Oleg roy white square read in full. White square

Two people approached a white tatami square with different parties- Viktor Spiridonov, a noble officer who mastered judo in Japanese captivity, and Vasily Oshchepkov, the son of exiled parents, who received a rank in the holy of holies of judo Kodokan. Two people who are passionate about a common cause, but separated by politics and personal views. And yet they might have gotten along if not for the betrayal. It is against him that both of them have to wage an uncompromising struggle, but what to do if the person closest to you is involved in him, if the bitter taste of poison is woven into your last love in life? .. Fate, like a judge in a duel, knows no pity.

About what: Continuation of the new dilogy of Oleg Roy - “ White square. Destiny grip". The novel is a psychological drama about two men united by one cause, but choosing different paths. They were separated by a huge gulf of misunderstanding, cruel betrayal and, of course, a woman. Here, the plot threads are woven into an intricate ball so tightly that it is impossible to guess what the denouement will be until the very end.

Genre: psychological novel, historical saga.

Why you should read it: This is a surprisingly bright and unexpected story about love, forgiveness, rivalry and perseverance. Based on real events, but at the same time not claiming to be historically accurate, it carries you into a whirlpool of intrigue and passion, reveals to the reader human soul in which strength and weakness, love and hatred, forgiveness and envy, nobility and revenge can coexist.

Quote: “This is really the Way, not a technique. The path you are on is the path of your life. Both Spiridonov and Oshchepkov are companions on this Path. It was the Path of everyone - and their common Path.
Here, on a white tatami square, nothing clouded the crystal purity of the world. In the radiance of their Path, everything became simple and clear. Spiridonov realized that both he and Oshchepkov were delaying this moment of coincidence that they both desired. They were birds in the sky of judo, but each was afraid to take off until the time. But he was not afraid for himself. I was afraid to be disappointed in the satellite. The light of judo revealed who is who.

* * *

Thanks to my friends - the producers of the film "The Beginning. The Legend of Sambo, as well as personally to Georgy Shengelia and Sergey Torchilin, whose ideas inspired me to create this novel, and to my consultant on the political, economic, military and social aspects of the plot, Bitanov Alexey Evgenievich.

Dedicated to the memory of my son Zhenechka.

The events described in the novel do not claim to be complete historical accuracy and are fiction.

Chapter 1
Flint heart

Novosibirsk met Spiridonov with variable clouds; apparently, it had rained not so long ago, the colors around were bright, juicy, the air was still saturated with moisture.

Having stepped onto the platform, Viktor Afanasyevich took out cigarettes and lit the last one, hiding the empty pack in the pocket of his tunic, in order to throw it into the trash if the opportunity arose. And then he saw Oshchepkov.

Victor Afanasyevich immediately recognized him, although he imagined it differently. Vasily Sergeevich turned out to be bigger and older (the latter, however, is easy to explain - the photographs in the file were several years ago). He was dressed in a simple suit, the kind Soviet servicemen wear in the summer—a light-coloured blouse with patch pockets and slightly darker loose-fitting trousers. On his feet are army-style boots, in which the whole country then walked, regardless of gender and age. On his head is a bright, wide-brimmed hat, rather frivolous. A light raincoat is thrown over the arm - for some reason they are called mackintosh in the south of Russia.

Victor Afanasyevich purposely went in from the wrong side where Oshchepkov was looking, looking out for him, and said cheerfully:

- Vasily Sergeevich, are you looking for me? I am Spiridonov.

And he held out his hand to him, looking at the momentary confusion with a hint of malevolence. However, Oshchepkov controlled himself instantly.

How did I miss you? he exclaimed pathetically, firmly shaking the hand extended to him. - Glad to meet you, Viktor Afanasyevich, very well-heard.

- As I about you, - Spiridonov readily answered. - But, of course, I would like to get to know each other better, colleague. I must say I am impressed with your progress.

