Literary creative biography of Dina Rubina. See what "Ruby, Dina Ilyinichna" is in other dictionaries

- Dina Ilyinichna, in Russia you are one of the most widely read Russian prose writers. Your works are translated into many languages ​​of the world, screened (just remember the films "On Upper Maslovka", "Lyubka", "On the Sunny Side of the Street"). And in Israel they call you simply - "our Dina." Does the status of a recognized literary classic not crush? How do you regard this - a kind of burden or a gift of fate?

- Only the first publication was a gift. When you are 16 years old, such a feint is perceived as fireworks. Now my fame is a burden, and quite a serious one. First of all, due to lack of time. A huge number of letters come to my e-mail address - up to fifty a day: business, friendly, from readers. I answer most of them. There are also meetings with readers, interviews, an endless number of submitted manuscripts and books that I am asked to read, and so on. Perhaps all this would please me if I were essentially different, not appreciating solitude more than anything in the world. After all, I only give the impression of a light, secular, sociable person. Few people suspect how gloomy an introvert I am. I have a tragic personality, I do not know how to be joyful.

- I never understood and did not like these talks about a happy childhood. Whoever you listen to, it turns out to be happy for everyone. And in my opinion, in childhood a person is almost constantly unhappy, simply because he is defenseless and small, and this giant frightening world rushes at him with great speed. And even if he grows up in a prosperous family, it means that something is certainly wrong in the yard, at school ... I was born in Tashkent. And she lived there for 30 years. She grew up and grew up in a despotic environment. Now I am talking about it without fear of what dad will read. (He sighs heavily.) He won’t read it anymore: three months since he’s been gone ... And before, I always gave interviews, taking into account the fact that it might catch my father’s eyes. I was afraid of his reaction. When I called in the morning to ask what pressure he had, if his back hurt, after two or three minutes of conversation, dad would certainly utter the catchphrase: “Well, stop talking! Work, nigga!" And I dutifully listened to this in my sixties, with all my published volumes, huge circulations and awards. My dad remained a despotic father to the end. But he never laid a finger on me. The overwhelming force of his authority and character was irresistible. He was an artist, taught painting and drawing at the Tashkent Theater and Art Institute. Students respected and loved him.

I grew up in a family where it was believed that a child should achieve everything every day, achieve the maximum. For my father, something was always not enough in me and my sister: high marks, success, careful study of some sonatas ... As a child, it offended me terribly, but now I remember with gratitude, because my father instilled in me, or rather trained me, a frantic longing for perfection. My personal perfection... I still can't imagine myself doing nothing - let's say, lying on the couch in front of the TV. It's simply impossible, and not only because I don't have a TV. I am constantly working on my next book. Right now I'm working on a new novel in two volumes - The Russian Canary. It's very hard to write. The first book, as long as The White Dove of Cordoba, is ready. I have been writing this volume for two years. So the second one will take at least another year. If you get a page a day - great luck. The first option never suits, the next day it is rewritten, the day after tomorrow I return to it again - and so on countless times. At the same time, my creative baggage is huge simply by the totality of working time in my life. When I was young, I woke up at five in the morning and sat down at a typewriter. In the first half of the day I worked on my compositions, and in the second half I was engaged in translations. I have always lived a hard, exhausting and very educative life ... By the age of 24 I was a member of the Writers' Union.

- No, my mother is a very lively person, enchanting, I would even say adventurous. She escaped from her father's character behind some Potemkin villages. Moreover, being a teacher of Russian history, she knew many wonderful tales about that era and told them beautifully. In general, it seemed to me that Catherine II, Potemkin, Paul I, Peter the Great were representatives of our family clan.

