Three holiday stories about literature and life

Buffet as a genre

They’ve probably been there before, but I haven’t seen them. My acquaintance with this aspect of literary life began in the 90s. At that time, receptions — or rather, their main part — lasted a few seconds. It looked like this. There are tables covered with white tablecloths. The writers seem to communicate with ease. Peripheral vision works with might and main. And here — attention! — food is brought in, the community, like a swarm, condenses over the table — and recoils. What’s left on the dishes? If you answer «nothing», then you have not been there. There were separate stalks of greens, mostly dill. In those years, I also had to visit non-literary buffet receptions, where there were more freebies, as they say now, at times. Some kind of dramaturgy was already unfolding there. Once, I remember, two healthy peasants occupied an embrasure through which julienne was served. As much as they could, they ate, the rest was personally distributed. And now a new era has begun. They fell down, recoiled — and how much there was about everything, so much remained. Now, sometimes, the table is laid, and the poet orders from the menu something that is not on the table by chance. And this does not surprise anyone. Every whim for your money. Yearning…

• «Life is wider and richer than literature»

Meeting in the mountains

A long time ago, back in the USSR, the poet Denis Novikov traveled in the mountains of the Caucasus and ran into Yegor Isaev, the author of the poems “Tribute to Memory” and “Court of Memory”, winner of various awards and secretary of the relevant unions. In honor of the famous Moscow guest, the highlanders found a local classic, who was about 700 years old, and dated his 700th birthday to the visit of Yegor Alexandrovich. And now — a grandiose festival, in the Denis hall (from whom I heard this story), on the stage — Yegor Isaev.

— What can I say about … — Isaev broadcasts, who, of course, had never heard of a mountain poet before, — … It was a speaker! — The hall applauds.

— … Innovator! — The hall applauds.

“…Dictator!” — Isaev throws into the crowd, as usual, childishly carried away by the magic of simple harmonies. The hall emits a sound of bewilderment.

“The dictator of the word, I mean!”

The hall applauds.

Centenary of Nabokov

On April 20, 1999, with a small group of writers, we walked from the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge towards the metro station “Library im. Lenin. As you understand, the very center of Moscow. Over there, on the right, rises the Borovitskaya tower of the Kremlin. And I remember the date so well, firstly, because I turned 40 that day, and secondly, because we were walking from an event dedicated to the 100th anniversary of Nabokov. A wonderful spring evening, around ten.

We stopped at a red light before crossing Znamenka. The flow of cars flowed at an average speed from left to right, taxiing onto the bridge. And suddenly a man fell out of the car approximately in the middle of the stream, fell under the wheels of a car driving nearby, instantly jumped up, rushed through the hood onto the sidewalk — then three people with pistols jumped out of his car and opened fire on the fugitive — but he managed to jump over the stone fence ( seems to be some kind of gallery) and hide.

As we realized after a few minutes, it was a hostage who escaped. We waited for the green and moved on.

— Unpleasant, — said Dima Vedenyapin. — Some guns in the city center…

“But it’s not boring,” someone said.

I wonder if Nabokov would have been pleased to see how Muscovites far from literature celebrated his centenary? Action is more suggestive of Mario Puzo than stylistic genius. But neither Chekhov nor Nabokov himself disdained senseless shooting. It would be amusing — it’s like giving a drink …