but the city manager is obliged ...

“We’ve talked, and it will be,” said the director, “I, actually, am not here to listen to complaints, but for this...” He, blinking, reached into one pocket, into another; Finally, from his bosom he pulled out a lined piece of paper, clearly torn from a school notebook.

“There’s no ashtray here,” he noted, waving his cigarette, “well, let’s drown it in the rest of this sauce... So, sir.” The light is perhaps a little harsh. Maybe if... Well, that’s okay, it’ll do.

He unfolded the piece of paper and, without putting on his horn-rimmed glasses, but only holding them before his eyes, began to read clearly:

"Prisoner! At this solemn hour, when all eyes..." I think we better get up," he interrupted himself with concern and rose from his chair.

Cincinnatus also stood up.

"Prisoner! At this solemn hour, when all eyes are directed at you, and your judges are rejoicing, and you are preparing for those involuntary movements that immediately follow the cutting off of your head, I address you with parting words. It fell to my lot—and I will never forget this—to furnish your life in prison with all those numerous amenities that the law allows. Therefore, I will be happy to pay all possible attention to any expression of your gratitude, but preferably in writing and on one side of a sheet.”

“Here,” said the director, folding his glasses. - This is all. I'm not holding you back anymore. Let me know if you need anything.

He sat down at the table and began to quickly write, thereby indicating that the audience was over. Cincinnatus left.

In the corridor, Rodion’s shadow was dozing on the wall, hunched over on a shadow stool, and only briefly, from the edge, did a few red hairs flash. Further, at the bend of the wall, another guard, having taken off his uniform mask, was wiping his face with his sleeve. Cincinnatus began to descend the stairs. The stone steps were slimy and narrow, with an intangible spiral of ghostly railings. Having reached the bottom, he went again through the corridors. The door with the inscription on the mirrored inside: “Office” was thrown open; the moon sparkled on the inkwell, and some kind of trash basket under the table was frantically rustling and bubbling: a mouse must have fallen into it. After passing many more doors, Cincinnatus stumbled, jumped and found himself in a small courtyard full of different parts of the disassembled moon. The password that night was: silence, and the soldier at the gate responded with silence to the silence of Cincinnatus, letting him through, and at all the other gates it was the same. Leaving behind him the foggy bulk of the fortress, he slid down the steep, dewy turf, ended up on an ashen path between the rocks, crossed the bends twice, thrice main road, which, having finally shaken off the last shadow of the fortress, poured straighter, more freely - and across the patterned bridge over the dry river Cincinnatus entered the city. Climbing the path and turning left along Sadovaya, he rushed along the gray flowering bushes. A lighted window flashed somewhere; Behind some fence, a dog rattled its chain, but did not bark. The breeze did everything it could to cool the fugitive’s bare neck. Occasionally, an influx of fragrance spoke of the proximity of the Tamarin Gardens. How he knew these gardens! There, when Marfinka was a bride and was afraid of frogs, May beetles... Where it used to be, when everything became unbearable and you could be alone, with porridge in your mouth made from chewed lilac, with tears... Green, ant-like There, the hills there, the languor of the ponds, the drumming of a distant orchestra... He turned along Matyukhinskaya past the ruins of an ancient factory , the pride of the city, past the whispering linden trees, past the festive white dachas of telegraph employees, always celebrating someone’s name day, and came out onto Telegraphnaya. From there a narrow street went uphill, and again the linden trees rustled discreetly. The two men were talking quietly in the darkness of the square on a supposed bench. “But he’s wrong,” said one. The other answered unintelligibly, and both seemed to sigh, naturally mingling with the rustling of the leaves. Cincinnatus ran out onto the round platform, where the moon guarded the familiar statue of the poet, similar to a snow woman - a cubed head, molded legs - and, after running a few more steps, he found himself on his street. To the right, on the walls of identical houses, the lunar pattern of branches played differently, so that only by the expression of the shadows, by the fold on the bridge of the nose between the windows, did Cincinnatus recognize his house. On the top floor, Marfinka's window was dark, but open. The children must have been sleeping on the hook-nosed balcony: there was something white there. Cincinnatus ran onto the porch, pushed the door and entered his illuminated cell. I turned around, but was already locked. Terrible! A pencil glittered on the table. The spider was sitting on a yellow wall.

- Put it out! - Cincinnatus shouted.

The person watching him through the peephole turned off the light. Darkness and silence began to merge; but the clock intervened, struck eleven, thought and struck again, and Cincinnatus lay on his back and looked into the darkness, where light points quietly scattered, gradually disappearing. There was a complete merging of darkness and silence. Then, only then (that is, lying supine on a prison bed, after midnight, after a terrible, terrible, I simply cannot explain to you what a terrible day) Cincinnatus Ts. clearly assessed his situation.

First, on the black velvet that covers the underside of the eyelids at night, Martha’s face appeared like a medallion: a doll’s blush, a shiny forehead with a child’s bulge, sparse upward eyebrows, high above her round, brown eyes. She blinked, turning her head, and on her soft, creamy white neck there was black velvet, and the velvet silence of the dress, expanding downwards, merged with the darkness. This is how he saw her today among the public, when he was led to the freshly painted dock, which he did not dare sit on, but stood next to, and still stained his emerald hands, and journalists eagerly photographed his fingerprints left on the back of the bench. He saw their tense foreheads, he saw the brightly colored trousers of the dandies, the hand mirrors and iridescent shawls of the dandies - but their faces were unclear - only the round-eyed Marthea of all the spectators was remembered by him. Lawyer and prosecutor, both painted and very similar friend on each other (the law required that they be half-brothers, but it was not always possible to match, and then they put on makeup), they spoke with masterly speed the five thousand words that were due to each. They spoke alternately, and the judge, following the instantaneous remarks, shook his head to the right, to the left, and all heads shook evenly - and only one Marthe, turning slightly, motionless, like a surprised child, stared at Cincinnatus, standing next to the bright green garden bench. The lawyer, a supporter of classical decapitation, easily won against the inventive prosecutor, and the judge synthesized the case.

