- Hm ... We'll have to operate within these limits. Can you say the following sentence in French: "Gentlemen, I haven't eaten for six days"?
“Monsieur,” Ippolit Matveyevich began, stammering, “monsieur, hm, hm ... isn’t it, isn’t it, isn’t it mange pas ... six, how it is, en, de, trois, quatre, senck, sis ... sis ... zhur. So - it's not mange pa sis jour!
Well, you have the pronunciation. Kitty! However, what to demand from a beggar. Of course, a beggar in European Russia speaks French worse than Millerand. Well, Kisulya, and to what extent do you know German?
Why do I need all this? exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich.
“Then,” said Ostap weightily, “that you will now go to the Flower Garden, stand in the shade and beg in French, German and Russian, emphasizing that you are a former member of the State Duma from the cadet faction. The entire net fee will go to fitter Mechnikov. Got it?
Ippolit Matveyevich instantly changed. His chest arched like the Palace Bridge in Leningrad, his eyes darted fire, and thick smoke, as it seemed to Ostap, poured out of his nostrils. The mustache slowly began to rise.
“Ay-yai-yai,” he said. grand schemer, without any fear. - Look at him. Not a man, but some humpbacked horse.
“Never,” Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly began to ventriloquize, “never did Vorobyaninov stretch out his hand ...
“So stretch your legs, you old fool!” shouted Ostap. - You didn't put out your hands?
- Didn't hold out.
How do you like this gigolo? Three months lives on my account! For three months I feed him, sing and educate him, and this gigolo is now in the third position and declares that he ... Well! Enough, comrade! One of two things: either you immediately go to the "Flower Garden" and bring ten rubles by the evening, or I automatically exclude you from the number of concessionaires. I count to five. Yes or no? Once…
“Yes,” muttered the leader.
“In that case, repeat the spell.
“Monsieur, it’s not mange pa sis jour. Geben world zi bitte etwas kopeck auf dem shtuk ford. Serve something former deputy State Duma.
- Again. More pathetic.
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated.
- OK then. You have a talent for begging since childhood. Go. Appointment at the source at midnight. This, keep in mind, is not for romance, but simply in the evening they serve more.
“And you,” asked Ippolit Matveyevich, “where are you going?”
“Don't worry about me. I act, as always, in the most difficult place.
The friends parted ways.
Ostap ran to a stationery shop, bought there a receipt book with his last dime, and sat on a stone pedestal for about an hour, renumbering the receipts and signing each of them.
“First of all, the system,” he muttered, “every public penny must be accounted for.
The great strategist moved at a shooting pace along the mountain road leading around Mashuk to the place of the duel between Lermontov and Martynov. Past the sanatoriums and rest houses, overtaken by buses and horse-drawn carriages, Ostap came out to Proval.
A small gallery carved into the rock led to a cone-shaped (cone up) failure. The gallery ended with a balcony, standing on which one could see a small puddle of malachite fetid liquid at the bottom of the failure. This failure is considered a landmark of Pyatigorsk, and therefore a considerable number of excursions and single tourists visit it every day.
Ostap immediately found out that a failure for a person devoid of prejudice can be a profitable item.
“It’s amazing,” thought Ostap, “how the city hasn’t thought of charging dimes for entering Proval until now. This seems to be the only place where the Pyatigorsk residents let tourists without money. I will destroy this shameful stain on the reputation of the city, I will correct the unfortunate omission.
And Ostap did as his mind, healthy instinct and the situation prompted him to do.
He stopped at the entrance to the Proval and, waving the receipt book in his hands, from time to time cried out:
“Get your tickets, folks. Ten cents! Children and Red Army soldiers for free! Students - five kopecks! Non-members of the trade union - thirty kopecks.
Ostap beat for sure. Pyatigorsk residents did not go to Proval, and it was not the slightest difficulty to charge ten kopecks from a Soviet tourist for entering “somewhere”. By five o'clock, six rubles had already accumulated. It was not members of the union that helped, of which there were many in Pyatigorsk. Everyone trustingly handed over their kopecks, and one ruddy-faced tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
“Do you see, Tanyusha, what I told you yesterday? And you said you didn't have to pay to enter the Proval. It can't be! Really, comrade?
“It’s absolutely true,” Ostap confirmed, “it can’t be, so as not to be taken as an entrance. Union members - ten kopecks. Children and Red Army soldiers for free. Students - five kopecks and non-union members - thirty kopecks.
