Книга - Honey and Pepper

Honey and Pepper
Valentine Ruzanov


The most uninteresting subject at school for me was the Russian language. Well, what can be interesting in what you know from the cradle and use it every day? But having taken up the study of foreign languages, from Latin to Tagalog, I, voluntarily and involuntarily, began to make for myself small and big discoveries in the field of the Russian language, primarily etymological.





Honey and Pepper



Valentine Ruzanov



© Valentine Ruzanov, 2021



ISBN 978-5-0055-2521-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system


Honey and pepper



My name is Peretz, and my chosen one is Honey. Since all women are… Well, you yourself understand. Why is my name Peretz? Let me tell you what happened between us and you yourself will understand everything.



It all began in those immemorial times when I was young and treated colds with disgusting castor oil. She was ugly like everyone else in our quarter and cost 20 kopecks. “Cheap!” – I thought, and was right in my own way. After another tube of castor oil, I felt sick, but I again and again trudged to that charming pharmacist who, not only castor oil, but even needles with her white handles, never touched. And the wolves howled in my soul. And then one day I go to the pharmacy in a new white scarf and I smile so clumsily.



– Lyusya, can I have a couple of glasses for you?



– I don’t drink, – Lucy answers, – Maybe you have castor oil again?



– Well, let’s go to a restaurant, – I continue, – let’s get a pig.



– With insufficient physical activity, one gram of fat is burned in…



– To hell! Lucy, I love you!



– I don’t even know your name!



MY NAME IS PEPPER.




Love tadpoles


– Oh, these hummans! – said a tall frog in a lilac raincoat and sat down on a station stool. There was half an hour before the arrival of her dear uncle, and after wandering around the peron in good anticipation, she settled down near the window of the cafe.



– It is served to eat!



– What is it, waiter?



– Little green ones.



The tears in the frog’s eyes did not at all mean that she understood French well, and after leafing through the dictionary, the frog calmed down that this dialogue could mean anything, but not what she thought in fright.



– Green, you say?



– Yes, monsieur. Your favorite paws.



Making a surprised face, the frog grunted and squealed to the entire station this ugly word, which was dissolved in the whistles of an approaching steam locomotive.



– Pe… to… fi… tu!




Scam love letter


Young lady (fill in the necessary), after 2 days of unrequited love for you, I finally understood…



That everything that happened between us and will happen is only a part of that unrequited accident, whose name in many languages of the world still sounds as consonant and charming as your smile:



“Meile”.



So, I, a Scottish by birth, Lithuanian, by the will of fate, promise and undertake:



1) Always be interested in your well-being and health



2) Find you wherever you are and under whatever nickname you are hiding



3) Sing your smile in odes and choral chants (as well as in the blues of the Scottish and North British tradition)



4) Do not compromise you in any way, either verbally or in writing, be it Fuisbuk, Kontakte or Odnopassniki



If all of the above still leaves the slightest shadow of doubt in you, be confident in yourself and do not look at others:



We do not win!



Always yours,



Quest Tamil Junior



(Qwest Tamil Jr.)




Around the world


Today I went to the main post office to send books to my friend in Hong Kong. At the post office, I turned to one of the windows behind which a girl of about twenty was sitting.



– Where are you sending?



– To Hong Kong.



– Why is there no index?



– No index.



– How so?



Her colleague from the next window on the left, a woman of about forty, probably having heard our dialogue, asked her:



– International?



– Yes.



– Then it is possible without an index.



– And how to send it, by air or by ground?



– As he wishes.



The girl clicked on the keyboard:



– No Hong Kong!



– How not?!



– Wait a minute, I’ll find out.



The girl went to the window on the right behind which a girl of about twenty was also sitting:



– Take a look at Hong Kong.



– Wait a minute…



– You don’t have it either!



The girls asked me in bewilderment:



– And what is Hong Kong?



– Hong Kong is a former British colony, in 1996 it went to China.



– Wait a minute… No, not in China either… I’ll ask the boss.



The boss, a woman of about fifty, casting a glance at my parcel, pointed her finger at the monitor:



– This is Hong Kong.



Then she took a pen and wrote “Hong Kong” on the parcel post, crossing out the words “Kong Kong” I had written in a hurry.




Skyscraper girl


Hello dear American girl! I am very glad that you answered me. We’ve got hares at every turn. Shoo, damn it! On your letter I answer unequivocally. We need warm socks. And felt boots will not hurt. Minus thirty is not a pine hedgehog for you. We have few poachers, and even then only passers-by. Nature is beautiful. White steppe. Fir-trees are green. The girls are only in the plague, and even then until dawn. I would be with them, but the gray hair does not start up. In general, come, you will find out everything yourself.



Always modestly yours, Yatagan Yatagansky




Trains


I like trains. I like to come to the platform and listen to the arrival announcements from the loudspeaker. At the sound of an approaching train, I fall into a light trance. I love underpasses, rails and benches where you can smoke and watch what is happening. I like to wander around the station, going from ticket offices to waiting rooms. I love unshaven taxi drivers and pies in a cafe. The smell of a vestibule, conductors and hot tea in a compartment along with refined sugar bags and funny tinkling teaspoons. The clatter of wheels, the upper shelves and the smell of dirty but skins that you touch with your nose when passing on a reserved seat carriage. I love unwashed toilets in which you lose your balance from the rocking of the train and are afraid to get lost. I love to wash my hands and flush the toilet when I see in the hole a rapidly flashing railway track with gravel pebbles. I like to look out the window of the last carriage at the rails floating away into the distance. I love bridges at train stations where you can go to another path. Wires and frequent transfers. A long journey and an open window from which, sticking your head out and closing your eyes, you watch the starting cars when the train makes an arc. The entire train is clearly visible and black smoke is coming from the chimney of the locomotive. Having sent an SMS before arrival, I get out of the car and noticing the face of my whole wife. We go through the inspection and head to the car. The wife loves nature and silence. She doesn’t like trains and stations. We are going home and tired we go into the house. All dear, I’m back. The path is over.





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