Elchin safarli - when I return, be at home. “When I return, be at home” Elchin Safarli Elchin safarli when I’m without you

The book “When I’m Without You...” by Elchin Safarli is dedicated to the warm and bright feeling of love. It is filled with vivid metaphors and epithets; you are surprised how talented the writer is to so beautifully reflect the most ordinary life situations. The entire book can literally be disassembled into quotes; it consists, as it were, of small excerpts from the life of the main character, describing his feelings and thoughts at different moments. Most attention is paid to experiences, to the search for answers to eternal questions.

The writer reflects on love, on what can really be considered this feeling. Sometimes people are too fixated on their desires, and selfishness is unlikely to be combined with true love. A union in which one only gives, and the other only receives, is doomed. There must be harmony, a balance of emotions and energy.

While reading, you think about whether it is possible to come to terms with loss, whether time really heals, and if it does, then how long you need to wait... An even more difficult question is, what is love anyway? There's probably something for everyone. What it means for the hero, what it’s hard for him to remember, what causes him pain, you can learn from this book.

On our website you can download the book “When I am without you...” by Safarli Elchin for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

Cover photo: Alena Motovilova

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© Safarli E., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.

***

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

***

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

My family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

Part I

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

1
Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity.

Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies—one of those who are devoted to their homeland—look at the fugitives through the cracks of the closed shutters, grinning—either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

2
We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed warm clothes for him so that his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot remain alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passers-by rejoiced at the snowfall, others cursed.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

3
Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up overnight. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother told you: “If everything goes wrong, pick up a good book, it will help.”

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless white, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To an outsider, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believes in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receiving the blessing, the other - towards the earth, sharing what was received.

Remain silent when everyone is talking, speak when your words are about love, even through tears. Learn to forgive those around you - this is how you will find the way to forgiving yourself. Don't fuss, but don't forget where your ship is sailing. Maybe he lost his way?..

I miss. Dad

4
Life is just a journey. Enjoy

When we approached this city with our suitcases, a blizzard covered the only road to it. Fierce, blinding, thick white. I can not see anything. The pine trees standing on the side of the road in gusts of wind whipped the car, which was already swaying dangerously.

The day before the move, we looked at the weather report: no hints of a storm. It started as unexpectedly as it stopped. But in those moments it seemed that there would be no end to it.

Maria suggested returning. “This is a sign that now is not the time to go. Turn around!” Usually decisive and calm, my mother suddenly panicked.

I almost gave up, but I remembered what would be behind the obstacle: a beloved white house, an ocean with immense waves, the aroma of warm bread on a linden board, Van Gogh’s “Tulip Field” framed on the fireplace, the face of Mars waiting for us in the shelter, and there are still many beautiful things,” and pressed the gas pedal. Forward.

If we had gone back to the past then, we would have missed a lot. There wouldn't be these letters. It is fear (and not evil, as is often believed) that prevents love from opening up. Just as a magical gift can become a curse, fear brings destruction if it is not learned to control.

Dost, how interesting it is to learn life lessons when you are far from young. The great ignorance of man lies in his confidence that he has felt and experienced everything. This (and not wrinkles and gray hair) is the real old age and death.

We have a friend, psychologist Jean, we met at a shelter. We took Mars, and he took a tailless red cat. Recently Jean asked people whether they were satisfied with their lives. Most responded positively. Then Jean asked the following question: “Do you want to live as you are for another two hundred years?” The respondents' faces were contorted.

People get tired of themselves, even joyful ones. Do you know why? They always expect something in return - from circumstances, faith, actions, loved ones. “It's just a path. Enjoy,” Jean smiles and invites us to his place for onion soup. We agreed on next Sunday. Are you with us?

I miss. Dad

5
We all really need each other

The onion soup was a great success. It was interesting to watch the preparation, especially the moment when Jean put the garlic-rubbed croutons into pots of soup, sprinkled them with Gruyere, and into the oven. After a couple of minutes we were enjoying the soupe? l "oignon. We washed it down with white wine.

We've been wanting to try onion soup for a long time, but somehow never got around to it. It was hard to believe that it was tasty: the memories of school broth with coarsely chopped boiled onions did not induce appetite.

“In my opinion, the French themselves have forgotten how to properly prepare a classic soup? l "oignon, and they constantly come up with new recipes, one tastier than the other. In fact, the main thing in it is the caramelization of onions, which you get if you take sweet varieties. Adding sugar is extreme! And, of course, it is important with whom you share the meal. The French don’t eat onion soup alone. “It’s too warm and cozy for that,” my Isabelle said.”

That was the name of Jean's grandmother. He was a boy when his parents died in a car accident, and he was raised by Isabelle. She was a wise woman. On her birthday, Jean cooks onion soup, gathers friends, and remembers her childhood with a smile.

Jean is from Barbizon, a city in northern France where artists came from all over the world to paint landscapes, including Monet.

