It might be the dream of every man. Perhaps anyone of the ‘stronger sex’ would love to feel like a real macho man. Could there be such a job in the world where you would come in the morning to be met by hundreds of the most beautiful women in the world – from all corners of the world. You would be able to put every one of them in your lap, put your arms around her and hold tight. They are so different. And all are ready to surrender to your will, respond to the tender but determined touches of your fingers. Every one of them certainly needs to be tuned in her own special way, and you do it with your experienced hands – in a matter of seconds. You may love them one by one for the entire working day; you may enjoy them, become one with them in a passionate impulse or in a quiet moment. That kind of a job exists.
Maxim went down to the basement of the music shop. He gazed at the walls covered with hanging guitars: six-string and seven-string; big and small; classical nylon-string and acoustic steel-string; electric; Spanish, German and Chinese; from Czech Republic and Russia. They originated from everywhere where guitars are made or claimed to be made.
There was a joke his guitarist friend used to tell. Sure, his favorite instrument was made of wood, but its soul was alive. Many people though, alive and real, often have wooden souls.
Maxim’s colleague Andrei, who plays “the accounting keyboard” better than any musical instrument, greeted him from the counter where he kept a PC and a cash register.
“Hey, music seller! Is it time?”
“Yeah, I’ve taken down the ‘Closed’ sign from the door.”
The day began. Maxim entered the salesroom and took one of the instruments – a yellow Cremona. He didn’t just take it off the stand, but lifted it like a dancer would lift his partner at an international dancing contest, tenderly and carefully but with resolution and confidence. He sat on a chair, clipped the headstock tuner on the neck and tuned the guitar in a few honed movements. Maxim started playing. The skilled and firm fingers of his left hand easily and aptly fluttered from string to string, from fret to fret, while his right hand seemed to hover over the rosette. So swift was it that one could hardly spot the moment where the sound was born. Music flowed into the room – the unmistakable rhythm of a Spanish dance. The instrument sang in his hands, let out a gust of infinite passion. Other instruments seemed to respond from the walls with a subtle vibration of their exposed strings.
His impromptu morning rehearsal was interrupted by his first visitor. It was a middle-aged man wearing neatly ironed clothes. And a white shirt. He carried a laptop bag over his shoulder and a mobile phone in a belt holster. His car keys with a key chain jingled on the finger of his right hand. The visitor entered the instrument room with a no-nonsense face and even some determination. He started examining the guitars.
Maxim didn’t hurry to give him a hand. He knew that a person needs to browse first. He wondered what kind of a visitor he had this time. What did the man need a guitar for? It did seem that he had all he could wish for in his life.
It was quite hard to tell who he was. He could be a regular “office drone” or “meerkat”. Or, possibly, a middle-size businessman. Maxim never understood those things. Why would anyone want to spend their whole salary on the newest model of a phone if only two functions are used afterwards: answering a call and calling someone? Why would a person carry a laptop bag with documents but without a laptop? Should he show the man to the guitar cases department right away?
“What would you recommend? What I need is, well… I want to buy a guitar. My friends and I used to play when we were young, we even had a band. It’s all in the past now, of course.”
Maxim stood to face the customer. Although the visitor was one head shorter than Maxim, his upward look still spoke of a fulfilled life.
“I see…”
“Sometimes you just want to go back to the old times. We didn’t have the choice like this back then, though. We had Cremonas at best, cheap wood. Electric axes you could only dream of…
“Well, then, what would you like to have now? Electric? Acoustic?”
The customer thought about that for a while. Maxim stood there waiting. Just waiting at his workplace, as he’d been taught at his brief shop assistant training courses. At that moment he had his own reverie. He remembered his life-long learning to play; his mom taking him to a music school when he was six; learning the ropes, studying sol-fa, not without tears, for seven whole years, choosing the guitar as the second instrument after the piano and it becoming the work of his life; the pain in his fingers during the first month of learning, and not only then but later too as he decided to enter a music college. He usually played two hours a day. No days off. No holidays. But when he had to prepare for entrance exams, the time seemed to stand still. He lived with his instrument. Until he had bloody blisters on the fingers of his left hand.
