З життя
Прогулянка Ліди затишним містечком.
Ліда йшла по маленькому рідному містечку. Точніше, рідним, вже понад сорок років, для неї було зовсім інше місто. Те, інше місто, було велетенським і галасливим. У ньому цілодобово вирувало життя і яскравіли вогні реклами. Тисячі туристів клацали тисячами фотоапаратів, мільйони жителів квапилися у справах, не піднімаючи очей і не бачачи краси та історії навколо. Коли Ліда лише переїхала туди, вона дивувалася, як можна йти, скажімо, повз Софіївський собор і не затриматися хоча б на мить, не застигнути, захоплюючись їхньою красою. Потім сама стала бігати так само, не піднімаючи очей. А коли їх піднімати? Діти, чоловік, робота. Справи, клопоти. Оселилася у великому місті, стала своєю. Раділа, що вдалося вирватися з маленького занудного містечка на березі Дніпра. Та що там містечко, справжнє село. Життя в маленькому містечку текло повільно і нецікаво. У такому містечку можна народитися і померти, жити там не можна. Ось вона і не стала там жити. Подарувала великому місту двох корінних жителів. Гарними вийшли хлопці. «Ой, онуки мої приїхали!» — плескала в долоні бабуся і розставляла руки, щоб обійняти улюблених онуків. Малюки, як один, тицькалися в круглу і м’яку бабусю, що пахла пиріжками, і на обличчі Лідіної матері з’являлося вираз тихої радості. Навколо бабусі з онуками кружляли стара собака і кіт, десь за будинком кричав півень, сповіщаючи, що настав час забирати яйця. А Лідина мама не могла відпустити онуків, насолоджуючись такою довгоочікуваною близькістю. Ніби якщо вона їх відпустить, вони зникнуть. Тільки ставши бабусею, Ліда зрозуміла, що онуки — це в сотні раз смачніше, ніж діти. Дітей треба часом сварити, а онуки — це суцільне свято. З онуками можна забути про хворі коліна і хоч на хвилину, але стати маленькою Лідою, у якої все життя попереду. А життя пролетіло дуже швидко, і значна її частина була позаду. Виростила дітей. Тихо й без скандалів розлучилася з чоловіком. Вийшла на пенсію. Поховала матір пів року тому. На паркані рідного дому фарбою написала «продається» і свій телефон. І от знайшлися охочі купити. Приїхала обговорити угоду. Дасть Бог, востаннє приїхала сюди. Немає більше підстав. Могила мами є, та мама простить, і родичі за могилою доглянуть. У маленьких містечках чужих могил немає. Йшла вулицею і несподівано для самої себе милувалася небом, травою, будиночками. Ніколи не помічала, яке гарне містечко. Будиночки всі доглянуті, зелені багато. Ось і знайомі з дитинства зелені ворота. Трохи перекошена хвіртка з різьбленою поштовою скринькою. Відчинила її і опинилася в дитинстві. Запущений сад зі старими яблунями і грушами зустрів її так, ніби вона нікуди й не виїжджала. Зайшла до хати. Пахне мамою. Дивно. Пів року пустою стояла, а наче мама на ринок пішла пів години тому. Пройшла до зали. Комод, накритий різьбленою серветкою з фотографіями у рамках. На всіх вона, діти, онуки і правнуки. Скатертина з великими рожевими трояндами на столі. Величезна книжкова шафа. Спогади нахлинули. Згадала, як малою манювала курчат у курнику за будинком. Згадала, як підгортала картоплю і бурчала, що тут дня не житиме, як дорослою стане. Згадала, як Мишко лазив до неї через вікно в спальню, щоб цілувати на ніч. Ех, Мишко, не дочекалася вона його з армії, поїхала підкорювати велике місто. Не раз про це думала, але заборонила собі шкодувати про зроблене. Відчинила верхню шухляду комода. Гребінець, мамині шпильки, намисто з червоного бурштину. Наділа на себе намисто. Подивилася у дзеркало. Добре! Не модно, ні. Напевно, в модному вироку б засудили. Але їй добре. Наче мама по шиї рукою погладила. Почула якісь голоси біля хвіртки. «Ей? Тут хтось є?» — закричав дитячий голос. Пішла до хвіртки. Троє хлопців років п’яти-шести. У одного в руках щеня. «Добрий день, тітонько! А ви що тут робите? Тут же ніхто не живе? Ви злодійка, напевно?» — сказав найсміливіший білявий хлопчик із білявим щеням в руках. «Ні. Я не злодійка. Я дочка Анни Петрівни, що тут жила. Приїхала ось, дім продавати», — сказала Ліда. «Це ви дарма! Мій дідусь Мишко казав, що такому дому сносу не буде», — сказав білявий. «А це хто у вас? Як звуть?» — спитала Ліда і кивнула на щеня. «Це собакен. Ми тут їй дім шукаємо. Я її до себе взяв, та дід не дозволяє. Каже, поїду до батьків, а йому доглядай. А у нього собака є. Він у мене один живе. Бабусю ми схоронили торік, тому друга собака йому надто багато. А куди цю дівати? Ми її знайшли біля кар’єра і бубликом нагодували. От ходимо, прилаштовуємо. Може вам потрібна собака?» — сказав білявий і пхнув в руки Ліді щеня. Щеня було брудне, м’якеньке і пахло цуценям. О! Як смачно пахнуть цуценята. Цуценята пахнуть травою, маминим молоком і щастям. Чому щастям? А чи може бути нещасною людина, котра тримає на руках цуценя? Ліда давно забула цей аромат. Спочатку у чоловіка була алергія, та й тварин він не любив, а потім якось не до цуценят було. Щеня смішно хрюкнуло і лизнуло Ліду в обличчя. «Артемко! Відчепися від жінки. Замучив усіх вже з цією собакою» — почувся голос зліва. До них підійшов літній чоловік. «Ліда! Оце