"And people bought all that? — Misha thought. — What is so important about this rectangular object? Does everyone without exception need this thing, and moreover, this particular model?…? I've walked five blocks, I've seen this thing for the tenth time. You couldn't leave the house without it? You couldn't go out on the street without this particular model? Everybody needs one? Like a gas mask in a gas attack? What kind of government did we have before that didn't look at what people are advised to buy? The authorities are no more interested in the turnover of trade than in their own existence. And who will preserve it, the power, the turnover of trade or its own subject, seeing the care of the state? How many people do not know that their health could be improved just by taking iodine or vitamins in the right quantities? Why don't the authorities put advertisements on these posters saying that they, the citizens so necessary for the state, will be given vitamins at some point, though not for free, if the state does not have enough money for it, but for their own health, simply because without them this government is not worth a gram. It is not worth a gram without people….. But it isn't! Everywhere this power allowed these troubadours to shout that they need some ultramodern all capable of doing the telephone for them! Where are the priorities of this structural design?
Watching and listening to all this crap wrapped in silk, the people remained patriotic?
As soon as I said all this to the billboard, a cell phone poster flew off it, and underneath it was a social advertisement asking people to "let the ambulance pass on the road".
— That's the way to do it. The whole point of the market is, the highest bidder wins. Who needs an ambulance? Old people, mostly. And they live on a pension that's not enough to buy the latest cell phone. So nobody needs them.
In front, Grigory Listov was sitting by the roadside, again on the steps. He was also studying the city, also from someone else's memories.
— Greetings, Comrade Captain. — he snapped out of his seat.
It's becoming a habit; not his subordination, but Misha's aversion to it. Tired of it, that's all. Knocking on his cap already like a blacksmith on an anvil. Probably it's because of having to go into battle too often…. — Have a seat.
They sat down; again on the steps-just like last time.
— How do you like the city? — Misha asked.
— Well done, Comrade Captain.
— Enough already. Just Misha. That's all. That's an order.
Grisha was confused: "It's uncomfortable."
— Come on, it's embarrassing. Bullets are the same for everyone. And they don't fly around generals…
— Misha grinned. — And even on the contrary… Admiral Nakhimov. Have you heard of him?
— No way… No, I didn't.
— In the Crimean War he led the defense of Sevastopol… Just said that "today they shoot well", immediately got his death.
— It's a shame.
— Why are you sorry?
That's not the kind of question anyone was supposed to hear.
— Why are you sorry? — Misha repeated, looking him in the eye not as a commander, but as a soldier who had seen death many times.
— He was in charge of the defense… Without a commander, how?
— Oh, that's what you mean. But you're the one who's sorry, isn't he? I'm not sure. They've lost this war before. You know how hard it is to lose. And to lose to people you hate. Who came to your land and you can't do anything… I want to grab a bullet… It'll cure everything, all the pain in your heart… And grab it in such a way that it's not on purpose. It's not on purpose, it's just a bullet… it just flew by, just touched me. What can you do? Nothing. And it's not your fault… Death can be so sweet… Like the morning sun. Or the warm flow of a river.
— Death is sweet?
Misha looked up at the sky and, seeing the clouds as gentle as love, nodded: "Yes. For the one to whom it came… But for the one it didn't touch, it can be just a pile of stones on the soul… You know Sasha Rucheyov, my old friend, right?"
— Rooks? Who was promoted to major last month?
— Yes… Which was posthumous… First his old friend was gone. He wanted to die… Well, now he's gone… — Misha wanted to say that "now he wants to die, too," but didn't; it's a weakness to share your stones in your soul with everyone. — And it's like this everywhere… War. Nothing can be done… Everyone does what he can…..
Something wrong skirted in Grisha: the last four words struck a small nerve in a place that could not be touched, but only felt: "Everyone as much as he can for others?" — Yes. To others, Grisha.
— Everyone. Everyone… Everyone… Everyone, but not me! — he jumped up from his seat and, swinging his arms to his side, shouted what was "rocks" on his soul.
— You can yell, Grisha, if you want, but everyone knows.
— Know what? — Listov turned to Zhivenko sitting on the steps. — No, they don't know! They can't know!
— They know. They know you ran away from the plagues, leaving your family behind. Mom and sister. They know, Grisha, they know. You can blame yourself, but everyone has their weaknesses. God has made it so that not everyone can tolerate "his", the right. You can blame God if you want. He created this world… But you'd better sit down and think how best to defeat the Chums. — I couldn't say any more, I couldn't take any more.
Grisha walked back up and sat down, no not sat down, but rather plumped on the stairs.
— You think about the future. — Misha continued. — When we defeat the plagues, how will everything be… East-West again? Yes, I think so… The earth stores all thoughts, all spirit. Even according to Herodotus, the character of peoples, their mentality was determined by the terrain, the land they lived on… Oh, you know, how different it all is!
Nothing seemed to bring Grisha out of his state: he sat with drooping eyes.
— Here I read some old newspapers. They are there, Grisha, around that corner, whole stacks of lying… So, there all….
— No, Comrade Captain. — not looking at the commander, said Grisha. — Do not understand me… I'm trying to help them because of all. I try… And I don't even know if it's any good… I just try and that's all.
Misha didn't fully understand what this tirade was and how it should be understood. He only saw a man who was lost in all his thoughts, and who apparently didn't even understand how he could get out of this corkscrew. If he even realizes that there must be such a possibility somewhere. And all of this at a
moment when Misha so desperately needs the right people by his side. At a time when they've found themselves in the penalty box, with a redistribution of power in all of Unit 14, and at a time when he's simply forbidden to screw up in his personal life.
— No. — Misha thought. — Maybe I have such lax subordinates, but I myself will turn all the problems
into a ram's horn… If not for myself, then for Natasha….
Masha
A small wooden cabin. Spacious fields. A quiet river. Masha at the well, alone, but not as sad as before.
She looked at the bottom for a long time, at the waves, at the water beating against the walls, and all the time she saw her beloved. They stared at each other for four hours.
In the time Masha had lived in that house, her belly had hardly grown, but the baby… The baby… The fact that it was there, that it was calculating and would already be born so soon… It was so beautiful….
Masha thought about the word again.
She was not allowed to do anything around the house lately, and all she could do was read and admire nature. And, in general, both. Pasternak, Yesenin, Pushkin… forests, lakes, rivers, fields, flowers — all this is beautiful. Yes, exactly, beautiful… And music, and painting, and sculpture — beautiful. And singing, and painting, and writing are not good, but beautiful. And fields and flowers blossom, and the wind whistles in the steppe, and the Sun breathes fire, and the Sky floats in the distance — all this is only beautiful, and no other way.