A glimpse of Bella. Romantic chronicle

Boris Messerer is a famous painter, graphic artist, and set designer. Extensive memoirs cover almost the entire second half of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first century. Vivid portraits of his father, the outstanding dancer and choreographer Asaf Messerer, his mother, the silent film actress and beauty Anel Sudakevich, and his sister, the great ballerina Maya Plisetskaya. Life in post-war Moscow and the underground of the sixties and seventies, the workshop on Povarskaya, where the entire Moscow and Western elite gathered and where the famous almanac “Metropol” was born. Friendship with Vasily Aksenov, Andrei Bitov, Evgeny Popov, Joseph Brodsky, Vladimir Vysotsky, Lev Zbarsky, Tonino Guerra, Sergei Parajanov, Otar Ioseliani. And – Bella Akhmadulina, who was the wife of Boris Messerer for almost forty years. Her appearance, her “glimpse”, her poetry. A romantic chronicle of life with one of the most amazing women of our time.

The book is illustrated with unique photographs from the author's personal archive.

The work was published in 2016 by AST Publishing House. The book is part of the "Great Sixties" series. On our website you can download the book "Bella's Flash" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The book's rating is 3.5 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.

Current page: 1 (book has 68 pages total) [available reading passage: 45 pages]

Boris Messerer
A glimpse of Bella. Romantic chronicle

And now I think that we do not have time to find out our happiness. Actually, what is happiness? This is a conscious moment of being. And if you understand this, then you will already have enough...

Bella Akhmadulina

The book includes letters and photographs from the family archive of Boris Messerer, as well as works by photographers V. Akhlomov, V. Bazhenov, Yu. Korolev, M. Larionova, V. Malyshev, A. Osmulsky, M. Paziy, I. Palmin, V. Perelman, V. Plotnikov, Yu. Rost, A. Saakov, M. Trakhman, L. Tugolev, B. Shcherbakov

© Messerer B. A., 2016

© Bondarenko A. L., artistic design, 2016

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016

Meeting

Old Cinema House on Povarskaya. Ground floor lobby. Perhaps it was called the “ticket hall”. There is melting snow on the floor. There are crowds of people, languishing in anticipation of upcoming meetings. Leva Zbarsky and I are also standing, waiting for someone. The door is constantly opening to let incoming people through. The beautiful stranger seems to float into the space of the hall. She is in a slippery fur coat, without a hat, with snowflakes on her tousled hair. Passing by, she glances at us briefly and just as briefly sends us a subtle greeting with her hand.

- Who is this? – I ask Leva.

– This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring 1974. The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog Ricky, a Tibetan terrier.

Bella Akhmadulina appears in the yard with a brown poodle. His name is Thomas. Bella lives one entrance away from me, in the former apartment of Alexander Galich. Bella at home. In low-heeled shoes. Dark sweater. The hairstyle is random.

The sight of her tiny, slender figure begins to ache in your heart.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella listens absentmindedly. We're talking about dogs.

About dogs that are not nearly as peaceful as they seem at first. Ricky tries to start a fight. He succeeds and bites through Foma’s nose. Drops of blood. Bella is unhappy. I am embarrassed. Soon she leaves. And suddenly, with all the clarity that came out of nowhere, I understand that if this woman wanted, then I, without a moment’s hesitation, would leave with her forever. Anywhere.

Then Bella will write:

What is the meaning of fate's delay between us?
Why is the zigzag so bizarre and long?
While we were dating and didn’t know the secret,
Who cared about us, smiled and knew?
Inevitably, like two in the ring,
We met in this hateful courtyard.
Thanks to the incomparable Ricky
For your participation in our destiny...

Sometimes something happens between people that they cannot understand themselves. There were three such meetings in the yard. On the last one, Bella suggested:

– Come in two days to Pasternak’s dacha. We will celebrate his memory day.

