[Все мы немножко Варя] Про восприятие и фантазии...

[We are all a little Varia]

About perception and fantasies from the story of Dovlatov. Very funny and a little sad. You can read the whole link below.

“They met in April. Varya then only dreamed of a new apartment. She lived in the former“ human ”. The only window looked into the kitchen. The kitchen was full of children, strife and the smell of food. Kuzmenko remembered everything perfectly ...
 You will not meet a beautiful woman on the tram. In the twilight of a taxi, leaning back on citrus seats, long-legged and heartless rush - they are waiting everywhere. And the little tramp in the stockings splattered with mud is rocked by the tram sea. And the glass at the same time rattling vilely.
 Major Kuzmenko stood holding on to the handrail. The world was crookedly reflected in a nickel-plated piece of iron. Suddenly, in this tiny volatile chaos, the major discerned something that made him squint. At the same time, it smelled of makeup. Kuzmenko gave his face an expression of tired kindness. Then he leaned over and spoke:
 - We seem to have met somewhere?
 Although the woman did not turn around, Kuzmenko knew that he was acting successfully. So a good shooter, lying on the firing line and not seeing the target, feels - hit!
 At the bus stop, he helped Varya get off. At the same time, a funny inconvenience happened. The umbrella, which was sticking out from under her elbow, buried itself in Major's stomach.
 “A gorgeous umbrella,” he said, “imported, of course?”
 - Yes ... That is, no ... I bought it in Lodz.
 “I see,” said Kuzmenko, who rarely traveled further than the Pargolovsky ski jump.
 - I gave twenty zloty.
 - Twenty? - Kuzmenko was indignantly indignant. - The Czechs have lost their conscience!
 - If you like something, I do not regret money .. Kuzmenko immediately made an approving gesture in the sense of distance and breadth of nature.
 They turned a corner, passed a beer stall.
 “Rashen Pepsi Cola,” said the major.
 Varya Kuzmenko quickly looked around. Low furniture, books, a portrait of Hemingway ...
 I know Hemingway, the major thought with satisfaction.
 On the right is a watercolor drawing. A tower ready to collapse. A major saw her somewhere. In the dusk of school days, she flickered, involved in one of the laws of physics. I remember even a slight obscene hue in the name of the tower. And he keeps the tower, prevents it from falling - an ordinary feather, a chicken feather of a natural size. (The whole drawing is no bigger than a palm.)
 Mysterious symbolism surprised the major.
 "Is it a feather?"
 I looked - indeed, a feather.
 “Barnabeli,” said the woman behind him at that moment.
 Kuzmenko turned pale and flinched.
 "I’ll leave," he thought, "to hell ... Lodz ... Barnabeli ... Some kind of abstractionism ..."
 “The work of Bones Barnabeli,” the woman said. - This is our artist, a Georgian ...
 She sideways came out from behind the screen.
 A distant word - peignoir - was clearly formed in his brain.
 “Georgians are a talented nation,” Kuzmenko said.
 Then he stepped forward, vigorously, as in a parade.
 - Do you like Akutagawa? - the last thing the major heard.

 FROM THE BLUE DIARY OF THE BEEFY WARE
 “Do you know, my contemporary, that the days of the week vary in color! This morning seemed lilac to me in spite of the sharp allegro of rain, violating the minor half-day symphony.
 Returning home, I felt a conscriptive, demanding fluid, I could not stand it and looked up with irritation. In front of me stood a stranger - broad-shouldered, with a rough, weathered face.
 “You are watercolor, a stranger.”
 Painter! I was surprised. A thought was born in the subconscious mind: how unexpectedly physical rudeness and mental subtlety are combined. Especially in people of art. (Martin Eden. Aksenov.) Of course, I refused to pose for him, but in a delicate form, so that X would not consider me conservative. After all, a nude is beautiful. Only in a vicious person does the appearance of a naked body give rise to dirty associations.
 “I am only an amateur,” said the stranger, “but in general I am a soldier.” Yes Yes. A simple soldier in the rank of major. Forgetting at the easel in the rare hours of leisure about everyday hardships ... I am only an amateur, ”he repeated with sadness.
 “Art does not know titles and ranks,” I objected vehemently. - All of us are the humble servants of Apollo, the inhabitants of his boundless possessions,
 He looked at me differently. And when we got off the tram, he asked:
 “Where did you buy this lovely umbrella?”
 I called an influential trading company in one of the European countries. The conversation went on a solid subtext. The stranger delicately touched my elbow. Sensual power was guessed in his rude face. Separate laconic remarks exposed the subtle man of character. When my companion absentmindedly switched to English, his reprimand was impeccable. Near him, I felt fragile and young. If Sigmund Freud saw us, he would be delighted!
 At the threshold, the stranger honestly and openly looked at me. Without a shadow of hypocrisy, I smiled back at him. We headed into the room, accompanied by the ominous whisper of the inhabitants.
 Two glasses of French wine brought us even closer. A growing sense required new victims. The stranger correctly hugged my shoulders. I hugged him gullibly.
 What happened was what we most feared ... "