Quarantine. A book of stories and poems - Райса Каримбаева

Quarantine

A book of stories and poems

Райса Каримбаева

© Райса Каримбаева, 2020

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Quarantine book of stories and poems

Cactus

A light breeze rushes into the open window, pulls at the light curtain. There was no one in the room, only the Black Cactus with sharp large needles was angry with the whole world. He was asleep, but this wind woke him up and made him get up from the pastels. The cactus grumbled, if only a little bit and he would have caught that butterfly in a dream and would have taken a piece of cake from her. Whats the cake! The whole world would be his!! A butterfly, light like the same breeze, soared from flower to flower, humming an uncomplicated song: La-la-la la-la-la the sun is me! How so good!.

Cactus looked at the alarm clock. it was already half past six. You could sleep for another half hour! Fool the wind! Well, what did he achieve!! Its time! Its time! Well, I got up and what!. What am I going to do now so early! The cactus grumbled. Grumbled as always. He always grumbles when he doesnt get enough sleep. He went to the window, took his papers, which never run out, folded them in a pile and stuffed them in a suitcase, preparing to leave the house for work Then he smelled the hot delicious buns that his mother was baking. He was very happy about this, even cheered up, but he remembered that his mother had died. It has long been gone. And he still could see her because of this work. Work.. work.. work all the time. Not to go to my mother, to visit the elderly, missing her only son, to whom she devoted her whole life. Mom understood everything. Of course, this is an important state work, responsible. She bragged to all the neighbors about her son, the boss, the Director of the meat processing plant. True, her neighbors never saw her vaunted son, they only met at the funeral. The cactus from unwanted memories completely turned sour and became like bitter pepper, the sun has rotted us. Buns.. these buns again Where does this flavor come from? Only his mother could bake this way. He leaned out the window, shaking his head left and right, trying to smell where the aroma of delicious, sugar buns came from. The city was still asleep, snoring quietly in its beds. There is no one on the street, only the janitors wife sweeps the yard again. Every morning from six to eight, she sweeps the courtyard, as invariably as this old two-story house for as long as he can remember. Okay, thought the cactus, its time already.!. Then, remembering something, Cactus again leaned out into the open window and yelled at the top of his voice:

_ Hey, down there!!! The street cleaner!! Youre just a fool!! You will never achieve nything and your children are fools, and all are fools!!! _ he screamed and his bitterness gradually passed, becoming like a summer sun. So annoying someone Alisher. Traktorbaevich, nicknamed Cactus, assigned to him for thorniness by whom he himself does not remember, rejoiced like a little child.. Cactus.. Cactus and thats all. Hes already used to it and calls out to this nickname, and his name is so melodious, which his mother gave him I almost forgot. Even at work, his name is simply Cactus. Briefly, like a shot, and to the point. He wanted to shout something more sharp and insulting to the janitor, but forgot, because he again remembered about buns Cactus liked to offend people who could not answer him in kind, could not defend themselves, who were silent on all his attacks. They were silent, and he Cactus improved himself at their expense. Humiliating someone, he felt almost like God. So this janitor kept silent She is always silent in a rag, secretly wiping away a tear from resentment, Silent. Well, shut up, and Ill go further  thought Cactus. The cactus was lonely, although rich by local standards: there is a car and an apartment, and a dacha, on which his subordinates are tirelessly busy with, but his wife is not. Do not and of course they spin, but he himself quickly puts them in place. He doesnt like it. when someone swings at his freedom and, most importantly, money. And also how he thinks about the expenses that will have to pay for his wife, After all, you need to feed, but probably eats a lot, and buy her dresses and how it is buy earrings  rings! Otherwise, it will be inconvenient in front of neighbors and bosses to carry her to the sea.. No.. Id rather be alone, Ill spend my money myself, but Id rather collect it for a rainy day. I love to collect them in a three-liter jar, Cactus thought and smiled with relish at his find, and then look at them, crumpled green dollars!! Watch and admire! This is happiness!! Not that your family is children, like there are other resorts. No happiness  these are the same green, crumpled banknotes that I keep under the only thing in the room  under the bed.

Although the cactus was rich, he dressed extremely poorly, wore torn, already completely decayed jeans. he was even proud, he said. that they are always in fashion, showing everyone on their knees. that stick out of huge gaping holes. Without taking off he wore the same ancient shirt, everyone suspected that he definitely did not wash it. So he wore the same thing every day. I didnt drive my own car either. Shore from the eyes Especially the guys who run around in the yard, Still scratch. Allah forbid. As soon as he thinks about it, Cactus, it immediately becomes bad, Oh, how bad! Every day he walks into his garage, polishes the car with a rag to shine, admires her like a girl, even kisses her, then sighs bitterly as if something is impossible. Brushes away the tear that treacherously came out in his eyes from emotion and pride in himself, and will go on to work on foot. Yes, yes, on foot and not otherwise.. And then suddenly the car breaks down or stops shining like a Christmas tree toy. Allah forbid this to happen! Of course he will go on foot, come out early and walk for an hour in the fresh air to the Akimat. And there a compassionate friend and comrade Vovka is already waiting for him at the akimat on his stunted Zhigelka. Vovka will not leave him in trouble, he will even take off his last shirt if necessary. So Cactus gets to work. And to all and sundry, he always complains, weeps, lamenting: they have offended his dear, there is nothing to eat and nothing to wear, and everything hurts and they got everything. Compassionate people will pity him and give some money, their salary, some food, some worn things, but in good condition. The cactus puts everything in a bag until it cracks at the seams and the disgusting smell of rot from spoiled food and moth-eaten rags goes. And as this smell goes, the Cactus plays the role of a sponsor and in front of the journalists (and this is a prerequisite for his action, so that all newspapers talk about his generosity and kindness) will distribute to orphans from orphanages and elderly lonely people all the junk from his a well-worn bag. Of course, you cant wear it anymore, let alone eat it, but everyone is silent, because its uncomfortable. The man tried, he even cried with zeal, and there were journalists, and they didnt print in the newspapers. Here is a photograph of orphans and old people standing, and he, Alisher Taktorbaevich, is distributing alms from his expensive bag. And everything is so beautiful and correct. You cant upset a person, the old people thought, you cant! And this bag of junk is lying by the garbage can. Only scourges and drunks dig deeper and then, after spitting on this rot, they will be thrown away, deep into the garbage container, so that others are not dragged out by chance and poisoned. And Cactus, that is, Alisher Traktorbaevich, was sitting on his directors chair, by the way also old and with a huge hole in the back, once a leather chair, sitting like God and rejoicing in the deal, and most importantly PR. This PR will give him a new position, which means money and opportunities to steal. The cactus always liked to say, twisting his black mustache: Live and let others live What did it mean to steal and let others steal while there is something