Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Sergey Donatovich Dovlatov

Russian Modern Prose
Сергей Донатович Довлатов (1941–1990) – один из наиболее читаемых и издаваемых русских писателей. Его произведения переведены на многие языки. Повесть «Заповедник» (1983) справедливо называют одним из самых значимых произведений прозаика. Как и в большинстве произведений Довлатова, прототипом главного героя является автор, работавший в музее-заповеднике А. С. Пушкина «Михайловское» в 1976–1977 годах. Рассказчик – писатель, который на лето приезжает в Пушкинские Горы поработать экскурсоводом. Деньги, жена, творчество и государство – вот что вызывает внутренние противоречия у главного героя. Однако эти же проблемы были острыми для Пушкина, который жил в поселке «Михайловское» 150 лет назад. Читателю книги предоставляется возможность познакомиться с русской литературой на английском языке. Издание снабжено комментариями и словарем.

Сергей Довлатов

Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

© Katherine Dovlatov, 2013

© Издательство КАРО, 2020

Pushkin Hills

To my wife, who was right

At noon we pulled into Luga. We stopped at the station square and the tour guide adjusted her tone from a lofty to an earthier one:

“There to the left are the facilities.”

My neighbour pricked up his ears[1 - to prick up one’s ears – навострить уши]:

“You mean the restroom?”

He had been nagging me the entire trip: “A bleaching agent, six letters? An endangered artiodactyl? An Austrian downhill skier?”

The tourists exited onto a sunlit square. The driver slammed the door shut and crouched by the radiator.

The station: a dingy yellow building with columns, a clock tower and flickering neon letters, faded by the sun…

I cut across the vestibule with its newspaper stand and massive cement urns and instinctively sought out a café.

“Through the waiter,” grumbled the woman at the counter. A bottle-opener dangled on her fallen bosom.

I sat by the door. A waiter with tremendous felted sideburns materialized a minute later.

“What’s your pleasure?”

“My pleasure,” I said, “is for everyone to be kind, humble and courteous.”

The waiter, having had his fill[2 - to have one’s fill – насытиться] of life’s diversity, said nothing.

“My pleasure is half a glass of vodka, a beer and two sandwiches.”

“What kind?”

“Sausage, I guess.”

I got out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. “Better not drop the glass…” And just then two refined old ladies sat down at the next table. They looked like they were from our bus.

The waiter brought a small carafe, a bottle of beer and two chocolates.

“The sandwiches are all gone,” he announced with a note of false tragedy.

I paid up. I lifted the glass and put it down right away. My hands shook like an epileptic’s. The old ladies looked me over with distaste. I attempted a smile:

“Look at me with love!”

The ladies shuddered and changed tables. I heard some muffled interjections of disapproval.

To hell with them, I thought. I steadied the glass with both hands and drained it. Then I wrestled out the sweet.

I began to feel better. That deceptive feeling of bliss was setting in. I stuffed the beer in my pocket and stood up, nearly knocking over the chair. A Duralumin[3 - Duralumin – дюралевый, выполненный из дюралюминия (собирательное название сплавов на основе алюминия)] armchair, to be precise. The old ladies continued to scrutinize me with apprehension.

I stepped onto the square. Its walls were covered with warped plywood billboards. The drawings promised mountains of meat, wool, eggs and various unmentionables in the not-too-distant future.

The men were smoking by the side of the bus. The women were noisily taking their seats. The tour guide was eating an ice cream in the shade. I approached her:

“Let’s get acquainted.”

“Aurora,” she said, extending a sticky hand.

“And I am,” I said, “Borealis.”

The girl didn’t take offence.

“Everyone makes fun of my name. I’m used to it… What’s wrong with you? You’re all red!”

“I assure you, it’s only on the outside. On the inside I’m a constitutional democrat.”

“No, really, are you unwell?”

“I drink too much. Would you like a beer?”

“Why do you drink?” she asked.

What could I say?

“It’s a secret,” I said, “a little mystery…”

“So you’ve decided to work at the museum?”

“Exactly.”

“I knew it right away.”

“Do I look like the literary type?”