“When I am without you… (compilation)” Elchin Safarli. Elchin Safarli - When I am without you... (compilation) Elchin Safarli when I am without you

Current page: 16 (the book has a total of 30 pages) [available reading excerpt: 17 pages]

* * *

You said I was brave. “She was able to meet me halfway, let me into her heart ...” He himself sometimes became so sentimental that I hardly recognized you. Is this what an adherent of unbridled ease in relationships, a life “without Bollywood dramas” is saying? I don't want to say that you were insensitive. Exactly the opposite. But whether because he spoke little, or because your feelings had a restrained manifestation, she fed on your touches. There were enough of them to rush to you, overtaking dawns ...

She cried a lot of tears on the shoulder of Moscow. Yes, there was a time when I was not ashamed of my weakness - I could not swallow a lump that came up to my throat and settled down at the edge of the respiratory tract. And I cried, hiding my tears under huge dark glasses - in the subway, trains, crossings, at bus stops and in the buses themselves. Only a sniffing nose betrayed - I hope others attributed this behavior to a cold. I didn't really care what anyone thought, though. Being ashamed of your own tears means not acknowledging your feelings. The most important thing is for yourself...

I was called to become stronger. I was surprised, they say, how you have not forgotten how to shed tears, because "Moscow still does not believe in them, baby." I replied that I was crying not in order to achieve a result, but from bitterness, due to circumstances that did not depend on my position in space, and went to dry my handkerchiefs with a hairdryer. For some reason, the use of paper napkins makes the event episodic, accidental, like an annoying runny nose, and does not bring into wiping and blowing the nose that anguish that our faithful, sincere handkerchiefs give ...

I mentally got stronger somehow imperceptibly, rather unexpectedly. At the crossroads of the next test, I realized that I was already reacting to pain not as sharply as yesterday, and I was already choosing the path to overcome without shaking knees. Has a dramatic age passed, or has the coward finally hardened? ..

I learned to look at sharp attacks as manifestations of weakness, stopped digesting pasta-experiences, changed remorse for disappointment in the best human qualities. Of course, I still endured injustice painfully, cognized happiness through sadness. But all internal processes began to flow somehow calmer, quieter, without uncontrolled splashes ...

Before you appeared, I made a promise to myself not to let outsiders into my heart again, no matter how trust they might inspire. Fear of love arises after you learn from your own experience that there is still more languishing anxiety and piercing sadness in love than joy. And now it seems that allowing yourself to be loved is much more profitable than loving yourself ...

But you convinced me otherwise, probably without knowing it. Seeing you, I immediately forgot about all the vows I made to myself. Again I surrendered to the flow of feelings, I did not regret it for a second. Strength has come with you. Only now I scold myself that after your arrival I forgot to lock the front door. After all, after love are doubts - the most uninvited, impudent guests ...

* * *

I want to learn to look at time without comparing; move forward without looking back; appreciate what is, in its originality; just live in the present, believing yourself that sometimes miracles happen; forbid yourself to think about traps, consequences; stop being afraid; but the main thing is not to compare.

* * *

I do not know where we stumbled, what is our omission. I don’t rewind the tape to catch that very moment of withering indifference, to see that very first crack – it all started with it. Fragments of an ice mirror fell into my eyes, and it pricked my heart. At some point, at the moment of a surge of pain, I could not look into your eyes.

And what was in them? Probably, the aching expectation of that milestone, beyond which the share of freedom turns out to be less than even half a year... Our relationship was not as easy as it seemed to us. There are many undercurrents behind the simplicity, I understood this, but did not want to delve into it. In my previous relationships, I thought so much, delved into so much that, having met you, I decided to get rid of past habits at once. I believed in ease ... Isn't it in vain? ..

* * *

I fish out an episode of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on YouTube, where he tells her: “I have no memories without you ...” Just recently I said the same words to you. This is true, but I was convinced of this the devil knows how many times. After all, there were so many things - and how cut off. And I really have no more memories without you, although the century of our love was not a century at all ...

* * *

I ask myself: "What is the reason?" I don't find a definite answer. Something just stopped, burned out, cooled down, went out or was erased. Yes, anything, you can pick up a hundred comparisons. The fact remains: we are not. There is me, there is you - separately. When I see you online, I understand that I love you madly, that I am ready to kiss the screen that just has your name on it. When I don’t see you on the Web, I imagine the darkness of different events that could happen to you, mostly tragic for some reason ... I understand everything, everything, everything, but I can’t do anything. It's like something has died. Inside of me. And you, it seems, too. You don't write either. Do you want to be silent? Do you want to see the future? I wonder if you still love me...

* * *

"There have been many misfortunes in my life, and some of them have actually taken place." So joked Mark Twain. But I'm not in the mood for jokes. I don't regret what I went through. Many defeats are left behind - and that's good. I think there will be many more to come. But, you know, every time when fear overcomes, I close my eyes and fly away to you. And it doesn't matter that you're no longer with me. My heart is the place of our illusory meetings. There are no closed spaces, no calculation for tomorrow, peremptory decisions, farewell touches, a sour past. There we finally get the freedom to which everyone is entitled ... I actually love you with an impossible love.

* * *

Once I asked permission to hug your cool knees in dank silence. Now, in the same silence, I have no more requests.