How many years had he studied? Seven years in the music school. Five years in the college. Twelve in total. And what was the result? Now a driver earns twice as much as him. And to become a driver you’d only need a three-month course! All of that considering that he is a shop assistant in a music shop. What would have happened if he had become a teacher in a music school? Like one of his fellow students who now teaches the guitar. What do we see? Today’s parents can count very well for their children. Music schools are unpopular, music is unprofitable. However, Maxim’s fellow student is honest with the parents: let your child do this as a hobby. Yes, such things have to be told by a teacher no less!
And what about getting by from gig to gig? Only few lucky ones get the biscuit. How do they do that? There’s only one way: playing at office parties. Is that the vocation of a musician though – entertaining snotty audience, oil producers, bank clerks, officials? Listening to their humiliating remarks and knowing that they are in fact a bunch of nobodies – cheats and liars who steal from the people and squander their loot.
Why is the world so unfair? Why don’t people get what they deserve because of their work and talent, but get lucky or get insolent taking away from their neighbor, getting their bacon unjustly, snatching stuff that doesn’t belong to them?
The customer made his decision. He broke Maxim’s reverie.
“I want to try…” he named a brand of an electric guitar.
Something like Fender Stratocaster with a bright and clear sound.
He does know his stuff, Maxim thought and handed him the instrument plugging it into the amplifier. The customer’s face brightened, he became a new person as soon as his hands touched the instrument. He seemed to feel like a rock star.
His musical background was heard in his playing, but the good old rock piece he played came out quite awkwardly. His posture, his face and his whole body lost all that theatrical air, that striving to look successful that put Maxim off at first sight. The man was one of his own, he played worse than Maxim, but he was one of his own. He belonged to the world of music.
“Did you study?” Maxim asked.
“Yes, several years of music school. Then my friends and I wanted to start a band. But my parents persuaded me that I needed to learn a profession first. I entered a university. So, the music became history… I haven’t played for over ten years.”
Maxim was very familiar with the type of buyers. They were probably his best customers. All was clear. A man chose a profession to earn money. He did the wrong thing for a better life. Now he had everything. But there was still a thing called nostalgia. For youth. For freedom. For something far-far away and… very real.
“You’re pretty good considering how long you haven’t touched the instrument…”
“Yeah, work, family, you know.”
That’s exactly how it all happens, Maxim thought. A person has a natural gift, but wastes it away, puts away the best things for tomorrow. We don’t know if god exists, but satan certainly does. He tells you to give in, just a bit at first. A small step aside from yourself. Then there is another step, and there we go – the person’s soul, best talents and skills are long gone. The person is sold for a golden coin, for the whisper of money bills coming from the womb of the ATM.
The customer kept strumming something for Maxim. Something from the past. But it was no longer music, to be fair. The man was no longer a musician.
And even here, in a matter of minutes, the clear mind and reason returned to him. The man didn’t buy the electric guitar which requires a bunch of accessories. After some trials and errors, he opted for a steel-string acoustic guitar. Sonorous, quite expensive, but still not the one he might have wished to play his whole life. His mind had changed since the time when he was an aspiring musician and it would stay like that forever.
It was a mystery why the man even came to a music shop. Others in his place wouldn’t think about holding a guitar. They would just go to the shops selling musical devices like Hi-Fi and High-End. They remained listeners their whole life. Music lovers. Not performers, not even for themselves. That was what was called a failed life – listening to someone else’s records till the end of your days.
Maxim showed him to the cash register; helped make the purchase, pack the instrument; helped select new strings, because the strings from the manufacturer are traditionally of a lower quality and hardly fitting. They are demo strings used to test and evaluate the sound – in general. Again Maxim was left alone, face to face with his dear guitars (no need to count his colleague whose only instrument was the cash register).
Throwing a glance around the room, Maxim chose the one he wanted to play this time. He felt truly sad. To some extent, he pitied himself. He was not just lonely in that room. He lived a lonely life.
And to think that only a year and a half ago everything was different. He had a girl he loved, Anna, his lovely Ann, his friend since they started school together. Gradually their friendship turned to something bigger. And they had it coming – she doted on him in any company, admired his songs, his music. Maxim was the most popular guy in his class, let alone their district. Tons of girls at school had a crush on him. But of all of them, he chose her.
He clearly remembers her blond hair reaching below her shoulders; her bottomless blue eyes reflecting love and passion; her waist; her long legs; the thin fingers of her hands.
