Rinat Valiullin frivolity. Frivolity. About the book “Frivolity” Rinat Valiullin

In it, the actress will have to make a difficult choice before the short word “yes” turns her whole life upside down, imperceptibly swapping the places of these two letters.

The book is published by AST publishing house.

Illustration courtesy of the publisher

It rains, it snows, time flies. The universe has its usual morning exercises.

Not only did he constantly sit in her head, but sometimes he began to wander back and forth. There was no other way out but to pour him a glass of wine to calm him down. As a result, I poured two yesterday. Luckily today is Saturday. She got out of bed, stretched, reached out, reached out to everyone.

I was walking down the street, houses stopped, looked at me for a long time, then turned away from me and, in the end, lagged behind. Maybe my gait showed that I was a little worried, looking for support, peering into the sky. The sky had gray eyes, and it was calming.

I am currently working on one play, or rather, I want to get the main role. In general, the issue is resolved. There is only one thing. A matter of honor.

With the main director.

Become a lover? - Herman began to finger his rosary. It was as if it was a starter that slowly began to turn the timing belt, starting the thought process.

Does theater begin with a hanger or does art require sacrifice?

No, it's not that I don't like him. In general, for theater and cinema, this seems to be a given, if you are not a star, but just want to become one.

“Electricians! They walk here and light up the stars,” German noted to himself about the director’s work.

“We talk about a dream, we mean a career, we talk about love, we mean a bed, we talk about happiness, we mean prosperity. Then we realize that all this is a fake, Chinese stamping for the mass consumer. Real dreams are more frivolous than birds; they can build nests right on the stars.”

What did you think, sorry, I didn’t hear?

Frivolity.

Do you think this is frivolous?

“To the highest degree,” Herman started up and returned the rosary to its place.

“It would be frivolous if I let him go according to the first gender characteristic, if he enters me and comes out. It would be easy, and there would be no thoughts afterwards, only the main role pleasantly bulges out of the pocket,” Sasha silently gave a lexical analysis of the word.

No, I’m not some fool who came to you for my money so that you would forgive me my sins. In this case, I would go to church. I’m not who I look like now, calm, meek. And sometimes my heart rushes as if it wants to jump out of my chest for someone else and live there separately.

The heart never lies, but it can be mistaken. Let's do it again, in order.

“Where did I stop? Dreams build nests in the stars, yes. But it comes late, if it comes. Because there is no time. You get the highest, then another, and then love makes a fool out of you with one turn of its head. Well, it’s stalled.”

Herman again took the rosary from the table and began to sort through them, picking up the right word. Soon his fingers found him. Sometimes only motor skills could move the silence from a dead point. That is why he sometimes wrote out his thoughts by hand. Fine motor skills It is needed not only for children to start speaking earlier, but also for adults to just start. But Sasha broke the silence, following the piece of paper she gave a voice:

That's all that happened.

Herman took the pile and looked at the manuscript.

Are you learning handwriting?

Character.

So, how's your character?

Eat. And more. A slight draft is enough for her to stir up a scandal. From the outside, this fire, into which she continually throws grievances and insults, looks like the end of a relationship; in fact, for a woman it is only a reason to draw attention to herself, a reason to be pressed tighter, held and not let go. Check connection.

You're talking the point. What's missing?

Hypocrisy. Quite strange for an actress.

I have enough of this. Standing in front of a mirror is already hypocrisy, not to mention putting on makeup before a performance. So much paint. Especially if it's a fairy tale.

Brothers Grimm,” Herman joked. Shura laughed beautifully. The room became brighter.

I see you better now. How are you feeling?

It’s easy, only sometimes fatigue prevents you from taking off,” Sasha was still smiling.

And in the theater?

Like at home.

Good answer. Are you lying?

Actresses don't lie, they act. Sometimes I felt like a spectator's seat when there was no action, no acting... Often - a suspended curtain, a set when you perform in 3 roles, a spotlight if the main role dawns on the horizon, the dream grabbed the mood by the hand and dragged it upward. The stage is the horizon, it’s nice to reach it and walk through it.

Tired of playing second fiddle?

Still would. You can't even imagine how much. It's like standing behind a curtain, like behind a curtain, while someone has sex on stage with your dream.

After these words, Sasha’s eyes left mine. She fell into a thoughtful state. German understood where Sasha’s thoughts were taking him. “The word ‘theater’ was decisive.” Sasha remembered her abode.