“Isabelle taught me to love people and help those who are different. Maybe because such people in our village at that time stood out among a thousand inhabitants, and it was too hard for them. Isabelle explained to me that “normal” is a fiction, beneficial to those in power, as they supposedly demonstrate our insignificance and inadequacy to the fictitious ideal. People who consider themselves flawed are easier to manage... Isabelle accompanied me to school with the words: “I hope today you will meet your unique self.”

...It was a magical evening, Dostu. The space around us was filled with wonderful stories, mouth-watering aromas, and new shades of taste. We sat at a set table, the radio sang “Life is beautiful” in the voice of Tony Bennett; the overfed Mars and the quiet, red-haired Mathis were snoring at their feet. We were filled with a bright peace - life goes on.

Jean remembered Isabelle, Maria and I remembered our grandparents. Mentally we thanked them and asked for forgiveness. Because, as they grew older, they needed their care less and less. But they still loved and waited.

Dost, in this strange world we all really need each other.

I miss. Dad

6
Our only task is to love life

You probably have déjà vu. Jean explains these outbreaks by reincarnation: the immortal soul in a new incarnation remembers what it felt in the previous body. “So the Universe suggests that there is no need to be afraid of earthly death, life is eternal.” It's hard to believe.

Over the past twenty years, déjà vu has not happened to me. But yesterday I felt how exactly a moment of my youth was repeated. In the evening, a storm broke out, and Amir and I finished things earlier than usual: he put out the dough for the morning bread, I stewed the apples with cinnamon for the puff pastries. A new product from our bakery that is loved by our customers. Puff pastry cooks quickly, so we usually make only the filling in the evening.

By seven the bakery was locked.

Thoughtfully, I walked home along the raging ocean. Suddenly a prickly blizzard hit my face. Defending myself, I closed my eyes and was suddenly transported into memories of fifty years ago.

I'm eighteen. War. Our battalion defends the border on a mountain with a ridge seventy kilometers long. Minus twenty. After the night offensive there were few of us left. Despite being wounded in the right shoulder, I cannot leave my post. The food is over, the water is running out, the order is to wait until morning. Reinforcements are on the way. At any moment the enemy can mow down the remnants of the battalion.

Cold and exhausted, at times almost losing consciousness from pain, I stood at my post. The storm raged without abating, lashing me from all sides.

Dostu, then I first knew despair. Slowly, inexorably, it takes hold of you from within, and you cannot resist it. At such moments you can’t even concentrate on prayer. You're waiting. Salvation or end.

Do you know what held me back then? A story from childhood. Hiding under the table at one of the adult gatherings, I heard it from Grandma Anna. Working as a nurse, she survived the siege of Leningrad.

My grandmother recalled how once, during a long shelling, a cook in a bomb shelter was cooking soup on a burner. From what they were able to collect: some gave a potato, some an onion, some a handful of cereals from pre-war reserves. When it was almost ready, she took off the lid, tasted it, added some salt, returned the lid to its place: “Another five minutes and it’s ready!” Exhausted people lined up for soup.

But they couldn’t eat that soup. It turned out that laundry soap got into it: the cook did not notice how it stuck to the lid when she put it on the table. The food was spoiled. The cook burst into tears. No one stuttered, reproached, or looked reproachfully. In the most difficult circumstances, people did not lose their humanity.

Then, while on duty, I remembered again and again this story, told in Anna’s voice. He survived. Morning came and help arrived. I was taken to the hospital.

Dost, a person is not given the opportunity to fully understand life, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to us that we understand what, how and why it works. But every new day its serpentines and junctions prove the opposite - we are always at our desks. And the only task is to love life.

I miss. Dad

7
I'll wait for you as long as you need

When I met your mother, she was married. She's twenty-seven, I'm thirty-two. He immediately confessed his feelings to her. “I’ll wait for you as long as necessary.” He continued to come to the library where she worked, borrowed books, but that was all. I waited for Maria for four years, although she did not promise that she would come.

Later I found out: she thought I would cool down and switch to another. But I was adamant. This is not love at first sight, but the minute when you see a person and understand: this is the one. At our first meeting, I decided that this girl with brown hair would be my wife. And so it happened.

I was waiting for her myself, but I didn’t expect anything from her. Not that she will give birth to children for me and fill my house with comfort; nor that will continue to follow the road that brought us together. The deep confidence that we would be together under any circumstances swept aside all doubts.

Meeting with Maria is the absence of hesitation even when it seemed that there was no hope.

I knew that our lives would intersect, I never stopped believing in it, although there were plenty of reasons to doubt it.

Everyone deserves to meet their person, but not everyone gets it. Some do not allow their will to strengthen and lose faith, others, disappointed, notice only the unsuccessful experience of the past, and some do not wait at all, being content with what they have.

