Denis Dragunsky is a writer, journalist, blogger. And he is also the same Deniska from "Deniska's stories"
Denis Dragunsky - writer, journalist, blogger. And he is also the same Deniska from Viktor Dragunsky's Deniska Tales. Denis's new book "Bad Boy" was published by RIPOL Classic
When I was six, seven and even ten years old, I lived in the summer on the banks of a wide river. The other side was barely visible. I swam there on a rubber ring. Sometimes the older guys and I rented a boat at the station ourselves, took apples, bread and a couple of bottles of water and went downstream. We deliberated on which side we would go around the island and where we would moor to rest and swim. It was a long journey, for a whole long summer day.
In autumn and winter, I lived in a huge apartment, with high ceilings, wide windows, massive double doors, to which heavy brass handles were screwed. The latches on the windows were also heavy and tight - they could barely open. The rooms were very large. One room was enough for a whole family. There were eight families in total. Because the apartment was communal.
So we lived: dad, mom and me. In one closet there were dishes, in the other - clothes. Books were on shelves along the wall. A cupboard divided the room in two. So to speak, front and private parts. Dining room-living room-study and bedroom-children. We dined at the round table, and dad wrote stories and poems for songs. He laid out his drafts and notebooks all over the table. And then my grandmother brought me from a walk. She lived separately, but often came to help with her grandson. That is with me.
- Remove-remove-remove! Grandma commanded. - The child must be fed lunch!
Dad hurriedly collected his notes, took them to the bedside table near the bed. And I proudly sat down and tried to guess what was for dinner today. If I had known that my father was writing "Deniska's Stories", of course, I would not have allowed such a grandmother's dictatorship. I would go to the kitchen for lunch.
Not though. In those days, the kitchen could feed a worker who came to fix the sink. And if the tenant suddenly sat down in the kitchen with a bowl of soup, it was clear to everyone - he had a fight with his wife and was portraying a homeless person. It hits you with pity.
In "Deniska's stories" all the plots are invented, but the atmosphere is accurate. Deniska, Mishka, Alenka, teacher Raisa Ivanovna. Apartment, yard, school. Car, bike, soda machine. And a dacha with a river too.
The river, by the way, turned out to be very narrow. It happened when, already at the age of sixteen, I suddenly decided, as in childhood, to go boating. Some river. The shore is close at hand. But why? Yes, because I grew up! From the height of normal average height, everything became very ordinary. Medium.
I squatted down, tried to become six years old again. The river immediately became much wider, and the other bank almost disappeared from sight. But the miracle did not work, because his legs hurt. I got up and rubbed my stiff calves. And everything fell into its adult place.
And I realized what I don't like about children's films. They are taken from the perspective of an adult. In the simplest sense. The camera should stand at a height of one meter if the movie is about first graders. All life is here, on this level. And adult heads are somewhere up there, out of focus. That would have been much more correct.