Before evening, a tour of Kharkov policemen drove up to Proval on two lines. Ostap was frightened and wanted to pretend to be an innocent tourist, but the policemen so timidly crowded around the great strategist that there was no way to retreat. Therefore, Ostap shouted in a rather firm voice:
- Members of the union - ten kopecks, but since the representatives of the police can be equated with students and children, then five kopecks from them.
The militiamen paid, having delicately inquired for what purpose the nickels were collected.
- With the aim of overhaul Fail, - Ostap replied boldly, - so as not to fail too much.
While the great strategist deftly traded with a view of a malachite puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunched over and wallowing in shame, stood under the acacia tree and, without looking at the walkers, chewed the three phrases handed to him:
“Monsieur, it’s not a mange… Gebenzi, peace be a bitte… Give something to a deputy of the State Duma…”
Served not so little, but somehow unhappy. However, playing on the purely Parisian pronunciation of the word "mange" and exciting the souls of the plight of the former member of the State Duma, they managed to pick up three ruble coppers.
Gravel crackled under their feet. The orchestra played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with short breaks. The bright crowd, babbling, rolled past the old leader and returned back. The shadow of Lermontov hovered invisibly over the citizens who ate matsoni on the veranda of the buffet. There was a smell of cologne and narzan gases.
- Hm ... We'll have to operate within these limits. Can you say the following sentence in French: "Gentlemen, I haven't eaten for six days"?
“Monsieur,” Ippolit Matveyevich began, stammering, “monsieur, hm, hm ... isn’t it, isn’t it, isn’t it mange pas ... six, how it is, en, de, trois, quatre, senck, sis ... sis ... zhur. So - it's not mange pa sis jour!
Well, you have the pronunciation. Kitty! However, what to demand from a beggar. Of course, a beggar in European Russia speaks French worse than Millerand. Well, Kisulya, to what extent do you know German?
Why do I need all this? exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich.
“Then,” Ostap said weightily, “that you will now go to the Flower Garden, stand in the shade and beg in French, German and Russian, emphasizing that you are a former member of the State Duma from the Cadet faction. The entire net fee will go to fitter Mechnikov. Got it?
Ippolit Matveyevich instantly changed. His chest arched like the Palace Bridge in Leningrad, his eyes darted fire, and thick smoke, as it seemed to Ostap, poured out of his nostrils. The mustache slowly began to rise.
- Ay-yai-yai, - said the great strategist, not at all frightened. - Look at him. Not a man, but some humpbacked horse.
“Never,” Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly began to ventriloquize, “never did Vorobyaninov stretch out his hand ...
“So stretch your legs, you old fool!” shouted Ostap. - You didn't put out your hands?
- Didn't hold out.
How do you like this gigolo? Three months lives on my account! For three months I feed him, sing and educate him, and this gigolo is now in the third position and declares that he ... Well! Enough, comrade! One of two things: either you immediately go to the "Flower Garden" and bring ten rubles by the evening, or I automatically exclude you from the number of concessionaires. I count to five. Yes or no? Once…
“Yes,” muttered the leader.
“In that case, repeat the spell.
“Monsieur, it’s not mange pa sis jour. Geben world zi bitte etwas kopeck auf dem shtuk ford. Give something to the former deputy of the State Duma.
- Again. More pathetic.
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated.
- OK then. You have a talent for begging since childhood. Go. Appointment at the source at midnight. This, keep in mind, is not for romance, but simply in the evening they serve more.
“And you,” asked Ippolit Matveyevich, “where are you going?”
“Don't worry about me. I act, as always, in the most difficult place.
The friends parted ways.
Ostap ran to a stationery shop, bought there a receipt book with his last dime, and sat on a stone pedestal for about an hour, renumbering the receipts and signing each of them.
“First of all, the system,” he muttered, “every public penny must be accounted for.
The great strategist moved at a shooting pace along the mountain road leading around Mashuk to the place of the duel between Lermontov and Martynov. Past the sanatoriums and rest houses, overtaken by buses and horse-drawn carriages, Ostap came out to Proval.
A small gallery carved into the rock led to a cone-shaped (cone up) failure. The gallery ended with a balcony, standing on which one could see a small puddle of malachite fetid liquid at the bottom of the failure. This failure is considered a landmark of Pyatigorsk, and therefore a considerable number of excursions and single tourists visit it every day.
