Monsters from a good family
Darya Dontsova
Each person has his own destiny, his own cross. Here I am, Viola Tarakanova, and I carry my own - I constantly get involved in criminal stories. Quite burdensome, I must say, but if it weren’t for this property of mine, where would the writer Arina Violova - under this pseudonym I write detective stories - find new stories? And so they find me themselves. For example, I went to a boutique to choose fashionable clothes and found a girl named Vera under the sofa in the fitting room. I wonder if she really is the psychopath she seems to be, and a murderer, as she says herself, or... Of course, “or”! Naturally, everything is a set-up! But who and why is driving Vera crazy, and no, straight to the grave? We need to figure it out, and at the same time a new detective story will be written. So let's start from the beginning...
What's wrong with punctuality? When you arrive at work on time, there is no one around who can appreciate your appearance in the right place with second-to-second accuracy.
How many times have I told myself: Viola, you are a popular writer! Why the hell do you arrive at a meeting ten minutes before the appointed hour! Well, isn't it stupid? This is, after all, complete idiocy! The most interesting thing is that I understand everything well, but I can’t help myself: if the date is scheduled for three, I’m guaranteed to jump up at two forty-five, look around and hide in a secluded place. And then, seeing an acquaintance approaching the rendezvous point from behind some column, I will appear in his field of vision with the most naive look, exclaiming:
- Oh, hi, sorry, I’m late... you know, there’s a lot to do...
So today I arrived at the Marko publishing house half an hour before the agreed upon hour. And, naturally, she poked her nose into the locked door of the office of the head of the PR and advertising department.
“Fyodor will arrive by noon,” chirped the pretty blonde guarding the entrance, smiling disgustingly. - But... uh... Arina Violetta should come to him. You better make an appointment in advance, Fedor has a very busy schedule.
I gritted my teeth and went to the elevator. What's the point of explaining to a silly girl that my pseudonym sounds different - Violova? Anyway, the beauty won’t stay here for long: Fyodor changes secretaries like discs in a record player, and all the fools look the same - little blondes with wide blue eyes, unable to remember the names of the authors. Of course, you could settle down in the reception area, plop down on the sofa, cross your legs, demand coffee and peacefully wait for Fyodor, leafing through the Knizhnoe Delo newspaper. This is what any normal person would do. But I chose to hide in the toilet, sat there on the windowsill and stared at the street. Because I didn’t want to loom under the searching gaze of an unfamiliar girl.
The winter this year was cold, the frost sometimes reached forty degrees, and on those days when the mercury rose to zero, snow began to fall. I don’t even remember the last time such weather happened in Moscow. And now, as compensation for the cold and blizzard, a stormy spring has come to us. Already in the twentieth of March it became summer-like warm, and today, on the tenth of April, it was completely hot.
I leaned my back against the glass. As a rule, people enjoy the mild weather and sunny days, but the approaching summer did not promise anything good for me. Renovations are about to begin in our house any day now, so poor Viola Tarakanova (this is the real name of the writer Arina Violova) has a lot of worries: she needs to pack her things, cover the furniture with film, take down the curtains, and so on. But all these problems, in principle, are easily solved; they pale in comparison to another, global problem: where to live? However, just yesterday the situation did not seem hopelessly tragic.
A few weeks ago I agreed to rent an apartment - a quite nice little three-room apartment on Leningradsky Prospekt. Of course, for our family of six people, two of whom are children, forty-eight square meters is not enough, but we did not intend to spend our whole lives in these apartments. We only had to wait a couple of months. After all, adversity only strengthens character. Considering that the necessary housing, so to speak, was in my pocket, I calmed down and took care of other concerns, but this morning the owner of the three-ruble note called and quite calmly stated:
– Viola, I have to apologize, my apartment is not for rent.
- How? – I was indignant. - We gave the deposit!
“Of course, I will return your money,” the lady said dryly.
– What should I do now, look for a new option? – I didn’t calm down.
– This is no longer my problem! – the impudent woman barked and hung up.
And literally in a matter of hours you should find another apartment. And this, believe me, is not at all easy. Let's start with the fact that it should be located between the Rechnoy Vokzal and Sokol metro stations, since Christina goes to school and it will be inconvenient for her if temporary housing is far from the educational institution. Secondly, there must be at least three rooms, and the kitchen must be large. The third important point is the price. We cannot pay exorbitant amounts of money; we simply don’t have it. Of course, there is a certain amount, but it is set aside for the renovation of your own apartment. And one more thing: if new housing is not found quickly, I will be to blame, since it was me who came up with the idea of putting an ad in the newspaper at one time: “We’ll rent a three-ruble rent for four months,” after the publication of which the lady responded, who didn’t give a damn about the solid rent today agreement.
I sighed bitterly, looked at my watch and jumped off the windowsill. Eleven forty eight. I have to hurry up, otherwise I'll be late! My feet carried me to the door of Fyodor’s office at five minutes to twelve. I rushed into the reception area, saw a blonde girl steadily chewing gum, and again got angry with myself: again I showed up before the required time. By God, it’s easier to shoot me than to teach me anything.
“Fyodor isn’t here yet,” the secretary drawled. - And finally, she said it! He has a meeting with this... uh... Violkina!
I opened my mouth and took a deep breath. Now, in a calm but stony tone, I will explain to this not very well-mannered, but heavily made-up girl that I am the author of “Marco”, so I should smile affectionately and offer coffee. And I will also bring to her attention that the name of the writer who is rapidly rushing towards super circulation and fame, with whom the head of the advertising department has an appointment, is Violova. My pseudonym is Arina Violova, not Violkina or Violetta! Yes, yes, now I’ll say it all...
The door to the waiting room slammed loudly, my mood instantly changed. What is the point of raising a secretary if you can express your indignation to your superiors, and let them “polish” the subordinate themselves. I turned to the entrance, and my prepared speech froze in my throat. It was not Fedor who stood on the threshold. There loomed a plump figure, wrapped in something too bright, almost fire red.
Viola Tarakanova. In the world of criminal passions - 16
Each person has his own destiny, his own cross. Here I am, Viola Tarakanova, and I carry my own - I constantly get involved in criminal stories. Quite burdensome, I must say, but if it weren’t for this property of mine, where would the writer Arina Violova - under this pseudonym I write detective stories - find new stories? And so they find me themselves. For example, I went to a boutique to choose fashionable clothes and found a girl named Vera under the sofa in the fitting room. I wonder if she really is the psychopath she seems to be, and a murderer, as she says herself, or... Of course, “or”! Naturally, everything is a set-up! But who and why is driving Vera crazy, and no - straight to the grave? We need to figure it out, and at the same time a new detective story will be written. So let's start from the beginning...
Chapter 1
What's wrong with punctuality? When you arrive at work on time, there is no one around who can appreciate your appearance in the right place with second-to-second accuracy.
How many times have I told myself: Viola, you are a popular writer! Why the hell do you arrive at a meeting ten minutes before the appointed hour! Well, isn't it stupid? This is, after all, complete idiocy! The most interesting thing is that I understand everything well, but I can’t help myself: if the date is scheduled for three, I’m guaranteed to jump up at two forty-five, look around and hide in a secluded place. And then, seeing an acquaintance approaching the rendezvous point from behind some column, I will appear in his field of vision with the most naive look, exclaiming:
Oh, hi, sorry, I’m late... you know, there’s a lot to do...
