Цветок Гёте_Рассказ_Слушать

Анатолий Ткаченко – Цветок Гёте
Читает СказРассказ

Ефросинья прожила большую часть своей жизни в деревне и трудилась на земле. Похоронив любимого мужа во избежании тоски и одиночества, она по наставлению дочери переезжает в город Москву и начинает новую жизнь.

#Аудиорассказы #Женскаяпроза #Интереснаяистория #Впоискахсчастья #Житейскиеистории #Историяизжизни #Интересныйрассказ #Историяжизни #Реальныеистории #Интереснаяистория #Stories #Prose #Interestingstory #Lifestory #AudiobooksinRussian #StoryinRussian #LlistentoRussian #Russianspeech

At the Tishinsky market, in a row of flowers, at the edge of a long plank counter, a wizened old woman with attractive blue eyes and rosy, as if tinted cheeks, walks leisurely, in a businesslike manner; When someone approaches her tin, neatly displayed cans and tries to make sense of the inscriptions

– large pencil scribbles on glued pieces of paper, the old woman slowly, thoroughly, as if translating from a language no one understands, reads, running her finger over the piece of paper: “Flower “Friendly” family”. Violet-blue. It decorates the apartment very much. Healing, for colds. Price 1 rub. 50 kopecks.” Or: “Flowers “Groom” and “Bride.”

Sold together. The stems are climbing. “Groom” blooms blue, “Bride” white. Price 50 kopecks. thing”. But with particular eagerness and assertiveness, she offers, even imposes, her favorite flower, which is almost always present in her considerable collection; only she takes it in her hands, rocks it, nurses it, shouting by rote: Goeta Flower! Surgeon flower!

Miracle Doctor! From all diseases. Flower of the great man Goeth! There are plenty of idle, idle curious, drunken, merry men in any market. They crawl in, ask the “cheesy” old woman about the miracle doctor and the surgeon without a knife, and make the audience laugh with jokes and jokes.

The flower girl, however, is not offended by them – after all, they attract people! – but she doesn’t waste herself on serious conversations, she senses a true, efficient buyer from afar, even on the way, and shouts out to him, offering her best product. A young couple dressed in nylons approached, holding hands.

It looks like a young family: vegetables in the nets, a piece of beef with a sugar bone, a bottle of dry wine… The guy, trying to be a man, pushes his wife to the flower counter: they say, it’s your business, I’m no-no in these things! “Grandma,” the novice housewife says, blushing a little

, “explain: what kind of flower is this?” Darlings! – the old woman beams at them with the heavenly blue of her clear eyes and the apple-colored blush of her cheeks. I have a special explanation for you. – She takes out from under the counter a worn cardboard, on which

A newspaper note with a drawing of a flower is pasted, hands it to the guy-husband, deftly carrying it past the hands of his wife: – Read the document, you will find out everything! “The legend says that the guy reads as loudly as possible,

Because now even jokers are interested in hearing that the great German poet Goethe suffered from many ailments in old age . For treatment, I began to take the juice of one plant. All the old poet’s ailments disappeared. He even wrote a book of wonderful poems. Since then, this houseplant, originally from Africa,

Has been called Goethe’s flower, the surgeon’s flower, the miracle doctor. Well, its botanical name is Bryophyllum. The peculiarity of this flower is that on the leaves it forms dozens of small plants located in the denticles of each leaf, which makes it very interesting. Small plants fall and immediately take root, forming new specimens.

Leaf juice and leaf pieces help in speedy healing of wounds. Bryophyllum is currently being studied by specialists.” The audience noticeably perks up, someone reaches out for a piece of cardboard, latecomers ask to re-read it; A big-faced joker, who doesn’t care about all the flowers and plants of the world, craves noise, confusion,

Deliberately menacingly approaches the old woman: “Why are you, grandma, deceiving the people?” There it is written in Russian: “Goethe’s Flower.” The great German poet. Classic, got it? And you: “Goeta! Goeta! Do you know what happens for this? The newlywed man winces from

The joker’s hot beer breath, pushes him aside with his strong shoulder and, encouraged by his wife’s hasty nods, says: Thank you. Very interesting. We’ll buy it… Look, Zhanna, exactly: there are small plants on the leaves – two or three leaves and a stem with a white root…

And what a strong flower – a real big guy! – That’s right: big guy! – the old woman assents, nods, a fresh flower blooms. “ And I’ll tell you: when there’s a baby, he’ll get sick.” he has a nose or ear, drop a drop – it helps better than any medicine.

I checked it on my grandchildren. Goethe’s flower is carried away by a young couple, the old woman puts out another one, recently planted, tenaciously rooted, and it is immediately bought. Then two pot-bellied cacti easily float away into the twilight bustle of the market on their hands and in nets.

