27.06.2019

Metlitskaya, my dear, you read. My dear. About the book “My Darling” Maria Metlitskaya

Maria Metlitskaya

You are my darling

My dear!
Take me with you!
There in the distant land
I'll be your wife.
My darling. I would take you.
But there, in a distant land,
I have a wife.
My dear!
Take me with you!
There, in a distant land,
I'll be your sister.
My darling! I would take you.
But there, in a distant land,
I have a sister.
My dear!
Take me with you!
There, in a distant land,
I'll be a stranger to you.
My darling! I would take you!
But there, in a distant land,
I don't need you, stranger!

It was a high-rise. With all her appearance, she humiliated her neighbors, brothers and those around her - squat, unsightly and absurd. This magical tower, castle, with a peaked roof, a fairy-tale mansion from the fifties, was inhabited by people. Not by the people - by the People. People with capital letters. In it, in this tower, as everyone knows, ordinary people did not have. Simple people do not live in Stalinist towers. Simple, accustomed to the stench in dark entrances and to the grumpy neighbor's voices behind the wall, they huddle in wretched huts with plywood walls, in panel closets with two-forty ceilings, and in private houses, drafty, frail, with ever-flowing roofs. And they are all happy to death - their own and separate. And let the ceilings be on your head, let them go to the toilet only sideways, and let everyone take turns having lunch in the five-meter kitchenette, because everyone can’t sit down. True, I don’t have this “happiness” either, but that’s okay! There will be more! I’ll catch up again - I’m capable!

There is, of course, a concierge at the entrance. Or the doorman?..

No, still a concierge. The doorman with a beard, braid and an important cap is almost an admiral. And here is grandma. An ordinary grandmother who is entrusted with power.

People like her usually have a blast—bugs on whom something depends!

Anything, anywhere! Don’t worry - they, these “aunts in slippers”, won’t miss theirs! And yet, they won’t let you through. Not yours.

- Excuse me, who are you going to? - he politely inquires, and there is pure steel in his eyes. There is only anger. Even hatred. It must suck to sit here for days. My butt is numb. On the table is a glass of tea, a bitten sausage sandwich and cheap caramels. Dinner.

But I got in the way...

I answer. I dull my eyes, as expected. Well, since I didn’t recognize her as “one of my own”, I’ll be a good girl and a modest person.

Didn't pass for mine. Which, however, is understandable - these law enforcement officers have a diamond in their eyes! That's where we stand.

- To Krasnopevtseva? – he clarifies with disbelief and glares at me even more closely. - To Lydia Nikolaevna? - she repeats and sniffles, grins slightly - like, she doesn’t believe it. And she shook her head with dissatisfaction - like, we know you!

And rightly so, yes! He understands.

- And you, forgive her... who will you be?

- I? – I ask again with a stupid “May Day” smile. - I am related to her! Her daughter. Well... sisters!

- Mmm... sisters?

The concierge is discouraged and completely confused. Doesn't know what to do.

“Well,” I advise, “call her, Lydia Nikolaevna!” She will confirm!

“Okay,” the concierge waves her hand, “come in, whatever!” – And he swallows his tea loudly.

But there they warn such asses not to trust. Do not miss. Call security. Don't open the doors! There are now even more swindler aunts than men.

But I'm already in the elevator. And this elevator - oh! Impressive. All lifts lift! And let the red carpet get tattered. But the mirror is hanging. And the dark panels on the walls are smooth, polished, made of noble wood. A bench against the wall: if you are tired, please sit down! It's a bumpy ride, though. It's buzzing. Everything is clear - old man. Deep old man...

Maria Metlitskaya

You are my darling

It was a high-rise. With all her appearance, she humiliated her neighbors, brothers and those around her - squat, unsightly and absurd. This magical tower, castle, with a peaked roof, a fairy-tale mansion from the fifties, was inhabited by people. Not by the people - by the People. People with a capital letter. In this tower, as everyone knows, there were no ordinary people. Simple people do not live in Stalinist towers. Ordinary people, accustomed to the stench in dark entrances and grumpy neighborly voices behind the wall, huddle in wretched huts with plywood walls, in panel closets with two-forty ceilings, and in private houses, drafty, frail, with ever-flowing roofs. And they are all happy to death - their own and separate. And let the ceilings be on your head, let them go to the toilet only sideways, and let everyone take turns having lunch in the five-meter kitchenette, because everyone can’t sit down. True, I don’t have this “happiness” either, but that’s okay! There will be more! I’ll catch up again - I’m capable!

There is, of course, a concierge at the entrance. Or the doorman?..

No, still a concierge. The doorman with a beard, braid and an important cap is almost an admiral. And here is grandma. An ordinary grandmother who is entrusted with power.

People like her usually have a blast—bugs on whom something depends!

Anything, anywhere! Don’t worry - they, these “aunts in slippers”, won’t miss theirs! And yet, they won’t let you through. Not yours.

But I got in the way...

I answer. I dull my eyes, as expected. Well, since I didn’t recognize her as “one of my own”, I’ll be a good girl and a modest person.