I painfully imagined my appearance in this sacred house for me, having only Bella's verbal invitation. At seven o'clock in the evening of the appointed day I appeared in Peredelkino near Pasternak's house. The gates were, as always, open. I was greeted by a large red-brown chow chow. It was impossible to read his attitude towards me from the dog’s face. I headed towards the house. I called and went in. A large company was sitting around the table. Of the guests, I remember well Alexander Galich, Nikolai Nikolaevich William-Vilmont, Stasik Neuhaus and his wife Galya, Evgeniy Borisovich Pasternak and Alena, Leonid Pasternak and his wife Natasha. Bella sat in the center. The guests seemed surprised by my arrival. One Bella joyfully exclaimed:

- It’s so good that you came!

– I invited Boris to this solemn day and I am very glad that he is with us today.

They pulled up a chair for me and offered me a glass of vodka. My arrival interrupted Galich’s reading of poetry. The reading continued. But suddenly Bella abruptly interrupted Galich and began to enthusiastically read her dedication to Pasternak:

Burn to eyes, hands - cold,
my love, my cry - Tiflis!
Nature's concave cornice,
where God is capricious, having fallen into caprice,
that miracle perched above the world...

The poem, read in one breath, brightly and swiftly, sounded like a challenge to Galich’s monotonous reading. Undoubtedly, Bella was irritated by his politicized poetry accompanied by strummed guitar. Although she immediately began to hug and praise Galich, trying to make amends for her indomitable impulse. He continued his speech.

I remember an unexpected meeting with Bella at the dacha of playwright Alexander Petrovich Stein and his wife Lyudmila Yakovlevna Putievskaya. My close friend Igor Kvasha and his wife Tanya, daughter of Lyudmila Yakovlevna, were there. I was very glad to see Bella again, I rushed to her, we talked all evening and decided to see each other in Moscow.

Two months pass. Mixed company. Bella and I meet in the apartment of the writer Yuli Edlis, in a house on the corner of Sadovaya and Povarskaya. A lot of people, a lot of wine drunk. Everyone is in high spirits. Everyone wants the evening to continue.

Suddenly Edlis says:

- Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop. It's nearby, on the same street.

Suddenly everyone agrees. I'm happy. Bella and I are leading the procession. I lead the company straight along the roadway. The street is completely deserted. We go to my house - No. 20 on Povarskaya. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, in groups of four. Four lifts. I have a lot of different drinks. Guests are impressed by the workshop. And Bella too...

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. Phone call, her voice:

- I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer:

- No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

Usually in such a situation, I continuously say something to my companion and completely capture her attention. Here everything happens the other way around - I can’t get a single word in.

We are going to my workshop.

And life begins again. From my new page...

In that December and in that space
my soul has rejected evil,
and everyone seemed beautiful to me,
and it couldn’t be otherwise.
Love for a loved one is tenderness
to everyone near and far.
Infinity pulsated
in the chest, in the wrist and in the temple...

Bella's memories

The idea of writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

If before that I had met many interesting people whom it would be correct to remember, then after the coincidence with Bella the number of such meetings increased immeasurably. She gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical spheres. This process was completely organic, there was no premeditation in it.

I was not an outside observer, but a participant in this crazy but happy life. I have always had many friends, communication with whom took up a significant part of my time. But the main instinct in life was the desire to preserve and protect Bella, to protect her. Immediately after being impressed by her beauty and fantastic talent, I discerned a certain trait of disastrous nature, Bella’s vulnerability and defenselessness, as a person not adapted to the everyday side of life.

The story about human relationships and the events of our common life is not the main thing for me in this book. More important is the image of Bella herself, which I would like to convey to the reader.

Let Bella herself speak, so that the reader will again be captivated by her amazing, unique intonation, bewitched by the hypnotic influence of her speech. I tried to tape down much of what she said when I was able to do so. Earlier and more successful entries include a description of Bella’s trip to France in 1962, memories of Tvardovsky, Antokolsky, and Vysotsky.

Bella's desire to talk about her childhood, her origins, her stay in Kazan during the war, and wonderful stories about the virgin lands became records of 2010.

The chronicle of life, which appears in the texts transcribed from the recorder, dates back to the very last time, when I constantly wrote it down.

Bella said all this not on the record, but simply while talking to me. When these conversations were transcribed and put on paper, then, re-reading them, I again understood the immensity of Bella’s talent.