“On the contrary, they considered my writing to be the most complete nonsense and idleness. Stubbornly led my sister and me to a musical career. By the way, my sister was taken out: Vera is a great violinist. Now lives in the USA, president of the Massachusetts Music Association, a brilliant teacher - her students win prizes at competitions. And my dad and mom saw me as a pianist. They prepared thoroughly, and it was real musical violence. I frankly hated classes and still believe that they took 17 years of my life. I studied at a special school at the conservatory and had to study music for six or seven hours a day. Imagine this hard labor. Of course, she tried to evade the drill, made a fair amount of effort to squeeze at least some bits of time out of life for the inner life. In this connection, scandals broke out in the family every now and then. But since my parents were constantly working, I still managed to slip away from their attention. I was a fantastic liar, I could build a tower of lies just to go where I wanted to. For the sake of protecting one's self and personal time, in order to escape from domestic captivity. Where? I could take a suburban train and leave for the whole day without showing up to school at all. She often disappeared at the zoo - she just sat on a bench and looked at the monkeys. By the way, I moved in space in complete solitude - even then I absolutely did not need anyone. I say: I am by nature a complete introvert, multiplied by a cube. Is it strange, yes, to hear this from a person surrounded by friends, girlfriends, acquaintances, semi-acquaintances, strangers? But it is so.

“No one has gone anywhere. Everything happened as if by itself. Smile of fate. Cinderella option. When I was in the ninth grade, I came across a story in the Youth magazine written by some eighth grader. I thought: “But I have a lot of such stories. Why not send? And sent one, forgetting about it immediately. And once again I ran away from school to God knows what neighborhood of Tashkent. Returning, I knock with a conditional family knock on the door. Dad opens it and says from the doorway: “You finished your game!” Everything is clear: the class teacher reported my absenteeism. Horror ... I was lamenting: "Dad, dad, I'm sorry, I will never do it again ... This will not happen again ..." To which he sternly said: "They sent you a letter from the state department." Do you know what envelope the dispatch came in? Publishing house "Pravda". It was something unreal. It’s good that Stalin’s times have passed, otherwise you could crap yourself out of fear. Still - a letter from the country's leading party publishing house. So, the envelope fell into the hands of the father. It was considered impossible in the family to print other people's letters, but it was also unthinkable to leave such a message unattended, so dad read it through the light, holding it up to the lamp. It was written there: “Your story has been read, I liked it ... It will be published in such and such an issue of the magazine ...” The family was numb. The parents didn't know how to react. On the one hand, I should have been blown up, because I am again writing some stupid handwriting instead of studying music, and in mathematics and physics - an eternal nightmare in a class magazine. But on the other hand, the publication of three million copies is not a joke. Do you know how much I got paid? 92 rubles! Terrible money, huge, at that time - the monthly salary of a junior researcher. Mom immediately said that we need to buy something that will remain as a memory of this event. For life! For many provincial people, everything is done “for life”. (With a smile.) No, I still treat my childhood with great irony. In short, my mother and I went to the Farkhad market. In the nearest gateway we were caught by a speculator. A gigantic aunt, a real Gargantua in a skirt. On her huge belly, some sweatshirts, breeches, skirts packed in plastic bags were rammed. As soon as she saw us, the aunt squealed: “Come here, buy something for your girl, such a beauty, such a good mother!” Mom asked: “Well, what are you going to offer us?” She exclaimed: “Here is a jacket! Buy your daughter this charm, Schaub she wore it all her life. I thought longingly: “Why do we need a jacket for life? !" But, of course, this synthetic masterpiece of a monstrous pink color was bought. I carried the new thing for a week, until the first wash, after which the jacket shed and went spools.

- In 17 years. Passionately, fieryly, as expected by age and emotional status. We dated for three years, at the age of 20 I got married and lived in marriage for five years. Our son Dima was born. The boy was very restless, he did not sleep at all at night. Struggling with sleep, I took him out into the air in a stroller - there he finally calmed down, fell asleep, and I, shaking the stroller with my foot, made notes in a notebook. So the story “When will it snow?” Was written, which was also published in Youth. Unexpectedly, it became popular - they made a radio dramatization of it, staged a play. And I turned into a Tashkent celebrity.

Was your husband okay with your success or was he jealous?

