- Vitya, dear, oh and I'm worried. Believe me, I don't want to live. My boyfriend got completely out of hand. You remember him, he was always some kind of good-for-nothing. And now he drinks terribly. I don't mind, buy a bottle, drink after work, so he drinks almost everything. Why do I have to feed him, he has to feed me, I'm already old. Very sick, Vitya, completely! I ask him: Yuri, take me to some old woman-healer, maybe she will help. He will laugh as if I am pretending. And I, believe me, I can't walk at all. And the old woman began to cry. How could I console her when she repeated several times: "Well, why do I need all this?" To everyone except his mother. For anyone, he could break into a board, but for some reason he fought with his mother. The war was hidden from prying eyes, but it was still a war. I observed it eight years ago. I could only guess about the reasons. Once upon a time, Aunt Valya lived in a big city, raised Yurka without a husband, alone. Yurka himself also had a sip in his life, but often from his own good-for-nothingness. Once there was a wife, she gave birth to three girls. The eldest recently got married. But his wife could not stand Yurka's character and left him. And now he works to hell among these beauties of nature, and he also drinks to hell, managing to drink everything he earns in two or three days. I wonder why we always torment those we love the most? Why do we not find kind words for our loved ones, although these words cost us nothing? I know that the mother and son who live in this wretched house love each other in their own way. But why does love grow into misunderstanding, misunderstanding into hostility, hostility into hatred? Because for decades these unchanging houses, meadows, forests, and the most interesting thing in life is wine, which gives colors to the gray, dull world? Yurka sleeps on a trestle bed. He sleeps dressed, taking off only his boots. He didn't even cover himself with a blanket. The mother keeps talking passionately about her grievances. He carefully smoothes out the photos from which pretty blond girls look out, so similar to their father. And I will sleep on a luxurious bed with huge feather beds. It's for guests, but guests are so rare. Next to the hostess's bed is a spinning wheel. To her buzzing, I fall asleep. But he did not sleep for long. Somehow my heart was heavy. Aunt Valya's words did not leave my memory: "Why did I give birth to him?" Will I ever see them again? And, God willing, the sources of these words would be only momentary resentment and loneliness. It happens to everyone. And, who knows, maybe one day the good village shepherd Yurka Morozov will come to his senses, take a white shirt out of the chest of drawers, put on a suit that he has not worn for ten years, and go, as before, to Voronezh, to his daughters. The mother will heal - not with medicines, no, with a kind word, which she lacks so much.

And a summer night fell on the village of Revolution. There were no stars. A blind dog, sniffing, came up to me. He was so old that he no longer barked. At night, he came out of the booth and greedily inhaled the smells of the forest: he could not perceive the world in any other way. And I remembered him as big, cheerful, with a loud bark, rushing after the horses along the wooded hill...

What a quiet night! Everything breathes peace. I decided to walk a little. Suddenly, in the cool forest haze, a tiny, slightly greenish living light shone. Fireflies! One, two, and soon I was standing in a magical clearing, completely dotted with lights. The gloomy night forest seemed to come to life. And now the firefly in the palm of my hand is a small miracle of nature. I thought: this flashlight will not help a lost person get out of the forest, but it will give him hope. I say goodbye to the firefly meadow. Once, a long time ago, I brought a firefly from the forest. He brought it in a matchbox, carrying it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Finding a secluded place in the garden, he put a forest guest there. But it no longer glowed. On my palm lay an ordinary small worm. And then I understood: you can't touch a fairy tale with your hands.

June 25. A steppe forgotten by God.

The path, departing from Aunt Valya's house, cheerfully and carelessly dived into the forest thicket, then climbed up the slope to then become a field path. The forest said goodbye to me. On the left, its formidable wall melted in the haze, on the right, a pine grove rushed with its treetops into the high sky. The forest-steppe began, according to my calculations, I was supposed to enter "its embrace" in three or four hours. And apparently, the hugs were going to be hot: it was early morning, and it was already difficult to breathe. And what will happen in the middle of the day?

