Anatoly Kopeikin. Kopeikin, Anatoly Alexandrovich - Dry dock: a treatise Approximate word search

Chapter 10. THE LAST EVENING IN "MEZHIGORYA" February 22 and 23 were declared days of mourning in Ukraine. Without waiting for the onset of the 22nd, on the evening of the 21st, they began to bury the dead on the Maidan. Fifty thousand people said goodbye to the activists who fell in the battles on Hrushevsky, Institutskaya, in

Friday Evening Some of the brethren scoffed when the others—a dozen or two—gathered for the Sabbath or for evening prayer. There were those among us who looked at the prayer meetings with bitter reproach: our terrible reality, the tragedies that we

Evening of October 16 6:102 a.m. When the three men left Itsu, they parted ways. Litvinenko drove back to his home, Muswell Hill. The bus he was on was subsequently examined and found to be free of contamination. Lugovoy and Kovtun remained in the center of London.6.103 During the oral

ABOUT VOLOD PRIBYLOVSKY
13 years ago, my article about Pribylovsky in Russian Thought.

In this issue of "RM" there is an article by V. Pribylovsky in memory of A. Ginzburg, in which its author tries to remember everything that he once heard about the legendary dissident. Since some events took place quite a long time ago, Pribylovsky himself already doubts whether this was exactly the case and whether it was accurate then. I do not know how accurate his youthful memories are, but as for his beginning of cooperation with Russian Thought, the author of these lines remembers this much better. There is simply no comparison, how much better.

“In 1986, I sent my first article to Kopeikin to Paris, signed with initials. In RM, my article was edited, as I was later told, by Alik Ginzburg,” writes Pribylovsky.

Alik Ginzburg, of course, read and edited Pribylovsky's subsequent articles, but not this one. This first article was edited, as I remember now, by Natalia Gorbanevskaya. She came up with a title for it (I don’t remember exactly now, but something like this: “Moscow, 1986 A.D.”), and as for the subtitles, since the article was an overview and reviewed informal movements in Moscow, then the subtitles were not original (“Socialists”, “National Bolsheviks”, “Memory”, etc. - I can’t vouch for the accuracy, but for the essence - yes).

Everyone in Russian Thought immediately liked Pribylovsky's writings: Irina Alekseevna Ilovaiskaya, Alik Ginzburg, and Natalya Gorbanevskaya. They were eagerly awaited and immediately printed as they arrived.

And Pribylovsky's first article was written like this.

In 1986, I had already lived in Paris for three years and worked at RM. In 1985 Pribylovsky's then-wife, Mexican Laura, left for good to live in Mexico and invited him to visit. The Soviet authorities, however, refused permission for a long time, but finally, in the early autumn of 1986, permission came. The author of these lines, having learned about such a case, quickly packed a suitcase, stuffed anti-Soviet literature into it and flew to Mexico City to meet a friend (although in early 1986 I already went to Mexico with my then Mexican wife). The ticket cost almost my monthly salary, but what was there to do.

Pribylovsky really liked Mexico, we spent either a week or two together, traveled around the country and all that. Volodya really appreciated Mexican beer, the variety of its brands (Mexico is the first brewing country in Latin America), consumed it in sufficient quantities and in a varied assortment. It is still quite hot in Mexico City in October, and Pribylovsky liked to lie on the roof of a house in the suburbs of Mexico City (the city is called Texcoco) - sunbathe and drink beer. He looked very picturesque. He read those anti-Soviet books that I brought, sunbathed and uncorked one can of beer after another.

In Russkaya Mysl then, to put it mildly, there was no excess of authors from Moscow, and I thought that my Muscovite friend should write something for us.

I began to persuade him, but Pribylovsky refused, saying that he couldn’t write, didn’t like it, and all that.

In those days, "Russian Thought" paid very good fees, but according to Moscow concepts, they were simply breathtaking. This was the last straw - the anti-Soviet Pribylovsky languidly agreed when I waved 80 dollars in front of his nose (he had to somehow justify the cost of the trip).

Well, did you write? - I asked him every day, approaching Pribylovsky's not sickly body, more and more tanned.

I am writing, I am writing,” he answered, squinting at the sun and looking into the distance, towards the Popocatepetl volcano.

Returning from pleasure trips, Volodya lay down on the roof, opened a beer and stubbornly wrote page after page with a ballpoint pen.

At the end of the text, he put the initials “V.P.”, handed it to me, and I gave him 80 of the remaining 80 dollars.

The article did not go unnoticed in the emigrant environment. Nobody asked me the name of the author, and only some time later the editor-in-chief asked me: “What is the name of your friend?”. I took a piece of paper and wrote: "Vladimir Pribylovsky." I don't know why she needed it - maybe for a report. In any case, it remained a mystery to all outsiders.

