You had to have a pass, which Gladysheva was not, and he feared lest that its not miss it.
Finally a little on the threshold, Gladyshev went forth, going to turn a man who closed for a moment his back from a policeman, quickened his pace and waiting with bated fear that now it окликнут. Stairs and up a few steps. This distance he overcame two jumps and climbed up the steep, narrow stairs, which were common in old buildings.
-Young man! Young man! Stand fast, young man! Where are you heading?! Stop!
It is probably called him, but Gladyshev already slipped stairwell and ran with full force for the second Bay.
"It is interesting to rush whether he followed me into the chase? — his mind continued to frantically to think. On the Elevator — catch can". It was clear to him that you need to go somewhere to the side, that direct its likely overtaken and make you come back, no matter what his explanation, but he climbed and climbed up the steep stairs, choking with unaccustomed from such a rapid ascent.
"Sunset manually. Exactly that. Wonder how they came up with such a strange and good name. In it the weight and непомерность work, the dramatic process of this action, however, читсейший and беспочвенный fiction. Sunset manually", — he passed already several floors, having lost the account and now not even struggling to recover it. His head was full of thoughts, and they were pushing, pushing, vying with each other, trying to get his attention, to draw the eye of his soul, which оплодотворила them their empathy. — Publishing house similar to the hospital. Here the authors help resolve pregnancy embodied, Mature, formed as a child in the womb, literary idea. Родовспомошествуют, so to speak. Why I'm I squirmed my way here, as if going to make literary abortion?"
On some floor suddenly he leaped to one side open, glazed door, and entered a small, round hall of the platform lift, which from several sides agreed corridors, and went at random one of them, and passed the meeting, again found himself in the corridor and went out in the end to the other end of the building, on the staircase landing of the second end of the staircase, entrance to which was from a different entrance. Here, the Elevator was on the spot and barely Gladyshev stopped, the doors open it with noise burst open, forcing the young man, dwelling in a terrible tension of the suspect, flinch and fright. Out of there come two men and was busily chatting on the go, passed him, completely ignoring him, and turned to the right in a dead-end, Allen hall with cabinets.
Do not hesitate even for a second, Gladyshev went into an empty Elevator and pushed the button for the desired floor: he показлось that side heard hasty, footsteps, and it could be the policeman of the watch. Doors, decorated with plastic under the tree, gently gathered, closed, as the folds of a huge shell, and he had not had time to study it his frightened face in the wall, the Elevator mirror again opened, letting inside the gloomy box daily, bright sunlight that fell here through the window of the entrance.
Gladyshev broke out, rubbed his eyes and look for the coveted room Cabinet, which he had learned in spring, while passing through Moscow, the women of the Department of letters and correspondence, where he's way in February passed a thick folder with typing his first and only novel.
-Your novel we had sent to the editorial office of children's and youth literature, then the woman said to him. — I met him, and so it seemed to me that it never will. Department of prose, so there's the turn of the venerable, serious writers, and you'll have to wait there for a decision on their issue very very long time. Moreover, because of the difficulties of polygraphic base, paper, with capacity we now print only members of the Union of writers, and I understand that you are not a member. And in the Junior edition, maybe you can do business. Anyway, this is some hope and better. Than nothing at all. Come four or five months later. You say there.
He did so. It was exactly five months.
Gladyshev was in front of the right door and froze in his tracks, feeling caught off guard.
"Corinne Lev Vasilievich, " he read the label under the plaque with the number — editor of the Department of literature for children and youth".
The door was ajar, of the Cabinet of разавался muffled bass few votes.
Order оробев Gladyshev knocked as cautious and polite not to seem too self-assured and arrogant editor, but blows it at the door were so cowardly quiet that he himself was heard. Having passed through itself the first wave of fear, введшую it in a paint, Gladyshev already knocked a few more confident and, without waiting for permission, opened the door, but she dared not.
At the table, occupying the entire middle long and fairly narrow Cabinet opposite each other were three — two on one side, and the third on the other, — and something talked, sipping from a thin-walled glasses something amber-transparent. Before them стояля round glass ashtray rose up with a bunch of "bulls"which was, apparently, a local landmark. Next was a half-empty bottle of port wine, Madeira, which, apparently, and drank friends.