так! Приехала! Мамину хату продаватимеш! Ти мене упізнала? Совсім ти не змінилася, Лідко. Це онучок мій Артемко. Артем, відчепись від тітки, їй щеня не потрібне, вона тут жити не буде. Вона у нас київлянка», — сказав той, в кого Ліда миттєво впізнала своє перше кохання, яке не дочекалася з армії через приїжджого хлопця. Ліда обернулася і подивилася на дім, тоді перевела погляд на Михайла, кинула оком на щеня і несподівано для себе самої сказала: «Здрастуй, Мишо. Ні, я хату не продаватиму. Шкода таку хату. На віки будувалася і щеня візьму. Буду тут жити!». «От і чудово, Лідо. А я тобі допоможу. Там он дах може протікати чи ще що, ти ж пам’ятаєш ще, де я живу. Приходь, чай вип’ємо. А хочеш, я до тебе прийду. Хочеш, знов через вікно», — сказав Михайло і усміхнувся. Ліда усміхнулася у відповідь і вперлася в морду щеня, щоб не було видно, що вона почервоніла. Надо ж, бабця, а почервоніла як дівка, такий сором. Михайло і діти пішли. Ліда опустила щеня на підлогу і сказала йому: «Йдемо змивати напис «продається» з паркану, бо не продається цей дім. Це мій дім і твій дім. У нас з тобою стільки справ. Скоро канікули, онуки приїдуть. Треба готуватися. І погодься, Мишко зовсім не змінився. Очі такі ж і усмішка». Щеня радісно тявкнуло. Ліда зрозуміла, що вона вдома.
Bittersweet Happiness – “What’s wrong with that young lady? She’s a good girl. Modest, neat, a hardworking student. She loves you,” Helen Edwards chastised her son. “Mum, I’ll handle it…” Denis clearly ended the pointless conversation. Helen left the room. “He’ll handle it… How many girls has he turned away… Nearly forty, and soon no one will do. Nothing’s ever right for him…” she thought with a heavy sigh. “Son, dinner’s ready,” Helen called from the kitchen. Denis responded instantly, tucking into his mother’s homemade stew. “Thank you, Mum. Delicious, as always.” “You should be saying that to your wife, not me,” Helen couldn’t let it go. “Mum…” Denis drank his compote and prepared to leave. “Wait, son. Do you know, I once visited a fortune-teller? She took one look at me and said: ‘Your son will have happiness, but it will be bittersweet.’” “Oh, Mum, don’t believe such things,” Denis grinned. …Through the years, different women—some loved, some not—came and went in Denis’s life. …Inna was smart, cultured, shockingly wise for her age. She often gave sound advice to the nine-years-older Denis. At first he liked this, but then he began to see Inna more as a mentor than anything else. Everything felt colourless. They split up. Polly had an eight-year-old son. Try as he might, Denis couldn’t get through to the boy, though he loved Polly. She was beautiful, but too headstrong. Whenever they quarrelled, he’d try to patch things up with gifts. The arguments felt senseless. Something was always missing—maybe peace and stability. Vera was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Denis almost married her. She was decent, pure, balanced—he felt like he had to “wear kid gloves” just to speak to her. He even moved into her flat. He was ready to start a family. But… He came home unexpectedly from a work trip to find Vera in bed with her old school friend. Classic… After that, Denis moved back in with his mum. Enough romance, he decided. “I’ll be a bachelor—a solid family of one,” he joked to his mum. Helen would shrug and sigh: “Will you ever find your one, son?” But fate had its own plan. Suddenly, unexpectedly. Denis was travelling for work, claimed his usual bottom bunk in the train carriage. A woman entered: “Excuse me, would you mind swapping? Can I have your lower bunk? Please.” “No trouble,” Denis replied. He looked her over—nothing remarkable. Yet his heart skipped. “Maybe she’s the one…” He clambered onto the top bunk and dozed off… “Glad you’re awake! Come, have some tea,” the stranger cooed. Denis climbed down and they started talking. “Larissa,” she introduced herself. “Denis. Nice to meet you, Larissa.” They talked throughout the evening. Denis felt instantly at ease. He didn’t try to impress her; everything just flowed, as if he’d known her forever. They exchanged numbers, just in case… A couple of weeks later, he couldn’t resist calling her. One thing led to another… Dates, kisses, promises… Denis couldn’t imagine his life without Larissa. At forty years old! He’d always let previous girlfriends go easily—but not this one… He wanted to lose himself entirely in her life. Larissa surrounded Denis with love, care, and understanding. Three months in, he offered his heart and hand. “Denis, I’m seven years older than you. I have three children. We live in a council flat,” Larissa admitted. She never lied. “I know, Lara. I’ve met your kids—you’ll all move in with me. It’s sorted. I love every inch of you. You’re my last and only,” said Denis, kissing her tenderly. “All right, Denis, let’s give it a try,” murmured a shy Larissa. “No, not try, Lara. We’ll be together. For good,” Denis squeezed her hand. “Do you hear me? Forever.” When Helen learned his plans, all she could say was: “You’ve really outdone yourself this time… The plainest girl of them all…” …Nine months later, their daughter was born—a child with Down’s syndrome. Denis felt both joy and worry for Larissa. Would she cope? Having a child with special needs is never easy. …Today, Denis and Larissa’s daughter is eight. The whole family adores her. Denis worships Larissa. Bittersweet, but happiness…