Scraps of these speeches, in which, like bubbles of water, the words “transparency” and “impenetrability” rushed and burst, now sounded in Cincinnatus’s ears, and the sound of blood turned into applause, and Marthe’s medallion face remained in his field of vision and only went out then, when the judge approached closely, so that one could distinguish enlarged pores on his large dark nose, one of which, on the muzzle itself, released a lonely, but long hair, - said in a damp whisper: “With the kind permission of the public, you will be put on a red top hat,” - a fictitious phrase developed by law, the true meaning of which every schoolchild knew.

“But I was crafted so carefully,” thought Cincinnatus, crying in the darkness. “The curve of my spine is calculated so well, so mysteriously.” I feel in my calves so many tightly wound miles that I could still run in my life. My head is so comfortable..."

The clock struck an unknown half hour.

II

The morning newspapers that Rodion brought him with a cup of lukewarm chocolate - a local leaflet " Good morning” and the more serious organ “Voice of the Public,” - as always, were swarming with color photographs. In the first, he found the facade of his house: the children are looking from the balcony, the father-in-law is looking from the kitchen window, the photographer is looking from Marfinka’s window; in the second there is a familiar view from this window of the front garden with an apple tree, an open gate and the figure of a photographer photographing the facade. He also found himself in two photographs depicting him in his gentle youth.

Cincinnatus was born from an unknown passer-by and spent his childhood in a large hostel outside the Strop (only in his thirties did he meet in passing the chirping, puny, still so young-looking Cecilia Ts., who conceived him at night on the Ponds when she was just a girl). WITH early years Having miraculously missed the danger, Cincinnatus vigilantly tried to hide some of his peculiarities. Not allowing other people's rays to pass through, and therefore in a state of rest giving the strange impression of a lonely dark obstacle in this world of souls transparent to each other, he nevertheless learned to pretend to be see-through, for which he resorted to a complex system of optical illusions, but as soon as he lost himself for a moment, I didn’t watch myself so carefully, for the turns of the cunningly illuminated planes of the soul, as the alarm immediately rose. In full swing general games his peers suddenly fell away from him, as if sensing that the clarity of his gaze and the blueness of his temples were a sly distraction and that in reality Cincinnatus was impenetrable. It happened that the teacher, in the midst of the ensuing silence, in annoyed bewilderment, having collected and wrinkled all the reserves of skin around his eyes, looked at him for a long time and finally asked:

- What's the matter with you, Cincinnatus?

Then Cincinnatus pulled himself together and, pressing him to his chest, carried him to a safe place.

Over time, safe places became fewer and fewer, the gentle sun of public worries penetrated everywhere, and the window in the door was arranged in such a way that there was not a single point in the entire cell that the observer behind the door could not pierce with his gaze. That’s why Cincinnatus didn’t grab the colorful newspapers and throw them, as his ghost did (the ghost that accompanies each of us - you, me, and him - doing what at a given moment I would like to do, but cannot... ). Cincinnatus calmly put down the newspapers and finished his chocolate. The brown foam that covered the chocolate surface turned into wrinkled rubbish on the lip. Then Cincinnatus put on a black robe, too long for him, black shoes with pom-poms, a black skull cap - and walked around the cell, as he had walked every morning since the first day of his imprisonment.

Childhood on country lawns. They played ball, pig, caramora, leapfrog, raspberry, poke... He was light and dexterous, but they didn’t like to play with him. In winter, the city slopes were smoothly covered with snow, and how wonderful it was to rush down on a “glass” Sabur sled... How quickly the night came when they returned home from skiing... What stars, what thought and sadness above, but below they know nothing. In the frosty metallic darkness, edible windows glowed with yellow and red light; women in fox fur coats over silk dresses ran across the street from house to house; electric trolleys, exciting for a moment a shining blizzard, rushed along the dusty rails.

He was not angry with the informers, but they multiplied and, growing up, became terrible. Essentially dark to them, as if he had been carved out of a cubic fathom of night, the impenetrable Cincinnatus turned back and forth, catching the rays, with panicked haste trying to become so as to appear light-conducting. Those around them understood each other perfectly, because they had no words that would end somehow unexpectedly, like a sling or a bird, with surprising consequences. In the dusty small museum, on Second Boulevard, where he was taken as a child and where he himself later took his pets, rare, beautiful things were collected - but each was for all the townspeople, except him, as limited and transparent as they themselves were for each other. What is not named does not exist. Unfortunately, everything has been named.

“Nameless existence, pointless materiality...” - Cincinnatus read on the wall where the door, swinging open, covered the wall.

“Eternal birthday people, I want you,” it was written in another place.

To the left, in swift and clean handwriting, without a single extra line: “Please note that when they talk to you -” - then, alas, it was erased.

Next to it – in clumsy childish letters: “I will fine writers” – and the signature: prison director.

It was also possible to make out one ancient and mysterious line: “Die until you die, then it will be too late.”

“In any case, they measured me,” said Cincinnatus, setting off again and lightly tapping the walls with his knuckles as he walked. “However, I don’t want to die!” The soul buried itself in the pillow. Oh, I don't want to! It will be cold to get out of a warm body. I don’t feel like it, wait, let me take another nap.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Cincinnatus was fifteen years old when he began working in a toy workshop, where he was assigned due to his small stature. In the evenings, I reveled in ancient books under the lazy, captivating splash of a shallow wave, in the floating library named after Dr. Sineokov, who drowned in exactly that place of the city river. The muttering of chains, splashing, orange lampshades on the gallery, splashing, the water surface sticky from the moon - and in the distance, in the black web of a high bridge, running lights. But then the valuable volumes began to deteriorate from dampness, so in the end the river had to be drained, diverting all the water to the Strop through a specially dug canal.

Working in the workshop, he spent a long time struggling with intricate trifles, making soft dolls for schoolgirls - there was little hairy Pushkin in a bekesh, and Gogol, who looked like a rat, in a flowery vest, and old Tolstoy, thick-nosed, in a zipun, and many others, for example: a buttoned-up Dobrolyubov wearing glasses without lenses. Artificially addicted to this mythical nineteenth century, Cincinnatus was ready to delve completely into the mists of antiquity and find a false shelter in them, but something else distracted his attention.

