- To reduce? - He has asked again just in case.
- Yes, - the editor resolutely has told, has slammed a folder and began to fasten tesemochki.
- On how many pages? - Stanislav has asked, already estimating that the episode with a GAZ car can be thrown out without
- To two sheets, - the editor has told, stretching it a folder.
- That is? - The dumbfounded imagination has offered Stanislav's internal look result of such reduction: two pity leaflets of the
manuscript - the first and last.
- N-well, approximately to fifty pages.
In total in the manuscript was two hundred thirty three pages.
- ON fifty pages? - Stanislav just in case has asked.
- No. TO fifty. To leave fifty... - the editor has burst in new squall of illegible words - it seems, it proved that Stanislav has
written actually not the story, and not the novel, of course, and the story, and now it is necessary to bring the form into
accord with the maintenance. Besides, magazine at them thin, and they have no possibility... Stanislav has interrupted ego: -
I correctly understand: you want, that I have reduced this story to hundred eighty pages? Is not the story, - the editor tiredly
has told and is already quite legible. Is a story.
In the evening they with the Viscount have solved nalizatsja. The viscount drank, listened to complaints and prokljatja, itself -
kept mum, and then suddenly skazal: - You have forgotten the main thing.
- I have forgotten nothing, - Stanislav with threat has objected. - and never I will forget! - has forgotten. You have forgotten
that all... Or nearly so everything that at you is written - the truth. You have forgotten that all it has occurred to you. Not with
Joseph your invented, and with you. Personally.
Stanislav has stared at it and has suddenly understood.
- Yes, but I not Joseph, - have told it, crookedly grinning. - and I do not have Maria. At me - Lariska.
- Do not pretend to be the big donkey, than you are, - the Viscount has advised, accurately spilling spirit. - you perfectly
- I do not pretend to be... - Stanislav slowly has spoken. - but I after all I and really do not know the mission. You think, to me
did not come to mind, what the novel - the novel, and my life is my life? But I cannot find anything in the life such, that... Yes I
also do not trust in it. Understand, same not the novel, I cannot invent such things from a head... It should be found out by
itself somehow... But there is nothing. It in my life is not present anything! - Ishshi, - has told the Viscount, as well as one year
ago. - Ishshi: should be! I am, my Stak, at strong suspicion that each person has a mission. At everyone! It is such hypothesis
at me. Some realise the mission - their names usually become then known to the whole world. Some - are mistaken in the
mission. Such we name grafomanami all grades. But the overwhelming majority mortal even does not suspect that they have
a mission. By it it is not submitted a sign! And here to you - the sign is submitted. You - a unique person. So - ishshi! There
should be something!.
The life has swept further as if was not in the past of the whole year of literary madness as if never he wrote anything, except
joint from Viscounts brulonov, yes razveselyh couplets: "Ah, the little girl-egoza - has seized the guy for! Has seized and held,
eyes have grown dim..." Ezhevatov was able to squeeze out of subordinates all their contents dry: in a head as you will roll
up eyes before a dream, - one only "cuttlefishes" of all machine codes at once and when Mirlin mysteriously hinted that-pier
"not still with our novel is lost" that here-here-pier will burst-de it, Mirlina, the main calibres, Stanislav easily and from the
bottom of the heart sent it to the most intimate places.
Remarkably that all this history with the novel has made, as was soon found out, huge impression on the Viscount. That is,
not that, of course, circumstance that the novel was not possible to push in the press in any way, and that Stanislav in
general managed to write it. As! Twenty years together, shoulder to shoulder, it is diligent karjabali a paper, sweated, suffered
from painful creative powerlessness, (one cleanest medical spirit it has been drunk litres hundred), have despaired already
absolutely, without the small have given up as lost hopeless this business, - and suddenly on you: this old checked up
impotent man, alone, without everyones-jakih, the unfaltering hand gives out to the surface the high-grade composition in ten
indexes! Where justice? Where equality? A brotherhood - where? Or unless not so all people - brothers? ("Is not present, not
everything, - used to say about it Senja Mirlin. - Moreover: even not all brothers - brothers..." ) This angry-playful (however,
not absolutely and not simply playful) moaning has ended with that in one fine evening the Viscount was declared to
Stanislav with a reviver vial in one hand and with the lean manuscript - in another. The lean manuscript carried the name
"Improvisator" and represented itself the story on twelve pages from a life of foreigners. Action there occurred in Northern,
understand, Scotland, "... The fresh exciting air full of a hard wind, a saltish moisture, shouts of sea birds, infinite deserted
coast, both vereskovye fields, and kupy the dry trees bent by winds...", hotel "Wing of the Albatross", the lyrical hero - the
artist (the present foreigner: a phlegm, irony, a tube), the protagonist - somebody Eric of P.Dovadzher, in the past - the well-
known football player ("Eric-wall"), and nowadays sogbennyj, the warped, spoilt fragment of the person, grey-haired,
unsociable, unpleasant, but - the present gentleman.