I visited my friend's house. To the same, from the workers' outskirts, where among the orchards, enveloping the old four-story buildings, there is the Old Belief rigor and simplicity of the multi-.

There, as always, pastorally, slowly, and only flocks of children of different ages like swifts are sewing space courtyards with old women on benches, flowerbeds at the entrances and obligatory, rusty and brilliant in their primitivism, children's devices boat of two sheets of iron and in the middle of a stick with a bar in sand dunes. There is always a factory 80s.

The comrade smokes on the steps of the porch and scratches the belly. On it slippers and bright yellow glasses, in the eyes - the philosophical satisfaction of the working man by this wonderful June evening.

- Arthurchik! Come here, son, - he goggles his gaze in the next rushing flock of children of his seven-year-old son.

Arthurczyk runs up - fair-haired, angelically handsome boy with no upper front teeth and crazy blue eyes.

- Take this eggplant and run to the store to collect water. You have a chervonetz.

- Well, Paaapa!.

- Run on, one leg here. And you do not want it yourself, the girl goes with you, she's with transport, - in a flock of children waiting for Arthurczyk, a girl with long, thin legs in microshorts on a bicycle. - Ask her, give fifty kopecks from above, let him go. Are you asking her to be embarrassed? Well? How's the girl's name?.

Mmm. Nuu. Sonia. In my opinion, I do not know, - mows his eyes to the side, shifts; Sonia is older and a local beauty.

"Sonya, right?" Sonia! Well, come here, Sonya! - Suits Sonya, a twelve-year-old girl, full of excellence, her lips express a degree of her own importance among the team of boys, her younger ones for two or three years.

"Sonja, Arthur wanted to ask you here. Arthur, what did you want to tell Sonya?.

- (in a hellish whisper) Well, Paaapa!.

Sdnya looks at us, then at Arthurchik, who is making dumb, maddened pantomimes.

"I'll buy it myself!

" - Suddenly, in a broken voice and, snatching a plastic bottle from my father, slips around the corner of the house with a slip.

- What are you busting so hard for? - I ask and smile.

- Nothing. And who will teach his life?.

We stand, smoke, the evening irones us. This is Sparta, son, this is Sparta.

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