Ostap immediately found out that a failure for a person devoid of prejudice can be a profitable item.
“It’s amazing,” thought Ostap, “how the city hasn’t thought of charging dimes for entering Proval until now. This seems to be the only place where the Pyatigorsk residents let tourists without money. I will destroy this shameful stain on the reputation of the city, I will correct the unfortunate omission.
And Ostap did as his mind, healthy instinct and the situation prompted him to do.
He stopped at the entrance to the Proval and, waving the receipt book in his hands, from time to time cried out:
“Get your tickets, folks. Ten cents! Children and Red Army soldiers for free! Students - five kopecks! Non-members of the trade union - thirty kopecks.
Ostap beat for sure. Pyatigorsk residents did not go to Proval, and it was not the slightest difficulty to charge ten kopecks from a Soviet tourist for entering “somewhere”. By five o'clock, six rubles had already accumulated. It was not members of the union that helped, of which there were many in Pyatigorsk. Everyone trustingly handed over their kopecks, and one ruddy-faced tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
“Do you see, Tanyusha, what I told you yesterday? And you said you didn't have to pay to enter the Proval. It can't be! Really, comrade?
“It’s absolutely true,” Ostap confirmed, “it can’t be, so as not to be taken as an entrance. Union members - ten kopecks. Children and Red Army soldiers for free. Students - five kopecks and non-union members - thirty kopecks.
Before evening, a tour of Kharkov policemen drove up to Proval on two lines. Ostap was frightened and wanted to pretend to be an innocent tourist, but the policemen so timidly crowded around the great strategist that there was no way to retreat. Therefore, Ostap shouted in a rather firm voice:
- Members of the union - ten kopecks, but since the representatives of the police can be equated with students and children, then five kopecks from them.
The militiamen paid, having delicately inquired for what purpose the nickels were collected.
“For the purpose of overhauling the Pit,” Ostap replied defiantly, “so that it doesn’t collapse too much.
While the great strategist deftly traded with a view of a malachite puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunched over and wallowing in shame, stood under the acacia tree and, without looking at the walkers, chewed the three phrases handed to him:
“Monsieur, it’s not a mange… Gebenzi, peace be a bitte… Give something to a deputy of the State Duma…”
Served not so little, but somehow unhappy. However, playing on the purely Parisian pronunciation of the word "mange" and exciting the souls of the plight of the former member of the State Duma, they managed to pick up three ruble coppers.
Gravel crackled under their feet. The orchestra played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with short breaks. The bright crowd, babbling, rolled past the old leader and returned back. The shadow of Lermontov hovered invisibly over the citizens who ate matsoni on the veranda of the buffet. There was a smell of cologne and narzan gases.
My boss, a deputy, like many deputies, periodically takes part in various charity events. There is a small special fund to finance such events. Since citizens often turn to a deputy specifically for money, as in a kind of mutual aid fund, the fund never overflows. Most of appeals is of a dubious nature, such as “I invested all the money in MMM, now the bank is evicting me from the apartment. But I found a way out - poker. But I also lost in poker. I need 50 thousand to win back.” or “I decided to change my life, go into self-employment, quit my job, went through psychological training and bought a batch of goods. Now the goods are not for sale, and the money has run out. Give me 100 thousand for a new training, which will tell you what to do in such situations. Of course, we refuse such requests.
Here are some more examples of recent monetary claims:
1. A citizen wants to scatter leaflets over the city from a helicopter in Pussy support Riot. Asks for money to rent a helicopter. He has already made leaflets, handwritten. About 100 pieces. Refused. He said that he knew it, the bloody regime and the strangulation of democracy. He could not explain the reason why leaflets should be dropped from a helicopter. Apparently, he just wants to ride a helicopter.
2. The citizen asked cash to buy a homeopathic medicine. The course costs 50 thousand. She has been drinking it for a year, it did not help. Went back to the homeopath. The homeopath said that it is necessary to reduce the dosage and extend the course. The citizen has no money of her own, the pension is small. Refused. She said that she would complain about us to the prosecutor's office. Flag in hand, gave the address of the prosecutor's office.
3. The citizen made a bet with a drinking buddy that he could bite his own elbow. Bet on an apartment. I couldn't bite my elbow. As a gentleman true to his word, he “rewrote” the apartment to the citizen who won the bet. Now there is nowhere to live, he asks for help in finding housing. D'Artagnan was sent to the city administration.