And then it was over, quite unexpectedly. One day Anna called him and said they needed to talk. They agreed to meet at the Satan’s monument. Yes, there is a monument to Satan in Moscow, at Novokuznetskaya metro station. Maxim didn’t remember the author of the masterpiece, but what the fountain sculpture looked like he did remember. The little park was outlined with columns. In the center stood a square pedestal with water displaying two figures under a tree – the figures of Adam and Eve. They were slim patina-covered bronze statues, their private parts covered with fig leaves made from the same material. All in all, it was a monument of the modern times, expensive and dumb as usual. Maxim didn’t have time to see if there was the seductive serpent in the ensemble, because Ann came. Unusually, she wasn’t late even for a second. But she was different. Completely unlike herself.
Maxim reached to hug and kiss her as he had always done, but she stopped him with an awkward gesture.
“We need to have a serious talk. Let’s go have a coffee.”
They entered the nearest café, sat down and ordered two cappuccinos. Maxim didn’t work in a music shop at the time. He lived off little money from occasional gigs. That could be why his mind was somewhere else at that moment – he was worrying if he would have enough money for another coffee should they order one. He just missed the obvious change in the atmosphere. It never crossed his mind that the situation was serious.
“What’s going on with you, Ann?”
“Maxim, we have to break up. We can’t be together any longer. I’m in love with another man.”
It was like a bolt from the sky. Like thunder in winter. Like a blackout in a house. The world plunged into darkness. His heart drummed viciously, trying to break free.
“But why?”
“I can’t do this anymore. I am a woman, I want to be happy. Nothing serious can happen between us. You’re just you, you know, pining for your music. It gives you absolutely nothing. But I want to live a normal live, have kids, go abroad, swim in the sea, take my own car and spend a weekend somewhere out of town. I can’t live like this anymore. I don’t want to. I met someone.”
Ann was making excuses. And, feeling pity for herself, she made him the guilty one. She had a point, though. She was a normal person. Even a very good one. The bad one was the world. It’s always been bad anyway. Greedy and cruel.
Maxim understood his Anna. Many women walk that road. At some point, when they are young, their first true love catches a flame like a camp fire in the woods dancing to the guitar music. And their chosen one is the best, the truest man in the world, the strong one, the brave one, the talented one. But soon life pours cold rain on the fire. Another man comes, who is better. More reliable. But never more loved.
Indeed, who needs his music? It’s easy to be labeled a great musician nowadays, all you need is to learn a few chords and invest money into promotion. Find a sponsor. Sell yourself and your name. To get to the big stage, you don’t need satan standing behind you; you need to be swallowed by him!
She loyally shared those few years with him. His ups and downs. But they had a good run. Take for example that protesting demonstration concert where he played with his friends. Music was not perfect, but it was our times, our world:
Enough expecting freedom from the state,
Enough enduring yokes, repressions, crimes,
Let’s shake off darkness under the black banner
We’ll take our own. Attack! To barricades!
Let power tremble, the revolution’s here,
Stand up, my land; my people, take your weapons!
Then we will see the sun go up again
An open world! Free labor! Love for all!
Thousands of people clapped and cheered around them. And she was by his side. Afterwards one of the musicians was accused of extremism and dragged from one police station to another. But that was fame.
The moment came though when his Anna had just about enough. She didn’t want that life anymore.
They didn’t break up in the café that day. They left together. They spend one more night, their last night, together. Anna still loved him. But it was over. She kissed him on the lips with such passion that only a farewell kiss can have. And she went away – into nowhere.
However, he heard from their common acquaintances that six months later his Ann got married. To some middle-rank manager or, in essence, to an office meerkat just like his latest customer. Now, in the evening she drives Peugeot home from work, the car which is worshiped by the middle class. A typical life of an office drone. And him…He found a job, in that very shop. He wanted some stability in his life. But it was too late. He couldn’t get her back. Like musicians would say, ‘it was not his gig’.
Maybe what Anna did, what her husband and everyone else did was the right thing to do. Who needs his music? Who goes camping nowadays, who sings to the guitar? Karaoke bars are the ceiling of the creativity the masses are capable of. They do it to feel like a star before a drunken crowd of their colleagues and buddies. Not friends – buddies, because this world has no room for real friendship. Friendship exists: at school, at university, at a camp fire, in the army, even in jail, but hardly in an office.