Some readers have suggested (as early as 1987) that "V.P." - this is Vladimir Pimonov, who began writing for Russian Thought. Such assumptions were useful, for they confused the matter.

Pribylovsky continued to send his articles, and we sent him royalties. (By the way, I. Ilovaiskaya immediately reimbursed me the dollars I gave to V.P., although, to be honest, I did not hope for this when I gave them to him).

His articles came through secret channels, as I remember now, through Cornelia Gerstenmeier, a member of the editorial board of the Continent magazine. Soon Volodya was also published in this magazine.

As for Pribylovsky's attempt to smuggle anti-Soviet literature, it ended in failure. In addition to the volume of Tsvetaeva, everything was taken away from Pribylovsky at the customs. At that time perestroika barely dawned, and customs liberalism was still a long way off.

He almost lost his dollars then. They stalked him diligently, went through all the things in his suitcases, checked all his pockets and forced him to strip almost naked.

Take off your jacket?

Take off.

Take off your pants?

Take off.

This also followed.

Pribylovsky took off one sock and dangled it in the air.

Shoot the second one? he asked languidly.

Don't," the customs officer said squeamishly.

And in this second sock the mentioned dollars were hidden!

And let Pribylovsky not tell me now that everything was wrong. Everything was exactly as written here.

At the end of the article was signed: "V.P." Below to the left: "Moscow".

In fact, the place where the article was written was not Moscow, but Mexico City, or rather its small suburb of Texcoco.

This feuilleton was written, of course, not in order to refute Pribylovsky's theses or to boast about how I lured him into writing for our newspaper.

Let's take it as a sketch of times that have passed, hopefully forever.

Indeed, in October 1986, Anatoly Marchenko was still alive and had not yet died as a result of a hunger strike a couple of months later. Andrey Sakharov was also in exile in Gorky...

Perestroika was just beginning to dawn.

ANATOLY KOPEIKIN, Paris (late 2002)

This weekend I called all my friends (and friends called further so as not to forget anyone), in particular, I called Thierry Volton. And I tell him - so and so, where we will bury, we don’t know, the minister, so that in Montparnasse, they haven’t found yet, what will happen next, it’s unknown. And he answered me: YES, I HAVE A PLACE FOR HER!

Now, - said Thierry, - just give me half an hour to check the papers, whether everything is correct and whether I am confusing anything. Twenty minutes later he called, said - yes, there is a place in the grave of Natasha Dyuzheva, and this place belongs to him, and he gives this place to his mother.

Once upon a time, her mother worked at Russian Thought, and then the very young Natasha Dyuzheva appeared there. And her mother took her under her wing, began to teach journalism, handling the text, and in general they became friends. And Natasha Dyuzheva, in order to distinguish her from my mother, began to be called "little Natasha." And so they were friends, little Natasha married the French journalist and publicist Thierry Volton, her mother became the godmother of their son Stefan, but soon Natasha Dyuzheva developed leukemia, and even opened late, and Natasha Dyuzheva died. She was buried at the Père Lachaise cemetery, Tolya Kopeikin and I placed a wooden Orthodox cross of our own manufacture from Burgundy oak on the grave.

By the way, at the beginning of our telephone conversation, Thierry, whom friend Kopeikin always considered a kind of flat atheist, suddenly took it and said: now both Natashas are together again, resumed old habits ... and only then, in the course of the conversation, having learned that there was no place in the cemetery, offered his mother a place next to his Natasha.

The mother lay curled up until Monday evening, when a young, kind, beautiful woman came to do whatever was necessary so that the body could lie until the funeral. Then she lay a little more solemnly, but still just as small.

Brother Oska arrived from the south-west of France with his wife and daughters, whose photographs were lined with the mother's rack. My eldest son Artur flew in from Poland. Oskin's eldest daughter Niusya from Moscow managed to arrive, by some miracle she received a Schengen visa in two days. She received a Polish visa. All the grandchildren gathered to see off their grandmother. My younger sixteen-year-old son Petka, who shortly before that had made plans for a joint trip to Moscow with his grandmother, reacted sharply painfully to the death of his grandmother, kicked the walls, broke some bottles. Then he didn’t want to go to say goodbye, he walked as if lowered into the water. He walked past my grandmother's house, called me to go for a walk to talk to him about my grandmother ... Finally, he made up his mind and came to look at my grandmother before she was closed. It's good that until the funeral, the mother was at home.