It was there, in that small factory, that Marfinka worked, with her wet lips half-opened and aiming a thread at the eye of a needle: “Hello, Cincinnati!” - and then those delightful wanderings began in the very, very spacious (so it even happened that the hills in the distance were smoky from the bliss of their distance) Tamarin Gardens, where willows cry into three streams for no reason, and three cascades, with a small rainbow above each, streams flow into a lake, along which a swan swims hand in hand with its reflection. Flat meadows, rhododendron, oak groves, cheerful gardeners in green boots, playing hide and seek all day; some grotto, some idyllic bench on which three jokers left three neat piles (a trick - a fake made of brown painted tin), - some fawn that jumped out into the alley and immediately turned into trembling spots before your eyes sun - that’s what they were, these gardens! There, there – Marfinka’s babble, her legs in white stockings and velvet slippers, her cold breasts and pink kisses with the taste of wild strawberries. I wish I could see from here - at least the tops of trees, at least a ridge of distant hills...

Cincinnatus tied his robe tighter. Cincinnatus moved and pulled, backing away, the table, screaming with anger: how reluctantly, with what shudders he rode along the stone floor, his shudders were transmitted to Cincinnatus’s fingers, to the palate of Cincinnatus, retreating to the window (that is, to that wall where high, high there was a grating shallow depression of the window). A loud spoon fell, a cup danced, a pencil rolled, a book slid on top of a book. Cincinnatus lifted the kicking chair onto the table. I finally got in myself. But, of course, nothing was visible - only the hot sky in the thinly combed gray hair left over from the clouds that could not bear the blue. Cincinnatus could barely reach the grate, behind which a tunnel of a window rose slopingly up with another grate at the end and a light repetition of it on the peeling wall of the rock fall. There, on the side, in the same clean, contemptuous handwriting, like one of the half-erased phrases read just now, was written: “Nothing to be seen, I tried too.”

Cincinnatus stood on tiptoe, holding on to the black iron bars with his small hands, completely white from exertion, and half of his face was covered with a sunny lattice, and his left mustache was golden, and in the mirror pupils there was a tiny golden cage, and below, behind, from too large the heels of the shoes were raised.

“Just look, you’ll fall,” said Rodion, who had been standing nearby for half a minute and was now tightly gripping the leg of the trembling chair. - Nothing, nothing, I’ll keep it. You can get down.

Rodion had cornflower blue eyes and, as always, a wonderful red beard. This beautiful Russian face was turned upward to Cincinnatus, who stepped on him with his bare sole, that is, his ghost stepped on him, while Cincinnatus himself had already stepped from the chair onto the table. Rodion, hugging him like a baby, carefully took him off - after which, with a violin sound, he pushed the table back to its original place and sat down on it on the edge, dangling the leg that was higher, and the other resting on the floor - taking the falsely cheeky pose of opera revelers in the cellar scene, and Cincinnatus was picking at the lace of his robe, looking down, trying not to cry.

Rodion sang in a baritone bass voice, playing with his eyes and waving his empty mug. Marfinka had sung this same daring song before. Tears flowed from Cincinnatus's eyes. On some extreme note, Rodion slammed his mug on the floor and jumped off the table. Then he sang in chorus, although he was alone. Suddenly he raised both hands and walked out.

Cincinnatus, sitting on the floor, looked up through his tears, where the reflection of the grating had already changed place. He tried - for the hundredth time - to move the table, but, alas, the legs had been screwed on for ages. He ate the wineberry and walked around the cell again.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. At twenty-two he was transferred to kindergarten teacher of grade F, and then married Marfinka. Almost on the very day when he took up his new duties (which consisted of taking care of the lame, hunchbacked, and squinty), he was important person a second-degree denunciation was made against him. Caution, in the form of an assumption, the idea was expressed about the basic illegality of Cincinnatus. Along with this memorandum, the city fathers also considered old complaints received from time to time from his more perspicacious comrades in the workshop. Chairman of the educational council and some others officials they took turns locking themselves with him and performing the experiments prescribed by law on him. For several days he was not allowed to sleep, forced into rapid, meaningless chatter, brought to the edge of delirium, forced to write letters to various subjects and natural phenomena, act out everyday scenes, and also imitate various animals, crafts and ailments. He did all this, he endured all this - because he was young, resourceful, fresh, thirsty to live - to live a little with Marfinka. They reluctantly let him go, allowing him to continue working with children of the last sort, whom they did not feel sorry for, in order to see what would come of it. He took them for walks in pairs, playing on a small portable music box, like a coffee mill, and on holidays he swung with them on a swing: the whole bunch froze, taking off; squeaked, hooting down. He taught some to read.

Meanwhile, Marfinka, in the very first year of marriage, began to cheat on him: with just anyone and anywhere. Usually, when Cincinnatus came home, she, with a kind of well-fed smile, pressing her plump chin to her neck, as if scolding herself, looking from under her brows with honest brown eyes, said in a low dove voice: “And Marfinka did it again today.” He looked at her for a few seconds, putting his hand to his cheek like a woman, and then, howling silently, he left through all the rooms full of her relatives and locked himself in the restroom, where he stomped, made noise with water, coughed, masking his sobs. Sometimes, making excuses, she explained to him: “You know, I’m kind: it’s such a small thing, but it’s such a relief for a man.”

Soon she became pregnant - and not from him. She gave birth to a boy, immediately became pregnant again - and again not from him - and gave birth to a girl. The boy was lame and angry; stupid, obese girl - almost blind. Due to their defects, both children ended up in his garden, and it was strange to see the clever, well-behaved, rosy-cheeked Marthe leading home this cripple, this bedside table. Cincinnatus little by little stopped taking care of himself altogether - and one day, at some open meeting in a city park, alarm suddenly rang through, and one said in a loud voice: “Citizens, between us is...” - here followed a terrible, almost forgotten word - and the wind blew across the acacias - and Cincinnatus could not find anything better than to get up and leave, absentmindedly picking leaves from the roadside bushes. And ten days later he was captured.

“Probably tomorrow,” said Cincinnatus, walking slowly around the cell. “Probably tomorrow,” said Cincinnatus and sat down on the bed, pressing his forehead with his palm. The sunset ray repeated already familiar effects. “Probably tomorrow,” Cincinnatus said with a sigh. “It was too quiet today, and tomorrow, early in the morning...”

For some time everyone was silent: an earthenware jug with water at the bottom, which gave water to all the prisoners of the world; walls with their hands on each other's shoulders, like four people discussing a square secret in an inaudible whisper; a velvet spider, somewhat similar to Marthe; big black books on the table...