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “You belong in a care home, and you know it! Get out of our family!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, my voice breaking with emotion. The target of my outrage was my cousin, Dima. Lord, I loved him so much as a child—his golden hair, cornflower-blue eyes, cheerful nature. That was Dima all over. Family gatherings would often bring us all together around the table, but out of all my cousins, it was always Dima who stood out. With his silver tongue, he could weave tales like intricate lace, and he was a gifted artist. By the end of any evening, he’d have sketched five or six pencil drawings with ease. I would marvel at his work, unable to tear myself away from its beauty, and quietly stash his drawings in my desk for safekeeping, cherishing his creativity. Dima was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mother died suddenly and unexpectedly—she simply never woke up. Everyone wondered what would become of Dima. They looked first to his biological father, but finding him was not easy—his parents had long been divorced, and his father had another family and wasn’t about to disrupt his “peaceful life.” Then the rest of the relatives collectively shrugged—each had their own families and worries. Suddenly, our extended family was nowhere to be found when needed most. So, with two children of their own, my parents agreed to take Dima in—the late woman was my father’s younger sister, after all. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But… On his very first day in our home, I noticed something odd about my favourite cousin’s behaviour. Trying to bring him some comfort, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just tell us.” Immediately, Dima answered, “A model railway set.” This toy was quite expensive, and his wish surprised me. I thought—your mum just died, the most important person in your world, and all you can think about is a train set? How could he? Still, my parents bought it for him immediately. But soon Dima’s requests snowballed. “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the 1980s. Not only were these things pricey, but difficult to find. Yet my parents, depriving their own children, tried to fulfil every wish of the orphan. My brother and I endured this in silence, understanding it was for Dima. When Dima turned sixteen, he started chasing after girls. He became infatuated with me—his own cousin. But I, being sporty and quick, dodged his advances, even fighting him off physically at times and ending up in tears. My parents never knew—I didn’t want to upset them. Most kids keep such things to themselves. After I made it clear I wasn’t interested, Dima quickly moved on to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. Dima also stole from us, brazenly and without shame. I remember saving my school lunch money in a piggy bank for a present for my parents—one day, it was empty. Dima swore blind he hadn’t touched it, didn’t so much as blush. My soul was torn to pieces—how could he steal in the very house we shared? Dima shattered our family’s trust, as if nothing mattered to him. I began to hate him. That’s when I screamed, with all my might: “Get out of our family!” I let rip at Dima, said more than fit in a hat—words I can’t take back. My mother barely managed to calm me down. Since then, Dima ceased to exist for me. I avoided him in every way. Later, it turned out the other relatives all knew what “sort” Dima was—they lived nearby and had seen plenty. Only our family, living farther away, had been in the dark. Dima’s former teachers even warned my parents: “You shouldn’t have taken him in. Dima will only ruin your own children.” At a new school, he met Kate, who would fall head-over-heels for Dima and marry him right after graduation. They had a daughter. Kate patiently endured his wild whims, endless lies, and countless betrayals. As the old saying goes: “single and you suffer, married and it’s double.” Dima was later conscripted for military service in Kazakhstan. There, he formed a “second family”—apparently during breaks from service. He fathered a son. After his discharge, Dima stayed in Kazakhstan, but Kate went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back to his family. My parents never heard a word of thanks from Dima—not that they expected it. Now, Dmitry Eugene is sixty. He’s a devout parishioner at the local English church, with Kate and five grandchildren. Everything seems fine, but the bitterness from my relationship with Dima still lingers… A taste too bitter, even for honey.
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