Your birth strengthened our connection with Mary. This was another gift from Fate. We were so passionate about each other and work (love is a wonderful combination of friendship and passion) that the thought of a child did not occur to us. And suddenly life sent us a miracle. You. Our souls and bodies united, merged into one, and the path became common. We tried our best to love and protect you, but there were some mistakes.

I remember how Maria, rocking you to sleep, worried: “Everything in her is changing so quickly that I dream of stopping time like never before.” Nothing gave us greater happiness than seeing you, a sleepy little one, open your eyes, look at us and smile at the fact that we are your dad and mom.

Dostu, barriers to happiness are an illusion of the subconscious, fears are empty worries, and dreams are our present. She is reality.

I miss. Dad

8
Madness is half wisdom, wisdom is half madness

Until recently, Umid, a good-natured rebel boy, worked in our bakery. He delivered baked goods to homes. His clients loved him, especially the older generation. He was helpful, although he rarely smiled. Umid reminded me of twenty years old - a volcano of internal protest that was about to burst out.

Umid was brought up in a Catholic school and dreamed of becoming a priest. When he was growing up, he dropped out of school and left home. “Many believers pretend to be someone they are not.”

The day before yesterday Umid announced that he was resigning. Moving.

“I don’t want to live in this damn city. I'm tired of calling its ugliness uniqueness, and the hypocrisy of society - a property of mentality. You visitors cannot see how rotten everything is here. And eternal winter is not a feature of the geographical location, but a curse. Look at our government, all they do is talk about love for their homeland. If they started talking about patriotism, it means they were stealing. But it’s our own fault: when they elected themselves, we were sitting in front of the TV with popcorn.”

Amir tried to persuade Umid to think carefully, but I remained silent. I remember being a teenager very well - nothing could stop me. Impulsive decisions helped get things moving.

Dostu, did you know that my grandfather Barish was a teacher at the theological seminary? He and I talked about God more than once. I felt a higher power above me, but religious dogmas caused me rejection.

One day, excited by Barysh’s calm reaction to another school injustice, I blurted out: “Grandfather, it’s nonsense that everything is always on time! Our will determines too much. There is no miracle or predestination. Everything is just will.”

Title: When I return, be home
Writer: Elchin Safarli
Year: 2017
Publisher: AST
Genres: Contemporary Russian literature

About the book “When I return, be at home” Elchin Safarli

It's hard to lose loved ones, and even harder when children leave. This is an irreparable loss, this is a huge emptiness in the soul until the end of days. It is difficult to convey in words what parents feel at such moments. Elchin Safarli was able to not only describe the mental state of people who lost their daughter, but also did it beautifully. You simply cannot resist your emotions - they will overwhelm you and never let you go. This is one of those books that changes people's lives.

The book “When I Return, Be Home” tells the story of a family where a daughter died. Each member experiences this tragedy in their own way. A man writes letters to his daughter. He doesn't think that she will never read them - he believes the opposite. He talks about a variety of topics - about love, about life, about the sea, about happiness. He tells his daughter about everything that is happening around.

When you start reading Elchin Safarli’s book, you can’t stop. There is a special atmosphere here - the taste of salty sea air, the pleasant breeze that you feel in your hair, and the sand that crushes under your steps. But the wind will disappear with the next gust, and the footprints on the sand will be destroyed by the wave. Everything in the world disappears somewhere, but I would like the dearest and most beloved to always be nearby.

It is difficult to philosophize over the books of Elchin Safarli - his skill in this matter simply cannot be surpassed. Even the name says a lot. Each line is full of pain, despair, but the desire to live on - for the sake of your child, to be able to write letters to her and talk about life.

The entire book “When I Return, Be Home” can be divided into quotes that will help you not to despair in difficult moments, get up and move on, no matter what. They say it’s true that we begin to appreciate only when we lose it - and it doesn’t matter whether it’s a person or some kind of object.

The book is gray, like a cloudy day, sad, like the story of the unhappy love of Romeo and Juliet. But she is so reverent, sincere, real... She has power - the power of the ocean, the power of the elements, the power of parental love for their children. It is impossible to convey in simple words what you experience when you start reading this work. You just have to take my word for it, take a book and... disappear for several days, talking about the eternal - about love, about life, about death...

If you like philosophical sad works, then Elchin Safarli has prepared something special for you. Many were looking forward to this particular work and were not disappointed. Read it too, and perhaps something special will appear in your life - exactly that footprint in the sand that will help you move on, despite difficulties and losses.

On our literary website books2you.ru you can download Elchin Safarli’s book “When I Return, Be Home” for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, psychological literature and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting for themselves.

Elchin Safarli

When I'm without you...

Collection

I'll come back…

With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziye Dzhilgamli and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir

In this book, the words “hope”, “faith”, “happiness” and their derivatives are used 678 times

I heard you read the book, and what did you find in it?

New life.

Do you believe this?

Listen to me, I also once believed the book. And I decided that I would find this world. (...) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death...

That world exists! (...)

