Вспомнилось вот, кстати, про гадалок цыганских. Дело было...

I recalled here, by the way, about gypsy fortune tellers. It was in the middle of the merry nineties. I got out of the legendary Ikarus bus at the absolutely monstrous (at that time) Criminal Waters airport. Around the picturesque bucolic: stalls with whitewash, mud, puddles, rats, the murmur of all stripes ... and, of course, gypsies. At the same time, I have absolutely no money, only a student and fingers in my pockets. Therefore, my rolls are completely relaxed. I stretch, slowly light a cigarette. Exactly ten seconds later, in front of my nose, a gypsy materializes with traces of fighting youth under the eye and beautiful golden teeth in her mouth. "Ay, darago, give me a smoke!" On, I say, shit is not a pity. Blinded by such unimaginable generosity, the tzigwa immediately begins to “guess” me. He pulls out hair from my (then still long) haer, something boils down there and generally behaves like an excessively polite proctologist. Out of the corner of my ear I notice that a rather dense and very friendly ring of pretty gypsy colleagues is starting to spontaneously grow around me. At the time of catharsis, the golden-toothed prophetess plunges her hand to the elbow in the side pocket of my trousers. And does not find anything absolutely interesting in it. Performs the same operation with another pocket. For fidelity, it produces reciprocating movements. At the same time, her resemblance to a proctologist becomes extremely amusing. Look, I say, in the middle pocket. There seemed to be something for you. A second later around me it became boring, quiet and deserted. Apparently, a council of proctologists suddenly remembered about some other patient. By the way, exactly five minutes later I saw him - he fought inconsolably in a ring of sympathetic smoked friends. His pockets were turned inside out. And behind the neighboring stall, a grateful assistant hovacled him with a tight shovel under her immense skirt.