I am writing this dry text about the days of my mother's death, counting the days: on Friday evening, the announcement of the death, on Wednesday afternoons, the funeral, the funeral. Four and a half days. How many people during this time have shown so much warmth, love, respect. In France, in Russia, in the Czech Republic, in Poland. It's hard to remember everything now. When your mother dies, you are still in a somewhat shocked state. I remember, however, the feeling that love is coming in waves - live, on the phone, on the Internet, from various sides - love.

On November 28, 2013, I met in one Parisian cafe with one aunt, and then I was going to meet another aunt in another Parisian cafe. The second aunt, however, sent a text message that she would have dinner for the time being, and then called.

OK. Call so call. And, in order not to sit stupidly for three hours in some cafe, I decided to call on Natalya Gorbanevskaya and sit with her. “Sup est?”- I sent her a text message at about eight in the evening. "da".

“Skoro budu”- I wrote and went in her direction. Stopped by the store on the way "Monoprix" and bought our favorite almond biscuits, caramel biscuits, two packs, for tea.

When I arrived, Gorbanevskaya put the soup on the gas, and then, when it warmed up, she went into the kitchen and did not appear for a long time.

- Natasha, what are you doing?

- I, Kopeikin, know that you do not like beans, and I catch them.

I realized that she would be doing this for another half an hour, and I asked her to give me a place (it's true, I have heartburn from beans). In general, I fished out the beans from my plate, we sat down to eat soup.

Then they warmed the tea and began to drink it with the fabulous cookies they brought.

- Kopeikin, can I take the second pack to Moscow and give it to one person there? (She was going to Moscow in five days).

“Of course, Natasha,” I said.

The second aunt didn’t call me, so after tea I sat down at Gorbanevskaya’s small camping netbook, and Gorbanevskaya sat down at her computer, and so we sat for some time at a distance of about three meters from each other, until I read my friend feed on Facebook ".

Natasha was there that last evening, as always; I did not find anything suspicious in her behavior and “Ryaktsy”.

Somewhere around twelve in the morning, I turned off the netbook and went home.

This was my last visit to my infinitely beloved friend and comrade - Natalya Gorbanevskaya. Ten hours later, she quietly departed to the Lord - in a dream, in a calm pose, resting her cheek with her palm ...

... This time, by an amazing coincidence, I ended up in Paris, having arrived there on the eve of her death. We wrote to each other and agreed that I would come to her, and, despite the fact that she was going to Moscow on December 1, she still asked me to bring her cigarettes and validol.

On the day of her death in the evening I came to her, Yasik opened the door, confused, and said that Natasha had died. I entered, she was lying in the back of the room on her bed, on her right side. She died in her sleep—not dead, but asleep, that was the feeling. The French municipal authorities allowed the body to remain in the apartment until burial. The next day, they turned her over on her back, changed her clothes, and she lay like that for several days.

On the eve of the funeral, she was transferred to the coffin. Almost every day there were memorial services, her grandchildren came, naturally, there were sons Yasik and Osya, Arthur, Nyusya, little girls from Perigueux came with their mothers, her daughters-in-law. Everyone was together, friends came almost every day to Natasha, sat at the same table, she was with us. It was an enduring feeling. Yasik asked me to stay with her the night before the funeral, I read the Psalter until the depths of the night, and I had a feeling of some kind of triumph, of course, and sadness, the bitterness of parting, but at the same time the light that was inherent in her. As she lived lightly, impetuously, talentedly, she died. And therefore, the bitterness of parting, especially among relatives and friends, was always mixed with joy and light.

I also ended up in Natasha's apartment the next morning after her death and, of course, began to look - what's on the desk? And on the table next to the computer, Dubrovsky’s 1911 Polish-Russian dictionary lay completely separate, and next to it in a pile was her book “My Milosz” and for some reason Galich in Polish ...

Tolya Kopeikin and I were sitting at a table in Natasha Gorbanevskaya's old apartment on Rue Robert Lende.

“Repent, Aronych,” said Kopeikin, flashing his glasses. - Aronych, you must repent.

As always, by the middle of the second bottle of Chateau Blagnac, Tolya became aggressive.

- For what to repent? - Didn't understand. - And before whom?

- Yes, - Tolya nodded at Gorbanevskaya, who was sitting at the other end of the table and correcting the translation. - She suffered for you in prisons and psychiatric hospitals, destroyed the Soviet government, and at that time you were in the Komsomol, strengthening the regime. Repent, repent, Aronych!

- Tol, so you were also a member ... - I tried to fight back.

- Well, I only entered my second year, and you are at school. And you signed up out of conviction, and I out of necessity. Lenka Kurskaya persuaded me, the Komsomol organizer of our group. I thought she would give me.