* * *

So, I went to love through my whole life, allowing myself a break at the lingonberry bushes. I got to her no longer the same as I was at the start of the journey. With a sad smile, which reflected numerous unsuccessful experiments, with streaks of mascara - the stigma of my female lack of freedom, with the weight of spontaneous decisions behind my back, with the naive delirium of oversalted days in my head. I was no longer what you could see in a dream as a boy. Did I dream about you? No, I probably didn't dream at all. Men do not dream what they get in reality. And I had you so well-fed, caressed by the love of well-groomed girls ... Once I agreed to you now. Once I agreed to accept your diffuseness, condescension, harshness. I love you the way you are, but you weren't. I didn't know you, I didn't want to know you...

I fell asleep at your feet like a stray dog. And you raked me right on the threshold of my apartment, on the dusty floor, without having time to undress and undress me. We had so little time and so many desires. You still tried somehow to prolong the moment, but I, trembling with impatience, flowing with the juice of desire, hotly whispered, dodging, right in my ear: “Tear me apart! Faster!" I went crazy. I didn't want to lie to myself. I screamed about what I love. In other cases, we women are too often silent, overwhelmed with feelings - so as not to spill ...

Now it's all gone. There is no point in turning the pages back. Now I'm not afraid of defeat in a silent struggle without you ...

* * *

I called you yesterday. Looks like we had a good conversation. But these pauses between each spoken word. Cold. Rustling. Killing all warmth in the heart. "And I'm leaving ..." - "For a long time?" - "I do not know. I don’t know yet…” – “Probably it will be better, my dear…” – “I’m no longer your own… Most likely…” – “Oh, don’t start!” - “There is nothing to start ... You take care of yourself there ...” - “I will. And you… What time are you leaving?” - “What difference does it make now ... At 14:10. From Domodedovo…” Why did I name the airport? Still hoping you'll come running, break through all the controls, scream "come back!" Like in a romantic painting. Hug me, and together we will tear the ticket ...

* * *

I love the blank pages. Already which on the account. I will leave them blank, written with an invisible “I love”. Let all the love of the heart pour out on the empty pages of the diary ...

* * *

It turns out that I wrote most of the diary in the past tense. So, everything is already decided ...

* * *

I have a bunch of balloons in my chest, which are so easy to take off, which are so easy to pierce ... It seems that the second is more likely ...

* * *

I turn the pages in reverse order. Is everything that I wrote just fantasies, self-deception, beautiful words born of an unprecedented feeling? Whatever the outcome of our bizarre story, I will leave this diary here at the airport. I'll just "forget". I need to get real. Even more real...

* * *

What if – it hurts even to think – you are not my hero?!

* * *

How was it in the song? I would just like to know that you live somewhere - and I swear I don’t need more ...

I'd like to see you at least a glimpse - and I swear I don't need more.

It looks like it's from the same song? Or did I make it up myself?

* * *

I drink cold tea. Before departure another 50 minutes ... I'm playing for time. I'm waiting for you. It's time to confess.

* * *

Are you coming, or... is it me?

* * *

Moscow, 2008–2009

You were promised to me

To my dear Genghis.

Thank you for your sometimes disapproving smile and for always being there.

Thanks to Olya Tkacheva.

You make me better, sun.

When you want to get away from what hurts, it seems to be easier if you repeat back the road you have already traveled.

Francis Scott Fitzgerald

(Novel)

Part I
From you…

The greatest misfortune is to be happy in the past.

Boethius

Nothing remarkable has happened in my life for a long time. Continuous repetitions from day to day. Down to the smallest detail. The hellish trill of an alarm clock, which is tempting to throw it out of the balcony. I do not dare - he was presented by her, for Halloween. “You can’t imagine a worse present, dear! The store said his call would wake up even the dead.” Cold slippers that end up anywhere but by the bed. I always want to spit and not look for them, but stepping barefoot on an icy bathroom floor is worse than any alarm clock. Therefore, the first ten minutes after waking up are spent looking for slippers. Usually they end up in different unexpected places, as if I caught them playing hide and seek.

Then a quick shower with eyes closed, an unhealthy breakfast - instant coffee (too lazy to brew), hypocritical "Good morning!" from an overly curious neighbor (give her free rein, she will look under my bed) and quick steps towards the metro. Nothing remarkable. An ordinary day for an ordinary person. There are millions like me. Especially in big cities. And the disappearance of one of us will go unnoticed. I don't worry about it. Absolutely. I only sometimes think when I see men younger than me in the morning crush of the car. They still have enthusiasm, you see, some even smile. Soon they will become like me, and I will become like those who no longer live. Survive. I'm still floundering. If I think about something, it means I'm alive. But for the time being, there are few solid reflexes and atrophied feelings left. And I will definitely reach the final point of decay, if not ... What a stupid irony: when little depends on us, our plans and hopes increasingly begin with a helpless "if".

But just eight months ago, everything was different. There was Venice and the entanglement of hands in the elusive shadows of San Marco. It was summer and the wavy pages of our favorite books we read on the beach with salt water dripping from our hair. There were magical evenings in the kitchen with a cup of tea and sunny thoughts visiting just like that. I am not a romantic, although, I confess, I once was. I just revive myself with memories so that the counters do not completely reset to zero. Everyone forgets differently. Someone seeks salvation in vodka, someone in illusions, someone in the past. If I'm looking for salvation, does that mean I still believe? Or is it just a temporary pain reliever?