So today I arrived at the Marko publishing house half an hour before the agreed upon hour. And, naturally, she poked her nose into the locked door of the office of the head of the PR and advertising department.
Fyodor will arrive by noon,” chirped the pretty blonde guarding the entrance, smiling disgustingly. - But... uh... Arina Violetta should come to him. You better make an appointment in advance, Fedor has a very busy schedule.
I gritted my teeth and went to the elevator. What's the point of explaining to a silly girl that my pseudonym sounds different - Violova? Anyway, the beauty won’t stay here for long: Fyodor changes secretaries like discs in a record player, and all the fools look the same - little blondes with wide blue eyes, unable to remember the names of the authors. Of course, you could settle down in the reception area, plop down on the sofa, cross your legs, demand coffee and peacefully wait for Fyodor, leafing through the Knizhnoe Delo newspaper. This is what any normal person would do. But I chose to hide in the toilet, sat there on the windowsill and stared at the street. Because I didn’t want to loom under the searching gaze of an unfamiliar girl.
The winter this year was cold, the frost sometimes reached forty degrees, and on those days when the mercury rose to zero, snow began to fall. I don’t even remember the last time such weather happened in Moscow. And now, as compensation for the cold and blizzard, a stormy spring has come to us. Already in the twentieth of March it became summer-like warm, and today, on the tenth of April, it became completely hot.
I leaned my back against the glass. As a rule, people enjoy the mild weather and sunny days, but the approaching summer did not promise anything good for me. Renovations are about to begin in our house any day now, so poor Viola Tarakanova (this is the real name of the writer Arina Violova) has a lot of worries: she needs to pack her things, cover the furniture with film, take down the curtains, and so on. But all these problems, in principle, are easily solved; they pale in comparison to another, global problem: where to live? However, just yesterday the situation did not seem hopelessly tragic.
A few weeks ago I agreed to rent an apartment - a quite nice little three-room apartment on Leningradsky Prospekt.
Each person has his own destiny, his own cross. Here I am, Viola Tarakanova, and I carry my own - I constantly get involved in criminal stories. Quite burdensome, I must say, but if it weren’t for this property of mine, where would the writer Arina Violova - under this pseudonym I write detective stories - find new stories? And so they find me themselves. For example, I went to a boutique to choose fashionable clothes and found a girl named Vera under the sofa in the fitting room. I wonder if she really is the psychopath she seems to be, and a murderer, as she says herself, or... Of course, “or”! Naturally, everything is a set-up! But who and why is driving Vera crazy, and no, straight to the grave? We need to figure it out, and at the same time a new detective story will be written. So let's start from the beginning...
Chapter 1
What's wrong with punctuality? When you arrive at work on time, there is no one around who can appreciate your appearance in the right place with second-to-second accuracy.
How many times have I told myself: Viola, you are a popular writer! Why the hell do you arrive at a meeting ten minutes before the appointed hour! Well, isn't it stupid? This is, after all, complete idiocy! The most interesting thing is that I understand everything well, but I can’t help myself: if the date is scheduled for three, I’m guaranteed to jump up at two forty-five, look around and hide in a secluded place. And then, seeing an acquaintance approaching the rendezvous point from behind some column, I will appear in his field of vision with the most naive look, exclaiming:
- Oh, hi, sorry, I’m late... you know, there’s a lot to do...
So today I arrived at the Marko publishing house half an hour before the agreed upon hour. And, naturally, she poked her nose into the locked door of the office of the head of the PR and advertising department.
“Fyodor will arrive by noon,” chirped the pretty blonde guarding the entrance, smiling disgustingly. - But... uh... Arina Violetta should come to him. You better make an appointment in advance, Fedor has a very busy schedule.
I gritted my teeth and went to the elevator. What's the point of explaining to a silly girl that my pseudonym sounds different - Violova? Anyway, the beauty won’t stay here for long: Fyodor changes secretaries like discs in a record player, and all the fools look the same - little blondes with wide blue eyes, unable to remember the names of the authors. Of course, you could settle down in the reception area, plop down on the sofa, cross your legs, demand coffee and peacefully wait for Fyodor, leafing through the Knizhnoe Delo newspaper. This is what any normal person would do. But I chose to hide in the toilet, sat there on the windowsill and stared at the street. Because I didn’t want to loom under the searching gaze of an unfamiliar girl.
The winter this year was cold, the frost sometimes reached forty degrees, and on those days when the mercury rose to zero, snow began to fall. I don’t even remember the last time such weather happened in Moscow. And now, as compensation for the cold and blizzard, a stormy spring has come to us. Already in the twentieth of March it became summer-like warm, and today, on the tenth of April, it was completely hot.
I leaned my back against the glass.
As a rule, people enjoy the mild weather and sunny days, but the approaching summer did not promise anything good for me. Renovations are about to begin in our house any day now, so poor Viola Tarakanova (this is the real name of the writer Arina Violova) has a lot of worries: she needs to pack her things, cover the furniture with film, take down the curtains, and so on. But all these problems, in principle, are easily solved; they pale in comparison to another, global problem: where to live? However, just yesterday the situation did not seem hopelessly tragic.
A few weeks ago I agreed to rent an apartment - a quite nice little three-room apartment on Leningradsky Prospekt. Of course, for our family of six people, two of whom are children, forty-eight square meters is not enough, but we did not intend to spend our whole lives in these apartments. We only had to wait a couple of months. After all, adversity only strengthens character. Considering that the necessary housing, so to speak, was in my pocket, I calmed down and took care of other concerns, but this morning the owner of the three-ruble note called and quite calmly stated:
– Viola, I have to apologize, my apartment is not for rent.
- How? – I was indignant. - We gave the deposit!
“Of course, I will return your money,” the lady said dryly.
– What should I do now, look for a new option? – I didn’t calm down.
– This is no longer my problem! – the impudent woman barked and hung up.
And literally in a matter of hours you should find another apartment. And this, believe me, is not at all easy. Let's start with the fact that it should be located between the Rechnoy Vokzal and Sokol metro stations, since Christina goes to school and it will be inconvenient for her if temporary housing is far from the educational institution. Secondly, there must be at least three rooms, and the kitchen must be large. The third important point is the price. We cannot pay exorbitant amounts of money; we simply don’t have it. Of course, there is a certain amount, but it is set aside for the renovation of your own apartment. And one more thing: if new housing is not found quickly, I will be to blame, since it was me who came up with the idea of putting an ad in the newspaper at one time: “We’ll rent a three-ruble rent for four months,” after the publication of which the lady responded, who didn’t give a damn about the solid rent today agreement.
I sighed bitterly, looked at my watch and jumped off the windowsill. Eleven forty eight. I have to hurry up, otherwise I'll be late! My feet carried me to the door of Fyodor’s office at five minutes to twelve. I rushed into the reception area, saw a blonde girl steadily chewing gum, and again got angry with myself: again I showed up before the required time. By God, it’s easier to shoot me than to teach me anything.
