If you happen to visit the British capital at the height of summer, then find the opportunity to come in the evening after eight o'clock in the square at the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. Even not the most attentive tourist's eye will catch there a company with hairstyles in the form of a purple comb or a red crown of the Statue of Liberty. Young people notice neither the flashes of cameras illuminating their meeting nor the tourists standing nearby staring at them. Of course, punks are pleased with such active attention of the curious. They are glad to see each other and are excited about the opportunity to discuss some things that only they know.
From the outside, it looks very funny because of the fancy designs on the heads and defiant clothes. Punks look like cats, who came under the window to a choral lesson and carefully stretch out the notes, not paying attention to the housewife who seriously asks them: "Why are you yelling like that?" "Disco party!" - flashing with wit, her husband answers, looking up from the TV.
Closer to nine in the evening, when it gets dark, almost bald young ladies and funny guys with green hair join this company with a businesslike appearance. Looking at them, I wanted to dye my hair red too but preferred to abandon this captivating idea. "We should better refrain," I said to myself in the words of Gorbachev, who was offered at one exhibition to sit behind the wheel of a wheat harvester that caught his attention.
Near to a group of punks, a heap of rubbish heaved. It was especially surprising that no one thought to clean up the mountain of beer cans, bottles and Big Mac boxes that had accumulated in central London. What a contrast this picture was with Moscow, which was being prepared for the 850th anniversary, scraped beyond recognition! I could not even believe it. True, a grinning black janitor once rode a lunar rover with spinning flat brushes that only drove cigarette butts thrown from the steps to their feet, and left on a strange machine, maintaining confidence in his superiority over the people stunned from such an unusual scene.
One evening, I noticed on the steps under Eros two punk girls nice talking about something. I saw one of them before, the other for the first time. "Excuse me!" - applied I to the "old acquaintance" in stockings with leopard spots, crookedly cropped above the knees. "Yes?" - both turned to me. "May I have a photo with you?" - overcoming shyness, I asked. "One pound!," "The Leopard Stocking" replied unexpectedly quickly and passionlessly.
But I thought that she would refuse, wonder, mind! But it's for you, not a Moscow co-ed who has read a lot of Chernyshevsky, with dreams of rebuilding the world in her head. Here it is, the very European pragmatism, sobering with a cold shower castle-builders soaring in the clouds.
I only had nine pence left from five hundred dollars taken for six days. The next morning, our tour group was returning to Moscow. Therefore, I mumbled something inarticulate about a lack of funds, and "The Leopard Stocking" began to speak quickly and indignantly in response, but from all of her monologue I managed to make out only one last sentence: "Sorry, no pictures without money!"
After such a fiasco, it was inconvenient for me to sit next to the punk girls, contemplating the world-famous colorful neon sign dancing on the corner of the house, crowned by a panel with the number of days until the year 2000. Therefore, I got up and went along the London's Old Arbat, that is, along either Picadilly or Regent street, accelerating my pace.
Crowds of tourists were already loitering. With open mouths, they stared at the luminous signs and screamed in excitement to each other something in Italian, German, Dutch. What about me the thought warmed me that the next morning I would go home.
The first time I came across this, just entering one of the Moscow universities. My classmate met me in the subway and asked for one ruble. I helped out with pleasure. And so I would have forgotten about my favor, if the next day the unknown girl would not have addressed this request to me, who smiled sweetly and said that she lacked ice cream. "They are asking," my friend waved his hand, "the money is being knocked down."
Now it is more or less dying, but on the streets and in the crossings you can see quite decent-looking young guys who apologize through every word, explaining the reason for such an uncomfortable situation. And you, remembering the dense past, give the last coin and almost cry from tenderness. This is not your face to ferment - this is Culture!
My interest knew no bounds and finally I decided to try. At first I thought that my intelligent appearance, gold glasses and a fashionable T-shirt would interfere with me in such a difficult matter, but my friend assured me that this was it, and that my contingent was young couples in love. A friend himself threw on a dirty denim shirt, backpack and only approached the burnt-out hanging out youth, telling that he had arrived in Moscow from Königsberg.