4. Numerous businessmen who went bankrupt on the distribution of various ("natural", "natural", "homeopathic", "nano-.", "bioenergetic" and other exotic) cosmetics. As a rule, they offer to buy stale goods, or shake out the money paid for cosmetics from the supplier.
5. Some active lady. She said that she represents a group of fans who delegated her to the Olympics in London. She asked me to pay for a plane ticket to London and a visit sports events. When asked what the deputy has to do with her entertainment abroad, she found it difficult to answer. He suggested that she take a souvenir compass with party symbols. Offended, she said that she would tell everyone about the callousness of power. I agree, so be it.
6. Citizen, intends to participate in auto racing. Said he needed funding to buy a sports car. He has already looked after the car, used, but the price is ridiculous, only one and a half million. He loves speed and has no doubts about his victory.
7. Somewhere in the Moscow region, a stud farm is being liquidated. A citizen came and asked for money to buy one of the liquidated horses. The horse intends to be used in entrepreneurial activity(for short-term lease for reproduction). The deputy promised to ride a horse through the streets of the city for free, and attach an election campaign to the saddle.
8.Industrial artist. Creates canvases from scrap metal scraps, canvas and ropes. Game is rare. Complains about being constrained living conditions, asks to allocate a studio necessary for creativity with an area of at least two hundred square meters. He is ready to save us from the torment of searching for a studio, he has already looked for a suitable apartment (a penthouse on the top floor of an elite house with a terrace). I’m even ready (appreciate the generosity!) not to register the apartment as a property, but just to use it for work and living.
9. The citizen breeds chickens. He said that he had invented an installation for extracting electricity from chicken manure, which would make his chicken farming completely environmentally friendly and autonomous. We need money to create a prototype unit. We didn't give money. The story continued. The local power company said that the citizen did not pay for electricity, despite the fact that his farm was shining with bright lights at night. The farmer replied that he was not only a chicken breeder, but also an inventor, built an electrochemical generator on chicken manure, and now he meant power engineers. Power engineers showed themselves to be people of principle and discovered a secret cable of illegal connection to power lines, skillfully disguised with chicken excrement. After disconnecting the specified cable, the chicken shit reactor stopped generating electricity. Power engineers write a statement of claim to the court and usually to the police. A man writes letters to the FAS, the European Court of Human Rights, Greenpeace and the UN.
Closhards.
Recently went to Nantes as before every other day on business on a cloudy drowsy Sunday morning. However, on Sundays, France is always half asleep, and then there is the beginning of October, fog in the morning - autumn is in full swing, the feeling that the city is three-quarters extinct altogether. I got out of the car near the entrance to my store. Directly in front of the corner wall, three people are sitting on the tiles and eating "French fried potatoes"," fries ", in short, in cardboard boxes. A meal right on the pavement, and it would be okay at a blank door, we are already accustomed to this ... the main thing is to sit so as not to disturb anyone. Oh well, what else to do. Drive away them impossible.
French bums - clochards - is a separate song. I first encountered them at the Lyon station in Paris, when for the first time I could independently (without the help of my wife) move around the country. And in Paris, I’m walking in some dark passage, I meet a guy with a dog, he says something in French, I happily declare that I don’t speak French, then he speaks good English: “Do you have a few centimes for me and my dog?" WITH with a pure heart I say no.
Most often, clochards are young hippie-looking people, quite stylishly dressed (if we mean hippie fashion, so to speak), even though they live on the street (maybe not 100 percent, maybe there are some "huts", I don't know, I only saw that, in particular, they spend the night in tunnels, under bridges, and river buses passing by along the Seine honk their greetings. Often they sit near shops or the post office, asking for money or food, a light. Usually their dogs, such as our mongrels, are quite tall, red or brown, sometimes even thoroughbred, like Rottweilers.
Remember the movie "Amelie Poulain". There is a very well shown such a type with a dog. When Amelie leaves for her father. The clochard at the station had a day off. And he doesn't work on weekends. That is, they do not take money. Principle. One Frenchman told me that it seems like if they are with dogs, then the police cannot touch them, but I did not understand why. Dogs must be collared and on a leash, even if it's just rough ropes. However, this is more of a style. The French have everything in style, even the homeless and their dogs. And it is not customary to shy away from them. People greet them, often by the hand, with a smile. I don't speak French or Je ne comprends pas (I don't understand)). Although the local clochards in Nantes near the shop address me as Victor or maître (master). I give them bread, kefir (made in Russia), some sausages and brushes for the sidewalk, at first they only took food, but after two weeks they were scrubbing the sidewalk near the store every morning. Most importantly, I am calm. They are like guards for the night, and witnesses, if anything. And they will help unload the car, and disperse unreliable homeless people.