Oshchepkov was embarrassed, naturally, like a schoolgirl. The highest dan in juujutsu, I had to remind myself of Spiridonov. In behavior, and in the whole appearance of Oshchepkov, there was something childish, innocent, uncomplicated. This somehow did not fit in with his spy biography, nor with what was known about him as a juudoku.

– Absolutely! Oshchepkov replied enthusiastically. – You and I are united by juujutsu, and this, as you know, is much more than “grabbed-hooked-tumbled down”.

Viktor Afanasyevich nodded. For his taste, Oshchepkov was simple, like an engineer's pencil.

“Undoubtedly,” he smiled. I'm dying to hear your story. You've seen places I've only dreamed of visiting, Kodokan...

- In turn, I would like to get acquainted with your history, - answered Oshchepkov. “As I heard, you studied with a Japanese master. I know many of them. I would like to have at least one duel with you. You're training the Moscow police; they talk about you as a great master ...

“And you can’t wait to find out how true this is?” Viktor Afanasyevich smiled. How can I refuse you? I just need to find some hotel, and then ...

“I’ll take you,” Oshchepkov volunteered eagerly, “I have a cab driver. And a room has been booked for you at the Metropol… excuse me, at the Oktyabrskaya, it’s just that everyone here calls it the Metropol, as before.

And he smiled some kind of artless, completely childish smile. His smile was amazing.

- At the Metropol? Viktor Afanasyevich was surprised. - But why? I'm not some kind of NEP, I would be quite satisfied with a clean bed in some simpler hotel.

Oshchepkov was again embarrassed. But not in the way one might expect from a provincial official who grovels before a capital official and starts throwing beads in front of him (recall domestic satirists from Gogol to Ilf and Petrov). No, Vasily Sergeevich was not embarrassed because he felt "on slippery ground." His embarrassment came from the heart, from a pure heart:

– You are here because of me… You have come a long way, you have lost your business, you have left your students…

Viktor Afanasyevich stopped and said almost sternly:

– But you are also going to leave yours… And not just for a long time. If everything goes as it should, you will be transferred to Moscow.

Vasily Sergeevich looked Spiridonov straight in the eyes and answered with a sigh:

“God knows, I wouldn’t want that!” I am affectionate. I really get used to people, places… I loved Sakhalin, although there was nothing to love there, I loved Tokyo, although it is completely alien to us, I loved Vladivostok… Now I love Novosibirsk. But fate is not interested in our preferences. It's not my fault that Mashenka fell ill. - His eyes sparkled suspiciously, but Oshchepkov quickly pulled himself together: - In my defense, I will say that I have someone to leave the section. Others also need to grow, and I need to settle down in a new place. That is life…

Spiridonov nodded mechanically, and they continued on their way.

* * *

Leaving things at the hotel, Viktor Afanasyevich and his companion immediately went to the Osoaviakhim sports club, where Oshchepkov conducted classes. There were almost no cars in the city, and horse-drawn transport did not block the streets, and in general, compared with Moscow, Novosibirsk seemed quiet and patriarchal, which Viktor Afanasyevich recklessly did not fail to inform Vasily Sergeevich about.

He reacted, apparently with a slight offense, because he launched into lengthy explanations:

- Firstly, we are going to the peripheral quarters, away from, so to speak, the business center. And secondly, today is Friday. Everyone is in a hurry to go home, to relax after a week of work.

How about crime? Spiridonov asked, without showing any sign of being offended.

“God have mercy,” Oshchepkov replied with satisfaction. - In Vladivostok it was worse, and then they coped. And what about in Moscow?

Viktor Afanasyevich sighed:

“Not like before, but it could be better. Consciousness among the people is growing slowly. But we are working on it, so to speak, tirelessly and sparing no feet.

