Don’t sell the tigress.

Ilya

Ilya Zakamsky, an aspiring freelance artist, with an easel on his shoulders, a jar for brushes and a palette in a canvas bag, strode along the edge of the sandy beach, peering into the flaming horizon.

A tall, thin young man was walking confidently towards a small gap among the chaotically piled-up whitish rocks. On his head, under a mottled kerchief, his dark, coarse hair, gleaming with the copper of sunset, curled into an unruly hedgehog. Long thin fingers held aloft a faded blue cambric shirt and a battered tapestry plaid. The guy was wearing loose faded jeans and sneakers on bare feet.

A tanned athletic body, an elongated nose, slightly protruding ears, attentive brown eyes and an open smile attracted the gazes of girls resting alone.

Ilya, quick in movement, mocking and sociable, easily made new acquaintances and friends. But today the young man was not inclined to romantic impulses and passed by promising playful glances of beauties.

Very soon, the tired sun will catch on the edge of the wave, turning over time, the horizon will swing, and only the sound of the surf and the sea coolness of the night will remain.

Ilya had long chosen a quiet haven, hidden from prying eyes under an overhanging rock, where boulders scattered in fragments along the shore and caressed to the rough porous surface by the generous hand of the winds of the passing day still kept warm.

From a distance, it seemed that there was a cliff under the stone canopy, and only the locals knew a secret loophole with access to a flat brown - yellow plateau.

The young man has been at sea for the second year and quite reasonably considered himself a local. Today was a very successful day, and Ilya decided to take a break, letting his racing thoughts go free.

The sea has a special charm when the days stretch like sweet molasses in languor until the deep amethyst night, turning into a red orange morning.

On vacation, women and men, competing in the colors of summer outfits, hurry to blacken their bodies in the southern sun, get enough of daytime bathing and in the evening, tired, happy, go out to see off the sunset, and the bravest continue to tempt fate in the vagaries of the night wave, swimming naked behind the rocks.

Ilya drew bored faces of vacationers on the beach, and relentlessly admired the transformation of people’s moods when he showed them his pencil black-and-white sketches.

The young man subtly noticed the beauty in his gaze and repeatedly magnified it in his impromptu performances, and on the contrary, he downplayed the unfortunate moments, flowing over the imperfections of the human body with discreet shadows - grateful vacationers, without haggling, gladly bought drawings of young talent.

Word of mouth was working properly, Ilya was recognized on the beach, but the modest young man was not dizzy from fleeting fame, he accepted with dignity the well-deserved ovation and payment for work.

It was like this during the day, and in the evenings Ilya hurried to the attic of a rented house, where he painted a watercolor painting on a large canvas.

For the third month, sleepless nights on a tiny veranda, the young man listened to an owl hooting in the distance in the mountains, for the third month Ilya first painted in his imagination the huge gray eyes of a night hunter at dawn.

The gray eyes on the canvas reflected the age-old wisdom of understanding the frailty of short lives, and in the painting the masking soft body plumage and silent flight did not hide the essence of the winged predator.

It was getting dark fast at sea, he was walking at a fast pace, lazy waves were playing bored catch-up, the solar disk was shrinking in size, the sky was covered with perspiration of distant cold stars and the lunar disk was desperately clinging to the sharp edge of the milky milky way.

Ilyusha, having reached the shelter, took off the remnants of his clothes and sprawled with pleasure on the cooling sand, putting his shirt under his head, fingering the occasionally falling tiny pebbles, the young man dreamed.

Thoughts carried Ilya in a seething stream to the distant shore of childhood.

A native of the cold region, as a boy he decided to leave the city for his father’s homeland, where there is sea and sand, where there is a lot of sun, wind and freedom. This very coveted freedom put him outside the doors of his parents’ house, a house in which it was crowded among the little sisters, “little ones”, as he jokingly called them.

Ilya’s own father died before his son was born, went on vacation and crashed into the rocks, together with a friend he was found at the bottom of the gorge, the spring flood caused by a thunderstorm hid the secret of the death of friends, the remains of the men were buried according to Caucasian customs.