“Fyodor isn’t here yet,” the secretary drawled. - And finally, she said it! He has a meeting with this... uh... Violkina!
I opened my mouth and took a deep breath. Now, in a calm but stony tone, I will explain to this not very well-mannered, but heavily made-up girl that I am the author of “Marco”, so I should smile affectionately and offer coffee. And I will also bring to her attention that the name of the writer who is rapidly rushing towards super circulation and fame, with whom the head of the advertising department has an appointment, is Violova. My pseudonym is Arina Violova, not Violkina or Violetta! Yes, yes, now I’ll say it all...
The door to the waiting room slammed loudly, my mood instantly changed. What is the point of raising a secretary if you can express your indignation to your superiors, and let them “polish” the subordinate themselves. I turned to the entrance, and my prepared speech froze in my throat. It was not Fedor who stood on the threshold. There loomed a plump figure, wrapped in something too bright, almost fire red.
“No,” the girl answered contemptuously, not bothering to spit out the gum.
- Can't be! – the aunt who came in snorted and moved straight to the boss’s office. “I suppose I decided to smoke in silence.”
- Where are you going? – the blonde jumped to her feet.
“Don’t twitch, baby,” the visitor said condescendingly, “we agreed to meet.”
- For how long? – the secretary decided not to give up her position. - Valetova will come to him at noon.
- Yes? – The mountain-like visitor arched her bushy eyebrows. – I don’t know such a thing. And then... I am Angelina Brock. Understood?
“You’re not on the list,” the blonde persisted, “tell me the hour of the meeting.”
Brock rolled her eyes.
- Oh my God! We agreed on March thirtieth!
“But today is the tenth of April,” the secretary was surprised.
- And what? – Angelina shrugged. “I’m a little late, really, it’s funny... March, April, what’s the difference!” I was in the astral plane, and as soon as I returned, I came. Let Fedka say thank you for the fact that I honored him with my attention.
Then the door to the reception room slammed again, and this time Fyodor burst into the room, spreading the smell of expensive perfume.
- Arina, my soul! – he exclaimed, heading towards me and very skillfully imitating delight. - You are already here? As always, too timely! Tea coffee?
“We’d better start dancing right away,” I answered slightly angrily. - I have a lot to do, we...
- Fedka! – Angelina Brock suddenly squealed, impudently interrupting our sweet conversation. - Am I not here?
- Sorry?
– Don’t pretend that you don’t remember our conversation!
“Yes, yes, of course,” Fedor nodded, “you... uh... uh...”
The eyes of the head of the public relations department rested questioningly on the secretary, but the stupid girl did not even think of coming to the aid of the boss.
“This is Angelina Brock,” I decided to help out the PR man.
“It’s clear,” Fyodor chimed in happily, “you write detective stories!”
The lady's cheeks matched the color of her dress.
- Impudent! – she said. - To insult a scientist like that! Candidate of Cosmological Sciences! Professor of the University of Aerobiological Transcription, Academician of the International Academy of Academic Knowledge of the Academic Mind! Ugliness! Who's the boss of this mess here?
Brock addressed the last question to the blonde.
“I don’t know,” the secretary squeaked, then sideways pushed her way to the door and shamefully ran into the corridor.
Fyodor smiled affectionately and tried to correct the situation:
– Dear Angelina, I meant that your books captivate the reader, like detective stories.
- This is a slap in the face! – the lady turned blue.
- And how do you know about my works?
“Well, who hasn’t read Angelina Brock,” Fyodor tilted his head to the side.
“Yes, indeed,” the lady quieted down slightly. – You will now study my manuscript, and we will discuss the format of the publication. The work is small, only seven hundred and fifty pages. I warn you right away: I am a person of an intellectual cosmic egregor, earthly things concern me little, the question of fees practically does not bother me, I am ready to agree to any penny. In short, half a million dollars - and my thoughts are yours.
There was a shuffling sound, and Oleg Levitin, a pleasant dark-haired man who most resembled a professor, or rather, the image of a great scientist that is shown to us in the movies, squeezed into the reception room. Oleg has blue eyes hiding behind a ridiculous, old-fashioned horn-rimmed frame, a beard sticking out in all directions, and a suit that is far from chic and, moreover, very wrinkled. Oleg doesn’t wear a tie as a matter of principle; most often he wears a pullover or turtleneck under his jacket.
To this day, when I run into Levitin in the corridors of Marco, I am amazed. Let me explain. The publishing house has some instructions with which beginners are sure to be introduced. The paper clearly states: the employee’s appearance must correspond to the pretentiousness of the office. Women are prohibited from wearing miniskirts, and it is impossible to show up for duty without tights even in hot August. Manicure, pedicure, hair styling and light makeup are required. For men, a suit is required, and of good quality, immaculately clean, perfectly ironed, and a clean-shaven face, and no mustache there. In short, if you meet in the corridors of “Marco” an absurd creature in bright blue jeans, felt boots with galoshes, and hair sticking out on end that hasn’t been combed for a week, then you can be absolutely sure: this is not an editor, not a proofreader, not a secretary. and not an employee of the PR department, that is, not an employee of the publishing house, this is the author. And who will explain to me why Oleg Levitin is calmly allowed to break the rules? Just his beard with breakfast crumbs stuck in it should, in theory, infuriate the head of the personnel department.
“Hello, Viola Leninidovna,” Oleg smiled affectionately. - It looks like your repairs have not yet begun, I wish you courage.
“Thank you,” I replied, slightly surprised.
I wonder where Levitin learned about the impending catastrophe in my life? And yet, he seems to be the only person who can correctly pronounce my patronymic - Leninidovna.
– God, I think I see Angelina Brock! – Oleg took a step back. - Incredible! Such a person... with us... easily... Lord! Fyodor, let me kidnap your guest? She can't stand here in the waiting room. Let's quickly go to our super-VIP living room, and we'll talk there! You probably prefer green tea? He is a conductor of cosmic energy.
“Terrible illiteracy,” Angelina immediately attacked Levitin. – Tea is liquid death.
– We just have to talk about this! – Oleg exclaimed excitedly and, grabbing the fat woman by the arm, easily dragged her into the corridor.
- Idiot! – Fyodor attacked the returning secretary. – Why didn’t you immediately run after Levitin? What they taught you: if a crazy woman comes, immediately get a psychologist. What about you? She opened her mouth!
Ah, that's it... Only now it dawned on me why Oleg is allowed to appear in the corridors of the publishing house in such an exotic form: Levitin is a master at resolving scandals, he calms down and delicately sends out inappropriate individuals like Angelina Brock. And a crowd of people with left-handed, so to speak, threads is rushing into “Marco”; you can’t immediately tell which of them is the author of future bestsellers, and which of them escaped from the psychiatric hospital for a while.
- Well, come here! – Fedor now barked at me and pulled me into his office. - Sit down, paw, and listen. I won’t hide the fact that we have a difficult and unpleasant conversation ahead of us.
My legs gave way, my body plopped down into a disgustingly cold leather chair, and against my will, the expression of a cat that had peed in the living room probably appeared on my face. It became so scary that my heart began to groan and pound in my chest, like an eagle owl caught by a fox.