“What a misunderstanding!” - said Cincinnatus and suddenly laughed. He stood up, took off his robe, yarmulke, and shoes. He took off his linen pants and shirt. He took off his head like a wig, took off his collarbones like belts, took off his chest like chain mail. He took off his hips, took off his legs, took off and threw his hands like mittens into the corner. What remained of it gradually dissipated, barely coloring the air. At first Cincinnatus simply enjoyed the coolness; then, completely immersed in his secret environment, he freely and cheerfully -

The iron thunder of the bolt struck, and Cincinnatus instantly acquired everything he had thrown off, right down to his skullcap. The jailer Rodion brought a dozen pale plums in a round basket lined with grape leaves - a gift from the director's wife.

Cincinnatus, you have been refreshed by your criminal exercise.

Comme un fou se croit Dieu

nous nous croyons mortels.

Discours sur les ombres/

In accordance with the law, Cincinnatus Ts.'s death sentence was announced in a whisper. Everyone stood up, exchanging smiles. The gray-haired judge, leaning to his ear, breathed, said, and slowly moved away, as if he had come unstuck. Then Cincinnatus was taken back to the fortress. The road wound around its rocky base and went under the gate: a snake into a chasm. He was calm; however, he was supported while traveling along long corridors, because he placed his feet incorrectly, like a child who had just learned to walk, or he fell in exactly where, like a man who in a dream saw that he was walking on water, but suddenly doubted: is it possible? The jailer Rodion took a long time to unlock the door of Cincinnatus's cell - the wrong key - there was always fuss. The door finally gave way. There, on the cot, the lawyer was already waiting - sitting, shoulder-deep in thought, without a tailcoat (forgotten on a Viennese chair in the courtroom - it was a hot, thoroughly blue day) - and jumped up impatiently when the prisoner was brought in. But Cincinnatus had no time for talk. Let loneliness in a cell with a peephole be like a boat leaking. It doesn’t matter,” he declared that he wanted to be left alone, and, bowing, everyone left.

So, let's get to the end. The right, still unfinished part of the unfolded novel, which, in the midst of delicious reading, we lightly felt, mechanically checking how much more was left (and the calm, faithful thickness pleased our fingers), suddenly, for no reason at all, turned out to be completely skinny: a few minutes Soon, it’s already downhill reading - and... terrible! A pile of cherries, red and sticky blackened in front of us, suddenly turned into separate berries: the one with the scar rotted, and this one shriveled, shriveled around the bone (the very last one is certainly hard and unripe). Terrible! Cincinnatus took off his silk sleeveless vest, put on a dressing gown and, stamping his feet to stop trembling, began to walk around the cell. On the table lay a white sheet of paper, and, standing out against this whiteness, lay an amazingly sharpened pencil, as long as the life of any person except Cincinnatus, and with an ebony sheen on each of its six edges. Enlightened descendant of the index finger. Cincinnatus wrote: “and yet I am comparative. After all, I had a presentiment of this ending.” Rodion, standing outside the door, looked through the peephole with the stern attention of a skipper. Cincinnatus felt a chill in the back of his head. He crossed out what he had written and began to quietly shade it, creating a mysterious ornament that gradually grew and curled into a ram’s horn. Terrible! Rodion looked through the blue peephole at the rising and falling horizon. Who felt sick? Cincinnati. He sweated, everything went dark, he felt the root of every hair. The clock struck four or five times, and their casemate time off, peregrination and revelry behaved appropriately. Working with its paws, a spider, an official friend of the prisoners, descended on a thread from the ceiling. But no one knocked on the wall, since Cincinnatus was so far the only prisoner (in such a huge fortress!).

After some time, the jailer Rodion came in and offered him a waltz tour. Cincinnatus agreed. They began to spin. Rodion's keys were jingling on his leather belt, he smelled like a man, tobacco, garlic, and he hummed, puffing into his red beard, and his rusty joints creaked (not those years, alas, swollen, short of breath). They were carried out into the corridor. Cincinnatus was much smaller than his cavalier. Cincinnatus was as light as a leaf. The wind of the waltz fluffed the light ends of his long but thin mustache, and his large, transparent eyes squinted, like those of all timid dancers. Yes, he was very small for an adult man. Martha used to say that his shoes were too tight for her. At the bend of the corridor stood another guard, without a name, under a gun, wearing a dog mask with a gauze mouth. Having described a circle around him, they smoothly returned to the cell, and then Cincinnatus regretted that the friendly squeeze of fainting had been so brief.

The clock struck again with banal sadness. Time passed in arithmetic progression: eight. The ugly window turned out to be accessible to the sunset: a fiery parallelogram ran along the side of the wall. The chamber was filled to the brim with twilight oil containing extraordinary pigments. So, the question arises: what is that to the right of the door - is it a painting by a cool colorist or another painted window, the likes of which don’t exist anymore? (In fact, it was a sheet of parchment hanging with detailed, in two columns, “rules for prisoners”; a folded corner, red capital letters, headpieces, the ancient coat of arms of the city - namely: a blast furnace with wings - and provided the necessary material evening glow.) The furniture in the cell consisted of a table, a chair, and a cot. The lunch that had been brought long ago (the death row prisoners were given the director's grub) was cooling on a zinc tray. It got completely dark. Suddenly a golden, strongly infused electric light spilled out.

He was wearing a frock coat, as always, and stood perfectly straight, with his chest stuck out, one hand over the side and the other behind his back. A perfect wig, jet black, parted in wax, fit smoothly around her skull. His lovelessly chosen face, with fat yellow cheeks and a somewhat outdated system of wrinkles, was conventionally enlivened by two, and only two, bulging eyes. Moving his legs evenly in his columnar trousers, he walked between the wall and the table, almost reached the bed - but, despite his dignified density, he calmly disappeared, dissolving into the air. A minute later, however, the door opened again, with a familiar grinding noise this time, and, as always, in a frock coat, with his chest stuck out, he entered.

Having learned from a reliable source that your fate has now been decided,” he began in a rich bass voice, “I considered it my duty, my sir, to

Cincinnatus said:

Courtesy. You. Very. (This still needs to be arranged.)

“You are very kind,” said some additional Cincinnatus, clearing his throat.