In memory of his father, there were small pencil sketches and a photo on his wedding day with his mother, in which the parents, happy newlyweds, look out the window of the camera lens, as if wanting to catch the firebird of good luck promised by the good old magician photographer.

A young mother in a snow-white satin dress, with a tuck under her chest, with a hanging silk bow, holds a bouquet of red asters in her hand, she stands next to dad, a tall thin-boned man with piercing blue eyes, serious as the sky itself.

His father received the beautiful surname Zakamsky from his mother, who died very early, Ilyusha’s grandmother once chose her herself. In the mid-seventies, a popular song was booming –

“A city on the Kama River where we don’t know ourselves.

The city on the Kama, mother river...”

A pupil of the Soviet almshouse, a post-war orphanage, Ninochka did not know who she was, where she came from and how she ended up on the seashore, but for some reason the song sunk into the girl’s soul, and her invisible mother’s dream came true, on the day of coming of age, the strict passport officer did not take long to insist on the data in the metric of Nina Ivanovna Bezrodnaya, but the resolute NINA IVANOVNA ZAKAMSKAYA in a beautiful handwriting in large letters brought out a document in a red book with an expression of not childishly serious eyes. So a new genus appeared.

Ilyusha loved to draw since childhood. The boy drew human faces on all the walls with a pencil, and beautiful portraits came to life on the kitchen table covered with colored oilcloth.

Pavlina’s grandmother, nee Don Cossack, grumbled at the mischievous fidget, furtively admiring the very childish drawings of her only grandson.

But when he turned five, everything changed - his mother married Uncle Nikolai, an elderly, noisy, stocky man who immediately seized power in the house.

Uncle Kolya, a lonely bachelor, served as an ensign in the local garrison, where he was in charge of a small army warehouse, had a country house outside the city, and a man set his own rules in his mother-in-law’s apartment.

The women unconditionally capitulated, voluntarily giving in, and handed over the reins of family life to Nikolai.

His son-in-law respected his mother-in-law and often spoiled her with army supplies, and he sincerely loved and protected Ilya’s mother, Katyusha, forbidding her to work at the factory and get tired.

Although it seemed that she had nowhere to go - newborn twin sisters took up time both day and night, and a little later, at her husband’s insistence, she gave birth to a fourth baby. Contrary to all expectations and forecasts, another girl was born.

By the 10th grade of Ilya, his three younger sisters, three cheerful noisy girls, “small”, as Ilyusha, a high school student, jokingly called them, were growing up in the family.

Mom’s vivacity and cheerful disposition were replaced by sedate fatigue and strict calmness, grandma was getting old and found joy in women’s care of a large family.

As time passed, the cottage turned into a large solid red brick house, and it was decided to move the whole family into it by the summer, and rent a city apartment.

The scent of lilac and cherry blossoms was intoxicating. Large white inflorescences knocked on the windows of the second floor with every breath of wind, Ilya lay on the small sagging sofa of his childhood and dreamed of passing school exams as soon as possible. The young man told about his decision to go to live by the sea in the autumn at the local “staff council”, which Uncle Kolya jokingly established once.

The family did not resist his plans, Uncle Nikolai did not manage to become “his own” for the boy.

Loud-voiced, a little fussy and authoritarian in an army way, he could not understand the frequent detachment and taciturnity of his stepson, no, he never offended him, but he did not feel much love either. After all, in the garrison it was like - I received an order – do it without thinking, there are other people for “thinking”, and the “big boss of a small warehouse” lived like that, without forgetting himself and his friendly family.

And Katya was delighted when her husband, listening to her request, bought an easel and paints for the boy, instead of a canvas, his stepfather brought a voluminous piece of white wallpaper, rare then on sale, and in the fall the child was assigned to an art school.

For Ilya, the era of drawing with real canvases, lessons and exhibitions has come.

Ilya did not grow up capricious, moderately short-tempered, but stubbornly stubborn, if he conceived something, he certainly carried it out, an ordinary average “good boy”, the boy studied smoothly, a man by nature non-confrontational, had no special friends, but also did not make enemies.

