Part one

For eight years now, I have been scouring the territory of the former Russian Empire. I have no goal to carefully explore every nook and cranny and comprehensively study the whole country. I just have a habit. Nowhere do I sleep so soundly as on the hard shelf of a rocking carriage, and I am never as calm as at the open window of the carriage platform, the window through which the fresh night wind rushes in, the frantic clatter of wheels, and the cast-iron roar of a locomotive breathing fire and sparks. .

And when I happen to find myself in a calm home environment, I, having returned from another trip, as usual, exhausted, tattered and tired, enjoy the soft peace of room silence, wallow, without taking off my boots, on sofas, on beds and, wrapped in incense-like blue pipe tobacco smoke, I mentally swear that this trip was the last, that it’s time to stop, bring everything experienced into a system and, on the gray-green landscape of the calmly lazy Kama River, give my eyes a rest from the bright brilliance of the rays of the sunny Mtskheta valley or from the yellow sands of the Kara desert -Kum, from the luxurious greenery of the palm parks of the Black Sea coast, from the change of faces and, most importantly, from the change of impressions.

But a week or two passes, and the colored clouds of the fading horizon, like a caravan of camels setting off across the sands to distant Khiva, begin to ring again with monotonous copper bells. The whistle of a locomotive, coming from behind distant cornflower fields, reminds me more and more often that the semaphores are open. And the old woman-life, raising a green flag in wrinkled strong hands - the green expanse of endless fields, gives a signal that the path is free on the site provided to me.

And then the sleepy peace of life measured by hours and the calm ticking of the alarm clock set at eight in the morning ends.

Let no one think that I am bored and have nowhere to put myself, and that I, like a pendulum, stagger back and forth only in order to intoxicate my head, which does not know what it needs, in monotonous motion sickness.

All this is nonsense. I know what I need. I am 23 years old, and the volume of my chest is ninety-six centimeters, and I easily squeeze out a two-pound kettlebell with my left hand.

I want until the time when I have a runny nose for the first time or some other illness that dooms a person to the need to go to bed at exactly nine, having previously taken aspirin powder - until this period comes, to roll over as much as possible, to twist in a whirlpool so that I would be thrown onto the green velvet shore already exhausted, tired, but proud from the consciousness of my strength and from the consciousness that I managed to see and learn more than others saw and learned during the same time.

And that's why I'm in a hurry. And therefore, when I was 15 years old, I already commanded the 4th company of the brigade of cadets, engulfed in a ring of snake Petliurism. At the age of 16 - a battalion. At the age of 17 - the fifty-eighth special regiment, and at the age of 20 - for the first time he ended up in a psychiatric hospital.

In the spring I finished the book. Two circumstances prompted me to think of going somewhere. Firstly, the head was tired of the work, and secondly, contrary to the hoarding inherent in all publishing houses, this time the money was paid without any rigmarole and all at once.

I decided to go abroad. For two weeks of practice, I spoke to everyone, even to the editorial courier, in a certain language that probably has a very vague resemblance to the language of the inhabitants of France. And on the third week I received a visa refusal.

And together with the guide to Paris, I put my annoyance at the unexpected delay out of my head.

- Rita! I said to the girl I loved. - We will go with you to Central Asia. There are the cities of Tashkent, Samarkand, as well as pink apricots, gray donkeys and all sorts of other exotic things. We will go there the night after tomorrow with an ambulance, and we will take Kolka with us.

- It's clear, - she said, thinking a little, - it's clear that the day after tomorrow, that to Asia, but it is not clear why take Kolka with you.

“Rita,” I answered reasonably. - Firstly, Kolka loves you, secondly, he is a good guy, and thirdly, when in three weeks we will not have a penny of money, then you will not get bored while one of us chases for food or for money for food.

Rita laughed back, and as she laughed, I thought her teeth were quite fit for cracking dry corn on the cob, if the need arose.

She paused, then put her hand on my shoulder and said:

- Good. But let him just get rid of fantasies about the meaning of life and other vague things for the whole journey. Otherwise, I'll still be bored.

“Rita,” I answered firmly, “for the entire journey, he will put the above thoughts out of his head, and he will also not recite to you the poems of Yesenin and other modern poets. He will collect wood for the fire and cook porridge. And I'll take care of the rest.

– What about me?

- You're nothing. You will be enrolled "in the reserve of the Red Army and Navy" until circumstances require your all possible help.

Rita put her other hand on my other shoulder and gazed into my eyes.

I don’t know what kind of habit she has to look into other people’s windows!

– In Uzbekistan, women walk around with their faces covered. The gardens are already in bloom. In smoky teahouses, Uzbeks wrapped in turbans smoke chilim and sing oriental songs. In addition, there is the grave of Tamerlane. All this must be very poetic,” Nikolai told me enthusiastically, closing the pages of the encyclopedic dictionary.

But the dictionary was dilapidated, ancient, and I lost the habit of believing everything that is written with hard characters and through “yat”, even if it was an arithmetic textbook, because the world broke down twice and thrice in recent years. And I answered him:

- The grave of Tamerlane probably remained a grave, but in Samarkand there is already a women's department that tears off the veil, a Komsomol that does not recognize the great holiday of Eid al-Adha, and then, probably, there is not a single place on the territory of the USSR, where, to the detriment of "Bricks" were not sung to national songs.

Nikolai frowned, although I don’t know what he can have against the Zhenotdel and revolutionary songs. He is ours - red to the sole, and in the nineteenth, being on patrol with him, we once threw a full half-eaten bowl of dumplings, because it was time to go report the results of intelligence to our own.

On a blizzard March night, snow flaked against the trembling windows of a speeding carriage. Samara passed at midnight. It was a snowstorm, and a frosty wind was throwing ice in my face when Rita and I went out onto the platform of the station.

It was almost empty. Shivering from the cold, the station duty officer hid his red cap in his collar, and the station watchman kept his hand ready at the bell rope.

“I can't believe it,” Rita said.

– Into what?

- The fact that where we are going, it's warm and sunny. It is so cold here.

- It's so warm in there. I'm going to the wagon.

Nikolay stood at the window, drawing something with his finger on the glass.

- What are you talking about? I asked, tugging at his sleeve.

- Buran, blizzard. There can't be roses already in bloom!

- You're both talking about the same thing. I don't know anything about roses, but it's clear that there is greenery there.

“I love flowers,” Nikolai said and carefully took Rita by the hand.

“So do I,” she answered him, and withdrew her hand even more carefully.

- And you? And she looked at me. - What do you like? I answered her:

“I love my saber, which I took from a dead Polish lancer, and I love you.

- Who else? she asked, smiling. And I answered:

- I do not know.

And she said:

- Not true! You must know. - And, frowning, she sat down by the window, in which the black hair of the winter night sprinkled with snow flowers softly beat.

The train caught up with spring with each new hundred miles. Orenburg had slush. Kzyl-Orda was dry. Near Tashkent the steppes were green. And Samarkand, confused by the labyrinths of clay walls, floated in the pink petals of the already fading apricots.