Didn't pass for mine. Which, however, is understandable - these law enforcement officers have a diamond in their eyes! That's where we stand.

And rightly so, yes! He understands.

- And you, forgive her... who will you be?

- I? – I ask again with a stupid “May Day” smile. - I am related to her! Her daughter. Well... sisters!

- Mmm... sisters?

The concierge is discouraged and completely confused. Doesn't know what to do.

“Well,” I advise, “call her, Lydia Nikolaevna!” She will confirm!

“Okay,” the concierge waves her hand, “come in, whatever!” – And he swallows his tea loudly.

But there they warn such asses not to trust. Do not miss. Call security. Don't open the doors! There are now even more swindler aunts than men.

Sixth floor. I'm leaving. The apartment is opposite the elevator. Wooden door. Battered and shabby - everything is as it should be. Junk, of course. But still impressive. Former luxury. Also from past life. Not replaced. Didn’t you want to or?.. Was there simply no money left?

I freeze and look at the bell. Above it is a brass plaque. First name, patronymic, last name of the deceased spouse. The listed regalia: academician, corresponding member, professor, People's Artist, Hero of Socialist Labor... Laughter, and that's all! Who cares about this now? And he wasn’t too lazy to list everything!.. I guess he loved his ringing titles. I was touched.

The bell is also “from there” - copper or brass. Shabby.

I exhale and... I press. The chime of the bell is gentle and melodic. Not alarming at all. Modern ones ring so hard that you shudder and your heart drops.

- Who? – after about five minutes a cautious and quiet voice is heard outside the door.

Well done! He doesn’t tear the door open, he’s interested first.

“Lidiya Nikolaevna,” I bleat like a sheep, “it’s me, Lida!” Lida Kanavina! Your Polina's daughter! From Lokshinka! I wrote to you...

Silence. Does he think? Does he remember? But what if it doesn’t open? And then, dear Lida, will you go back? To your N.? To your godforsaken provincial town? Will you return home to the village of Lokshinka? And all your projects, dear Lida...

Oh, how simple it is! They won’t open it for you, that’s all. They just WILL NOT OPEN IT FOR YOU.

But - don't panic! The lock clicks, the door chain rattles.

And now the door is open. The only question is – where?

Yes in new life! Lida, go ahead! And don't be shy! You will succeed!

She stands on the threshold and looks - incredulously and suspiciously. Well, this is the time. She can be understood. If it weren’t for the photographs of Polina Sergeevna and the memorable gold-plated watch shoved right under her nose, I would be standing behind the shabby door. And then - hurry to the station.

But I'm a smart girl. Smart and cunning. I prepared everything, everything. And I prepared myself - please! Thank you for the school of life - I taught you everything. And special thanks to dear Polina Sergeevna! I explained in my distant childhood, dear mother, that no one needs me.

I’m not needed... Well, I don’t give a damn about you! Everything, indiscriminately. This is how I will live my life without heartfelt attachments. Because I know how these passions end. And I don’t need that anymore! At all. If you are with me, then so am I. Without remorse, yes. Absolutely, mind you, without remorse!

I close my eyes and look at the floor. Then I lift them up - light, clean, blue. Without a shadow, so to speak...

Sweet, modest provincial girl. A good, kind, quite pretty face. Zero cosmetics. Working hands that have known “life” - both the garden and the farm. But neat. Nails are trimmed and polished. Hair in a braid. Didn't you overdo it? It seems not, it’s fashionable now. A modest Chinese blouse, a modest skirt. Coat.

At first, Lida was abandoned by her mother - she simply left and did not return, leaving her daughter to be raised by her grandmother in a remote village. And so the girl grew up - with the firm conviction that no one needed her. Then men abandoned her - just like her mother did in her time: unexpectedly, meanly, unfairly. So much so that every time I wanted to shout: “My dear, what have I done to you?” But she didn’t do anything. I was just programmed for loneliness, melancholy, failed life. Her, like Kaya in " To the Snow Queen", bewitched, frozen the heart. And Lida had no doubt that it was impossible to defrost it. Yes, she didn’t want to - living with an ice cube instead of a heart is even convenient: no pangs of conscience, no suffering. And there is no love either - so as not to be disappointed later. Lida did not take into account one thing - it is impossible to live without love. And it definitely comes - even if you desperately resist it.

My dear - description and summary, author Maria Metlitskaya, read for free online on the website electronic library website

Maria Metlitskaya

You are my darling

My dear!

Take me with you!

There in the distant land

I'll be your wife.

My darling. I would take you.

But there, in a distant land,

I have a wife.

My dear!

Take me with you!

There, in a distant land,

I'll be your sister.

My darling! I would take you.

But there, in a distant land,

I have a sister.

My dear!

Take me with you!

There, in a distant land,

I'll be a stranger to you.

My darling! I would take you!

But there, in a distant land,

I don't need you, stranger!

