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Flood zone Roman Senchin

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Title: Flood Zone

About the book “Flood Zone” Roman Senchin

The novel “The Flood Zone,” written by the writer Roman Senchin, tells readers about the tragic fate of villages that found themselves in the flood zone of the Boguchanskaya hydroelectric power station. The work tells about real events that took place not so long ago.

Roman Senchin deliberately begins the story with a detailed description of preparations for the funeral of one of the village residents, a long ceremony, and an old cemetery. The oppressive atmosphere of the farewell ceremony sets the tone for the entire work, gradually leading to the author’s main idea.

The heroes of the novel “The Flood Zone” learn the news about the imminent flooding of their village, which has a history of three hundred and fifty years. The villagers, who have long taken deep roots in the Siberian regions, realize that they will have to uproot from their homes, abandon their homes, forget about their native paths, ravines, edges, forget that there once was such a village, but now it has disappeared under the water of an artificial reservoirs.

The sad news was received differently by people. Some are ready to stay and die along with the village, some are protesting and holding rallies, some are quietly collecting their belongings, some are simply crying. Roman Senchin skillfully portrays the different characters of the villagers, in whom one can recognize familiar faces encountered every day on the streets of cities and villages.

The novel “The Flood Zone” is divided by the author into two parts. The first half is the actual history of the village, its inhabitants, a description of the emotional state of each villager after the news of the flooding. The second half is a journalistic investigation, clippings from printed newspapers, official documents - pure documentary, once again confirming the reality of the events described in the work.

Roman Senchin, through the lips of the heroes, and later through a journalistic investigation, identifies the culprits of what is happening, pushes out all the negative signs of the existing society, in which officials rule the roost, forgetting about the people, trampling them into the dirt, depriving them of the most valuable.

Critics believe that Senchin’s novel has something in common with Valentin Rasputin’s work “Farewell to Matera.” Reading an emotional and at the same time depressing novel is quite difficult. But, nevertheless, reading “The Flood Zone” captivates and finds a response of sympathy in the reader’s soul.

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Quotes from the book “The Flood Zone” by Roman Senchin

But soon humanity will come to its senses and understand that the Earth is dear and unique, there is no need to destroy it, you cannot pump out oil and gas so madly, or mow down forests. He will come to his senses and begin to take care of the Earth and himself, his descendants.

Not like the people of the people. “Nikitka put down his iPhone and spoke, unusually for himself, hastily and passionately: “When I become president, I will make sure that everyone lives in separate houses.” And so that everyone has their own cows, and pigs, and chickens. And women will do women's work, and men will do men's work.

It's hard to be human - people get in the way

-Can I go home now?
“But this is your house, grandma,” the social worker said in surprise.
– Everything is prepared and comfortable. You can sleep on a mattress overnight, and tomorrow your things will be delivered.
- I need to go home. To the village. There are chickens and potatoes. That's all. There were many who saw the new homes and wanted to go back – “home” – as soon as possible. And they were taken to the pier and put on the ferry. Clean up the gardens.
“So we looked at our graves,” they said on the way back

Inside himself, a person can be as honest, correct, and just as he wants, but circumstances constantly force him to act against his conscience and convictions.

Indeed, it is unlikely that anyone will turn to religion from a good life, and for the unfortunate there is at least some hope and support.

And now life is wrong. Everything is mixed up. Women are just like men, and men are just like women. And there is nothing to do when not at work, not in kindergarten. We sit at home and... and nothing.

Download the book “Flood Zone” for free by Roman Senchin

(Fragment)

Roman Senchin

Flood zone

© Senchin R.V.

© AST Publishing House LLC

Valentin Grigorievich Rasputin

Chapter first

Phone conversation

- Hello, Volodya, can you spare me five minutes?

- Yes, I can... What happened?

– It’s okay, it’s okay... There was only one idea here.

- Tolya, your ideas always give me chills...

- It's okay. I’m driving around the Krasnoyarsk Territory, and here, it turns out, there is a hydroelectric power station that is under construction...

– Hmm, if I’m not mistaken, we have more than a dozen of these.

- Here you go. And this one is almost ready. Sixty percent. They quit in the early nineties. The dam is almost finished, the turbine rooms... In general, it costs nothing to bring it to fruition.

– I know your “it’s worth nothing.”

- No, no, Volodya, this time for real! Of course, you will have to invest, but not so much...

- What for? We don't have enough electricity, or what? You yourself reported on the capacities...

– The Chinese themselves are building fifty power plants.

– It’s okay, it won’t be enough for them... We’ll install an aluminum plant. Aluminum is in demand everywhere...

- All you have to do is trade.

– Well, you can’t live without it – the market. But that’s not the main thing, Volodya.

- And what?

– You see, Volodya, the launch of a new hydroelectric power station, a powerful, strategic one, is such an image plus! For how many years, like, everything was destroyed and destroyed, the Soviet legacy was sucked out, but now they have taken it and built it up in the end. Yourself, with your own hands!.. And, how?

- I don’t know... Reasonable, of course...

- Otherwise! Tolya will not give bad advice.

- Still would…

- So, do you accept the offer?

- Hmm, such questions are not resolved that way. Not a telephone conversation...

- But why? On the contrary, telephone. This is why telephones were invented... It’s not a good idea to jump from the banks of the Yenisei for a month... Come on, Volodya, like this: I’ll sketch out a decree, and then you’ll look...

-What decree?

- Well, like, “On measures for the socio-economic development of the Krasnoyarsk Territory.” And the main point will be the launch of a hydroelectric power station and the construction of an aluminum smelter. Like, this will give a tangible impetus to development... We’ll give people jobs. It's scary to look at them. Hanging out...