I tried to present the facts as accurately as possible, accurately indicate the dates and places of the events in which we were participants, leaving Bella room for lyrical assessments and simply for her voice to be heard from these pages.

That’s why I think it’s right to start with Bella’s story about childhood, life in evacuation and her first steps in poetry. And only then will I give myself the floor to describe the time in which we lived, the series of meetings with people with whom we were friends.

Constant expression of grief

There remains somewhere a pathetic, wretched photograph: two sad women - this is my mother, my aunt - but in their hands they have what they just found, what was born in April 1937. I don’t know if the photograph exists now, but I remember it well. And this pitiful creature, and these two unfortunate women, but then kind, who think that they have found something good, are all mistaken, all three. They will not find in themselves what happy parents know how to find, this can already be seen from their tiny and somewhat unhappy face. Does this poorly formed unhappy face know what is to come, what will happen next? It’s only April of 1937, but this tiny creature, this bundle they are holding, pressing close to them, as if they know something About what's going on around. And for quite a long time in the early, very early beginning of childhood, some feeling dawned on me that I knew, despite my complete lack of age, that I knew something that did not need to be known, and was impossible to know, and, in general, that survival is impossible.

But somehow this bag unfolds. Well, of course, there is also an adoring grandmother, and an aunt, who was always drawn to some kind of exploits. She, in fact, did them constantly, first human, then military, then simply saving some animals, some people. Well, yes, they don’t know anything about this yet, and the impression is that it’s that one, this useless one, who is completely invisible, his face is wrinkled, that he knows that he is overshadowed by some kind of grief, which is completely out of his height, out of proportion. fate.

But why is he so sad, after all, he is somehow growing up, after all, life, although miserable around him, is still growing him, nourishing him. And only this constant, incredible sadness that attracted the attention of both relatives and people. What, where does this sadness come from? But it was reflected in some photographs. Subsequently, I will have to decipher and unravel this constant expression of grief, which is not inherent in such a small and insignificant baby. But I remember, I remember clearly.

I already have some little time. They are trying to console with something, although there is nothing to console with. But they put him on a frog, which is probably still standing, such a big frog in the Park of Culture. This simply plunges me into despair, that is, this frog, its unfortunate situation, my connection with it - despair.

Here is an exhibition, and I remember it well, and they tell me that this is a holiday, this is an exhibition, I don’t answer anything, but they give me grapes, which are called “lady fingers”. The horror of these fingers, as if wounded, also leads to despair. In general, this is kind of unnatural behavior for a child who has no direct misfortunes, but still has relatives.

Well, maybe, then I think, firstly, in this house, in the first house in which I lived at a very young age, for some reason this house was called the Third House of Soviets, Felix Svetov lived there, he was an amazing person, but I couldn’t know him then, he was ten years older than me. He was a remarkably kind, noble man and laughed a lot later when he remembered me, because he said: I remember that some kind of picker was digging in the sand. They forced me to look for some kind of pleasure in the sandbox. He had very little joy at first: when he was ten years old, his parents were arrested. I couldn’t know this then, but this is only one, one sweet figure, which I now remember with love, and he is no longer alive. I couldn’t know this, but a very vast space was inhabited by these figures, and, perhaps, the helpless creature is tiny and knows how to sense general distress, because everyone was planted in this house and also around. Of course, I don’t want to exaggerate my infantile knowledge, but nevertheless there was something... Well, probably, some cars came, something was happening, that is, I didn’t have the sensations that a baby dressed in lace should have. was.

Merciful Sister

Perhaps my relatives survived because my grandmother’s brother Alexander Mitrofanovich Stopani was considered some kind of friend of Lenin. Grandmother studied at the Kazan gymnasium and, under the influence of Alexander, wore proclamations. The policeman stopped her, the good policeman:

- What are you doing? You need to study, you need not to upset your family, not to upset your teachers. What are you doing?

But there was the influence of his brother; to my grandmother he seemed very kind, very correct. For her revolutionary actions she was expelled from the gymnasium, but she still remembered French and German.