At first we lived in a hotel, then we moved to a teahouse. During the day we wandered along the narrow blind streets of a strange eastern city. In the evening they returned tired, with a head overflowing with impressions, with faces aching from sunburn, and with eyes covered with sharp dust of sunlight.

Then the owner of the teahouse spread out a red carpet on a large platform, on which during the day the Uzbeks, closing in a ring, slowly drink liquid coke-tea, passing the cup in a circle, eating cakes thickly sprinkled with hemp seed, and to the monotonous sounds of a two-stringed dombra-dutor they sing viscous, incomprehensible songs.

Once we wandered around the old city and came somewhere to the ruins of one of the ancient towers. It was quiet and empty. From afar came the roar of donkeys and the squeal of camels and the tapping of street blacksmiths near the covered bazaar.

Nikolai and I sat down on a large white stone and lit a cigarette, while Rita lay down on the grass and, turning her face up to the sun, closed her eyes.

“I like this city,” Nikolai said. “For many years I have dreamed of seeing such a city, but so far I have only seen pictures and films. Nothing here has been broken yet; everyone continues to sleep and see beautiful dreams.

"That's not true," I replied, throwing down my cigarette. - You're fantasizing. A narrow-gauge railway is already reaching the skullcap shops of the dilapidated bazaar from the European part of the city. Near the box shops where sleepy merchants smoke chilim, I have already seen signboards for state trade shops, and a red poster is stretched across the street near the Koshchi union.

Nikolay threw away his cigarette butt in annoyance and answered:

“I know all this, and I see all this myself. But the red poster does not stick well to the clay walls, and it seems untimely, abandoned here from the distant future, and in any case, not reflecting today. Yesterday I was at the grave of the great Tamerlane. There, at the stone entrance, gray-bearded old men play ancient chess from morning till night, and a blue banner and a horse's tail are bent over a heavy gravestone. This is beautiful, at least because there is no falseness here, which would be if they put a red flag instead of a blue one.

“You are stupid,” I answered calmly. “The lame Tamerlane has only a past, and the traces of his iron heel are wiped off the face of the earth day after day by life. His blue banner has faded long ago, and his ponytail has been eaten by moths, and the old sheikh-gatekeeper probably has a Komsomol son, who, perhaps still secretly, but already eats cakes before sunset on the great fast of Ramadan and knows better the biography of Budyonny , who took Voronezh in the nineteenth, than the story of Tamerlane, who smashed Asia five hundred years ago.

- No, no, it's not true! Nikolay retorted hotly. What do you think, Rita?

She turned her head towards him and answered shortly:

On this, I think I agree with you. I also love beauty...

I smiled.

“You must have been blinded by the sun, Rita, because—”

But at that moment, an old, hunched woman wrapped in a burqa came out from behind a blue shadow. When she saw us, she stopped and muttered something angrily, pointing her finger at the stone exit broken in the wall. But, of course, we did not understand anything.

“Gaidar,” Nikolai told me, getting up shyly. “Maybe it’s not allowed here… Maybe it’s some kind of sacred stone, and we sat down on it and smoked?”

We got up and went. They got into dead ends, walked along narrow streets, along which two people could only just disperse, finally, they came to a wide outskirts. On the left was a small cliff, on the right was a hill on which the old people were sitting. We went along the left side, but suddenly screams and howls were heard from the mountain. We turned around.

The old men jumped up from their seats, shouting something to us, waving their arms and staves.

“Gaidar,” said Nikolai, stopping. “Maybe it’s not allowed here, maybe there’s a sacred place here?”

- Nonsense! - I answered sharply, - What a sacred place is here, when horse dung is piled around! ..

I didn’t finish, because Rita screamed and jumped back in fright, then a crack was heard, and Nikolai fell waist-deep into some dark hole. We barely had time to pull him out by the arms, and when he got out, I looked down and understood everything.

We had long since turned off the road and were walking along the rotten roof of the caravanserai covered with earth. Camels were standing below, and the entrance to the caravanserai was from the side of the cliff.

We climbed back and, guided by the glances of the old men who silently sat down again and calmed down, went on. We went again into an empty and crooked street and suddenly around the turn we came face to face with a young Uzbek woman. She quickly threw a black veil over her face, but not completely, but half; then she stopped, looked at us from under her veil, and quite unexpectedly threw it back again.

– Russian is good, Sart is bad.

We went side by side. She knew almost nothing in Russian, but still we talked.

- And how they live! Nicholas told me. - Closed, cut off from everything, locked in the walls of the house. Still, what a wild and impregnable still East! It is interesting to find out what she lives, what she is interested in ...

“Wait,” I interrupted him. “Listen, girl, have you ever heard of Lenin?

She looked at me in surprise, not understanding anything, and Nikolai shrugged.

“About Lenin…” I repeated.

Suddenly a happy smile played on her face, and, pleased that she understood me, she answered ardently:

“Lelnin, I know Lelnin!” She nodded her head, but could not find a suitable Russian word and continued to laugh.

Then she became alert, jumped aside like a cat, muffled her veil and, bowing her head low, walked along the wall with a small hasty gait. She obviously had good hearing, because a second later a thousand-year-old mullah came out from around the corner and, leaning on a staff, for a long time silently looked first at us, then at the blue shadow of the Uzbek woman; He was probably trying to guess something, probably he was guessing, but he was silent and looked with dull glassy eyes at the two foreigners and at the European girl with a laughing open face.

Nikolai has slanting Mongolian eyes, a small black beard and a mobile swarthy face. He is thin, wiry and tenacious. He's four years older than me, but that doesn't mean anything. He writes poems that he does not show to anyone, dreams of the nineteenth year and automatically dropped out of the party in the twenty-second.

And as a motivation for this departure, he wrote a good poem, full of sorrow and pain for the "dying" revolution. Thus, having fulfilled his civic “duty,” he washed his hands and stepped aside to observe with bitterness the impending, in his opinion, death of everything that he sincerely loved and by which he had lived until now.

RIDERS OF IMPRESSIABLE MOUNTAINS

Tale

Gaidar A.P.

D 14 Forest brothers. Early prik-lu-chen-ches-kie in weight / Comp., post-lesl., approx. and prep. tech-s-ta A. G. Ni-ki-ti-na; Il. A. K. Yats-ke-vi-cha.-M.: Pravda, 1987.-432 p., ill.

In the book, for the first time, gatherings together, early prik-lu-chen-ches-kie in weight Ar-ka-diya Gai-da-ra, on-pi-san-nye in the twenties. Among them, pro-from-ve-de-niya, some-rye did not ne-cha-ta-lis many de-sya-ti-le-tia. This is "Life into nothing (Lbov-schi-na)" and the story "Forest brothers (Yes-you-dov-schi-na)", which continues it, the story "Vsad- ni-ki nep-rice-stupid mountains "and fan-tas-ti-ches-ki ro-man" Tai-on the mountains. Here, they say, “On the count-s-time-wa-li-nah” and the early full vari-ant in weight “Rev-in -en-so-vet", pre-designated for an adult-lo-chi-ta-te-la.