I have no anger. Instead, irritation. On himself. Irritation is completely inexplicable, well, like when you look at the reflection in the mirror and understand: something is wrong, but you don’t know what exactly. All wrong. And this is not low self-esteem or an attack of self-criticism. Again, a strange feeling, as if important threads were about to break, and I could not do anything.

After work, on Fridays, employees are invited to spend time culturally. Go to a smoky place across the street. There's watery beer, tasteless snacks and the waitresses are too approachable. I don't want to take it. "I do not want. Another time guys. I have not explained the reason for the refusal for a long time, I hope they will soon stop calling at all. I feel sad about repetitions in life, I don’t want them to be associated even with going to a pub. It's kind of humiliating. Moreover, there is no company (I know the sequence of their conversations by heart), and mediocre beer (according to the menu, German, draft), and the sad look of the waitresses (they have eyes like country roads in autumn) suggests the hopelessness of existence.

I don't know what's next. Definitely not going to jail for killing myself. I’m sure I won’t lose my job due to the surging crisis - I’m a proven and executive employee, recently not ambitious, I don’t expect an increase in salary or a raise. I'm sure I won't get married, I won't get a dog. There is no power to make a choice. Moreover, in reality there is no right choice - there is only the choice made and its consequences. Surely I will be the same as today, returning closer to nine from work, inhaling the lonely air of an empty apartment, cooking pasta for dinner, eating at the TV and passing out after heavy masturbation. Empty words that this is not life. This is life, unloved and lonely life, in which every new day is yesterday.

Fernando sits in front of me. All so contented, elegantly dressed, with an untied tie. His trouser legs pulled up, revealing swarthy legs with dark undergrowth. He's in a good mood, I'm not. Two hours ago, Fernando called and said he would come to my place with a bottle of French cognac. He calls it “Let's drink, chat. Long time no see".

We went to school together, we became men together. Once, in the eighth grade, they scraped together money, went to a chic prostitute with the pseudonym Michelle. She lived not far from the Central Square in a small apartment, where there was a lot of red and smelled of sweet perfume. Michelle had juicy breasts and incredibly plump lips. For us, embarrassed virgins, it was great luck to sleep with such a woman, and two at the same time.

In fact, he is not Italian and his name is much more commonplace. Fernando - a nickname from high school, when our bright classmate in the prime of adolescence turned dark, darkened, began to look like a typical Italian. The girls liked it, the boys, of course, aroused envy. Fernando had to put Salinger aside and learn how to fight. We fought together - both at school and in life - until Fernando got married. On a rich girl of Arab origin. He said that out of love, I did not really believe, but was silent.

Now my friend has a family hearth, a submissive wife, two charming daughters, sex once a week, an apartment ten minutes from the embankment, and the patronage of his father-in-law. Fernando is pleased, again I do not really believe, but I am silent. Having passed a glass, we discuss our lives, each trying to hook the other more painfully. It's not that we, like two roosters, brag about the wealth of our chicken coops. But we always talk about the advantages over each other, correctly calling them "pluses". This is a sport. A kind of duel between men.

Daughters are the main victory in the life of Fernando. “Every man sooner or later thinks about the meaning of life. Well, how long can you work, plump, fuck and toil with garbage? My daughters are the meaning that I needed, although you know how afraid I was of starting a family. I can't imagine how people live without children. When you don't trip over toys at night and no one rushes to your "Hey, who's home?". Yes, old man, you can call me a sentimental asshole, but it's nonsense that a family for a man is a heavy fetter. I feel good! Of course, I get tired of my wife from time to time, but the love of children compensates for a lot, if not all.

I am silent. What I wanted to say to Fernando about freedom - the main plus of my life, already seems meaningless. There is hardly more sense in freedom than in children. And surely Fernando will repeat the words that I have heard more than once: they say that the complaints of most men about loneliness are ordinary coquetry, they like to live in overcoming, to believe that a measured family life leads to blues and impotence.

I pour cognac into glasses, I go to look for a lemon in the hope of changing the topic of conversation. I love Fernando. A person close to me. For a long time I do not appreciate him for something, he is just mine. But even in front of him I hide my own vulnerability. I behave self-confidently, inadvertently discussing what inside responds with pain. No matter how much of a man you are, sometimes your anti-tank armor gets rusty. And I want a piece of gratuitous warmth. But everyone is used to the fact that you are such an iron guy. And no one will ever think that you need so little.

I go out to see Fernando, at the same time get some air. Night city. In a light fog, the light of the streets is washed out - this is how a short-sighted or crying person sees the lanterns. Or a wretch with no prospects. The Italian has had a lot to drink and speaks too loudly. I load it into a taxi, call the address, pay. I come back, turning up the collar of my jacket. Fernando's words come to mind: “I was waiting all the time for the one who would become my destiny to appear. Like in books. So rarely does anyone get lucky. Personally, I was not lucky ... Brother, do not set the bar high in your personal life. Our halves are also the fruit of our efforts. It is possible to mold what you want. Not immediately, of course. With time. We, men, are most often to blame for our loneliness, subconsciously choosing freedom.