The older brothers had different convictions, they studied in the cadet corps, became officers, and then it is unknown where they went - they either died or left. One seems to have left somewhere. They did not engage in this revolutionary nonsense, like their younger brother Alexander. Grandmother recalled that she was afraid of them, they were very strict and so ironic. For example, they tied my grandmother to the table; she was the youngest in the family. They will tie you to the table and use a slingshot to hit the portraits.

Grandmother remembered when she saw Lenin for the first time at the May Day. For some reason it was necessary to swim across the Volga. There, in Kazan, the Volga. And so she saw Lenin for the first time; he was Ulyanov. Alexander Mitrofanovich somehow worshiped him, this continued all his life, and then my grandmother became disappointed, over time.

And so they sailed, my grandmother was still a high school student, but already with revolutionary offenses. When they were sailing on a boat, there was a man rowing, an oarsman, and Lenin did not help him in any way. Grandma sat scared because the current was very strong. The rower was tired, but Lenin did not help him, he only shouted:

- Rower, row! Rower, row!

Well, it was she who saw him for the first time, but, probably, it still remained in the young lady that the man did not help the other row, but there were second oars or whatever, I don’t know, it could have been helped if the current was strong.

Well, by the second time she saw Lenin, she had already endured a lot. She separated from her family, left the estate for Kazan for paramedic courses, entered into a fictitious marriage at the request of revolutionary leaders - fictitious, she emphasized this very much. As a child, I still might not understand, because this revolutionary, too, may have been good, but they were all crazy idealists. Not everyone, here is Lenin, I don’t believe that he was an idealist. The revolutionary was named Baranov, and his grandmother, nee Stopani, took his surname at the wedding and so she became Nadezhda Mitrofanovna Baranova.

And then, he was sick with consumption, this Baranov, the revolutionaries sent them to Switzerland, but then the grandmother began to strongly doubt everything, because they did not send money. Grandmother herself earned money as a nurse. She spoke French and German. With this money they lived with this unfortunate man dying of consumption. He did not get better in Switzerland. And so they lived, the grandmother was officially married, but unofficially she did not consider it a marriage. It was such an unfortunate neighborhood. He was dying of consumption, the comrades who sent them to Switzerland did not send money, but money was due. A vague, unclean story of embezzlement. Grandma didn't talk about it.

Well, then they couldn’t leave Switzerland because there was no support. Baranov needed feeding, treatment, and how to live. Grandmother was denied a home a long time ago. Then she somehow saved some money and they left. We went to Russia, but in such a way that we ended up in the south of Russia, we got there in some miserable way. At this time, our Emperor was passing by; it was a famous journey. And they were put in prison - both the grandmother and all the unreliable ones. These unreliable persons were arrested for only three days. Baranov died there, in prison.

This was before any revolution. After the death of the fictitious husband, the grandmother married another man, Likhachev. And then Christina, my aunt, was born in Nizhny Novgorod. Then my grandmother went to Donbass, where she worked as a nurse. Her youngest daughter, my mother, was born there.

Grandma’s fourth husband, I saw his photograph, he was good, noble, with such a mustache. This Lazarev was already there, he adopted my grandmother’s children, Christina and my mother, they became Lazarevs.

My grandmother also had two sisters, but she was the youngest in the family. She was known as an ugly child, no one thought about her marriage, but these older sisters are well described by me from my memories. They were beauties, like mine:

...beauties with huge eyes
gone crazy and merciful house
He dressed them up and watered them with tears.

Why did they go crazy? They were beauties with a very Italian look, but they were not married off for a very long time, and then they were married off unsuccessfully.

Grandmother, especially the older one, was mistaken for a Jew, she didn’t pay attention to it, she walked around in a robe like that. And Christina is wonderful, kind, selfless, she wanted to draw, to become an artist.

In Donbass, my grandmother saw Lenin again. She worked as a nurse. I really liked it – “merciful sister”, that is, whose sister – everyone. We call it “nurse”. She somehow lived, fought illnesses. There was also a crazy department, my grandmother said that a woman flew out of the crazy department - her hair was flying, and she screamed: “Get out, Satan!” Such a terrible cry, suffering, some kind of evil spirit was driving away.