Prik-lu-chen-ches-kaya news from-ra-zi-la vpe-chat-le-nia from pu-te-shes-t-via Gai-da-ra in Central Asia and the Caucasus -zu in the spring of 1926. Fragments from the weight of the pub-whether in the per-m-s-coy ha-ze-te "Stars-yes" (from December 5 to 18, 1926 -yes) under the first-in-the-initial name-va-ni-em "Knights-ri nep-rice-stupid mountains." Tse-is-come-to-news from-yes-on in 1927 in Le-nin-g-rad-with-com from-de-le-ni from-da-tel-s-t-va "Mo -lo-daya guard-diya". Since then, it has not been re-e-d-d-wa-las. For us, it’s more than a collection of no-ka in the os-no-woo-lo-women text of le-nin-g-happy-with-one-of-da-niya.

PART ONE

For seven years now, I have been trotting around the territory of the former Russian empire. I don’t have a goal, carefully, but explore every street and all-that-ron-do not study the whole country. I have a simple - with-calculation. Nowhere do I sleep so soundly as on the hard floor of a ka-cha-y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, ko-en, like at the ras-groin-well-that-go window-on the va-gon-noy square, window-on, in someone swarm you-va-et-s fresh night -noy wind, a furious knock on a forest, and a chu-gun-ny roar of a breath of fire and is-to-ra-mi pa-ro-in-for.

And when it happens to me to fall into the homely quiet ob-so-nov-ku, I, returning from the next but-go-pu-te-shes-t-via, according to the usual-but-ve-niyu, from-mo-tan-ny-, isor-van-ny and us-tav-shiy-, us-lazh-yes- I’m softly kim in a room of quietness, va-la-is, without taking off my boots, according to di-va-us, according to blood-va-tyam and, eye -tav-shis in-ho-press on la-dan si-nim smoke tr-boch-no-go ta-ba-ka, I swear to myself-be thought-len-but that this one is going d-ka would-la after-ice-her, that it’s time to os-ta-but-twist-sya, add-weight everything is re-re-zhi-toe in sys-te-mu and on se-ro -ze-le-nom lan-d-shaf-te calmly-but-le-ni-howl re-ki Ka-we give breath to our eyes from the bright-to-go shine-ka- whose sunny to-li-ny Mtskhe-ta or from the yellow sands of the desert-you-no Ka-ra-Kum, from the dew-kosh-noy ze-le-no palm-my pairs -kov Cher-no-sea-from-to-on-the-coast, from a change of faces and, most importantly, from a change of impressions.

But pro-ho-dit is not-de-la-dru-gaya, and ok-ra-shen-nye ob-la-ka in-tu-ha-yusche-go-ri-zon-ta, like ka-ra -van ver-b-lu-dov, from-p-rav-lying-s-s-s-s-ing to yes-le-kyu Hee-woo, na-chi-na-yut ring again mo-no-ton-ny-mi honey-ny-mi boo-ben-tsa-mi. Pa-ro-voz-ny buzz-dock, to-no-sya-shchi-sya because of yes-le-ki va-strong-to-y-po-lei-, more and more on-by -mi-na-et to me that se-ma-for-ry from-to-ry-you. And the old-ru-ha-life, under-no-may in wrinkly-nis-ty strong hands, the green flag - the green expanse of demon-to-paradise-them lei-, gives a signal that on the pre-dos-tav-len-nom part of me, the path is free-bo-den.

And then, yes, okan-chi-va-et-sya sleepy once-me-ren-noy according to the hours of life and calm ti-kan-s-tav-len-but- go at seven in the morning-ra boo-dil-ni-ka.

Let only someone not think that I’m bored and can’t de-vat myself and that I, in-ad-but ma-yat-ni- ku, sha-ta-I go back and forth just for the fact that in the mo-but-ton-nom uka-chi-wa-nii is a fool-ma-thread not knowing what she na-do, go-lo-woo.

All this is nonsense. I know what I'm up to. I'm 23 years old, and the volume of my boo-di-ra-ven de-vya-nos-to-six san-ti-met-ram, and I easily you-may left-howl ru-koy two-pu-do-vuyu gi-ryu.

I want until the time when I have the first time we-mork or some other illness appears , about-re-ka-che-lo-ve-ka on the not-about-ho-di-bridge to lo-live-sya ditch-but in de-vyat, before-va-ri-tel-but having accepted in-ro-shock as-pi-ri-na,-for-not us-to-pit this per-ri-od, as much as possible re-re-re-ver-tet-sya, re-rek -ru-tit-sya in the in-do-in-ro-those so that on the green bar-hut-ny shore choose-ro-si-lo me in a row- who is already from-mu-chen-nym, tired, but proud of the smoke from the consciousness of one’s own strength and from the consciousness of what I managed to develop g-la-child and learn more than at the same time see-de-li and know-if others.

And in a way, I and then-rop-lying. And in a way, when I was 15 years old, I was already the 4th company of the brigade of kur-san-tov, oh-va-chen-noy a ring of a snake-another pet-lu-ditch-shchi-ny. At the age of 16 - battalion. At the age of 17 - five-de-syat by the eighth special regiment, and at the age of 20 - for the first time fell into psi-chi-at-ri-chess-kuyu cheb-ni- tsu.

In the spring I finished the book-gu ( We are talking about the weight of "Life into nothing (Lbov-schi-na)", something from-to-ry-va-et-sya us-that-collector). Two about-with-the-yatel-with-t-va on-tal-ki-va-whether me-nya on the thought of leaving somewhere-da-li-bo. Firstly, from ra-bo-you must-ta-la go-lo-va, secondly, wop-re-ki with-su-sche-mu to all publishing houses sko-pi-house-s -t-wu money-gi this time zap-la-ti-li without any ka-no-those and all at once.

I decided to go abroad. Two no-de-whether for practice-tee-ki, I ex-clarified with everyone, up to re-dak-qi-on-noy smoke-er-shi, in some language ke, having, ve-ro-yat-but, a very vague similarity with the language of the obi-ta-te-lei of France. And on the third no-de-lu, I received a visa in a waiver.

And together with the pu-te-vo-di-te-lem along Pa-ri-zhu, I vysh-vyr-zero from the go-lo-you to-sa-du for not-expect-given-naya for-der -well.

Rita! - I said de-vush-ke, I loved someone. - We are going with that battle to Central Asia. There are the cities of Tash-kent, Sa-mar-kand, as well as rosy apricots, gray donkeys and all sorts of pro-tea ek-zo-ti- ka. We’ll go there after the day after tomorrow with an ambulance, and we’ll take Kol-ku with us.

It’s clear, ”she said, in-think-mav-no-go, -under-understand-but, that after-le-za-za-t-ra, that to Asia, but not-under-understand-but, for- than to take Kol-ku with you.

Rita, I answered re-zon-but. -Firstly, if I love you, secondly, he is a good guy, and thirdly, when, after three -if we don’t have a ko-drink de-neg, then you won’t get bored, while one of us will go-to go for food or-bo in a day- ha-mi for food.

Rita laughed in response, and while she laughed, I thought that her teeth would be quite suitable for something, just once -g-rip su-hoy in-cha-tok ku-ku-ru-zy, if in that case there was a need.