– What kind of place is it anyway? Some kind of national district?

- No, no, Russians!

- Well, at least it's normal. Otherwise, there will be a stink again: we are spoiling the reindeer pastures, we are disrupting the traditional way of life...

- This is your oil workers' business. I have it clean: electricity. A dam, a pond, and went to work...

– Yeah... So what, will you have to relocate someone?

- In terms of?

- Well, a pond. I know these ponds from Switzerland.

“Almost everyone was resettled there in the eighties.” Five thousand left. Margins and pennies. Several more colonies - at one time they were sent there specifically for settlement, to prepare the territory for a reservoir.

- And how did you prepare it?

- Yes, I say: almost everything is ready. I wouldn’t come to you with a dubious project... Come on, Volodya, give me the go-ahead.

– And who will bring it to fruition?

- In terms of money?

- Well, which one else?..

– Part of my RAO will be invested, part, I think, should be pinned on Olezhka.

- Which Olezhka?

- Well, to Banyaska. He is our aluminum king. If he wants more aluminum, let him invest.

- He will struggle. The existing factories are enough for him.

“Nobody turned down the opportunity to grow.” The more you can put pressure. You have a lot saved up for him. If he doesn’t want to, he’ll either go to Europe to take a break from business, or to Transbaikalia to sew socks somewhere. There are precedents.

- I have saved up for everyone...

- Yes, I understand, I understand. Me too, by the way... Well, in the right sense... Besides, Olezhek cheated me recently, I need to work it out.

– So, do you have enough of your own resources to build a hydroelectric power station?

- Finish the construction, Volodya, complete the construction. Everyone will be happy and grateful. No fools!.. And we’ll find the money...

- Yeah, in the state budget. Or in the stabilization fund. Alyosha will throw a tantrum.

“I guarantee we won’t go there.” As a last resort, we will use English law...

- What else is this?

- Well, this takes a long time to explain... It’s a complex economic term...

- Well, well, it has begun.

– No, Volodya, none of these, as they say here in Siberia. Everything is within the framework of a market economy... Hello?

Roman Senchin is a famous Russian writer, winner of numerous literary awards. The publication of his new works always entails heated debates and discussions. Critics accuse the author that his novels are too dark and hopeless. However, maybe such darkness of his stories comes from current realities? His novel The Flood Zone is also pessimistic and very relevant. As always, the author remained true to himself here, he highlights pressing social issues in his works, tries to find those to blame and shows the difficult life of people whose world will never be the same again.

“The Flood Zone” is a subtle, dramatic story about people whose usual way of life, an established way of life, turns out to be blown away by the wind of life’s circumstances. This is a story about residents of the Siberian outback who are urgently relocated to the city because the Boguchanskaya hydroelectric power station will be built on the site of their village. Roman Senchin depicts different destinies in his work: these are hereditary peasants, and those who were sent here into exile by order of Stalin, and young families, and old people. Everyone here has their own interesting characters, life stories and love for their native land. Some rebel, organize protests against forced relocation, others resign themselves, because they know that in this country the one who has more money is right. And it is the rich who rule the roost here...

The author shows in his book “The Flood Zone” that the ruling elite absolutely does not care about the wishes of people who do not want to leave their homes. They are against the destruction of a village that has a 350-year history. Their destinies and souls are broken by these changes. People of the older generation react especially sharply to these circumstances. Some do not want to leave their homes, preferring to perish along with their familiar world going under water. Some cannot survive such terrible life collisions for them, they die from strokes and heart attacks, others are brutally beaten in order to force them to accept the decision of the authorities, because everything was agreed upon a long time ago and everything has already been paid for... And several swept away lives are just “easy” by-effect…

Sergei Senchin, in a way, contrasts the city and the countryside. In the village there are still pure and unspoiled people who cannot understand the laws adopted by the authorities to secure their benefits and freedoms. Excessive bureaucratization seems savagery to the village residents, and they do not know how to achieve at least some kind of justice for themselves in this new world... On the other hand, the reality of the book “Flood Zone” does not imply light colors, it contains only black and gray shades. No matter how much you fight, it’s all in vain...

On our literary website you can download the book “The Flood Zone” by Roman Senchin for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, psychological literature and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting for themselves.

Chronicle of the Great Flood, or Hydra Power Plant

For the rest - a little more detail.

Roman Senchin (b. 1971) is one of the most notable and significant modern Russian prose writers. The author of many stories - “Forward and Up on Dead Batteries”, “Nubuck”, “Minus”, “Ice Underfoot”, the novels “Eltyshevs” and “Information”, many short stories and critical articles... Today we will talk about the novel “Flood Zone ”, published in 2015, edited by Elena Shubina.

Senchin is usually called a gloomy, even depressive author. Last year, here in Vladivostok, he himself explained: “I am a realist, I try to more or less objectively record some - unfortunately, often unsightly aspects of our life. Literature generally focuses on problems, tragedies, dramas.”

So in the “Flood Zone” there is, frankly, not much fun: another hydroelectric power station is being built on the Angara, villages are flooded, people are being resettled... This is the upper semantic layer of the “Zone...”, which continues the “Siberian-village” line of the “Yeltyshevs”.

The topic is taken from life: we are talking about the Boguchanskaya hydroelectric power station built on the Angara (near the town of Kodinsk in the Krasnoyarsk Territory, in the book it is called Kolpinsky). Not the first and, apparently, not the last. We started this project back in the 70s, then suspended it. Already in our time it was unfrozen by Chubais and Deripaska. And today it’s not only the Angara that is under attack: no, no, yes, they will talk about blocking the Amur River and increasing the export of electricity to China...

