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HomeLatest News"Vineta" - an excerpt from Oleg Yuryev's novel about a journey through...

“Vineta” – an excerpt from Oleg Yuryev’s novel about a journey through the complex space of Russian speech

Date: July 18, 2024 Time: 10:33:55

According to the memories of Koreli, Izhora and Ves, St. Petersburg was founded like this: Tsar Peter and his Russians came to the mouth of the Neva River and said: “Build a city here, children! And in the meantime, I will teach a frigate to build a ship: twenty-eight guns, three masts, and the name they have given it is “Of the Germans and Poles, the glorious sunken holy city of Vineta.” As soon as I cut off my hand, that ship will be ready, so that you too will have the entire city of St. Petersburg. And if it doesn’t happen…” and he threatened from under the ground with an axe.

The royal town blinked at the familiar ax and, well, let’s build. But, alas, they cannot drive a single pile or place a single stone: everything is absorbed by the Ingria swamp, I only know that it hits and that the winds release it. Peter stood up from the finished ship: twenty-eight guns, three masts and the name they gave her “From the Germans and Poles, the glorious sunken holy city of Vineta” – there is no St. Petersburg, and you can’t even see the Moscow station, and Gostiny Dvor is the same, everything exactly as it was: the miserable shelters of the Chukhonts, the rocks and boulders, the thieves’ swamps and the forest. “You don’t know how to do anything! – the king was upset. “I owe everything to myself, to God, to the soul, to the mother and to the twelve apostles!…” – and another 209 words of the Great Sovereign. When he refused, the sovereign pushed many rocks and logs into the air and with this floating material in the low sky he built the entire Saint Petersburg in the palm of his hand, with squares and streets, with churches, a synagogue and a mosque. , with a long, low fortress under a golden spire and the Admiralty under a golden Spitz, with cemeteries and palaces, including department stores and subway stations (when the Soviet government needed them, it dug them up in dungeons). Then he lowered the city to the ground, and it rose up like a toy.

In a sense, St. Petersburg is still an island paradise: everything hangs over land and water, barely touching each other. A small medium: the thickness of the king’s palm. Outsiders rarely notice this gap: the sky in our latitudes is low, very low, under the sea. Petersburg is a kind of Laputa island; If her innumerable anchors had not supported her, she would have long since flown away. But the anchors are in hands that know no relaxation: the dead sway on the bottom and pull on cast iron chains.

Peter called the city he built in the palm of his hand: “my Paradise.” A simple man from St. Petersburg, born here as if in advance, without any merit on his part, is always somewhat confused and constantly a little unsure: is he worthy of an undeserved honor and is the registration of him in Paradise legal? His head is slightly dizzy, due to the imperceptible rocking of the aircraft; His eyes hurt a little: from the trembling brilliance of the convex rivers, from the mercury shine of the clouds, and from the acrid gold of the needles. He knows: these palaces were not built for him and these gardens with paths were laid out, not for him, but for some higher beings, perhaps even angels. And in the life of a St. Petersburg man, sooner or later the hour comes when he, no longer able to live at someone else’s expense, breaks up; after all, he himself, like a ball, is filled with a tickling gas. No matter how the rope is twisted, it is tied to one of the fences holding the spear, but the noose is gradually untied, and it is untied, and it slides off the crossbar that has floated like wild cast iron. And the poor ball takes it, to Moscow or Hamburg, to Venice or New York, to simple and shameless cities that are on land (well, even on water), and they will feel flattered, grateful and happy if St. Petersburg the person comes to live in them. For them we are angels.

Of course, when I wrote all this (in a dissertation for the degree of candidate of historical sciences on the topic “St. Petersburg and Vineta, two Balto-Slavic myths. Aspects of the recreation of a mirror chronotope”), I still did not know this. that soon “that hour” would come to me. For twenty-eight years without three months I lived in debt, and when they asked me to return them, I did not have them, although the debt was not mine, but that of my late stepfather, the patriarch of Russian strikulism.

In Moskovsky, without a doubt, they were waiting for me, I would arrive in Moscow with a red arrow in my heart and with a tin glass firmly held in my cold hand, and why do I need Moscow, this wild crossing between Los Angeles and the Bazaar of Istanbul, as Yulik Goldstein (Yakov Nikolaevich, my failed pseudoscientific leader, beloved nephew, the great writer of the Russian land and leader of the black Jews of America) happily expressed it. In Moscow, they have a tavern keeper sitting on a tavern keeper and driving him, but what can they take from me, an orphan? So why am I going to fight them there? Therefore, after queuing at the ticket office, I went out to Vosstaniya Square with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, but I did not smoke. You can smoke here, of course: the entire square is surrounded by a column of Finnish buses with a drawing on the side: on a tilted bottle there is the inscription “Merry Christmas in Pietari!”; From under the thick wheels, difficult to turn on the shiny snow suspension and similar to terrible stamp rollers with secret Finno-Ugric hieroglyphs, it hits the station porch in solid gusts and splashes and liquid lumps of a single tricolor tracer. So I didn’t smoke, I went down to the subway and, hanging from a damp-stained bar, I staggered towards Baltiyskaya. From beneath the lightning marks on the train window floated an otherwise bearded face, its forehead and cheeks swollen, becoming increasingly blurry. Unfortunately, the face was mine. His slanted eyes under large crooked glasses shone more and more wildly at him. It must be assumed that my beauty has already reached that irrevocable point, beyond which it is most likely that one day, bending her heels on the oil-stained pebbles, a girl with a net shawl wrapped around her hips will approach. half-naked and, among the cries of the bent over pooping seagulls, will ask: “Foreigner, may I? Shall I kiss your navel? – can be considered extremely small.

…And they could wait in Baltiysky, although no one leaves there; the headless brothers would have been pretty smart. But not in vain, it seems, three generations of my ancestors were conspirators of one kind or another, political or economic. Not directly, but through the station and a ring road around the building, I reached the invisible Obvodny, to the black fibrous salt, to the vague low sky, to the sweet smell of flip flops that had not yet frozen in the “Red Triangle “. ” and bones that had not yet been baked in the soap factory. A river port is unlikely to occur to anyone; Not everyone knows that ships leave for the sea from the river port. (In our climate, we need saddlebags not with wheels, but with skis! Whenever I go somewhere, I will patent them!) People dressed in dark, furry clothes, sprinkled with rubber dust, were silent under the lamp. “Teshka” appeared. The people, who along with the Soviet regime had lost the culture of queuing, extended their elbows to protect the New Year’s packages, bowed their heads, covered in wet sparks, and all entered at the same time.

“Navigation, dear comrade, is actually already closed, but it seems that you are lucky as if drowned,” the old man with a buckwheat skull and ears like walnuts, the dispatcher on duty Matsveiko, said happily. And he dropped a long pale green bill from my passport (flying in the air). The bill fluttered and flew towards a black crabless cap, which lay on the table in front of him. — Tomorrow morning, a refrigerated transport ship of the Ulysses type, project 17700, “Double Hero of the Soviet Union PS Atenov,” leaves the fourth berth for Lübeck. Charter paid under Ukrainian flag. Of course, no one would have allowed them, the Gavriks, to go anywhere before the sailing began… but they were called in a very condescending way… They don’t have enough personnel in terms of ship duties, but there will surely be a place for a good passenger. . I see your passport is in order… Happy browsing!

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Hansen Taylor
Hansen Taylor
Hansen Taylor is a full-time editor for ePrimefeed covering sports and movie news.

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