And the children were all sick, and so was the grandmother, because it was contagious. Then my grandmother fell ill with typhus, from which she almost died, typhus. And then Lenin came to visit his obsequious friend Alexander Mitrofanovich Stopani. Well, he showed up, my grandmother was sick with typhus, and he shouted:

- Tell your sister to bring coffee!

Grandmother served poorly brewed coffee with cold cream, and he shouted again:

- Why is your sister, such a fool, still not learned how to make coffee?!

That's the character. Well, the grandmother began to lose consciousness, and she was taken to the hospital. Typhus. That’s how grandma was, she was kind and amazing.

I've never seen anything like this

My first bright, distinct phrase and bright, distinct color - first the tulips bloomed, and suddenly this gloomy child, unfriendly, not at all attractive, suddenly saw blooming tulips and said: “I have never seen anything like this.” That is, such a clear phrase is absolutely clear. Everyone was surprised that a gloomy and perhaps unwise child suddenly spoke out. This struck me so much that to console me - we were traveling in some trolleybus - they bought me, someone sold, some aunt, grandmother sold, several red poppies. That is, as soon as I had time to be captivated by them, and terribly amazed, and to be so wounded by their scarlet beauty, by this incredible color of these plants, the wind blew them away. This is how all the failures began, like these missing poppies. Here is the bright and wonderful scarlet color of first these tulips on some ridge, and then these several poppies, which fate immediately took away, they flew away; In general, I felt some kind of tragedy again.

And there's no time to eat

Another memory... My father worked at an electrical plant, but this did not last long because he was expelled from the party, and until he was expelled, we went somewhere with him, and I remembered. I was two years old. And I remembered that my father was driving some kind of car, the driver was sitting next to me, very embittered, apparently, like almost everyone around him, from servility and fear. There was some kind of test tube in the old car, apparently for flowers, and I was fiddling with something in it, picking at it, which might remind him of cooking, say, porridge or soup. And suddenly he, hungry: “Everyone eat! - shouts. “You keep eating, but I don’t even have time to eat!” I remember this too, I remember it forever.

The child was returned correctly

My mother told me that in the maternity hospital - this was the Catherine Hospital, she was transported there from the Third House of Soviets, when the contractions began, there was such a case - they gave children to feed, and suddenly they brought her some other child. She already knew me, but then some other child who had something on her face, it was damaged by something, she got scared, screamed, and the correct child was returned to her. I sometimes thought that maybe they were confused, but, of course, this is impossible, because all these Italian and Tatar things had a very strong effect.

My mother called my father Arkady, and when I started jumping in bed, he taught me to say: “I am a Tatay, I am a Tatay.”

Boris Messerer

A glimpse of Bella. Romantic chronicle

And now I think that we do not have time to find out our happiness. Actually, what is happiness? This is a conscious moment of being. And if you understand this, then you will already have enough...

Bella Akhmadulina

The book includes letters and photographs from the family archive of Boris Messerer, as well as works by photographers V. Akhlomov, V. Bazhenov, Yu. Korolev, M. Larionova, V. Malyshev, A. Osmulsky, M. Paziy, I. Palmin, V. Perelman, V. Plotnikov, Yu. Rost, A. Saakov, M. Trakhman, L. Tugolev, B. Shcherbakov

- Who is this? – I ask Leva.

– This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring 1974. The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog Ricky, a Tibetan terrier.

The sight of her tiny, slender figure begins to ache in your heart.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella listens absentmindedly. We're talking about dogs.

Then Bella will write:

What is the meaning of fate's delay between us?
Why is the zigzag so bizarre and long?
While we were dating and didn’t know the secret,
Who cared about us, smiled and knew?
Inevitably, like two in the ring,
We met in this hateful courtyard.
Thanks to the incomparable Ricky
For your participation in our destiny...

Sometimes something happens between people that they cannot understand themselves. There were three such meetings in the yard. On the last one, Bella suggested:

– Come in two days to Pasternak’s dacha. We will celebrate his memory day.