One cannot help but recall “Farewell to Matera” by Valentin Rasputin, which also described flooding, only in connection with the construction of another - the Bratsk hydroelectric power station, higher up the Angara. “The Flood Zone” is even dedicated to Rasputin, and he himself appears in the text. However, Senchin’s book, despite all the obvious parallels, is completely different and independent.

“The Flood Zone” is a not so common example today of a reliable, serious, conscientious book about non-office, non-metropolitan, non-city life. Senchin describes the reality with which he is well familiar. He himself comes from Tuva, lived in the Krasnoyarsk Territory, later moved to Moscow, and more recently to Yekaterinburg. “At one time, we in Tuva were also affected by the construction of the Sayano-Shushenskaya hydroelectric power station,” said Senchin. - There were relocations, the whole city of Shagonar was moved... They announced that the Sayano-Shushenskaya hydroelectric power station is the last one, then we will use the power of the tide, solar energy. But 30 years passed - and the Boguchanskaya hydroelectric power station appeared on the Angara. Everything happened again: relocations, burning huts, tears. People were dispersed throughout the Krasnoyarsk Territory and Khakassia. Almost everyone received “sanitary standards” of 18 square meters per person. It happened that at one address, in one fence, there were three huts, three or four families lived in them. They were given a 4-room apartment for everyone: three housewives in one kitchen, quarrels, scandals... I wrote down the stories of the people I met, took some things from newspapers. This is how a series of stories connected by common characters and geography appeared, which became the chapters of this book.”

Just as “Matera” is not only about the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station, so “Zone” is not only about Boguchane. Relations between the village and the city, the loss of ancestral and historical memory, the “little man”, the conflict between the authorities and the population - these are just a few lines of this novel, which grew from individual short stories. The book is openly topical, but its journalistic quality is reliably dissolved in artistry. Cross-cutting images are water and a cemetery. The word “outback” takes on a new and ominous meaning. And “hydroelectric power station” refers to a multi-headed hydra...

Generally speaking, Senchin describes a new great flood, a catastrophe, albeit of unbiblical forms, but by no means of a regional scale.

Someone called the “flood zone” “Leviathan” in prose. There are indeed parallels, and not only in the general atmosphere: one of the storylines is a man defending his sawmill from the lawlessness of the authorities and bandits associated with them. But how much stronger is Senchin than Zvyagintsev in knowing the realities of our Russian provincial life! In the book, everything, down to the smallest everyday details, is described “from the inside,” with an understanding that is not given to a person from the outside.

...Literature, of course, will not stop the Chubais.

But the good thing is that it raises questions, identifies problems, and describes what is happening to us.

If it stops, not only Siberian villages will drown.

The Flood Zone, awarded the Big Book Award, is a truly great Russian book.

Current page: 1 (book has 17 pages total) [available reading passage: 12 pages]

Roman Senchin
Flood zone

© Senchin R.V.

© AST Publishing House LLC

* * *

Valentin Grigorievich Rasputin

Chapter first
Phone conversation

- Hello, Volodya, can you spare me five minutes?

- Yes, I can... What happened?

– It’s okay, it’s okay... There was only one idea here.

- Tolya, your ideas always give me chills...

- It's okay. I’m driving around the Krasnoyarsk Territory, and here, it turns out, there is a hydroelectric power station that is under construction...

– Hmm, if I’m not mistaken, we have more than a dozen of these.

- Here you go. And this one is almost ready. Sixty percent. They quit in the early nineties. The dam is almost finished, the turbine rooms... In general, it costs nothing to bring it to fruition.

– I know your “it’s worth nothing.”

- No, no, Volodya, this time for real! Of course, you will have to invest, but not so much...

- What for? We don't have enough electricity, or what? You yourself reported on the capacities...

– The Chinese themselves are building fifty power plants.

– It’s okay, it won’t be enough for them... We’ll install an aluminum plant. Aluminum is in demand everywhere...

- All you have to do is trade.

– Well, you can’t live without it – the market. But that’s not the main thing, Volodya.

- And what?

– You see, Volodya, the launch of a new hydroelectric power station, a powerful, strategic one, is such an image plus! For how many years, like, everything was destroyed and destroyed, the Soviet legacy was sucked out, but now they have taken it and built it up in the end. Yourself, with your own hands!.. And, how?

- I don’t know... Reasonable, of course...

- Otherwise! Tolya will not give bad advice.

- Still would…

- So, do you accept the offer?

- Hmm, such questions are not resolved that way. Not a telephone conversation...

- But why? On the contrary, telephone. This is why telephones were invented... It’s not a good idea to jump from the banks of the Yenisei for a month... Come on, Volodya, like this: I’ll sketch out a decree, and then you’ll look...

-What decree?

- Well, like, “On measures for the socio-economic development of the Krasnoyarsk Territory.” And the main point will be the launch of a hydroelectric power station and the construction of an aluminum smelter. Like, this will give a tangible impetus to development... We’ll give people jobs. It's scary to look at them. Hanging out...

– What kind of place is it anyway? Some kind of national district?

- No, no, Russians!

- Well, at least it's normal. Otherwise, there will be a stink again: we are spoiling the reindeer pastures, we are disrupting the traditional way of life...

- This is your oil workers' business. I have it clean: electricity. A dam, a pond, and went to work...

