З життя
Залишений сестрою без засобів, він навчився щастю на вулиці
Сестра залишила його без копійки на вулиці, але він навчився бути щасливим
Інколи випадкова зустріч здатна перевернути свідомість. Змусити зупинитися, вдивитися, задуматися. Я вразлива людина, дуже важко переживаю чужий біль, і ця історія не відпускає мене досі. Вже декілька днів я не можу спати спокійно — думки повертаються до одного молодого чоловіка, з яким я зустрілася на вулиці неподалік від вокзалу у Львові.
Я прямувала у справах до подруги — звичайний день, звичайна міська суєта. Люди поспішали, машини гуділи, холодний вітер обвивав обличчя. Раптом мій погляд зачепила маленька фігурка. На перший погляд — наче дитина. Але, придивившись, я зрозуміла, що це дорослий хлопець, просто з дуже тендітною комплекцією і дивною ходою.
Він ніс у руках цуценя — маленьке, пухнасте, з мокрим носиком і добрими очима. Під пахвою тримав згорток старих газет, який раз у раз загрожував випасти. Його рухи були невпевненими, пальці — скув уті, обличчя — трішки перекошене. Я зрозуміла: у нього є особливості. Можливо, психічні, можливо, неврологічні. Але було в ньому щось настільки світле і чисте, що я не змогла пройти повз.
Поки я милувалася цуценям, хлопець впустив газети. Я одразу підбігла допомогти. Укладаючи їх у пакет зі своєї сумки, обережно запитала:
— Куди ти їх несеш?
Він відповів тихо:
— На пункт прийому. На корм собаці заробити.
Ці слова вдарили сильніше, ніж будь-яка ляпас.
Поки ми збирали газети, він розповів мені, що раніше жив з мамою. Після її смерті сестра продала їхню квартиру, забрала гроші й поїхала за кордон. Залишила його одного. Без документів, без підтримки, без грошей. Без шансу.
Він розповідав це без злоби. Просто як факт. Ніби йому це давно було зрозуміло, ніби він усе прийняв. Зараз він живе в гуртожитку для людей з інвалідністю, харчується як прийдеться, збирає макулатуру і здає пляшки, щоб купити корм своєму цуценяті. Його звати Льоша. А у собаки… не було імені.
Минув деякий час. І ось одного разу, у морозний вечір, я знову побачила Льошу. Він йшов вулицею, тримаючи цуценя — вже підрослого, міцного — на саморобному повідку. Цуценя впізнало мене і кинулося до мене, виляючи хвостом і весело підвохкуючи. Я дістала з сумки трохи їжі — собака накинулася на їжу з таким голодом, що у мене защеміло серце.
— Він у мене все їсть, — з гордістю сказав Льоша. — Але найбільше любить, коли я сам йому варю. Тільки от м’ясо рідко буває.
Ми заговорилися. Він розповів, як сильно прив’язався до пса. Що той — його єдиний друг, сенс життя, втіха і захист від самотності. Спить з ним під одним покривалом, ділиться останнім.
З особливою наївністю, з якоюсь дитячою надією у голосі Льоша сказав:
— А нещодавно ми зустріли собаку на вулиці. Вона була схожа на нього. Я подумав, можливо, це його мама. Цікаво, вони б впізнали одне одного?..
Мені стиснуло горло. Я ледве стримувалася, щоб не розридатися прямо там, на вулиці, посеред галасливого міста.
А потім він неочікувано запитав:
— А ви не хочете дати йому ім’я? Я не придумав. Увесь час називаю просто «песик».
Я кивнула.
— Нехай буде Промінчик. Тому що ви для нього — промінь світла.
Він обійняв собаку, подивився на мене широко розплющеними очима і прошепотів:
— Дякую… Це гарне ім’я. Тепер він мій Промінчик.
Я йшла додому з грудкою в горлі. У голові стукало: «Боже, як же несправедливий цей світ». У когось — десятки квартир, діаманти, машини. А хтось — живе в обшарпаній кімнаті і ділить останні крихти з цуценям. І все одно світиться щастям.
Я хочу допомогти Льоші, але у мене немає багатства. Я не можу змінити його життя повністю. Але тепер, щоразу, коли бачу його, я приношу щось: то їжу, то теплу куртку, то просто слова підтримки. І знаєте, що найнеймовірніше? Він завжди посміхається. Він дякує за кожну дрібницю, ніби це подарунок з небес.
Такі люди — нагадування нам, що щастя не в грошах, не в статусі, не в ідеальному домі. А у теплій руці. В відданому погляді. В доброму слові. У тому, щоби просто не бути наодинці.
Інколи мені хочеться закричати: «Люди! Прокиньтеся! Подивіться, скільки болю поруч!» Але розумію — крик не почують.
Отже, я просто буду робити те, що можу. Бо якщо хоча б один Промінчик і один Льоша будуть не голодні і не самотні — значить, я живу недаремно.
For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping...
The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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