She silently-cha-la, then in a lo-zhi-la hand on my shoulder and said:

Good. But let him only for all the time put you-ki-no from the go-lo-you fan-ta-zi about the meaning of life and other foggy things. Otherwise, I'll be bored anyway.

Rita, - I answered firmly, - for all the time he is you-ki-no from the go-lo-you are above-oz-on-chen-nye thoughts, and also not there will be dek-la-mi-ro-vat you-be verses Ese-ni-na and other owl-re-men-nyh poets. He will collect wood for kos-t-ra and cook ka-shu. And I will take on all the rest.

And you are nothing. You will be for-numbers-le-on "in the reserve of the Red Army and the Fleet" until then, until the re-bu-yut your-her-strong help.

Rita in-lo-zhi-la me the second hand on the second shoulder and pri-tal-but pos-mot-re-la in my eyes.

I don’t know what kind of habit she has for gazing into someone else’s windows!

In Uz-be-kis-ta-not, women-schi-we-we-dyat with closed-ry-you-mi-faces-mi. There are already flowers here. In the smoky tea-ha-nah, re-re-vi-ty tyur-ba-na-mi uz-be-ki smoke chi-lim and sing oriental songs. In addition to that, there is mo-gi-la Ta-mer-la-na. All this, it must be, very ethically, -vo-tor-women-but-vo-ril me Ni-ko-lai-, closing-ry-vay-country en- cyclo-lo-pe-di-ches-to-th word-va-rya.

But the vocabulary was old-hiy-, ancient-niy-, and I got used to believing everything that is on-pi-sa-but with solid signs and through "yat", even if it was a textbook of arith-me-ti-ki, for twice and thrice over the last years the world has fallen. And I replied to him:

The grave of Ta-mer-la-na, ve-ro-yat-no, was still mo-gi-loyu, but in Sa-mar-kan-de there is already the same-not-del, someone -ry s-va-et child-ru, com-so-they say, someone is not a prize-on-is-it-is-who-feast-d-no-ka cheers-for-bay-ram, and then, ve-ro-yat-but, there is not a single place on the territory of the USSR, where, to the detriment of the national songs, there are no ne-wa-lis "Kir-pi-chi-ki".

Nikolay fuck-mu-ril-sya, although I don’t know what he can have against the same note-de-la and re-vo-lu-qi-on-nyh songs. He is ours - red to the dosh, and in de-vyat-over-tsa-tom, bu-du-chi with him in do-zo-re, we bro-si-whether one day a full not-to-eat mi-ku ga-lu-shek, because it was time to go-ti-report about the re-zul-ta-tah of the times-ved-ki his own

On a March blizzard night, snow flaked into the trembling glass of the rushing va-go-on. Sa-ma-ru pro-e-zh-li at half-night. It was a blizzard, and a frosty wind blew ice floes in the face when I and Ri-ta went out onto the platform of the wok-la.

It was almost empty. Shrugging from the cold, yes, he hid in his mouth the red fou-razh-ku on duty at the station, but the wok-hall-sto-rozh held his hand on-the-ve-ve-roar-ki ringing.

I don’t believe it, say-for-la Ri-ta.

And it's so warm there. I'm going to the wagon.

Nikolay stood at the window, drawing something with his finger on the glass.

What are you talking about?” I asked, tugging at his sleeve.

Buran, blizzard. It can't be that roses are already blooming there!

You are both about the same thing. I don’t know anything about roses, but that there is already greenery - that’s clear.

I love flowers, said Ni-ko-barking and took Ri-tu by the hand.

I’m the same, - from-ve-ti-la to him, and still os-that-birth-it from-nya-la hand.

And you? -And she pos-mot-re-la on me. -What do you like? I replied to her:

I love my shash-ku, I took someone off from the kill of the field-from-to-ul-on, and I love you.

Whom more? she asked, smiling. And I answered:

Don't know.

And she said:

Not true! You must know. -And, nah-mu-riv-shis, se-la at the window, in someone-swarm softly beat pe-re-sy-pan-nye snow-us-mi colors-ta-mi black in-lo-sy winter no-chi.

The train reached the weight of every new hundred miles. Oren-bur-ga would-la-sle-cat. Kyzyl-Orda had su-ho. Near Tash-ken-ta steppe would be ze-le-ny. And Sa-mar-kand, re-re-pu-tan-ny la-bi-rin-ta-mi clay-ny walls, floated in pink forests -ts-ve-ta-yusche-go uryu-ka.

At first we lived in the state-ti-ni-tse, then we turned into tea-ha-nu. In the afternoon, bro-di-whether along the narrow, blind streets of the countries of the east of the exact city. Went-in-ra-scha-lied to ve-che-ru tired-len-nye, with head-lo-howl-, re-full-nen-noy vpe-chat-le-ni-yami, with whether -tsa-mi, but-yuschi-mi from for-ga-ra, and with eyes-for-mi, for-sy-pan-us-mi wasps-t-swarm with dust of solar rays.

Then the vla-de-letz tea-ha-ny spread red co-ver on large under-mos-t-kah, on someone in the afternoon uz-be-ki, som-k - nip-shis with a ring, honey-flax, but they drink liquid coc-tea-, re-re-yes-vaya cup in a circle, eat le-foot-ki, goose re-re -sy-pan-nye ko-nop-la-nym se-me-nem, and under the mo-but-tone sounds of two-s-t-rune-house-b-ry-du-to- ra sing cha-gu-chie, incomprehensible songs.

Once we wandered around the old city and came somewhere to one of the ancient towers. It was quiet and empty. From yes-le-ka to-but-strength the roar of isha-kov and the squeal of ver-b-people-dov and the post-to-ki-va-nie of street blacksmiths near the roof then ba-za-ra.

Ni-ko-la-em and I sat down on a big white stone and for-ku-ri-li, and Ri-ta lay down on the grass and, under-with-ta- viv sun-n-tsu face, lit-mu-ri-las.

Not true, - I replied, throwing an eye-rock. - You are a fan-ta-zi-ru-eat. From the European-ro-pey-hour-ty of the city-ro-yes already to-bi-ra-et-sya to ty-be-te-ech-ny la-wok in-lu-raz-va-liv-she -go-sya ba-za-ra uz-ko-ko-lei-ka. Near co-ro-boch-nyh la-wok, in some-ry-ryat chi-lim sleepy merchants, I have already seen you-ves-ki ma-ga-zi -new state-tor-ga, and across the rivers of the street near the co-south of Kosh-chi pro-tya-nut red poster.

Nikolai with do-sa-doy from-sh-vyr-nul oku-rock and from-ve-til:

I know all this, and I see all this myself. But the red poster sticks badly to the clay walls, and it seems that he carried-in-re-men-ny, for-ro-shen-ny -and even from yes-le-ko-go-du-doo-go, and in any case, not reflecting this year-nyash-not-th day. Yesterday I was on mo-gi-le ve-li-ko-go Ta-mer-la-na. There, at the ka-men-no-go entrance, se-to-bo-ro-dye old-ri-ki from morning to no-chi play in the ancient shah-ma-you, and over a heavy gravestone slab, a blue banner and a horse-tail were folded. This is beautiful, at least in a way, that there is no falseness here, what would it be, if there would be tu-da pos-ta-vi-li, instead of b-no-go, red flag.