– Yeah... So what, will you have to relocate someone?

- In terms of?

- Well, a pond. I know these ponds from Switzerland.

“Almost everyone was resettled there in the eighties.” Five thousand left. Margins and pennies. Several more colonies - at one time they were sent there specifically for settlement, to prepare the territory for a reservoir.

- And how did you prepare it?

- Yes, I say: almost everything is ready. I wouldn’t come to you with a dubious project... Come on, Volodya, give me the go-ahead.

– And who will bring it to fruition?

- In terms of money?

- Well, which one else?..

– Part of my RAO will be invested, part, I think, should be pinned on Olezhka.

- Which Olezhka?

- Well, to Banyaska. He is our aluminum king. If he wants more aluminum, let him invest.

- He will struggle. The existing factories are enough for him.

“Nobody turned down the opportunity to grow.” The more you can put pressure. You have a lot saved up for him. If he doesn’t want to, he’ll either go to Europe to take a break from business, or to Transbaikalia to sew socks somewhere. There are precedents.

- I have saved up for everyone...

- Yes, I understand, I understand. Me too, by the way... Well, in the right sense... Besides, Olezhek cheated me recently, I need to work it out.

– So, do you have enough of your own resources to build a hydroelectric power station?

- Finish the construction, Volodya, complete the construction. Everyone will be happy and grateful. No fools!.. And we’ll find the money...

- Yeah, in the state budget. Or in the stabilization fund. Alyosha will throw a tantrum.

“I guarantee we won’t go there.” As a last resort, we will use English law...

- What else is this?

- Well, this takes a long time to explain... It’s a complex economic term...

- Well, well, it has begun.

– No, Volodya, none of these, as they say here in Siberia. Everything is within the framework of a market economy... Hello?

– I think... Who will own the hydroelectric station in the end?

– Who owns everything, Volodya?.. Everything will be right. And let's not forget Michal Ivanovich.

- Well, we are all people, Volodya. Nothing human should be alien to us... But first of all, we need to think about the common cause. We want to see Russia integrated into the global space.

- Uh, stop it... Actually, of course, if you believe your words, the project is interesting.

- Both interesting and useful. First of all, useful to you, Volodya. You will go down in Russian history... Hello, Volodya, where have you gone?

- Well, we can try.

– “Try”... This word should disappear from your vocabulary. We need to be stronger. “Decide”, “do”, “implement”!

- That's it, stop it. And so my head swells.

- In general, I’m writing a decree for the fish, and you prepare Banyaska. Let him harness himself.

– Maybe we should consult, gather specialists?

- What is this?! Soviet power has already ended for ten years, and you still want to “consult.” Tell me again, assemble the Politburo. The thing needs to be done, Volodya, and not consult... You raised Russia in your arms for the cause.

– Tolya, I’m tired of listening to you. I give the go-ahead, and bye.

- Thank you! See you in touch!

Chapter two
To a foreign land

In early September, Natalya Sergeevna Privalikhina died.

Summer was poking around in the garden, before the frost she managed to remove everything except the cabbage, dry it, candied it and pickle it, put it underground, and then fell on the porch. She lay there for a long time, gathering her strength and wondering where she should go - into the hut or beyond the fence. Of course, it’s better to go to the hut and lie down on the bed... What if he doesn’t get up? And he will lie without water and get dirty; and if he dies, it will smell, the whole house will be saturated with the dead. People will miss her, who knows when... Sooner or later, of course, they will notice that they haven’t seen her for a long time, they will come, and she will... They will squeeze their noses.

And therefore, as soon as she felt better, Natalya Sergeevna got up on all fours and crawled across the yard to the gate. The chickens watched her, and the rooster screamed indignantly and jerked his neck... Having reached it, clinging to the pole and the handle bracket, she stood up, opened the gate, and leaned out into the street.

This piece of the world was familiar to her to the point of being invisible. Every day, for more than half a century, since she moved here to her husband, she went out through this gate from the yard, either to get water to the well, or to the store, or to drive out the cow, or to call first the children, and then the grandchildren to eat. And I didn’t seem to see the huts along the street, the fences, the gates, the grass, but if even the slightest little thing changed—a picket fence fell off in the Merzlyakovs’ front garden, or the Gusins’ architraves were covered with fresh paint, or the nettles along someone’s fence were mowed down—it immediately caught my eye, and then my thoughts returned for a long time to this little detail: “I need to tell my friend to knock down the fence... cut off the nettles... I need to get paint and paint it too - it’s peeling... I’ll paint it in a week - there’s no need right away, they’ll say: “Natasha woke up when others did...”

And now she stood, swaying, in the gate opening, holding on to the bracket with one hand, the other to the wooden mailbox (she was afraid to lean on it too much - it would crumble), and eagerly looked at these two huts visible to her on the right side, at the gray deaf fences, red bird cherry leaves in the front gardens, dark green, almost blue caps of pine trees on the hill where there was a cemetery...

The end of the street abutted the river; there were bridges on the bank. Every May they were broken, distorted by ice drifts, and then the men, without grumbling, as something natural, something impossible not to do, restored them... Women rinsed clothes on the walkways, took water for the cattle and the bathhouse, and before - until pumps appeared that ran through pipes and they drove it with hoses to almost all the courtyards of the village - and for the garden... The men were fishing from the bridge; Previously, the fish were good - dace were not even considered fish, but lenka and grayling were happy. Often we came across taimen.

