It ' is my life. That are our life.

Part five. He wanted to believe so much... Continuation and ending. ... "Long" (Grinevsky or writer Alexander Green) turned out to be an invaluable underground worker. Having once been a sailor himself and having once completed a long voyage, he perfectly knew how to approach sailors. He had an excellent knowledge of the life and psychology of the sailor masses and knew how to speak to them in their language. In his work among the sailors of the Black Sea squadron, he used all this with great success and immediately gained significant popularity here. For the sailors, he was a completely different person, and this is extremely important. In this regard, none of us could compete with him. Instead of an epigraph. The quote is taken from the Internet resource “Writers - Celebrants of Anniversary” and is an excerpt from the memoirs of N. Ya. Bykhovsky, Member of the Central Committee of the Socialist Revolutionary Party. Oh, how good the pilots were! There is something extraordinary in the fact that ladies flock to the military. And why, but because they are patriots! - Wrote Griboyedov. And those flight instructors who for years hovered around small airfields in the depths of provincial Russia, performing aerobatic maneuvers there over and over again, and carried shift after shift in a training airplane - a pair of cadets from different flight schools, when the cadets were brought for practice. And the flight instructors chuckled, explaining, announcing and counting how many turns, turns and loops of aerobatics they would make their most seasoned student burp, choking on vomit during a flight, seasick to the point of semi-consciousness. The instructor pilots, and for some reason they were all Ukrainians, that is, crests, as they were affectionately called in the Crimea, all the way from the city of Simferopol to the seaside coast, the instructors transferred all their flying skills to a passenger car . And the old car, in capable hands, did not run, but flew into the distance along the highway. And she responded sensitively to every movement of her hand, which was accustomed to the helm and speed. And she obeyed the steering wheel in such a way that the whole ride turned into one sheer pleasure. And the wind sang, crossing the highway in front of the windshield of the car. And the car responded to the slightest movement of the steering wheel. Well, how could you not fall in love with the dashing Ukrainian Itvinyuk, a pilot-instructor of military aircraft and the driver of this passenger car! There wasn’t a good holiday romance following a trip to see his uncle in Crimea. I took home to Russia oohs, sighs and a completely broken heart, filled with regrets because the hero of my novel, it turns out, can and should only be like this: An interesting, fast and, most importantly, superbly coordinated man! ...Relatives from Crimea came to visit us next summer. An old man arrived and took his adult daughter. And he grabbed a bunch of another pilot - instructor Ishchenko. By that time, the hero of my last year’s novel, Itvinyuk, had successfully married. And it crashed very unfortunately recently. To death, in his passenger car, in which he was taking his young, pregnant wife somewhere. The wife survived. The driver Itvinyuk himself crashed. And our family and guests sat together at the table. We had dinner. They drank and ate. Talked. And I was present. She sat quietly. I looked and observed. For the pilot wanted to please the uncle’s married and adult daughter, a woman of over thirty years old named Enya. She was probably flirting so much and trying to look charming. Next to me, on the table, lay her rough and worn little hand. I took hold of it and stroked it without thinking about anything in particular. And she received an answer from Yeni: “We have no time for manicures, we work in Crimea, we collect potatoes three times a year to feed you in Russia.” I said nothing for the first time in my life, embarrassed by my youthful and bright manicure and neat nails, because here in Russia we only managed to grow potatoes once a year. And then they were so tired while harvesting potatoes that with their hands, soiled in the ground during those two weeks of hasty potato digging, it was impossible to touch anything. The dirt dried on the palms and fingers, it did not crumble, but squirmed and rustled under the fingers then, so that goosebumps ran down the skin from the ass to the back from an unpleasant and ticklish displeasure. I was silent again, sitting at the table, because I had nothing to object to! And Enya later, after the trip, after all the visits, from Crimea, sent a detailed letter. She talked about things in her letter, became close to us, was interested in our lives, discussing all matters in detail. And I remember one phrase from her letter: “We need to write something wonderful.” “And I understood that my second cousin, who has three children and a calm husband, sister Enya, was a very good, only a little old girl. But at every age, a woman has a desire not only to please, but to find a worthy companion, no matter whether she is a married lady, single or divorced. And then, one day, I