“Friendly Family” – for colds and for well-being in family life and, of course, “Groom” and “Bride”, setting an example of inseparability and eternal love. “The only way to get them is together, only together,” the old woman says with conviction, sincerely believing in her words to the point of tears. – They die separately.

So faithful! Here is an empty counter in front of a nimble, quick-eyed old woman selling indoor flowers, and her neighbors in the flower row envy her. They have beautiful “live” flowers grown in their dachas, they keep them in basins, buckets, spray them with water, but they don’t take anything well.

“And to say the least,” the old woman argues sympathetically, “what kind of flowers are “alive” if they die in an hour or two! For weddings and funerals…” The old pensioner Byatlev, who sells medicinal herbs and roots all year round , also seems to be dissatisfied with the current

Cheerful success of his neighbor (they are neighbors in a housing cooperative), grumbles sleepily: She fooled the public with a newspaper. Public impudence. It’s time to put it into print… – I trade according to science and advise you, Byatlev. And also to my heart. And you are very angry, that’s why your herbs…

She doesn’t finish speaking, so as not to anger the very harmful old man, who has had heart attacks twice, she bows to everyone, wants to happily sell out and goes to see what good things the rich Tishinsky food market is selling today under the glass roof.

Baba Frosya hurries home with a small but efficient step, carrying a bag with market products “for herself and her daughter’s family”, looking around vigilantly: what if she lets one of her acquaintances through, no greetings! – and nods and smiles at everyone he knows in the slightest degree or has seen somewhere, remembered

From some store line: what’s wrong with that? If only the person would not be offended and spoil his mood! But daughter Dasha was angry about this village habit in Baba Fros. At first, my mother made fun of me: “Wake up, you ’re walking through Moscow – not through your native Shlykovka!

Who do you bow to left and right? There are eight million here – you’ll rewind your head!” Now she refuses to go together at all, a new reason has been added: Baba Frosya sells flowers at the market… She doesn’t climb into cramped buses, rarely rides the metro –

She still has fantasies: the bus will run into a house or another bus, the metro will collapse or he’ll suddenly be flooded with water, and he’ll cover the three kilometers to the market and back on foot, encouraging himself: “You’re old, come on.” They didn’t trample so much through mud and ravines.

And here it’s asphalt, like glass!” And there is an excuse: I need to go to a store or two to buy kefir and milk for my grandchildren. No matter how fashionable the daughter is, and spends the whole day with her husband

At work, she doesn’t get much done at home, even though she orders Baba Frosa not to meddle in her family life, not to spoil (and says: “Don’t spoil!”) the children with gifts and market rubles. Conflict, in a word. “A gloomy tragedy in the middle of white-stone Moscow,” as Valerka’s grandson jokes.

He’s having fun, but it turns out that she, his own grandmother, is to blame for everything. But Grandma Frosya just can’t understand her guilt: why is there any shame in receiving rubles for your work? Thinking seriously, in detail, but with little sadness, such as Baba Frosya has a light

Character, adapted to any life, she opens her one-room apartment with a key, pushes heavy bags through the door and sits down on a stool at the threshold – to rest for two or three minutes: no matter how you run, After all, I’m in my eighties, my arms and legs are still suffering, and

My back, broken from a young age by village work, sometimes torments me to the point of oohing and ahhing with pain. Then he puts the kettle on gas, steeply brews boiling water with Indian tea from a large box – the same as the second one.

Variety, but much more aromatic than the overly purified first (those in the know prove it!) – and he drinks for a long time, warming up hotly, feeling how the blood in the cold veins becomes younger, the numb lower back comes to life.

The apartment is quiet, twilight green: the window sills, benches, chairs, and extendable table are filled with jars, buckets and other containers with flowers; The walls are hung with plastic pots, they also contain flowers, climbing along threads to the windows and ceiling. From the corner you can barely see the TV screen (and

There are three jars with seedlings on it), above the narrow bed there is a heavy shelf densely filled with cacti: sprouts from the refrigerator in the hallway, kitchen cabinets, and the dining table are turning green and reaching for the light .

You can move around the apartment, rather than walk, so as not to die under the collapse of cans, pots, buckets, so as not to get tangled to death in stems, leaves, vines. Baba Frosya herself easily scurries around among these thickets, but

Does not allow guests into the room – there is nothing special to see there, and if they are interested in any flower, she takes them out into the hallway. Here she has a free stool and a bedside table that is almost unoccupied .

Here she can serve tea, here she talks with her grandson Valera and granddaughter Svetlana when they visit her. Baba Frosya is drinking tea and tenderly rejoicing at today’s lucky day: she earned almost an A+! This is not counting the pleasure of communicating with people,

The benefits brought to them, leisurely walking around the rich market, smart pricing of goods. I filled two bags with everything fresh, home-grown, and also kefir and bread. And I didn’t spend a penny of my pension! For what? When he grows old, becomes completely ill, he will live on his legal pension.