There was a case a long time ago: the old woman Gusina, deceased, and then young, was doing laundry, and her one-year-old son was playing on the shore. On the grass. The shore is sloping, the water is shallow, there is a backwater - there is no current... The goose rinsed and rinsed, looked up - the child had disappeared. She ran around looking for it, felt the whole bottom, but couldn’t find it... The men came running and scratched the river until dark... Then the old men said: “The taimen has dragged it away.” And somehow everyone, including Gusin, didn’t just calm down, but became quiet: yes, they say, if the taimen dragged him away, then nothing can be done.

It happened fifty years ago, but it feels like three years ago. And Natalya Sergeevna now felt like that almost girl who had just broken away from her parents, got to know a man, and now, seeing her neighbor’s grief, she realized that she always had to be on guard, the child could disappear and so - two steps from the mother, calmly playing on the grass...

I reached up to see the river, but didn’t see it. She was surprised: once upon a time, as soon as she opened the gate, the river sparkled with the scales of the current, blinded her, and then imperceptibly disappeared from her eyes - Natalya Sergeevna stopped meeting her gaze. Either the mound of the street had grown before the descent, or the street itself had shrunk in height, bent over so that even if you took a long breath, you couldn’t stretch out.

“If only someone could pass,” she asked, feeling that her strength was running out again, her legs were bending and would soon no longer hold her up.

It wasn’t that something hurt, burst, or broke inside her, as I knew and heard happened to many old people before death. More than once I had to sit by the beds with dying people, and they thoroughly, with annoyance and enthusiasm shared their latest experience: “I was walking through the garden, and I saw a swan sticking out of a carrot. It’s not like it was yesterday, but here it’s just like yesterday. Well, I bent down to pull it out. Yes, it’s awkward, casually. And black water poured into my eyes, and my ears were stuck like plugs. And that’s it. I don’t remember how they brought me here and laid me down. Now that’s it, I can’t get up anymore. Can’t get up... The devil pushed this grass to see.” Or this: “I didn’t feel like going out, but there was nothing to do - I had to sand these woods... Eh, they became dear to me. Here they are, and I..."

No, she didn’t feel pain or breakage. That is, of course, my back and knees ached, my temples tingled, it was difficult to breathe, and with every breath my chest seemed to crunch. But this is all familiar, it all hurt and crunched for a long time. But the weakness...

The weakness was new, unusual, some kind of complete weakness. How something important and necessary came out from within, something that made me move for more than seventy years. Day after day, day after day... And now you can’t even take a step, you can’t raise your hand. And I knew that no paramedic’s injection would help as before.

She stood between the yard and the street for ten minutes or an hour. She no longer had that sense organ that measures time. A whirlwind of not thoughts, not memories, but some scraps and scraps was spinning in a tight spiral in my head... It became very disappointing that I didn’t have time to remove the cabbage and salt it. I’ve already taken out the grater and the tub is ready - all that’s left is to scald it and put it back underground... I washed two buckets of small carrots, now it’s crumbling and gone... I was frightened by the thought of whether they would tell my children, grandchildren, my brother to go and bury it. Addresses under the oilcloth on the kitchen table - the neighbors must guess, find - many people keep important papers under the oilcloth... And there are numbers on the phone, a phone on the sideboard... They'll figure it out... But how can they, children, grandchildren, travel such a distance?.. Brother is nearby, in Kutai, and these... One daughter is in Novosibirsk, the other is in Tomsk, the son still lives in Perm... And after all, the son and youngest daughter came in July, and spent part of their vacations here. And now - again...

But the hardest thing was that Natalya Sergeevna did not know where she would lie. There it is, the cemetery, behind the back yards opposite, there is a husband and all his relatives there, but will they decide to bury her there...

I heard footsteps, and immediately a boy came out from behind the fence. Natalya Sergeevna didn’t recognize who it was, whose, but he turned around and said:

- Hello, woman Nat!

She wanted to tell him to call one of the adults, but instead of words, a weak, almost inaudible hiss was squeezed out of her throat. Like the remaining air from a deflated rubber boat... I decided to take my hand away from the mailbox, wave, call him to me, and while I was deciding, the boy turned out to be far away. Walked to the river.

Natalya Sergeevna looked after him, ordered him to look back again, ordered him to hear that she felt bad, needed help... The boy began to lose his legs - his legs disappeared on the descent, his lower back, and now his head. The street is empty, the windows of the Merzlyakovs’ hut are blind, the shutters of the Gusins’ hut are closed... Natalya Sergeevna’s knees broke like rotten poles on twigs, and she fell to the ground.

No one has died in the village for a long time. The old people were taken to the city to the hospital, and they died there; young people who used to fight, drown, poison themselves with alcohol or fight on motorcycles have dispersed.

But there was something wrong in such an existence without deaths, without funerals, and therefore the people, although they grieved for Natalya Sergeevna, also perked up. The old women argued over who would wash and dress the deceased; the old men from almost the entire collective farm came together to make a coffin. The women discussed preparing the funeral. And as many as eight men went to dig the grave... In general, the whole village began to fuss, hurried so that everything would be ready for the arrival of Natalya Sergeevna’s children and grandchildren.

In the morning the men met at the Privalikhinsky gate, sharpened their shovels and axes, and had a smoke break; Women's voices were heard from the yard:

– The windows must not be opened!.. The grass must be added!

-What kind of grass are they putting in?..

– Thyme, I remember... Remember, Aunt Tone was given thyme.

– Don’t forget to send someone for fir! Let them break it...

The men listened and smiled sadly.

“Yes, we need fir,” agreed Lesha Bryukhanov, a forty-year-old, strong man who worked at a diesel power plant.