Besides, in what twisted way do they listen to music? Maxim listened with his heart. He hugged the guitar and played. The vibration of the strings traveled to the wooden body and further to the depths of his chest. They became one.
Deep in his thoughts, Maxim didn’t notice when he took his favorite instrument in the room, a classical master guitar (made personally by a famous Spanish manufacturer) with a wide neck, tuned it as he liked it and started playing quietly. To himself. He played the polonaise by Michael Oginski “Farewell to My Homeland”. One of his favorite music works which matched the latest months of his life so perfectly.
His music filled the show room. Only he could play like that, there was no doubt. His heart was beating in semiquavers. That was music. That infinite longing of the Polish composer for his homeland occupied and enslaved by the Russian Empire, a merciless empire reaching its claws “from the Taiga to the British Seas”2. What if he went away somewhere far from here? But where was life different?
Maxim had no chance to finish the piece. A new customer came in, and he had to stop in the middle of a melodic phrase.
A woman of 35 or 40 years old entered the room. She had dyed blond hair. Most likely, she used to be breathtakingly beautiful when she was young. The age had had a clear impact on her body, her face and her wrists. She looked well-groomed and successful. But she obviously lacked something in her life, even her, if she was here in the music shop looking at Maxim.
“I want to buy a guitar and learn to play it,” she said.
Maxim got it right away. She was just like the man who had bought an instrument today. Only the other way around. He wanted to get his soul back travelling to his past with a guitar in his hands, while she dreamed that she could change her future buying an instrument. Both of them, though, seemed to have achieved all they never actually needed to achieve.
Some people do yoga. Some do fitness. Some go to church on religious holidays. Some get advice from psychological and centers and psychoanalysts. Others visit fortune tellers, clairvoyants or witch doctors; take courses, join clubs. They strive for inner peace. But their whole life, from the very beginning, is built on losing that peace, sacrificing it for something else.
Then, at some point, one realizes that having achieved everything in this world, they can buy whatever they want. But the inner peace is not for sale for some reason. And the reason is that it’s given only once and abides somewhere inside of us. Once wasted like life energy, let out, spilled like Champaign from a bottle, one could never get it back. Not for all the money in the world.
Having worked here for over a year, Maxim knew the type of people. Yes, the woman used to be gorgeous in her twenties for sure. She was waiting for her prince. Always in the midst of her admirers, she was looking for the best one. But he wasn’t there somehow, never came into sight. She graduated. But she never married her fellow student who was desperately trying to win her over, even proposed to her. Marrying a student wasn’t the life she imagined. There are hundreds like him. What she needed was the best man, the only one like no other.
Then she went after her career. And again, those she wanted didn’t pay attention to her. And those who wanted her didn’t deserve her. Yes, she went out with them. She had some pretty lengthy relationships. But none of them conquered her heart; she could never say that one of them was the one.
By the age of thirty she realized that all decent men were married and she was surrounded by losers. Or some absolutely crazy people with their own quirks, a bunch of complexes and issues. She had her own problems to deal with. Well, she was probably right. If a man is not married by the age of 30, could it be he didn’t need it? In any case, he would never learn to care about anyone else but himself…
Or maybe she was married a couple of times. Maybe she didn’t appreciate the life with a man who had a lower social status and was weaker than her. He would earn little, drink much. He would treat her like a housemaid and furniture. Then, one day, he would leave her for a woman of a weaker character and a younger age. The one who would never contradict him or notice his obvious flaws.
In any case, if she had been married, her husband must have been a total failure in her eyes. As Maxim was in Anna’s eyes.
She was an accomplished strong woman now, having a status in life. She achieved everything herself. Now there was hardly a man’s shoulder she would find strong enough to lean on. To be honest, such shoulder didn’t exist.
But she was still a woman; she wanted to have a family and, probably, children. She wanted love. She still dreamed of being surrounded by dearest people. Being the queen if not the princess.
And she was there standing before the walls covered with guitars. Could she find her salvation in one of those? Could she become popular among her own people at least?