One of my Russian acquaintances told how she and her girlfriend shied away from them for the first time, so then the Kloshariki gave them a whole polite lecture, they say, why are you like that? We are not doing anything bad to you, etc. In general, brought up on highest level. They talk to passers-by, they can have a philosophical conversation, but they often ask for money or food, a light. Clochards themselves are very, very polite: " Good evening, madam! Do you have a few centimes? Have a good evening, love, goodbye, Bonne nuit". However, everyone here is so polite. And they never ask for a lot of money. Mostly a trifle. But if you give him a euro, looks into his eyes scrutinizingly, They want respect for themselves and not handouts. True, the gypsies who beg for alms on a commerce are often hastily bypassed by the French, contemptuously pursing their lips (mostly gypsies from Romania, Albania, Moldova). Moreover, they "get" these gypsies specifically and brazenly. Paris and all the cities of France, they will never fall ....
Clochards in Paris are not as common as they used to be in the 60s - 80s, perhaps they are looking for somewhere warmer. Or maybe it's an accident, but on the Cote d'Azur I saw them much more often than in Paris. I was especially struck by a tramp in Marseille. He had chosen a place on the pier next to the garbage cans, and all his belongings were laid out next to him. He had a lot of things - they were neatly arranged in piles around him. And clothes, and quite evenly folded, and some mugs, bottles, bottles, magazines, newspapers and much more ... But what struck me the most was when he finished something like a hamburger, he took out a napkin, wiped his lips, then threw it in the trash can. I couldn't take a picture of it (battery died).
But even in Paris, you can see more dull tramps sleeping right on the ground. Clochards of Paris - seemingly inconspicuous, but by no means simple beggars begging from local residents and tourists. Each Parisian clochard is unique in its own way, and in most cases it is either a ruined artist, an unrecognized poet or a musician lost in time, or simply someone who is tired of the bustle of the metropolis, drunk.
This is a clochard from Rennes. At first I thought the man had a heart problem. I asked him: "Problemes"? From his answer to my normal (in our) question, I realized that he had recently lost a lot in his life. Family, communication with children. work. Photo taken by me in moments of his despair. He cried. And the next day, near the metro station, he stood and greeted me with a smile. What did he experience, experienced during these days?
Many Parisian clochards know art, history, often among them there are very educated and educated people. Life and death in their prose go hand in hand here - even on famous cemetery Montmartre Parisian clochards come for a walk, bring their children and grandchildren.
This is not a clochard. I thought so right away. But I was told that this is a matter of taste. This is how some madams dress in Rennes and in many cities of France. About clochards further.
Paris, le Défense. It seems to be new modern center Paris. But you can see it there too.
Each visit to Paris surprises with the number of tourists, but the main thing is homeless people, that is, clochards, or as I call them clochards or cloches. I singled out the scene when, trying to push through a crowd of tourists with a baby carriage, the oncoming Parisian exclaimed with annoyance: “How tired of these tourists! Don't pass, don't drive!" But he apparently got used to the homeless, although there are a hell of a lot of them too. They are always grimy and often drunk lying on the streets and at the subway entrances almost in piles. They love to lie on a bench in the park during the day.
This photo is not related to the text above. This is not the Frenchman with the child. This is a clochard.
Some have completely sunk down - dirty, smelly, tattered ... Others look ordinary - a normal uncle walks down the street in the evening and suddenly turns to the nearest shop, lies down on it, pulls a jacket over his head and settles in for the night. Or a normal-looking aunt moves around the car and asks everyone for money to “eat”. But there is a special category upper caste or rank - these are clochards who know their worth. For three months, his shorts may not have been washed, as well as his socks, but there may be a snow-white scarf around his neck, or in the breast pocket of a wrinkled and dirty jacket, clean neatly folded into a quarter handkerchief.
There is also a Russian "trace" among Parisian clochards. This is Vladimir Moskovtsev. How he got to Paris, how he stayed here, how and who he was before, is a mystery to me. I do not know yet. One thing is known, he had problems in Russia even under Yeltsin. But he did it like this...
Mike, sweatpants with which he probably got here.