You are stupid, I answered him calmly. -Chro-mo-go Ta-mer-la-na has only a past, and traces of his iron heel day after day are fading away with life the face of the earth. His blue banner has long been vyts-ve-lo, and the horse’s tail is eaten by moths, and the old she-ha-priv-rath-no-ka has, ve-ro- yat-no, son-com-so-mo-letz, someone-ryy-, maybe, tay-com else, but he’s already eating le-walk-ki until for-ho-yes sun-n-tsa in a great post Ra-ma-za-na and better knows bi-og-ra-fiyu Bu-den-no-go, brav-she-go in de-vyat-nad-tsa- that Vo-ro-nezh, than the history of Ta-mer-la-na, five-hundred years ago, thunder-miv-she-th Asia.

No, no, wrong, right! -ho-rya-cho rose-ra-zil Ni-ko-lai. - How do you think, Rita?

She is in-ver-well-la to no-go-lo-woo and from-ve-ti-la ko-mouth-ko:

In this, I, please, luy, agree with that battle. I also love the beauty ...

I smile-null-sya.

You, apparently, were blind from the sun, Ri-ta, in a way that ...

But at this time, because of the in-ro-that go-lu-shadow fight came out for-ku-tan-naya in the pa-ran-d-ju old-paradise burnt-b-len-naya female. Seeing us, she stayed and was angry, but for-bor-mo-ta-la something, pointing her finger at the pro-lo-man-ny in the sta -not a ka-men-ny you-move. But we, of course, don’t understand anything.

Gaidar, - said Ni-ko-lay- to me, embarrassed-but under-no-ma-es. -Maybe, it’s impossible here ... Maybe it’s a sacred stone of some kind, and we sat down on something and dis-ku-ri-va -eat?

We get up and go. In-pa-yes-whether in tu-pi-ki, narrow-ki-mi-mi-streets-ka-mi walked, along some-eye only-only-could two-two, on -to-nets, went out to the wide ok-ra-inu. On the left there was a not-big-shoy cliff, on the right-va-hill, on some-rum si-de-li old-ri-ki. We went along the left side, but suddenly from the mountain there were screams and a howl. We got it.

Old people, pov-s-ka-kav from their places, cry-cha-whether something to us, one-ma-hi-wa-li ru-ka-mi and so-ha-mi.

Gaidar, - said Ni-ko-lai-, os-ta-nav-li-va-yas. -Maybe, it’s impossible here, maybe, there’s some kind of sacred place here?

Nonsense! - I answered sharply, - What a sacred place is here, once there is a lo-sha-di-ny on-cart on-va-len! ...

I’m not up to-go-to-ril, because Ri-ta scream-well-la and is-pu-gan-but from-with-to-chi-la back, then after- there was a crackle, and Ni-ko-lak pro-wa-poured up to the waist into some dark hole. We barely managed to drag him by the arms, and when he got out, I looked down and understood everything.

For a long time, we have already turned off the road and walked along the rotten, behind the sy-pan-noy land of the roof of the ka-ra-van-sa-paradise. Ver-b-lu-dy stood below, and the entrance to ka-ra-van-sa-rai was from the side of the ob-ry-va.

We got out of the way back and, on the way-with-t-vu-glance-yes, they say-cha-whether-in-sow-shih-sya again and mustache-by-co-willows -shih-sya old-ri-kov, went further. Did you go again into an empty and crooked street, and suddenly, behind a face-to-face table-to-well, with a mo-lo-day, an uz-bech -coy. She quickly na-ki-nu-la on the face of a black child, but not really, but on-lo-vi-nu; so os-ta-but-vi-las, pos-mot-re-la at us from under the child-ra and so-ver-shen-but don’t-expect-given-but from-ki-nu-la her again.

Russian? -mountain-tan-nym, with a sharp voice, she asked. And when I answered-ut-ver-di-tel-no, I-me-was and said:

Russian ho-rosh, sart bad.

We went next door. She almost didn’t know anything in Russian, but all the same, we are just-go-wa-ri-wa-li.

And how they live! -Ni-ko-bark told me. -Deputy-to-well-tye, detached from everything, locked in the walls of the house. All the same, what a wild and nep-rice-stupid still Vostok! In-te-res-but to know how she lives, than in-te-re-su-et-sya ...

Wait, I interrupted him. -Pos-lu-shay-, de-vush-ka, have you heard-ha-la ever-yes-no-be about Le-ni-na?

She was surprised-len-but pos-mot-re-la at me, not for nothing, but Ni-ko-lai shrugged her shoulders.

About Le-ni-na ... -pov-that-ril I.

Suddenly, suddenly-t-li-vaya smile-ka-y-ra-la on her face, and, pleased with the fact that she-nya-la me, she from-ve-ti- la go-rya-cho:

Lelnin, Lel-nin I know! ... - She is for-ki-va-la go-lo-howl-, but not our -should-zha-la laugh-sya.

Then we-ro-lived, a cat from-p-burp-well-la in a hundred-ro-well, deaf-ho on-ki-nu-la child-ru and, low slope cornfields go-lo-woo, went along the wall with a chalk then-rop-li-howl in a move. She apparently had a good hearing, because se-kun-du later, because of the a summer mul-la and, leaning on a plow, he looked at us for a long time, then at the blue shadow of an Uzbek bech; ve-ro-yat-but, tried to guess something, ve-ro-yat-but, guess-dy-val, but was silent and tus-to-ly-mi glass-lyan- we-mi-eye-for-mi looked at two alien-zem-tsev and at the European-ro-pei-de-vush-ku with a laughing-from-to-ry-face .

Ni-ko-lai has slanting mon-goal-eyes, a small black beard and a moving swarthy face. He is hu-doi-, zhi-lis-ty and tenacious. He is four years older than me, but that doesn't mean anything. He writes verses, someone-rye doesn’t seem to anyone, he dreams of de-vyat-over-the-th-th year and from the party of av -to-ma-ti-ches-ki you-was on the twenty-two second.

And in ka-ches-t-ve mo-ti-vi-ditch-ki to this from-ho-du to-pi-sal good-ro-shu emu, full of sorrow and bo- whether for the "gi-ba-chuyu" re-vo-lyu-tion. In such a way, having used up his civic-dan-c-cue "duty", he washed his hands, went to the hundred-ro-well, so that with a bitter speech - people-give for over-vi-ga-ing-sya, in his opinion, the death of everything that he is-to-ren-but loved and how he lived until now .

But this aimless observation-lu-de-nie soon ate to him. In-death, carried-mot-rya to all his pre-feelings-s-t-via, did not come-ho-di-la, and he second-rich-but re-p-ri-nyal re-vo -lu-tion, os-ta-va-yas, one-on-one, with deep-bo-com-belief-de-nii that we-that-there is no time, we-that-no fire-no- you are years, when, at the cost of blood, you will come to correct the mistake made in the twenty-first prok-la-th -du.