Legend is the foundation of Asuka. The legend needs to be selected according to its image, otherwise, I would, for example, go into the company of alisomania and start loading their already loaded heads with the fact that I arrived at a concert of their favorite group, I would, to put it mildly, be misunderstood.
Since my goal was not so much money as the satisfaction of curiosity, I chose a fairy tale that I came to the park with a childhood friend, I forgot my wallet at home, and I really want to give her at least flowers today!
Refueling with beer, I went into business. It was MK’s birthday, the main scene is just my stuff. I’m coming up. A flurry of magic words comes from my dry throat in an instant, but judging by the faces of people, these inarticulate sounds can only be mistaken for idiotic delirium or a perfect mat.
Finally, someone understands that I have a tragedy, and I desperately need money. So I get the top ten. Then everything went much easier and calmer. Someone sympathizes, I start a conversation with someone about ruin for the sake of a pleasant matter, others call for a drink with a "childhood friend," etc.
Even with such an unfortunate legend, in an hour I shot about a hundred, which was enough for expensive cigarettes, a bottle of beer, ice cream, a bag of pasta, a loaf and an inexpensive little book Sologub. The main thing - without complexes and high!
She took his last book with the firm intention of taking his autograph. Of course, I frowned and called him an eccentric with the letter ME, but I still had to read his poems under her pressure. What can I say, there were a couple of good poems, and I continued to grimace and expect it in the audience of one unique institution. Rumors about his arrival were mined in portions - he turns out to be tall, he is in a denim long coat, like blue.
I sat with her at the last desk and thought about how to quickly get out on the boulevard and drink beer. From heavy thoughts I laid my head on her knees, and meanwhile she tasted his beautiful words. She is beautiful and smart, but she’s not used to being close to the “classics” yet.
Yevtushenko looks like Hitler without a mustache, and this crafty smile kills on the spot. The only joy from all that was happening around that significant meeting was her disappointment in him as a person. He said something about his outstanding work, about one iconic verse. Maybe the verse was really significant, but don't talk about it every five minutes. I felt like that Buddhist who comprehended nirvana from the frequent repetition of the same phrase that loses its meaning. He didn’t understand. Something else was said about the anthem, in my opinion he refused to write the text to music. And all this with wide gestures and with an open soul - look at my genius.
Once again I say, I wanted beer and all.
After the meeting, I went out for a smoke, and she still went to get an autograph for parents who are fan of it somewhere in the Russian outback.
Actually, I’m jealous before the dark. She smoked nervously: “Imagine, I’m standing in line for autographs with girls, I’m waiting. He calmly signs, listens to him being flattered, and then I come up - I would see him looking at me, it’s as if some beautiful thing, everyone was shocked, like a rooster, that’s nasty. The old man, and all the same, but what’s your name, what a beautiful you are, and so on. ” Each look at her for me is like a stab in the back, okay there teens, but Poet.
She already wanted to throw out the book she, but changed her mind and decided to make a present for her mother.
Actually, I do not understand these iconic figures. Well, they are famous, well, they are proud of themselves for some merits, but why show off? I drank beer to the accompaniment of her offended remarks - "here are the goats, they want one."
And then it jerked us to go to the Museum of Cinema for the good film "Sky above Berlin." We didn’t get any tickets and the five of us stood in search of the superfluous. They stood frozen and already wanted to go for a walk, when they saw a familiar tall figure in a long black coat. He walked with his head raised, as if searching for something in front. A companion in a shabby coat respectfully led him to the ticket office and took the booked tickets. Yes, we were not mistaken - it was Yevtushenko, the pillar and power of Russian poetry, who recently received a diploma from the Literary Institute, which at one time did not finish.
He passed, smiling indulgently at the enthusiastic words of my friends that they recognized the famous poet. She stood waiting for one thing - would find out or not. He said something as condescending and standard as his gaze, he wanted to leave the cinema's dressing room, as he saw her . He stopped, looked in surprise and interest in her eyes and even opened his mouth, but my chest protected her from his lustful gaze. Yevtushenko got out - he smiled broadly and said: "So, I have gunpowder in the powder flasks, just hiding it!"
Yevtushenko left, friends laughed for a long time, and I thought - for such things two centuries ago, they challenged me to a duel. It’s a pity that this is the 21st century ... It’s a pity that Pushkin died.