At school, he stood out among his peers not only for his dedication, but also for the fashionable cut of his jacket and, of course, bright shirts.

The child did not recognize the boring Soviet uniform, and if in elementary school teachers still tried to call the obstinate to order, but already in high school they gave up on the eccentricities of a talented boy. Pavlina spoiled her beloved grandson by sewing beautiful clothes according to his sketches, besides, Ilya, who was not stingy with gifts, came up with fashionable styles of dresses for his sisters and his mother.

If he was an average student in an ordinary school, then in art he differed from his peers in character.

The drawing teacher, tall, thin Zinaida Stepanovna, drew attention not so much to the boy’s drawings, but to how he strives for perfection of lines, often stays in the workshop after classes, picking up shades, polishing strokes, how lovingly cleans brushes.

In all the portraits, the boy was mesmerized by his beautiful clear eyes. Huge, wide-open in surprise, framed by thick eyelashes, or small with a cunning squint in the depths of a high forehead, or cold blue, sad, like a large autumn rain beating on glass.

The teacher often stared at the portraits of little Ilyusha for a long time, she had not met such talented children for a long time. One day the teacher met with his parents, the little artist was escorted to school by his grandmother, it was only surprising that a genius was born in such an ordinary family.

Ilya’s portraits won city competitions, and teachers vied with each other to predict the glory of the young artist.

With the last school bell, the seventeenth anniversary came. June. The exams are over, the graduation ball has made a noise, the flow of parting words has dried up, the young man still has a whole year left before serving in the army, and the long-awaited freedom is ahead.

On the day of departure, Ilya asked to hand over the wedding photo of his parents, carefully kept by his grandmother in a thin family album, his mother blessed her son for a new life, realizing that a real artist would be cramped in a small courtyard of a large house.

Pavel Timofeevna was putting fashionable shirts for her grandson in a suitcase, and Uncle Kolya, without further ado, hugged Ilya tightly in an army manner and handed him an envelope with money, the aging ensign knew the value of material values, the big country was splitting into small pieces, the time was approaching for the young and daring.

On the train, taking away far from his native hearth, under the sound of wheels, the young man for the hundredth time considered the plan of his future life.

On the coast, Ilya rented a small room in the attic for the summer, like an ordinary vacationer. The boy looked at the sea and rocky shores, studied people, listened to local stories and admired the small islands of boulders, where he often went to rest at night, autumn soon came, it became restless, and the young man, forgotten by the world, remained to live on the peninsula.

The evenings were getting colder, and the wind from the sea brought the smell of damp earth and fallen leaves. The peninsula seemed deserted and abandoned without the motley crowd of vacationers — only rare seagulls pierced the silence with sharp cries, rushing into the gray sky.

Ilya was more and more silent and listened to the silence, the days now resembled each other like waves rolling on the shore, but behind this monotony there was something attractive, unclear, sometimes it seemed to him that he was not alone, as if the peninsula lived its secret life, and at night someone invisible was watching him from the depths of the forest or because of the rocks.

Ilyusha had strange dreams — in them he saw the abandoned parental home, familiar faces, only in these dreams his loved ones looked at him with strange eyes.

Every morning the young man climbed the cliff and looked at the horizon, Ilya felt more and more that he had forgotten something important or left something in the past, sometimes he wanted to pack up and return to his mother, but some feeling, ancient and incomprehensible, forced him to stay, as if the peninsula whispered to him, that his future is here.

The rains came, the gray sky hung over the land, and the sea became heavy and menacing, the young man, in the long hours spent by the fire, listened to the sound of drops on the roof and the rustle of the wind, and painted paintings where winter thunderstorms and storms raged on the canvases, silent mountains were reflected at dusk and mists over the sea. These works were full of loneliness and strength, which he felt here on the coast.

But in the spring everything changed: gradually the cold receded, and the chirping of birds began to be heard in the air again, the branches of the trees were covered with delicate greenery, and chestnuts bloomed again on the square near the old lighthouse, as if by magic, their large, light pink candles towered above the ground.