Yes there is nothing! These are all beautiful fairy tales! Think of it as something like a game that old idiot played with his kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It's funny to read, but if you believe in it, your life is lost...

Orhan Pamuk. "New life"

...You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, look at each other, bringing our faces together, and the eyes grow, grow and get closer, screw into each other: the Cyclops look eye to eye, the breath is ragged, and our mouths meet, poke, bite each other's lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breathing, smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers emitting a vague, dull aroma, or living, trembling fish. And if you happen to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if you happen to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air away from each other, then this moment of death is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters...

Julio Cortazar. "Game of Hopscotch"

...the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and express their opinions without interference. And I just listen and write down.

Paradise Bradbury

I wanted to write about everything, everything that was happening around me.

About your flowers when you bring them.

About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels to the touch.

About all our feelings - yours, mine...

About history: what we were like.

About everything in the world, about everything together, honey!

Because everything in life is mixed...

Film "The Clock"

We have the right to fly where we want and be who we are created to be.

Richard Bach

...She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever. Under a glass of citrus juice there is a napkin damp around the edges. There are painful words on it in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. He didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. I didn’t smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. He started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Wasn't it preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. For you or to you. Doesn't matter. The important thing is you...

...Women leave magical nights for men to say goodbye. Women's traces on men's hearts. The night before the separation, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body, like snowflakes on an icy window. For some reason it was getting cold. Now I understand. Farewell kisses lose their warmth. They contain the cooled tenderness of parting... On the last night she looked at me differently than usual. There is alienation in the gaze. Alienation in opposition to love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of leaving. The struggle of soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before separation. There is a silent protest in it. A protest against yourself. Feelings lose to reason. More often…

...I open the refrigerator. There is nothing in it except green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness by eating green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather's garden, devoured juicy apples, looked at the sky, and counted the passing planes. So the sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, like airplanes disappearing in the sky... For the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Memories lived in each of them. He ate the memories, leaving them with him forever. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, and remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I childishly hoped that the day the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are gone. She didn't return...

...Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one unexpected touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle on Istiklal Caddesi. Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs from street musicians. An ice cream seller is inviting customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. The pistachio aroma of baklava in the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my wallet. The kurushes rolled across the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She “oh, sorry for God’s sake” in Russian. At the same time we bend down to collect the coins. Touch. Her hands are cold. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere concern, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. I couldn't resist. Kissed.

She was surprised, and I fell in love. “Let's have some ice cream...” He said the first thing that came to mind. She answered in Turkish. “Oki...” Then she slapped me in the face. “You're definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover...” She laughed, but I didn't apologize...

...True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. The sky, airy and windy, she was. The earth, stably grounded, was me. Love between us... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry pie. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the fleeting nature of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remained different. Difference strengthened feelings and embellished everyday life with colorful shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also perish... Then which of us has unraveled the knots of feelings?..

...Appetizing scoops of ice cream melted in a mother-of-pearl glass vase. They lost their individuality and merged into a common pale brown mass. She licked the teaspoon, holding it between her cranberry lips from time to time. I mentally left this cafe with a view of the Bosphorus. Carried away to where her freedom is free. Purely women's freedom. “...I dream of turning into a seagull. Soar over the Golden Horn, peck at fish, let yourself be fed with crunchy simit. Decide for yourself where and with whom to fly...” She spoke to herself, but out loud. Velvety voice, sparse eyelashes, dimpled smile. Smoldering cigarette in fingers. “Hey, seagull, your ice cream is melting...” She shudders and looks from the Golden Horn to me. Penetrates into the depths of my eyes. Goosebumps. I have. And there is a smile on her face.

Presses the cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I ask you something?” The waiter brings hot tea with kunefe. The warm sugar-saffron aroma drives away the vanilla shades of ice cream. One of my bad habits is hot after cold. “Ask...” She returns her gaze to the Golden Horn again. “Give me...” He doesn’t finish speaking, lights a cigarette. "What to gift?" Signs of jewelry stores and expensive boutiques flashed before my eyes. In the first 48 hours of falling in love, a man doubts a woman. On a subconscious level. Fear of being disappointed. “Give me hope...” I drop my cigarette in surprise. She laughed. She stood up and leaned over the table. She kissed her nose. “Will you give it to me? Come on, don’t be greedy...” - “I’ll give...” At that moment her mobile phone rang. He called all the time while we were with her. They often wait for us exactly where we don’t want to return... Why didn’t her mobile drown in the Bosphorus? Telephone handsets interfere with actions. Just like in the song...

...Her name is Mirumir. This is how she introduced herself. “Is there really such a Russian name?” He purses his lips in displeasure. “If I introduced myself as Natasha, would it make you feel better?” - “Okay, then my name is Svetusvet...” - “Are you kidding me?” She is fucking angry and throws a bitten roasted chestnut at me. There are traces of her lipstick on it, and she manages to catch it with her mouth. “Okay, okay, what do you want, Mirumir?” Thinking: “To your inner world... Are you satisfied, Svetusvet?” I laugh. “Satisfied...”

