Serge Ardenne - Navalyayev. Non fictional stories

Once on the street, the junior accountant squinted at the sun's rays, stretching his lips in an indescribable silly smile, lifting his puffy, carefully shaven cheeks to his small round eyes. Holding his old shabby briefcase under his arm, he pointedly adjusted his tie kis-kis, bright purple to white peas, put on a felt hat and headed up the street, to the roar of a tram of eight running from the mountain, along Leo Tolstoy to "Solominka", along The fence of the Botanical Garden. Turning to Nikolsko-Botanicheskuyu, our hero soon reached the street Tarasovskaya, where in the ninth room, in a majestic house, standing, to this day in a gloomy desolation, built in the form of a well, with two arches, his uncle lived, on the maternal line – Radion Apollinarevich Navozov-Sukhoplotsky.

Rushing uphill, he passed the seventh number, behind the iron gate of which was based "strange" military unit; The building of the Mikoyan Institute; Fire station number 4, finally arriving at the courtyard of the house number 2, where one of the Housing and Exploitation offices of the Leninsky district, the city of Kiev, who was imprudent, one day, took in his amicable ranks, Junior Accountant Navalyayev.

Kallistrat Ippolitovich, who sinned with decency, with a touch of intelligence, including punctuality, however, by qualities not just useless, but at times viewed, came to the workplace for a quarter of an hour earlier. Having seated himself behind his bulky desk, he thievishly hid a bunch of lilies of the valley in a jaunty and, pulling his armpits, began to work. Navalyayev pushed large wooden scales, the Felix machine, took out a thick folder from the drawer of the table, threw back the cardboard cover, and, moaning his finger, began to leaf through the yellow pages. Smooth columns of figures lined up in solemn order on paper and as usual pleasing the younger accountant, today did not bring him the slightest pleasure. He fidgeted in his chair, wiped his forehead and neck with a checkered kerchief, looking sideways at the door. I did not have to wait long, to the office, where besides the navalyaevsgogo there were three tables, empty, waiting, like the trotters of their riders, a woman entered, in which Kalistrat Ippolitovich immediately recognized Rubensovskaya "Sleeping Angelica" and "Venus in front of a mirror", as if descended from the canvas Right here, into the smoky, dusty little Zhikov's room. Entered, mushy, lush forms, under a blue cotton robe, rattling an empty bucket, stopped at the threshold, leaning on an old mop.

"I'm the new cleaning lady, my name is, Greta Adolfovna Raukobir [1] (German) in Smoked Beer. ." She smiled, which gave Navalyayev an enthusiastic hiccup.

For him, it was not a secret, not a job, not the name, not the surname of the new employee, he found out all this in the personnel department after seeing the golden-haired Nymph, from the shores of the Baltic Sea, washing the floor in the long labyrinth of communal corridors. After meeting with such an amazing person, in the soul of many men the charming melodies of fairy-tale flutes and lutes sound, in Navalyaev's drum the drum has burst. It happened with him for the first time, except for the case at school, when the third-grade student Kallistrat Navalyaev helped the girl who had tucked her leg to take home a briefcase. Navalyaev did not arouse the interest of women, and, in truth, he reciprocated them. But Gretchen, in some special way entered his life, unnoticed, as if through the back door, illuminating his soul with the unquenchable flame of love. If so it is possible to name that feeling which has caused in Callistratus Ippolitovich an itch in the heels and acute restless fear – "And, what will my mother say?".

"Your name is delicious."

Shamefully he said.

"Do you know German?"

– Not that much, but Goethe I read in the original.

She looked with interest at the awkward figure of Navalyaev.

– Not bad for a person who only graduated from high school, or am I mistaken?

– No, that is, you are absolutely right, I studied at the colledge, but then with distinction did not defend the diploma, and at school I learned French, so I prefer Moliere.

He shyly looked down.

– And who do you forgive, do you work here?

– I work as a junior accountant.

– Yes, your prospects are illusory, to a man who owns German and French, in the sphere of the housing sector, never to rise above the bookkeeper. Do you have to be despised by coworkers?

Navalyaev shrugged his shoulders.

– Well, what are you sad, dear knight, introduce yourself to the lady.

"You are mistaken, my dear knight is me!"

A voice came from behind the cleaning lady. Greta Adolfovna was shown a tall dandy, about forty years old.

– Please love and pay, Lancelot Arturovich Ozerny, formerly a knight without fear and reproach, at the moment the chief of the plumbing team, I deal with water lakes sometimes shit, although I prefer water.

After recommending himself, the bright plumber waved his lips at the hands of the beautiful lady.

– What are you doing, I just now washed the toilets!

Gretchen wrenched her hand.

"I beg your pardon… please ignore me…"

Spitting out, Lantzelot Arturovich protested.

– What is there, so to squint, for disgrace?

The squeaky voice of the engineer for labor protection Sigismund Lazarevich Glistomorov was heard.

– You, what here, so skjazjat, for disgrace, so skjazjat, have arranged? To work, so to skye, it's time, and you, so to squeeze, giggle! It is not good, so skyeazhit, not in form, not order, so skyeat.

A small skinny, thin man with a yellow face, wearing a crumpled hat and a worn jacket, wearing a flannel waistcoat came into the room. The tumbling gates of his checkered shirt, buttoned up, did not fit a thin wrinkled long neck, which made it seem that the head was inserted in a suit hanging on a hanger, "hangers" for clothes, where there was no body.

A civil defense engineer, retired Lieutenant-Colonel Vertoprakhov Anton Kuzmich, whose incessant smoking caused the settling of such a diverse company, appeared in a cloud of smoke, scratching with polished chrome boots, into a single spacious cabinet, by the standards of that time. With fellow lieutenant-colonel, there could not be a smoking man in one room, not to mention women, so he was placed in the same room as Lovelace Ozerny, the smelling fragrant Bulgartabak, and the boring Glistomorov, who smokes a "nosogreyku" tube, with a particularly smelly self-timer, Navalyaev does not count. Kallistrat Ippolitovich not only did not smoke, he did not tolerate cigarette smoke, but to ask his opinion, especially the consent was not accepted in the friendly collective of housing management office №105.

– And now, young lady, leave the parade, men need to exchange reports about the match Dynamo – Torpedo! Verotoprakhov commanded, without even glancing at the cleaning lady who was leaving.

Discussion of the football holiday, fanned by tobacco smoke, quickly became bored, indifferent to the sporting achievements of his native country Navalyayev, besides, the neride of the Baltic waves, which he did not lose hope of contemplating as often as possible, entered the palace of his interests. Kallistrat Ippolitovich did not understand what exactly he wanted from Greta Adolfovna, his indecisiveness was omnipresent, all-encompassing, and even in dreams, Navalyayev was bashfully frustrated, depriving him of the opportunity to dream.

He pulled off the armlets, and, as usual, unnoticed, slipped out into the corridor. In the shadows of the housing management office labyrinth, he noticed the once slender outlines of the outlaw of his own peace, and darted into the open toilet door. Leaning against the wall covered with peeling tiles, he held his breath, reveling in the sweet sounds of a squeegee crocheting on the plank floor.