The sun-drenched lavender summer turned the evenings into soft violet shades, and in the soft light of the sunset, the floral fragrance on the sunny slopes mixed with the sea breeze of the coast.

Now the peninsula was not just his refuge — it became the home of Ilya Zakamsky, as if the invisible roots of his father and grandmother supported the young man.

Today there is a full moon, the sea is spread out, washing away the traces of yesterday, waves smashed scallops on the shore, jellyfish whispered about something in the dark, and only the moon path illuminated the coastal rocks with cold light, a bluish glow divided the sky and the sea into eternal halves.

Ilya Zakamsky, wrapped tightly in a blanket, fell asleep. Under the sound of the surf, he dreamed a fairy tale.

- Ilya is in a maze of carved rocks. A falcon among the chickens. The damp chilly air trembled ghostly, a rope ladder led to the sky, and a chariot was in the sky. The charioteer, a man with his father’s blue eyes.

Ilya the falcon flapped his wing for the first time and flew towards the chariot, the Earth went away like a small fragile ball, and only stardust lay on the shoulders of the charioteer with a shiny epaulette.

Vadim Vadim was fanatically devoted to the sea, as a child he painted seascapes on everything that came to hand.

The youngest son of aging parents, in childhood he often caught a cold, he was pitied and cherished, the spoiled child knew no refusal in anything, but grew up to be a capricious, but quiet, modest young man.

The older children of the Bogdanovs had long since left for the cities of the Soviet homeland, and the younger Vadik remained the joy of his father’s and mother’s hearts.

Numerous sisters and brothers sent letters to their father’s house from time to time, not forgetting about significant money transfers on holidays. After graduating from school, Vadim stayed to live in a small cozy house, lost among the rocky shores.

The relatives, after consulting, decided that the younger one remained in his native penates to protect and support his parents in old age, and tried to ensure that the young man was declared unfit for the army due to poor health, and the draft of the military enlistment office could not be feared.

Vadim’s father worked all his life as an illustrator in the editorial office of a local children’s magazine, and his mother took care of the house and children, between short maternity leaves, the woman worked as a kindergarten teacher. The hard workers did not make a lot of capital, but there was enough pension and money for a leisurely quiet life, earned from renting a summer house with a veranda for vacationers.

And so, from year to year, the family lived in a measured, soft and cozy way.

Vadim graduated from art school together with the usual one, and with the receipt of a school certificate he had a diploma of an artist, his paintings of seascapes and monsters were impressive, the modest young man did not aim at exhibitions, but painted unusually juicy, and the urban bohemians accepted him without unnecessary words into a flock, where, without violating the traditions of coastal settlements, nepotism was passed down from generation to generation a generation ago, and yesterday’s student got a job at the editorial office of a local newspaper.

The unassuming Vadim was pleased with the meager salary, the boy lived in his own fantasies.

At the end of July, as usual, there was the largest influx of vacationers at sea, Vadim’s parents were engaged in simple cares about bringing comfort to the guests.

Summer crossed the equator, and the editorial office had a holiday season for newcomers, according to established tradition, old-timers were allowed to earn money.

Vadim lived days and nights long not far from the house on the shore, running to change clothes or fill a wicker basket with his mother’s pastries.

On a cool morning, he would go far beyond the cape, open his easel, carefully planning every corner of the turn, watch the rising sun, or come to the rocks at sunset on a sultry day, catch the fluttering of rare butterflies and mountain bees at this time of the year.

The young man painted sea beaches and instead of a cloud of vacationers, his fantasies were carried away into the world of fairy-tale characters.

In silent conversations with the sea, the young man heard the sounds of the voices of bygone generations.

The living sea spoke to him about the distant shores of a foreign land, about the joy of meeting sailors with the mainland, about how infinitely fleeting life is.

Wave after wave of images were conjured up for future paintings. A lively and real aquamarine color shone from every canvas, summer took the young man to the sky-high distances, where there were tales of a brave hero and a gentle beauty.

Vadim listened to the heart of the sea, finding new subjects for his colorful stories, the paintings of the young artist seemed to talk about the eternally young playful sea wave, about elderly gray scallops that have been breaking the rocky shore for centuries.