Gladyshev, in spite of the armed forces of their confusion, all the same has prepared some introductory speech of appeal to the editor, but now, not knowing who to talk to, again confused and could say:
-Hello, I am the author of the novel "Administrator".
All three turned to him with surprise and looked rounded, осоловевшими eyes, подернутыми haze. They probably didn't think that now to them on the head will fall for a "miracle" and intervene in their conversation, violating their meal.
Not knowing who these people editor, and whether he's here at all, Gladyshev looked alternately at each of the three, but in the next second, noticed that the man who sat alone, staring at him as if something more surprised and expressive, he was the first to rise from the chair, and the two men followed him, obviously not knowing with whom they deal.
Rising first began moving towards him, piano squeezing between table and chairs, standing in a tight row against the wall. Gladyshev intuitive feeling that this is the person whom they came, leaned toward him. Their hands simultaneously pulled towards each other.
-So you are the author of this novel? Gladyshev?
-Yes.
-Oh, man turned to his companions, but nothing explaining them, surprised таращившим eyes, turned again to Гладышеву. — I thought you were older. The word of honor! Years on ten older. Do you wrote?
"Yes, " nodded Gladyshev.
-Oh! shook his head editor. — I Corinne Lev Vasilievich, but you call me simple: the lion. Well?
-Well.
-The plot, of course, is good! I read with pleasure... But you sit down, sit down...
Lev Vasilyevich motioned to him to the table, and Gladyshev took предлоджение. He wanted to talk about her novel, collect more impressions and delight his vanity affected first by the flattering reviews, because before he was sure he created something extraordinary, absolutely exquisite and irresistible impressive, but now it began to rapidly grow in confidence., and at the table next to the three men Gladyshev sat down, feeling how was hovering above his head with the Laurel wreath of glory.
On the table the fourth appeared in the glass for him.
-Smoke? — asked the lion.
"Yes, " nodded Gladyshev, although smoked in very rare cases, when he offered to taste committed зкзотические instances import very expensive cigarettes.
Leo pushed him a stack of cheap cigarettes without filter, which was lying beside the table. Such cigarettes served as a sign of smoker, which considers that the expensive cigarettes with filter unaffordable and became the slave of nicotine hunger.
Gladyshev not dare to refuse: to responsible moment was pulled out from a pack a cigarette, leaned down and lit a cigarette Lion. That, apparently, was watching him, and when he exhaled smoke through her nostrils, asked him:
-You that, nose freely breathe?
Yes, Gladyshev wondered was why he asked, but he guessed that the interlocutor, apparently, chronic runny nose.
Meanwhile, conversation, hardly прервавшаяся with the advent of Gladysheva revived, when the glasses on the table сползлись in a heap. One of the men at the table, thick, chunky, with a small head, took бутылкубелого Azerbaijani port wine and poured the remainder in glasses, screwing up the eyes and watching, that all came out equally.
"This here is Alexey Petrovich, with television. Incidentally, at one time led the cycle army gear — showed his hand Lev Vasilievich. — So, meet! And this worker, Баранкин Sergey Efimovich, — he introduced Gladysheva with the second his guest. — Maybe later take a closer look.
Gladyshev was flattered that unexpectedly turned out to be in such great company, and these nice people even invited him to drink with them.
Звякнули glasses. Taste of port wine seemed to be refined and pleasant, although this was the most common port. He even thought that he wanted was сейчасвыпить bottle to two of this wine and noted with regret that оноуже over.
Ate, had nothing, and they all have lit up.
-What has he written? — said Alexey Petrovich that of a Lion.
-A pretty good thing. I got it here, " said Lev Vasilievich, leaned over his Desk, opened the door of the Cabinet and pulled out a familiar Гладышеву red folder. Behold.
He twirled it over his head and handed to view the guests. However, those have been explicitly configured to read and, turning a little, have put the folder in the side.
-Then I will read it, " said Alexei Petrovich, but Gladyshev according to him realized that reading it will not.
Hey, how do you make it? — asked the lion. — As you wrote all this? Where did you come from?
Gladyshev smiled mysteriously, then pointed at the ceiling, not knowing how to put it more precisely:
-Probably, from there.