Current page: 1 (book has 30 pages total) [available reading passage: 20 pages]

Elchin Safarli
When I'm without you... (collection)

I'll come back…
Novel

With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziye Dzhilgamli and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir

In this book, the words “hope”, “faith”, “happiness” and their derivatives are used 678 times

– I heard you read a book, and what did you find in it?

- New life.

– Do you believe this?

– Listen to me, I, too, once believed the book. And I decided that I would find this world. (...) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death...

– That world exists! (...)

- There’s nothing! These are all beautiful fairy tales! Think of it as something like a game that old idiot played with his kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It’s funny to read, but if you believe in it, your life is lost...

Orhan Pamuk. "New life"

...You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, look at each other, bringing our faces together, and the eyes grow, grow and get closer, screw into each other: the Cyclops look eye to eye, the breath is ragged, and our mouths meet, poke, bite each other's lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breathing, smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers emitting a vague, dull aroma, or living, trembling fish. And if you happen to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if you happen to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air away from each other, then this moment of death is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters...

Julio Cortazar. "Game of Hopscotch"

...the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and express their opinions without interference. And I just listen and write down.

Paradise Bradbury

I wanted to write about everything, everything that was happening around me.

About your flowers when you bring them.

About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels to the touch.

About all our feelings - yours, mine...

About history: what we were like.

About everything in the world, about everything together, honey!

Because everything in life is mixed...

Film "The Clock"

Part I
About them

We have the right to fly where we want and be who we are created to be.

Richard Bach

...She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever. Under a glass of citrus juice there is a napkin damp around the edges. There are painful words on it in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. He didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. I didn’t smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. He started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Wasn't it preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. For you or to you. Doesn't matter. The important thing is you...

...Women leave magical nights for men to say goodbye. Women's traces on men's hearts. The night before the separation, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body, like snowflakes on an icy window. For some reason it was getting cold. Now I understand. Farewell kisses lose their warmth. They contain the cooled tenderness of parting... On the last night she looked at me differently than usual. There is alienation in the gaze. Alienation in opposition to love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of leaving. The struggle of soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before separation. There is a silent protest in it. A protest against yourself. Feelings lose to reason. More often…

...I open the refrigerator. There is nothing in it except green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness by eating green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather's garden, devoured juicy apples, looked at the sky, and counted the passing planes. So the sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, like airplanes disappearing in the sky... For the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Memories lived in each of them. He ate the memories, leaving them with him forever. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, and remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I childishly hoped that the day the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are gone. She didn't return...

...Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one unexpected touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle on Istiklal Caddesi 1
Independence Street in the center of Istanbul.

Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs from street musicians. An ice cream seller is inviting customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. Pistachio aroma of baklava 2
Turkish sweet pastries.

In the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my wallet. Kurushi 3
Turkish small change.

They rolled on the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She “oh, sorry for God’s sake” in Russian. At the same time we bend down to collect the coins. Touch. Her hands are cold. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere concern, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. I couldn't resist. Kissed.

She was surprised, and I fell in love. “Let's have some ice cream...” He said the first thing that came to mind. She answered in Turkish. "Okie 4
"Can" (Turkish).

..." Then she slapped me in the face. “You are definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover...” She laughed, but I didn’t apologize...

...True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. The sky, airy and windy, she was. The earth, stably grounded, was me. Love between us... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry pie. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the fleeting nature of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remained different. Difference strengthened feelings and embellished everyday life with colorful shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also perish... Then which of us has unraveled the knots of feelings?..

...Appetizing scoops of ice cream melted in a mother-of-pearl glass vase. They lost their individuality and merged into a common pale brown mass. She licked the teaspoon, holding it between her cranberry lips from time to time. I mentally left this cafe with a view of the Bosphorus. Carried away to where her freedom is free. Purely women's freedom. “...I dream of turning into a seagull. Soar over the Golden Horn, peck at fish, let yourself be fed crunchy simit 5
Turkish bagels strewn with sesame seeds.

Decide for yourself where and with whom to fly...” She spoke to herself, but out loud. Velvety voice, sparse eyelashes, dimpled smile. Smoldering cigarette in fingers. “Hey, seagull, your ice cream is melting...” She shudders and looks from the Golden Horn to me. Penetrates into the depths of my eyes. Goosebumps. I have. And there is a smile on her face.

Presses the cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I ask you something?” The waiter brings hot tea with kunefe 6
A sweet cheese pie that is eaten exclusively hot.