The theater was ancient, with a pedigree, with dynasties of artists, crossed according to all the laws of the genre, so that not a single offspring was wasted, not a single grain fell past the stage and yielded some “no” fruits. Nature rested on the scenery, the audience on the armchairs. The spirit of the past has settled within its dramatic walls. This was evident from the photographs of the great actors who accompanied the audience from the front and in profile as they walked from the hanger to the hall.

Current page: 1 (book has 11 pages total) [available reading passage: 3 pages]

Rinat Valiullin
frivolity

There is always a way out.

Sincerely yours, Door

Before forming a pattern, the tangle of storylines breaks up into knots that are always consistent. Only occasionally do they break the order to deliver the essence of the novel at the right time to the right heart.

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

© Valiullin R.R., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

###

Psycho 1

It rains, it snows, time flies. The Universe has its usual morning exercises. Not only did he constantly sit in her head, but sometimes he began to wander back and forth. There was no other way out but to pour him a glass of wine to calm him down. As a result, I poured two yesterday. Luckily today is Saturday. She got out of bed, stretched, reached out, reached out to everyone.

* * *

I was walking down the street, houses stopped, looked at me for a long time, then turned away from me and eventually lagged behind. Maybe my gait showed that I was a little worried, looking for support, peering into the sky. The sky had gray eyes, and it was calming.

“Good afternoon,” she said into the very gills of the intercom. – I need Doctor Aurta.

- Good afternoon. What issue are you talking about?

- In a scrupulous way.

- Scrupulous? – the gills asked in a staged male voice.

- That is, I need advice. I called you two weeks ago, maybe you remember?

“Okay, come in,” the entrance whistled benevolently, as if the green light at the pedestrian crossing had given the go-ahead. “He doesn’t remember,” the girl noted to herself. She pulled the heavy door handle.

I fell into the entrance, the door closed behind me, and left all doubts on the threshold. It was quiet inside the house, it smelled of Stalinism, a grandmother with glasses sat behind the glass and weaved something, either gossip or intrigue. Seeing me, she pressed her lips even harder to the phone and stood up, at which time the elevator moved from its place. It even seemed that there was some connection between the elevator and her landing. Heavy, ancient, it was approaching the first floor. Grandmother straightened her glassy eyes and, without saying anything, sat down to continue weaving her lace. The elevator immediately stopped. "Direct communication". I walked up the stone steps. The elevator opened, the same old woman came out to meet her: “Who are you seeing?” - “To Doctor Aurta.” - “This is the second floor. It will be closer to you on foot,” she slammed his door like a proprietor. "Wow? In the meantime, she was silent, she was a grandmother.” The steps took me to the second. I stopped in front of the prominent door number twenty-two, upholstered in black leather, and decisively rang the bell. A minute later, the lock crunched heavily at its joints and revealed a view of a man in jeans, a shirt and slippers. “Is this really the doctor?”

“Come in,” he reassured the girl with just one word. – The administrator left earlier today, acting as a receptionist herself.

“I think I met one of them when I got into the elevator.”

– Are you talking about these two cute sisters?

- Sisters?

- Old ladies can be twins too. When I saw them for the first time, I thought I had split consciousness. Then I got used to it. They are 180 for two.

“Solid,” the girl began to take in the situation. Heavy, massive furniture escorted her from the wardrobe, where she had left her coat, into the office, the walls of which were made of cabinets with books, the latter crowded in line behind the glass with one desire: “I will surrender myself into good hands.” Walls made of bricks, walls made of letters, I am a wall, the doctor is a wall, with the only difference that he has already opened the door for me, but mine? I came for him to help me open it.

“Have a seat,” the psychologist offered the girl a seat in a large chair. He sat down in another one, diagonally opposite. It’s good that the table remained on the side and could not separate us, otherwise I would certainly have started writing my thoughts there. Give me a table and I'll find something to write there.

The girl played with indecision. There was something untouched, undisturbed in her dark image, as if she had come to the set of David Hamilton, but had not yet had time to take off her warm cream dress. This is the same case when the image has not yet become negative.

“Sit down, feel like I’m at your place,” German pointed to the chair standing by the table.

Only now the girl decorated the leather chair as best she could with viscose cream. The chair seemed to her without comfort.