It was a high-rise. With all her appearance, she humiliated her neighbors, brothers and those around her - squat, unsightly and absurd. This magical tower, castle, with a peaked roof, a fairy-tale mansion from the fifties, was inhabited by people. Not by the people - by the People. People with a capital letter. In this tower, as everyone knows, there were no ordinary people. Simple people do not live in Stalinist towers. Ordinary people, accustomed to the stench in dark entrances and grumpy neighborly voices behind the wall, huddle in wretched huts with plywood walls, in panel closets with two-forty ceilings, and in private houses, drafty, frail, with ever-flowing roofs. And they are all happy to death - their own and separate. And let the ceilings be on your head, let them go to the toilet only sideways, and let everyone take turns having lunch in the five-meter kitchenette, because everyone can’t sit down. True, I don’t have this “happiness” either, but that’s okay! There will be more! I’ll catch up again - I’m capable!

There is, of course, a concierge at the entrance. Or the doorman?..

No, still a concierge. The doorman with a beard, braid and an important cap is almost an admiral. And here is grandma. An ordinary grandmother who is entrusted with power.

People like her usually have a blast—bugs on whom something depends!

Anything, anywhere! Don’t worry - they, these “aunts in slippers”, won’t miss theirs! And yet, they won’t let you through. Not yours.

But I got in the way...

I answer. I dull my eyes, as expected. Well, since I didn’t recognize her as “one of my own”, I’ll be a good girl and a modest person.

Didn't pass for mine. Which, however, is understandable - these law enforcement officers have a diamond in their eyes! That's where we stand.

And rightly so, yes! He understands.

- And you, forgive her... who will you be?

- I? – I ask again with a stupid “May Day” smile. - I am related to her! Her daughter. Well... sisters!

- Mmm... sisters?

The concierge is discouraged and completely confused. Doesn't know what to do.

“Well,” I advise, “call her, Lydia Nikolaevna!” She will confirm!

“Okay,” the concierge waves her hand, “come in, whatever!” – And he swallows his tea loudly.

But there they warn such asses not to trust. Do not miss. Call security. Don't open the doors! There are now even more swindler aunts than men.

Sixth floor. I'm leaving. The apartment is opposite the elevator. Wooden door. Battered and shabby - everything is as it should be. Junk, of course. But still impressive. Former luxury. Also from a past life. Not replaced. Didn’t you want to or?.. Was there simply no money left?

There is, of course, a concierge at the entrance. Or the doorman?..

No, still a concierge. The doorman with a beard, braid and an important cap is almost an admiral. And here is grandma. An ordinary grandmother who is entrusted with power.

People like her usually have a blast - little bugs on whom something depends!

Anything, anywhere! Don’t worry - they, these “aunts in slippers”, won’t miss theirs! And yet, they won’t let you through. Not yours.

Excuse me, to whom? - he politely inquires, and there is pure steel in his eyes. There is only anger. Even hatred. It must suck to sit here for days. My butt is numb. On the table is a glass of tea, a bitten sausage sandwich and cheap caramels. Dinner.

But I got in the way...

I answer. I dull my eyes, as expected. Well, since I didn’t recognize her as “one of my own”, I’ll be a good girl and a modest person.

Didn't pass for mine. Which, however, is understandable - these law enforcement officers have a diamond in their eyes! That's where we stand.

To Krasnopevtseva? - He clarifies with disbelief and glares at me even more closely. - To Lydia Nikolaevna? - she repeats and sniffles, grins slightly - like, she doesn’t believe it. And she shook her head in dissatisfaction - like, we know you!

And rightly so, yes! He understands.

And you, forgive her... who will you be?

I? - I ask again with a stupid “May Day” smile. - I am related to her! Her daughter. Well... sisters!

Mmm... sisters?

The concierge is discouraged and completely confused. Doesn't know what to do.

Well, you,” I advise, “call her, Lydia Nikolaevna!” She will confirm!

Okay,” the concierge waves her hand, “come on in, whatever!” - And he swallows his tea loudly.

But there they warn such asses not to trust them. Do not miss. Call security. Don't open the doors! There are now even more swindler aunts than men.

Sixth floor. I'm leaving. The apartment is opposite the elevator. Wooden door. Battered and shabby - everything is as it should be. Junk, of course. But still impressive. Former luxury. Also from a past life. Not replaced. Didn’t you want to or?.. Was there simply no money left?

The bell is also “from there” - copper or brass. Shabby.

I exhale and... I press. The chime of the bell is gentle and melodic. Not alarming at all. Modern ones ring so hard that you shudder and your heart drops.

Who? - about five minutes later a cautious and quiet voice is heard outside the door.

Well done! He doesn’t tear the door open - he’s interested first.

Lidia Nikolaevna,” I bleat like a sheep, “it’s me, Lida!” Lida Kanavina! Your Polina's daughter! From Lokshinka! I wrote to you...

Manicure and pedicure

1 0 0

If you find an error, please select a piece of text and press Ctrl+Enter.

Metlitskaya, my dear, you read. My dear. About the book “My Darling” Maria Metlitskaya

Editor's Choice