From the village of Poltevo, where the path soon led me, to the big road leading to Chern, it was no more than two kilometers away, but it seemed to me that it was all six, so hard was I walking. And when I did go to the big one, I had to stop in thought. In fact, my path lay straight, going into the roadless steppe, into the very wilderness of the Tula region - the Arsenyevsky district. I was not going to change the route. But if you walk along the Chernskaya road for five kilometers, and then turn right, you can come to a large meadow, through which a river with an amazingly beautiful name - Snezhed. An ordinary meadow, there are still a lot of them in Russia - not all of them are still ploughed. But Turgenev immortalized him, making him a symbol of peasant Russia, peaceful labor on his beloved land. Bezhin meadow. How I want to come to the banks of the Snezhed, just to sit, to remember those village children about whom Ivan Sergeevich once told us. But it's so hot, and I have to go through the planned path... And suddenly, on the side of the road, to my right, I saw a small gray-black bird with a shaking tail. Wow! Like that old acquaintance I met at the very beginning of my journey. The wagtail fluttered up and flew in the direction of Chernya, in the direction of Bezhin meadow. If this is not a sign, then I do not understand anything. Decided. When I came to Bezhin Meadow, the sun was at its zenith. On the way, I came across a poster inviting me to a holiday that was to take place on the Bezhin Meadow next Saturday. The holiday is traditional. In Cherni, they are proud of him and, it must be said, rightfully so. I know that in three days the high right bank of the Snezhedi will be filled with people. Who will come here for the buffet, who will listen to Russian songs performed by folklore ensembles, who will look at the guests of the capital - poets and prose writers. But all the same, for each of them it will be a holiday, the very atmosphere of which, quiet and sincere, is difficult to convey in words. But this will be only in three days. And today there is silence here. A hawk soars high in the sky. They say that birds of prey have excellent eyesight. I wonder how he sees me, standing alone on a green field? A small dot carrying a load on your back? Tell me, have you ever had such a thing: suddenly, as if some kind of wave is sweeping over you and it seems that all this has already happened to you somewhere, once. So it happened to me. It seems to me, or was there really such a sweltering heat, a huge field, me, such a small, quiet river in the sunshine. And this bird soaring in the sky... Such "recognition" often happened to me. Usually after a minute or two, it passed. And today, now I was sure, I felt that I would get to the bottom of it. All this has already happened. True, why are there no horses? A small herd, two young drivers? The horses run into the water jets, the spray sparkles in the sun, the sun sparkles in the spray. Why, it was exactly a year ago, on the same day, June 25! Here, on the Tula land. Kulikovo Field. The place where the Nepryadva flows into the Don. A different field, a different symbol of Russia. A symbol of fortitude, unity of all Russians in the face of the enemy... The herd sped away, I was lying on the river bank, and a bird was silently soaring in the molten heights. I have already said what a bitter torment it is to look for roads at the junctions of regions, districts, far from large settlements. In the village of Dyakonovo they agreed that there was a village of Merkulovo somewhere, but how to get there... Field. Crops are all around. Fifteen to twenty centimeters of dust under my feet. As I walked, a cloud of rising dust trailed behind me. There are islands of greenery - five or six trees, as if huddled together in a heap from fright. And also the heat. My flask is empty. Dust creeps into the nose and throat. The most cherished desire is to throw yourself into the cold water and splash in it until the evening, until this murderous sun disappears. Everywhere you look - field, field, field. Endless. But even where heaven meets earth, even there is nothing like a human dwelling. Well, where are you, Merkulovo? All. I had no more strength to walk. I walked, but I didn't understand how I did it. Lord, what a bulky backpack I have! I didn't think it was so heavy. I wonder when I fall into this dust... What am I talking about? Yes, if I fall into this dust, how will I fall - on my back or face down? It's better to be on the back, when they pick up the body, I won't look so pathetic. By the way, how long will I lie in this wilderness, unraised? That's it, something similar to delirium begins. That's right. And here is a mirage: I see a small forest with a lake on its edge. Dark, still water. The branches of the willows lean towards the water. No, this is not a mirage. And really, a lake! The clear cold water did a miracle. With each heartbeat, strength pours into the body. My red-hot body is blissful. Later I found out that I swam in the Watermelon Pond. Somewhere very close to here there was a village, now not preserved. A lady lived in it. Her name and patronymic have not been preserved in memory, and the surname, thanks to the pond that appeared at her will, has reached us. Another reason to reflect on the frailty of human existence, on the memory that we leave behind. I don't know anything about Lady Arbuzova: when she lived, at what age and under what circumstances she gave her soul to the Lord, whether she had descendants. But it would not have existed, and this wonderful oasis in the middle of an endless field simply would not have existed in nature. And how many people will find joy on the banks of the Arbuzov Pond, will take from the cool waters of vigor and new strength. I fell asleep under the bird cherry trees. He slept long and soundly. And I got up so rested that my legs asked to go on their own, and the farthest way did not frighten me. But there was very little to go to Merkulov.