- What is your name?

- Who? – the girl suddenly blurted out, examining the chair with her butt. The chair was uncomfortable, not a chair, but someone else’s plate, from which the psychologist would soon eat her. Even her size 42 could not find a place for herself. Finally, she crossed one leg over the other, her knees placed one on top of the other, like links in one chain. Now, unable to find a place for them, she placed her hands on top of her knees. Closed.

- Friends.

– Friends – Sanya, Sasha, parents – Shura.

– Very nice, Alexandra. I am German Nikolaevich, to my friends I am a German, to my parents I am Gera.

- Why German? – she began to intensively search for it in me, as if she wanted to urgently see confirmation in the form of a helmet, a swastika, Rammstein, or, at worst, an elegant accent.

– Herman – Germany – German.

- Logical.

– Which do you like best?

“German... Nikolaevich,” she added after a pause, examining the doctor. “Some kind of strange.” Sasha did not have much experience communicating with psychologists. But she imagined Dr. Aurth to be different. An adult, with a body, glasses, and a beard. There was nothing like this. “At least calm, but kind,” she concluded to herself.

– You can just Herman, to save words.

- Okay, Herman. I’ve been coming to you for two long weeks,” Shura was interested in the clock on the wall in the collected works.

- Is this long? Two weeks are just two Saturdays.

– Do you measure everything on Saturdays?

- Not me, everyone lives like this.

“But for me it’s an eternity,” Sasha still couldn’t tear herself away from the watch. Actually, it was a picture frame into which numbers and arrows were inserted. What added to the originality was that the frame was elongated, like a panoramic snapshot... of time.

- That's because you thought about it constantly.

- This is true. And one more thing about your slogan, I couldn’t get it out of my head:

“There is always a way out. Sincerely your door."

“Not bad,” the doctor raised his eyebrow like a bowstring in surprise, as if he wanted to glance at defeat.

-Did you come up with this yourself? – Sasha dodged the shot.

- No, the door.

- You are funny.

- Yes, it happens, but you... on what issue? – the doctor tried to confuse the patient again.

– I’m funny too, but the question is difficult. I don’t even know where to start,” she opened the lock for a moment, but then slammed it again and returned her palms to Alexandra’s knee. “And now it seems even more difficult to me.”

- Why?

– You don’t look like a psychologist at all.

-Who do I look like?

- At most, a pediatrician. The look is too kind, even though you are trying to be serious. I wouldn’t be surprised if you give me a toy now so that I’ll be quiet. So as not to cry.

“It’s possible, I’ll just put on a vest,” Herman pretended to get up.

“Let’s go without special clothing,” the patient laughed.

– The more seriously I take the world, the less serious I take myself. There are no toys, however. I can give you a rosary,” he took it from the table and showed it to Sasha.

– What should we do with them?

- Sort through.

- I'm afraid this will be too much. If I start going over all my problems, I won't have enough money for the next visit.

dark skin, dark hair, broad shoulders, thin hollows above the collarbones and a subtle scent of sympathy. A face, yes, perhaps a face. Something was wrong with him, big languid eyes. Two black suns were setting in white seas. The eyes inspired confidence, which is very rare to find today.

- So what brought you to me?

- I'm cheating on my husband.

“Good,” Herman drawled, “you just start trusting a person.”

There was a pause in the office, into which a whole scene could fit. German imagined Shura returning home.

Capote

Tino saw her for the first time on City Day, when she, a little princess, drove next to his nose along the main street. He sat on the shoulders of his father, who was crowded by a crowd of spectators on the sidewalk, she was in an open carriage, with a pink bow, smiling right at him. This rose pierced his soul, at first glance it took it and turned into a bush of pleasant memories and pleasant dreams. After that, he constantly looked for a meeting with her, be it City Day, Christmas or another holiday, looking for his rose in the garden of the nobility. Only a few years later, when his father took him to a bullfight, Tino found her through binoculars in the VIP box. She has grown and blossomed, only the rose is already on her shoulder and is red.

-Who are you looking for there?

– Is this the Duke’s daughter? - He handed the binoculars to his father and pointed to the stands opposite, squinting from the sun, which that day was burning down on his face like never before, because the stands in the shade cost a lot of money.

- There are two of them. Victoria and Juana.

- The second one is ugly.

- This is Juana.