“You don't look well. Maybe go somewhere, relax? Change the scene." If she doesn't shut up, I'll kill her. "Done with the bathroom?" - I interrupt her, go into the hallway, pull out my purse from my jacket pocket. I would have left faster. I return with banknotes in my hands. “Yes, yes, everything ... It’s inconvenient for me to take the whole amount, it’s always clean with you, give us half.” She looks at me with a pitiful look, as if I am an invalid or a lunatic who needs to be looked after. I hold the money in front of her face, pretending not to hear, “Good luck. Same time next week."

Lowering his eyes, he nods, takes the money, hastily dresses. Skinny. Raincoat the color of baked milk, brown boots, woolen beret. Next to the bag, three heavy packages, apparently, came here from the market. The redhead is removed from me for the second year. Once a week, on Fridays. The concierge advised her to me: “A decent woman, clean on hand, one daughter is raising.” Usually I don’t meet with Ryzha, she comes in my absence (I leave the keys with the concierge). The second Friday I come home earlier than usual, I run into Red.

She became unpleasant to me. Maybe because Red is a witness to my lost past, where there was no emptiness, escaping ghosts, where there were two? Don't know. I think it's all about the look. Nerves, humiliates, without noticing it. It has pity. Such pure human pity, without smirks, pretense. With a bit of native, maternal. I don't want that either. Pity destroys everything that he himself has overcome within himself. Stupid. Tries to talk to me, to show participation. It was still not enough to stroke her head, pressed her to her chest with the words "this will pass too."

Last time I brought a piece of cake, cookies. Probably, she saw that in the kitchen a rolling ball, she regretted it. I slowly took her gifts out into the yard and fed them to the pigeons. I don't like baking. Since childhood. I would have gotten rid of Redhead a long time ago - but it’s a pity for her, she needs money. She dresses too modestly, and looks tired. I am angry with myself, but I answer pity for pity. She cleans well, she’s not particularly curious, only today she blurted out, they say, you look like shit, dude. I was so torn by the desire to be rude. Restrained. Hey, it's not her fault. This is your pain and has nothing to do with it.

Once I almost slept with Red. It was summer, holidays. I'm lying on the couch in shorts, staring blankly at the TV. She, in a thin dress, washes the window. I can see the sweat trickling down between her small, firm breasts. I notice how she looks at my shoulders, legs. A hot wave began to grow in space, drawing us to each other, although I'm sure this is a surprise for her, and she's not my type either. Ordinary lust, nothing more. I tensed up and looked at her. She is on me. The rag fell from Red's weakened hand into a bucket. As soon as he touched her, the phone rang for some kind of goblin. And everything disappeared instantly. It happened once and never happened again.

I don't like this apartment. There are so many things in its walls and at the same time so empty. Only by the bed, shower, toilet, kitchen sink and refrigerator can you tell if someone lives here. Everything else is a dead zone. Untouched, icy, even though the house is heated. I fall asleep in the illusion that the files with the past are locked. Although thoughts, great traitors, still originate from the events of that time.

I find a towel to take a shower. Beeped mobile. Message from Fernando: "Old man, I can't be with her anymore." We love to indulge in illusions. Well, let's get our asses up and send the illusions we've painted our lives to hell! Stop spending time with men and women we didn't love and never will. Loneliness laughs at those who hide from it in illusions. Anyway, we will return to it sooner or later, disappointed to the last drop of blood.

I stand under the elastic streams and mentally fervently convince Fernando and myself. In relationships with people, we like to give out roles. Require actors to strictly follow our interpretation. And at the same time we play selflessly. Then, sooner or later, someone will want to be themselves for at least an hour, and not a character. And in that moment everything falls apart.

Current page: 1 (total book has 30 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 17 pages]

Elchin Safarli
When I'm without you...

Collection

I'll be back…
Novel

With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziya Dzhilgamly and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir

In this book, the words "hope", "faith", "happiness" and derivatives from them are used 678 times.

– I heard you read the book, and what did you find in it?

- A new life.

– Do you believe in it?

“Listen to me, I once believed a book too. And I decided that I would find this world. (…) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death…

That world exists! (…)

- Yes, there is nothing! These are all beautiful stories! Think of it like a game some old idiot played with the kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It's funny to read, but if you believe in it, life is gone...

Orhan Pamuk. "New life"

... You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, we look at each other, bringing our faces closer, and the eyes grow, grow and all come closer, screw into each other: the Cyclopes look eye to eye, our breath breaks, and our mouths meet, poking, biting each other with our lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breaths smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers exhaling an indistinct, dull aroma, or living, quivering fish. And if it happens to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if it happens to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air from each other, then this death-instant is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two, this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters ...

Julio Cortazar. "The Hopscotch Game"

... the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and freely express their opinions. I just listen and write.

Rai Bradbury

I wanted to write about everything, about everything that happens around.

About your flowers when you bring them.

About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels.

About all our feelings - yours, mine ...

About history: what we were.

About everything in the world, about everything together, dear!

Because everything in life is mixed ...

K / f "Clock"

Part I
About them

We have the right to fly where we want, and be the way we are created.