Lev pointedly silent, but as he was quite drunk, soon resumed:
-No, you know, of course, me yours Roman liked, but... but... but why do you often write about the trolley buses? I'm tired read about it, honestly. Yes, of course, with transport, we have big problems, but you can't just write a lot about the trolley buses. It is a nightmare!
Gladyshev was confused. A sense of euphoria gradually began to abandon it: a critique hardly anyone likes and few people are encouraging.
-Well, actually, nothing, nothing. There are places just strong, but in the whole novel, average hands, between us, — продолжжал lion, not noticing what changes to the interlocutor entail his words. — Publish it will be very hard, but I vowed to do it all. Of course, the opponents he would have many. But I will do my best, I shall draw on their side, a few more people from the editorial Board, build public opinion... Only... Only the novel will have to reduce... cut.
Lev piano shook his hand uplifted finger. In this time Gladyshev wanted just to ask why the editor went to fight for his novel, and who will be his opponents, but he did not give him open his mouth.
-You have a volume of what?
-Четыреса fifty somewhere.
-Well, that's no good. Have times in DV reduced.
-Twice?
-Of course. Of course! Do you see how much you water. You, by the way, not a psychologist by profession?
By profession " no, confused Gladyshev, but, in fact, in another's thoughts can understand.
-Here,-and it shows. You have too much speculation as to any ипереживаний. No, all this is, of course, good, but you didn't count Tolstoy!
Guests editor amicably laughed. Gladyshev felt flushed and hurried to justify himself:
-No, of course not count.
Talk quietly took for him so нелестный turnover that he himself was not happy that I came here. "About Tolstoy, it was you, of course in vain, he thought, looking Lion eyes full of hatred, and натуженно-embarrassed smile, he, like any other "real" writer could not bear comparison with the other, and believed that if he is going to implement his plan, that his work would be greater "War and peace" and, in any case, there will be nothing to...
-And you had a machine have? asked Alexey Petrovich.
"Yes, " nodded Gladyshev, Recalling instantly that the cars is gone, that she died in the fire.
-What, mechanical or electric?
-Electric.
-Soviet?
-Yeah. "Ivica", do you know?
"I know, waved his hand Alexey Petrovich. — Rubbish!
"Why not?" offended Gladyshev. Is a small, comfortable...
-Very noisy. Work on it hard. You himself on it печатаешь?
-Himself.
-And fast?
-Sufficient. Three fingers on each hand. True, not blind, but yet sheet for twenty minutes — packer.
-And you think you are right with the head in the car talking about? — intervened in the conversation lion.
-No, first draft, write in notebooks.
-Oh, it's long, shook his head Alexei Petrovich. — First scribbled, and then перепечатай. Look, I read the article about Marquez, Brazilian writer.
-Is not the one Hundred years of loneliness" wrote? Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
"Yeah, it most. Now, the books he writes on their computer, and at the editorial refers to a floppy diskette. There only in a publishing complex remains lay, and he immediately began churning out books. This is really good!
-Well, on m to such a hundred years more to live! — waved him away with the lion. "Let's better drink!
He reached for the bottle, but it was already empty.
-Yes, if I had a computer, I would have been so much written, dreamily and naively said Gladyshev. — Know how many of my head all the stories and ideas? Ten volumes would be enough.
It is, however, no one listened. Present noticed that drink there, and all their attention was riveted now only to this problem.
"Come to our soup suggested, finally, Lev Vasilievich its guests. — Today, the wine was brought in three-liter jars. However, it is muddy, bitch, as compote, here nobody takes. And for us it will add. You sit here?
He touched ладышева by the knee and drunkenly staggering rose.
-Surf, ' he said.
-That's good. And we are now fast. There and back. On, Kuri! — he offered him a pack of cigarettes, he climbed past his chair, wiping off the wall, and after a minute Gladyshev was left alone.
Time stretched painfully slow. He pondered occurred conversation and understood more clearly that his illusions to disperse and as the morning fog.
The first blow to his hopes was made even then, when half a year ago he first got here, in this great by the publishing house, hoping that his immense power of will and for his work to find their place under the sun. Then, it is too naive, he headed straight with a thick folder of his novel to the editor in chief of the publishing house, but that nothing satisfactory to tell him and sent on a common path in the Department of letters and manuscripts.