In the village, I stayed for the night in a dormitory, now completely empty and unsociable, since its permanent inhabitants - the workers-chiefs - had not yet arrived. It was a one-story brick building, with a long corridor, on both sides of which there were about eight rooms. The commandant of the dormitory was not there, his wife, Tamara Ilyinichna, helped me inside. We found one unlocked room with her. I thanked the woman and began to prepare for the night. I was not embarrassed by the empty shell of a typical iron dormitory bed. It was somehow uneasy to see the bare walls, the gloomy corridor, the footsteps of which were as muffled as in some medieval castle. It would be better to spend the night in an open field than here, in a large building, which for some reason seemed to me like a crypt. In addition, the huge holes in the floor were also embarrassing. Sleep did not come. I have tried all the methods of dealing with insomnia known to me, but all to no avail. When the count of elephants and lions reached the second thousand, the rapid step of someone's footsteps echoed in the corridor. What a strange thing: I had to spend the night in the forest, and met with animals, but there seemed to be no fear. And here I suddenly tensed up so much that even perspiration appeared on my forehead. That's right: most of all in life we are afraid of the unknown. Let's add here our imagination, the appropriate environment. The door opened, and Tamara Ilyinichna stood in front of me, smiling.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" - I decided to meet the unknown person without lying down. "I came home and realized: the man probably won't lie down. I brought you something. "Something" turned out to be a cup of aspic, five eggs, cottage cheese, a can of milk, almost a whole loaf of bread. In fact, all this came in handy. While I was eating, never tiring of praising the next food she was eating, she told me a little about her native village, about her family. They live with her husband, the house is huge, the farm is large, and the daughter lives in the city, huddles in dormitories, and does not want to return to the village. On the other hand, where to return? The radiation here, they say, is great. Tamara Ilyinichna is not very versed in numbers, but that there is a lot of radiation - that's for sure. In the afternoon, as soon as some kind of lethargy and fatigue rolls in, I have no strength, I want to lie down so much. If you don't lie down, you'll be sick all day. And if you sleep for an hour, it seems to be nothing. Maybe it's because of the heat, I ask her. No, this happens in winter, young and old, healthy and sick. I was already finishing my last sip of milk and could think melancholically about what dose I had grabbed today, how much I would add in the next three days, while I had to walk through the contaminated area. Dust in the field, water in the Watermelon Pond, this delicious food - all this is literally saturated with radiation. Anyway, I'll get out of here. And what about this kind woman, these people living in this steppe? Why do they need all this? Tamara Ilyinichna somehow tiredly waved her hand after my words: "What can you do!" The gloomy corridor, the rat holes in the floor - all this seemed so childish and harmless in comparison with the invisible and terrible enemy that settled in these godforsaken steppes.