Richard Bach

... She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever and ever. Under a glass with citrus fresh, a napkin is damp at the edges. On it are painful words in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. I didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. Didn't smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. Started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Isn't that preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. Behind you or towards you. No matter. What matters is you...

...Women leave magical nights goodbye to men. Women's footprints on men's hearts. On the night before parting, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body like snowflakes on an icy window. Somehow it got cold. Now I understand. Parting kisses lose their warmth. In them, the cooled tenderness of parting ... On the last night, she looked at me differently than usual. In the eyes of alienation. Alienation over love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of departure. The struggle of the soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before parting. It is a silent protest. Protest against yourself. Feelings lose reason. Most often…

... I open the refrigerator. It contains nothing but green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness with green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather's garden, ate juicy apples, looked at the sky, counted the flying planes. So sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, as planes disappear in the sky ... All the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Each of them had memories. Ate the memories, forever leaving them in itself. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul I childishly hoped that on the day when the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are out. She didn't come back...

… Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one accidental touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle at Istiklal Caddesi 1
Independence Street in the center of Istanbul.

Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs of street musicians. The ice cream seller invites customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. Pistachio baklava flavor 2
Turkish sweet pastry.

In the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my purse. Kurushi 3
Turkish coin.

Rolled across the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She's "oh, sorry for God's sake" in Russian. At the same time, we bend down to collect coins. Touch. She has cold hands. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere anxiety, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. Didn't hold back. Kissed.

She was surprised, and I fell in love. "Let's eat some ice cream..." He said the first thing that came to mind. She replied in Turkish. "Okie 4
"Can" (Turkish).

... "Then she slapped me in the face. “You are definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover…” She laughed, but I didn’t apologize…

... True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. She was the windy sky. The earth, stable and grounded, was me. Love between us ... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the transience of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remain different. The difference strengthened feelings, decorated everyday life with variegated shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also die ... Then which of us unwound the knots of feelings? ..

... Appetizing balls of ice cream were melting in a mother-of-pearl glass vase. They lost their individuality, merged into a common pale brown mass. She licked the teaspoon, occasionally holding it between her cranberry lips. Mentally left this cafe overlooking the Bosphorus. Carried away to where her freedom is free. Pure women's freedom. “... I dream of turning into a seagull. Soar over the Golden Horn, peck at fish, let yourself be fed crispy simit 5
Turkish bagels topped with sesame seeds.

It is up to you to decide where and with whom to fly…” She spoke to herself, but out loud. Velvety voice, sparse eyelashes, dimpled smile. Smoldering cigarette in fingers. “Hey, seagull, your ice cream is melting…” She shudders, looks from the Golden Horn to me. Penetrates deep into my eyes. Goosebumps. I have. And there is a smile on her face.

He presses his cigarette into the ashtray. "Can I ask you something?" The waiter brings hot tea with kunefe 6
A sweet cheese pie that is eaten exclusively hot.

Warm sugar-saffron aroma drives away vanilla ice cream shades. One of my bad habits is hot after cold. "Please..." She turns her gaze back to the Golden Horn. “Give me…” He keeps silent, lights up. "What to gift?" Signboards of jewelry stores, expensive boutiques flashed before my eyes. In the first 48 hours of falling in love, a man doubts a woman. On a subconscious level. Fear of being disappointed. “Give me hope…” I drop my cigarette in surprise. She laughed. She got up and leaned over the table. Kissed her on the nose. “Will you give? Come on, don't be greedy…” – “I'll give…” At that moment her mobile rang. He called all the time we were with her. We are often expected exactly where we don't want to return... Why didn't her mobile phone drown in the Bosphorus? Handsets interfere with doing things. Just like in the song...

… Her name is Mirumir. She introduced herself that way. “Is there really such a Russian name?” He purses his lips in displeasure. “If I introduced myself as Natasha, would you feel better?” - “OK, then my name is Svetusvet ...” - “Are you kidding me?” She's sexually angry as hell. Throws a bitten roasted chestnut at me. It has traces of her lipstick on it. Op, manages to catch it in her mouth. "Okay, okay, have it your way, Mirumir. And who do you want peace for?" He ponders: “Is my inner world… Satisfied, Lightlight?” I laugh. "I'm satisfied..."

She stops at the entrance to the Galata Tower 7
One of the symbols of Istanbul, located in the European part of the city on a high hill in the Galata district.

Putting his palm to his forehead, Mirumir raises his head. Looks at the sixty-meter "Jesus Tower" 8
The Genoese who built the Galata Tower in 1348-1349 called it the "Jesus Tower".

I carefully sneak up behind her and kiss her on the neck. Slightly damp and tanned. The second kiss for the first day of acquaintance. Boldness or courage? She turns around. In the eyes of sadness. "I'm afraid to love you..." I press her to me. "Don't be afraid... After all, I already fell in love with you." Mirumir embarrassedly pulls away. "Better help me overcome the 143 steps of Galata ... I will not sit in the elevator." “I can take you in my arms. Only for this there is a fee: one kiss ... ”Angry. Again incredibly sexy. “Are you all in the East so charmingly haggling? No kisses. Forward and with a song ... "

…She wears aqua and deep yellow. This is how her anticipation of the sea and the sun is expressed. “When I want to hide from everyone, I mentally plunge into the Bosphorus. Warm sea, warmed by the summer sun... That's why I come here every year. I don't have to dive here. Here I can swim on the surface. In his own way, Mirumir complements the dazzling palette of summer Istanbul ...