“For mercy’s sake,” exclaimed the director, not noticing the tactlessness of the word. - Have mercy! Duty. I always. But why, dare I ask, did you not touch the food?

I don’t know what other foods you need,” he said dissatisfiedly and, cracking his cuffs, sat down at the table so that it would be more convenient to eat the pudding cabinet.

Cincinnatus said:

I would still like to know how long it will take now.

Excellent sabayon! You would still like to know how long it will take now. Unfortunately, I don't know myself. I am always notified at the last minute, I have complained many times, I can show you all this correspondence if you are interested.

Hello, Dear friends. Today we have a continuation of the series of lectures “One Hundred Years - One Hundred Books.” The year 1934 is on our calendar, and we will talk about Vladimir Nabokov’s novel “Invitation to an Execution.”

There are two points here that make our conversation insufficiently legitimate. Firstly, we agreed that our main topic is books written in Russia. But since the literature of the Russian diaspora, in one way or another, has long been included in the golden, dare I say, fund of Russian-language texts, it would probably be wrong to neglect Aldanov’s novel “Suicide,” Nabokov’s novels, Gazdanov’s novels, it would probably be wrong to ignore “ Dark alleys» Bunin, since, anyway, nothing more important appeared in Russian during this period. Therefore, we are gradually beginning to attract Russian literature written abroad to our main body. Well, naturally, the second question is related to the fact that it is difficult to establish the main date of writing “Invitation to Execution”. The novel was completed in rough form in 1934, finalized in 1935, and published in 1938, so the publication of “Invitation to Execution” is a rather complex separate story. But nevertheless, it seems to me very important that Nabokov’s main corpus of this novel text, very small, by the way, this is probably the smallest of his Parisian and generally emigrant novels, German by the way, it was also written in Germany, of this entire corpus it is The smallest and most quickly written novel, it was composed in three days. The circumstances that preceded his birth are, in the case of Nabokov, quite mysterious.

Nabokov was generally the only Russian writer who reacted quickly to challenges and responded to them with creative leaps. In 1934, he had two circumstances that almost drove him crazy: firstly, Vera gave birth in May, and she gave birth rather difficultly, since it late child, she is really 33 years old at this point, she and Vladimir put off his birth, the birth of the future Dmitry, for quite a long time, because there was no money. At some point they were told that they could not take any more risks because she might simply die during childbirth, and they decided to have a child. And the second circumstance, as you remember, in 1934, already in Germany, fascism, which had come to power in a completely democratic way, was already casting a terrible shadow over the whole of Europe.

And just when Nabokov returns in 1934 along May Street, having left Vera in the maternity hospital, the idea of the novel “Invitation to an Execution” arises in his mind. Here the path from concept to implementation turned out to be rapid. The first 100-page pencil version of the novel was literally written voraciously in the next three days. We can say that Nabokov was thus distracted from the painful anxiety for his wife and child. And we can say that this was his way of confronting circumstances. Because Nabokov, a hereditary nobleman who valued this nobility very highly, again highly values the chivalric code of conduct - one must respond neither with reflection, nor with fear, nor with trembling, but with action.

Here is his novel “Invitation to an Execution” - this is a terrible, cruel, debunking answer to everything that is happening at this time in Germany. This is one of the most terrible, and at the same time one of Nabokov’s funniest books, because four years later in “The Extermination of Tyrants,” a very important story for him, he says that the only way The only way to fight fear is to laugh. But nevertheless, it’s not just about laughter; for the first time this laughter in Nabokov has such a gloomy, sardonic and cynical character. When Nabokov reads the first chapters of “Invitation to an Execution” in Russian literary salons, for the first time in his life he encounters mass disapproval. He, spoiled by the enthusiasm of the public, he, after “The Defense of Luzhin”, proclaimed the heir of Bunin, the justification of the new generation of Russian writers, listens to reviews like “this is schizophrenia” and “this is sadism.” And indeed, in “Invitation to an Execution,” as in the future novel Bend Sinister, there are also, of course, some elements of sadism towards the reader. Here Nabokov needs to exhaust, scrape to the bottom his own hatred, disgust, fear, and there is a lot of this good here, this is a cruel novel.

Well, there is no need to say that this novel has long been dismantled to pieces by countless Slavists, and in general, of all Nabokov’s books, with the exception of “The Gift,” this is the most disassembled, the most interpreted of his works. This is a fairy tale novel, which is important. There were several such lovely ones in the 20th century cruel tales. Next to it you can put, for example, Vera Panova’s dystopian novel “What Time Is It?”

This book, of course, has nothing in common with Kafka, who was often predicted to be Nabokov’s teacher; at that time he had not yet read “The Castle,” especially let’s not forget that Nabokov does not read German, and translations of “The Castle” into English appeared later. “The Castle,” of course, has some similarities, primarily in its dream-like nightmare construction, the kind of nightmare that Chesterton once defined in the genre of “The Man Who Was Thursday.” But this is not just a nightmare, a nightmare, at least not a Kafkaesque one, a nightmare that is much less serious, in some ways much more mocking, and, in general, much more cheerful, no matter how terrible it sounds. The parallels with Orwell’s novel “1984” are generally funny, since, as you know, it was written 12 years later.

Accordingly, the only source, more or less close, that could probably be indicated is Zamyatin’s novel “We,” which we generally talked about. The idea of the novel “We” is echoed here in the image of this transparent world, universal transparency, Cincinnatus is accused of epistemological vileness, he is opaque to those around him. Remember that in Zamyatin’s world everyone lives with transparent walls, and you can only close the curtains for sexual hour. This is the only thing that ends the similarity.

In fact, Nabokov somehow managed to predict the postmodern world, and by and large, Nabokov's main discovery is that he views fascism as the highest stage of postmodernism. Postmodernism is a world where it doesn’t matter, where all oppositions and all meanings have been lost, where people have no basic concepts. Such obvious norms as compassion, empathy, love, admiration, such necessary things as culture, like mercy, like law - all this has been abolished. And it is no coincidence that such cotton dolls appear in this novel - Pushkin, Lermontov, this is all that remains of the classics. Children play with these dolls in schools. This is an emasculated world, that’s what’s very scary.