“Fresh fir tomorrow,” said Uncle Vitya, the school worker. - Well, let's get up?

Grunting and sniffling, as if through force, they stood up, shook themselves off and walked diagonally across the street. We stopped at a well and filled plastic bottles with water...

Between the yards of the Merzlyakovs and the Gusins ​​there was an alley leading to the cemetery... The dead were carried along the central road, making a semicircle, always stopping at the river, as if giving the person leaving the world the opportunity to say goodbye; on weekdays we went to the cemetery like this, along the alley.

But they rarely walked now - the path had almost disappeared, to the right and left the space was squeezed by frost-dried, but still living, evil nettles.

Bryukhanov, walking ahead, broke the trunks that were getting into his face with his hand in the top, the others, some with their feet and some with shovels, also cleared the way - they knew: today women and old women would be drawn to the cemetery. They will visit their relatives and tell them that Aunt Natalya will soon come to them.

The cemetery is on a gentle, long ridge. Sand, tall pine trees, and graves among them. They were buried without crowding, inside spacious fences where great-grandfathers, grandfathers, fathers lie... There are few very old monuments - until the thirties, the cemetery was in a different place, almost in the center of the village, next to the church. But then funerals were banned there, and in 1950 the church was destroyed, some of the burials were moved here, some were simply destroyed. The old cemetery was razed to the ground, a public garden was built and a monument was erected to those who died in the war.

Few people took care of the graves moved under the pine trees - after all, only a few remember their ancestral family up to the tenth generation. Basically, the monuments were brought together in a heap, and they lie there, covered with moss. But several granite crosses from the old cemetery stand out. They are polished so carefully that they still dazzle like a mirror; no moss or lichen grows on them... They say that they were made by craftsmen in Yeniseisk, and for a lot of money the locals, who could, of course, bought them, brought them here with great difficulty. Usually they were transported in winter, on the ice, but the most impatient ones also transported them in summer - on boats, upstream.

To this day, either a true story or a legend has survived, how the rich man Kibyakov vowed to put a cross on his wife’s grave for a year from her death. Not far from the village, on the rapids, the boat capsized and the granite cross sank. For a long time people tried to tie ropes around him and pull him out. We struggled for two weeks, got sick from frequent diving, and when it became clear that a cross would remain at the bottom, Kibyakov jumped into the water and did not surface. They didn’t bother looking - it was carried away by the current to the Yenisei or stranded under a snag to feed the burbot...

The cemetery is fenced somehow - two or three poles are nailed to the pine trees. The main thing is that the cattle do not enter, trample the mounds, or rub their sides against the monuments. Previously, it happened that after a funeral it was necessary to guard fresh graves - bears climbed here, apparently sensing decay. The back of the cemetery overlooked a wet ravine, rich in blueberries and currants, and behind the ravine began the real - dark, impassable - taiga. But in recent years, bears and other animals have not approached the village - as if they knew that soon there would be nothing here. Just stagnant acidic water with wormy fish...

Having opened the light gates welded from rebar (the gates and two concrete pillars looked solid, and then to the left and right there were unsanded poles between the trunks), the men entered the cemetery territory and immediately became quiet, mentally greeting the dead.

Elderly, young, and even children's faces looked at them from everywhere. And everyone on these oval cards had the same look, as if they were specially photographed at a grave monument. Even Vitka Loginov, smiling with all his teeth, looked, it seemed, sadly, farewell and somehow terribly, as he called... Bryukhanov stumbled upon his eyes and quickly turned away. They were friends, they graduated from school together, then technical school, they started working together, and Vitka was electrocuted at the age of twenty-four. It was killed under Bryukhanov... Almost twenty years have passed since then, Bryukhanov feels still young, but Vitka has been gone for so long, he didn’t know so much, didn’t see, didn’t enjoy so much. And he didn’t even have time to get married: “I need to go for a walk, gain experience.”

- Well, why, who knows where the Privalikhin fence is? – Bryukhanov asked rudely, too loudly.

“Yes, somewhere here,” answered the carpenter Afanasy Ivanovich, on the contrary, quietly, respectfully towards the dead, “not far from the gate.” They're old-timers here.

The others in this “here” heard not “village”, but “cemetery”... Yes, there are a lot of Privalikhins lying there. Natalya Sergeevna’s husband’s uncle, a Red partisan, was also moved here from the old cemetery. Around his large, tall obelisk they began to settle his wife, brothers, sons, daughters, nephews for eternal rest, and tomorrow Natalya Sergeevna will also lie down. Probably the last one in this enclosure.

The men scattered to look, but Uncle Vitya immediately called:

- Nashe-ol.

We gathered again. We stood in silence, getting used to the place. And there was nowhere to rush; it’s not customary to rush to the cemetery.

Afanasy Ivanovich lit a cigarette; The others started smoking behind him. We looked at monuments, crosses, preserved bedside tables with tin stars, and tried not to make eye contact with the dead. We looked around.

The pines were tall and sparse, but their crowns almost closed with each other, and there was always shade and coolness near the ground. No, there was also stifling heat, but for this it was necessary for it to heat and heat for many days in a row. Now it’s good. Freshly. There was a delicious smell of ripe, dying herbs, and a faint breeze was blowing. Near some of the graves there were rowan trees and fir trees, which could not grow strong without the sun. There were artificial flowers, painted benches, tables... Like a huge common room, and the tops of the pine trees - like a vault.

It’s quiet in this room, except for a woodpecker beating a tree somewhere, but this sharp sound only emphasizes the great, solemn silence.