So be it, I’ll tell you a secret. Writers, for all their outwardly confident appearance, are actually people of doubt. All these splayed fingers, proudly raised nose and phrases like: “I am the greatest prose writer of our time” - in fact, cover up a huge inferiority complex. Most writers experience stress when taking a manuscript to a publisher: what if they refuse to publish their immortal opus? Of course, you can still consider yourself a super genius, but if, say, “Marco” throws you out, then where to go? Scour other companies? And what if, to put it mildly, they send it to a known address? What then - print your marvelous work on a printer and distribute it among your friends? Take comfort in the thought of your own uniqueness? Exclaim: “I’m too smart and good for the mass reader, stupid and poorly educated”? But any writer also wants money and fame, these two components of literary work. Therefore, the author cannot do without a publishing house.
The party that prints the books also needs an author. Most publishing houses dream of a super-efficient person who can write eight novels a year, which people will begin to grab like buns in a hungry month. But, alas, writers are most often lazy, submit manuscripts at the wrong time, demand exorbitant amounts of money for them, are rude to the editor and drink bitterly. There are many alcoholics among prose writers and poets. Sometimes, even despite the writer’s ratings, the publishing house cannot stand it and breaks off relations with a particularly nasty person. In the struggle between writer and publisher, the second usually wins. I could now tell you the names of once very successful authors who disappeared into obscurity due to their own nasty addictions or an immoderate desire for scandals. Yes, in the world of the book business there is fierce competition, a top author will not hesitate to be lured away, but... Notoriety has fast legs, and if, for example, the publishing house "NRB" gets wind that writer N, having quarreled over a fee with " Marco,” ran to a certain organization and sent the tax police to his former “masters,” then, despite the success of writer N’s books, “NRB” will not want to deal with him. Yes, it’s understandable why - who needs a reckless brawler, a truth teller, a “fighter for justice”, a finder of counterfeit copies?
I am no exception in this sense. That is, I am terribly afraid of being left behind “Marco”. True, my character is not revolutionary, but I often delay manuscripts, violate the deadlines specified in the contract... It seems that “Marco’s” patience has come to an end.
– My patience has come to an end! - Fyodor barked.
I closed my eyes and tried to blend into the chair. Here it is, the most terrible and black moment in my life. Although, if you think about it, it’s nothing terrible, well, I didn’t manage to climb to the top, like, say, the writer Smolyakova... So what now, die, or what? I'll find a job...
“Answer immediately,” Fyodor stomped, “what are you wearing?”
I, who was expecting anything other than this question, hiccupped and answered:
- Well, jeans.
Fedor sighed heavily:
– A very correct answer, namely “well, jeans.” What kind of company is this “well, jeans”? Where did you find those wonderful teenage pants? Do you even understand what's written on your bottom?
“Yes,” I nodded. – It is written: “Protect nature.”
– Did you translate it yourself?
“No,” I admitted honestly. “I don’t speak English,” the seller said.
Fyodor grabbed the newspaper “Zheltukha” from the table and began to fan himself with the daily publication, which a decent person would disdain to pick up with his hands without gloves.
“No, kitty,” he hissed, “it’s embroidered there: “Let’s all go here.”
I coughed. Is it really true? Now it’s clear why Christina, accompanying me to the publishing house today, exclaimed:
- Cool gins! Where did you get it?
“And your pullover with an embroidered dog...” Fyodor began sputtering again, “and the earrings are made of crap... and the watch costs a hundred rubles... and also the barettes... Oh my God!” Well, what store did you get those pink shit boots with green laces from? A? Answer immediately!
I was upset to the point of tears.
– You know, my clothes are my clothes!
“You’re wrong, paw,” Fyodor smiled broadly. Then he threw “Jaundice” on the table and ordered: “Well, read it!” Just about your clothes!
Chapter 2
First my eyes saw a photo: a frail child, dressed in ridiculous platform boots, too wide trousers and an overly loose pullover, holding a book in his hands. The girl clearly needed to go to the hairdresser because her hair was standing on end. The sixth-grader resembled a frightened cat (if you have ever seen how its fur bristles when a sudden threat appears, you will understand what we are talking about now). It’s also a pity that teenagers don’t want to listen to anyone’s advice: if the girl took off her disgustingly stretched sweater, she would look quite pretty. Then I suddenly realized that the schoolgirl was holding my new book with her not-so-clean paw, and I immediately exclaimed:
- What a sweet girl!
“Hmm,” Fyodor groaned dissatisfied, “then look at the picture and study the text.”
And I started reading the article. “Today at the Medvedkovo bookstore there was a presentation of Arina Violova’s new book “A Pear for Cinderella.” We have not read her detective story yet, but we think that under the cover we will find the same set: love-blood-carrots - Mrs. Violova always pulls one piece of gum. But now we don’t want to discuss the literary merits of the imperishable, in the end, Dyudik will not surprise us, it struck us differently. Mrs. Violova arrived at the presentation in a not too new Zhiguli. Of course, such patriotism is commendable, but if you consider that even the girl from the sales department of “Marco” taxied in a brand new foreign car, then your correspondent had a question: is it true that in “Marco” there are two stars - Smolyakova and Bustinova, raking in fees shovel, and the rest of the authors, so to speak, stars of the fifth category, don’t even have enough for kefir? I, a person very far from the fashion business, was also surprised by the outfit of the writer and her, if I may say so, jewelry - plastic pendants in the shape of dogs. Yes, apparently, things are going very badly for the Marco publishing house. Let us remind you, our beloved readers, that Arina Violova is now on the rise; according to Zheltukha, her name tops the list of authors, so to speak, of the second echelon. So what, she doesn’t have doubloons for clothes? Obviously, "Marco" is going to go down.
By the way, we have a new feature: from this issue we are starting to publish photographs of celebrities indicating the companies and prices of their clothes. See photo".
Digesting what I had read, I again fixed my gaze on the photograph and only now I saw thin red lines leading to the girl’s figure - near each feature there was a frame with a serial number. And below was the following text.
"1. Head. The haircut was done at the hairdresser at the station, the approximate price is 200 rubles.
2. Sweater. The company is not determined. Maybe a self-knitting item or a gift from your beloved grandmother. If the second assumption is correct, then it at least somehow justifies the appearance of this “stylish” thing in the writer’s wardrobe. The price is about three hundred rubles.
3. Jeans. Fear to watch! Taken from my husband! Most likely, a fake brand, sewn on the knee, in the basement, by the Vietnamese. Price – 200 rub.
4. Shoes. Barettes made of leatherette, generously decorated with buttons. Price – 150 rub.
5. Decoration – earrings in the shape of poodles. Your correspondent found similar ones in an underground passage near the metro. Price – 20 rub.
Total: 870 rubles.
We can’t evaluate the underwear, but we think it matches the outerwear.
Oh, “Marco,” shame on you! Pay Violova a thousand bucks at least once, let the poor thing afford genuine leather boots. Oh, by the way, Arina’s birthday is coming soon. We, the employees of “Zheltukha,” are not greedy people and, moreover, compassionate, so we prepared a generous gift for the poor writer: gorgeous diamond earrings, which we will certainly give her on the right day.”
The newspaper fell out of my hands.
“Holy shit...” came out of my mouth.