According to Nabokov, the worst thing is not totalitarianism; totalitarianism can be fought. The worst thing is the drying up of meaning, this is a world in which nothing means anything, and everything doesn’t matter. This is the world of triumphant stupidity, and this is the world of the triumphant philistine, what very soon in the novel Bend Sinister of 1947 will be called scotomization, there is such a thinker Scotoma, who proclaimed the value common man, a hero named Zauryadov, Mr. and Mrs. Zauryadov. Here is the idea of “triumphant mediocrity,” I quote, as you understand, the translation of Sergei Ilyin, but it is quite accurate, the idea of triumphant scotomization, transformation into cattle, into a country of ordinary people, into a world where there are no differences - this is the most terrible thing for Nabokov.

You know that one of the main polemics of the 20th century is the polemic around this thesis of Chesterton, he says, the average person - best strength in society, he reliably stands in the way of all revolutions and all totalitarianism. But then it suddenly turned out that the average person is totalitarianism, that the average person is the optimal environment and the main raw material for any fascist coup. Why? Yes, because he is inherent in the cult of the norm, the cult of mediocrity. And it is this cult that lies at the heart of fascism. There is no need to think, says Nabokov, that fascism is based on heroic myths, fascism always diligently disguises itself as Siegfried, you know, the Nibelungs, Wagner, Nietzsche, great names. Nothing like that! Well, what is Siegfried like? This is an everyman, with a paunch, a bald spot, in a robe, smug. And sometimes he dresses up as a proletarian, it doesn’t matter. It is important that this is a person whose ideas are ordinary. This is a person who is alien to sympathy and alien to love, as long as they don’t touch him. These are the inhabitants, the very people who inhabit Nabokov’s future story “Cloud, Lake, Tower.”

They always trample on someone, because this someone alone creates for them the necessary feeling of kinship and unity. Bullying is nothing without this warm feeling of unity, and that is why the city needs to kill Cincinnatus. Cincinnatus is not to blame for anything, but by destroying him, the rest of the townspeople feel right. There is so little compassion in this world that death is framed with a mass of comical and humiliating moments. Before Cincinnatus is executed, a herald jumps onto the stage and joyfully announces that a large shipment of furniture has been received, and the offer may not be repeated. And in the theater, with brilliant success of topicality, the premiere of the Farce opera “Shrink, Socratic” is taking place.

And nearby, at the same time, Marfinka is settling her personal life, Marfinka is a wife who already feels like a widow, the wife of Cincinnatus. Marfinka is also a very interesting creature, because Cincinnatus passionately gravitates towards Marfinka, he loves her, he romanticizes her, he remembers her breasts with a “strawberry nipple”, her cold kisses with the taste of wild strawberries. She means a lot to him, but Marfinka is a doll, a fetish, a dummy. And we know that you can experience sexual attraction to a doll from Hoffmann’s “ Sandman“, but we also know that this doll is devoid of mercy, compassion, it is devoid of horror of cruelty. Remember when she said to her son, a cripple, an evil freak: “Leave the cat at once, you already strangled one yesterday, you can’t do it every day.” But it's all funny, of course. And funny is Cincinnatus’s father-in-law, who curses Cincinnatus for a long time and with gusto, according to what is written, pronouncing a traditional monologue beginning with the words: “It seems to me that I am simply an old fool.” Well they're all dolls, they're all groovy heroes, groovy heroes of the puppet theater.

Cincinnatus is the only one Living being, because in this world of freaks, in the world of half-humans, in the world of triumphant subhumans who proclaimed themselves superhumans, he is the only one who has not lost love, mercy, attempts at creativity, because it always seems to him that he needs to add something, although everything has already been completed.

Naturally, the key question of the novel, in any case, the question for its interpreters, we are used to, we want it to be at least explained to us at the end of the novel whether the hero is alive or dead. Throughout the book we encounter complex system deception. The cellmate turns out to be the future executioner, the prison guard turns out to be its director, and the day of execution is constantly postponed. In general, the execution itself turns into a public farce when the prison director, meeting Cincinnatus, says: “Excellent sabayon,” treating him to dinner from his personal kitchen, but says absolutely nothing about the date of death. In general, this is a system of deceptions, a system of false moves.

The most offensive of them, of course, turns out to be, we’ll talk about this separately now, the move with Emmochka, the daughter of the head of the prison, who arranges Cincinnatus’s escape only in order to bring him to the holy of holies of this prison, to the house of its head. But at the same time, in this system of deceptions, we still want to know the main thing, whether Cincinnatus will be executed. Because, although the prison is fake, and the rules in it are fake, remember, the rules say that the management is not responsible for the disappearance of any things, including the prisoner himself. That is, everything is mocking, everything is a parody, but death is real, and the fear of death is real. And Cincinnatus goes crazy all the time from this fear and fights it all the time. Cutting off a head seems to him like something like turning out a huge tooth that a dentist removes. It always seems to him that the rider, he writes, is not responsible for the horse’s trembling. Indeed, the soul is not responsible for the trembling and fear of the body.

So, how does the novel end? What exactly is going on there? This is what absolutely all readers are arguing about, because what is actually written? It is written that at some point, when the executioner had already begun to spin up to strike, Cincinnatus suddenly raises his head, looks around, sees that everything is no longer good, that the trees with a false shadow for the illusion of roundness are already falling, that the stage backdrop is torn , “a dry haze flew, and through the whirlwind Cincinnatus went to where, judging by the voices, people like him were.”

This powerful, completely orchestral finale, trumpet voices, nevertheless leaves us in complete bewilderment. We don't understand what happened to Cincinnatus. Firstly, the pale librarian vomited, a wonderful phrase. Why would he vomit while sitting on the steps of the scaffold? Rodrigue Ivanovich runs up to Cincinnatus, shouting, “after all, you were already lying down, everything was fine, everything was over” - and this is an argument for the other side, as if Cincinnatus got up and walked, that means he is alive. And if a dry haze was flying, this could mean, on the one hand, that the world had collapsed, but on the other hand, the hero’s life had collapsed. Here, in general, polar interpretations are again possible.

