Сергей Добронравов

Страна : Россия

Занимается разработкой информационно-аналитических систем. Дополнительное профессиональное образование – ВГИК, факультет “Кинодраматургия”, мастерская профессора Александра Бородянского, 2008, с отличием. Пишет стихи и рассказы, повести, киносценарии. Член МГО СП России. Публиковался в сценарных альманахах и конкурсных литературных сборниках. Автор сценарных и литературных работ в историческом и философском жанре с острым, драматичным сюжетом. Опубликованы повести “Оправдание Иуды”, ”Юность Ольги Мещерской”, ”Марта и Фехтовальщик”, а также поэтический сборник “Осень Райская Два”. Печатался в русском журнале “Новый Ренессанс”, Германия. 

Country : Russia

He works in the development of the information analysis systems. The additional professional education – the Russian State Institute of Cinematography Faculty of Scriptwriting, studied under the guidance of professor Alexander Borodyanskiy. Graduated in 2008, obtained a distinction. The author of poems, short stories, tales and film scripts. A member of the Moscow city organization of the Russian Writers Union. He published in the script miscellanies and competitive analects. The author of script and literary works in a historical and philosophical genre with a sharp, dramatic plot. He published some his novels “The Justification of Judas”, “The Youth of Olga Meshcherskaya”, “Martha and the Fencer”. The collection of poems “The Autumn of Paradise Two” was published also. He was printed in the Russian literature magazine “New Revival of Learning”, Germany.


Commercial wanderer

 

I used to drive on business trip a lot of time formerly. You could say I made the journey as long as my life. Almost all my life.

I was moving from town to town in very old times in my America, leaving one and arriving in another, offering the samples of the umbrellas, small and big. Any ones. New and old. Modern and obsolete models. If you suppose that aim of people to achieve something modern you mistake. The people look for theirs. In times past. In after days But own things only, second–hand never.

 

I studied and remembed a weather report every day. A rain was a part of my work. Even not so. The selling of the umbrellas was a part. To wait the rain and stay under one – that was my work.

I waited for the rain.

And having waited I knocked or rang a door. The door opened. And I smiled cheerfully under new opened umbrella. I was dry and wonderful while downpour or drizzle was being over me. Over the coldest rain in the world. Over my head and the roofs. Above the vast fields of the corn around us.

 

– Who is there? – someone asked from the door. I was a stranger. And huge cold water was pouring through me top–down, and from above me.

– Who is there? – they asked. I was outsider. I was out of their world.

Eventually door answered and I exclaimed, – Helloooo!.. How are you? What do you think of me? Why I am in such festive mood?

 

I hated the rain. It was my position and my job. I hated my job.

It did not give enough funds to gather for own house. The smallest one. Where would be dryly always. Where should I not open new damned umbrella over my head. Where I could forget the rain completely.

 

My earning was sufficient for some food, gas and motels only. Nothing above to save up. No any surplus. It did not even suffice to buy a calendar where should mark the visited cities daily.  What town you departed from and arrived to next day. Such calendar, the cheapest, was bought by the administration of my firm every time.

I worked for their benefit as a seller of the umbrellas.

I went from one door to another.

I was door–to–door salesman, paltry commercial traveler.

I was a wanderer.

 

…I am over 60 now.

I live in a small fisher village, in Sweden, on the coast of huge cold water. I have got a small cottage, dry and calm, and very cozy.  

And I exactly remember that day when I had finally started to save up for one. That day was drown around by red pencil circle in old flyover calendar. The one hangs on the wall near the main door.

Every time going out, I look at the calendar sheet, the small red circle. The one is open for the same month. This month is in far past.  This year is in far past. I never turn out this sheet. And do not throw this calendar. While it is hanging I know – She is with me, She is somewhere nearby, the closest from here.

 

On that day, 17 years, 4 month and 5 days ago I was driving my car on the remotest country road, state Alabama.  The rain had not been for several weeks. It was abolished. There was hot and stuffy.

My car was dirty and dusty. My condition refused to discharge its obligations three days ago. My opinion concerning its behavior did interest nobody including this device naturally.

 

A road trunk with the umbrellas of all kinds and sizes in was large and heavy as iron safe. It pressed the whole back seat calmly.

I hated the state Alabama, its savage lands and inhabitants, biped ones the first of all.

I hated my car.

I hated all umbrellas and sunshades all over the world. Big, middle and small ones. Collapsible twice and thrice.

I hated umbrella–canes. Nobody needed ones.

Nobody needed me. Nobody needed my life.

I was over 40 already and nobody needed my life.

 

Nonetheless it was necessary to wash my car not to scare away the potential buyers. I had to do it in my unwanted for anybody life. They weren’t found in Alabama’s nature. But the car was ought to be washed.

I had to pay for washing myself, from my empty pocket. The rain could wash my car! Especially local radio announcer had been assuring all the United States hotly and daily that the terrible downpour would cover the whole state Alabama at the latest tomorrow.

But the rain was postponing every day during three last weeks in spite of his swears. The announcer was born in Alabama. He was the biggest rascal in this state. I made no doubt it.

  

The gas was reaching the zero line when I drove to a small town, which was the same as dry and dusty as the road to one, as whole Alabama. And there I saw one young woman, almost at once.

She went to meet me on the sidewalk raising her hand. Or rather she came from the town, but that moment I did not attach importance to it. I braked my car.

 

Almost everybody wore overalls there, in the best case – jeans, but she was dressing in wide dark blue skirt and light white blouse. She had the tiny fancy bag on her shoulder across, old–fashioned, outlandish…

Something flashed what I saw probably every day before. Was it formerly in past? Ages and ages ago? Or not?.. Did I mix anything up?.. Of course! My mother’s coevals, those girls were dressed in such manner. But here, right now, in Alabama? Such costume is incredible for these places!

 

I am Philadelphian man by birth, haven’t I told you before?     The ocean breeze bluing and whiting entered into my blood. In so dry and hot day (and what were there other days in Alabama?) to her, that girl would be right with the sunshade. Lace white parasol. I’ve got just the same one in my damned trunk.

– You would not go back until you sell all umbrellas from it, – my boss told me goodbye tenderly, pointing to one.

 

There was only such umbrella, terribly expensive.

Its top was made from woven flax textile. Beech twisted cane. The pride of my collection. For local housewife this thing was as a saddle on a cow. Italian called them parasollino. The umbrellas, of course, not the housewives.

The umbrellas are only thing in the world which I know about.

…I braked my car…

 

– Good afternoon, sir, – she said affably. – Could you give me a lift to the nearest gas station? I am going to a trip. And I need to buy something for one. And also a kit. But it had happened I didn’t find it in a local supermarket.

 

– With my pleasure, ma’am! – I replied, – I am just driving there. You guess just up my intentions… How do you make it? – I added merrily.

 

– It was not difficultl to understand, – she answered not loudly and then she smiled. She had a wonderful smile.  More than that she had white hair with goldish tint.

 

Neither grey–headed hair nor etched by peroxide, nor colored platinum, but namely white. Like milk, like her skin. Like a white kerchief which was embroidered by gold threads. And calm dark-grey eyes. Very pretty eyes. And very calm.

 

No whatever make–up. She was not a housewife certainly.

In my homeless life I had seen the housewives more then you saw the trees. And she wasn’t inhabitant evidently, not from Alabama. Was she a tourist? A pedestrian tourist? Wherever from the north?  From Canada or something like? What could a foreigner do in the middle of summer here, in Alabama? To delight with farm domains?

 

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