For some reason Lesha Bryukhanov got nervous, threw his cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it with his boot. Said:

- What, let's do it. Still need to...

“Yes, of course,” Uncle Vitya supported, seemingly relieved that he was not the first to speak; went to where Natalya Sergeevna’s husband lay.

Now we stood in front of his grave, looking at the photograph, reading the short inscription: “Privalikhin Denis Stepanovich 07/9/1935 – 08/11/2002.” The inscription was engraved on a marble plaque screwed to a metal monument painted silver...

He died seven years ago, but it seemed that quite recently, they had just seen him, frowning, walking towards his yard from the river, frowning regardless of whether the bag was full of fish or empty. Or mowing the backside of the garden, or smoking in the evenings on a bench in the front garden... Yes, I remember it vividly, but here it is – seven years.

But if you start going over the events in your head, then so many things happened during this time... Yes, not “so much” in essence, but one thing: when Privalikhin died, the village was strong, prosperous, having forgotten about the threat of death, which rolled in in the eighties, and then retreated ; Now she is doomed, she has months left, or at best a year...

And Denis Stepanovich looked at the men with his usual, slightly angry look, and it seemed to them that the look was asking: “So what? What will you do? Will you leave us alone? Yes... In ten years, monuments and fences will collapse without maintenance, and then everything will be overgrown with bushes, and the cemetery will disappear from the face of the earth, as if it never happened.

Some of the dead were taken by their relatives twenty-five years ago, when for the first time it was calculated at the top that the future reservoir would flood the place where the village stood. The most active ones then began to move and grabbed the bones of their parents and grandparents... If you wander around, you will come across depressions sprinkled with dry needles - these are traces of dug up graves.

But then the power in Moscow changed, and the power plant under construction was abandoned. Talk about resettlement died down, some even returned to their homeland from the noisy world. And now - bam! - and again: it was decided to complete the construction, such and such “rural settlements” fall into the flood zone. Including their Pylevo.

-Where are we going to dig? - asked the youngest of those who came, Kolya Krikau, who returned from the army the year before last and is now still thinking about what to do: whether to go somewhere, and, if he goes, where. - Right left?

“They seem to be laying the wife here,” Uncle Vitya responded, “to the right of the husband.”

Bryukhanov walked away and looked at how it was with the others. He returned and nodded:

- Yes, basically like that.

- But there’s a pine tree nearby, there will be roots...

- What can we do, we have the axes, but maybe we can get around the main root... Okay, let's get started.

Bryukhanov and who knew a lot about digging graves - he had participated many times in his time - Glukhikh, who, due to recklessness, remained Zhenya until fifty dollars, began to cut rectangles of turf with shovels. Kolya Krikau picked up the rectangles with a shovel and took them to the side. The rest sat down, some on their heels, some on their backs, waiting for their turn to work.

There is a quiet, whispering animation in Natalya Sergeevna’s hut.

The deceased lay on the table, already washed and dressed in what she had prepared for herself: the neighbors easily found the package with what she needed in the top drawer of the chest of drawers.

They were waiting for the coffin, and a place was cleared for it in the middle of the large room, and stools were placed. The mirrors and TV were covered with black scarves. On the chest of drawers lay the brought candles - thin ones bought from the ruins of a church in Kutai.

Last summer, there, in the former regional center, a sad celebration took place - “Farewell to the Village” it was called. It seemed like they were just saying goodbye to Kutai, but many from the surrounding villages came there, and those who lived in the current regional center also arrived - in the city of Kolpinsk, Yeniseisk, Lesosibirsk, Krasnoyarsk, and even further.

There were performances by folk groups, speeches by the leadership of the region, the region, and famous natives. At dusk, fireworks rockets flew into the sky...

The priest also came to the “Farewell” and held a memorial service at the ruins of the Spasskaya Church. Believers and non-believers came up for the blessing, bought candles and stuck them on the ornaments of the surviving church walls. Many took the candles with them.

And now four of them, saved, lay on the chest of drawers and waited to be lit at the coffin of the deceased person.

As Natalya Sergeevna had hoped, the youth sorted out her phone and found the children’s numbers. We went to the office where the fishing was better and called. They also informed my brother in Kutai...

Towards evening - a day after the death of Aunt Natalya - a coffin was made. The women covered it with red cloth, which had been kept in the club since Soviet times.

- Well, what supplies! - the old men chuckled, watching how the boards were hidden under the red tape. “They brought them to flags with slogans, but we’ve been decorating the houses for three decades now.” Thank goodness for the Soviet authorities, at least they left something good.

- Yes, a lot of good things! - argued one of the most militant old women in the village, Zinaida, once an editorial writer and activist. – They still can’t get it. “But I came to my senses that there was no time for that now, and she thrust the empty needle to her granddaughter: “Insert the thread quickly, I’ll stop.” It’s time to put Natasha to bed and sit...

- Who makes the noodles? - asked another old woman, Fedorovna, the eldest of the large Malykh family, who made up almost a quarter of the village.

– Yes, Valentina and Galina Loginov took it on.

Feodorovna frowned, remembered and said doubtfully:

- I don’t know what they’re going to say, I’ve never eaten their noodles...

– It’s the fact that there are no towels – that’s a problem. The coffin must be lowered on towels.

- Isn’t it in the store?

- No, no. Everything there is cut. Handkerchiefs, not towels.

“Then at least find some decent ropes.” Not this synthetic...