- You are our shame! - Fyodor thundered. - Get that dog abomination out of your ears immediately! Where are the panties, huh?
- I do not have them.
- Why?
Good question.
“Well, because,” I answered dejectedly, “I was saving for repairs... And in general, why do I need stones?”
Each person has his own destiny, his own cross. Here I am, Viola Tarakanova, and I carry my own - I constantly get involved in criminal stories. Quite burdensome, I must say, but if it weren’t for this property of mine, where would the writer Arina Violova - under this pseudonym I write detective stories - find new stories? And so they find me themselves. For example, I went to a boutique to choose fashionable clothes and found a girl named Vera under the sofa in the fitting room. I wonder if she really is the psychopath she seems to be, and a murderer, as she says herself, or... Of course, “or”! Naturally, everything is a set-up! But who and why is driving Vera crazy, and no, straight to the grave? We need to figure it out, and at the same time a new detective story will be written. So let's start from the beginning...
Chapter 1
What's wrong with punctuality? When you arrive at work on time, there is no one around who can appreciate your appearance in the right place with second-to-second accuracy.
How many times have I told myself: Viola, you are a popular writer! Why the hell do you arrive at a meeting ten minutes before the appointed hour! Well, isn't it stupid? This is, after all, complete idiocy! The most interesting thing is that I understand everything well, but I can’t help myself: if the date is scheduled for three, I’m guaranteed to jump up at two forty-five, look around and hide in a secluded place. And then, seeing an acquaintance approaching the rendezvous point from behind some column, I will appear in his field of vision with the most naive look, exclaiming:
- Oh, hi, sorry, I’m late... you know, there’s a lot to do...
So today I arrived at the Marko publishing house half an hour before the agreed upon hour. And, naturally, she poked her nose into the locked door of the office of the head of the PR and advertising department.
“Fyodor will arrive by noon,” chirped the pretty blonde guarding the entrance, smiling disgustingly. - But... uh... Arina Violetta should come to him. You better make an appointment in advance, Fedor has a very busy schedule.
I gritted my teeth and went to the elevator. What's the point of explaining to a silly girl that my pseudonym sounds different - Violova? Anyway, the beauty won’t stay here for long: Fyodor changes secretaries like discs in a record player, and all the fools look the same - little blondes with wide blue eyes, unable to remember the names of the authors. Of course, you could settle down in the reception area, plop down on the sofa, cross your legs, demand coffee and peacefully wait for Fyodor, leafing through the Knizhnoe Delo newspaper. This is what any normal person would do. But I chose to hide in the toilet, sat there on the windowsill and stared at the street. Because I didn’t want to loom under the searching gaze of an unfamiliar girl.
The winter this year was cold, the frost sometimes reached forty degrees, and on those days when the mercury rose to zero, snow began to fall. I don’t even remember the last time such weather happened in Moscow. And now, as compensation for the cold and blizzard, a stormy spring has come to us. Already in the twentieth of March it became summer-like warm, and today, on the tenth of April, it was completely hot.
I leaned my back against the glass. As a rule, people enjoy the mild weather and sunny days, but the approaching summer did not promise anything good for me. Renovations are about to begin in our house any day now, so poor Viola Tarakanova (this is the real name of the writer Arina Violova) has a lot of worries: she needs to pack her things, cover the furniture with film, take down the curtains, and so on. But all these problems, in principle, are easily solved; they pale in comparison to another, global problem: where to live? However, just yesterday the situation did not seem hopelessly tragic.
A few weeks ago I agreed to rent an apartment - a quite nice little three-room apartment on Leningradsky Prospekt. Of course, for our family of six people, two of whom are children, forty-eight square meters is not enough, but we did not intend to spend our whole lives in these apartments. We only had to wait a couple of months. After all, adversity only strengthens character. Considering that the necessary housing, so to speak, was in my pocket, I calmed down and took care of other concerns, but this morning the owner of the three-ruble note called and quite calmly stated:
– Viola, I have to apologize, my apartment is not for rent.
- How? – I was indignant. - We gave the deposit!
“Of course, I will return your money,” the lady said dryly.
– What should I do now, look for a new option? – I didn’t calm down.
– This is no longer my problem! – the impudent woman barked and hung up.
And literally in a matter of hours you should find another apartment. And this, believe me, is not at all easy. Let's start with the fact that it should be located between the Rechnoy Vokzal and Sokol metro stations, since Christina goes to school and it will be inconvenient for her if temporary housing is far from the educational institution. Secondly, there must be at least three rooms, and the kitchen must be large. The third important point is the price. We cannot pay exorbitant amounts of money; we simply don’t have it. Of course, there is a certain amount, but it is set aside for the renovation of your own apartment. And one more thing: if new housing is not found quickly, I will be to blame, since it was me who came up with the idea of putting an ad in the newspaper at one time: “We’ll rent a three-ruble rent for four months,” after the publication of which the lady responded, who didn’t give a damn about the solid rent today agreement.
I sighed bitterly, looked at my watch and jumped off the windowsill. Eleven forty eight. I have to hurry up, otherwise I'll be late! My feet carried me to the door of Fyodor’s office at five minutes to twelve. I rushed into the reception area, saw a blonde girl steadily chewing gum, and again got angry with myself: again I showed up before the required time. By God, it’s easier to shoot me than to teach me anything.
“Fyodor isn’t here yet,” the secretary drawled. - And finally, she said it! He has a meeting with this... uh... Violkina!
I opened my mouth and took a deep breath. Now, in a calm but stony tone, I will explain to this not very well-mannered, but heavily made-up girl that I am the author of “Marco”, so I should smile affectionately and offer coffee. And I will also bring to her attention that the name of the writer who is rapidly rushing towards super circulation and fame, with whom the head of the advertising department has an appointment, is Violova. My pseudonym is Arina Violova, not Violkina or Violetta! Yes, yes, now I’ll say it all...
The door to the waiting room slammed loudly, my mood instantly changed. What is the point of raising a secretary if you can express your indignation to your superiors, and let them “polish” the subordinate themselves. I turned to the entrance, and my prepared speech froze in my throat. It was not Fedor who stood on the threshold. There loomed a plump figure, wrapped in something too bright, almost fire red.
“No,” the girl answered contemptuously, not bothering to spit out the gum.
- Can't be! – the aunt who came in snorted and moved straight to the boss’s office. “I suppose I decided to smoke in silence.”
- Where are you going? – the blonde jumped to her feet.
“Don’t twitch, baby,” the visitor said condescendingly, “we agreed to meet.”
- For how long? – the secretary decided not to give up her position. - Valetova will come to him at noon.
- Yes? – The mountain-like visitor arched her bushy eyebrows. – I don’t know such a thing. And then... I am Angelina Brock. Understood?
“You’re not on the list,” the blonde persisted, “tell me the hour of the meeting.”
Brock rolled her eyes.
- Oh my God! We agreed on March thirtieth!
“But today is the tenth of April,” the secretary was surprised.
- And what? – Angelina shrugged. “I’m a little late, really, it’s funny... March, April, what’s the difference!” I was in the astral plane, and as soon as I returned, I came. Let Fedka say thank you for the fact that I honored him with my attention.