- It’s so good that you came!

– I invited Boris to this solemn day and I am very glad that he is with us today.

Burn to eyes, hands - cold,
my love, my cry - Tiflis!
Nature's concave cornice,
where God is capricious, having fallen into caprice,
that miracle perched above the world...

Suddenly Edlis says:

- Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop. It's nearby, on the same street.

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. Phone call, her voice:

- I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer:

- No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

Usually in such a situation, I continuously say something to my companion and completely capture her attention. Here everything happens the other way around - I can’t get a single word in.

We are going to my workshop.

And life begins again. From my new page...

In that December and in that space
my soul has rejected evil,
and everyone seemed beautiful to me,
and it couldn’t be otherwise.
Love for a loved one is tenderness
to everyone near and far.
Infinity pulsated
in the chest, in the wrist and in the temple...

Bella's memories

The idea of writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

Bella's desire to talk about her childhood, her origins, her stay in Kazan during the war, and wonderful stories about the virgin lands became records of 2010.

The chronicle of life, which appears in the texts transcribed from the recorder, dates back to the very last time, when I constantly wrote it down.

Preface

The idea of writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

Even before this event, I met many interesting people whom it would be right to remember. But after Bella and I started spending time together, the number of such meetings increased immeasurably. Bella gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical fields. And this process was completely organic, there was no premeditation in it, it proceeded naturally.

I was not an outside observer, but a participant in this crazy but happy life. I have always had many friends, communication with whom took up a significant part of my time. But my main instinct in life was the desire to protect Bella and protect her from various everyday troubles in order to protect her rare talent.

The story about human relationships and the events of our common life with Bella is not the main thing for me in this book. More important is the image of Bella herself, which I would like to convey to the reader.

Let Bella herself speak, so that the reader will again be carried away by her amazing, unique intonation, bewitched by the hypnotic influence of her speech.

To do this, I tried to record on a dictaphone much of what Bella said when I was able to do so.

Earlier and more successful entries include a description of Bella’s trip to France in 1962, memories of Tvardovsky, Antokolsky, and Vysotsky.

Bella's desire to talk about her childhood, her origins, her stay in Kazan during the war, and wonderful stories about the virgin lands became records of 2010.

The chronicle of life, manifested in the texts transcribed from the recorder, dates back to the very last time, when I constantly recorded Bella.

As always, Bella said all this not on the record, but simply while talking to me. When these conversations were transcribed and put on paper, then, re-reading them, I again begin to understand the immensity of Bella’s talent. And I also want to say about her lack of any vanity, which, perhaps, was her main quality.

For my part, I try to present the facts as accurately as possible, accurately indicate the dates and places of events in which we were participants, leaving Bella room for lyrical assessments and simply for her voice to be heard from these pages.

That is why I think it’s right to start with Bella’s story about her childhood, about life in evacuation and about her first steps in poetry. And only then try to give my description of a series of meetings with wonderful people with whom we were friends. I also try to do this because I am often the only witness of our communication with them and consider it my duty to talk about it.

Bella. Memories

There remains somewhere a pathetic, wretched photograph: two sad women - this is my mother, my aunt - but in their hands they have what they just found, what was born in April 1937. I don’t know if the photograph exists now, but I remember it well. And this pitiful creature, and these two unfortunate women, but then kind, who think that they have found something good, are all mistaken, all three. They will not find in themselves what happy parents know how to find, no, this can already be seen from their tiny and somewhat unhappy face. Does this poorly formed unhappy face know what is to come, what will happen next? It’s only April of 1937, but this tiny creature, this bundle they are holding, pressing close to them, as if they knew something about what was going on around them. And for quite a long time in the early, very early beginning of childhood, some feeling dawned on me that I knew, despite my complete lack of age, that I knew something that did not need to be known and was impossible to know, and, in general, that survival is impossible.

How am I different from the woman with the flower?
from the girl who laughs
who plays with a ring,
and the ring is not given to her?

I'm distinguished by a room with wallpaper,
where am I sitting at the end of the day?
and a woman with sable cuffs
the arrogant gaze looks away from me.

