E turtleneck aviator download fb2. Evgeniy Vodolazkin, "Aviator": reviews

The novel "Laurel" overnight brought the academic philologist, employee of the department of ancient Russian literature of the Pushkin House, into the stars of modern Russian literature: someone even called him “the Russian Umberto Eco.”

In Vodolazkin's new novel "The Aviator", St. Petersburg at the beginning of the twentieth century is united with St. Petersburg at the end of the century by the figure of the main character - Innokenty Platonov, who made a "flight" in time. In the mid-20s, the hero was frozen in liquid nitrogen on Solovki (as part of scientific program to provide Soviet leaders with immortality), and in 1999 they unfrozen it. Yes, so successfully that he was able to marry the granddaughter of his former platonic lover. It is difficult to call his return completely triumphant. To call the novel itself “fantastic” is even more difficult... We talked with its author.

In "The Aviator" the attentive reader will be reminded of something by Eco ("The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana"), something by Wells ("When the Sleeper Awake") or Wilkie Collins ("The Moonstone"), or even Alexei Tolstoy ("The Stream- hero"). The postmodernist construction is filled with explicit or hidden quotations and allusions. Was this done deliberately?

Evgeniy Vodolazkin: I have a weakness: I like to work with genre literature. At least start in one of its genres, and then leave its boundaries. I take a historical novel and make it non-historical. I take the genre of science fiction and write something that has nothing to do with science fiction.

My hero restores history, but not one that consists of powerful events - coups, wars. We are talking about something that accompanies the “big” story, but disappears irrevocably. By the way, Dmitry Sergeevich Likhachev once prompted me to this idea: he regretted that no one else remembers how the Finnish milkmaids screamed on Okhta. That no one alive soul doesn’t remember how the end pavement was repaired. The ends were wooden dies that quickly failed and had to be replaced all the time. This knock was heard in the city from morning to evening. Now this is not the case. And this was the constant sound of St. Petersburg. Or we can dig deeper: chronicles. In the chronicles, many things from everyday life are not talked about, because they are clear to everyone. Contemporaries know this - why write about it? But this just goes away, disappears.

"The Aviator" is a novel about a different story: feelings, phrases, smells, sounds

And here in my novel in a strange way a man named Platonov appears. He begins to restore what is absolutely lost and what only he knows in the whole world, because he seems to be the last witness of that time. Platonov is indifferent to so-called “historical events.” And in this respect, “The Aviator” is a novel about a different story: feelings, phrases, smells, sounds. By and large, no less important than great events...

You wrote “The Aviator” against the backdrop of Prilepin’s released “The Abode”. Did this "background" influence you? His action takes place on Solovki. The fate of your hero is connected with them...

Evgeniy Vodolazkin: About a year before Zakhar Prilepin finished his novel, he told me: “I am writing about Solovki.” I say: “Wow, I’m also writing about Solovki.” And he said that in 2011 he released a huge album (“A piece of land surrounded by sky”) with the texts of the memories of Solovki residents - both monks and inmates. These memoirs were published in other publications, and Zakhar read approximately the same texts as me. At some point I thought: shouldn’t I abandon the Solovetsky units in Aviator? But Solovki was fundamentally important for me. And then, having read Zakhar’s book, I was glad that he introduced the Solovki theme into public consciousness. After “The Abode,” much did not require explanation. I note that Prilepin’s novel is excellent. Honest, without trying to decorate the era.

Among the main texts that Zakhar and I based on was “The Unquenchable Lamp” by Boris Shiryaev, an amazing book. Despite the fact that she describes the Solovetsky suffering and horrors, the reader is not overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. We also used other general sources, without which the story about Solovki would have been unreliable. Although we used them differently.

Naturally, you are different.

Evgeniy Vodolazkin: Yes, we are different. But I think that this topic arose for both of us not by chance. Solovki is not just a special page in the history of our country: it is a kind of model of Russia. Everything there was taken to the limit: both holiness and villainy. Arriving there, you understand that hell and heaven can be next to each other. This is the place where the metaphysics of light and the metaphysics of darkness converge. There are no definitive good or bad times. The struggle between good and evil takes place in everyone human heart. Every time a person chooses which side to take. And this is one of the important ideas of the novel.

How does a person feel who cannot distinguish a dream from a memory? Lost his memory, he doesn't remember anything own name, no life. The temperature is thirty-eight, but no one is saying what kind of illness it is. The doctor asks you to write down everything that is happening now and what you remember from the past. So the hero writes it down. And from the notes comes the novel “Aviator” by Evgeny Vodolazkin.

The reader will not immediately notice the fiction. Slowly, deliberately, Vodolazkin introduces a real concept - cryofreezing, and after it a fantastic one - defrosting. This is exactly what happened to Innokenty Petrovich Platonov. He will have to find out what happened to him, how he ended up in such a situation, and also remember his life, his fears and experiences and realize that all this is long in the past and will never return.

Read online Aviator

About the book

The language is remarkable, probably due to the fact that the author is Russian and not a foreigner translated. The abruptness of the narrative is dictated by the novel itself. The similes are rich, the metaphors are apt, and the language is like that of an awakened person confusing reality with fiction.

It’s safe to say that “The Aviator” is a reflective novel. Not only about life, but also about history. Thinking about why everything happened the way it did. The hero thinks that people are to blame. Who else? The past is always better than the present - also an integral feature of the human psyche.

Since the book is about perestroika, it is, of course, full of hopelessness and melancholy. Towards the end, it becomes like a stone, tightening the noose around the reader’s neck, and pulling him down, down, to the most terrible human vices and atrocities, misfortunes, hunger and death.