Well, I’ve already saved up a little. He won’t ask his daughter and son-in-law – they have enough of their own. In the meantime… The door swings wide open, Valerka comes in with a knock and a whoop, booming like a Siberian geologist from TV: “Hello, dear granny!”, pokes granny on the cheek, almost

Knocking her over with the chair – this means that the grandson was in a great mood, kissed and warmly greeted his grandmother. She laughs, rejoices, but also gently pushes Valerka away: she wouldn’t trample her feet, she wouldn’t knock over some pot with a valuable seedling.

– Sit down, sit down here! – He quickly sits him down. – Then we’ll talk. Otherwise I don’t even see you at all, what you are like… – Ambal. She’s a big guy, that is,” Valerka prompts. – This is true. And why is it driving you to lengths?

– The grub is high in calories. Yes, you are still feeding. Valerka looks around with blue eyes – hers, women Frosin’s, Kaluga eyes; under him, an old stool, taken with some belongings from the village of Shlykovki, crackles; he, of course, has a girl’s patlas, in trousers with zippers of the

Latest fashion (he bought it from someone, and the woman Frosya, who was half a hundred years old, helped), his shirt unbuttoned to the navel – like foreign pop singers; and strums his guitar in the yard in the evenings, and Valerka sings in a hoarse bass voice

; If you look, he’s huge, man, if you take a closer look, he’s an unreasonable boy: he still has to finish the tenth grade, and then decide somewhere – for higher education. But he is not very worried about this, although he seems capable

Of learning; in a word, like many other guys, and most importantly , he is sociable and not evil, and he doesn’t reproach his woman Frosya for the market, he just chuckles. “She has a hobby, she needs to understand and sympathize,” she tells her parents.

They have a friendship, an alliance, an unsigned agreement on mutual assistance. Valerka got hold of an old baby stroller somewhere (for three bucks, he says) , repaired it, and now Grandma Frosya, if she has a lot of flowers suitable for sale, puts

Pots and jars in the stroller, covers it from the sun with an awning, and trundles along to the market. But Valerka always tries to help: this year Svetlana went with her students to a labor camp, and her brother had to take on the household chores – bread, kefir, some groceries

. Which guy is a store buyer? He stands in line and complains: “Girl, I almost got into a fight with one guy: he got through, squeezed in, grabbed!” So she takes him everything that the mother orders, even though she categorically forbids “corrupting” the child, who must get used to work and household responsibilities.

Baba Frosya chops tomatoes into a large bowl, makes two hefty sandwiches with sausage and cheese, washes an apple, green onions – puts everything on the bedside table in front of Valerka. He eats without expecting a special invitation, and reasons: “Bab, I look at your apartment and I’m shocked: it’s an African jungle.”

To get the full impression, let’s run a couple of monkeys and a crocodile under the TV. Mom understands: her intelligent nature cannot stand such efficient agriculture. I heard that she is agitating her father to launch a decisive attack on you: when you go somewhere – well, let’s say, you go

To your native Shlykovka for a week – carry out a bandit raid, clean out the apartment, take all your jars and bottles to the landfill. So keep that in mind. I’m warning you. – How can that be? – Baba Frosya is naively and confusedly surprised, as if she is hearing

This for the first time. – Well, she’s also a village girl, she grew up on potatoes and cabbage, and now you see… – Now she’s a native Muscovite, a respected nurse in our area . And dad is a candidate for candidate of medical sciences. Can you understand this?

You disgrace them with your flower-market hobby. Now, if she collected stamps or smoking pipes, like some writers, or, at worst, barn castles of all times and peoples – it’s a completely different matter: they would be proud of you! – But how can it be, Valera? They really will destroy the apartment.

Well, it’s impossible to leave. But I should go to Shlykovka: they say my niece has a baby. – Bab, do you read newspapers? — Valerka slowly booms, drinking tomato juice over the edge of the bowl. – I understand: there is not enough time.

So listen to your educated grandson: they have published it – you can again deal with small private property. This is especially for you. – What are you talking about! – Baba Frosya recoils. – You’re still joking, making fun of the old one! – I don’t think so, dear granny. Listen.

I’ll explain it in Russian: small private property is allowed, as well as trade without the involvement of hired labor. Do you understand? You are in full law, that means. Is yours small? Small. Don’t you attract farmhands? No. Except me at times. But I don’t count – I’m a relative.

Everything is fine, so grandma. Let me kiss you. I’ll bring you a newspaper, quote an article that is vital for you , and fight my learned ancestors legally . – It seems like you can be trusted, Valera. I really believed it. Bring me this newspaper… – Well! What question! – Thank you, grandson.

