З життя
Таке теж трапляється
Буває і так
— Все, досить, натерпілась. Подам заяву на розлучення! — кричала сердитим голосом Петрівна.
— Та подавай, подавай, налякала. Може, я все життя тільки про це і мріяв, — затягуючи цигаркою, відмахнувся напівп’яний Семенович.
— І подам, думаєш, не подам? Завтра ж піду в суд і віддам особисто Валентині Іванівні.
І вони розлучилися.
Написали оголошення про обмін трикімнатної квартири.
Петрівна була на пенсії.
Семенович все ще працював і заробляв непогано.
На наступний день після розлучення він прийшов, як завжди, обідати додому.
І тільки вдома згадав, що ж вони ж розлучилися, а він для себе обіду, звичайно, не приготував.
— Дай поїсти-то, — по-свойськи сказав він.
— А хто ти такий, щоб тебе годувати? — з гордістю відповіла вона.
— Ну, хоча б старий знайомий.
— Ой, у мене, може, старих знайомих не один десяток. Так що ж, накажеш мене їх усіх годувати, таке чи що? Посмішив.
— Ну, а якщо я тобі заплачу, нагодуєш?
— Заплатиш? — не очікувала такого повороту Петрівна. — А що, мені, може, все одно не з’їсти, краще тобі продам, ніж викидати за так. Тільки ціни будуть ресторанні. Я не гірше їх готую.
— Ресторанні, так ресторанні. Наливай, тільки швидше, а то час йде.
— А, що це ви мені ти кажете, громадянине?
— Та, годі, зовсім уже розійшлася, — сказав Семенович, швидко уплітаючи суп, який чомусь здався набагато смачнішим, ніж раніше, може, тому що заплатив за нього.
Так він і заходив щодня додому обідати та платив, як у ресторані. І йому було добре — не треба возитися з цими продуктами, каструлями.
І їй добре — все зайві гроші. А готувати все одно треба, що для однієї, що для двох — яка різниця.
Крім обіду, він користувався кухнею-рестораном і вдома вранці, і ввечері.
Добре, що гроші були…
Петрівну все далі захоплювала ідея домашнього ресторану.
Вона спеціально сходила в єдиний ресторан у їхньому невеличкому містечку. Подивилася, як оформлені столи, написане меню, як подають, у що одягнені офіціантки.
Загалом, запам’ятала все, що могла.
Одного разу Семенович прийшов додому і завмер біля дверей на кухню.
На столі біла скатертина, ваза з квітами, біля тарілки лежать серветка і ще якась бамажка.
Він підійшов до столу, взяв бамажку і прочитав: “Меню”.
— Тьху ти, ну вигадала бабуся.
Однак прочитав його, і на останньому рядку погляд зупинився: горілка -100 грамів – 40 гривень.
— Що будемо їсти? — запитала Петрівна, увійшовши на кухню.
Семенович підняв очі і трохи остовпів, не впізнавши своєї дружини.
Нарядне плаття облягало звідкись узяту фігуру, поверх був надітий акуратний білий фартух, волосся зібране в “зачіску”.
А головне, обличчя її осявала усмішка.
— Мені, будь ласка, все найдорожче і, будь ласка, горілки 100 грамів, ні 200 грамів.
Але Петрівна довго не могла витримати своєї нової ролі.
— Ага! — зраділа вона, — значить, все-таки не кинув, а я вже подумала: невже одумався, дай, думаю, перевірю.
— Перевірю. Ось ти! Знову за своє — починаєш заводитися. А я, може бути, з тобою на брудершафт хотів.
— Ой, стала б я з тобою на брудершафт пити. Більше мені нічого немає.
А самій чомусь стало трохи шкода Семеновича.
Якось раз Семенович прийшов додому, але на кухні його ніхто не зустрічав.
Петрівна захворіла.
Увечері вона говорить:
— Хоч би натер спину.
— За гроші, будь ласка.
— О, кат. Ладно заплачу. На, помаж.
— А що це ви мене “ти” називаєте, громадянко?
— Смієшся?
Так вони і жили.
По оголошенню про обмін квартири ніхто не звертався.
Вечорами вони дивилися телевізор, а на ніч розходилися по своїх кімнатах.
Одного разу довгим зимовим вечором вони сиділи та грали в карти.
Семенович каже:
— Послухайте, Петрівна, а що це ви все одна та одна?
— А вам, Семенович, не нудно — все один та один?
— Так, нудувато трохи.
— Так і мені, вроді, як теж трохи нудно.
— Слухай, Петрівна, а виходь ти за мене заміж.
— А що, треба подумати, — кокетливо відповіла вона…
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She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. 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