The book also suffers from another stereotype of post-Soviet literature - anti-Sovietism. The writer romanticizes pre-revolutionary Russia and the morals of that time, clearly inspired by Bulgakov and Solzhenitsyn.

As the narrative progresses, Innocent - a man of the twentieth century - gets lost in modern world. He commits stupid, rash acts that seem inappropriate for a person of his character and habits. He doesn’t know what is valuable today and what is not, his whole life has been turned upside down and therefore he has to draw some conclusions himself. Such loss cannot lead to anything other than a sad ending.

The novel “The Aviator” by Evgeny Vodolazkin is an example of excellent modern Russian literature. Rich language, beautiful, truthful images. The writer aptly conveys the atmosphere of the nineties through the prism of the perception of one lost person.

The book “The Aviator” went on sale in the spring of 2016. In the few months that have passed since then, she has gained a crowd of fans. What is the reason for this success? Let's try to figure it out.

A few words about the author

Doesn't need any special introduction. Not so long ago he was known only in scientific circles: Doctor of Philology, employee of the Institute of Literature of the Russian Academy of Sciences, specialist in ancient Russian literature. Today he is known not only in Russia, but also abroad. He is called the “Russian U. Eco” and the “Russian G.G. Marquez,” and his books immediately become bestsellers. Evgeny Vodolazkin’s book “The Aviator” went on sale a few months ago. It will be discussed in this review, but first a little more history.

Early works

My writing career Vodolazkin started when he was already over 30. But the start was rapid. In 2010, the novel Solovyov and Larionov was nominated for the Big Book Award. Next novel“Laurel,” according to the entire reading community, became the main event in Russian literature in 2012. IN next year he won the award Yasnaya Polyana", established by the L. N. Tolstoy Museum.

After such success, readers were looking forward to what else Evgeny Vodolazkin would write. "Aviator" was in the news long before its release. It is not surprising that it instantly became a bestseller, and, in addition, was included in the list of nominees for several prestigious literary awards: “Russian Booker”, “Big Book”, “Book of the Year”.

The storyline of the novel “Aviator” (author Evgeniy Vodolazkin)

The novel begins with a simple beginning. Main character, Innokenty Platonov, wakes up in a hospital room. He doesn’t remember who he is or how or why he ended up in the hospital. Gradually his memory begins to return. And although these memories are rather fragmentary and relate not to events, but rather to sensations (smells, touches, tastes), he soon already knows that he was born in 1900, lived in St. Petersburg... But how is this possible and what kind of illness happened to him, if it's 1999 now?

Genre

Formally, the novel can be called fantastic. Although he applies no less to historical genre. Of course, look in Aviator for descriptions and assessments of socially significant historical events not worth it. But with what care and attention the author writes out the smallest signs of the times: cinema, the first electric trams, family orders, views of St. Petersburg at the beginning of the 20th century... And the very word “aviator” is imbued with the romance of the past.

However, the author warns his readers against taking it literally. An aviator is not a profession, it is a symbol. This is the image of a person who looks at what is happening from a bird's eye view, sees everything differently and draws completely unexpected conclusions: “I was thinking about the nature of historical disasters - revolutions there, wars and other things. Their main horror is not shooting. And not even in hunger. It is that the basest ones are liberated human passions"(Vodolazkin, "Aviator"). Reviews of the novel show that this way of voicing your ideas can be effective.

Techniques

The novel is written in the form diary entries Main character. This is a very winning author's move. The reader is simultaneously given the opportunity to learn about the events of the past from the mouth of an eyewitness and hear an assessment of the present from the mouth of an outside observer. Although the task is quite difficult. After all, the author had to not only study in detail the life of two different times, but also seriously work on the language of the novel in order to reflect the different styles, intonations and tempo of speech at the beginning and end of the 20th century.

Separately, it should be said about the sense of humor that Evgeniy Vodolazkin is distinguished by. “Aviator”, reviews confirm this, is thoroughly imbued with humor. Isn’t Zaretsky funny, who figured out how to steal sausage from a factory? Doesn’t the idea of ​​inviting Platonov to star in an advertisement for frozen vegetables make you smile?

Ideas

The central problem of The Aviator is its attitude to history. How do they relate? General history And private story individual person? What gives more insight into his life is knowledge about the political system and social issues or stories about how his mother cooked and how the sun shimmered in the hair of his beloved woman? Vodolazkin teaches us to be careful about sounds, smells, and phrases. They may never make it into history books, but they are the essence of man.

One more, no less important question: Can time serve as an excuse for a person? Do the inhumanity and chaos of the environment allow you to overstep your moral principles? Of course not. This is what the book “Aviator” is about. Author Evgeniy Vodolazkin reminds that on Last Judgment everyone will be responsible for their life, for their personal history.

Literary roll calls

It's no secret that especially those who claim to philosophical depth, contain many hidden and obvious references to literary works of the past. Vodolazkin (“Aviator”) also uses this technique. Reviews and references to the novels of Defoe and Dostoevsky are often found on the pages of his book.

However, there are also more hidden, but no less important, echoes. They drew the attention of critics and bloggers who wrote their reviews of the novel. Alexey Kolobrodov, for example, finds in Vodolazkin many of the ideas of the author of “Old Man Hottabych” and “ Blue man" The author of the YouTube channel “Biblionarium” saw similarities with “The Defense of Luzhin” by V. Nabokov, the prose of A. Solzhenitsyn and, oddly enough, with “Flowers for Algernon” by D. Keyes.

Reader reviews

There is not a single thing that everyone likes equally. For every book, film, and play you can find reviews that are directly opposite to each other. The book “Vodolazkin - Aviator” was no exception, the reviews of which were very varied. Although, in fairness, we note that positive ones still predominate among them.

