внутри меня опять солнечно, да, это было недолго, но так важно и хорошо увидеть тебя снова во Франции, я рада и благодарна за каждое мгновение, что мы провели вместе. И после того, что мы сказали друг другу в Ниме, я чувствую это как что-то открытое, чистое, светлое и радостное, не знаю, как описать это чувство, но оно просто хорошее.
ты знаешь, Мишка,
с любовью,
Яна.
* * *От: Misha Charaev
8 октября 2002 года
Кому:
Тема: utro v Nante
. . .
Strange feeling: I used to live here in Nantes for quite a time… Funny how them old reflexes are reviving, simple things: riding a tram, stop «Commerce», attention, lots of control, better to get out and jump back at the last moment; my old friends the benches, one in front of the prison where I spent 3 days before my flight back home, strangely enough, in my first days in Nantes EXACTLY 3 years ago (8 October 1999) I was sitting in the same bench with Masha drinking wine when I saw the prisoner's silhouette in the upper floor window, I weaved my hand in greeting and shouted: «Bon courage!», he weakly weaved back, I had no idea I will be in the same jail 2 years later, and will be looking at it again 3 years after; I feel like I never left Nantes, but I also feel its sadness, not like in the Cevennes, where my recognition was joyful; but there are nice things here too – very Breton Atlantic shape of some old houses, grey and gloomy, seamen houses, pity not much of that old Nantes exists, so much of modern geometrical shit here that makes people plastic…
. . .
First night I could hardly sleep, after two months of sleeping out; it was too hot, stifling and air dead, not moving, no fresh breeze anywhere; I opened the windows – that didn't help much…
I met a nice guy here called Marc, the boyfriend of Olga. He used to live 5 years in the forest, completely alone, working as a logger, but realized that he is losing contact with reality, getting too wild, and came to the city; he looks not at all big and strong bushman, but small and skinny, almost never talks (VERY strange for a Frenchman), in outward appearance quiet but I looked at him and admitted some craze in his eyes – fear of the people…
Then Basso, Georgian ex-gangster, who made me fucking drunk on whisky, I went home half unconscious, Arabs at the doors whispering shit about fucking white man wearing Palestinian scarf (your gift); Marc asked me «Ca va?» – I answered «Ca va pas!!!»
boummm fall asleep, silly evening.
