З життя
Приїзд до мами.
Ми приїхали до мами. Заходимо в під’їзд, а там сидить хлопчина п’яти років і плаче гіркими сльозами.
– Чого ти, – питаю, – плачеш?
А він відповідає:
– Я до бабусі приїхав. Пішов у двір гратися, повернувся, а вона двері не відчиняє.
Я кажу:
– Ну і чого ти тут плачеш? Бабуся, мабуть, у магазин вийшла, зараз повернеться.
А він плаче так, що аж труситься. Маленький такий, шкода його до сліз.
– Як тебе звати?
– Р-Рома…
– З якої ти квартири?
– З вісімнадцятої…
А в вісімнадцятій квартирі нові мешканці, я їх ще не знаю. Подзвонила туди – тиша. Ну не залишати ж плачучого дитя на сходах?
– Пішли, – кажу, – Рома, в гості. А бабусі записку в двері залишимо.
Прийшли додому. Поки чоловік його розважав, я написала записку: “Рома знаходиться у кв. 28”. Спустилася, сунула в щілину дверей.
Повертаюсь, Рома вже з моїм дорослим хлопчиком машинки по підлозі катає, все добре. Умила його, питаю:
– Борщ будеш?
– Буду.
З’їв тарілку борщу на раз, тільки ложка миготіла.
– На друге голубці. Будеш?
– Буду.
Апетит чудовий, не причепишся. Два голубці зметений за раз.
– Тобі компот чи сік?
– Мені чай.
У мене трохи обличчя витягнулося, бо коли мені було 5 років і в домі був компот чи сік, мене б ніхто не змусив пити чай.
Ну гаразд. Сидимо, п’ємо чай з вафельним тортиком, Рома з моїм чоловіком бесіди веде. Обговорили всі строго чоловічі питання: які бувають марки автомобілів, яку швидкість розвивають та інше важливе.
Прийшла моя мама. Пояснюю їй появу гостя.
Мама каже:
– Дивно. У 18-ій квартирі живе дівчина приблизно твого віку.
Я нічого дивного в цьому не побачила.
Сорокарічна дівчина цілком може бути бабусею п’ятирічного онука, хто ж їй заборонить.
Мама визнала мій аргумент переконливим і теж почала розважати гостя.
Витягла коробку з іграшками, та тут у них пішло весілля.
Приблизно через годину дзвінок у двері. Відкриваю – на порозі дівчина мого приблизно віку (добре за п’ятдесят, якщо чесно – дякую, добра мамо).
– Добрий день, – каже. – Я ось з роботи приїхала, а в мене в дверях записка. Ви, певно, квартирою помилилися?
Мене насторожило, що вона з роботи приїхала. А те, що ім’я Рома їй нічого не говорить, зовсім вибило з колії.
– У вас онук не губився раптом? – питаю.
– У мене онуків поки немає, – відповідає.
Так. Пазл не складається. Повертаюся в кімнату. Там усі зайняті справою: мама вантажить кубики в самоскид, чоловік прив’язує до цього самоскида мотузку, начальник транспортного цеху Рома роздає всім вказівки.
– Рома, – кажу я, – ти з якої квартири-то?
– З вісімнадцятої, – не відриваючись від процесу навантаження і транспортування відповідає Рома.
– А цю тітку ти знаєш?
Рома обертається, мигцем дивиться на господиню 18-ої квартири, байдуже кидає “Ні” і повертається до своїх справ.
– І вона тебе не знає, – кажу я. – Хоча живе в вісімнадцятій квартирі.
Вантажник і водій самоскида застигають на місці і з подивом дивляться на Рому.
– Не живе, – заспокоює нас Рома і намагається продовжити гру.
Усі мовчки переводять погляд з Роми на дівчину мого приблизно віку.
– Я живу в вісімнадцятій, – злякано бурмоче вона. – Але це не мій хлопчик, чесно, не мій.
Я можу зрозуміти, чому вона так налякалася: у моєї мами таке обличчя, ніби вона ось-ось запустить у неї кубиком і переїде самоскидом.
– Стоп гра, – кажу я і сідаю на підлогу поруч з Ромою. – Давай-ка спочатку. Ти до бабусі звідки приїхав?
– З Львова.
– А свою адресу у Львові знаєш?
Называет адрес: вулиця, будинок, квартира.
– А адресу бабусі знаєш?
Називає адресу бабусі і пазл складається.
Маленький бешкетник бігав з друзями у своєму дворі, і в процесі гри вони непомітно перемістилися в сусідній двір. Потім друзі розбіглися по домівках, ну і наш герой пішов додому, чого йому одному на вулиці робити.
Доми типові, як дві краплі води схожі один на одного. Замість бабусиного дому прийшов в наш. В двері постукав – йому не відчинили. Він злякався і заплакав. Всього і діла.
Сунули Ромі машинку на добру довгу пам’ять, схопили його і понесли до бабусі. Яка там напевно вже сива, якщо взагалі жива. Прибігаємо в сусідній двір. Чуємо вдалині голос, що ніжно кличе:
– Рома! Ромааа! Романнн!
Біжимо на цей голос. Бачим до смерті налякану жінку мого приблизно віку (після святкування 60-річного ювілею не всі ще букети пов’яли).
– Ваш?
– Наш!
І з риданнями кидається на груди одразу нам усім.
Заспокоїли, пояснили ситуацію, посміялися. У бабусі сміх був нервовий, треба сказати. А Ромі – байдуже, у нього нова машинка, чого ви там всі кричите, не даєте зосередитися на грі.