Some are attracted by the unhurried rhythm of the story. Others remembered St. Petersburg, described with love and good knowledge of the city. Still others find ideas and thoughts in the book that are consonant with their own. The previously mentioned “Librionarium” gives the novel the following description: “Romantic, but without tragedy, but without lamentation; philosophically, but without pathos.”

Many people note that they really liked the book; readers are especially impressed by the fact that it is written in the genre of historical fiction. Although the idea of ​​the fantastic element as well as the theme Soviet repressions not new, written in a completely new way. No extra fantasies, a lot inner world and ethical dilemmas. The ending, however, is not entirely clear to many. Readers ask: will there be a sequel or is this a gimmick?

“Aviator” (book by Vodolazkin): reviews from critics

Critics in their assessment of this novel turned out to be much more restrained than ordinary readers.

Dmitry Bykov highly appreciated the fact that the author did not follow the beaten path, did not speculate on the success of the previous novel, but tried to find something fundamentally new: new uniform, new heroes and new language. However, he admitted that the book “Aviator” was not close to him either in concept or in the method of execution.

Galina Yuzefovich, noting the similarity of “The Aviator” with Shalamov’s and Prilepin’s works, nevertheless placed it above others. In her opinion, Vodolazkin’s depictions of Solovki are more truthful and terrifying than those of his predecessors.

But Andrei Rudalev could not find anything new and interesting for himself in the novel. In his opinion, the author simply does not know how to create living characters with whom the reader will empathize. All his characters come out one-sided, simplified, “plywood”. And the aviator himself is nothing more than a piece of ice. As the story progresses, the ice melts, and by the end only empty space remains.

Alexey Kolobrodov also could not explain the excitement around the book of such an author as E. G. Vodolazkin “The Aviator”. Reviews from enthusiastic audiences are unconvincing for him. The abundance of allusions and intertexts in the novel, the author’s inappropriate claims to philosophical depth, according to the critic, do not yet make the novel a literary masterpiece. All these are external attributes, but inside, if you look at it, there is emptiness.

Author's attitude towards reviews

According to uninterested sources, Aviator leads the book sales rankings. The book, Vodolazkin cannot help but see this, is surrounded by hype. Moreover, increasing popularity is influenced not only by positive, but also by negative reviews. The author himself jokes about this: “All advertising, except for the obituary.”

However, following this joke, he admits that he has already passed the age when fame was an end in itself. Yes, reviews, both pleasant and not, are important for a writer, because he writes in order to be heard. And if he was not heard, if he could not convey his ideas to someone, then we need to figure out why. This means that we need to look for new words, techniques, and plots. In general, any criticism, if taken constructively, is useful for the writer.

Film adaptation proposals

In interviews with journalists and at meetings with readers, the author admitted that he had already received a number of proposals for a film adaptation of his novel. This story is really easy to make into a film format. Vivid images, changing times and places of action - all this should make the film exciting and spectacular. However, there are also difficulties here.

Firstly, to fit the entire content of the novel into a one-episode feature film It’s hardly possible, but for Vodolazkin’s serials Secondly, the question of the degree of participation of the author of the novel in the process of creating the film must be resolved. There are two possible options here. In the first case, the author sells his idea to producers, and he himself is excluded from participating in the creation of the film. True, as a result, the plot may change beyond recognition, so that the author no longer wants to be mentioned in the credits. In the second case, the author must control the film creation process at all stages. And this requires additional knowledge and additional time from him. It turns out something like the rebirth of a work, but within the framework of a different type of art. No one knows yet which option Evgeny Vodolazkin will choose and whether the film will be made.

To my daughter

-What are you all writing?

– I describe objects, sensations. Of people. I write every day now, hoping to save them from oblivion.

– The world of God is too big to count on success here.

– You know, if everyone describes their own, albeit small, particle of this world... Although why, in fact, small? There will always be someone whose overview is wide enough.

- For example?

- For example, an aviator.

Conversation on the plane

© Vodolazkin E.G.

© M. Shemyakin, illustrations

© AST Publishing House LLC

Part one

He told her: wear a hat when it’s cold, otherwise you’ll freeze your ears. Look, he said, how many passersby are now without ears. She agreed, saying, yes, yes, it should be, but she didn’t wear it. She laughed at the joke and continued to walk around without a hat. This is the picture that came to mind, but who is this about? we're talking about- I can’t imagine.

Or, let’s say, I remembered a scandal – ugly, debilitating. It is not clear where the play took place. It's a shame that the communication started well, one might say, friendly, and then word for word everyone quarreled. The main thing is that later it became surprising to ourselves - why, why?

Someone noticed that this often happens at wakes: for an hour and a half they talk about what the deceased was like a good man. And then one of those who came remembers that the dead man was not only good, it turns out. And then, as if on command, many begin to speak out, add additions - and little by little they come to the conclusion that he was, in fact, a first-rate scoundrel.

Or a completely phantasmagoria: someone gets hit on the head with a piece of sausage, and this person rolls down an inclined plane, rolls and cannot stop, and this rolling makes him dizzy...

My head. Spinning. I am lying on the bed.

An unknown person in a white coat entered. He stood with his hand on his lips, looking at me (there was someone else’s head in the crack of the door). I, in turn, looked at him - without opening up, as it were. From under loosely closed eyelashes. He noticed their trembling.

-Are you awake?

I opened my eyes. Approaching my bed, the unknown person extended his hand:

- Geiger. Your doctor.