The warm sugar-saffron aroma drives away the vanilla shades of ice cream. One of my bad habits is hot after cold. “Ask...” She returns her gaze to the Golden Horn again. “Give me...” He doesn’t finish speaking, lights a cigarette. "What to gift?" Signs of jewelry stores and expensive boutiques flashed before my eyes. In the first 48 hours of falling in love, a man doubts a woman. On a subconscious level. Fear of being disappointed. “Give me hope...” I drop my cigarette in surprise. She laughed. She stood up and leaned over the table. She kissed her nose. “Will you give it to me? Come on, don’t be greedy...” “I’ll give it...” At that moment her mobile phone rang. He called all the time we were with her. They often wait for us exactly where we don’t want to return... Why didn’t her mobile drown in the Bosphorus? Telephone handsets interfere with actions. Just like in the song...

...Her name is Mirumir. This is how she introduced herself. “Is there really such a Russian name?” He purses his lips in displeasure. “If I introduced myself as Natasha, would it make you feel better?” - “Okay, then my name is Svetusvet...” - “Are you kidding me?” She is fucking angry and throws a bitten roasted chestnut at me. There are traces of her lipstick on it, and she manages to catch it with her mouth. “Okay, okay, what do you want, Mirumir?” Thinking: “To your inner world... Are you satisfied, Svetusvet?” I laugh. “Satisfied...”

She stops at the entrance to the Galata Tower 7
One of the symbols of Istanbul, located in the European part of the city on a high hill in the Galata district.

Putting his palm to his forehead, Mirumir raises his head. Looking at the sixty-meter "Tower of Jesus" 8
The Genoese, who built the Galata Tower in 1348–1349, called it the “Tower of Jesus.”

I carefully sneak up behind her and kiss her on the neck. Slightly damp, tanned. Second kiss on the first day of dating. Insolence or courage? She turns around. There is sadness in the eyes. “I’m afraid to love you...” I hold her close to me. “Don’t be afraid... After all, I already love you.” Mirumir moves away in embarrassment. “Better help me climb the 143 steps of Galata... I won’t get into the elevator.” - “I can take you in my arms. Only for this there is a payment: one kiss...” He gets angry. Again incredibly sexy. “All of you in the East are bargaining so charmingly? No kissing. Forward and with a song..."

...She wears sea green and rich yellow clothes. This is how her anticipation of the sea and sun is expressed. “When I want to hide from everyone, I mentally immerse myself in the Bosphorus. Warm sea, warmed by the summer sun... That's why I come here every year. I don't have to dive here. Here I can float on the surface.” In his way, Mirumir complements the dazzling palette of summer Istanbul...

He doesn't live his own life. “I say “I love” to someone I don’t love. Isn’t this the greatest misfortune?” Doesn't talk about life outside of the present time. A few words, then changes the topic of conversation. "It's cold in Moscow. Always... Listen, how much does it cost to get a haircut in a decent salon?” We don't discuss tomorrow. No plans, ideas, ideas. We fell in love with each other today.

Love rarely deals with the future tense. Often it remains in the past or persists in the present. If love continues in the future, then its bearers are infinitely lucky... I listen to the wind. He, driving the clouds, brings news from parallel time. For the wind, the distance between Istanbul and Moscow is nothing. So why don’t you talk about her, wind?..

...Having become acquainted with my kitchen, I fell in love with me more. “Women recognize a man’s character silently. We don’t ask questions, we don’t pry into the soul. We look closely, listen, feel. We act without words...” Mirumir convinces that a man’s kitchen speaks about his character. “If the kitchen is clean and untouched, it means that a man needs the warmth of home, although he is ready to deny it in every possible way. Such a stubborn man needs to be pampered with delicious food, but not tired of him with attention... If the kitchen is a mess, there are ashtrays with cigarette butts everywhere, it means the man has a complex character. You need to adapt to this, and very carefully... Your kitchen is “living.” There is life in it. This means it’s interesting to be with you, but not at all easy. You defend your personal space.”

I say that I do not believe in such generalizations. She falls silent and gets out of bed. Puts on a bra. She has small breasts with soft peach nipples. Insanely beautiful. Graceful sexuality. Proud posture, fragile shoulders, sensually protruding vertebrae. Scar on right elbow. Short cut nails...

I get out of bed, pick her up, and return her to bed. He kicks, hits his back, is indignant. I bite into her dry lips, reminiscent of violet leaves. Exciting naturalness. He almost never uses decorative cosmetics or perfume. As she is. Without stereotyped beauty, feigned femininity. She doesn't read Kundera - she loves Hyoga, Sagan, Capote. Often repeats a phrase from Breakfast at Tiffany's: “This cat and I are very similar. We are both poor, nameless disheveled..."

She kisses my chin and rubs her face against my stubble. “Tell me that you don’t love me... Drive me away... Say that you need sex from me and nothing else... Don’t drag me into love...” I go deeper into her, whispering in her ear. “I love you... Hey, I love you... You won’t leave...” She closes her eyes. Tears are flowing. Love with a bound heart. Have you ever had this happen? When there is no way back or forward. There is only a place where you stand and cannot move...