There were almost no huts in Pylev - and there were about a hundred of them, residential ones - where they were not somehow preparing for tomorrow's funeral or commemoration. Some had meat in the glacier for cutlets, others volunteered to give a cockerel (and from the early broods the cockerels entered the body), others announced that they would cook jelly, others that they would bake pancakes, and others that they would prepare kutya... Father Kolya Krikau, beekeeper, poured a two-liter jar of fresh honey...

People were pleased with themselves and with their participation in a common cause. And the main thing is that there, at the top, Natalya Sergeevna is released without ordeal... The paramedic examined her and wrote down: “The body is chronically ill, with no signs of violent death, no autopsy is required,” - a death certificate, she promised, would be in the near future... Her local police officer there was no village - that is, he was in several villages, lived in Kutai. And when they got through to him, the lieutenant had no questions: “It’s clear - he’s an old man, what should I do... My condolences.” That's all.

The chairman of the village council, Alexey Mikhailovich Tkachuk, was in a hospital in the city at that moment, and no one except him dared to raise the issue of the place of the funeral. And the chairman, if he were here, maybe he wouldn’t try to convince him that it’s better to take him to the city, he wouldn’t break this impulse that united people...

They finally brought the coffin. The lid was leaned against the fence in the place where there was a slot for mail, and a red spot on a gray background hit the eyes of those passing by, making them remember the deceased, that this is how it is - a person lived and lived, and was gone. And this will happen to everyone. But, God willing, they do it the same way.

With joint efforts they shifted Natalya Sergeevna, straightened the pillow, and tucked in the blanket. They quietly rejoiced that the deceased was firm and cool - according to signs, this was good, she was happy, that means.

Then they took the feather bed on which the owner died from the bed, took it to the flock, and hung it on chicken poles. Those, old, dry, creaked.

- Won't they break?

- You-will bear it. But you need to move it to the edge, it’s safer there.

“And there will be room for the chickens to sleep.”

- Let the cockerel crow...

When they came out into the air, Baba Zina said:

- We need to cover the feather bed. The chickens will make a mess.

We found a neatly folded piece of cellophane in the summer kitchen and stretched it over the feather bed.

- Well, that’s better. Perina is still kind.

- Maybe one of them will take it...

“They have a lot to take away.” As soon as they will export?..

They talked, without naming names, about Natalya Sergeevna’s children.

- We should have done it ourselves. I can't imagine how they will get there. They won’t be given a helicopter for such a task, and the ferry is only on Thursday...

- No! These are not the old days when a helicopter was used for every little thing.

“On motor boats, most likely,” suggested old man Merzlyakov. – There’s a whole business in the city with them...

- In the city - ha-ha! From the city to the river there are fifteen kilometers!

- Well, on the shore... I wasn’t, I don’t know.

Father Kolya Krikau, who wandered all day from the yard where the coffin was being made to the Privalikhin fence, but took no part in anything, somehow lostly watched the work and the bustle, remained silent all day, and finally could not stand it:

- Another hut - to death.

He said this in such a way that everyone froze and shrank. And for several seconds they stood as if stunned, and then they began to hastily disperse. Some headed towards the porch, others towards the gate. Only old man Merzlyakov, belatedly, however, tried to argue with Krikau’s bitter words:

– Natalya’s son is already a pensioner - he was in the North. Maybe he'll decide to come back.

- Where to return! – Krikau soared, finding a reason to throw out what he was carrying within himself from one courtyard to another. - Where?! We'll be here soon!.. Into the barge - and away.

- Well, they have been scaring us about resettlement for a long time, and they were scaring us thirty years ago. But we live...

- It’s like we’re living on coals! Everything was destroyed - no forestry department, no work since then.

- And thank God. And so they ruined everything. I live on my own farm, and I don’t need anything. Lespromkhoz!..

“You won’t have a farm soon!” They'll put you in four walls...

Two old men, but still strong, resembling gnarled leafy pillars, stood in a narrow passage between the flocks and the woodshed, sending these essentially empty words at each other in trembling voices, and with each word they became more and more embittered. They were ready to punch each other in the ear, now seeing each other as an enemy. Also, caught animals, having run around the trap several times and not finding a way out, begin to gnaw each other.

But reason stopped, and, snoring angrily, swaying from side to side more than ever, the old men went in different directions. Krikau goes out into the street, and Merzlyakov goes into the garden. At first I went there so as not to encounter Krikau anymore, but when I saw the land, a goal appeared: the heirs would arrive, and I needed to carefully somehow find out about the plans; if they don’t want to settle here, then offer to plant his, Merzlyakov’s, garden with potatoes. After all, if you abandon the land, then in two or three years it will be covered with wheatgrass, the arable land will begin to return to virgin soil...

Potatoes have been the main source of income for locals for many years. Before the slush, a barge passed along the river and bought potatoes. Now in Merzlyakov’s barn, covered from the cold and heat with tarpaulin and burlap, thirty-five bags stood ready. If the prices remain the same as last year, then this is approximately fifty thousand rubles... Previously, they bought carrots, beets, cabbage, but then they abandoned something... You can also sell lingonberries, nuts, of course. Mushrooms. Blueberries... Skins... They have a good land here, they won’t let you go hungry. Move a little - and you will find food, the opportunity to get a wad of money.

The turf was thin, five to seven centimeters, and below there was almost bare sand. Only around the roots did strips of black soil grow, as if the roots themselves had pushed the nutrient lumps there, into the light gray underground desert.

The layer of sand dropped about a meter and a half, then wet, greasy soil with occasional pebbles began.

“That’s where the pines feed,” said Uncle Vitya, noticing that Kolya Krikau was crumpling the contents of his shovel with interest with his fingers.