Бабуся так сипалася в вдячностях, що ми поспішили відступити, поки вона зовсім не розсипалася.
Даємо задній хід, чуємо, вона каже:
– Рома, ходімо скоріше обідати, ти ж голодний.
– Я вже поїв, – відповідає Рома, граючись машинкою по асфальту.
– Він вже поїїв, – підтверджую я, обертаючись. – Перше, друге і чай.
– Ого! – дивується бабуся. – Він так погано їсть, прямо ложку супу в нього не змусиш.
Я здивовано підняла брову, згадуючи, які порції Рома з’їв, а він відволікається, нарешті, від машинки і кричить нам:
– Бувайте! Я завтра ще прийду!
He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together, Fifteen Mornings Waking Up Side by Side—But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Drive Him Mad, Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” What Seemed a Simple Phrase, Her Slim Arms, Her Sleepy Face, Now Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Walk Past the Window, Gaze Out for a While, Then Slip off Her Nightdress and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Marriage, He’d Adored Her Body, Its Natural Confidence That Seemed Almost Indecent—But Now, Though She Was Still Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Considered Pushing Her to Hurry Her Morning Routine but Only Managed a Gruff: “Get a Move On—I’ve Had Enough!” She Refused to Rush or Let His Affectionless Hostility Change Her Pace—She Knew About His Affair, Even Recognized the Young Woman He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Dulles the Sharp Sting of Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sense of Uselessness. She Forgave Him—the Aggression, the Neglect, His Need to Relive His Youth—But She Wouldn’t Let Him Rob Her of Living Mindfully, Cherishing Each Moment. She’d Made Up Her Mind When She Learned She Was Ill. The Disease Was Slowly Consuming Her; It Would Win Soon. Her First Urge Was to Confess to Everyone—To Lessen the Brutal Truth by Sharing the Burden with Loved Ones. Yet She Endured the Hardest Day Alone, Accepting Her Fate, and Then Resolved to Remain Silent. Life Slipped Away, Yet Each Day She Gained the Wisdom of a True Observer. She Found Solace in a Quiet English Countryside Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Each Way. Every Day, She’d Hide in the Narrow Aisles Marked “Life & Death’s Secrets” by the Elderly Librarian and Lose Herself in Books She Hoped Contained Every Answer. He’d Go to His Lover’s Flat, Where Everything Felt Warm, Bright, Familiar. Their Love Affair Had Grown Wild—Three Years of Passion, Jealousy, Heartache, and Asphyxiating Desire. Today He Came With a Decision: Divorce. Why Torment All Three of Them? He Didn’t Love His Wife—No, He Hated Her—and Here, He Could Start Fresh, Find Happiness. He Tried to Recall His Feelings for His Wife, but There Was Nothing—He Couldn’t Even Remember Caring for Her on That First Day. He Pulled Out a Photo of Her from His Wallet, Tore It Into Pieces—Determined to End It. They Arranged to Meet at the Restaurant Where, Six Months Earlier, They’d Celebrated Fifteen Years as Husband and Wife. She Arrived First. He Stopped Home to Find the Divorce Papers, Ransacking Drawers in a Panic Until He Spotted a Dark Blue Folder He’d Never Seen Before. He Ripped Off the Seal, Expecting Dirty Secrets—But Found Only Medical Reports, Official Documents. His Wife’s Name on Every Page. Realisation Struck Like Lightning; She Was Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis: “6–18 Months Life Expectancy.” Six Months Had Already Passed. He Remembered Little of What Happened Next—Only the Words “6–18 Months” Looping Relentlessly in His Mind. She Waited for Forty Minutes. No Answer from His Phone. She Paid the Bill and Went Outside. The Autumn Weather Was Glorious—The Sun Gentle, Comforting. “Life Is Beautiful, the World So Wonderful, So Warm.” For the First Time Since Her Diagnosis, She Felt Sorry for Herself. She’d Found the Strength to Hide Her Secret from Everyone, Sparing Them the Pain at the Cost of Her Own Crumbling Life. After This Year, She Would Be Nothing but a Memory. She Wandered Down the Street, Watching Bright Faces Filled With Hope Of Winters and Springs Yet to Come—As If the Future Were Theirs To Shape. She Would Never Know That Feeling Again. Bitterness Swelled and Burst Forth as Tears She Couldn’t Stop… He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt The Swift Passage of Life as a Physical Ache. He Remembered His Wife Young, Full of Hope When They First Met—He’d Loved Her Then. In That Moment, Fifteen Years Vanished: Happiness, Youth, and Life Still Ahead. In Her Final Weeks, He Became Devoted, At Her Side Every Hour, Overcome by a Joy He’d Never Known. He Was Terrified She’d Leave—He Would Have Given His Own Life to Save Hers. Had Someone Reminded Him Of His Hatred Just a Month Ago, He’d Have Sworn: “That Wasn’t Me.” He Witnessed Her Battle to Say Goodbye, Weeping Secretly at Night When She Thought He Slept—He Understood No Punishment Was Worse Than Knowing Your Days Are Numbered. He Saw Her Fight for Every Moment, Grasping Even the Smallest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Path from Home to Cemetery in Flowers. He Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered—He Felt Centuries Older. At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found a New Year’s Wish She Had Written: “To Be Happy With Him Until My Last Day.” They Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True—Perhaps They Do, For That Year He Wrote: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, It Seemed, They Had Wished For…
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