З життя
Життя розбило мені серце, щоб подарувати нове
В молодості я завжди мріяв про красиве життя. У студентські роки, коли грошей ледве вистачало на гречку, я купував мило “Калина”. Хай і голодний, але пахнув, як герой українського фільму. Потім — запальничка Zippo, у 93-му вона коштувала чималі кошти, але звук її кришки нагадував світ Богдана Бенюка та Остапа Ступки. Далі — мобільний телефон останньої моделі, без якого в до-смартфонну еру ти був ніким. Я гнався за цією красою, як за мрією, і здавалося, що вже впіймав її.
Театральна академія залишилась позаду, і я став діджеєм на радіо “Хіт FM”, бажаним гостем модних клубів Києва. Згодом — арт-директором нічного клубу. Набирав танцівниць, ставив шоу, купався в морі світла, музики та грошей. Життя перетворилося на вечірку: вдень спав, вночі веселився сам і розважав інших. Усі довкола були красивими, веселими, сміялися до ранку. Я був королем цього світу. Але всередині щось нило. Порожнечу я заглушував новими святами.
Так я створив свою фірму — перетворив свято на бізнес. Корпоративи, весілля, вечірки — я вже був не просто гість, а їх бог. Шампанське лилося рікою, танці не стихали, і я відчував себе на вершині. Але прийшов 2005-й. Новий рік, що змінив усе. Донька захворіла. Спочатку кашель, потім лікарі, аналізи, і раптом — гострий лімфобластний лейкоз. Рак крові. Їй було трохи більше року.
Біла палата, катетер в крихітній ручці, хіміотерапія. Волосся випадало, вона набирала вагу від гормонів, їла без зупинки. Лиса голівка, сумні очі, стоматит. Ми з дружиною жили в лікарні півроку. Вона — поряд із донькою, я — у режимі “принеси-подай”. А ввечері — на корпоративи. Дружина в костюмі співала “Щедрик”, я жартував про “нове щастя”. Там — підбори, макіяж, Віктор Павлік. А потім — назад у лікарню, до дітей у масках, де посмішок не видно, лише очі, наповнені страхом.
Там було інше життя. Накрашені дами змінювалися мамами в спортивних костюмах, сміх — тишею, танці — шелестом крапельниць. Деякі діти виходили додому. Деякі — назавжди. Телефони мовчали, “друзі” зникли. Залишились лише ми й питання: за що? За що таким маленьким така біль? Я не знав відповіді, але знав одне — я вмію робити свята. І вирішив влаштувати його прямо там, у лікарні.
Ялинка в холі хіміотерапії. Друзі з “Театру мандрівних ляльок пана Петрика” виступили на славу, а я став Святим Миколаєм. Діти в стерильних масках сміялися, батьки посміхались крізь сльози. Вперше за роки я бачив тверезі очі — і вони були красивішими за будь-яку вечірку. Потім я йшов по палатах, куди дозволяли. Знав, що декотрі з цих дітей не вийдуть, і це рвало душу. Але в цю мить я зрозумів: ось воно, справжнє. Не клуби, не Zippo, не мило “Калина”. Це було свято життя — тихе, тепле, без порожнечі в серці.
Доньку виписали з інвалідністю. Ми ходили в реабілітаційний центр, і я знову став Святим Миколаєм для дітей, які не могли вийти з дому. Їхні батьки — справжні герої — навчили мене жити наново. Поруч із ними я відчував себе сліпим, глухим, паралізованим. Вони були красивими — не зовні, а всередині. І я зрозумів: мені самому потрібна була реабілітація. Ці діти стали моїми вчителями.
Минуло більше десяти років. Донька здорова, інвалідність зняли — вона красуня і відмінниця. У нас троє дітей, я актор кіно, люблячий чоловік. Дружина — “Місіс Київ”, вдома чекає не клуб, а сім’я. Запальничка пилиться десь у шухляді, телефон у мене кнопковий — батарея тримає тиждень. Але головне — я веду “Сузір’я героїв”, вручаю премію “Золоте Сонце” тим, хто пробивається крізь асфальт життя, як кульбаба.
Ті півроку в лікарні, той біль — вони зробили мене тим, ким я є. Я думав: “За що?” А тепер питаю: “Для чого?” Біль — як кишеня. Чим вона глибша, тим більше туди поміститься цукерок. Бог щедро наповнив мою кишеню — і я ділюся ними з іншими. Завтра, можливо, буде знову боляче. Але я знаю: чим міцніший асфальт, тим соковитіша кульбаба. І це знання — красивіше за все, за чим я колись гнався. Може, все почалося з мила “Калина”? А може, з тих сумних очей, які навчили мене бачити.
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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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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