I pulled it out from under the blanket right hand and felt Geiger's gentle handshake. This is how they touch when they are afraid of breaking something. He looked back for a moment and the door slammed shut. Without letting go of my hand, Geiger leaned towards me:

– And you are Innokenty Petrovich Platonov, aren’t you?

I couldn't confirm this. If he says so, then he has a reason for it. Innokenty Petrovich... I silently hid my hand under the blanket.

-You don’t remember anything? asked Geiger.

I shook my head. Innokenty Petrovich Platonov. Respectably. A little literary, perhaps.

– Do you remember how I approached the bed just now? What did you call yourself?

Why is he doing this to me? Or am I really really bad? After a pause, I say creakingly:

- And before that?

I felt tears choking me. They burst out and I started sobbing. Taking a napkin from the bedside table, Geiger wiped my face.

- Well, what are you talking about, Innokenty Petrovich? There are so few events in the world worth remembering, and you get upset.

– Will my memory be restored?

- I really hope for it. Your case is such that nothing can be said for certain. - He put a thermometer on me. – You know, remember more, your effort is important here. You need to remember everything yourself.

I see Geiger's nose hairs. There are scratches on the chin after shaving.

He looks at me calmly. High forehead, straight nose, pince-nez - as if someone had drawn him. There are faces so typical that they seem made up.

- I had an accident?

– You can say so.

In the open window, the air in the room mixes with the winter air outside the window. It becomes cloudy, trembles, melts, and the vertical bar of the frame merges with the tree trunk, and early twilight - I’ve seen this somewhere before. And I saw snowflakes flying. Melting before reaching the windowsill... Where?

- I do not remember anything. Just some little things - snowflakes in the hospital window, the coolness of the glass if you touch it with your forehead. I don’t remember the events.

“I could, of course, remind you of something that happened, but life cannot be retold in its entirety.” From your life I know only the most external things: where you lived, with whom you dealt. At the same time, I don’t know the history of your thoughts and feelings - do you understand? “He pulled the thermometer out of my armpit. – 38.5. A bit much.

Monday

Yesterday there was no time yet. And today is Monday. Here is how it was. Geiger brought a pencil and a thick notebook. Gone. He returned with a writing stand.

– Write down everything that happened during the day. And write down everything that you remember from the past. This diary is for me. I will see how quickly we are moving forward in our business.

– All my events so far are connected with you. So, should I write about you?

– Abgemacht. Describe and evaluate me comprehensively - my humble person will pull other threads of your consciousness along with it. And we will gradually expand your circle of contacts.

Geiger placed a stand over my stomach. She rose sadly with every breath I took, as if she was sighing herself. Geiger corrected. He opened the notebook and inserted a pencil into my fingers - which, generally speaking, was unnecessary. Even though I’m sick (the question is – with what?), I can still move my arms and legs. What, exactly, to write down - nothing happens and nothing is remembered.

The notebook is huge - enough for a novel. I twirl the pencil in my hand. Why am I still sick? Doctor, will I live?

- Doctor, what date is today?

Silent. I am also silent. Did I ask something inappropriate?

“Let’s do this,” Geiger finally says. - Let's indicate only the days of the week. This way we will get along easier over time.

Geiger is a mystery itself. I answer:

And I took it and wrote it all down – for yesterday and today.

Tuesday

Today I met my sister Valentina. Slim. Laconic.

When she came in, I pretended to be asleep - this is already becoming a habit. Then he opened one eye and asked:

- What is your name?

- Valentina. The doctor said you need rest.

She did not answer all further questions. Standing with her back to me, she scrubbed the floor with a mop. The triumph of rhythm. When she bent over to rinse a rag in a bucket, her underwear showed through under her robe. What kind of peace is there...

Kidding. No strength. In the morning I took my temperature - 38.7, Geiger is worried about this.

It bothers me that I can't differentiate between memories and dreams.

Mixed impressions from tonight. I am at home with a fever of influenza. Grandmother's hand is cool, the thermometer is cool. Snow whirlwinds outside the window are sweeping the road to the gymnasium, where I didn’t go today. There, then, at the roll call they will reach “P” (sliding across the magazine, finger covered in chalk) and call Platonov.

But Platonov is not there, the class leader reports, he stayed at home due to influenza, and they are reading “Robinson Crusoe” to him. You may hear walkers in the house. Grandmother, the headman continues, presses her pince-nez to her nose, and her eyes are large and bulging from the glass. An expressive picture, the teacher agrees, let’s call it the apotheosis of reading (revival in the classroom).

The essence of what is happening, says the headman, in short, boils down to the following. A frivolous young man goes on a sea voyage and is shipwrecked. He is thrown onto a desert island, where he is left without a livelihood, and most importantly, without people. There are no people at all. If he had behaved prudently from the very beginning... I don’t know how to express this without falling into a mentoring tone. It's like the parable of the prodigal son.

There is an equation on the chalkboard (yesterday's arithmetic), the floorboards store the moisture of morning cleaning. The teacher vividly imagines Robinson's helpless floundering in his quest to reach the shore. Aivazovsky’s painting “The Ninth Wave” helps him see the disaster in its true scope. The silence of the shocked teacher is not interrupted by a single exclamation. The wheels of the carriages are barely audible behind the double frames.

I myself often read “Robinson Crusoe,” but during illness you don’t really read it. It hurts in the eyes, the lines float. I watch my grandmother's lips. She raises a finger to her lips before turning the page. Sometimes he sips the cooled tea, and then barely noticeable splashes fly onto “Robinson Crusoe.” Sometimes - crumbs from crackers eaten between chapters. Having recovered, I carefully leaf through what I read and shake out the grain particles, dried out and flattened.

“I remember many different places and people,” I told Geiger, worried, “I remember some sayings.” But for the life of me, I don’t remember exactly who said what words. And where.