How I pity her arrogant look,
and I'm afraid, afraid to scare her off,
when she's over a copper ashtray
bends down to shake off the ashes.

Oh, God, how I feel sorry for her,
her shoulder, her drooping shoulder,
and a thin white neck,
which is so hot under the fur!

And I'm afraid that suddenly she will cry,
that her lips will scream terribly,
that she will hide her hands in her sleeves
and the beads will clatter on the floor...

Bella Akhmadulina. 1950s

10.04.1937 - 29.11.2010

Boris Messerer created for the 75th anniversary of Bella Akhmadulina
truly a living monument: actually written by the talented
documentary novel "Bella's Flash". Published a luxurious
an album with Bella's own drawings and poems,
dedicated to the white nights of St. Petersburg and the poets of St. Petersburg.

Since 1974, a loving and beloved man has secretly and voluntarily
became a devoted chronicler of an unpredictable woman,
which I fell in love with at first sight, without even reading it
not one of her poems.

He loved the woman in her! Bright, capable of one quick
pierce your consciousness with a glance and call for you. Even
fragments of the novel make you feel what passion
and passion cemented this union.

Messerer allowed himself to be a penny-pincher - to collect handwritten sketches, notes, dedicatory inscriptions on books for friends from the infinitely generous Bella. And everything was useful to him! The book is filled with the most interesting meetings, poetic evenings, where her magical voice sounded like a weeping flute, and with her reading style she plunged listeners into some kind of ecstasy of ardent worship. Let's read some excerpts from the book:

Old Cinema House on Povarskaya. Ground floor lobby. Perhaps it was called the "Cash Hall". There is melting snow on the floor. There are a lot of people languishing in anticipation of upcoming meetings. Leva Zbarsky and I are also standing, waiting for someone. The door is constantly opening to let incoming people through.

The beautiful stranger seems to float into the space of the hall. She is in a slippery fur coat, without a hat, with snowflakes on her tousled hair. Passing by, she glances at us briefly and just as briefly sends us a subtle greeting with her hand.

Who is this? - I ask Leva.
- This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring of '74.

The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog Ricky, a Tibetan terrier. It belongs to the beautiful film actress Ella Lezhdei, the woman I love, with whom I live in this house.

From the sight of her tiny slender figure
my heart begins to ache.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella is listening
absently. We're talking about dogs.

Two months pass.

Mixed company. Bella and I meet in the apartment of the writer Iuliu Edlis, in a house on the corner of Sadovaya and Povarskaya. A lot of people, a lot of wine drunk. Everyone is in high spirits. Everyone wants the evening to continue. Suddenly Edlis says:

Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop.
It's nearby, on the same street.

Suddenly everyone agrees. I'm happy. Bella and I are leading the procession. I am leading the company straight along the Povarskaya roadway. The street is completely deserted. We go to my house - number 20 on Povarskaya. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, in groups of four. Four lifts. I have a lot of different drinks. I notice that the guests are impressed by the workshop. And Bella too...

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform.
Two weeks of agonizing waiting.

Phone call: - I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer: - No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

Usually in such a situation, I continuously say something to my companion and completely capture her attention. Here the opposite happens - I can’t get a single word in.

We are going to my workshop. And life begins
at first. From my new page...

In that December and in that space
My soul rejected evil
and everyone seemed beautiful to me,
and it couldn’t be otherwise.

Love for a loved one is tenderness
to everyone near and far.
Infinity pulsated
in the chest, in the wrist and in the temple...

In the first days of our coincidence with Bella, we cut ourselves off from the outside world, plunged into nirvana and, as Vysotsky said, lay on the bottom like a submarine, and did not give call signs... We did not communicate with anyone, no one knew where we were .

On the fifth day of Bella’s voluntary imprisonment in the workshop, I returned from the city and saw on the table a large sheet of whatman paper covered with poetry. Bella sat next to her. I read the poems and was amazed - they were very good poems, and they were dedicated to me. Before this I had not read Bella’s poems - it just so happened.