– When I grow up, I’ll marry Victoria.

The father didn’t answer, he just grinned and stroked his black mustache with his hand. He always did this when he wanted to answer something impudently, as if he was calming his lips so that they would not blurt out too much.

“I know all princesses fall in love with bullfighters.”

– You were going to be a musician, weren’t you?

“You always say that one thing is not a hindrance to the other,” he repeated his father’s favorite saying.

- Do not even think. And it’s already too late for you.

- Why late? Paco from the neighboring yard goes to such a school. True, for now instead of bulls they have wheelbarrows with horns. Saw?

The father nodded in agreement: “Don’t be a fool,” he ruffled Tino’s bangs and smiled.

The son again took the binoculars from his father and began to examine the gate from which the bull was supposed to jump out.

“We will always be in the sun, they are in the shade, under the auspices of big money,” the father continued to list the arguments of unequal classes. “We are as far from them as we are from the moon on a donkey.”

– Is it true that bullfighters are all millionaires? And they don’t have a lot of money?

“They’re biting, they’re still biting.” A chick like this will start,” the father waved his hand at the girls from the box, “and she might peck everything out, especially her eyes.” How many of them I knew, young, talented, blinded by love. At least Jose Mercher, what a matador he was, got involved with one chick and spent everything on her. How he fought! Everything for her. And when the bull tore his chest with its horns, the lady suddenly disappeared and found herself another mug. Jose barely survived then, and his career was down the drain.

“Everything for her,” Tino repeated. - It seems I'm in trouble.

- What are you saying?

- Nothing. That's what Uncle Paco usually says. So how much do they earn?

“And you, father, didn’t you yourself once want to take a risk, to break free, to become not who you turned out to be, but who you want.” The bakery, which he inherited from his father, and that from his grandfather, where you have to get up at 4 in the morning to go to the oven, lay the bread, and in the evening until late knead the dough for the next day. And so every day, without holidays and weekends, bread without circuses. What do you think about, father, when you knead your bread? Your movements look like you're still killing your dream. She doesn’t want to die, you put her in the oven, but that won’t kill her either. You give it out piece by piece to everyone who buys your bread. Maybe that's why it tastes so good. But this will not destroy the dream. Again and again she rises at the crack of dawn with you, along with the dough, to be beaten by your strong hands. Dreams don’t burn, they don’t die, they are passed on by inheritance.”

“They have such beautiful raincoats,” Tino went through his binoculars and walked through them behind the wooden backstage, where the matadors were preparing for the performance.

Psycho 2

Herman imagined her coming home, taking off her cloak, or her attentive husband opening the door and helping her undress. At the same time, inhaling from her neck the aroma of perfume and perfume of a strange man, which he does not feel, cannot even admit. How can he allow anyone to see his wife? To his faithful wife, with whom he shares the same skin. That there is skin, common parts of bodies, which one way or another they give to each other for use, while together they are covered with one feeling.

Having undressed, she entered the bathroom. The mirror didn't notice anything. "That's good". Sasha washed her face and felt her husband put his hand under her bra and took her breast: “Sleep, sleep, sleep,” one breast said to the other. - I can’t, I have a guest. And in general, I don’t want to sleep,” the second one answered.

“Now they’re going to fight,” Sasha commented on her husband’s dialogue.

– Can you imagine two breasts fighting? They can, what do you think?

“If only I run away from you,” Shura hid her face in the towel, as if in a pillow, remembering how a few hours ago love was ringing her bells, while the bell ringer, standing behind her, pressed her lips into her neck and back.

- Where? – the husband did not understand.

– When I ran cross-country at school. They fought under the T-shirt.

Her husband pressed himself against her from behind. She felt him begin to harden.

- Come on later, after dinner. I'm terribly hungry. Fine?

Psycho 3

- What well?

“I don’t know,” the doctor smiled. - It's good that you came. It's good that he doesn't know.

“He doesn’t know, but he guesses,” Sasha lowered her eyes, examining with her fingers some invisible hook on the dress.

– But if you didn’t say anything, then it’s unlikely. Men are blind, until a woman tells you, don’t even count on it. All suspicions are ordinary jealousy; they have nothing to do with reality. All people are jealous, but some people are crushed by it. Then there is ivy all over the house, you walk and stumble.

– If you saw these scenes.

