Текст книги "Рыжик-мореплаватель / Ginger, the sailor"

60. It All Came Back to Where it Had Started

The way home was far from direct, however. The dry cargo ship sailed from Marseilles into Naples passing by Corsica, where Napoleon came into the world, then it passed by Sicily, where Don Karleone was brought into the world, and just from there sailed into Aegean sea to the Dardanelles, doubled Greece…

"Congratulations, friends!" said the captain, having formed the crew. "We sailed this strait across last year, when we sailed Egypt and we are sailing it across now, having returned from the other side of the Globe. So we’ve circumnavigated the world sailed with you. Someone has sailed more than once," the captain looked at the boatswain and Serga askew, "but most people is sailing first. It is a great honour for any sailor. Congratulations!"

"Hurrah!" shouted the crew so loudly that Ginger bounced on the mast and gave an anxious chirp:

"What has happened? What’s the matter? Are we looking, aren’t we? Have frightened me, devils…"

Having heard the twittering, the sailors threw back their heads up, as if they saw their red friend first.

"But it is this imp that has also sailed around the world… And Changa…"

"Unfortunately, she is unlikely to prove this but we’ll write Changa a certificate," the captain said with a smile, turning round to Serga and his dog. "It will come in handy for its future pedigree."

"It is very likely so," agreed Serga. "A lot of papers will be required ashore. This is not a sea."

61. To Home Town

Having passed the Sea of Marmara and Bosporus strait the dry cargo ship ran for home port.

"Coming home we are!" rejoiced the sailors.

"Home!" sighed Serga. "How many times I came back the same way and felt nothing but joy. Homeland, brers."

"And now?"

"Certainly, I did now. But if you realize this long-distant trip to be the last one, the joy turns out with a taste of bitterness."

"Don’t go away. Nobody turns you out."

"Old age drives," smiled Serga crookedly. "Oceans are in need of young people. But don’t argue, devils, you’ll realize it some day…"

"Where will you go to, Sergey Ivanich? Into a port?"

"I was invited into the port too. We shall see what we shall see. I should take care of these friends, as well," Serga motioned to Changa, that was lying not far from him, and Ginger, which exhausted Changa, hopping first on the dog’s pads then on it’s belly.

The closer the dry cargo ship was nearing home port the more restive Changa was getting. As a young puppy Changa was brought by Serga into his house. It was here that Changa knew the joy of a solid ground, a million of land’s smells and now she felt by instinct their approaching home coast.

Keeping their countenance, the captain as well as the boatswain and all the other sailors were excited; they hadn’t been at home for half a year.

"He has no such an instinct," said Serga watching the sparrow. "A bird of passage feels when it ought to fly, where to… It will fly over thousands of kilometers and will not miss it’s swamp and perch it! As for a sparrow it is another thing. He doesn’t fly far off."

"And do you remember how he longed to Istanbul last autumn?"

‘I should think so! Certainly! Every town seemed to be his home town for him then. But it is quite the reverse today."

62. The Homecoming

Ginger as usual was one of the first who saw the band of the dry land in the distance and proclaimed it to the whole team:

"Land! Land!" he twittered as he used to do when a piece of the continent or an island appeared on the horizon. "And I would like to see the port!"

During the journey the sparrow realized: you can hope to feel the bliss of heaven stepping on the dry land only when you can see cranes, hangars and other port’s belongings. It was many times when the land passed by only because of the lack of a port.

And now Ginger was flying from one mast to another and observing closely the forthcoming band of dry land. His perfect eyesight was noticing the slightest details. It is a port!

"A gr-reate shore, indeed!" Ginger cried. "Stop sleeping, sleepyheads. The port is ahead."

But all the team of the dry cargo ship except the watches has already crowded on deck.

"Well, ragged devils, are you missing the land?" Ginger twittered and turned his eyes to the city.

He has never met two identical ports while sailing. Bays, lighthouses, berths, even cranes, hangars, cars were all different. But today it seemed to Ginger that he had already seen this port. And the city seemed to be familiar…

It was as if a video film has played back in the head of poor Ginger: Naples – Marseilles – Cartagena – Panama – San Francisco – Nachodka – Yokohama – Sydney – Colombo – Alexandria – Athens – Istanbul…He didn’t know the names of those cities, but he held in his tenacious memory the pictures of all the ports which the dry cargo ship had entered. This port didn’t bear a resemblance to any of them, but it was familiar till the small things…

And then Ginger recognized the outline of Primorsky boulevard of his native town, shoot upwards in the sky and dropped like a stone on the deck, where the sailors were standing – the most of them had bags in their hands.