He doesn't live his own life. “I say ‘I love’ to someone I don’t love. Isn't that the biggest misfortune?" Does not talk about life outside of the present. A few words, then change the subject. "It's cold in Moscow. Always ... Listen, how much does a haircut cost in a decent salon? We don't discuss tomorrow. No plans, ideas, ideas. We fell in love with each other today.

Love rarely deals with the future tense. Often it remains in the past or persists in the present. If love continues in the future, then its bearers are infinitely lucky ... I listen to the wind. He, distilling the clouds, brings news from parallel time. For the wind, the distance between Istanbul and Moscow is a trifle. So why don't you tell about it, wind?..

…After getting to know my kitchen, she fell in love with me more. “Women recognize the character of a man silently. We do not ask questions, we do not climb into the soul. We look, we listen, we feel. We act without words ... ”Mirumir convinces that a man’s kitchen speaks of his character. “If the kitchen is clean, untouched, then the man needs home warmth, although he is ready to deny it in every possible way. Such a stubborn person needs to be pampered with delicious food, but at the same time not to tire with attention ... If the kitchen is a mess, ashtrays with cigarette butts are everywhere, it means that the man has a complex character. You need to adapt to this, and very carefully ... Your kitchen is “alive”. It has life. So, with you it is interesting, but not at all easy. You defend your personal space."

I say that I do not believe in such generalizations. She pauses, gets out of bed. Puts on a bra. She has small breasts with tender peach nipples. Insanely beautiful. Graceful sexy. Proud posture, fragile shoulders, sensually protruding vertebrae. Scar on right elbow. Short cut nails...

I get out of bed, pick her up in my arms, put her back in bed. Kicking, pounding on the back, indignant. I dig into her dry, violet-leaf lips. Exciting naturalness. Almost does not use decorative cosmetics, perfumes. As she is. Without template beauty, simulated femininity. She doesn't read Kundera - she likes Hyoga, Sagan, Capote. Often repeats the phrase from "Breakfast at Tiffany's": “This cat and I are very similar. We are both poor, nameless disheveled…”

She kisses my chin, rubs her face against my stubble. “Say that you don’t love me… Drive me away… Say that you need sex from me and nothing more… Don’t drag me into love…” I go deeper into her, whispering in her ear. “I love… You hear, I love… You won't leave…” She closes her eyes. Tears are flowing. Love with a tied heart. Have you had it? When there is no way back or forward. There is only a place where you stand and cannot move...

Sits on the windowsill. In panties. Wrapping hands around knees. Wavy blonde hair. Banana nail polish plays in the sun. I bring coffee. Stepping on "Bonjour tristesse" 9
"Hello, sadness!" (fr.).

Paperback, takes a cup. "Is she close to you in spirit?" I leaf through the book. Pale gray paper, poor adhesion. The book smells like her. "A little ... The more I read Sagan, the better I begin to understand what a difficult character she had ... She put her pleasure first ... always ... Forgivable selfishness ... but that's not important ... "

Sips coffee. “Great… Ellerine sağlık 10
Health to your hands (Turkish).

... And what kind of coffee? - "Fig". - "Which?!" I put the book aside and take a cigarette out of the pack. The lighter is naughty - the flame is intermittent. “Yes, yes, dear, fig. It was prepared during the Ottoman Empire. And my grandmother taught me. Grandmother Lale ... "

Mirumir opens the window, draws in the sea air. “Hey, Bosfooor, hello!..” Waving to the great strait, attracting the attention of people passing below. Nude girl in the window of the sixth floor in broad daylight. I laugh, surprised at myself. With all the acquisitions of modernity, I have a lot of conservatism. But next to her, for some reason, I change, like the direction of the wind. Strong influence or big love?

“Back to coffee… Tell me how to make it? I will enjoy it in Moscow ... In short, it doesn’t matter where. “In the grinder, along with the grains, add small pieces of dried figs, a pinch of cinnamon. Cook in your favorite way. The taste, as you can see, has not changed much. But what a flavor… Just don’t forget to pour the finished coffee into cups through a sieve, without thick.”

Drinks coffee. Thinking. She glances at the wall clock. "Get some duct tape. I want to tape the arrows so they don't move. Or take out the batteries. Do anything, stop time…” – “Why, Mirumir?” Silent. "Explain why." Lowers her eyes. "Come on..." She suddenly swings and smashes her coffee cup on the wall clock. Cries. “Stop time… Stop…” I hug her. “Good, good… Don’t cry…” Before parting, time speeds up, and with the onset of separation, it slows down. There are many mistakes in the program "Love is ...". But it is not possible to reinstall it. Unfortunately…

... The roads of night Istanbul are all in fragments of broken hearts. They crunch underfoot, crumble, digging into the shoes of passers-by. Passers-by are those who are lucky today. A little more than others. However, each of these passers-by is aware that tomorrow night his heart may also break. Law of the metropolis: not everyone can be lucky. There are more than 20 million frames with human destinies on the film "Istanbul Gold 400". Increased sensitivity, color balance - the best in the East ...