saw, in the corridors of social welfare, how a woman complained that she could not get the help she was entitled to because her companion, her faithful Earl Gray, died too early. And the woman was left completely alone, without help and without support, not indignant, but embarrassed by the inhuman treatment of her by the social services! - Let's give every girl and woman a faithful Captain Gray! And let the Count come as a companion to everyone, framed by any sails! And we don’t care about their color, and we don’t care about the material, and the features of the sailing equipment can be anything! And the first who understood this Great Women's Longing for Happiness, Miracle and a successful, faithful companion was the writer Alexander Green. Because there is nothing more terrible than a woman who has lost faith in life, in a miracle or in her own husband because he is not what her tormented female soul dreamed of! In this case, let us give women a universal dream of a miracle! The miracle of Scarlet Sails was replicated only in late Soviet times. In every city there was a cafe or canteen with the name “Scarlet Sails”. And now in modern times in St. Petersburg, they celebrate a whole holiday of graduates under the same name. And the great and sad master Alexander Grinevsky was right, he cut off his last name by more than half for the sake of the short and literary pseudonym Alexander Green. He told his wife, as she once read in the memoirs of Nina Nikolaevna Green: “Next to the grape brush on our vine, near the wall of the house, there is a completely blue, even purple leaf.” But if I write like that in a book, they will swear, no one will believe me... At one time I raved about Green’s books, read them all in a row, waded through the confused and incomprehensible melancholy of the author, who himself could not understand why he was so melancholy. And he did not try or could not explain this awkward and incomprehensible melancholy to his reader. Then, in the large hall of the regional library of the Palace of Books, I found and read Green’s early stories. And I was horrified by their bright and clear, always senseless, cruelty. Why does the hero of the story break the glass in the window with a stone, just because a young and beautiful lady is playing a beautiful piece on the piano in a clean, elegant house? And yet, I remember Green’s early story. Then she chose the same blue or purple, not green, sheets from the master’s stories. And she understood that Alexander Green was a born artist, who at one time was not taught to draw. Therefore, he, possessing the precise eye of an artist, discovers previously unknown events and finds new colors, describing his vision of the world literary. And I never understand him, because to do this you have to be as gifted a master as he is. And, just as I don’t understand the pictorial language in Greene’s literature, I never understood the events and colors on the canvases of an even greater master of painting, Rembrandt... And yet, I understood Greene’s main desire. Let's save women and girls from themselves before they become too old, like soured dough on sourdough, until they turn sour, until they turn from thirsty Faithful Companions and waiting for wonderful meetings of Assols into those bilious grandmothers and harmful women who so love to make trouble in stores or trample your feet and swear later on the trams! And if it is impossible to provide every woman of any age with devoted love in real life, let’s at least give them a dream of happiness and pink sails, seas and yachts, captains and long voyages! Let at least the dream help some, and let their harmfulness not manifest itself! Green so wanted to believe in the Revolution, the Motherland, and Woman. But the Revolution, like that cadaver, grabbed, obliged and threw, as if into a furnace, its own people, its own people. First in the skirmishes and battles of the Civil War. Then in the constant culling of the unnecessary and incorrect in the midst of constant purges of one’s ranks, because not a single Revolution can do without shootings and executions of those unwanted, a revolution cannot do without this. The Motherland also constantly betrayed the Writer. And no one needs Grinov’s romantic “nonsense” in the era of mass collectivization, dispossession of kulaks, resettlement or deportation of entire peoples and their families. And the women just left. The writer changed, and so did his female circle. And only one last woman in his destiny... And I’m not talking now about the writer’s third wife, Nina Nikolaevna Green, who outlived Alexander Green by forty, almost, years, or rather, thirty - eight. When all the publishing houses abandoned Green, his wife, Nina Nikolaevna, characterized this period in one phrase: “Then he began to die.” And death turned out to be the only Beautiful Lady who was benevolent to the Writer and the Sorcerer... She cleaned it up quickly and without much pain. And after the death of the writer, ten years later, his books began to be published and republished, sailed throughout the country, celebrating various events within the country, Scarlet Sails. What a pity that the Sorcerer didn’t see this already!...