He loves ka-bak and, when he drinks, nep-re-men-but knocks ku-la-com on the hundred and tre-bu-et, so that mu-zy-kan -you play re-in-lu-qi-on-no Bu-den-new-s-cue march: "About how it is clear in the night, about how the days are not- us-t-we are bold and proud "... etc. But since this march for the most part is not included in the re-per-tu-ar uve-se- li-tel-nyh for-ve-de-nii-, then he mi-rit-sya on any gy-gan-with-com ro-man-se: "Eh, everything that would be, everything that we-lo, everything was long-ago-a-long-but up-ly-lo".

During the mu-zy-kal-no-go is-full-non-niya, he sits-tu-ki-va-et to the beat of no-goy-, ras-p-les-ki-va-et pi- in and, what’s even worse, de-la-et not-one-knock-rat-nye tortures to open the mouth of the ru-ba-hi. But in view of ka-te-go-ri-ches-ko-go pro-tes-ta then-va-ri-schey it doesn’t always work out for him, but everything is pu-go -ve-tsy from the v-ro-ta, he all the same, uhit-rya-et-sya cut off. He is a soul-sha-pa-ren, good-ro-shiy then-va-rishch and not a bad jur-on-leaf.

And it's all about him.

However, one more thing: he loves Ri-tu, loves him for a long time and strongly. Since then, when Ri-ta zve-not-la forp-ro-pa-luu tambourine and raz-me-you-va-la on the shoulders of vo-lo-sy, use-pol- nyaya gy-gan-s-kiy ta-nets Brahm-sa - no-mer, you-zy-va-ing be-she-nye claps under-you-beer-shih people.

I know that about himself he calls her "de-vush-koy from ka-ba-ka", and this name is scary for him, but he likes it, because it is ... ro-man-tic-but.

We walked along the field, for-sy-pan-no-mu about-scrap-ka-mi zap-forest-not-ve-lo-go kir-pi-cha. Under the but-ga-mi in the earth-le-zha-li kos-pog-re-ben-nyh once-yes-thirty-tsa-ti thousand-thousand sol-dat Ta-mer-la-na. In a way, it would be gray, su-hoe, then de-lo in-pa-da-lied from-ver-s-tia pro-va-liv-shih-sya mo-gil, and gray stone-we-shi, with sho-ro-he of our steps, bes-noise-but hid in dusty holes. We would eat together. Me and Rita. No-ko-bark disappeared somewhere else from early morning.

Gaidar, Rita asked me, why do you love me?

I os-ta-but-wil-sya and surprised-len-us-my eyes-for-mi looked at her. I didn't understand this question. But Ri-ta up-rya-mo took me by the hand and us-that-chi-vo re-ri-la questions.

Rita sat down, but not next to me, but on the contrary. A sharp blow-rum bam-boo-ko-howl rope-tee she knocked down a co-lying flower at my feet

I don’t want you to be with me so once-go-va-ri-val. I ask you, and you must answer.

Rita! There are questions, for some it’s hard to answer, and for some, they don’t need demons.

I don’t know at all what do you want from me? When you speak to me Ni-ko-lai-, I see why he likes me, and when you are silent, I don’t see anything -zhu.

And why do you need it?

Rita from-ki-nu-la go-lo-vu back and, without squinting from the sun, looked at me in the face.

Then, to make it so that you love me longer.

Okay, I replied. -Good. I think and I will tell you in that way. And now let's go and fetch the old me-che-ti on the top-hush-ku, and from there we will see the gardens of the whole Sa -mar-kan-da. There about-wa-were-foxed stone steps-pe-no forest-t-ni-tsy, and not with one de-vush-coy, except for you, I don’t pic- to-zero would pick up there-yes.

Sunbeams mi-gom once-g-la-di-wrinkle-ki between the dark eyebrows of Ri-you, and, from-push-to-nuv-shis hand from mine Shoulder-cha, hiding a smile, she jumped-well-la on the neighboring stone cliff.

A wind blew from the sandy deserts with pe-re-sy-pan-ny sa-har-ny snow-mountain peaks. He furiously raz-las-kav-she-go-sya puppy raz-ma-you-val red scarf Ri-you and te-re-beat her short-mouth gray skirt ku, zab-ra-sy-vaya a little bit higher than co-len. But Ri-ta ... just laughs, zah-le-would-wa-be a little from the wind:

We’ll go further and won’t be asking old-ri-kov this year.

I agree. The is-th-riya of tri-tsa-ty thousand is-t-left-shih ske-le-tov I now need less than one warm smile of Ri-you.

And we, laughing, climb on the mosque. On the steep out-of-gi-bang, it’s dark and cool. I feel-s-t-wow, like Ri-ta vpe-re-di me-nya os-ta-nav-whether-va-et-sya, for-keep-wa-wa-is on mi-well-tu , and then my head-lo-va-pa-yes-et in the loop of her flexible hands.

Cute! How good-ro-sho, and what a wonderful city of Sa-mar-kand! ...

And below, under se-ry-mi pli-ta-mi, under yellow-that earth-lei-, in many-ve-ko-vom somehow sleeps in rusty-chi-not more than once -la-women's wrinkles iron-lez-ny Ti-mur.

Money would be on the is-ho-de. But it’s a little ogor-cha-lo for us, we knew for a long time that it’s early or later, but it’s coming to stay without them. Re-shi-whether to take bi-le-you to Bu-ha-ra, and there come what may.

In the forests of the wasps-pa-go-go-sya uryu-ka, ze-le-no dis-start-ka-s-s-s-s-s-dovs ka-chal-sya-tu-ha-ying disc of the evening sun. On-after-le-dock we sit-de-li on the ball-to-not, pro-pi-tan-nome spicy for-pa-home shower-no-go-ve-che-ra, and peace-but bol-ta-whether. It was calm and warm. Ahead-re-di would-la-ro-ha-long, behind-ga-daughter-naya, like the smoke of snow-go-y mountains, po-forest-ki-wa-be-ly- mi ver-shi-na-mi, how hot-ri-zone-you are behind the yellow sea of ​​sy-pu-chih sands, like any other, not yet passed and not-pe-re-zhi-taya to-ro-ha.

Hell no! - said Ni-ko-lai-, zah-lo-py-vaya for-written-book. -Is-ve-me for-ma-nish now to Russia? What is Russia? Is there anything-be-be-better-noe there? ...- And he didn’t-op-re-de-len-but-ma-hal ru-koy around himself. -Everything is the same, but the same. On-to-ate, op-ro-ti-ve-lo and in general ... You pos-mot-ri, pos-mot-ri only ... Down below, the old sheikh sitting at the gate, and bo-ro-yes, at someone, he hung down to the ground. He na-po-mi-na-et me a kol-du-na from "You-sya-chi and one-no-chi." You know how it is there ... well, where is Ali-Ahmet ...

Did you take the change from the owner? - I re-beat him.

I took it ... I've heard this-year-nya le-gen-du-well. The old rick told me. In-te-res-naya. Ho-chesh, tell me?

No. You re-roar-resh nep-re-men-but in that way from yourself in-lo-vi-well, b-vish

Nonsense! - offended him. -Do you want, Ri-ta, I'll tell you?

He sat down next to her and, apparently, under-ra-zhay mo-no-ton-no-mu go-lo-su ras-skaz-chi-ka, began to go -rit. Ri-ta listened-sha-la vna-cha-le attentively, but in that way he captivated her and lulled her with a fairy tale.