– Good health, grandma. And let’s overload there with what you acquired in the private sector. Baba Frosya puts a piece of beef, vegetables, kefir, and bread into her grandson’s bag. Valerka nods with satisfaction and says: – High-calorie foods… Again the muter will ask: where did you get such meat?

I’m lying: I made friends at “Fish and Meat” with one of the queens of the counter. Can you imagine, I went to look, and then I said: everyone there is elderly. And I told her: I was looking at the wrong ones, mine is in the back room,

She receives it from the back door. Vater believed it, read the moral on a popular topic: cronyism is a disgusting phenomenon in our reality, and most importantly, it’s too early for me to make serious acquaintances, especially with suspicious people. – Well, Valerka, you’re like the artist from “Zucchini Thirteen Chairs.”

With you you will get angry and laugh. – Okay, I’m closing the concert. Today our working student is coming, we need to fill the boiler more quickly, otherwise she will swallow the first relative she comes across – that is, me: they are there, it happens, microporous soles are eaten…

Tell me how much is due from me. Baba Frosya hesitates, rubs her dry hands, blushes deeper with her bulging cheeks and, turning away, chirps: “No need… Svetlana is coming… They’ll come in handy, come on.” – So you subsidize? Free of charge? From me and my sister, a huge senkyu!

Valerka leaves with a knock and a hum, and Baba Frosya sits on a stool and begins to sadly reflect on her life. She has been in Moscow for seven years now and has no way of adapting to the city: everything is going wrong for her. Listen to Valerka – her flower hobby

Is so completely tolerable (now even legal); listen to your daughter and son-in-law – she is the most backward element with kulak habits. According to them, sit on a bench with pensioners and do some shopping for your family. And this again: she did not take from Valerka the money given by her mother

For food. According to village custom, there is nothing wrong with giving your grandson a high five. And here? Where will he go, what will he spend it on? And it’s scary to think: my mother will find out about this! She already intimidates with the police, the public, the board of the cooperative…

Efrosinya Ignatievna Rogozhkina moved to the capital, in modern times, simply: she served out her state farm pension, buried an old man and remained alone in a big house. For three years, my daughter and son-in-law visited, brought their grandchildren to the forest air and garden greens of the village of Shlykovka, then

They started going to the Crimea, the Caucasus (they began to earn more money, apparently), and she was decisively told: part with the farm, we don’t need it, You, too, have had enough of your work hump; help raise your grandchildren better. Efrosinya Ignatievna, accustomed to living

In a yard and a vegetable garden, did not immediately give up: how can she get everything from the store, what kind of money do she need to have?.. But lonely life overcame her. She sold her house and cow, with tears, and moved into her daughter’s three-room apartment.

She nursed, raised her grandchildren, and seemed to have calmed down with this old woman’s occupation, except that on a free evening with her grandmothers she would remember how she “broke” the village work in her youth, hard, of course, but also necessary – she deserved an order, there was honor…

And then it turned out like this: a one-room apartment became available on the ground floor , her daughter and son-in-law quickly registered Efrosinya Ignatievna as a member of the cooperative (you never know, children are getting up, extra living space won’t hurt), she contributed her money

From the proceeds for the house and the cow, and became an independent resident. It was then that this most unexpected thing happened to her. In the spring the ground melted from under the snow, and Efrosinya Ignatievna became worried and rejuvenated – at her side window

She discovered a small vacant lot overgrown with weeds. She dug it up with a shovel, loosened the earth and planted it with potatoes; On the sides I stuck seeds of sorrel, radishes, and leeks. Why should the earth waste away!

Moreover, her garden bed is not a hindrance to anyone: it is fenced off from the sidewalk by bushes and is inconspicuous from the street. But it’s better to have some kind of healthy greens than bad grass. Until halfway through the summer, no one noticed her “garden,” although Efrosinya Ignatievna carefully supplied

Her family with radishes, onions, and salad; Only Dasha was surprised where everything was so fresh and clean, like from a village garden. And she wanted to treat the lonely old man Byatlev with an onion and boast about her Moscow “garden.” Apparently, she couldn’t contain the peasant joy within herself.

The old man accepted the onion and quickly informed the board of the housing-construction cooperative, his daughter and son-in-law, what kind of secret agricultural business Efrosinya Ignatievna was engaged in, prohibited in the cities. What started here! The chairman of the board appeared, ordered the immediate destruction of

“this disgrace,” a commission came and drew up an act in which it was written: “With her rash actions, E.I. Rogozhkina disturbed the soil cover directly adjacent to the foundation of the building, which could cause erosion of the soil… “ And this, what’s it called?.. This is “erosion.”