Vasily Sergeevich, most likely, did not understand the pun:

- Great! I am working with working youth, and I will tell you how many talents there are in this environment! Golden bottom. It’s good that the Soviet government gives them the opportunity to sprout, not like the old days: the grain fell into the thorns ... - Viktor Afanasyevich was silent, and Vasily Sergeevich continued: - Juujutsu changes a person, changes for the better. I noticed that many people came to me to "learn how to fight". Now they are completely different people.

Oshchepkov made it clear with a facial expression that it was about something else:

– Learned to live! They learned to think, and all thanks to juujutsu. By the way, how are you not hungry from the road? We can stop by the dining room, but I can’t offer a restaurant.

“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” Viktor Afanasyevich replied. With his usually meager rations and after yesterday's hearty meal at the station catering, he could not feel hungry for another three days. - But I should buy a smoke. I ran out, but at the station I didn’t notice the pedlars. I took it with me on the road, but I smoked everything ... On the train, you know what else to do? ..

“Then we’ll stop at a tobacco shop,” Oshchepkov decided, and asked the driver: “My friend, do they sell shag somewhere here?”

- At the crossroads there is a storehouse of the Potrebsoyuz, Vasil Stepanych, - he answered sedately, - but the goods there are worthless, one name is that tobacco, and so the straw is dry. Would you like to visit the Deshevkins? They have any smoke, he likes "Kino", he likes a bourgeois potion. True, prices are torn, the bourgeois are not finished ...

“Come on, my friend, be kind,” Oshchepkov asked, sitting more comfortably on the seat. - And you, Viktor Afanasyevich, generously forgive me, smoking, in my opinion, is a bad thing.

“Is your driver, or what?” - Viktor Afanasyevich missed the remark about the dangers of tobacco. Only moralizing was not enough for him here!

- Whose is "ours"? Novosibirsk? Oshchepkov was surprised.

“But how does he know you?” – in turn was surprised Spiridonov.

Oshchepkov smiled:

“And every dog knows me here, let alone the working people. How is Yesenin? "In the alleys, every dog knows my easy gait." But, fortunately, for a different reason.

If someone else had been in Oshchepkov's place, Viktor Afanasyevich would have long ago decided that he was wondering, boasting of his exemplary lifestyle - it was absolutely impossible to imagine such a thing with Oshchepkov. It seemed that Vasily Sergeevich was completely devoid of even the slightest hint of dissembling and playing a role. They say that naturally strong people are kind. Indeed, very often, if not always, people become evil misanthropes because they are unhappy and see nothing better than sharing their misfortune with others. However, even strong people are not spared by misfortune...

“Here’s the shop,” Oshchepkov said, nudged Spiridonov in the side with his elbow. - Go buy your poison, dear to your heart, and we will wait.

Viktor Afanasyevich nimbly jumped out of the carriage and hurried under the shade of a signboard of a poor provincial relative of Moscow's Nepman "general stores." Here, as in Moscow, one could shop for anything - adjusted for the provinciality of the institution, of course. Viktor Afanasyevich, however, bought only two packs of Kino cigarettes, which were cheap and smelly. Stepping out onto the porch, he lit a cigarette with pleasure. And how did he survive an hour without smoking? He usually lit a cigarette every half an hour...

“I’ll have to drop by here one more time before leaving,” he noted to himself. - Two packs - this is not enough for me ... "

He kept thinking about Oshchepkov. The image of a burnt double-dealing swindler dissipated, but still left a residue of doubt. Viktor Afanasyevich could not trust Oshchepkov, but he was also no longer able to perceive him as a swindler. Most of all, Vasily Sergeevich resembled a good-natured bumpkin, but ...

But how then did he manage to cooperate so successfully with the intelligence of the FER, pray tell? Where did this simple-minded man find so much… (he searched for a word) resourcefulness? After all, otherwise how could he survive when the whole underground turned out to be a failure? Here's the catch... Oh well. Let's see what he has to say about that.

Having finished smoking, Viktor Afanasyevich returned to the carriage.