- And what man, especially in his youth, will gladly accept the success of his wife? My husband is no exception. But this was not the only reason for our divorce. Still, there is such a thing in the world as your half - a person who is intended specifically for you. Here is my second husband is actually meant for me. And the first one just accidentally hurt me. Like a meteorite. I bumped into him and hurt him for many years. I left like a man, taking with me only my son and a typewriter. Later, with her fees, she bought Dimka and me a tiny one-room cooperative apartment not far from her parents.

- I repeat, my father hammered into me the main word - "duty". In everything. And of course, the child was my main duty. I lived on a break. But some incredible amount of energy bubbled up inside me. I remember making a living in Uzbekistan by translating Uzbek prose writers. In particular, there was such Nurali Kabul - the son-in-law of the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the republic Sharaf Rashidov. He wrote novels, they gave me an interlinear translation, and I made literature out of it. The result was published in the journal "Youth", and then translated into different languages ​​from my "translation". Nurali told me: “Dinkya-khon, why don’t you ask for anything? What do you need? Do you want a car, do you want an apartment? What to give you?" After thinking, I answered: “Nurali, do you have typewriter paper?” Then it was in short supply. And he gave me a pack of paper... From time to time, Nurali arranged a "tui" ("holiday." - Approx. "TN") for some Moscow guests. And he invited me of course, as his translator. But this eternal "duty, duty!" - Dad thought that I myself should manage my son and everyday difficulties. In a word, after sitting among the guests for a while, I got up and explained that I had to go home to my son. Nurali said: “I respect Dinka for what - he is a good mother ...”

- A film was shot based on my story “Tomorrow as usual”. The picture turned out worthless, but the music in it was lovely. It was written by the wonderful composer Sandor Kallosh. When I arrived in Moscow for dubbing, he said: "Dinochka, I want to introduce you to a brilliant artist." By that time, I had been alone for five years, albeit surrounded by a crowd of boyfriends who circled around me with intentions and hope. But I repeat: I am a difficult person and, most importantly, a workhorse, which means that it is not easy to endure me. Shandor was not aware of my personal life, he only wanted me to look at interesting pictures and meet a talented person. My reaction was from the series “thank you, no need” - I've had enough of artists since childhood. But still she went. Boris Karafelov had a huge workshop in the Palace of Pioneers. He taught there several days a week. I described all this in the story “The camera runs over!”. Although during my acquaintance with the painting of Boris I politely showed an approving attitude, his paintings did not make any impression on me at all. My father was an artist of a completely different direction, I grew up in realism, as if in materiality, and all the Borisov colors, multicolor, layering were incomprehensible to me, not close. But the artist himself liked. Short, thin, with incredible eyes - very gentle, chaste and at the same time deep, penetrating. Moreover, his character turned out to be soft, delicate, absolutely not pressing. In short, as it turned out later, Boris is the only person whom I can bear next to me for a long time. Nevertheless, I did not immediately lose my head, unlike him, who immediately began to seek reciprocity. Everything happened very rapidly and very seriously: letters, trips to Tashkent - the light is not near ... He completely won me over with his delightful old-fashionedness.

- Well, what are you, with all the great love for me, there has never been any loyalty. “Why are you getting married? You have a son, you have creativity! And for whom - for the artist ?! They are used to the fact that the daughter is alone and everything seems to be fine with her, so why the hell does she need more?! But in 1984 I went to Boris in Moscow, and two years later Eva was born to us. By the way, we registered secretly. In Tashkent. For big money - to speed up the process. First, they bought a certificate stating that I was pregnant for 25 rubles, and paid another 50 rubles for us to be signed by the day after tomorrow. The next day after the stamps in the passports were affixed, my mother's brother, Uncle Yasha, came to see me. A faithful communist, a man of extremely strict rules. It formed unexpectedly: he came to his parents, and this is a neighboring house, but there was no one there, and he came to me. At that moment I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, Boris was in the bathroom. Uncle Yasha entered the room and sat down to drink tea. Boris hid. For quite a long time he did not dare to appear, finally he could not stand it - well, how long can you stay locked up? He came out in sports trousers, a T-shirt and slippers. Uncle is dumbfounded. Silent scene. “Uncle Yasha,” I say, “meet me: this is my husband.” He choked, asked again: “Who, this one ?!” - with such an intonation, as if Boris was an escaped convict. “Yes,” I say, “we signed yesterday.” - "On what basis?!" - “Uncle Yash, how on what? Based on women's needs. Then he to Boris: “And what are you doing?” Borya admitted that he was an artist. Uncle Yasha looked at me derogatoryly: “Couldn’t you have picked up something more solid?” I have a funny family. But then everyone reconciled with my choice and, by the way, fell in love with Borya very much. (With a smile.) But what else could they do? Do you know when my husband finally conquered me? Shortly after we signed, my mother came to us. She somehow was very worried that she was not in the center of the incident. “Do you know, Boris, that Dina is a difficult person?” he asks. He said, "I know." “She after all,” she says, “can remain silent all day.” “I readily believe,” my husband replies. And I thought: "Here is finally a man who will swallow me with all my lotions." And indeed, Borya and I can not say a word to each other in a day. And it doesn't annoy anyone.