“I can already see: “I don’t need much, I need it with me.”

“Jealousy overwhelms him and spills out, almost like Mayakovsky: “I am not enough for me, and something stubbornly breaks out of me.”

– It seems to me that it was not about jealousy.

– Jealousy is also a feeling. Another feeling is born precisely from jealousy. I don't know if this has happened to you? You know, when as a child you fall in love with some musician or athlete, but first you begin to be interested in his personal life, read about him, about his affairs, and only then you realize that you are terribly jealous of him,” Sasha left the cream of her dress alone.

- What did I not have?

– It wasn’t – that’s our everything. There is something to strive for,” Sasha allowed herself to joke.

“I hope so,” Herman smiled back at her. - How long has this been with you? This feeling.

– If it’s about jealousy, then since childhood, if about adultery, then as soon as the role was offered.

“That is, not a feeling, but for now only a presentiment,” Herman seemed to be talking to himself.

– I’m working on one play now, or rather, I want to get the main role. In general, the issue is resolved. There is only one thing. A matter of honor.

- With the main director.

- Become a lover? – Herman began to finger his rosary. It was as if it was a starter that slowly began to turn the timing belt, starting the thought process.

- Exactly.

– Does theater begin with a hanger or does art require sacrifice?

– No, it’s not that I don’t like him. In general, for theater and cinema, this seems to be a given, if you are not a star, but just want to become one.

“Electricians! They walk here and light up the stars,” German noted to himself about the director’s work. “We talk about a dream, we mean a career, we talk about love, we mean a bed, we talk about happiness, we mean prosperity. Then we realize that all this is a fake, Chinese stamping for the mass consumer. Real dreams are more frivolous than birds; they can build nests right on the stars.”

– What did you think, sorry, I didn’t hear?

- Frivolity.

– Do you think this is frivolous?

- To the highest degree.

“It would be frivolous if I let him go according to the first gender characteristic, if he enters me and comes out. It would be easy, and there would be no thoughts afterwards, only the main role pleasantly bulges out of the pocket,” Sasha silently gave a lexical analysis of the word.

- No, I’m not some fool who came to you for my money so that you would forgive me my sins. In this case, I would go to church. I am not the one I look like now, calm, meek. And sometimes my heart rushes as if it wants to jump out of my chest for someone else and live there separately.

– The heart never lies, but it can be mistaken. Let's do it again, in order. “Where did I stop? Dreams build nests in the stars, yes. But it comes late, if it comes. Because there is no time. You get the highest, then another, and then love makes a fool out of you with one turn of its head.”

Fifty grams of cognac, knocked over shortly before the patient, did not allow Herman to concentrate. Amber juice gilded the vegetative-vascular system, in the branches of which birds of paradise began to sing. His brain softened and no longer wanted to be smart, he leaned back on the hammock and began to swing, humming something into his brain, as if the working day was over and now he never wanted to have overtime. I didn't want to think. Meanwhile, the cognac hung all its stars in the labyrinths of thoughts, and the latter began to cheerfully rub their hands in anticipation of the holiday - the next fifty grams. On holiday, the sky should be starry.

- Let's.

- Shura, have you ever been married?

“Sometimes,” she looked at her right hand and found there, among the others, an empty ring finger. Then onto the doctor's empty ring finger. Nameless without gold was free, so free that it was even a little lonely.

-What does it mean - sometimes?

“Sometimes it seemed to me that I was married, that he was my husband, that we would have children. Such kindergarten broken in every woman's head. I liked that when he came, he always brought something with him. Basically a holiday. First the theater, then cinema, with endless conversations about his chosenness, talent and recognition, then cinema at home, TV series with food delivered to his home, and again conversations about his genius and creative crisis. All. The acquaintance is exhausted, only an empty cardboard from Carbonare. More precisely, the acquaintance remains, the love is exhausted.

- And the rest of the time?

“I felt like a lover.”

– So you already have experience, that’s good.

“If I were fine, I wouldn’t come.” It seems that now I have begun to become even more confused in myself.

“You just brought a whole troupe with you,” the doctor smiled. “Nothing, now we’ll unravel it, put everyone in their roles,” Herman twirled the rosary in his hands, turning the bones in a circle, like a chiropractor looking for a weak vertebra in her spine.

“Didn’t you want to shout to him: bring back those years that I spent on you?”