"Sorry, I'm late," he muttered, climbing into the seat. “I didn’t mean to poison you with smoke.

“Yes, smoke, comrade,” the driver generously allowed, “do not be shy.” Other passengers will sit down, but four of them will go to smoke ...

Spiridonov addressed his apologetic remark not to the cab driver, of course, but to Oshchepkov with his correct way of life, but it would be stupid to clarify.

We got to the gym, equipped in an old coal warehouse, quickly. The building resembled an adobe Chinese barn exactly as much as an ocean liner resembles a lake punt, but Viktor Afanasyevich caught himself in some vague sense of recognition. Windows under the roof, through which the gray light of a cloudy day pours into the hall, a vast space with a white square of tatami on the floor ... more precisely, squares - there were several tatami in the hall, and most importantly - the yin-yang symbol on the wall - this was what served as the reason for Spiridonov's deja vu .

“This is where we train,” Oshchepkov commented, letting Spiridonov go ahead. - Not God knows what, of course, but that's enough.

- In my opinion, not bad at all, - Viktor Afanasyevich responded. - When you get to Moscow, I'll show you my room. The conditions are about the same, only that there is steam heating. How are you in winter?

- We freeze, what can I say, well, we train in padded jackets with felt boots, - Vasily Stepanovich smiled. - Here the temperature does not fall below four even in the most severe frosts.

It seems that he let the phrase about Moscow pass by, and Viktor Afanasyevich launched it as a trial balloon. And what did he find out? Yes, absolutely nothing. Oshchepkov was all round, there was nothing to grab onto. Perhaps this is the secret of his conspiratorial success?

“Here we have locker rooms,” Vasily Stepanovich pointed to the wooden enclosures erected at the end of the hall. - The guys figured it out themselves, there are handy ones among them, from working youth. My office is upstairs. You have to climb the stairs.

He stopped at the stairs and said with embarrassment:

“Forgive me, Viktor Afanasyevich, but I cannot invite you to my house. Mashenka has an open form, the house has been turned, one might say, into an infirmary. The illness does not take me, God knows why, but I am responsible for you: what if you get infected? Yes, and Masha is weak, she is not up to guests ...

Viktor Afanasyevich nodded.

- I'm not afraid of getting infected, but there's really no need to disturb the patient. Let's talk in your office. Do we have time?

Vasily Sergeevich looked at his watch (some cheap ones, with thin hands and a cardboard dial in a metal case):

“Training in two hours and a half. Will you stay for training? You also promised me a duel.

Viktor Afanasyevich smiled. Something childish again appeared in Oshchepkov's words; this is how children remind their parents that they promised to take them to the zoo:

“I'm not one to break promises. Let's see what you teach your fighters. Maybe I'll draw something ... As they say, live forever, learn a century, but all the same you will die a fool.

“Then come to me,” Vasily Sergeevich invited with childlike enthusiasm and began to climb the stairs. Viktor Afanasyevich followed him.

* * *

Oshchepkov's office turned out to be small and somehow reminded Spiridonov of Sashka Yegorov's compartment, which had recently come to his mind. In the corner stood a Japanese mannequin, on which punches and grabs are practiced, the rest of the interior was made up of an old oval table of simple work and three chairs of various sizes. The atmosphere of desolation reigned in the office.

“I almost never come here,” Vasily Sergeevich explained, as if reading his thoughts. Yes, just to change. I used to spend more time here, but now it’s not up to it: every free minute near my wife, you yourself understand ...

Spiridonov's heart sank. Oh yes, he understood! An unpleasant chill crept over his skin. He mentally wished his interlocutor never to experience what he experienced that night. This understanding brought him closer to Oshchepkov, gave rise to a kind of sympathy in his soul. He chose a chair, dusted it reflexively, and sat down. Oshchepkov sat opposite.

- So, Viktor Afanasyevich, let's be honest. I suppose I won’t be mistaken if I say that in your person I have the honor to talk with the OGePEU, right?