Here it is, a modest but cozy (for a homeless person) dwelling under a bridge in Paris. Sat. Satisfied. Digital camera, camcorder, phone (and cell phones are oh so expensive in France). He wants to buy a laptop (he said that he wants to fly to Moscow for it). Near a cafe, Wi-Fi gets. In the evening the table is full of food. Drinks little. But if it starts...
The railway line where he lives is abandoned, so trains do not run on it and, accordingly, do not annoy. The woman next to our hero is his French friend Antoinette. She is not a homeless woman, but, on the contrary, a domestic woman - a doctor (or a nurse), works in a virological laboratory. With what hangover did she get in touch with a homeless foreigner who speaks disgusting French, with conversations "Well, like, what, again you brought the wrong sausage, are you persecuting?" It’s not clear to me, but she already understands Russian quite well, and in the summer they went on vacation to Italy. They traveled to Italy at her expense, of course. And for whose else? ..
There is also a special style. Aerobatics extortion. The most common way to earn money for dinner is to play the "golden ring". The fraudster allegedly lifts a massive jewelry from under the feet of the tourist, which he allegedly dropped. As soon as a person touches the bait, there is no getting rid of the annoying tramp. At best, you will have to thank him for the "find", at worst - under the onslaught of threats to contact the police.
There are also more exotic ways of taking money from gullible guests of Paris. Like from a hungry swoon on the threshold of a confectionery or a demonstrative attempt to drown oneself in the Seine in full view of compassionate Americans. However, even without acting talent, starving to death in Paris is problematic: even on the worst days, a homeless person rarely makes less than €15 per day with minimum wage 1200€. Eat interesting rule in supermarkets - if you took something from the window and ate it, then you are hungry. This also applies to clochards. An ordinary buyer will not tear the packaging to the checkout. But clochards rarely use this. As a last resort. Honor, conscience, or something. In extreme cases, they steal very rarely. The main thieves of supermarkets are Albanians and Romanians.
I want to talk about Pierre. He is not one of those Frenchmen about whom one old traveler wrote that "you have not yet finished the question, but he said his answer, bowed and left." We met him six months ago, when I got into a situation while in Paris. At the turn from Concorde Square, a nimble car hit a woman, and immediately, as on any Russian street, a crowd “gasping” and hotly discussing the incident formed around. Only one man with a thin goatee and dark hair falling in a wave from under his hat onto a light raincoat stood aside and looked expectantly in the direction of the Tati store. There was a policeman with a radiotelephone to whom he immediately turned, and then a red car that looked like a fire engine emerged from the other side of the street.
- Who is this? I asked the man with the goatee as nimble guys in blue overalls jumped out of the car.
- "Poppier-sapper", they provide the first medical care he replied. And he introduced himself, raising his hat: - Pierre Laval.
So, it turns out, what “firemen-sappers” look like, about which I have already heard a lot. We didn't even have time to say a couple of words when the orderlies laid the victim down, carried her into the car and drove off, taking the howl of the siren with them.
- Fast! Yes? Pierre said. “They once saved my uncle Albert when he didn’t want to live on welfare and threw himself under a car.
I could not determine in any way whether Pierre was a real clochard or just a wanderer, but that he, with his hectic life did not leave the main human qualities and their gourmet manners - that's for sure. Then, neatly laying out slices of sausage and cheese on a bench (of course, first placing a plastic bag and paper napkins), he enlightened me on what and how they serve in Parisian restaurants, as if he had spent the whole evening there yesterday.
“Do you know that in the most expensive of them, in the Silver Tower near Notre Dame, they serve numbered duck? No? - He was delighted at my ignorance, and continued: - Since the founding of this restaurant, that is, for several centuries, numbering has been carried out. signature dish- stuffed duck. You gnaw the bones of a duck, of course, unusually tasty, and, in addition, you take with you a memorable “document” with the number of the bird you personally ate. Well, the “appetizer” is already ready, ”Pierre said the new one he liked. Russian word. I understood it and quickly went to the nearest "Russian" store (and there are many of them in Paris). And here is a bottle of vodka poured into plastic cups, quite simply, according to ours, with a conversation, only under a wonderful Parisian warm spring evening, she played her part. We broke up despite the fact that he did not ask me for a cent.
And as it was before. In Protestant England and Holland, beginning in the 16th century, beggars were herded into workhouses. The worst conditions were in Germany: in some correctional institutions, beggars were kept in muzzles.