Geiger is calm. He hopes it will pass. He doesn't consider it significant.

Or maybe this is really unimportant? Maybe it only matters that the words were spoken and preserved, and by whom and where is the tenth matter? I'll have to ask Geiger about this - he seems to know everything.

Wednesday

And it also happens: the words have not been preserved, but the picture is completely intact. For example, a man is sitting at dusk. The room is already half-dark, but he still doesn’t turn on the light—is he saving money, or what? Mournful stillness. The elbow rests on the table, the forehead rests on the palm, the little finger is on the fly. Even in the dark you can see that his clothes are in folds, all brown to the point of colorlessness, and his face and hand are one white spot. The person seems to be deep in thought, although in reality he doesn’t think about anything, he’s just resting. Maybe he even says something, but the words cannot be heard. Actually, his words are not important to me, and who should he talk to - himself? He doesn’t know that I’m watching him, and if he says anything, it’s not to me. Moves his lips, looks out the window. The drops on the glass reflect the glow of the street and shimmer with the lights of the carriages. The window creaks.

Until now, I had only seen two people in the ward - Geiger and Valentina. A doctor and a nurse - who else is actually needed? I gathered my strength, stood up, went to the window - the yard was empty, knee-deep snow. Once, holding onto the wall, he left the room into the corridor - Valentina immediately appeared: you are on bed rest, return to the room. Mode…

By the way: both look old-fashioned. Geiger, if not in a robe, is definitely in a three-piece. Reminds me of Chekhov... I kept thinking - who does he remind me of? Chekhov! He also wears pince-nez. Of the living pince-nez, in my opinion, I only saw Stanislavsky, but he is a man of the theater... However, I would say that there is some kind of theatricality in the couple treating me. Valentina is the spitting image of a wartime nurse. 1914th. I don’t know how they will react to my impression - Geiger will read this, we agreed. In the end, he himself asked me to write without concealment everything that I notice, remember, think - please, that’s what I write.

Today my stylus broke, I told Valentina about it. She takes something like a pencil out of her pocket and hands it to me.

“It’s funny,” I say, “a metal stylus, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Valentina blushed and quickly took the thing back from me. Then she brought another pencil. Why did she blush? He takes me to the toilet, pulls my underpants off for injections - I don’t blush, but here’s a pencil, you see. There are a lot of small mysteries in my life now that I am unable to solve... But she blushes charmingly, to the tips of her ears. The ears are thin and elegant. Yesterday, when her white scarf fell off, I admired them. More precisely, one. Valentina leaned over the lamp, her back to me, and her ear shone pink, I wanted to touch it. I didn't dare. And I had no strength.

A strange feeling, as if I had been lying on this bed for an eternity. If I move my arm or leg, my muscles hurt, and if I stand up without outside help, my legs feel like they’re made of cotton. But the temperature dropped slightly - 38.3.

I ask Geiger:

- So what happened to me anyway?

“This,” he answers, “you yourself must remember, otherwise your consciousness will be replaced by mine.” Is this what you want?

And I myself don’t know if I want this. Maybe I will have such a consciousness that it would be better to replace it.

Friday

On the subject of consciousness: I lost it yesterday. Geiger and Valentina were very scared. When I woke up, I saw their upturned faces - it looked like they would be sorry to lose me. It’s nice when for some reason they need you, even if this reason is not personal, but pure, so to speak, philanthropy. Geiger did not return my sheets to me all day yesterday. I was apparently afraid that the day before I had overexerted myself in my writing. I lay there, watching the snow flakes fall outside the window. While watching, I fell asleep. I woke up and the flakes were still falling.

Valentina was sitting on a chair by my bed. She wiped my forehead with a damp sponge. Kiss, I wanted to say, kiss my forehead. Didn't say. Because it would look like she was wiping my forehead before kissing me. And in general, it’s clear who they kiss on the forehead... But when he took her hand, she didn’t take it away. She just put our joined hands on my stomach so as not to keep me suspended. Her palm covered my hand like a house - this is how you learn to hold your hand when playing the piano. Probably, I was also taught once, if I know such things. Turning my hand over index finger I walked along the ceiling of this house and felt how it shuddered, disintegrated, and spread across my palm. And I felt its warmth.

“Lie down next to me, Valentina,” I asked. - I have no bad thoughts, and I am completely safe - you know that. I just need someone to be next to me. Very close, otherwise I'll never get warm. I can't explain it, but it's true.

I moved with effort on the wide bed, and Valentina lay down next to me - on top of the blanket. I was sure that she would fulfill my request - I don’t know why. She tilted her head towards my head. I inhaled her scent - an infusion of ironed, starchy, snow-white combined with the aroma of perfume and a young body. She shared this with me, and I couldn't get enough of it. Geiger appeared through the opened door, but Valentina remained lying there. Something in her tensed (I felt it), but she did not get up. She must have blushed—she couldn't help but blush.

“Very well,” Geiger said without entering, “rest.”

A remarkable reaction in its own way.

Actually, I wasn’t going to describe this, it doesn’t concern me alone, but since he saw everything... Let Geiger correctly understand the essence of what is happening (and, of course, he already understands). I want this to happen again, even just a few minutes a day.

Sunday

When I woke up, I mentally read “Our Father.” It turned out that I could reproduce the prayer without any hesitation. Sometimes, on Sundays, if I couldn’t go to church, I would at least read “Our Father” to myself. He moved his lips in the damp wind. I lived on an island where attending services was not a given. And the island is not exactly uninhabited, and there were temples, but somehow everything worked out that it was not easy to visit them. You can’t remember the details now.