- You can say that, - Spiridonov answered him and smiled. The directness of the interlocutor impressed him. - As you know, we are colleagues, as far as I understand, you have been training policemen since the eighteenth year ...

“From the seventeenth, but with interruptions,” Oshchepkov answered. - In general, I worked with the underground.

“Well, I’m training the Moscow police,” Spiridonov continued. “Looks like we’re doing the same thing. In addition, both you and I are judoku, although I do not have such regalia as you do.

“Let's be frank, Viktor Afanasyevich,” suggested Oshchepkov. - You are a famous person. I think you could easily pass to the highest dan.

Are you too quick to judge? Spiridonov objected. – You haven't seen me yet… hmm… on the mat.

“But I met with some of your students and was very impressed,” Oshchepkov retorted. – Frankly, I am very interested in your system, and I really hope that I will be able to get acquainted with it in detail. You will not deny that you have stepped much further than what you learned in captivity?

“I won’t,” Spiridonov confirmed, wondering whether Oshchepkov’s words were still an attempt to flatter him, or whether he was speaking sincerely. In the depths of his soul, Viktor Afanasyevich believed that he understood people, but here he was stumped: everything turned out that Oshchepkov really appreciated him highly. “Since we’re being honest with you… You said that you see the OGePEU in my face… But I see it in your Kodokan…”

“It is unlikely that the venerable Jigoro Kano would have approved of your exercises,” Oshchepkov smiled. – He is deeply immersed in juudo, he actually is juudo himself, but this is not only his strength, but also his weakness: he does not see beyond the canons of his school.

“He says the same thing as Fujiyuki,” thought Spiridonov, and repeated aloud:

- You are interested in my system, and I, in turn, want to know what the Kodokan is. And I really hope that you will tell me this. You've seen it all, touched it with your hands...

Oshchepkov narrowed his eyes, very childlike:

“So I thought it would be the best thing for me to tell you my story, from cover to cover. With this we will satisfy your curiosity, and, I hope, we will remove possible questions that your superiors will have. I guess what my biography looks like from the outside. Frankly, I could even be shot purely out of caution, just in case, so to speak. Alas, this is the fate of all scouts - to be constantly under suspicion, even among their own. That is why I easily gave up this career. Enough. Even without this, I can be of benefit to the workers' and peasants' state.

- A good decision, - Viktor Afanasyevich remarked regarding Oshchepkov's proposal to present his biography in the form of a monologue in the first person. Would you mind if I clarified some points?

“And write it down, you mean,” Oshchepkov smiled. “I saw a notebook and an automatic pen in your pocket. I think you took them for a reason.

Spiridonov was not at all embarrassed. Yes, that's right. How else? Its' his job.

“A person cannot be judged by papers, even by the most documented ones,” Oshchepkov said further. - I, for one, believe only in personal impressions. I can't stand questionnaires, personal files and other paperwork. It is a pity that people are so insincere with each other, they trust paper more than a living word ...

Viktor Afanasyevich remembered Klavushka's father, her uncle who had disappeared who knows where, his parents... word of honor believed more than a bill certified by chicanery notaries. But do not tell Oshchepkov about this, the right word!

So he just nodded and took out a notebook.

“I will be sincere with you, as in confession,” Vasily Sergeevich promised. “There are things I don’t like to talk about, but I’ll tell you about that too. I need you to form as accurate an impression of me as possible. You know, I was very glad to know that it was you who came out to drink my soul. Because we have one thing in common - juujutsu with its ancient wisdom. This wisdom was valued and respected even by such a highly spiritual person as Father Nikolai, and this is worth a lot. By the way, from shameful secrets I will point out that, despite the policy of the party in this matter, I am a believer. I think that over time, relations between the Church and the state will be established. You can put that on the record, too, if you like.

Viktor Afanasyevich shook his head negatively.