Beginning in 1596, a law was in force in Paris, according to which all beggars who did not leave the city could be hanged without observing legal formalities.
In the era of Peter the Great in Russia, the highest decree was issued, requiring not only to drive the beggars into "strait houses", but also to fine those who gave alms for 10 rubles - in those days a huge amount.
Before the 1980 Olympics, the Moscow authorities carried out an operation to resettle all homeless people outside the 100-kilometer zone around the capital of the USSR. Foreigners were once again convinced of the advantages of socialism.
The authorities of the gambling capital of the world, Las Vegas, have passed a decree banning feeding the homeless on the streets of the city. Violators face fines and jail time. In this way, the authorities want to push the homeless to look for legal work.
I still do not quite understand and do not know the philosophy and style of their life. Just from those whom I met were interesting and creative people. It doesn't mean that all bugs are like that. Live. They write poetry. novels. sometimes travel.
But you can often hear how they speak like they say like the immortal phrase: "Monsieur, do not mange pa sis jur"!
Localization of names is not only a scourge Russian rolled products. Let's take another look at how this is the case in the homeland of cinema.
Four years ago we already talked about movie titles. Let's see how things are now, this summer?
Then we identified four ways to localize — and, not surprisingly, examples of each of these four creative ways can be seen on posters adorning French cinemas this summer.
1. The name is translated directly, head-on, without any changes
Works well if we are talking about cities and other geographical names known literary works etc.
Or, let's say, about medical terms - here's "Arrhythmia" for you.
Despite the fact that our localizers slightly spoiled the name of the picture - they called it "Reincarnation", giving out one plot twist - "Innate" and remained "Innate" in the French box office.
However, in some cases the name is translated taking into account already established traditions. For example, in the classic French translation by A. A. Milne, the boy's name is not Christopher Robin, but ... Jean-Christophe (apparently, it is easier for children to associate themselves with a familiar name than with a foreign one). As a result, this year the French box office is waiting for "Jean-Christophe and Vinnie" instead of the original "Christopher Robin".
2. The title is not translated at all
It is most often used when referring to titles consisting solely of proper names or already well-known franchises.
Here, for example, "Tally" with Charlize Theron - everywhere "Tally".
“Hotel Artemis has not changed a single letter in the name.
"Moth" remains "Moth" (especially since the hero who bears this nickname is French).
But as for the franchises - let's say this summer "Jurassic World 2" in France came out exactly under the same name as in their homeland, no translations, only Jurassic World Fallen Kingdom.
And "Mission Impossible: Consequences" remained in the French box office Mission: Impossible—Fallout.
A funny version of this case is to use original name with the addition of the French article (" do you know what they call a big mac? lol big mac!"). Eg? this year so "lucky" the film " book club"- he is from the original Book Club turned into Le Book Club.
Sometimes there is a mixture of the first and second paragraphs - the name is partially translated. Most often this happens when a certain character or work on French established name, not translated into French. For example, this year's Ant-Man and the Wasp fell into that category: Ant-Man in French translations of Marvel is traditionally referred to as AntMan, directly in English in French text (by the way, a similar situation happens with many Marvel and DC heroes). But Osu is being translated, and it has turned from an English-speaking The Wasp to French la Guépe. The result is on the poster.
3. There is a new, creative name in French
Sometimes close to the original - so, " Quiet place» ( A Quiet Place) John Krasinski turned into Not a Sound ( Sans un bruit).
Sometimes not so close: New film Steven Soderbergh of Unsane(in our country it was famously localized as "Not in itself") turned into "Paranoia" - that is, instead of describing the heroine, we immediately have a medical diagnosis.
The movie Meg: Monster of the Deep, originally known as The Meg, in French rental comes out under the romantic title "In dangerous waters» ( En eaux troubles).
A combination of the second and third approaches: some are not translatable, some are creative, is also found. Let's say what happened with the second "Killer" this year. "Soldier's Day" in the original became the "War of the Cartels" in the French box office, while maintaining Sicario In the title.
4. There is a new, creative name in English
For example, The Purge franchise is known in France as American Nightmare.
But this year's Sundance winner, The Miseducation of Cameron Post is released in French theaters under a mysterious title. Come as you are - there is not even a translation and not a retelling of the plot, but only a song Nirvana bands in associations.
The French are a complex people, and to understand how the names will go better (with translation, original, redone, or even invented anew) - right off the bat, apparently without knowledge target audience fail. So they continue to use all four approaches.