Then the door to the reception room slammed again, and this time Fyodor burst into the room, spreading the smell of expensive perfume.
- Arina, my soul! – he exclaimed, heading towards me and very skillfully imitating delight. - You are already here? As always, too timely! Tea coffee?
“We’d better start dancing right away,” I answered slightly angrily. - I have a lot to do, we...
- Fedka! – Angelina Brock suddenly squealed, impudently interrupting our sweet conversation. - Am I not here?
- Sorry?
– Don’t pretend that you don’t remember our conversation!
“Yes, yes, of course,” Fedor nodded, “you... uh... uh...”
The eyes of the head of the public relations department rested questioningly on the secretary, but the stupid girl did not even think of coming to the aid of the boss.
“This is Angelina Brock,” I decided to help out the PR man.
“It’s clear,” Fyodor chimed in happily, “you write detective stories!”
The lady's cheeks matched the color of her dress.
- Impudent! – she said. - To insult a scientist like that! Candidate of Cosmological Sciences! Professor of the University of Aerobiological Transcription, Academician of the International Academy of Academic Knowledge of the Academic Mind! Ugliness! Who's the boss of this mess here?
Brock addressed the last question to the blonde.
“I don’t know,” the secretary squeaked, then sideways pushed her way to the door and shamefully ran into the corridor.
Fyodor smiled affectionately and tried to correct the situation:
– Dear Angelina, I meant that your books captivate the reader, like detective stories.
- This is a slap in the face! – the lady turned blue.
- And how do you know about my works?
“Well, who hasn’t read Angelina Brock,” Fyodor tilted his head to the side.
“Yes, indeed,” the lady quieted down slightly. – You will now study my manuscript, and we will discuss the format of the publication. The work is small, only seven hundred and fifty pages. I warn you right away: I am a person of an intellectual cosmic egregor, earthly things concern me little, the question of fees practically does not bother me, I am ready to agree to any penny. In short, half a million dollars - and my thoughts are yours.
There was a shuffling sound, and Oleg Levitin, a pleasant dark-haired man who most resembled a professor, or rather, the image of a great scientist that is shown to us in the movies, squeezed into the reception room. Oleg has blue eyes hiding behind a ridiculous, old-fashioned horn-rimmed frame, a beard sticking out in all directions, and a suit that is far from chic and, moreover, very wrinkled. Oleg doesn’t wear a tie as a matter of principle; most often he wears a pullover or turtleneck under his jacket.
To this day, when I run into Levitin in the corridors of Marco, I am amazed. Let me explain. The publishing house has some instructions with which beginners are sure to be introduced. The paper clearly states: the employee’s appearance must correspond to the pretentiousness of the office. Women are prohibited from wearing miniskirts, and it is impossible to show up for duty without tights even in hot August. Manicure, pedicure, hair styling and light makeup are required. For men, a suit is required, and of good quality, immaculately clean, perfectly ironed, and a clean-shaven face, and no mustache there. In short, if you meet in the corridors of “Marco” an absurd creature in bright blue jeans, felt boots with galoshes, and hair sticking out on end that hasn’t been combed for a week, then you can be absolutely sure: this is not an editor, not a proofreader, not a secretary. and not an employee of the PR department, that is, not an employee of the publishing house, this is the author. And who will explain to me why Oleg Levitin is calmly allowed to break the rules? Just his beard with breakfast crumbs stuck in it should, in theory, infuriate the head of the personnel department.
“Hello, Viola Leninidovna,” Oleg smiled affectionately. - It looks like your repairs have not yet begun, I wish you courage.
“Thank you,” I replied, slightly surprised.
I wonder where Levitin learned about the impending catastrophe in my life? And yet, he seems to be the only person who can correctly pronounce my patronymic - Leninidovna.
– God, I think I see Angelina Brock! – Oleg took a step back. - Incredible! Such a person... with us... easily... Lord! Fyodor, let me kidnap your guest? She can't stand here in the waiting room. Let's quickly go to our super-VIP living room, and we'll talk there! You probably prefer green tea? He is a conductor of cosmic energy.
“Terrible illiteracy,” Angelina immediately attacked Levitin. – Tea is liquid death.
– We just have to talk about this! – Oleg exclaimed excitedly and, grabbing the fat woman by the arm, easily dragged her into the corridor.
- Idiot! – Fyodor attacked the returning secretary. – Why didn’t you immediately run after Levitin? What they taught you: if a crazy woman comes, immediately get a psychologist. What about you? She opened her mouth!
Ah, that's it... Only now it dawned on me why Oleg is allowed to appear in the corridors of the publishing house in such an exotic form: Levitin is a master at resolving scandals, he calms down and delicately sends out inappropriate individuals like Angelina Brock. And a crowd of people with left-handed, so to speak, threads is rushing into “Marco”; you can’t immediately tell which of them is the author of future bestsellers, and which of them escaped from the psychiatric hospital for a while.
- Well, come here! – Fedor now barked at me and pulled me into his office. - Sit down, paw, and listen. I won’t hide the fact that we have a difficult and unpleasant conversation ahead of us.
My legs gave way, my body plopped down into a disgustingly cold leather chair, and against my will, the expression of a cat that had peed in the living room probably appeared on my face. It became so scary that my heart began to groan and pound in my chest, like an eagle owl caught by a fox.
So be it, I’ll tell you a secret. Writers, for all their outwardly confident appearance, are actually people of doubt. All these splayed fingers, proudly raised nose and phrases like: “I am the greatest prose writer of our time” - in fact, cover up a huge inferiority complex. Most writers experience stress when taking a manuscript to a publisher: what if they refuse to publish their immortal opus? Of course, you can still consider yourself a super genius, but if, say, “Marco” throws you out, then where to go? Scour other companies? And what if, to put it mildly, they send it to a known address? What then - print your marvelous work on a printer and distribute it among your friends? Take comfort in the thought of your own uniqueness? Exclaim: “I’m too smart and good for the mass reader, stupid and poorly educated”? But any writer also wants money and fame, these two components of literary work. Therefore, the author cannot do without a publishing house.
The party that prints the books also needs an author. Most publishing houses dream of a super-efficient person who can write eight novels a year, which people will begin to grab like buns in a hungry month. But, alas, writers are most often lazy, submit manuscripts at the wrong time, demand exorbitant amounts of money for them, are rude to the editor and drink bitterly. There are many alcoholics among prose writers and poets. Sometimes, even despite the writer’s ratings, the publishing house cannot stand it and breaks off relations with a particularly nasty person. In the struggle between writer and publisher, the second usually wins. I could now tell you the names of once very successful authors who disappeared into obscurity due to their own nasty addictions or an immoderate desire for scandals. Yes, in the world of the book business there is fierce competition, a top author will not hesitate to be lured away, but... Notoriety has fast legs, and if, for example, the publishing house "NRB" gets wind that writer N, having quarreled over a fee with " Marco,” ran to a certain organization and sent the tax police to his former “masters,” then, despite the success of writer N’s books, “NRB” will not want to deal with him. Yes, it’s understandable why - who needs a reckless brawler, a truth teller, a “fighter for justice”, a finder of counterfeit copies?