- Firstly, I do not keep records, and secondly ... It does not matter, but I do not advise you to confess to something similar to someone else. Someone outside. Especially in Moscow.

- And you? asked Oshchepkov. “You don’t consider yourself an outsider, then?” So it is: neither you are a stranger to me, nor I to you. The devil knows where this curve will take you, but I would like you to become my friend.

He somehow strangely moved his shoulder, as if throwing off an imaginary hussar mentic.

- I, they say, talkative; let's put it in a constructive direction. So, the story of Vasily Sergeevich Oshchepkov, told by himself.

* * *

“You may think that I am trying to arouse pity in you,” Oshchepkov began, leaning his elbows on the table and leaning forward towards Spiridonov, “but I am only saying what I have. I became an orphan long before my parents died. Perhaps from birth into the world, or even earlier. People who are strangers to me by blood took a much greater part in my fate than those who are considered relatives. One's own among strangers, a stranger among one's own... sounds melodramatic, but, in fact, is very true. Before I talk about those who made me who I am today, I will talk about those who brought me into this world. After all, we are all considered to be the sum total of our parents, right?

I can bet: the first thing that struck you unpleasantly in my biography is that I am the son of a convict from an exiled settler. Oshchepkov smiled bitterly: “You still don’t know half the truth. Let's start with my late mother. Do you love your mother?

What man doesn't love his mother? Spiridonov shrugged. - Who do you have to be in order not to love your mother?

“A monster,” nodded Oshchepkov. - I've seen a lot of them. Let me remind you, I grew up on the island of monsters. Because the fact that I loved my mother seemed at least strange to outsiders. Nobody in my childhood environment loved my parents. A child on Sakhalin is not a blessing, but a curse. Nowhere do so many abortions, nowhere kill so many babies as there. No one is following this, the child on Sakhalin does not appear in the maternity ward - the real “birth” takes place in the church, during christening. To live up to this is already a huge success, if in such conditions one can even talk about some kind of luck.

I was lucky, but not at all thanks to the woman who gave birth to me. If it were not for my father (who, by the way, was not at all happy about my appearance), she would have easily scraped me out of her womb, and if this had not been possible for some reason, she would have crushed my head with a stone in one of the coves of the island , I would wrap it in a diaper with this pebble and throw it from the hill into the ocean.

Oshchepkov sighed. Spiridonov looked into his eyes - they were distant, as if he saw the distant, sunk into the past, pre-war Sakhalin ...

“Sometimes I imagine the end of the world,” continued Oshchepkov. - When the sea gives up its dead - God, how many babies will then rise from the Sakhalin surf! Probably an army of boys and girls, parents whose mothers decided that they had no reason to live. Moreover, some of them acted, as it seemed to them, out of love - they say, why should a child live and suffer in hard labor? Strange mercy, don't you think? But they were convinced that they were doing this out of love for their offspring, when they destroyed the future of their crumbs with abortion pliers or a suitable stone. But my mother cannot be blamed for this: if she had killed me in the womb or after birth, she would not have done it out of love for me at all.

Spiridonov stopped Oshchepkov with a gesture of his hand:

“Wait a minute, Vasily Sergeevich,” he said almost pleadingly. - I believe that you are saying what you think is the truth, but are you exaggerating? Forgive me, it's hard for me to believe that a monster can exist in the world that can hate its child. Of course, by the nature of my service - sometimes I participate, you know, in the operational activities of the Moscow OGPU) - I came across women who killed their children - in clouding of mind from poverty or for some other reason, but in order to be of sound mind, in sober mind …

“Just what is in his right mind and sober mind,” Oshchepkov said firmly. But I didn't talk about hate. In order to hate, Viktor Afanasyevich, you first need to love. And she never loved me, that's why she had no hatred for me. I was just a nuisance. And how she knew how to eliminate interference ...