— Dina, why did you decide to emigrate?

- There were several reasons. One of them, quite weighty, was the fact that they gradually stopped publishing me. Obviously because I started writing something more serious than the romantic stories of a girl from the provinces. For example, the story "On the Upper Maslovka". It is now that she is so kind, filmed, translated into different languages, they write diplomas-dissertations on it in Western universities. And then they didn’t take her to Yunost. The heroes are some kind of marginal people, losers, an ancient old woman... Where are the hot topics, where is the nerve of our time?! I thought that in the end the light didn’t converge on Youth, and I went to other magazines. But even there they gave me a turn from the gate. I wrote some things that fell out of the social orientation, the heroes of my novels and stories were eccentrics - strange people with non-Soviet destinies who existed on their own, apart from any communities, parties. My characters did not fit into the reality of the mid-1980s, and I myself did not fit in ... And one more thing: it was a time when many districts of Moscow were plastered with anti-Semitic proclamations. This is exactly what makes our area different. And I cannot live in a situation that is offensive, unbearable for my well-being. I realized that I don’t want my children to grow up in this hostility ... We left for Israel at the end of 1990. I moved my whole family there. I didn’t have to persuade my husband - subtly feeling my condition, he understood how important this was for me. In addition, apparently, I have long wanted, as they say, “to change the pasture” - a purely writer's feeling of the exhaustion of the surrounding space and themes. However, that global move was a colossal test.

Emigration is not just a change of scenery. Not even a natural disaster. This is hara-kiri, suicide. Especially for a writer who writes in the language of the country he left. We left forever. No hope of return, no intention of returning. Having left the apartment, although in those years housing could already be privatized and sold, many of our acquaintances did just that. But I didn't do it. She left the country exactly as she left her first husband - she left everything, only she took the children. And took out, as it is ridiculous, only one thing. Except for Borya's paintings, paint brushes - and it was possible to take no more than 20 kg per person - I took my favorite Gzhel teapot, wrapping it in tucked up rags. It turned out to be two pairs of shorts - a son and a husband. (Chuckling.) With these two pairs of shorts, we started a new life.

- Yes, we landed straight into the war - with air raid sirens, with gas masks. I described all this in the story "In your gates." A few weeks before the start of the bombing, we were told how the air raid siren would sound and what to do at that moment. But when a chilling howl was heard for the first time in the middle of the night, I decided that the day of the Last Judgment had come. She lay motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. Boris brought him out of his stupor: “What are you lying about?! We put on gas masks and into the room!” In Israel, every house has a sealed room with a steel door, steel shutters on the windows - in case of chemical and other attacks. The hardest part was putting the gas mask on my four-year-old daughter. At these moments, Boris and Dimka and I began to dance around Eva, as if such a cheerful performance was taking place. (With a sigh.) Very scary, but there was no going back. It was just a matter of living on. The hardest test of strength was life itself. A million people fell upon the country, there was no work, the language still had to be learned. All the little money that we were given in the form of lifting money was spent on an apartment, on a refrigerator, on a heater ... There was nowhere else to take it. And I set about doing what most of the women who came from the Soviet Union then did, regardless of education, former social status and other Soviet regalia - I went to wash the floors for 10 shekels an hour. After all, the worst thing is the ghost of your starving children.