As a result of this novel, Nabokov's most deceptive, we remain completely unaware of what happened. But Nabokov always said that for a worthwhile writer this is not important, for him the techniques are important, the thought is important, it is important that he is an absolute deity in the book, and Cincinnatus, in the end, is the same doll as all the other heroes. But, as we understand, such an explanation contradicts the author’s idea - Cincinnatus is the only living one of all these characters. We remember his light fluffy mustache well, we remember how he looks at his thumbs and says “you’re cute, you’re not to blame for anything.” We remember how he writes, how he makes friends with the spider, how he faints, and we do not want to recognize Cincinnatus as a doll of the writer's imagination. He is alive for us, just as he is the only one alive in the book. Therefore, we have to draw, together with Nabokov, the only possible, and unfortunately, disappointing conclusion - Cincinnatus certainly dies, and it is his death that becomes the condition for his release.

Because in the world that Nabokov painted, creatures like him, the only creatures like him, can only exist on another plane of reality, only outside life. When a person leaves the world, we remember this well from “The Gift”, it is as if not one eye, but all his eyes open, it is as if he begins to look in all directions, having escaped from the cage of the body. And of course, this cherished Nabokov thought that after death comes another reality, which he sometimes foresees, the otherworldly, about which his last poem was written, this is, perhaps, the most important thought. It is no coincidence that the heroes of the novel “Hell” do not live on a certain planet Antiterra, where everything is different, where the geography is different, the physics is different, and they are constantly pondering the question of whether Terra exists, whether Earth exists. For Nabokov’s heroes it is very important that there is a second world, “oh, swear that until the end of the road you will only be faithful to fiction.” This other world certainly exists, but in order to get into it, Cincinnatus must leave his prison, and prison is, of course, a broader image of earthly existence.

In the end, of course, I need to say a few words about Emma. This means that Emmochka is the prototype of Marietta from Bend Sinister, the prototype of Lolita, of course, and here Nabokov first identified one of his cherished topics, Very important topics, the theme of the connection between pedophilia and prison. No matter how much they say that “Lolita” is a pedophile novel, of course, it is an anti-pedophile novel, and in general, pedophilia here is nothing more than a metaphor. This is a metaphor for mania that can be defeated, a metaphor for temptation that must be surrendered, and then liberation will come. But liberation does not come, an even deeper prison comes. This, according to Nabokov, is a metaphor for all revolutions; by succumbing to temptation, we drive ourselves even deeper into the basement. “Lolita” is written in prison, Humbert ends up there, Cincinnatus ends up in an even deeper prison, having ended up with the boss. Well, in fact, in Bend Sinister, Marietta’s attempt to seduce Krug ends with both Krug’s son and he himself ending up in the clutches of the so-called “gymnasium brigades,” abbreviated as GB. That is, according to Nabokov, the theme of temptation and the theme of prison are very closely related. Those who hope to overcome temptation by giving in to it will actually drive themselves deeper into the cage.

In fact, Nabokov’s remarkable idea that over time Wilde will be perceived not as an esthete, but as a sentimental storyteller, is applicable to him himself. Of course, “Invitation to an Execution” is an infinitely aesthetic work. But at the same time, Nabokov does not have a more passionate, more lonely, more pleading text. I think that one of the incentives for his appearance was the desire to somehow appease fate by showing God the maximum of his abilities. This is something like, “look how I can do it, and maybe now you’ll spare us.” And indeed, after this sacrifice, which he made over three May days and nights, Vera gave birth safely. The son was born beautiful, happy, and they were saved, and then managed to leave Germany for France, from France for America. Nabokov managed to avert trouble by writing the most terrible and most frank novel about it.

You could say this book is dark. But let us be consoled by the epigraph to it, the epigraph from Pierre Delalande, which Nabokov had to come up with: “Just as a madman imagines himself to be God, so people consider themselves to be mortal.” This is a wonderful idea, and it is a pity that Nabokov invented this thinker. But the essence of “Invitation to Execution” is certainly true; invitations to execution, with which our lives are so generously furnished, are invitations to immortality. And this is Nabokov’s wonderful optimistic conclusion.

Here a question was raised about the extent to which the translation of “Invitation to Execution”, which was carried out by Dmitry Nabokov, is adequate. Well, first of all, it was not entirely completed by him. It was made by two of them. And it was Nabokov who translated the title, not Invitation to an Execution, but Invitation to a Beheading, “Invitation to Beheading,” which is very fundamental and very important for him. As for the qualities and merits of this translation, you understand, some things are untranslatable. For example, the clock struck, and their time off, overtime, and partying behaved appropriately. I was very disappointed to learn that many of Nabokov's brilliant puns were completely lost in this novel. But this, you see, is a fundamental Nabokovian attitude. He believed that it was necessary to translate accurately, and therefore many consonances, these puns - this is his favorite entertainment - they are lost, nothing can be done. In exactly the same way, numerous, beautiful puns, poems, and internal rhymes are lost in “Lolita,” which is very well written in English, while those added are very few and of rather bad taste. Well, for example, when Humbert lies next to the sleeping Lolita, and says: “I had nowhere to lay my head, let alone my little head.” This, of course, is a pun, frankly speaking, a gymnasium one, but it makes an impression. It's not in the original because there's no reason for the pun in the original.

In general, we must evaluate this translation as one of Nabokov’s last creative feats, because, of course, Dmitry Vladimirovich could not have conveyed so accurately the very mockingly gloomy macabre atmosphere of “Invitation to an Execution.” During our only meeting with Dmitry Vladimirovich, he unequivocally noted that he definitely owes all his literary talents to his father.

Well, next time we will talk about 1935 and Vladimir Kirshon’s play “The Big Day”.

Triumphal Arch

Reprinted with permission from The Estate of the Late Paulette Remarque and Mohrbooks AG Literary Agency and Synopsis.

© The Estate of the Late Paulette Remarque, 1945

© Translation. B. Kremnev, heirs, 2012

© Translation. I. Schreiber, heirs, 2012

© Russian edition AST Publishers, 2012

The woman walked diagonally across the bridge straight towards Ravik. She walked quickly, but with some unsteady step. Ravik noticed her only when she was almost there. He saw a pale face with high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. This face was numb and looked like a mask, in dim light From the lantern it seemed lifeless, and in the eyes there was an expression of such glassy emptiness that Ravik involuntarily became wary.

The woman passed so close that she almost touched him. He reached out and grabbed her elbow. She staggered and would probably have fallen if he hadn't held her.

Ravik squeezed the woman’s hand tightly.