I bear the surname Oshchepkov, and this is my mother's surname. She was born on November 30, 1851 in the village of Oshchepkovo, Vorobyov volost, Okhansk district Perm Territory, in the family of a merchant of the second guild Semyon Nikanorovich Oshchepkov. My grandfather was one of those serfs who, having received freedom, like a hitherto compressed spring, straightened up and rushed from serfdom to prosperity. Irrepressible energy, steel will, natural sharpness and the grip of a wolf trap - that's what my grandfather's character is. To his credit, I can say that he never “went over their heads” and dealt with people at least fairly, albeit sometimes harshly. Quite quickly, he achieved success in the trading field, becoming a merchant, first of the second guild, and then of the first. My story may seem unlikely to you, but ...

- Why, - Spiridonov interrupted him, - such people are well known to me.

- Let me guess... You yourself are from merchant class? Oshchepkov smiled childishly. “Don’t worry, it won’t go any further than me. All this is in the past, let it stay there. Oh ... really, I don't want to tell all this, it's like I'm undressing in front of you to show my many ulcers and scabs. But these ulcers have long since healed. You just need to know all this in order to understand me better. Am I not obliging you too much by offering my story?

“Come on,” Spiridonov waved him off, “I like your approach. The more I know, the fairer my opinion will be ...

To himself, Spiridonov thought that such frankness would have worked against Oshchepkov if he had opened up like this in Moscow. Was it too easy for him to confide in a stranger now? And this is a former spy? Yes, even one that retained its position during the collapse of the underground? Isn't it enough for such frankness that they coincide on the basis of practicing Japanese wrestling?

Spiridonov would never have believed this if it were not for Oshchepkov. Biting the tip of the pen, he looked at the interlocutor. The way a person looks can say a lot.

Oshchepkov looked at him directly, not hiding his gaze, but without a challenge, honestly. One of two things - either he is a liar, which the world has never seen ... or not of this world. Not of this world…

So, from the world of juujutsu?

“Then I’ll continue,” Oshchepkov nodded. My grandfather's wife, my grandmother, was wonderfully beautiful. She had countless suitors, and she preferred my grandfather to all of them, although at that time he was not rich and successful, and outwardly he was quite ordinary. My grandmother appreciated his strong-willed qualities; she was sure that Semyon Nikanorovich would achieve a lot in life, and she was not mistaken ... but it didn’t help her. A few months after the birth of my daughter, my grandmother fell ill and, despite her husband's best efforts, died, leaving him with her infant daughter in her arms.

What a tragedy it was for my grandfather, one could judge by the fact that he never married a second time, although, if he wished, he would have had plenty to choose from, and the choice would not have been easy. I don’t know if you are familiar with such feelings - when a person cannot be replaced by someone else, when the world becomes empty, cold and dark after his departure ... Few people survived this ...

“So I survived,” Spiridonov thought to himself. However, his thought must have been somehow reflected on his face: Oshchepkov faltered and looked at him attentively. Then he continued:

“…but I think you understand what I mean. So, my grandfather transferred all his love to my mother. He raised her, in his own words, "like a little lady." My mother didn't know anything. She was not entrusted with any work, although her grandfather, even hiring hundreds of laborers annually, did not shun any work himself. You will probably think that he just spoiled my mother. Partly yes, but only partly. Outwardly, my mother went to her grandmother, in character - more likely to her father, if not for one “but”.

To this day they say about Semyon Nikanorovich that he was a just person, and this despite the fact that he has been gone for more than thirty years in this world; my mother knew only one unshakable principle: "I want." Grandfather turned a blind eye to her self-will for a long time, but the conflict between his principled justice and her stubborn unscrupulousness was written by him as if he were born.