“What kind of music would you like to play?” Maxim asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course. For example, you’d better start learning with a nylon-string guitar. The classical one. In music schools, for instance, it’s a must. But if you’d like to play background music, rhythm, modern music, then your choice would be the acoustic steel-string guitar. That’s if you want to play chords, not read music. It would be easier to learn this way. There are also electric guitars to play in a band. Rock, jazz, you know…”
“I want to sing at home, for my friends…”
“The acoustic guitar, then. What price limit do you have in mind? There is a number of options. From simple ones, manufactured in our country, to professional and quite expensive…”
“Well, something average, I guess.”
She definitely would not need a professional instrument. Maxim thought that the guitar would most likely be hung on a wall with a bow somewhere in the ‘maiden’s chamber’ anyway. Learning to play was hard work which took up years. The lady would quit trying as soon as she realized that, first of all, she would have to forget about her manicured long nails on her left hand. A minor sacrifice for professional female guitar players. A huge issue with amateurs. And then those constant blisters on your finger tips…
“Have a look at this.” Maxim took an instrument from its stand, not some cheap wood, but far from a professional model. He sat, strummed a few chords. He used a pick to make the sound brighter, though it didn’t help making it deeper and richer. “Or this.”
Maxim put the first one away and brought another guitar. He started playing again. He knew he was offering mediocre things. Not the most expensive ones. But even here, selling instruments, Maxim kept true to himself. Yes, she obviously could afford any guitar. Another seller would use that, hit the jackpot. But Maxim was first of all a musician. In spite of all the admonitions of the shop director, he believed that the best guitars exhibited in the room or even in a special room with constant temperature and humidity, the ones that must be stored in a special case, should be used by professional players. Although he knew too well that a real maestro would never have enough money to afford them.
Just as he had thought, the woman chose the guitar she liked the look of. She refused to change the strings. Why would she? But she bought a tuner and a guitar book with basics of learning strumming and fingerstyle. She also bought a belt, probably to have something to hang the instrument on the wall with. Maybe once and forever.
“Good luck with your learning!”
They said their goodbyes, and Maxim was alone again.
Later two buttheads came in, as Maxim dubbed them in his head. Long greasy hair. Torn jeans. He could smell beer from one of them even from afar; perhaps from both of them, it was hard to tell. Who knew, maybe that was real freedom?
“Hey, where can we check out ethnic instruments?”
“Follow me.”
The choice wasn’t great. A couple of drums, one tambourine, jaw harps, ukulele and some ethnic flutes. Souvenir shops would have more of those. His music shop sold music instruments, guitars mostly.
Maxim never took that sort of goods seriously. Too often perhaps he saw a similar couple banging to the same tune at his metro station to earn some money. He sometimes thought people would give coins for them NOT to play… Well, maybe if you hear it for the first time in the underground, ethnic music could sound amusing and interesting. But every day… They were not his clients, anyway. He just stood there watching the guys and thinking.
How do they live, I wonder? Are they really, truly free? They could earn their bread and beer even with that kind of music, but was it enough for them? But it’s not music, is it? Well, who knows what real art is. Maybe you don’t need to be a master; maybe it would suffice to be different…
He tried playing like that, on the street, with a university friend of his when they wanted to earn money. He knew what it was like. People share, of course. But as soon as you got money, scroungers would come. Local criminals. Cops allegedly keeping order. Let alone the administration of the metro station if you choose to play in the underground. All of them wanted their share. The result was less than poor. You could probably get drunk on that money, but you wouldn’t make a living. The main thing was you didn’t have to study your whole life in order to earn cash for an army of parasites. That was why his friend and he quit it very soon.
Trying out a couple of drums, the guys chose one, went to the cash desk, paid and left with their purchase. The shop was empty again. Or did our souls become empty due to the world financial crisis? How on earth, considering continuously high oil prices, did our country get affected? There was another musician working with Maxim before. But due to the lack of buyers the management left one shop assistant and a cashier.
The day seems to last forever. Between customers, Maxim sat on his favorite chair, took a guitar and played. Just played. For himself. To practice playing even better. But what for? Who needed that?
People would come. Absolutely different and similar at the same time. Some bought something. Some just looked. Maxim talked to everyone. He showed things, spoke about them. He played to them to show off the instruments.
At the end of the day a man and his son entered the shop. The man was quite ordinary. But the child wasn’t – his eyes were lit up with joy. And for a good reason – he was starting music school. Now his dad brought him here to buy his very first instrument.
“Hello, we need a guitar for training.”