- Where are you going? – he asked, hesitating a little. The woman looked at him point blank.

- Let me in! – she whispered.

Ravik did not answer. He still held her hand tightly.

- Let me go! What is this? “The woman barely moved her lips.

It seemed to Ravic that she didn’t even see him. She looked through him, somewhere into the emptiness of the night. Something just bothered her, and she repeated the same thing:

- Let me go!

He immediately realized that she was not a prostitute and not drunk. He unclenched his fingers slightly. She didn't even notice it, although she could have easily escaped if she wanted.

Ravik waited a little.

-Where are you going, really? At night, alone, in Paris? – he calmly asked again and let go of her hand.

The woman was silent, but did not move from her place. Once she stopped, she seemed unable to go any further.

Ravik leaned against the parapet of the bridge. He felt damp and porous stone under his hands.

- Isn’t that right? “He pointed down where, glistening restlessly in the grayish darkness, the Seine flowed, running into the shadows of the Alma Bridge.

The woman didn't answer.

“It’s too early,” said Ravik. “It’s too early, and it’s too cold.” November.

He took out a pack of cigarettes, then fumbled for matches in his pocket. There were only two of them on the cardboard. Leaning slightly, he covered the flame with his palms from the light wind from the river.

Ravik straightened up and showed the pack:

- Algerian. Black tobacco. Soldiers smoke it Foreign Legion. Perhaps it's too strong for you. No others.

The woman shook her head and took a cigarette. Ravik brought her a burning match. She took several deep drags. Ravik threw the match over the parapet. Like a small shooting star, the match flew through the darkness and went out when it reached the water.

A taxi slowly drove onto the bridge. The driver stopped the car, looked at them, waited a little and moved on, up the wet Avenue George the Fifth, glistening in the dark.

Suddenly Ravik felt how tired he was. He worked all day long and, when he came home, could not sleep. Then he went outside - he wanted to drink. And now, in the dank dampness of the dead of night, he felt irresistibly tired.

Ravik looked at the woman. Why exactly did he stop her? Something had happened to her, that was clear. But what does he care? He never knew enough women to whom something happened, especially at night, especially in Paris. Now it didn’t matter to him, he wanted only one thing - to sleep.

“Go home,” said Ravik. -What are you doing here at this time? Still, good luck, you won't end up in trouble.

He turned up his collar, intending to leave. The woman looked at him with blank eyes.

- Home? – she repeated.

Ravik shrugged:

- Home, to your apartment, to a hotel - anywhere. Do you really want to go to the police?

- To the hotel! Oh my God! – the woman said.

Ravik stopped. Again, someone has nowhere to go, he thought. This should have been foreseen. It's always the same. At night they don’t know where to go, and in the morning they disappear before you have time to wake up. In the mornings, for some reason they know where to go. Eternal cheap despair - despair night darkness. It comes with darkness and disappears with it. He threw away his cigarette. Isn't he just fed up with all this?

“Let’s go somewhere and have a glass of vodka,” he said.

The easiest way is to pay and leave, and then let her take care of herself.

The woman did wrong move and tripped. Ravik supported her again.

- Are you tired? - he asked.

- Don't know. Maybe.

– So much so that you can’t sleep?

She nodded.

- This happens. Let's go. I'll accompany you.

They walked up Avenue Marceau. The woman leaned heavily on Ravik - she leaned on it as if she was afraid of falling every minute.

They crossed Peter Serbsky Avenue. Behind the intersection of the Rue Chaillot, in the distance, against the background of the rainy sky, the unsteady and dark bulk of the Arc de Triomphe appeared.

Ravik pointed to the illuminated narrow entrance leading to a small cellar:

– Here... There’s something here.

It was the driver's pub. Several taxi drivers and two prostitutes were sitting at the table. The drivers played cards. Prostitutes drank absinthe. They took a quick look at the woman and turned away indifferently. One, older, yawned loudly, the other began to lazily apply lipstick. In the back of the hall, a very young waiter, with the face of an angry rat, sprinkled sawdust on the stone tiles and swept the floor. Ravik chose a table near the entrance. It was more convenient this way: I would be able to leave sooner. He didn't even take off his coat.

- What will you drink? - he asked.

- Don't know. Doesn't matter.

“Two Calvados,” Ravik said to the waiter in a vest and shirt with rolled up sleeves. - And a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes.

- We only have French ones.

- Well. Then a pack of Laurent, green.

- There are no green ones. Only blue ones.

Ravik looked at the waiter’s hand; on it was a tattoo of a naked woman walking on the clouds. Catching his gaze, the waiter clenched his fist and tensed his muscles. The woman moved her belly obscenely.

“So they’re blue,” said Ravik.

The waiter grinned.

“Maybe there’s still a pack of green ones.” - And he left, shuffling with his shoes.

Ravik looked after him.

“Red slippers,” he said, “and a beauty performing a belly dance!” He appears to have served in the Turkish Navy.

The woman put her hands on the table. It seemed like she would never be able to lift them again. The hands were sleek, but that didn’t mean anything. However, they were not so sleek. Ravik noticed that the nail on his middle finger right hand, apparently, broke and was torn off, not filed. The varnish has come off in places.

The waiter brought glasses and a pack of cigarettes.

– “Laurent”, green. Still, one pack was found.

- That's what I thought. Did you serve in the navy?

- No. At the circus.

- Better. “Ravik handed the woman a glass. - Here, have a drink. At night, Calvados is the best choice. Or maybe you'd like some coffee?

- Drink it in one gulp.

The woman nodded and drank. Ravik looked at her. An extinct face, pale and almost without any expression. Full but pale lips, their outlines seemed to have been erased, and only the hair of a natural golden color was very good. She wore a beret. And from under the cloak one could see a blue English suit, made by a good tailor. But the green stone in the ring was too large not to be fake.

- Another glass? – asked Ravik.

The woman nodded.

He called the waiter.

- Two more Calvados. Just more glasses.

- And pour more?

- So, two double Calvados.

- You guessed it.

Ravik decided to quickly drink his glass and leave. He was bored and very tired. In general, he knew how to patiently endure the vicissitudes of fate: he had forty years of restless and changeable life behind him. Situations like this were nothing new to him. He lived in Paris for several years, suffered from insomnia and often wandered around the city at night - he had to see everything.