The clock is 03:12. Beyoglu. Bohemian area of ​​Istanbul. The older generation of Turks calls it a "hotbed of immorality", the youth - "heavenly hell". The bohemian flower of Istanbul first grew and blossomed here. Since then, it blooms every day after midnight ...

Empty bus stop. There is no one around except us and two drunken transvestites who fell asleep at one of the lightboxes. We sit at a distance from each other. We smoke in unison. I am Kent 1, she is Kent 4. Gathered her hair into two buns. She put on large glasses - yellow lenses in a green frame. “What are you laughing at? Reflection of the state of mind…” In silence, we look at the road a few meters away from us. There are few cars. Only occasionally taxis with luminous checkers rush by. Traffic lights change colors, stopwatches on them uselessly inform the ghosts of the night city about the green light.

The Bosphorus is quiet, my cigarette smokes under my nose, music is blaring from a block away. I listen to the words of the song. “Istanbul seni kaybetmiş… Eski bir banda kaydetmiş…” 11
“Istanbul lost you… Recorded on an old tape…” (Turkish).

Right in the heart. "I'm afraid to lose you... You... Mirumir... Do you hear?" Somewhere a police siren wailed. Female cry. "And I'm already lost ..." She blows on a traffic light, and he, obeying her, changes color. “Look, I'm a fairy… Fairy with a bad head… Lightlight, please, lose me…” Her cell phone rang. Doesn't answer. "It's late, baby. I already found you.” He throws a cigarette butt, presses it down with the toe of his sandals. He chuckles. "So what's the problem? You will lose again ... "

I look at the sky. There, someone spilled liquid dark chocolate with pieces of almonds. Almonds are stars. Suddenly one of them flies from the sky. Falls right into the heart of the Bosphorus. The mind instantly formulates desire. The Turks say that if a star with a desire falls and dissolves in the Bosphorus, then "your desire and the desire of your half" will come true. There is no time: the star is approaching the mirror surface of the strait. I make one wish for two. "Love beyond separation." Off, got it...

While watching the star, I did not notice how Mirumir moved towards me. “A star fell into the Bosphorus… He made a wish for us…” She smiled. For the first time in a night. “I noticed her at the same time as you…” – “Yes? And what wish did you make? He takes off his glasses. Listens to the Bosphorus. “It’s not even a desire… I just said, ‘Don’t let me go…’ I said to the star, but I thought of you.” She put on her glasses again. She turned to the traffic light: the breath of the heart changes the signals. I squeeze her hand in mine and remain silent. Beyoglu continued to rattle and debauch. It's already 04:16 on the clock. It's time…

* * *

... I multiply cigarette butts in flashes of dawn. She fell asleep with her head resting on my legs. Falling asleep, she seems to decrease in size. The body shrinks, facial features become smaller. I want to wrap myself in her. Save from hurricanes of memories, rains of despair. But I can't move. Mirumir restricts my movements. It's a pity to wake her up... Even within the walls of the kingdom of Morpheus, she proudly refuses help, locking herself in the locks of loneliness. “Each one must carry his own cross. Why trouble your neighbor? He has his own cross…” Mirumir is afraid to wait. Maybe this is correct? When you wait for a long time and in the end you don’t get what you expected, you stop believing, and, accordingly, hope. Maybe it's better not to look at the horizons with the hope of seeing scarlet sails? .. We have plenty to choose from. Is always. I choose her. I choose love. I make a choice for two. Indeed, in desperation, there is often no strength left to make a choice. In desperation, I want someone to make a choice for you at least once ... I make a choice for the world.

…Does not talk about himself. Burned by his own words. I don't feel mystery or insincerity. Mirumir does not want to return to where her mind drags her, contrary to the impulses of her soul. “Monroe once said:“ When hard days come, I think: it would be nice to become a cleaner in order to sweep away the inner pain ... “On the contrary, I am drawn to the cleaners in a happy time. I want to cleanse myself of the disappointments of the past, fears of the present. I am afraid of the present, because I do not know what future it will lead to ... "

Likes to look at me when I'm not looking at her. When I shave in the morning, she leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching me closely. When I explain our order to the waiter, she covers her ears with her hands, lip-reading my speech. When I go to the toilet, squeezing through the tables in the hall, she draws a heart on my back with her eyes. “So I find in you what I have been looking for for so long. No, you are not a prince on a white horse. You are my real. Real, close, native. And it doesn't matter if you are a prince or a king, whether you have a horse or not. It matters that you are here. With me. And such a… This is not pathos, Svetusvet. This is what I always wanted to say in the present. Every woman has words reserved for her real hero. Happy present. You just need to wait for him. I've been waiting"...

Lying on the purple sofa in the living room, watching Don "t Bother to Knock" 12
"You don't have to knock" (English). Psychological drama, 1952. Marilyn Monroe played the main role in it.

She nibbles on pumpkin seeds, I drink Starbucks hot chocolate. She's in my blue and white plaid shirt, I'm in my boxer shorts. She threw her legs back on the sofa, I pulled mine out and put them on the blue ottoman. Mirumir calls Marilyn Monroe "a restless devil." “A delightful girl… They saw her first as sex, then as talent… Somehow unfair…” I have never been a fan of Norma Jean. “I don’t think she has much talent. But there is a great butt…” He pinches my stomach. “All of you are men from the same garden ...”