"My town! My town!" twittered Ginger crazily.

"Yours, yours. And mine too. Let’s pay a visit."

But Ginger didn’t hear anyone. He shoot upwards and darted to the town under the blue waves of the Black Sea, over the yellow beaches, under the green chestnuts, squealing with joy.

And here’s Primorsky boulevard and the house which has been familiar since early childhood…

Ginger wanted to flit into the round attic window which looked like a porthole and nearly ram into the wall! With quivering wings the sparrow hovered in the air like a dragonfly… There was no window!

He made a turn in the air, sat onto an old chestnut and took a look around. It was the same house – and at the same time it was renewed and freshly painted. There were new windows – all of them except the main one in Ginger’s life. The repairmen decided there was no need in an attic window and pilled it with bricks, plastered and painted it. There used to be a window – there wasn’t a window now.

All stunned, Ginger was sitting in the chestnut and looking at the blind front of his native home, then twinkled with sorrow and flew to the port. Here his dry cargo ship was being met by the sounds of an orchestra. The sparrow flew to his native mast and arrived home with all the team.

The Epilogue

In an outlying district of a maritime town there is a small private house with a round attic window close to the very roof. Every morning a big bright-red sparrow flies out of the window, perches on the ridge and begins singing his songs. Those who don’t know the sparrow’s language, hear only «tweet-tweet» sounds, but in reality it’s one more hymn dedicated to the main character and his friends.

A sunburnt old man in worn fall trousers, a sailor’s striped vest and with a gold earring comes to the porch to the strains of the hymn.

"Have you already woken up, imp?" he asks the sparrow. "I know it’s time to wake up the rest. Wait, I’ll bring it."

A lop-eared dog runs out of the house. Having seen the sparrow it bares her snow-white teeth smiling and barks invitingly. The sparrow flies down and sits on the broad dog’s back. At this moment he looks like an Indian rajah who has been given his favourite elephant.

"Stay quiet, effigy! Don’t whirl about!" the rajah cries.

And the old man carries out a big basket and puts it on the porch. There is half a dozen of sturdy-built black puppies in it. Two of them have white «napkins» on their breasts – like those of their father Stuart.

The sparrow gets a place on the edge of the basket and begins training the young generation:

"Well? Why are you struggling? Do you want to reach Ginger? Nothing will come out of it! Ginger himself will get whoever he wants, peck him and grind into dust. Learn, lop-eared imps…"

The puppies try to growl and even to bark at the red sparrow, and it brings a great pleasure to all the others.

The destiny of the puppies has already been defined: the descendants of a male thoroughbred American «newf» and a female owner of the gold medal of the Australian dog breeders’ are in great demand. There are a lot of those who are eager to mate their Newfoundland dogs with the "Australian".

Having played with the puppies, the sparrow visits the henyard, where a kind-faced woman (Lubow Mihailovna by name) feeds ducks, hens and geese. Ginger joins the common breakfast and threateningly twitters at the birds:

"Why are you looking at me, upstanding? Do you want to peck me? Just try it! I have met someone far cooler than you. Even ostriches ran away from me!"

Mongrel birds don’t get mixed with the ginger bully: nothing will come out of it except a lot of noise.

Having got filled, the sparrow flies on his own business – usually to a local market to the place where sunflower seeds are sold.

"Oh, look!" the market women say. "The red devil has flown again."

"We haven’t seen him for a whole year, and now he has come again, a little devil. Take it, I hope it chokes you."

Ginger is full up but for the sake of propriety he packs two or three grains, after having asked the market woman:

"Are there any bur-r-nt ones? Are there any burnt ones? You dare!"

And then Ginger flies to the port, takes up wings to the highest crane and looks at arriving ships…

"Well, is there anything?" the old man with an earring asks him in the evening. "Don’t worry, our dry cargo ship will come. We’ll go to meet it together."

From the author

Dear kids, mothers, fathers and grandparents!

If you like this tale, I would like to suggest you to read it in another language – in Russian. I assure you that is not as difficult as it seems, because an English version is right here to help.

After reading the same book in both languages, you will be able to communicate with your peers from Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, CIS countries – first over the Internet, and may be later even in person. «Ginger» will befriend you, and where is a friendship, there will be a peace on earth!

Your faithful friend – the son of a sailor, the writer, the translator – Yuri Arbekov.

My E-mail: [email protected]