After meeting her, I, of course, wanted to read it, but I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to jinx our nascent relationship. I recognized that Bella wrote beautiful poetry, but I did not want my feelings to be influenced by literary interest in her poetry.

I, of course, was very happy about both the poems and the impulse that pushed Bella to create them. I was filled with joy and rushed towards her...

Bella always wrote in a kind of frantic
a burst of genuine feeling.

Passerby, boy, what are you doing? Past
go and don't look after me.
I love the one by whom I am loved!
Besides, know: I am many years old.

Pupils hot sullenness
hold on to me for a moment:
then the laughter of love, sparkling like youth,
gilded my features.

I'm coming... February is healing with coolness
cheeks hot... and the snow is snowing
so much... and sparkles immodestly
the beauty of love is my face.

The love that arose is captured in wonderful poems written in the workshop on Povarskaya... Love in the absence of everyday life... No one cooked or cooked anything in the workshop. She resembled a ship that glides over the waves, almost without touching them, glides over everyday life, almost without touching it:

Enter the incredible house,
Where is life - in neighbors with the universe,
Where eternity is an instant chill
Was aware of people and things,

And a splash of silver hearts
About the draft of otherworldly spaces
Guests who once sat here,
He announced mysteriously.

The peak of the madness of our relationship coincided with a complete lack of money. As if on purpose, I was not paid at that time. They were simply absent. And so does Bella. No one paid her anything either.

I called the head of the book,
I was looking for roundabout ways
Find out about possible changes
In the fate of my words and children.

There - someone was languishing and running,
He kept saying: he’s gone! He's gone!
It got dark, and he was still having dinner,
I ate my huge lunch...

Other fragments of Boris Messerer’s book published in the Znamya magazine can be read on the Magazine Hall website here:

In March 2013, the Kultura TV channel premiered the documentary film “Monologue of a Free Artist,” dedicated to the 80th anniversary of Boris Messerer. A series of 5 short films about the life and creative destiny of a theater artist, set designer, People's Artist of the Russian Federation, and an extraordinary and touching husband with whom Akhmadulina has lived for the last 36 years.

The documentary film “Monologue of a Free Artist” is not only about the love of two outstanding people - the poet Bella Akhmadullina and the artist Boris Messerer, but also the history of relationships against the backdrop of the era. It is not just a double portrait of Akhmadulina and Messerer, but also a unique multi-figure composition, a gallery of grandiose portraits presented to the audience: Vsevolod Abdulov and Alexander Mitta, Michelangelo Antonioni and Tonino Guerra, Vladimir Vysotsky and Marina Vladi, Venedikt Erofeev and Eduard Volodarsky.

These portraits were painted not with the brush of Boris Messerer, but with his equally bright and sincere words; this is the whole history of the twentieth century, seen through the eyes of a great artist and felt by the heart of a truly great man.

“I called my memoirs “A Glimpse of Bella,” says Boris Asafovich. - Even before I met Bella, I met many interesting people whom it would be right to remember... Bella gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical spheres... I was not an outside observer, but a participant this crazy but happy life."

Watch the video “Monologue of a Free Artist. Boris Messerer. A glimpse of Bella." The film is filled with poems by Bella Akhmadullina, which she herself recites in her inimitable manner. Enjoy watching!

Bella herself admitted that for her the most important
there have always been “esteemed readers.”

“In recent years, only one question has occupied me,” said Akhmadulina. “I am wondering how to repay my precious friends and listeners, whom I respect so deeply and tenderly, for the kindness and love so lavishly bestowed upon me.”

April

Here are the girls - they want love.
Here are the boys - they want to go hiking.
Weather changes in April
Unites all people with people.

O new month, new sovereign,
So you are looking for favor,
So you are generous with favors,
The calendar is tilting towards amnesties.

Yes, you will rescue the rivers from their shackles,
You will bring any distance closer,
You grant enlightenment to the madman
And you will heal the ailments of the elderly.

Only I am not given your mercy.
There is no greed to ask you for this.
You ask - I hesitate to answer
And I turn off the light, and the room is dark

On the Poetry Library website you can additionally
read about a wonderful woman, a poet with a capital P, whose work has yet to be realized and understood.