One red lip kept screaming, “Erosion threat!” The whole neighborhood, one might say, was alarmed. Young and old, in pairs and families, came to see the “grandmother’s garden”; one teacher gave a tour with first-graders under Efrosinya Ignatievna’s window, and the boys – well, just like villagers! – began to steal radishes and onions.

Not hungry, of course, yes, apparently, what you get tastes better. The harmony and peace in the family was also disturbed. The son-in-law smiled and sighed at first, intelligently wondering at “dark human instincts”; Valerka became a hero among the boys because he knew better than others where and what his

Grandmother grew, and he himself led the attacks; Svetlanka whined and complained – as if her own grandmother had disgraced her in front of her friends and the whole yard; daughter Dasha rushed in screaming, tears, reproaches, and when she calmed down a little, she ordered

In the words of the chairman of the board: “Immediately destroy this disgrace!” Efrosinya Ignatievna decided to obey, took a shovel, looked around her plot, dug from the edge – and pink nodules turned out of the ground, into a chicken egg. Large in time: after all, the potatoes were still blooming.

The bushes were smooth, strong, tartly fragrant. The new, rested earth gave them all its strength. Why turn it into a wasteland again if it still won’t have time to be overgrown with grass before the fall? And potatoes – how can you ruin them. I spent my whole life with her.

Efrosinya Ignatievna turned away and burst into tears. Let anyone destroy, but her hands may wither. And surprisingly: they didn’t touch the potatoes. The boys, however, led by Valerka, dug in slowly and baked in a vacant lot near the destroyed house. Yes, it’s not a pity, what is there: fresh, baked, it’s not

Only fun – it’s healthy food, which you can’t get in the cities. When in September Eφροsinya Ignatievna harvested from her plot and scattered large, exactly matched one to the other, “blue-eye” to dry – many came to see, be curious, remember how it grows, the “queen” of vegetable stores.

Efrosinya Ignatievna offered to take it for a brew, some took it – from those who were not particularly indignant in the summer. She carried the rest into her hallway and little by little, through Valerka, fed it to the family. This was the end of her Moscow gardening venture.

In the spring, Efrosinya Ignatievna sowed the vacant lot with lawn grass and bluegrass and began to chuckle, sitting on a bench at the entrance, at her old woman’s stupidity. But the longing for some of my usual activities did not go away. Still, there was a lot of empty time: her grandson and granddaughter

Grew up and freed her from her “grandmother’s” worries at home. Perhaps Efrosinya Ignatievna would have returned to the village – she had not worked out, you know, she did not deserve complete rest – but who should she go to? Your sisters have died, you will be your niece’s housekeeper.

And she regretted that she had not given birth to children other than Dasha. It just so happened: my husband returned from the war wounded and kept getting sick, he almost didn’t work, I didn’t even want to think about adding to the family in the first difficult years, and then she became old…

One good thing helped Dasha graduate from medical school and build a cooperative apartment. Most of all, Efrosinya Ignatievna loved to go to the Tishinsky collective farm market. Here she will inhale, and bargain, and ask the peasant women about life in the village. She made permanent acquaintances: she bought potatoes from one,

Eggs from another, milk from a third… One day she wandered into a flower aisle, admired the radiant luxury of gladioli and suddenly froze for a whole long minute, seeing indoor flowers in jars, buckets, clay pots – from a guess, from a heart stirred with joy: she, too, can grow such flowers!

Useful, necessary for people. Everyone will have some kind of occupation, and not just some stupid pensioner. Here, admire it! – Dasha said, opening the door of her mother’s one-room apartment and letting a man dressed in a work tarpaulin pass forward. This is called human habitation! The man squeezed sideways through the hallway, looked

Into the twilight green room overgrown with vegetation and first frowned, then shook his head, as if weakly believing what he saw, and finally smiled dumbly and sadly : “Here you go!” What a surprise!” He worked on a garbage truck, was treated at the clinic by Dasha’s husband, called her, of course, Daria Stepanovna,

Knew her mother, Baba Frosya, a little, heard that she sells indoor flowers at the Tishinsky market, but never expected to see such a rich greenhouse and flower exhibition . The old consumer service worker clearly forgot why the “doctor” invited him, stood, chuckled, marveled, until he expressed his feelings in boyishly loud

Words: “Oh, great!” Small Botanical Garden! – She’ll make a big deal – give her some living space. She survived and poisoned herself: there’s nothing to breathe here! I overstrained myself. Now at least he can rest in the hospital. The hefty garbage truck nodded, smiled and stood motionless on the threshold of the room.