Yes, there was a shock. It’s just that now I know that I’ve already died once—at that time. For me, it was definitely death. I knew for sure: my writer's earthly life was over. It’s just that I couldn’t cope with my gut, with verbal magma, with images that involuntarily overwhelmed me. Understand, I have been writing since childhood, all my life, by that time I was already the author of four books, that is, a completely established writer, and writing was my tick, the running of my hand that had been accumulated over the years.

- Well, what to do? After all, I am quite a hardy woman ... But soon I was offered a position as an editor in a tiny publishing company. They paid very little money, but still it was a stable income. She received a small grant for the publication of a book - the circulation, of course, is scanty, but even that is bread. I began to travel around the country, speak to readers - also some pennies. So little by little life began to improve. And finally, a wonderful period came: Borya's paintings began to sell well. The first one was bought at an auction in Nice. It was serious money, we became terribly animated and ... for the first time since our arrival, my husband and I went to a cafe.

- They do not “take away” - each person has the opportunity to choose alternative types of service. They go voluntarily because it is necessary. And there's nothing to write about. Of course, when my children put on military uniforms, I, like any mother, worried. But at the same time, I was proud. The fact is that this country rests on the shoulders of our children. If not for a strong army, it would have been crushed long ago. We simply have no other choice. Mine served honestly, as they say, according to the Hamburg account. Especially Eva - she served in very serious, prestigious troops.

- Dima works as a manager in a large trading company - he orders products, he always conducts some kind of negotiations. Awarded with certificates every year. Eva received her first university degree in English literature and is now completing her second degree in archeology, preparing to defend her diploma. She plans to continue with her dissertation. She draws beautifully, writes prose and poetry, both in English and in Hebrew. And I also have a wonderful Karina Pasternak, whom I consider to be an adopted daughter. At the beginning of the 2000s, I was the head of cultural and public relations in the Moscow branch of the Sokhnut agency, and Karina worked in my department. She became a very close friend of our family, and when we were supposed to return to Israel, she suddenly said: "I want to go with you." I was taken aback: “How?! What about mom, grandma? You are their only one." But she firmly stood her ground. I had to discuss this topic with her mother, who now comes to Israel with pleasure to visit her daughter. And Karinka made a remarkable career here, she became the website designer of the famous museum in memory of the victims of the Holocaust of the Jewish people "Yad Vashem". He drives around in his car, rents an apartment not far from us. On Fridays, all the children gather for a family dinner.

“I would say amazing. My granddaughter was a huge discovery for me. It's so funny and instructive for me to watch Shaili - that's her name. In Hebrew, it means "a gift to me." At first I was dumbfounded by such an unusual name for Russian hearing, I hoped that after all the child would be called humanly. But now I'm used to it. And I already hear something dance-French in the name ...

- Never. Although recently I had to turn to the Parsley Syndrome, but only because a friend asked for advice on dolls. While I was working on the novel, I studied the topic thoroughly. So I was forced to return to my writing. I began to read. And she remembered a wonderful story about Tolstoy, when, while putting things in order, he pulled out a sheet of writing from some crack and ... read it out, and having read it to the end, said: “Who wrote this? Well written!” I had the same feeling here. I even called Boris. He came down from the workshop: "What happened?!" And I say: “Borka, you know, a very good book!” Here I said that I can not be happy. That's right, it is. And yet I know what happiness is. When the book is finished and by pressing a computer key I send it to the publisher, at that moment I experience incomparable, great happiness.

Career: author of several dozen collections of novels, short stories and seven novels: "On the Sunny Side of the Street", "Petrushka's Syndrome", etc. She taught at the Tashkent Institute of Culture, headed the literary association under the Union of Writers of Uzbekistan, headed the department of cultural programs of the Jewish Agency"Dry"