“It’s always like this with a woman: she spends it, and her husband returns it.” I would like to ask: is there a receipt?

-Are you laughing?

- Me not. You are testing me for professional incompetence. And then I have to live with it.

- No, it’s up to me to live with him later. That's why I came. Do you know what is the most difficult thing in a relationship? A depressing feeling that something is missing.

“The most difficult thing in a relationship is to love at eight in the morning, when you are late for work, hugging your wife at the door, stroking her shoulders with your hand, in fact, mentally already sweeping the snow off the car with a brush.” “I love you,” he said in Once again. She left the line and didn’t believe it. It didn’t come out right away, about five years ago.

Paso Doble

“If you want to know, good musicians don’t live in poverty either,” his father seemed to answer his question. – Some people are born wearing a shirt, and you are born with a guitar. Guitarist from God. She cries so heartily in your arms. Many people would like to have the same virtuoso fingers as yours. What's here? You will always come across a bull, as if it were a shadow of your own pride, for the amusement of the public.

As soon as my father said the word “music,” the fanfare immediately turned on. The musicians announced the start of the bullfight. Castanets began to sound and trumpets began to blow. The orchestra played the paso doble. All the participants in the bullfight entered the stage: the stewards rode out on horseback first. They greeted the presidium.

“This is the president of the bullfight, his assistants are nearby,” explained Father Tino, pointing to the man in the box. He stood up, nodded his head and sat down again in the wardrobe of the other tailcoats.

The son again involuntarily found his rose with his eyes. She carefully, holding her breath, looked at the parade. Tino noticed how she rose from her chair when the main characters of the bullfight entered the arena. Three matadors in luxurious suits, wrapped in exquisitely embroidered cloaks. They took off their astrakhan hats with ears and waved them first to the presidium, then to the rest of the audience.

– Do you know how much a lineman weighs? About a kilogram.

“Yeah,” his son didn’t listen. He looked through the binoculars, and he wanted to be there, in the place of one of the matadors, to personally blow a kiss to the young lady.

“You could kill someone with a hat like that.” And the suits, do you know how heavy they are?

“I imagine,” Tino still did not want to return from the stage to the auditorium to take his place on the stone steps among the audience.

- And who is this? - Finally, the son returns to his place.

- Mules, they will be used to carry away the killed bulls.

To the sound of bells flying away after the three mules, the matadors throw off their cloaks. Assistants deftly pick them up and exchange them for capes.

Review of the novel "Frivolity" in the Literaturnaya Gazeta.

In fact, which of the modern prose writers will we find the desire to develop an individual style, to distinguish himself with an original language, to be recognized by literally a few phrases?..
In the 20s and 30s of the 20th century, we had dozens of bright stylists: in one circle, the Serapion Brothers, there was a whole constellation of unique literary manners. Alas, now all this has passed. Our writers work in a hurry, trying to quickly retell the invented plot, and what figurative means will be used is the tenth matter.
Rinat Valiullin's prose provides an example of a different kind. Unlike writers of Russian blood, tired of the limitless possibilities of language, he, a scion of Tatar-Bashkir roots, savors the ambiguity of the word, rediscovers the polysemy of vocabulary, phrases and expressions, and plays with metaphorical meanings.
I will not retell the endless verbal balancing act, which, by the way, is not at all annoying: probably, the author’s belonging to the St. Petersburg culture and profession saves him from the redundancy and intrusiveness of puns (Valiullin is a Spanish philologist by profession). Look, soon some new “serapions” will be formed in the Northern capital.
Over the years, there will be a meticulous philologist who will conduct a detailed inventory of Valiullin's word games when, say, the door assures the visitor that there is always a way out; the word “Yes,” pronounced in the registry office, turns into “Hell,” and the office in the White House turns red and stretches into an oval at the sight of the pranks of the merry fellow Bill. Valiullin's characters uncontrollably play with words, which, no matter how loud this statement may seem, makes them similar to the characters of another Bill - Shakespeare, for which the strict Lev Nikolaevich disliked him. The relationships husband – mistress, wife – lover are played out in “Frivolity” in three registers (thirds).
1. An actress, who is faced with a dilemma: to sleep with the director or lose the role, goes for a consultation with a psychoanalyst, who turns out to be either a writer or a potential lover. Their intimate conversations (the author keeps Dr. Freud firmly on a leash) form the text layer of “Psycho.”
2. Network chat participants conduct a continuous polylogue about the existence of lovers and mistresses, sometimes impersonally, sometimes under initials, and at the end revealing part of their names. This part of the discourse is defined as "Any".
3. The Spanish lad Tino (a reference to Tinto Brass) goes to a bullfight for the first time, where he falls in love with the daughter of the Duchess Victoria and decides to change the guitar (he is studying music) for a muleta, and then becomes a famous matador. This level of the book does not have a single designation - each chapter is given a name from bullfighting terminology.
The lines intertwine in intricate combinations (it’s not for nothing that Valiullina’s hero remembers topology), but one day the question arises: something is missing from the soup. As if having come to her senses, in the end the heroine Sasha remembers the sacred meaning of love relationships - the birth of a new life. A baby takes up residence in her body. This knot is tied...