I am no exception in this sense. That is, I am terribly afraid of being left behind “Marco”. True, my character is not revolutionary, but I often delay manuscripts, violate the deadlines specified in the contract... It seems that “Marco’s” patience has come to an end.
– My patience has come to an end! - Fyodor barked.
I closed my eyes and tried to blend into the chair. Here it is, the most terrible and black moment in my life. Although, if you think about it, it’s nothing terrible, well, I didn’t manage to climb to the top, like, say, the writer Smolyakova... So what now, die, or what? I'll find a job...
“Answer immediately,” Fyodor stomped, “what are you wearing?”
I, who was expecting anything other than this question, hiccupped and answered:
- Well, jeans.
Fedor sighed heavily:
– A very correct answer, namely “well, jeans.” What kind of company is this “well, jeans”? Where did you find those wonderful teenage pants? Do you even understand what's written on your bottom?
“Yes,” I nodded. – It is written: “Protect nature.”
– Did you translate it yourself?
“No,” I admitted honestly. “I don’t speak English,” the seller said.
Fyodor grabbed the newspaper “Zheltukha” from the table and began to fan himself with the daily publication, which a decent person would disdain to pick up with his hands without gloves.
“No, kitty,” he hissed, “it’s embroidered there: “Let’s all go here.”
I coughed. Is it really true? Now it’s clear why Christina, accompanying me to the publishing house today, exclaimed:
- Cool gins! Where did you get it?
“And your pullover with an embroidered dog...” Fyodor began sputtering again, “and the earrings are made of crap... and the watch costs a hundred rubles... and also the barettes... Oh my God!” Well, what store did you get those pink shit boots with green laces from? A? Answer immediately!
I was upset to the point of tears.
– You know, my clothes are my clothes!
“You’re wrong, paw,” Fyodor smiled broadly. Then he threw “Jaundice” on the table and ordered: “Well, read it!” Just about your clothes!
Chapter 2
First my eyes saw a photo: a frail child, dressed in ridiculous platform boots, too wide trousers and an overly loose pullover, holding a book in his hands. The girl clearly needed to go to the hairdresser because her hair was standing on end. The sixth-grader resembled a frightened cat (if you have ever seen how its fur bristles when a sudden threat appears, you will understand what we are talking about now). It’s also a pity that teenagers don’t want to listen to anyone’s advice: if the girl took off her disgustingly stretched sweater, she would look quite pretty. Then I suddenly realized that the schoolgirl was holding my new book with her not-so-clean paw, and I immediately exclaimed:
- What a sweet girl!
“Hmm,” Fyodor groaned dissatisfied, “then look at the picture and study the text.”
And I started reading the article. “Today at the Medvedkovo bookstore there was a presentation of Arina Violova’s new book “A Pear for Cinderella.” We have not read her detective story yet, but we think that under the cover we will find the same set: love-blood-carrots - Mrs. Violova always pulls one piece of gum. But now we don’t want to discuss the literary merits of the imperishable, in the end, Dyudik will not surprise us, it struck us differently. Mrs. Violova arrived at the presentation in a not too new Zhiguli. Of course, such patriotism is commendable, but if you consider that even the girl from the sales department of “Marco” taxied in a brand new foreign car, then your correspondent had a question: is it true that in “Marco” there are two stars - Smolyakova and Bustinova, raking in fees shovel, and the rest of the authors, so to speak, stars of the fifth category, don’t even have enough for kefir? I, a person very far from the fashion business, was also surprised by the outfit of the writer and her, if I may say so, jewelry - plastic pendants in the shape of dogs. Yes, apparently, things are going very badly for the Marco publishing house. Let us remind you, our beloved readers, that Arina Violova is now on the rise; according to Zheltukha, her name tops the list of authors, so to speak, of the second echelon. So what, she doesn’t have doubloons for clothes? Obviously, "Marco" is going to go down.
By the way, we have a new feature: from this issue we are starting to publish photographs of celebrities indicating the companies and prices of their clothes. See photo".
Digesting what I had read, I again fixed my gaze on the photograph and only now I saw thin red lines leading to the girl’s figure - near each feature there was a frame with a serial number. And below was the following text.
"1. Head. The haircut was done at the hairdresser at the station, the approximate price is 200 rubles.
2. Sweater. The company is not determined. Maybe a self-knitting item or a gift from your beloved grandmother. If the second assumption is correct, then it at least somehow justifies the appearance of this “stylish” thing in the writer’s wardrobe. The price is about three hundred rubles.
3. Jeans. Fear to watch! Taken from my husband! Most likely, a fake brand, sewn on the knee, in the basement, by the Vietnamese. Price – 200 rub.
4. Shoes. Barettes made of leatherette, generously decorated with buttons. Price – 150 rub.
5. Decoration – earrings in the shape of poodles. Your correspondent found similar ones in an underground passage near the metro. Price – 20 rub.
Total: 870 rubles.
We can’t evaluate the underwear, but we think it matches the outerwear.
Oh, “Marco,” shame on you! Pay Violova a thousand bucks at least once, let the poor thing afford genuine leather boots. Oh, by the way, Arina’s birthday is coming soon. We, the employees of “Zheltukha,” are not greedy people and, moreover, compassionate, so we prepared a generous gift for the poor writer: gorgeous diamond earrings, which we will certainly give her on the right day.”
The newspaper fell out of my hands.
“Holy shit...” came out of my mouth.
- You are our shame! - Fyodor thundered. - Get that dog abomination out of your ears immediately! Where are the panties, huh?
- I do not have them.
- Why?
Good question.
“Well, because,” I answered dejectedly, “I was saving for repairs... And in general, why do I need stones?”
“Indeed,” Fyodor grimaced, “if you put a gold collar on the mongrel, the appearance will become even worse.” So! Now everything is changing: appearance, behavior. Keep in mind: we are going to bring Violova to Bustinova’s level, a massive advertising campaign is coming, and there is no way we can allow...
If the ceiling had fallen on my head now, I would have been less surprised.
“So I’m not being kicked out of Marco’s?” – I mumbled, not believing my luck.
Fyodor clasped his hands:
- No, just look at her! They picked it up from a trash heap, washed it, cleaned it up, pushed it, despite the resistance of the object, almost to the star, and kicked it out? Give others an almost cut diamond? No, paw, now you will begin to repay my efforts. So, yes! You drive a foreign car - modest, small, very cute, a typically female version. And if one of the journalists, thrusting a microphone under your nose, asks: “Arina, why aren’t you driving a Bentley?” – you will make a grimace... Come on, pretend to be slightly contemptuous! Let's start!
I raised my eyebrows, pursed my lips, and bulged my eyes.
“I don’t believe it,” Fyodor shook his head. – This is the face of an iguana with diarrhea. Okay, you can’t demand everything from a person at once. At home, practice in front of the mirror. Remember: the main thing here is not the facial expression, but the tone. As you exhale, you say: “There is no parking space in our crazy metropolis. And then - I don’t like to stand out.” Missed it, paw?
“In principle, yes, but there are some ambiguities,” I sighed.
Fedor grabbed a bottle of mineral water.
- What, the song of my soul?
– Where can I get a small, cute, attractive foreign car, and even a typically female version?
“Oh, this is bullshit... Look out the window...” the advertiser said melancholy.