Vadim painted sea monsters, not at all scary, but great in their power, in his fantasies the powerful torso of the dragon was surprisingly combined with the gentle gaze of the owner of the body.

Vadim’s lonely heart, not yet occupied or broken by anyone, completely belonged only to the sea, the young man did not pay attention to the girls at all.

Artem Artyom Umansky was a native of Yalta, a bright sunny - red freckled guy who grew up in the generosity of his beloved baba Vera, the boy grew up sociable from childhood, he lost his parents very early in a car accident, and was the only child in a family of a dynasty of schoolteachers, and so lived, a retired grandmother and grandson.

The young man stood out with luxuriously red curls gathered in a neat ponytail, from where a single strand managed to jump out, break off and tried to cover his huge blue eyes, Artyom smelled delicious of fruits and eternal summer, with a smile from ear to ear and clear eyes, he attracted attention with a rolling, rolling laugh, everything came to life in his presence, even the sunbeams seemed to jump more dexterously, and the coastal rocks rubbed their rough backs against the transparent mountain air with pleasure.

And Artyom also loved fruits, and ate them in any quantity and at any time of the year.

To devour fifteen tangerines for a teenager in a day - please! And believe me, there was no allergy.

Pomegranate seeds sometimes sat next to him on the pillow, so it was colored, in bright shades of sunlight, like a girl’s.

At school, friends were surprised by Artyom’s physical form - indifferent to meat, but an admirer of fish cuisine and all kinds of fruits, he was the most athletic among them.

Broad shoulders, a beautiful torso, and strong muscular legs worried women, excited by Artyom’s rare beauty, the girls carried fruits to the local Apollo with string bags, and he gratefully accepted the offerings, smiled radiantly and dissolved into colors, giving away his paintings as a sign of gratitude.

Artyom, a self-taught artist, did not like dead bouquets of plucked plants, in spring and summer a teenager with an easel and an old father’s camera could be seen on lavender fields, where new inflorescences were fragrant, emerging.

Artyom was a master of still lifes, a variety of fruits and flowers were poured with juice in abundance in the school sketchbook, and like a source of sunny color, a bright red citrus was necessarily present on the far background.

His drawings were full of life, evoked emotions and created a mood, every detail — from the delicate lines of flower petals to the shiny dew drops on the fruits — masterfully conveyed the all-pervading morning light, for Artyom, real happiness lay in the very process of creativity, art was a way to express emotional impulses.

School years flew by, floral intoxication overwhelmed the amateur artist to the edges of his eyelashes, a precocious, powerful, broad-shouldered young man furtively wiped away a tear, hiding from prying eyes behind dark glasses.

Meeting Such young talents lived in the restless 90s on a distant seashore, and one day, three young artists united by a love of nature and art met by chance.

On the coast, at the foot of majestic cliffs, a silvery full moon enveloped the sea, reflecting the moonlight, a mesmerizing canvas of waves shimmered, and the sounds of water filled the night with a calm melody of silence.

Vadim, inspired by the play of light and shadows, drew the smooth lines of the sea horizon onto the canvas.

Ilya, buried in an open notebook, intertwining descriptions into a poetic drawing, tried to catch the magic of the night in words, and gray mist eyes appeared between the lines on the sheet.

The third, with a camera in his hands, was Artyom, the young man was looking for the perfect angle to capture the moment when the moon, like a big red orange, touches the sea.

Everyone was immersed in their own thoughts, but there was a special connection — as if the guys understood each other without words.

A faint breeze brought the scent of salty air, the sea rose and fell from time to time, emphasizing the grandeur of nature, silence reigned around, filled with the breath of night.

The full moon, condemned by the sky to the stars, hung high, its light, frozen in anticipation, created the feeling of some kind of secret ritual.

A light wind rustled ripples, enhancing the mystical atmosphere, and long shadows, like ghostly figures, stretched along the coastal strip, it seemed that time had stopped, and in this silent space an unknown force was hiding, ready to reveal itself in the ancient secrets of the veil of night to the brave.

