Gilyarovsky knew nothing about it

Oh, they brought back a thick cultural layer.
But it all turned out to be different prayer rugs.
Oh, Moscow doesn't believe in tears. That was my grandfather putting out lighters,
Climbing on the roofs, they just liked it, they were kids.
It's true that if anyone encroaches on the seas of the east, they'll be sorry.
It's beautiful stark pictures, it's big and fell from the sky instead of bombs.
And there was no front with Japan, it was '41.
But the magazine fell on a roof somewhere on Baumanskaya in Moscow.
Were you evacuated far away? Of course.
But Moscow is common because now the sidewalks are tiled?
That's reasonable.

Stalin could have shot you for not burning enemy propaganda in the oven.
The magazine is called Front is My Legacy. It's in Russian.
What a trophy!
My grandfather loved only me, we always ate navy macaroni from bags.
We were sailors - macaroni was navy.
(But for some reason they were shaped like flowers.)
He was an alcoholic and worked as a mechanic in a car factory all his life.

When he was a kid, they put a box under his feet so he could reach the machine.
The factory was open 24 hours a day. And there were children working there.
After the war, there was no place for him in Soviet reality,
except to drown in a bottle.

That woman in the supermarket, picturing her husband's mattress.
Your ethnic clothes are cool.
Welcome to Moscow.

Oh, this flabby man said to me out the car window, “bitch, bilad.”
“Bilad” ??? Can't you pronounce the Russian Mat correctly?
It's unacceptable, I'm saddened.
He said it to me in response to my smile. This is the center of the capital.
We got away without a traffic accident, thanks only to the fact
I'm a good driver. You don't know how to drive, uncle, look at the signs,
but the carshare will pay for it. But you said it to me, “bitch, bilad”?
We don't talk to women like that at all.
Never and under no circumstances.

You don't know how to drive, you don't even know Russian. Go home.
“Moscow is common.” Oh, no, darlings, there's only one city like that on the planet,
Open to all, it's called New York.
All cultural diversity is welcome there.
Is that a myth? Of course it is.
But you have to bring all your prayer rugs with you,
And bring a decent baggage of cultural diversity.
But, matron woman, we're very happy to see you, too.
Are those girls' skirts too short? And what's next?

We respect your belief that you believe
that pigs are dirty animals,
Dogs are dirty, cats are dirty,
and everyone else is dirty except you.
Welcome.

Oh, my grandfather was a very handsome man with perfect features.
A small perfectly straight nose, blue eyes, and beautiful bushy eyebrows.
and a very thick lock of brown hair, brown is rare nowadays.
(modern people, your hair is horrible, and you don't meet any real browns.)
Women loved him. Even too much.
And he was an incurable alcoholic.
Actors be jealous, you're all ugly.
But he was small in stature.

My grandmother was very short. They are both long gone, but there is an old photo of their youth, of him standing in the middle of his yard, in the street, and her sitting on his one shoulder.
(This photo defies the laws of physics a bit, but it's real. There are no others left.
Oh, nobody called her by her name, they called her Alya for some reason. (What kind of name is that? The real one was different.)
Yes, they were frivolous, joyful people. You couldn't be like that back then.
Guess they didn't live to be old.

He didn't live to be 50. He had a guitar and an upholstered chair.
There was nothing else in the room at all.
All the relatives hated him. I was the only one who loved him.
He was a light and kind man.
His family didn't like him because of his easygoing nature.

We had “navy pasta”, which is soup from a bag.
He was delighted, shortly before he died,
that a little store that opened up nearby was called
“Amur Waves.”
They called the store “Amur Waves” -
he rejoiced like a child.
He was just an uneducated factory worker and an alcoholic.
and he didn't even age.
Alcoholics just don't have the time to do it.
The combination of a carefree, easy-going, good-natured man and an alcoholic -
is rare.
It's a combination that almost guarantees a life that's a train wreck.

Grandpa, give me your looks.
How could it be so different in just a generation?
We look nothing alike.
I have yellow eyes, I want blue eyes like yours.
Why?
I want the same little nose.
I don't want to be a brunette, I want brown hair too.
I'm kidding. He died a long time ago.

Well, after him, there was nothing left but this magazine.
He picked it up on the roof at night
during a Hitler air raid.
They were waiting for lighters, and the magazines fell.
It was '41.
These kids were there to put out bombs with buckets.
They worked in the factory during the day.
But I wanted to talk about Moscow.
Yeah, what's the problem? Brown hair? - I'll buy some hair dye.

“Amur waves”, yeah. Huh.
We sang “Two Guitars”. He didn't play well, I think. He taught himself.
It was a seven-string guitar, it had a bow.
And when he died, his guitar was gone.
That's my chair, where is it?
You left your granddaughter nothing but a magazine,
And that's because nobody wants that magazine.
We're sailors on a ship. Our pasta is navy pasta.
Who are you?
Welcome!


Translated with DeepL.com (free version)