June 26. The roads that choose us.

All human life is standing at a fork in the road. So the hero once stood, reading prophetic words on a stone. It is both more difficult and easier for us than for the epic Ilya Muromets. It is more difficult, because, having made a choice, we go into the unknown. Easier - for the same reason. After all, we left with the hope that we had chosen the very path that would lead us to a place where we would be "healthy", and cheerful, and rich. Where with an honest feast and for a wedding. Where a "bony" woman with a scythe will never find us in her life... I like it when there are forks in the road, when there is no one to ask where to go next. For me, the fork in the road is a philosophical explanation of human fate. There is a free choice, you choose which way to go, but, nevertheless, we will come to where we were supposed to come.

From Merkulov my path lies in the direction of the village of Luchki, but some force stops me. I don't understand what could tempt me with the road leading to the district center? Patched and patched, and still thin asphalt, a dull plain all around, and the path becomes almost twice as long. However, I turn onto the Arseniev road. And after walking under the scorching sun for an hour, I remember that my friend, a friend from the institute, was born in the village of Arsenyevo. Life scattered us. I haven't really heard anything about him. And a year ago, the news of his death reached me. The old mother buried her only son in her homeland. Except for Andrey, she had no one in her life. It was said that the loss of her son simply killed her. She slowly died of an incurable disease, spending all her time on an expensive grave. But Arsenyev is still far away, and the road splits again. On the sign, I read that two kilometers from this place is the estate where the composer A.S. Dargomyzhsky was born. Here is a God-forsaken steppe for you! Zhukovsky, Kireevsky, Turgenev, Dargomyzhsky. And fifty kilometers from here Tolstoy's Yasnaya Polyana, the same number, but in the other direction - Bunin, Uspensky. What an amazingly generous land with talents! The village of Dorogomyzhka is still in good health, but nothing remains of the estate. However, not exactly. There are trees, a spring with amazingly tasty water.

Probably, the meadow through which the tiny river runs, as the composer saw it, remained the same. Most importantly, decades later, in the homeland of Dargomyzhsky, they remembered who was their countryman. On the place where the house stood, there is a modest pedestal. There are benches in the park: the craftsmen have done their best, and now it is a pleasure to approach the spring. Of course, you cannot return the past, you cannot return what has been lost. And yet, and yet. The population of the Arsenyevsky district is small, no more than five thousand people live in the village itself. There are no rich enterprises, millionaire collective farms, and therefore there is no money. But the road to the estate was still made, a monument to the composer was erected in the village. Again, and this is not the main thing. I saw lemonade labels and candy wrappers in the grass. I guess that recently celebrations dedicated to Alexander Sergeevich were held here. And people rushed here from all the surrounding villages. I know, not only to drink beer or buy something delicious. And what is a holiday without it? We came to talk, listen to folk music. After all, as they all lack in our difficult, I don't want to choose another word, time, communication. It doesn't matter that most people have never heard the opera "Rusalka". But the people I met on the way spoke with pride about Dargomyzhsky, they said that he was their countryman. And this means that their children will definitely listen to this opera. They will listen and admire, and come here again, on this bank, where it seems that there, behind the willows, there must be an old mill. It doesn't matter that she has never been here. Childhood memories are the strongest, the most unforgettable. Native places, as soon as you visit them, make our hearts beat with renewed vigor, forgotten smells and sounds come to life again. Without a doubt, while composing his immortal opera, Dargomyzhsky mentally returned to his native penates, again heard the songs heard on these shores.

But how strange are sometimes the associations evoked by our thoughts! I love "Rusalka" very much, but at that moment I caught myself humming the melody of a completely different composer. I hum unconsciously, without thinking that I am actually "purring". Yes, this is a duet from "The Queen of Spades" by Tchaikovsky.

It's already evening. The edges of the clouds have faded,