“Sure thing. What size? A half, three quarters?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll be taking my son to music classes for the first time, I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“It’s very simple. What’s your name, little guy?”
“Anton.”
“Look, Anton, those are all full guitars, they are big. There are smaller ones too. A half is a half-size guitar. Let’s give it a go and see what suits you best, alright?”
Maxim lowered the chair to make it comfortable for the boy to sit down, put a foot rest under his left feet and gave him a guitar – a big one, for adults. He knew it wouldn’t do, but he just wanted to give the boy a chance to feel like a real guitar player, like a real musician. Maxim helped him to hold it correctly. He might have given him his first class. The boy awkwardly gripped the wide neck of the real classical guitar with his small left hand. His right hand thrown over the guitar body hardly reached the strings. His fingers made the first musical sound in his life.
“Well, Anton, it seems too big for you yet. Let’s try something smaller, okay?”
“Okay.”
Maxim gave him another guitar, a little smaller, but still not the smallest one. Again, but with more confidence, the tiny fingers slid over the strings.
“We have another one, even smaller. I think it’s the right one for you. It’s a half.”
Maxim remembered himself as a kid. One day he went to music school. He didn’t have a chance to go home before and didn’t have a half-size guitar like that with him. In such cases though, one could always borrow somebody else’s instrument at school for an hour or so. But as luck would have it, there wasn’t one that day. He was about to burst into tears when his teacher made a joke.
“There, there, don’t get upset. We’ll get you your half. We’ll just take a whole guitar and saw it in two!”
It may sound funny now, but when you’re a kid you take it seriously… Maxim smiled remembering himself. This time he gave the boy sitting before him the instrument he needed. A classical half-size guitar with soft nylon strings.
At that moment he was the happiest little boy in the whole world. He was radiating happiness. His eyes glistened, it seemed he was about to cry for joy. The guitar was exactly right for him. It was his first guitar, his first musical instrument.
You’d have to walk the path to understand. That school. Like first love. Like first kiss. Like the very first dream coming true. Maxim knew that. He had gone through it a very long time ago when his parents had taken him to a music shop just as the boy’s father did that day. Many-many years ago.
“Anton, let me show you how it sounds.”
“Please, do,” the boy said with an undisguised enthusiasm in his voice.
Maxim moved his chair closer, sat and played a few songs. Kid’s songs. The ones he used to play at music school. The ones like Cheburashka, Crocodile Gena, Chunga-Changa3. Then he played a simple classical tune to help the boy feel what kind of an instrument he was going to have. At that moment Maxim outdid himself. There were of course many years of experience, studying and everyday practice between visitors. He seemed to be playing like never before in that room. Truth be told, playing a small guitar didn’t come easy to a grown man, it was quite uncomfortable to him. But he wished with his whole heart to touch the finest strings of the boy’s soul with his music. He wanted it to become Anton’s guide through his hard life.
“Here you are. I learned it too, just like you, in a music school when I was little.”
“Dad, let’s buy this guitar, please! It’s exactly right for me! I want it!”
“Are you sure it’s the right one? Will you play it?”
“Of course I will, let’s buy it!..”
Anton had no idea what was awaiting him. Maxim had been there too. First there’s joy and euphoria from your first classes and small achievements. First good grades, because good teachers always give good grades to beginners. Music school, unlike the regular one, is truly a place where kind and inspired people work. But at some point you are bound to feel like all that could go to hell. But then, the real art is revealed to the few stubborn ones who managed to get over the feeling and kept on. And over the years they master it. They fall in love with music forever. The music that is born in their hands.
There was something really special in the eyes of the boy. Something we, grown-ups, lose with age. Scattering and wasting away. But the boy had all of it still in him.
They went to the counter. Maxim helped them choose a guitar bag. And the little Anton proudly put his instrument over his shoulder. He was carrying it himself when they left.
The working day was almost over. Maxim was getting ready to go home. Meanwhile he thought that all returns to its circuits. It seemed only yesterday he held his first guitar. It was so long ago and at the same time felt as if it were today. But now others are starting to walk this way anew. If there are boys like Anton and parents like his, maybe everything is not lost for good? Could he, Maxim, the man who sells music, be in his right place? Does life go on? Will our kids come after us to this world to make it better?
Alexei Soukhoverkhov (c)
Источник: этот рассказ опубликован в журнале “Музыкант” №7, 2011.