Church is a great joy, especially in childhood. Small, which means I’m holding on to my mother’s skirt. The skirt under the short fur coat is long and rustles on the floor. Mother puts a candle to the icon, and the skirt rises slightly, and with it my hand in a mitten. He takes me carefully and brings me to the icon. I feel her palms on my lower back, and my felt boots and mittens move freely in the air, and I seem to be floating in the direction of the icon. Below me are dozens of candles - festive, swaying - I look at them and cannot take my eyes off this brightness. They crackle, wax drips from them, immediately solidifying into bizarre stalactites. The Mother of God comes towards me with her arms open, and I kiss Her hand awkwardly, because my flight is not controlled by me, and, having kissed her, I touch her, as it should be, with my forehead. For a moment I feel the coolness of Her hand. And this is how I soar in the church, floating over the priest waving a censer - through the fragrant smoke. Above the choir - through its chants (slow movements of the regent and his own grimaces on high notes). Above the old woman holding candles and the people filling the temple (flowing around the pillars), along the windows, behind which is a snow-covered country. Russia? The cold is visibly swirling around the door that is not tightly closed, and there is frost on the handle. The gap widens sharply, and in the resulting rectangle there is a Geiger.

– Doctor, we’re in Russia, aren’t we? - I ask.

- Yes, in some way.

Treats my hand for an IV.

-Then why are you Geiger?

He looks at me in surprise:

– Because I am a Russian German. Deutschrusse. Were you worried that we were in Germany?

No, I wasn't worried. It’s just that now I can assume that I know our location exactly. Until today, it was, in essence, not very clear.

-Where is sister Valentina?

- She has a day off today.

Having inserted an IV, Geiger takes my temperature. 38.1.

“And what,” I ask, “are there no other sisters?”

-You are insatiable.

And I don't need another sister. I just don’t understand what kind of institution this is, where there is one doctor, one nurse and one patient. Well, in Russia everything is possible. In Russia... It must be a common phrase, if it is preserved even in my destroyed memory. It has its own rhythm. I don't know what's behind this, but phrase I remember.

I already have several phrases like this that have popped up from nowhere. They probably have their own story, but I pronounce them like it’s the first time. I feel like Adam. Or as a child: children often pronounce phrases without yet knowing their meaning. Everything is possible in Russia, hmm. There is a condemnation in this, perhaps even a sentence. One feels that this is some kind of bad limitlessness, that everything will go in a certain direction. To what extent does this phrase apply to me?

After thinking, I convey the phrase to Geiger as a German and ask him to evaluate it. I watch the movement of his lips and eyebrows - like tasting wine. He inhales noisily, as if to answer, but after a pause, he exhales just as noisily. As a German, he decided to remain silent - so as not to injure me, for example. Instead, he asks me to stick my tongue out, which, in my opinion, is justified in its own way. My tongue still acts largely independently: it pronounces what it is used to pronouncing, as is the case with talking birds. Apparently, Geiger understood everything about my tongue and asks to show it. When I show him, he shakes his head. He is not happy with my language.

Approaching the door, Geiger turns around:

- Yes, here’s another thing... If you want Sister Valentina to lie next to you - even, say, under the same blanket with you - say, don’t be shy. This is fine.

“You know that she is completely safe.”

- I know. Although,” he snapped his fingers, “everything is possible in Russia, huh?”

IN this moment– not everything... I feel it like no one else.

Friday

All these days I had no strength. They still don't exist today. A strange thing is spinning in my head: “Aviator Platonov.” Same - phrase?

I ask Geiger:

- Doctor, was I an aviator?

- As far as I know, no...

Where was I called an aviator? Not in Kuokkala? That's right, in Kuokkala! I shout to Geiger:

– The name is associated with Kuokkala, where I am... Where we are... Have you been to Kuokkala, doctor?

“It’s called something else now.”

- Well, for example, Repino... The main thing is to write down your memory.

I'll write it down tomorrow. Tired.

Saturday

My cousin Seva and I are on the Gulf of Finland. Seva is the son of my mother’s brother: as a child, this explanation of kinship sounded terribly complicated to me. Even now I pronounce this not without glitches. Cousin is, of course, easier, but best of all is Seva. Seva's parents have a house in Kuokkala.

He and I fly a kite. We run along the evening beach at the very edge of the water. Sometimes we touch the water with our bare feet, and the splashes sparkle in the setting sun. We imagine ourselves as aviators. We are flying together: me in the front seat, Seva in the back. There, in the cold sky, it is deserted and lonely, but our friendship warms us. If we die, we die together: it brings us closer together. We try to talk to each other up there, but our words are carried away by the wind.

“Aviator Platonov,” Seva shouts to me from behind. - Aviator Platonov, heading towards the settlement of Kuokkala!

I don’t understand why Seva addresses her colleague so ceremoniously. Maybe so that Platonov would not forget that he is an aviator. Sevin’s thin voice (that’s how he remained) resounds throughout everything we fly locality. Sometimes it mixes with the cries of seagulls and becomes almost indistinguishable from them. This scream, to be honest, really irritates me. Looking at happy face Seva, I can’t find the strength to ask him to shut up. In fact, it was the strange bird-like timbre that made me remember it.

Before going to bed we are given hot milk with honey. Actually, I don’t like hot milk, but after a flight over the bay, after the sea wind in my face, this does not cause protest. Seva and I, despite the fact that the milk has barely begun to cool, drink it in large, loud sips. The milk is brought by the Finnish thrush, and it, especially if it is not hot, is really very tasty. Confused in Russian words, the Finnish woman praises her cow. I imagine this cow to be similar to the milkmaid herself - huge, leisurely, with wide-set eyes and a tight udder.