Sits on the windowsill. In panties. Wrapping your arms around your knees. Wavy brown hair. Banana nail polish sparkles in the sun. I'll bring you coffee. Stepping on "Bonjour tristesse" 9
“Hello, sadness!” (French).

Paperback, takes a cup. “Is she so close to you in spirit?” I'm leafing through the book. Pale gray paper, poor gluing. The book smells like her. “A little... The more I read Sagan, the better I begin to understand what a complex character she had... She put her pleasure first... always... Forgivable selfishness... but that’s not important...”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Great... Ellerine sağlık 10
Health to your hands (Turkish).

...What kind of coffee?” - “Fig.” - "Which?!" I put the book aside and take a cigarette out of the pack. The lighter is acting up - the flame is intermittent. “Yes, yes, dear, fig. It was prepared during the Ottoman Empire. And my grandmother taught me. Grandma Lale..."

Mirumir opens the window and draws in sea air. “Hey, Bosfoor, hello!..” He waves his hand at the great strait, attracting the attention of people passing below. A naked girl in a sixth floor window in broad daylight. I laugh, surprising myself. With all the acquisitions of modernity, there is a lot of conservatism in me. But next to her, for some reason, I change, like the direction of the wind. Strong influence or great love?

“Let's get back to coffee... Tell me how to make it? I will enjoy it in Moscow... In short, it doesn’t matter where.” “Add small pieces of dried figs and a pinch of cinnamon to the coffee grinder along with the beans. Cook it your favorite way. The taste, as you can see, has not changed much. But what an aroma... Just don’t forget to pour the finished coffee into cups through a sieve, without grounds.”

Finishes his coffee. Thinking about it. Turns his gaze to the wall clock. “Get the tape. I want to tape the arrows so they don't move. Or remove the batteries from the watch. Do anything, stop time...” - “Why, Mirumir?” Silent. “Explain why.” He lowers his eyes. “Come on...” She suddenly swings her hand and smashes the coffee cup against the wall clock. Crying. “Stop time... Stop...” I hug her. “Okay, okay... Don't cry...” Before separation, time speeds up, and with the onset of separation it slows down. There are many errors in the “Love is...” program. But it is impossible to reinstall it. Unfortunately…

...The roads of night Istanbul are all covered in fragments of broken hearts. They crunch underfoot, crumble, digging into the shoes of passers-by. Passersby are the lucky ones today. A little more than others. However, each of these passers-by realizes that tomorrow night his heart may also break. The law of the metropolis: everyone cannot be lucky. The film “Istanbul Gold 400” contains more than 20 million frames of human destinies. Sensitivity is increased, color balance is the best in the East...

The clock says 03:12. Beyoğlu. Bohemian district of Istanbul. The older generation of Turks calls it a “hotbed of immorality,” the younger generation calls it “heavenly hell.” The bohemian flower of Istanbul first grew and blossomed here. Since then, it blooms every day after midnight...

Empty bus stop. There was no one around except us and two drunken transvestites who had fallen asleep by one of the lightboxes. We sit at a distance from each other. We smoke in unison. I am “Kent 1”, she is “Kent 4”. She gathered her hair into two buns. She put on large glasses - yellow glasses with green frames. “Why are you laughing? A reflection of the state of the soul...” In silence we look at the road a few meters away from us. There are few cars. Only occasionally do taxis with glowing sabers pass by. Traffic lights change colors, the stopwatches on them uselessly inform the ghosts of the night city about the green light.

The Bosphorus has fallen silent, my cigarette is smoking under my nose, and the music is blasting away a block away. I listen to the words of the song. “Istanbul seni kaybetmiş... Eski bir banda kaydetmiş...” 11
“Istanbul lost you... Recorded it on an old tape...” (Turkish).

Right in the heart. “I’m afraid of losing you... You... Mirumir... Do you hear?” Somewhere a police siren wailed. A woman's cry. “And I’m already lost...” She blows on the traffic light, and it, obeying her, changes color. “Look, I’m a fairy... A fairy with a bad head... Svetusvet, I ask you, lose me...” Her mobile phone rang. Doesn't answer. “It’s late, baby. “I’ve already found you.” Throws away the cigarette butt and crushes it with the toe of his sandal. He grins. "So what's the problem? You'll lose again..."

I look at the sky. There, someone spilled liquid dark chocolate with pieces of almonds. Almonds are stars. Suddenly one of them flies out of the sky. Falls right into the heart of the Bosphorus. The mind instantly formulates a desire. The Turks say that if a star with a wish falls and dissolves in the Bosporus, then “your wish and the wish of your soulmate” will come true. There is no time: the star is approaching the mirror-like surface of the strait. I make one wish for two. "Love beyond separation." Oof, I made it...