Some prince lived and loved one-well-beauty-sa-vi-tsu. And the beauty of the lu-bi-la of the other. After a whole series of tricks with the aim of bending a non-rice-stupid de-vush-ku, he kills her with love-len-no-go. Then, yes, it dies with tos-ki and beauty-sa-vi-tsa, on-ka-zy-vaya before death in a ho-ro-thread of it next to lu-bi- my che-lo-ve-com. Her same-la-nie is used-pol-nya-yut. But the proud prince kills himself and calls him ka-zy-va-et in a good-ro-thread of himself between them, and then yes ... Did you-grow over the edge-ni-mi mo-gi-la-mi two white roses and, bending the tender stems, caressing each other -gu. But after a few days, a wild red rosehip grew up after them and ... So after the death of his pre-stupid love, un-eat -no-la them. And who is right, who is vi-no-wat - yes, ras-su-dit on the day of judgment is the great Allah ...

When Ni-ko-lai finished chil ras-say-zy-vat, eyes-for his shine-te-li, and ru-ka tightly squeeze-ma-la ru-ku Ri-you.

Now there is no such love, - not us-mesh-li-vo, not with grief-speech, honey-len-but and le-no-vo from-ve-ti-la Ri-ta .

Anyone! So, you don't care?

Why is everything the same?

So, if you hadn’t met me, would you still love someone right now?

Maybe...

Rita silently-cha-la, pulled her hand to the flowers, and I heard how crunch-t-well-la in the dark-but-those about-lo- man-naya ve-toch-ka uryu-ka.

Listen, - she said, - but it’s not-ho-ro-sho somehow you-ho-dit. As if it were with animals. Come-la in-ra - it means, you want, you don’t want, but you love. P

And even many years after the death of the writer, the editors of his works cannot do without the Perm version. In the newest edition of the "RVS" in the four-volume works of Arkady Gaidar, two inserts from the "Star" are made. One of them is a short scene in the first part of the story, when Dimka's mother comes to the offended Dimka and starts a night conversation with him. The second insert contains the author’s phrase necessary for the logical transition: “At this thought, Dimka even took his breath away, because he was imbued with involuntary respect for revolvers and for all those wearing revolvers.”

All this once again emphasizes the importance of the original version of the "RVS" and its publication in Perm. Reading the story anew and in its entirety will be of interest to both the new generation of readers and the numerous army of researchers of the writer's work, for whom the full text of the story remained a treasure with seven seals.

We are talking, we emphasize, about a little-known version of the story. Only after far from always justified cuts and alterations did it become a story in the eyes of many readers and literary critics. This means that at the same time there is, as it were, a return from story to story. Let the children read the story “RVS” with enthusiasm, as before, and let the adults read the original version of the story “Revolutionary Military Council”, forgotten over the years. Read and imbued with the romantic spirit of the young Gaidar.

Summing up the early years of Arkady Gaidar's work, it should be noted that despite the difference in the skill of writing adventure and other stories, the variety of plots, they are certainly united by revolutionary optimism.

According to the literary critic Ivan Rozanov, the writer in mature works "explores the motives of the spiritual motives of his heroes." The origins of this approach are clearly visible already in the early works of Gaidar. He equally likes both adults and children. The optimism of his heroes will become even clearer if we remember that in the very motley literature of the twenties there were many worthless and simply whining heroes.

Alexander Fadeev was one of the first to draw attention not to the "sins of apprenticeship", but to the innovative features in the work of the young writer. This is, first of all, "organic revolutionism and true democracy." Its main characters are revolutionaries, Red Army soldiers, partisans, peasants, workers and even ... unemployed. From the same social circle and children: the son of a St. Petersburg worker Dimka, homeless children Zhigan and Mitka Elkin, nicknamed Dergach.

Among the characteristic features of Arkady Gaidar's work, clearly manifested even in his early works, are irony and mild humor, which give a unique appeal to the narrator's manner, to the entire figurative structure of his writing. Finally, it is laconicism and simplicity of language with plot sharpness and entertainment. The last achievement of the young writer was especially closely connected with his work in the Ural daily, and partly in Moscow and Arkhangelsk publications.

All this gives grounds to say that the twenties - the early period in the work of Arkady Gaidar - were an important stage on the way to mastery and maturity, to mastering innovative techniques. And the stories of the adventure cycle are an integral part of Gaidar's rich heritage.

The historical and revolutionary adventure story "Forest Brothers (Davydovshchina)" was created by Gaidar in Perm and Sverdlov ske, first published in the newspaper "Ural worker" in 1927 (from May 10 to June 12). At the same time, the story was published in the Usolsk newspaper "Smychka". Since then, this story has never been published. Both in its plot and in the time of action of its main characters, it adjoins the story about Alexander Lbov. Ural militants under the leadership of workers - brothers Alexei and Ivan Davydov operated in the area of ​​the Alexander Plant and the Lunevsky coal mines in the north of the Perm province. The story is printed with minor abbreviations.

The adventure story "The Secret of the Mountain", the genre of which was defined by A. Gaidar as a "fantastic novel". The scene of the story is the Northern Urals, the upper reaches of the Vishera. The plot is dedicated to exposing the intrigues of foreign mining concessionaires. The story was written in Perm and was published there for the first time in the newspaper Zvezda in 1926 (from September 8 to 30). Then she was included in the first collection of travels and adventures "On land and at sea" (M.-L., 1927, p. 7-34). Reprinted in the newspaper Arzamasskaya Pravda in 1969 (April 1 - May 28, intermittently). Here the story is printed according to the text of the collection of 1927 with the clarification of a number of places with the help of the first Zvezda publication.

Riders of impregnable mountains

The adventure story reflected the impressions of Gaidar's travels in Central Asia and the Caucasus in the spring of 1926. Excerpts from the story were published in the Perm newspaper Zvezda (from December 5 to 18, 1926) under the original title Knights of the Unapproachable Mountains. The whole story was published in 1927 in the Leningrad branch of the publishing house "Young Guard". Since then it has not been reprinted. This collection is based on the text of the Leningrad edition.

In this edition, the story is printed from the most complete Perm version, published in the Zvezda newspaper in 1926 (from April 11 to April 28), fifteen cellars. The publication was intended for an adult reader, and the title, according to the publishing agreement, was “Revolutionary Military Council”. Only as a result of editorial cuts and alterations did RVS become a story. The story was printed in Perm from a draft, which was later lost. Thus, the Ural publication of the story, as it were, replaces the text of the handwritten original, gives a real idea of ​​the level of literary skill of the young Gaidar.

And as soon as we gathered, the White Guard gangs surrounded us from all sides. And we began to retreat with a fight, and so we retreated for three days and three nights, and all with a fight, until finally the remaining twelve of us alive with one gun climbed into such a thicket that the whites left us to pursue.