Seva and I share a room on the turret. It has all-round visibility (forest behind, sea in front), which is important for experienced aviators. You can evaluate the weather at any time: fog over the sea - probability of rain; lambs on the waves and the swaying of the tops of pine trees - a stormy wind. Both the pines and the waves change their appearance in the twilight of the white night. It’s not that they become a threat, no, they just lose their daytime affection. So, seeing a smiling person thinking, you feel uneasy.

- Are you already asleep? – Seva asks in a whisper.

“No,” I answer, “but I’m going to.”

“I saw a giant outside the window,” Seva points to the window opposite the sea.

- This is pine. Sleep.

A few minutes later, Sevino’s sniffles are heard. I look out the window indicated by Seva. And I see a giant.

Monday

Monday is a hard day... Another one phrase out of my poor head. I wonder if there are many of them still there? There are no more people, no events, but the words remain - here they are. Words are probably the last to disappear, especially those that are written down. Geiger himself may not fully understand what a profound idea it is to write. Maybe words will be the thread by which one day we will be able to pull out everything that was? Not only with me - everything that happened in general. It’s a hard day... I just feel lightness, even some kind of joy. That’s why I think I’m looking forward to meeting Valentina. I tried to get up - my head began to spin, and the lightness disappeared. But the joy did not disappear.

Upon entering, Valentina patted me on the cheek - how nice. Still, amazing aromas emanate from it - completely unfamiliar to me. Perfume, soap? Natural properties of Valentina? It’s inconvenient to ask, and it’s not necessary. Everything should have its own secret, especially a woman... Also, after all - phrase. It feels like phrase!

Here’s another one: “Heat is quickly transferred through metal” - I really liked it. Not the most common one, perhaps, but for me it’s one of the first I’ve heard. We sit somewhere we don’t know, with whom we don’t know, stirring the tea with spoons. I’m five years old, I think no more, there’s an embroidered pillow on the chair under me (I can’t reach the table), I stir the tea like an adult. The glass is in the cup holder. The spoon is hot. I throw it into the glass with a clink and blow on my fingers. “Heat is quickly transferred through the metal,” sounds in a pleasant voice. Beautiful, scientific. I'm in it similar cases I repeated until I was twelve years old.

No, this is not the earliest. “Go fearlessly” – that’s it. We are entering someone's house on Christmas Day. Near the stairs there is a stuffed bear on hind legs, in the front paws there is a tray.

- Why a tray? - I ask.

“For business cards,” the father answers.

My fingers dip into the thick bear fur for a moment. Why the bear? Business Cards(we go up the marble steps), and what are business cards? I repeat these two words several times, slip, but hang on my father’s hand. As I sway, I contemplate the carpet on the marble – it’s held in place by gilded fasteners, slightly curved at the sides, and it’s also swaying. Father's laughing face. We enter a brightly lit hall. Christmas tree, round dance. My hands are sticky from someone’s sweat, I feel disgusted, but I can’t unclench my hands and can’t escape from the round dance. Someone says that I am the smallest of those present (we are already sitting on chairs around the Christmas tree). Somehow he knows that I can read poetry and asks me to read it. And everyone is also asking noisily. Next to me is an old man in an old uniform, with orders under his two-tailed beard.

“This,” they say, “is Terenty Osipovich Dobrosklonov.”

Free space is forming around us. I silently look at Terenty Osipovich. He stands, leaning on a cane and leaning slightly to the side, so that even the thought flashes that he might fall. Doesn't fall.

“Go fearlessly,” Terenty Osipovich advises me.

I run from the invitation - through a suite of rooms - with my head bowed and my arms spread wide, noticing how my reflection flashes in the mirrors, and dishes clink in the cabinets. In the last room a fat cook catches me. Pressing me to his apron (the sickening smell of the kitchen), he solemnly carries me into the hall. Places it on the floor.

“Go fearlessly,” Terenty Osipovich’s instructions sound again.

I don’t even walk—I take off, am lifted up onto a Viennese chair by someone’s effort, and read a poem to the audience. I remember it was very small... Thunderous applause plus a Teddy Bar as a gift. What did I read to them then? Happy, I make my way through the crowd of fans, with a glance I thank the culprits of my success - the cook and Terenty Osipovich, who strengthened me with his words.

“I told you,” his hand slides along the two ends of his beard, “go fearlessly.”

It hasn't always worked out that way in my life.

Tuesday

Geiger likes my descriptions. He said that the all-powerful god of details is guiding my hand. Nice image: Geiger can be poetic.

– Or maybe I was a writer before I lost my memory? - I ask. – Or a newspaper reporter?

He shrugs.

- Or someone else - an artist, for example. Your descriptions are very, I would say, visible.

- So an artist or a writer?

- Biography writer. We agreed that there would be no clues for the main part.

– And for this you reduced the staff to two people?

- Yes, so that no one spills the beans. There are a couple of the most reliable ones left.

After lunch, Geiger left. I saw him in the corridor when Valentina came in - in a coat, with a hat in his hands. I heard his fading footsteps, first on the floor, then along the stairs. For two days I did not ask Valentina to lie next to me, although I dreamed about it. Despite Geiger's permission (or despite it?). And now I asked.

And now she’s already there, her hand in my palm. A strand of her hair tickles my ear. It would be hard for me to think that we might be caught this. For something else, reprehensible, perhaps even indecent, there is no fear, since indecent is the first thing one would expect, but for this... Everything here is so subtle, so trembling and inexplicable, and you can’t help but feel like this has already happened before. I ask Valentina if this has already happened to her, if she has any vague memories about this, not even memories - guesses. No, he answers, it didn’t happen, nothing like that even happened, where do memories come from?