I walked up to the huge glass and shouted:
- Oh, oh, there...
- What? – Fyodor choked on water.
– My car is being towed away by a tow truck!!!
Fyodor also went to the window and chuckled:
– Well, that’s right, scrap metal belongs in a landfill.
- There's your new car.
- On the left, at the security booth.
- Where? – I repeated confusedly.
- Wipe your eyes! Can't you see? – Fedor began to get angry.
- A cute little foreign car? No.
Fedor put his hand on my shoulder and began to command:
– Move your gaze to the left, more, more, more!
- But it's a jeep! As healthy as a trolleybus!
- Certainly.
- Wow, cute little foreign car!
– Are you saying it looks bad?
- No, but…
– What’s wrong now?!
– I thought... uh... But I don’t know how to ride one!
- Nonsense, turn the wheel and that’s it.
- There's probably an automatic transmission there.
- Yeah, one less pedal. In general, it’s like this: when you get ready to go home, Zhenya, our driver, will explain to you how to set the lever and everything.
- What else? Listen, I'm tired of you and your stupid whims!
- There is no use arguing. The scrap metal has already been hauled away.
– I didn’t plan to buy a jeep.
- You get it for nothing.
- What do you mean - for free?
- Yes. The car is not new, but in excellent condition, you will receive maintenance at this address.
With a magician's gesture, Fyodor threw a business card on the table.
- Shut up! Your task is to appear everywhere on these wheels, and in interviews to unobtrusively tell journalists the make of your car.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “clear.”
– Don’t even think about uttering a word of criticism about the car! – Fyodor warned. - Well, we solved one problem, now a second one has arrived. And with her, my paw, we will do this: now you get into the car and drive to the Toothy Watermelon boutique. There they are waiting for Mrs. Tarakanova with open arms and have already prepared a bunch of clothes.
- Great again!
- Shut up, shame on the publishing house!
- What else?
“I only have a hundred rubles in my wallet,” I admitted.
Fyodor scratched his nose with his finger.
– The habit of not carrying cash reveals a rich person. Many card holders forget about the need to put real bills in their wallet. If you blurt out in front of journalists about the lack of banknotes, it won’t be bad, I give you permission to tell you that.
- Sorry, but…
- I'm tired of your moaning!
– There is no credit card in my wallet.
- Why? Forgot it at home?
“I just... I don’t have it.”
Fyodor widened his eyes:
- In terms of? How - no? Lost it?
“I’m sorry, Arina, for interfering in intimate matters, but tell me, where do you store your money?” I know how much Marco pays you. Where do you put your fees?
I began to bend my fingers:
– I buy groceries, all sorts of nonsense for the house, things... Now we’ve decided to do some renovations, and we plan to buy a summer house. You see, in our family the main breadwinner was Semyon, Tomochka’s husband, but now his business is not going too well, so I became the financial pillar, and...
-Where do you keep what you have hidden? – Fedor interrupted me.
“In a cookie jar,” I answered after some hesitation.
- From what... cookies? – he finally dropped it.
“Chocolate,” I looked down. – It’s a very convenient container, it closes easily, it’s in my closet, and in general...
Fedor grabbed the phone:
- Hello, bank? Who is this, Katya? Oh, sorry, Lidochka, I always confuse you. My cat, we will immediately create a gold card in your VIP department in the name of Viola Leninidovna Tarakanova. No, her dad's name is not Lenin, but Leninid. Good good…
Throwing the phone on the table, Fyodor hissed:
- You’ll still go to the store, they’ll let you borrow money. Although... No! Stop!
Jumping up briskly, the head of the department opened the safe, pulled out a wad of banknotes from the iron cabinet and barked:
- Here you are! Tomorrow I hope to see you in decent shape.
– Do you need to spend so much on clothes?!
“There’s not much here,” Fyodor reassured.
I mentally assessed the pack. Yeah, just a penny. Looks like a hundred thousand. Rubles, thank God, and not dollars.
“Tomorrow at exactly noon,” Fyodor said measuredly, “I’ll be waiting for you here.” At one o'clock we have a shoot for a new advertising campaign.
- Oh, can I move it?
- Why?
- Well... we are undergoing renovations, in general...
– Have you decided to paint the ceilings yourself? From a vacuum cleaner?
- No no!
- And thanks for that. But then I don’t understand what will prevent you from getting to work tomorrow?
- We have nowhere to live! – I blurted out.
Fyodor groaned, then took a bottle of water, drained it in one gulp, threw the empty container into the basket, missed it and sadly stated:
- The day is off to a good start. Okay, now explain the trouble in detail. Only the material in “Zheltukha” called “Violova is a homeless person” is not enough for me to be completely happy!
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, sweating from nervous tension, I found myself at a boutique with the idiotic name “Toothy Watermelon”. Only a woman, who in the morning was peacefully driving a dear, completely dear and thoroughly studied Zhiguli, and at noon sitting behind the steering wheel of a pretentious foreign car, will be able to understand me. The publishing driver Zhenya gave Mrs. Tarakanova a hasty lesson in driving a vehicle with an automatic transmission and whistled for his business. I somehow climbed onto the seat and grabbed the steering wheel. The length of my arms and legs was clearly not enough to sit comfortably in the driver’s seat; I had to start driving, sitting on the very edge of the seat.
The first minutes I felt like a trolleybus driver - the ground was far below, and the surrounding cars turned into crumbs. Then it became clear that there was nothing particularly complicated in the “automatic”, only the left leg, which should now be resting peacefully on a special stand, constantly pressed the missing clutch pedal.
Having approached Leningradsky Prospekt, I slowed down and waited until there was enough space in the dense traffic to wedge myself into the moving endless ribbon of cars. Aggressive behavior on the road is unusual for me, and I also soberly assess my driving abilities, so now I was calmly looming on the corner of a small alley.
Suddenly, a nice gray “nine”, driving in the far right lane, slowed down and blinked its headlights. Deciding that the driver wanted to ask me for directions, I tried to lower the window, couldn’t find the handle, opened the door and shouted:
- How can I help?
A man of about forty leaned out of the Zhiguli. Smiling from ear to ear, he shouted:
- Turn around, girl!
Having almost fallen into a state of shock, I taxied onto the avenue. It is in vain, however, that they say that all the men on the road are boors, but there are nice, intelligent, well-mannered people. Now they kindly helped me turn! The guy was on the main road, I was standing on the secondary road, he could drive along calmly, not paying attention to those around him. But no, I slowed down and missed it. A trifle, but nice.
Rejoicing at my unprecedented luck, I concentrated and realized that I would soon have to turn left. Generally speaking, I avoid driving in the left lane, I believe that it is intended for dashing guys in cars with “quacks” and strobe lights, and always, when I find myself in the fast lane, I immediately begin to feel discomfort, because everyone immediately honks at me. Once I almost fainted when a commanding voice boomed from behind me from a jeep with fully tinted windows:
- Hey, scrap metal, turn right immediately!
But now there was no alternative; at the second intersection we had to turn. Why do I start preparing for the maneuver in advance? But who will let me pass right at the crossroads? How many times have I driven past the right turn, and then had to look for a place to turn around and go back.