If you like French cinéma, particularly la nouvelle vague, you must have noticed that hardly a film can do without a scene where there is a bookshelf. A bookshelf ranged with books is a symbol of unhurried intellectual comfort of a bourgeois society and is far more important than a mere container of information or an entertainment box - it has become an element of culture. Books in French cinéma have white or yellowish spines (a traditional element of more expensive literary press) but occasionally among them you can spot a dark-spined, short and sturdy volume. It is, no doubt, from the collection ”Bibliothèque de la Pléiade” - the most authoritative and prestigious French literary edition. The collection numbers hundreds of gold-plaited volumes, printed on very thin paper which makes it possible to fit over thousand pages in each one. Seen in Rohmer, mentioned in “Pale Fire”, “La Pléiade” has also become an element of culture. These volumes, some already collectors’ items, are very expensive, with prices anywhere from fifty to two hundred dollars.
I found one in a neat little bookshop in Brooklyn that sells books of quality. I come to it once a few weeks to look for used books that I can’t find anywhere else. Prices are written in pencil on the inner cover and rarely go above ten dollars. On a top shelf, I saw a volume of “Pléiade” - it was a Jean Giono. Somebody wrapped it in a transparent film, there was a library stamp on the first page, but otherwise it was in perfect condition. The inner cover was unmarked - no price. There were only rare, expensive books on the top shelf and I put it back where it stood. Might be fifty dollars, I thought, if not more. Every time I came to the shop I saw it there, standing on the top shelf, unnoticeable to most customers and waiting to be appreciated by some discerning reader. I never owned a single “Pléiade”. I only borrowed them from the university library and treated them as you treat original Picasso paintings. When I saw volumes of “Pléiade” in bookstores in Europe they were on display behind glass, in locked stands. You would need to ask for a key to even hold the book in your hand. And there it stood - right above me, accessible, ready to be bought, my first “Pléiade”. I climbed the ladder, opened it, searched in front, at the back. No price. Don’t even ask, I thought, they didn’t want to leave pencil marks on it. Probably hundred dollars. And I left the shop in dismay.
But the little book was still there, after two months, and I couldn’t hold on any longer. I squeezed it in my hand and walked resolutely to the cashier. A skinny, unshaven youth at the check-out counter took the volume in his hand as I asked him: “How much is it? There’s no price anywhere inside”. He opened it, turned it from side to side. The book was in an unknown language, the author was unheard-of. He tossed it in the air, as if to price it by weight, and, still perplexed, finally said:
Свежак надрывается. Прет на рожон
Азовского моря корыто.
Арбуз на арбузе - и трюм нагружен,
Арбузами пристань покрыта.
Не пить первача в дорассветную стыдь,
На скучном зевать карауле,
Три дня и три ночи придется проплыть -
И мы паруса развернули...
В густой бородач ударяет бурун,
Чтоб брызгами вдрызг разлететься;
Я выберу звонкий, как бубен, кавун -
И ножиком вырежу сердце...
Пустынное солнце садится в рассол,
И выпихнут месяц волнами...
Свежак задувает!
Наотмашь!
Пошел!
Дубок, шевели парусами!
Густыми барашками море полно,
И трутся арбузы, и в трюме темно...
В два пальца, по-боцмански, ветер свистит,
И тучи сколочены плотно.
И ерзает руль, и обшивка трещит,
И забраны в рифы полотна.
Сквозь волны - навылет!
Сквозь дождь - наугад!
В свистящем гонимые мыле,
Мы рыщем на ощупь...
Навзрыд и не в лад
Храпят полотняные крылья.
Мы втянуты в дикую карусель.
И море топочет как рынок,
На мель нас кидает,
Нас гонит на мель
Последняя наша путина!
Козлами кудлатыми море полно,
И трутся арбузы, и в трюме темно...
Я песни последней еще не сложил,
А смертную чую прохладу...
Я в карты играл, я бродягою жил,
И море приносит награду,-
Мне жизни веселой теперь не сберечь -
И руль оторвало, и в кузове течь!..
Пустынное солнце над морем встает,
Чтоб воздуху таять и греться;
Не видно дубка, и по волнам плывет
Кавун с нарисованным сердцем...
В густой бородач ударяет бурун,
Скумбрийная стая играет,
Низовый на зыби качает кавун -
И к берегу он подплывает...
Конец путешествию здесь он найдет,
Окончены ветер и качка,-
Кавун с нарисованным сердцем берет
Любимая мною казачка...
И некому здесь надоумить ее,
Что в руки взяла она сердце мое!..
1924
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