– Andrench! – Dasha called out to him almost in his ear. – I offered you payment. Five is not enough – I’ll add it. – She took off her coat, slightly rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, her cheeks were glowing from the street frost and excitement; somewhat heavy, but always decisive,

Quick to action (probably from the strict medical profession), she looked younger than her forty-five and was accustomed to speaking in a voice that commands rather than asks: “Do you hear, Andrench?” I warned you: there is a lot of work. That’s not the point… – the working man,

Who has seen a lot of all sorts of garbage, responded with noticeable embarrassment . – There is a lot of labor here… By God, there will be enough for a small collective farm! – What are you speaking about? – About that… It wouldn’t be necessary without the hostess.

The case, one might say, is under jurisdiction. Not accustomed to objections, Dasha finally realized that Andreich, whom she had invited, always silent and obedient, suffering from an old stomach ulcer, politely refused to destroy the apartment, which had been turned into the dwelling of a primitive

Man or even worse; and she, without raising her voice, but with great stubbornness said: “Understand: the old woman tortured herself with all this.” Took me to the hospital. She needs help. Release. She herself will die, but she won’t throw away a single can. It’s, well, like alcoholism, you know?

– You can understand, but she’s a human being, an equal member of the cooperative… – So you’re afraid? – in a simple way, with her head thrown up, arms akimbo, Dasha approached Andreich, almost pushing him with her strong shoulder. – I answer, I’ll give you a receipt… The front door opened,

Valerka stumbled clumsily and loudly into the hallway with the usual stomp, leading behind him three friends, as expected, hairy, lanky, without hats, chilled and brave. Collectively, they pushed a ceramic pot onto the floor, shards rattled, and black humus soil scattered across the hallway. The guys roared with laughter.

Valerka pretended that his leg had been broken, and when there was a little silence, the blond, bespectacled man began loudly and solemnly to read large scribbles on a white sheet pinned above the bedside table: “The soil in the pot should be made of leaf and humus soil (in two parts) and sand .

The drainage is made of coarse gravel. The best fertilizer is a mixture of humus and peat, and one-third of the peat should be added. You can also apply mineral fertilizers, flower mixture, urea, superphosphate at the rates usual for all flower crops…”

He picked the soil on the floor with the toe of his boot: “Exactly, leafy and humus! “It’s okay to perform and be happy,” Valerka pushed him away. – Baba Frosya is not an important writer, but she is an outstanding worker. Look at the blooming jungle.

The guys stuck their heads into the door of the room and fell silent. They had never seen such apartment landscaping before, and they could not even think that it was possible in even one of the many thousands of apartments in vast Moscow. For greater effect, Valerka turned on the light.

The foliage, stems, flowers and inflorescences of late autumn, flashing sharply, glowed cleanly, transparently, moistly. – Well, fantastic! – the blond one said quietly, being probably the most restless. “It’s a pity to uproot,” Valerka sighed. – And I feel even more sorry for my dear woman. Yes, the big family khural decided.

– He grabbed his mother’s elbow, pulled her towards him: – Ma, maybe we’ll spare her, well, we’ll wait a little, we’ll persuade… voluntarily… And then Dasha, overcoming her short confusion, remembering who she is, what they might think of her (the weakling gave in to the old woman, where did the enviable character go!),

Grabbed the outermost jar with densely blooming geraniums, thrust it into the hands of the blond: – Hold it, Petya. Now I’ll give you one more. She quickly loaded the kids with two flowers in their hands, pushed them in the back, and shouted from the door onto the playground: “To school, as agreed!”

And come again! Dasha threw tin cans with soil and some small sprouts into an empty trash can , picked them up, gave them to Andreich, glancing with her big gray ones into his brown, shyly flattened eyes, and Andrench took the bucket and carried it to the garbage truck.

A strong woman with a blush on her tight cheeks, Dasha entered into a frantic, cheerful, pogrom frenzy: she knocked down from shelves, benches, stools, tore from the walls everything from which green, odorous, impudently blooming grew, stretched, curled, intertwined. She was mercilessly beautiful in her rage and almost

Cried, saying: “Here you go, dear mommy! Here’s to you, market woman Frosya!..” And Baba Frosya lay in the hospital room, looking around at the white ceiling, the blue, bare walls, the huge window, behind which hovered only the gloomy, damp sky. The ward seemed huge and empty to her, although there were

Still three patients lying on three beds. She heard their quiet voices, but for some reason she listened more to the distant, thick, continuous roar of the city. A huge, little-known, never-quiet city. Previously, Baba Frosya didn’t seem to have heard this hum; she lived in it and didn’t hear it.

And now, in the silence of the ward, she felt eerie, lonely, as if she were hovering in a blue and white box above houses, streets, crowds of people, cars; hanging on a thin thread and might fall if the wind blows a little stronger.