While I was watching the star, I didn’t notice how Mirumir moved towards me. “A star fell into the Bosphorus... He made a wish for us...” She smiled. For the first time that night. “I noticed her at the same time as you...” - “Yes? And what wish did you make?” He takes off his glasses. Listens to the Bosphorus. “It’s not even a desire... I just said: “Don’t let me go...” I told the star, but I thought about you.” I put my glasses back on. She turned to the traffic light: with the breath of her heart she changed the signals. I squeeze her hand in my palm and remain silent. Beyoglu continued to thunder and debauch. It's already 04:16 on the clock. It is time…

* * *

...I multiply cigarette butts in the flashes of dawn. She fell asleep with her head on my legs. Plunging into sleep, it seems to decrease in size. The body shrinks, facial features become smaller. I want to wrap her in myself. Save from hurricanes of memories, rains of despair. But I can't move. Mirumir limits my movements. It’s a pity to wake her up... Even within the walls of Morpheus’s kingdom, she proudly refuses help, locking herself in loneliness. “Everyone must bear his own cross. Why bother your neighbor? He has his own cross...” Mirumir is afraid to wait. Maybe this is right? When you wait a long time and in the end don’t get what you expected, you stop believing, and therefore stopping hoping. Maybe it’s better not to peer into the horizons with the hope of seeing scarlet sails?.. We have plenty to choose from. Always. I choose her. I choose love. I make a choice for two. After all, in despair there is often no strength left to make a choice. In desperation, you want someone to make a choice for you at least once... I make a choice for the world.

...Doesn't talk about himself. He gets burned by his own words. I don't feel any mystery or insincerity. Mirumir does not want to return to where her mind is dragging her, despite the impulses of her soul. “Monroe once said: “When difficult days come, I think: it would be nice to become a cleaner to sweep away the inner pain...” On the contrary, I am drawn to become a cleaner in happy times. I want to cleanse myself of the disappointments of the past and the fears of the present. I’m afraid of the present because I don’t know what future it will lead to...”

She likes to look at me when I am not looking at her. When I shave in the morning, she leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching me carefully. When I explain our order to the waiter, she covers her ears with her hands and reads my lips. When I go to the toilet, squeezing through the tables in the hall, she draws a heart on my back with her gaze. “So I find in you what I have been looking for for so long. No, you are not a prince on a white horse. You are my present. Real, close, dear. And it doesn’t matter whether you are a prince or a king, whether you have a horse or not. It's important that you are here. With me. And so your own... This is not pathos, Svetusvet. This is what I always wanted to say in the present. Every woman saves words for the hero of her present. Happy present. You just need to wait for him. I waited"...

Lying on the purple living room sofa, watching “Don't Bother to Knock” 12
"You don't have to knock" (English). Psychological drama, 1952. The main role was played by Marilyn Monroe.

She eats pumpkin seeds and I drink hot chocolate from Starbucks. She's wearing my blue and white checkered shirt, I'm wearing just boxer shorts. She threw her legs over the back of the sofa, I stretched mine out and put them on the blue ottoman. Mirumir calls Marilyn Monroe “a restless devil.” “A delightful girl... They saw her as sex first, then as talent... It’s somehow unfair...” I’ve never been a fan of Norma Jeane. “In my opinion, she doesn’t have much talent. But he has a great butt...” He pinches my stomach. “You are all men from the same garden...”

Mirumir gets up from the sofa and twists his hair into a knot. Lights up a cigarette. “You know, before “Don”t Bother to Knock” I considered Monroe an empty actress of stupid comedies. But after this work I looked at her differently... In fact, she was an unhappy actress, since she reluctantly played even in life... I read a lot about her. I found something in her that makes us closer. I also understand that I need to run faster through life, but I can’t do it either - my legs don’t move...” The story ends as soon as it intersects with her life.

Goes to the window. He puts his elbows on the windowsill and looks at the cars passing below. Freezes, becomes silent. For a moment I think she has disappeared from the present. Left Istanbul and returned to Moscow. I call Mirumir. Doesn't respond. Fear gets me off the couch. I approach quietly from behind so as not to scare her. My steps are drowned out by the sound of the TV. I hand her my chocolate. "Want? There’s still some left…” She shook her head negatively. The sea wind moves a strand of hair that has fallen on the forehead. The cigarette went out. Does not notice. “...I wander in all four directions... Hardened by frost... Strong, like a web in the wind... Hanging to the ground... I’m still somehow holding on...” - “Where is this from?” “Monroe wrote. It’s like it’s about me, to the point...”

Cars on the street honk hysterically, crowded in traffic. I hug Mirumir by the shoulders and press him to me. I close the window. “Hey, up your nose. You are not alone". - “I’m not sad, dear. This is different. More like normal fear. Fear of losing reality...” - “You won’t lose it.” - “Maybe I won’t lose it. But sooner or later it will break itself... We need to return to Moscow.” I look into her eyes. “You will leave to come back.” She turns her gaze to Monroe crying on the TV. “The hardest thing to decide is to go back. After all, all roads lead forward, not back..."

He puts his ear to my chest. “I’ll listen to your heart...” I smile. “Listen... I can give it to you.” - "No need. It’s the same with me..."