And then the soldiers began to talk among themselves: “We can’t live here without provisions, and therefore we need to make our way to people one by one. And our horses died from under the guns, and their meat was cut into pieces and divided among themselves, and then they said goodbye to each other with a friend, and each went in his own direction. And only I remained alone because of the wound in my leg and said that I would wait either a day or two until I healed. And on the second day I met with a lost white bandit, and he hit me with a bullet in my side, to which I, not at a loss, answered him in the same way. And when we both fell down, we looked at each other and decided that now we were quits. And so this white bandit and I lay on the ground for a week, eating horsemeat and breadcrumbs from his bag, and after that, having recovered, they accidentally stumbled upon a wild cave, in which they moved to live in view of the cold weather that had set in. And one day, while examining this cave, he discovered a river with gold-bearing sand in it and, when I was in a sleepy state, hit me in the head with a heavy log and since then somewhere o disappeared.

His name was Sergey, by the name of Koshkin, but I don’t know what province and county.

Not all, - Vera interrupted him, - why did he call us comrades, and strangled Stolz?

At the mention of this name, the dying man shuddered, raised his head and said in a hoarse, broken voice:

Strangled ... strangled ... for whips, for treason and for everything ...

He recognized him. It is clear that Stolz's last name was not real, - Vera added in a whisper and, looking at Remmer, said: - Now you know everything ... Even more than you need.

Yes, - answered Remmer, - even more than necessary, and about Stolz and about the tricks of the concessionaires, about everything ... Now, when we return ... the storm will not be small ...

This whole gang with Mr. Pfull will be swept away. They broke this time.

The old partisan died when dawn broke. He died, clutching tightly to his chest a signal horn, one of those that long, long ago once sounded death to General Gaide and all the other generals of the white gangs.

And only now, in the afternoon, did the comrades see a real wide exit from the cave, facing in a direction completely opposite to that from which they were looking for it.

And the rays, bursting into the passage in a wide stream, affectionately fell on the gray-haired head of the dead man and ran in bright spots along the old, dusty banner that had stood over the head of the old Red Army soldier for many years.

1926–1927

Horsemen of impregnable mountains*

Part one

For eight years now, I have been scouring the territory of the former Russian Empire. I have no goal to carefully explore every nook and cranny and comprehensively study the whole country. I just have a habit. Nowhere do I sleep so soundly as on the hard shelf of a rocking carriage, and I am never as calm as at the open window of the carriage platform, the window through which the fresh night wind rushes in, the frantic clatter of wheels, and the cast-iron roar of a locomotive breathing fire and sparks. .

And when I happen to find myself in a calm home environment, I, having returned from another trip, as usual, exhausted, tattered and tired, enjoy the soft peace of room silence, wallow, without taking off my boots, on sofas, on beds and, wrapped in incense-like blue pipe tobacco smoke, I mentally swear that this trip was the last, that it’s time to stop, bring everything experienced into a system and, on the gray-green landscape of the calmly lazy Kama River, give my eyes a rest from the bright brilliance of the rays of the sunny Mtskheta valley or from the yellow sands of the Kara desert -Kum, from the luxurious greenery of the palm parks of the Black Sea coast, from the change of faces and, most importantly, from the change of impressions.

But a week or two passes, and the colored clouds of the fading horizon, like a caravan of camels setting off across the sands to distant Khiva, begin to ring again with monotonous copper bells. The whistle of a locomotive, coming from behind distant cornflower fields, reminds me more and more often that the semaphores are open. And the old woman-life, raising a green flag in her wrinkled strong hands - the green expanse of endless fields, gives a signal that the path is free on the site provided to me.

And then the sleepy peace of life measured by hours and the calm ticking of the alarm clock set at eight in the morning ends.

Let no one think that I am bored and have nowhere to put myself, and that I, like a pendulum, stagger back and forth only in order to intoxicate my head, which does not know what it needs, in monotonous motion sickness.

All this is nonsense. I know what I need. I am 23 years old, and the volume of my chest is ninety-six centimeters, and I easily squeeze out a two-pound kettlebell with my left hand.

I want until the time when I have a runny nose for the first time or some other illness that dooms a person to the need to go to bed at exactly nine, having previously taken aspirin powder - until this period comes, to roll over as much as possible, to twist in a whirlpool so that I would be thrown onto the green velvet shore already exhausted, tired, but proud from the consciousness of my strength and from the consciousness that I managed to see and learn more than others saw and learned during the same time.

And that's why I'm in a hurry. And therefore, when I was 15 years old, I already commanded the 4th company of the brigade of cadets, engulfed in a ring of snake Petliurism. At the age of 16 - a battalion. At the age of 17 - the fifty-eighth special regiment, and at the age of 20 - for the first time he ended up in a psychiatric hospital.

In the spring I finished the book. Two circumstances prompted me to think of going somewhere. Firstly, the head was tired of the work, and secondly, contrary to the hoarding inherent in all publishing houses, this time the money was paid without any rigmarole and all at once.

I decided to go abroad. For two weeks of practice, I spoke to everyone, even to the editorial courier, in a certain language that probably has a very vague resemblance to the language of the inhabitants of France. And on the third week I received a visa refusal.

And together with the guide to Paris, I put my annoyance at the unexpected delay out of my head.

Rita! I said to the girl I loved. - We will go with you to Central Asia. There are the cities of Tashkent, Samarkand, as well as pink apricots, gray donkeys and all sorts of other exotic things. We will go there the night after tomorrow with an ambulance, and we will take Kolka with us.

It is clear, - she said, after thinking a little, - it is clear that the day after tomorrow, that to Asia, but it is not clear why take Kolka with you.

Rita, - I answered reasonably. - Firstly, Kolya loves you, secondly, he is a good guy, and thirdly, when in three weeks we will not have a penny of money, then you will not get bored while one of us chases for food or for money for food.

Rita laughed back, and as she laughed, I thought her teeth were quite fit for cracking dry corn on the cob, if the need arose.

She paused, then put her hand on my shoulder and said:

Good. But let him just get rid of fantasies about the meaning of life and other vague things for the whole journey. Otherwise, I'll still be bored.

Rita, - I answered firmly, - for the whole time of the journey he will throw the above thoughts out of his head, and he will also not recite to you the poems of Yesenin and other modern poets. He will collect wood for the fire and cook porridge. And I'll take care of the rest.

And you are nothing. You will be enrolled "in the reserve of the Red Army and Navy" until circumstances require your all possible help.

Rita put her other hand on my other shoulder and gazed into my eyes.

I don’t know what kind of habit she has to look into other people’s windows!

In Uzbekistan, women walk around with their faces covered. The gardens are already in bloom. In smoky teahouses, Uzbeks wrapped in turbans smoke chilim and sing oriental songs. In addition, there is the grave of Tamerlane. All this must be very poetic, - Nikolai enthusiastically told me, closing the pages of the encyclopedic dictionary.

But the dictionary was dilapidated, ancient, and I lost the habit of believing everything that is written with solid characters and through "yat", even if it was an arithmetic textbook, because the world broke down twice and thrice in recent years. And I answered him:

The grave of Tamerlane probably remained a grave, but in Samarkand there is already a women's department that tears off the veil, a Komsomol that does not recognize the great holiday of Eid al-Fitr, and then, probably, there is not a single place on the territory of the USSR where, to the detriment of national "Bricks" were not sung to songs.