There was a noise in Baba Frosya’s ears, her dry head was stone heavy, scorching hot: touch it and you’ll burn your fingers. But she was already able to think a little, and therefore began to remember today’s market day hourly and minute by minute.

By eleven in the morning she had easily and successfully sold all her flower goods, drank a cup of coffee with a white roll at a market snack bar, bought something for herself and Valerka, and slowly drove her “personal transport,” as her grandson jokes, a wheelchair home. But there was no hurry.

It had rained the day before, it was freezing at night, and the sidewalks were icy. They were sprinkled with sand, but the sand also slipped. Moscow pedestrians slowed down their eternal rush, causing the sidewalks to seem to widen, filled to the brim with a slow-moving crowd.

And the cars noticeably quieted down, grinding like ungreased carts. Baba Frosya pushed the stroller along the very edge of the sidewalk, near the iron gratings from which the trees grew, and was not afraid of slipping or falling: her felt boots were shod with brand new, crunchy galoshes.

Turning towards her lane, she quickened her pace – the sand was thicker here – and suddenly saw Dasha. The daughter walked towards her, waving a white medical bag, looking at her feet and, perhaps, would have passed by without noticing

Her mother, but Grandma Frosya began to fuss – I really didn’t want to upset Dasha, who was in a hurry (that’s for sure!) on a call to a sick person, – and didn’t think of anything smart like pushing the stroller around the corner of the house onto the bare ice.

It was as if someone had thrown the empty stroller from the sidewalk, Baba Frosya’s legs slid, she grabbed the arch tighter and fell down along with the stroller, so awkwardly that she landed head on the ice near the drainpipe. She still remembered herself a little and saw Dasha rushing

To her, her dear, girlish, frightened eyes in painted black eyelashes, and then… then just now she woke up in a huge blue and white hospital room and was able to remember how she got here. It’s clear to anyone that she suffered a concussion. But not very strong, since she can

See and think so well. I could have just stayed at home. That means… yes, that means Dasha deliberately brought her here. To destroy the flowers – the “bazaar infection”, bring “human order” to the apartment. And now Dasha destroys and leads. Oh, she’s angry, she can be downright angry if someone contradicts her!

Who did you like in character? Not my father, of course. Tog was pliable, affectionate – more a woman than a man. And she, Baba Frosya, was considered the man in the house. So, Dasha is in it. Only the mother’s entire character went to work, and the daughter’s went to the deployment.

And the son-in-law is an intellectual, he won’t destroy the apartment and won’t object either. He thinks like this: the mother-in-law disgraces her son-in-law, but, again, she earns a living. And he obeys Dasha, even though he is an eternal Muscovite. Granddaughter Svetlanka is all like him, soft, and

Lives according to her mother’s orders: Dasha ordered – she went to study as a doctor, Dasha will bring her groom and get married. Another thing is Valerka, he is stubborn and loves his grandmother without coercion, but Dasha will persuade him, beg him, prove that the “human order” is good for the grandmother.

The boy is still inexperienced, Valerka! And Baba Frosya groaned from a different kind of mental pain. She imagined how the deceived Valerka was helping Dasha, and she groaned. The roommates called my sister, who brought me a pill and forced me to take it.

Baba Frosya suffered a little with her thoughts and fell asleep. I slept for four hours straight. I woke up quiet, light, tiredly reconciled, I even said to myself: “Know it, so be it.” And what is to happen has already happened. Tired, faded from unusual work, in an old

Dressing gown – her dressing gown, found in her mother’s chest – Dasha sat in the middle of an empty room and was surprised, shaking her head with a very torn hairstyle: the apartment was really empty. A couch instead of a bed, a TV, a table in the hallway,

A cabinet for plates and cups, four stools from a village house. All. No furniture items. Every centimeter of usable space was occupied by plants. “Lord,” Dasha sighed, “we need to furnish this emptiness with something !” And how did people live here?

But she didn’t know whether her mother would want to furnish herself; she would most likely dissuade herself, deny it: her life was spent in the yard, on farms, in the fields. These people don’t appreciate the comfort of an apartment. And does the mother have money?

I suppose she spent everything on her “useful” flowers, seedlings, fertilizers, requests to bring fresh earthen soil… My daughter and son-in-law work as doctors, my granddaughter will be a neurologist , and their grandmother Frosya uses indoor flowers! Dasha looked at the windowsill and smiled sadly: there were four plants in clay pots: “Friendly

Family”, “Groom”, “Bride” and a Goethe flower. Yes, she left them. Just like that, I couldn’t throw it away. She remembered the “Family” and the “Groom” with the “Bride” from the village house, and with the leaves of the Goethe flower her mother treated the children’s sore throats and runny noses…

And she, Dasha, and her husband, a famous therapist, allowed, or rather, compliantly kept silent: let The old woman is weird! And then the little botanical did something strange… Dasha closely looked at the strong, gently cared for plants in voluminous pots, and thought: “Shouldn’t we get them out of harm’s way too?”