Mirumir gets up from the couch, twists his hair into a knot. Lights up. “You know, before“ Don "t Bother to Knock" I considered Monroe an empty actress of stupid comedies. But after this work, I looked at her differently ... In fact, she was an unhappy actress, because she reluctantly played even in life ... I read a lot about her. I found something in her that makes us related. I also understand that you need to run faster and faster through life. But I can’t do it either - my legs don’t go ... "The story breaks as soon as it intersects with her life. As always ...

Moves to the window. He puts his elbows on the window sill, looks at the cars passing below. Freezes, calms down. For a moment it seems to me that she has disappeared from the present. Left Istanbul, returned to Moscow. My name is Mirumir. Doesn't respond. Fear lifts me off the couch. I quietly approach from behind so as not to frighten her. My footsteps drown out the sound of the TV. I hand her my chocolate. "Want? There is still left…” She shook her head in denial. The sea wind stirs a strand of hair that has fallen on the forehead. The cigarette went out. Does not notice. “... I am wandering on all four sides ... Hardened by frost ... Strong, like a cobweb in the wind ... Hanging to the ground ... I still somehow hold on ... " - "Where is this from?" Monroe wrote. As if about me, to the point ... "

Cars on the street honk hysterically, crowded in a traffic jam. I hug Mirumir by the shoulders, I press her to me. I close the window. “Hey, up your nose. You are not alone". “I’m not sad, dear. This is different. Rather, it's just fear. Fear of losing reality…” “You won’t lose it.” “Maybe I won’t. But sooner or later it will break off by itself ... We need to return to Moscow. I look into her eyes. "You will leave to come back." She fixes her eyes on the crying Monroe on the TV. “On the“ back ”is the hardest thing to decide. After all, all roads lead forward, not back ... "

He puts his ear to my chest. “I will listen to your heart…” I smile. "Listen ... I can give it to you." - "No need. It is the same with me…”

When I am without you ... (compilation) Elchin Safarli

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Title: When I'm without you ... (compilation)

About the book "When I am without you ... (collection)" Elchin Safarli

Elchin Safarli is a young writer and journalist. He began writing his first poems when he was a schoolboy. When he had a free minute, he could compose a short poem. E. Safarli writes about love, oriental culture, traditions, life in his books. His works are in great demand, they are praised by critics. The author lived for a long time in Turkey, where he had a resounding success. E. Safarli has many awards for his poems. To draw attention to the young writer, director Sergei Sarakhanov made a documentary about him. Sergey himself was very imbued with Elchin's work and re-reads his works with great pleasure. One of the director's reference books is "When I am without you ... (compilation)". In his opinion, the author was able to put his whole soul into poetry. They turned out to be bright, personal, so they touch the heart from the first lines.

Elchin Safarli reveals the essence of love in the book “When I am without you… (collection)”. Many may not agree with his idea of ​​this feeling, but his beautiful poetry and excellent style will convince anyone. After reading the collection, peace and pure thoughts remain, I want to live and give love to everyone. This is an extraordinary state when nothing is impossible, when the boundaries of consciousness are erased and you just want to love the whole world.

"When I am without you ... (compilation)" will help you express your feelings, be filled with harmony and do many good deeds. The book is an inspiration for many, because the author was able to convey the truth to people in simple words.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “When I am without you ... (collection)” by Elchin Safarli in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from the book "When I am without you ... (collection)" Elchin Safarli

I want you to know one thing: your name is always on my lips.
I will restrain myself from saying it out loud: let no one know how hard it is for me without you.
But I will repeat it to myself, hoping to someday meet you in the crowd. And when I see you, it will be the happiest day.
The longest and most amazing...

Will I ever be able to think about it without pain?
- Of course you can.
- But when?
- When you bring melancholy to the highest point, and everything will go away, however, it is not known whether with or without you. Or when you come back many times, letting go little by little. It is impossible to quickly overcome the pain, but it will work.

Be with me. No wonder that once upon a time, in one beautiful dream of youth, you were promised to me!

Download for free the book "When I am without you ... (collection)" Elchin Safarli

(Fragment)

The book “When I am without you...” by Elchin Safarli is dedicated to the warm and bright feeling of love. It is filled with vivid metaphors and epithets, one wonders how talented the writer is to so beautifully reflect the most ordinary life situations. The whole book can be literally disassembled into quotes, it consists, as it were, of small passages from the life of the protagonist, describes his feelings and thoughts at different moments. Most attention is paid to experiences, the search for answers to eternal questions.

The writer reflects on love, on what can really be considered this feeling. Sometimes people are too obsessed with their desires, and selfishness is unlikely to be combined with true love. A union in which one only gives and the other only receives is doomed. There must be harmony, a balance of emotions and energy.

Reading, you think about whether you can come to terms with the loss, does time really heal, and if it heals, then how long do you have to wait ... An even more difficult question is, what is love in general? There is probably something for everyone. What it means for the hero, what it is hard for him to remember, what hurts him, you can learn from this book.

On our site you can download the book "When I am without you..." Safarli Elchin for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.