That’s how it was - for me, well, I didn’t come up with it, really. We lay just as motionless on the bed, hand in hand, temple to temple. I couldn’t swallow saliva then - I was afraid that she would hear the sound of swallowing, I coughed on purpose to justify this sound - our relationship was so intangible. Or that there would be a crunch in the joint - I was also afraid, because all the airiness, all the fragility of our relationship would immediately collapse. There was nothing physical about them. I had enough of her wrist, her little finger, the nail on her little finger—small, like mother-of-pearl scales, smooth and pink. I write and my hand is shaking. Yes, from weakness, from temperature, but also from great tension of feelings. And also because my memory hides everything else from me. What was it?

- What was it? – I shout, shedding tears, to sister Valentina. - Why do I not fully remember the happiness of my life?

Valentina presses her cool lips to my forehead.

“Maybe then it would cease to be happiness.”

Maybe. But to understand this, you need to remember everything.

Wednesday

I remember. Tram rails on a frozen river. An electric tram making its way from one bank to the other, benches along the windows. The driver's gaze scans the blizzard and twilight, but the other shore is still not visible. The path is barely illuminated by lanterns; in their flickering light, every unevenness on the ice seems like a crack and a gap. The driver is focused, he is the last one to lose hope. The conductor is also strong in spirit, but does not forget to cheer himself up with sips from his flask, because the frost and lunar landscape will discourage anyone, but the conductor must remain cheerful. He sells tickets for five kopecks and tears them off with his frozen fingers. There are ten fathoms of water under him, a snowstorm on the sides, but his fragile ark, a yellow light on the ice, strives for its goal - a huge spire lost in the darkness. I recognize this spire and this river. Now I know what city I lived in.

Thursday

I loved St. Petersburg endlessly. Returning from other places, I felt acute happiness. Its harmony contrasted in my eyes with the chaos that had frightened and upset me since childhood. Now I can’t properly reconstruct the events of my life, I only remember that when I was overwhelmed by the waves of this chaos, the thought of St. Petersburg, the island on which they crashed, saved me...

Valentina just gave me an injection in a soft spot. Some kind of vitamin. Vitamins are painful, these syringes are somehow much more painful than syringes with medicine. I lost my mind...

Oh yes - harmony. Strictness. Here we are with my father and mother - I’m in the center, they are on the sides, holding my hands, walking along Teatralnaya Street from Fontanka to Alexandrinsky Theater, right in the middle of the street. Sami is the embodiment of symmetry, or, if you will, harmony. And so we walk, and my father tells me that the distance between the houses is equal to the height of the houses and the length of the street is ten times the height of the houses. The theater is growing, getting closer, terrifying. Acceleration of clouds in the sky. Yes, that's what: the street was later renamed and somehow poorly marked. For what?

I also remembered the fire. Not the fire itself, but how they went to put it out - along Nevsky, in early autumn, at the end of the day. Ahead on a black horse - leap. With a trumpet at his mouth, like the angel of the Apocalypse. Jump blows a trumpet, preparing the way for the fire train, and everyone scatters. The cab drivers whip the horses, press them to the side of the road and freeze, standing half-turned towards the firemen. And now, along the seething Nevsky, in the resulting emptiness, a chariot carrying firefighters rushes. They sit with their backs to each other on a long bench, wearing copper helmets, and the fire department banner flutters above them. The fire chief is at the banner and he is ringing the bell. In their dispassion, the firefighters are tragic; on their faces there are reflections of the flame that is waiting for them somewhere, which has already flared up somewhere, for the time being invisible.

Fiery yellow leaves from the Catherine Garden, where there is a fire, fly down on those traveling. My mother and I stand, pressed against the cast-iron grate, and watch how the weightlessness of the leaves is transferred to the convoy: it slowly lifts off the paving stones and flies at a low altitude over Nevsky. Behind the line with firefighters floats a steam-cart with crowbars, hose reels and assault ladders, behind it is another cart with a steam pump (steam from the boiler, smoke from the chimney), followed by a medical van to save the burned. I cry, and my mother tells me not to be afraid, but I’m not crying from fear - from an excess of feelings. From admiration for the courage and great glory of these people, from the fact that they sail so majestically past the frozen crowd to the sound of bells.

Title: Aviator
Writer: Evgeniy Vodolazkin
Year: 2015
Publisher: AST
Age limit: 16+
Volume: 350 pages.
Genres: Contemporary Russian literature

About the book “Aviator” Evgeny Vodolazkin

Evgeniy Vodolazkin is a prose writer and philologist. Author of the bestseller “Laurel” and the elegant historical fiction “Soloviev and Larionov”. In Russia he is called the “Russian Umberto Eco”, in America – after the release of “Laurel” in English – the “Russian Marquez”. It is enough for him to be himself. Vodolazkin's works have been translated into many foreign languages.

The hero of the new novel “Aviator” by Evgeniy Vodolazkin is a man in a state of tabula rasa: waking up one day on hospital bed, he realizes that he knows absolutely nothing about himself - not his name, not who he is, not where he is. Hoping to restore the history of his life, he begins to write down the memories that visited him, fragmentary and chaotic: St. Petersburg at the beginning of the twentieth century, dacha childhood in Siverskaya and Alushta, gymnasium and first love, the revolution of 1917, falling in love with aviation, Solovki... But where is he from? accurately remembers details of everyday life, phrases, smells, sounds of that time, if the year on the calendar is 1999?..

On our literary website you can download the book “The Aviator” by Evgeny Vodolazkin for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have big choice books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, literature on psychology and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting for themselves.