She also thought so because she suddenly felt saddened by the sadness of her heart for the empty apartment and the thrown flowers. After all, she is a peasant at heart, and it is not her business to destroy the habitable, living, green… And those who remain will be a constant reproach for her.

And Dasha said to herself, almost crying: “It will be for me some kind of retribution…” Valerka entered, stopped at the threshold of the room, looked with a frown in one direction or another, for some reason looked at the ceiling that had not been whitewashed a long time ago, and said quietly,

As they say in case of misfortune: “Mom, why are we here?” have you worked? Dasha jumped up, instantly forcing herself to regain her former confidence, quickly walked up to Valerka, squeezed his cheeks with her palms, kissed his cold lips, answered clearly and instructively: “I know grandma won’t forgive us.”

But we helped her: let her rest. At the Tishinsky market, in the row of flowers, at the edge of the long plank counter, the dry, leisurely, businesslike old woman with attractive blue eyes and apple-colored cheeks was no longer there . For some time no one took her place, and then

Old Byatlev moved aside the bags of medicinal herbs and sat down more at ease, as if for the sake of rigor and order, ending the counter with his gloomy figure, which from a distance resembled a wheel of rotted hay. They asked him where the flower girl had gone, he usually kept silent,

But if they really pestered him, he muttered inaudibly and disgustedly: “Your Geta is finished… your Geta is finished…” And it was impossible to understand whether the old woman died or for some other reason stopped selling indoor flowers. And when I arrived in Moscow, I no longer looked for

A familiar trader in the Tishinsky market in the flower aisle, who was selling indoor flowers with inspiration, with a special, downright innate talent . That talent when they want to not only sell you, but also please you with a product, please you with a word, and leave

A good mark about yourself in your soul. More than ten years have passed. I still visited the Tishinsky collective farm market on occasion. And just recently, entering the crowd, hubbub, confusion of a stormy trading Sunday, I suddenly heard a distant, intermittent voice, like the cry of a lonely bird

Among the wind and storm: – Goethe’s flower! Buy a Goethe flower! I hurried to the row of flowers, then along the long counter, vaguely believing in some kind of miracle: I would approach and see Baba Frosya, albeit aged, albeit completely decrepit, but alive, homely walking around her jars and clay pots.

He made his way through the crowd, stopped at the end of the counter and spent several minutes looking for her in confusion among the flower girls. Baba Frosya was not there. I didn’t see old Byatlev either. At the edge of the counter, behind a row of indoor flowers, stood

A heavy-set elderly woman, neatly and distinctly fashionably dressed in a trouser suit, with neat, freshly styled hair. She stood out noticeably among her casually dressed neighbors, standing slightly back, as if warning the market people: even though I sell too, I still have little to do with these market aunties.

The woman looked around the audience, either casually or with exaggerated attention (probably she was new here), fixed her large gray eyes on me and said, apparently to me alone, because I was closest to the counter: “Look.” Miracle flower. Flower of the great Goethe. I almost backed away – her voice sounded so familiar,

And again I thought that I would see in the crowd of traders (life is full of improbabilities!) a pink-cheeked, dry old woman. The woman grinned annoyedly, noticing my stupid confusion: some kind of weakling! – and instantly turned an amused glance at the approaching young couple.

And this look, and the hand that gently touched the white inflorescences of the “Bride”, and the whole appearance of the woman, plump and at the same time intensely alive, quickly began to tell customers about the healing properties of Goethe’s flower, reminded me of something I had once seen, known, but

Half-forgotten over the years. . Walking around the counter, I chose an incessantly sociable old man selling gladioli, called him aside, and asked if he remembered Baba Frosya, or if he knew the woman who had taken her place. The old man, in light beer glee (

He had brown bottles of Moskovsky under the counter), suddenly became happy about the conversation and pushed him in a friendly manner. me, almost shouted: “So you knew Euphrosyne?” A good old lady has died. And this one, beautiful… This one is her daughter. – Daughter, you say? – Well, yes.

Daria Stepanovna, Retired, buried her husband, moved away the kids. And, you see, she took the place of her mother, giving people beauty. I looked to where the woman, her apple-red cheeks, was showing the young couple a worn-out cardboard with a newspaper clipping, and said, already believing the old man and embarrassed

By the incomprehensibility of human actions: “We can assume that Grandma Frosya has returned… ” “Perhaps so,” he confirmed. The old man coughed seriously , “But this one will be stronger.” Her daughter came to her, called her a market aunt, and asked her not to disgrace her.

And she didn’t bat an eyelid, as if she hadn’t noticed. Assertive woman!