Sergey Kaznacheev.

Frivolity Rinat Valiullin

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Title: Frivolity

About the book “Frivolity” Rinat Valiullin

Rinat Valiullin is one of the most sought-after modern writers. His books are stolen for quotes, and their author is considered the founder of a new trend in literature. He coined the term “sensory poetry” - there is no other way to describe his heartfelt and piercing creations. Starting to read Rinat’s works, you drown in verbal overflows, living and accurate metaphors and epithets. His style hits the target, but does it gracefully and tastefully.

The novel “Frivolity” is a philosophical saga about the feelings of a man and a woman. The main character of the story, Alexandra, is an actress. She gets the role of a mistress, but she is given one condition: to rehearse this role in real life, together with the director. The woman experiences very mixed emotions: the desire to play on stage is not just self-expression, but also getting closer to a dream. Where in this story there are true feelings, and where - just acting - is not so easy to determine. Rinat Valiullin is a master of juggling the feelings of his characters and mixing them with other literary “ingredients” - as a result, the artistic “dish” turns out to be very refined and aromatic, multi-layered and seasoned with a spicy “pepper”.

This work is distinguished by a winding storyline, deep sensuality of characters and a magical atmosphere. Rinat Valiullin immerses the reader in colorful and romantic Spain, where you can “feel” with all your soul the greatest tragedy of love - being a mistress. How does a woman feel who is forced to divide her love in half? How to distinguish true feelings from their fake? Can love bring suffering and pleasure at the same time?

The book “Frivolity” resembles a nesting doll: some events cling to others, and now before the reader - new story, which was hiding in the shadow of the previous one. In this hot epic, not only are Spanish passions seething, but there is also room for philosophical reflections on the meaning of life, the role of art and creative pains, and new facets of relationships between men and women. This work can confidently be called a collection of aphorisms. Each phrase is not just vital, succinct and deep, but also very beautifully designed artistically. Many sayings are immediately etched in the memory; you want to constantly remember them and endlessly quote them. Books like these should not just be read, they should be enjoyed, passed through the heart and mind.

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Rinat Rifovich Valiullin

frivolity

Anthology of Love
Is it easy to play the role of a mistress on the theater stage if you have to rehearse it in your personal life? And is it worth dramatizing so much when a dream is at stake, and the performance is only for a couple of acts? Rinat Valiullin's new novel is a kind of nesting doll, where one story is hidden in another, one theme gives rise to many, touches the hearts of many - fatal or frivolous, promising or empty. Mixing such different ingredients in one dish: the nature of love and the torment of creativity, Spanish bullfighting and behind-the-scenes fuss, the sadness of psychoanalysis and the joy of curiosity, the author slyly serves it under the title “Frivolity.”

Rinat Valiullin

frivolity

There is always a way out.

Sincerely yours, Door

Before forming a pattern, the tangle of storylines breaks up into knots that are always consistent. Only occasionally do they break the order to deliver the essence of the novel at the right time to the right heart.

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

© Valiullin R.R., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

It rains, it snows, time flies. The Universe has its usual morning exercises. Not only did he constantly sit in her head, but sometimes he began to wander back and forth. There was no other way out but to pour him a glass of wine to calm him down. As a result, I poured two yesterday. Luckily today is Saturday. She got out of bed, stretched, reached out, reached out to everyone.

I was walking down the street, houses stopped, looked at me for a long time, then turned away from me and eventually lagged behind. Maybe my gait showed that I was a little worried, looking for support, peering into the sky. The sky had gray eyes, and it was calming.