This is how the friendship of the three talents was born.

Natasha A first-year student of the university, Natasha, a native of the cold city on the Neva, came to the peninsula for archaeological excavations, the girl was bored in a corner behind the bar in a cafe, today fellow students staged a noisy party in honor of the end of practice.

Ilya came in for a snack before a traditional walk behind the cliffs, the company loudly welcomed the resort hero, sipping a creamy cocktail through a straw, the young man smiled absently, the audience’s favorite Ilya was used to the adoration of local girls.

In the loud bustle of the night bar, Natasha stood out for her silence, their gazes met, and at that moment everything around froze, her gray thoughtful eyes, as if they contained thousands of unwritten stories, clouded, and that fragile, barely perceptible feeling hung between them, as if they had already met somewhere before, in another life or in another dream.

The meeting was fateful for both of them.

At dawn, the drunken fellow students left the cafe, not noticing how Natasha disappeared along with the tramp artist.

A week later, the young people signed at the registry office. Without loud pretentious speeches, a new Zakamsky family was born.

Madly in love at first sight with an unknown beach artist Ilya, the girl stayed to live in a small seaside town, and after sending a telegram to her parents, she took a vacation at the university.

Ilyusha’s friends recognized her as “their” from the first meeting, so the three bosom “brothers on the easel” got a personal loyal listener to the men’s debates.

The first exhibition The cool sea winds, closing the gate of August, foreshadowing the imminent arrival of autumn, carried with them the salty freshness of sunrises.

The leaves on the trees, still green, but already tired of the summer heat, rustled under the pressure of light gusts, giving way to a golden time, the sky gradually became hazy, and the evening shadows became longer and deeper, filling the air with a premonition of change.

In this cool freshness there was the peace of a quick rest under a warm blanket with a cup of hot tea by the window when the autumn rains knock on the glass.

On one of their quiet evenings, Ilya came up with the crazy idea to set up his own studio and gallery - an exhibition of paintings.

Vadim’s parents were happy to provide the children with a summer house, which was empty and bored waiting for guests.

Simple drawings – landscapes, still lifes, light portraits of acquaintances, and just people they met, the guys hung on the walls, through ads in parks and cafes invited those who wanted to attend the grand opening of the Club of Free Artists.

It was a dashing, turbulent time, and oddly enough, the uncomplicated paintings of the three artists instilled peace and quiet into the raging whirlwinds of thoughts.

This is how the first exhibition of works by young gallery owners took place.

People came and went, the day passed for casual conversations about art, the midday heat was replaced by an evening light breeze, glasses of simple champagne were drunk to the bottom, and traces of fun remained on the trays in bright streaks.

Simple snacks – fruits, chocolates and nuts lay at the bottom of an improvised garbage can in colorful wrappers and tails in split shells.

As a reminder of the start, three paintings that were not for sale were left hanging on the wall in the makeshift gallery – the sun-orange on the sunset sea, a fabulous toothy dragon shimmering with mother-of-pearl and a fragile girl on the rocks, as part of the sea wave - these were the first creations of artist friends.

The guests immediately took Artyom’s small fruit still lifes with them, and Vadim’s canvases with a seascape accumulated in the corner with the signed addresses of buyers, pencil portraits of mermaids with gray eyes were in great demand.

Tired, happy friends counted the proceeds in a drawer from a miniature easel.

A small pile of paper banknotes was divided equally into tiny three.

The money - crumpled yellowish rubles, shiny as a sea wave, treshki, blue five-ruble notes - felt protected by the proudly red portraits of Ilyich.

There was a lone wanderer in each stack. But what a one! There were so many hopes and prospects for the guys.

Inspired by the success, the youth, having made beds with jacquard bedspreads – a gift from their beloved grandmothers, stretched out right on the floor, the artists fell asleep, covering their heads with a light cape removed from easels, jokingly agreeing to draw in a dream a huge exhibition hall where paintings in expensive frames hang, and three bosom friends, a little theatrically embarrassed, sign autographs for fans of high art.