When my mother grew up, my father decided to take care of her future. As a true house builder, he did not trust the business qualities of a woman and was not going to leave her his fortune. But, of course, he was not going to leave her without a penny either. He began to select her husband a very long time ago and found, as it seemed to him, ideal. The young man, energetic, quick-witted, but poor, seemed to him the best contender for a husband for his daughter. Semyon Nikanorovich treated his future son-in-law like his own son - he taught him everything, put him on his feet, brought him to the people and, in the end, made him his trading comrade.

Grandfather, in general, was well versed in people, and he was not mistaken in Gerasim Fomich: he not only sincerely fell in love with his benefactor, but also turned out to be endowed with business acumen. In the rank of comrade, he consistently brought in considerable profits for his grandfather's enterprise and in the end would have become as successful as his grandfather, if not more. When the time came, the grandfather announced to his beloved daughter that he decided to marry her to Gerasim ...

* * *

Oshchepkov leaned back and cracked his fingers:

- However, in vain we did not take something to drink, at least Narzan, or something. I've never said so much before, and the story is just beginning.

“You can stop and look for something ...” Spiridonov suggested uncertainly. - But you talk so smoothly ... I don’t even want to be distracted. Can you survive without Narzan?

“I myself don’t want to be interrupted,” agreed Oshchepkov. - Let's continue, perhaps ... Yes, my grandfather was well versed in people. It didn't work just for my mother. She seemed to be in his "blind spot" - he did not see point-blank what she was growing on, on which path she was standing. He was sure she would be happy with his choice. Gerasim Fomich was good-looking, his own brother, for example, was taken by lot to the dragoons, and Gerasim Fomich himself was in no way inferior to him either in stature or in such masculine beauty.

- Wait! - Spiridonov leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tabletop, as Oshchepkov had been sitting opposite him before. - Why Gerasim Fomich? Isn't that your father? Then why are you not Gerasimovich, but Sergeevich?

Already asking the question, Spiridonov remembered that Oshchepkov's father had not given him his last name and that his last name was Plisak. But I haven't been able to fix the issue.

“He is not my father,” Vasily Sergeevich smiled. - My father is a completely different person, I will tell you more about him later. Gerasim Fomich is the first and only legal husband of my mother, as you can see, my grandfather achieved his goal. But for this he had to try pretty hard. Soon they played a wedding.

But I didn’t say in vain that my mother’s character was all like her father: my grandfather, not without effort, bent her, but she could not remain bent for a long time. And when she straightened up, she was capable ... It is difficult to say what my mother was capable of.

On the night of September 2 to 3, 1883, a fire broke out in Okhansk, Perm Territory. The house of the merchant Gerasim Oshchepkov-Vydrin was on fire (my mother's husband took his father-in-law's surname out of respect for him and with his full goodwill). The fire was extinguished by the whole world, but the owner of the house could not be saved: he died. The same fate almost befell his daughter, Agafya Gerasimovna, the girl was saved only by a miracle. My mother was discovered only towards the evening of the next day; she wandered about the outskirts of the town, throwing an zipun over her nightgown, and seemed completely killed. From her confused explanations, it was found out that, when she saw the fire, she was frightened and rushed out of the house wherever her eyes looked. She came to herself in the morning and realized that her loved ones had died. From this, she almost lost her mind.

Two people approached the white tatami square from different sides - Viktor Spiridonov, a noble officer who learned judo in Japanese captivity, and Vasily Oshchepkov, the son of exiled parents, who received a rank in the holy of holies of judo Kodokan. Two people who are passionate about a common cause, but separated by politics and personal views. And yet they might have gotten along if not for the betrayal. It is against him that both of them have to wage an uncompromising struggle, but what to do if the person closest to you is involved in it, if the bitter taste of poison is woven into your last love in life? .. Fate, like the judge in a duel, knows no pity.

The work belongs to the genre Modern Russian literature. It was published in 2017 by the AUTHOR publishing house. The book is part of the "Whims and Oddities of Fate" series. On our site you can download the book "White Square. Capture of Fate" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The rating of the book is 5 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In the online store of our partner you can buy and read the book in paper form.