“Good afternoon,” she said into the very gills of the intercom. – I need Doctor Aurta.

- Good afternoon. What issue are you talking about?

- In a scrupulous way.

- Scrupulous? – the gills asked in a staged male voice.

- That is, I need advice. I called you two weeks ago, maybe you remember?

“Okay, come in,” the entrance whistled benevolently, as if the green light at the pedestrian crossing had given the go-ahead. “He doesn’t remember,” the girl noted to herself. She pulled the heavy door handle.

I fell into the entrance, the door closed behind me, and left all doubts on the threshold. It was quiet inside the house, it smelled of Stalinism, a grandmother with glasses sat behind the glass and weaved something, either gossip or intrigue. Seeing me, she pressed her lips even harder to the phone and stood up, at which time the elevator moved from its place. It even seemed that there was some connection between the elevator and her landing. Heavy, ancient, it was approaching the first floor. Grandmother straightened her glassy eyes and, without saying anything, sat down to continue weaving her lace. The elevator immediately stopped. "Direct communication". I walked up the stone steps. The elevator opened, the same old woman came out to meet her: “Who are you seeing?” - “To Doctor Aurta.” - “This is the second floor. It will be closer to you on foot,” she slammed his door like a proprietor. "Wow? In the meantime, she was silent, she was a grandmother.” The steps took me to the second. I stopped in front of the prominent door number twenty-two, upholstered in black leather, and decisively rang the bell. A minute later, the lock crunched heavily at its joints and revealed a view of a man in jeans, a shirt and slippers. “Is this really the doctor?”

“Come in,” he reassured the girl with just one word. – The administrator left earlier today, acting as a receptionist herself.

“I think I met one of them when I got into the elevator.”

– Are you talking about these two cute sisters?

- Sisters?

- Old ladies can be twins too. When I saw them for the first time, I thought I had split consciousness. Then I got used to it. They are 180 for two.

“Solid,” the girl began to take in the situation. Heavy, massive furniture escorted her from the wardrobe, where she had left her coat, into the office, the walls of which were made of cabinets with books, the latter crowded in line behind the glass with one desire: “I will surrender myself into good hands.” Walls made of bricks, walls made of letters, I am a wall, the doctor is a wall, with the only difference that he has already opened the door for me, but mine? I came for him to help me open it.

“Have a seat,” the psychologist offered the girl a seat in a large chair. He sat down in another one, diagonally opposite. It’s good that the table remained on the side and could not separate us, otherwise I would certainly have started writing my thoughts there. Give me a table and I'll find something to write there.

The girl played with indecision. There was something untouched, undisturbed in her dark image, as if she had come to the set of David Hamilton, but had not yet had time to take off her warm cream dress. This is the same case when the image has not yet become negative.

“Sit down, feel like I’m at your place,” German pointed to the chair standing by the table.

Only now the girl decorated the leather chair as best she could with viscose cream. The chair seemed to her without comfort.

- What is your name?

- Who? – the girl suddenly blurted out, examining the chair with her butt. The chair was uncomfortable, not a chair, but someone else’s plate, from which the psychologist would soon eat her. Even her size 42 could not find a place for herself. Finally, she crossed one leg over the other, her knees placed one on top of the other, like links in one chain. Now, unable to find a place for them, she placed her hands on top of her knees. Closed.

- Friends.

– Friends – Sanya, Sasha, parents – Shura.

– Very nice, Alexandra. I am German Nikolaevich, to my friends I am a German, to my parents I am Gera.

- Why German? – she began to intensively search for it in me, as if she wanted to urgently see confirmation in the form of a helmet, a swastika, Rammstein, or, at worst, an elegant accent.

– Herman – Germany – German.

- Logical.

– Which do you like best?

“German... Nikolaevich,” she added after a pause, examining the doctor. “Some kind of strange.” Sasha did not have much experience communicating with psychologists. But she imagined Dr. Aurth to be different. An adult, with a body, glasses, and a beard. There was nothing like this. “At least calm, but kind,” she concluded to herself.

– You can just Herman, to save words.

- Okay, Herman. I’ve been coming to you for two long weeks,” Shura was interested in the clock on the wall in the collected works.

- Is this long? Two weeks are just two Saturdays.

– Do you measure everything on Saturdays?