Aitmatov poplar red kerchief short. My poplar is wearing a red scarf. Brief summary of the work “My poplar in a red scarf”

Chingiz Aitmatov

My poplar in a red scarf

INSTEAD OF A PROLOGUE

Due to the nature of my journalistic work, I often had to visit the Tien Shan. One spring, when I was in the regional center of Naryn, I was urgently called to the editorial office. It so happened that the bus left a few minutes before I arrived at the bus station. We had to wait five hours for the next bus. There was nothing left to do but try to catch a passing car. I went to the highway on the outskirts of the town.

At the bend in the road there was a truck parked at a pump. The driver had just refueled and was screwing on the gas tank cap. I was delighted. On the glass of the cabin there was a sign for international flights “SU” - Soviet Union. This means that the car was going from China to Rybachye, to the Vneshtrans motor depot, from where you can always get to Frunze.

Are you leaving now? Please give me a ride to Rybachye! - I asked the driver.

He turned his head, looked sideways over his shoulder and, straightening up, calmly said:

No, yeah, I can't.

I beg you very much! I have an urgent matter - they are calling me to Frunze.

The driver frowned at me again.

I understand, but don't be offended, yeah. I don't take anyone.

I was surprised. The cabin is free, what did it cost him to take a person?

I'm a journalist. I'm in a hurry. I'll pay whatever you want...

It's not about the money, yeah! - The driver cut me off sharply and angrily kicked the wheel. - Next time I’ll deliver you for free. And now... I can’t. Don't be offended. Soon there will be our cars, you can drive away in any one, but I can’t...

“He should probably take someone along the way,” I decided.

Well, what about in the back?

Anyway... I'm very sorry, yeah.

The driver looked at his watch and hurried off.

Extremely puzzled, I shrugged my shoulders and looked in bewilderment at the gas station attendant, an elderly Russian woman, who had been silently watching us from the window all this time. She shook her head: “No, just leave him alone.” Strange.

The driver climbed into the cab, put an unlit cigarette in his mouth and started the engine. He was still young, about thirty, stooped, tall. I remember his tenacious, large hands on the steering wheel and his eyes with tiredly drooping eyelids. Before moving the car, he passed his palm over his face and somehow strangely, with a heavy sigh, looked anxiously ahead at the road in the mountains.

The car drove away.

The gas station attendant left the booth. She apparently wanted to calm me down.

Don’t be upset, you will leave now too.

I was silent.

The guy is worried... It's a long story... He once lived here with us, at the transshipment base...

I was unable to listen to the gas station attendant. A passing Pobeda approached.

It took us a while to catch up with the truck - almost at the Dolon Pass. He walked at enormous speed, perhaps inadmissible even for seasoned Tien Shan drivers. Without slowing down on turns, the car rushed with a buzzing roar under the overhanging rocks, quickly flew up the slopes and immediately seemed to fall through, diving into changes in the road, then again appeared in front with the ends of the tarpaulin fluttering and flapping on the sides.

“Victory” still took its toll. We began to overtake. I turned around: what kind of desperate man is he, where is he rushing headlong like that? At this time, rain and hail began pouring in, as often happens on the pass. In the slanting, cutting streams of rain and hail, a pale, tense face with a cigarette clenched in its teeth flashed behind the glass. Turning the steering wheel sharply, his hands slid widely and quickly across the steering wheel. There was no one in the cabin or in the back.

Soon after returning from Naryn, I was sent to the south of Kyrgyzstan, to the Osh region. As always, our journalist brother is running out of time. I rushed to the station just before the train left and, rushing into the compartment, did not immediately pay attention to the passenger who was sitting with his face turned to the window. He did not turn around even when the train had already picked up speed.

Music was broadcast on the radio: a familiar melody was played on a komuz. It was a Kyrgyz chant, which always seemed to me like the song of a lonely horseman riding along the late-evening steppe. The path is long, the steppe is wide, you can think and sing quietly. Sing about what's in your heart. How many thoughts does a person have when he is left alone with himself, when everything is quiet all around and only the clatter of hooves can be heard? The strings rang in a low voice, like water on compacted light stones in a ditch. Komuz sang that soon the sun would disappear behind the hills, blue coolness would silently run across the ground, and gray wormwood and yellow feather grass would sway quietly, showering pollen, along the brown road. The steppe will listen to the rider, and think and sing along with him.

Maybe once upon a time a horseman rode here, through these places... This is how the sunset probably burned out on the distant edge of the steppe, gradually becoming fawn, and the snow on the mountains, just like now, probably, receiving the last reflections of the sun, turned pink and quickly faded.

Outside the window, gardens, vineyards, and dark green, overgrown corn fields flashed past. A two-window chaise with freshly cut alfalfa ran towards the crossing. She stopped at the barrier. A tanned boy in a tattered, faded T-shirt and pants rolled up above his knees stood up in the chaise, looking at the train, smiled, and waved his hand to someone.

The melody flowed surprisingly softly into the rhythm of the moving train. Instead of the clatter of hooves, wheels clattered at the joints of the rails. My neighbor was sitting at the table, shielding himself with his hand. It seemed to me that he, too, was silently humming the song of the lone rider. Whether he was sad or dreaming, there was only something sad in his appearance, some kind of unabated grief. He was so lost in himself that he did not notice my presence. I tried to make out his face. Where did I meet this man? Even the hands are familiar - dark, with long, hard fingers.

And then I remembered: it was the same driver who didn’t take me into the car. With that I calmed down. I took out the book. Was it worth reminding yourself? He probably forgot me a long time ago. Are there a lot of random encounters between drivers on the roads?

We drove like this for some time, each on his own. It began to get dark outside the window. My fellow traveler decided to smoke. He took out cigarettes and sighed noisily before striking a match. Then he raised his head, looked at me in surprise and immediately blushed. Found out.

Hello, agai! - he said, smiling guiltily.

I gave him my hand.

Are you traveling far?

To the Pamirs? So, on the way. I'm in Osh... On vacation? Or are you transferring to work?

Yes, it seems so... Would you like to smoke?

We smoked together and were silent. There seemed to be nothing more to talk about. My neighbor thought again. He sat with his head down, swaying in time with the movement of the train. It seemed to me that he had changed a lot since I saw him. He lost weight, his face was drawn, there were three sharp, heavy folds on his forehead. There is a gloomy shadow on the face from eyebrows drawn together to the bridge of the nose. Suddenly my companion smiled sadly and asked:

You were probably really offended by me that time, yeah?

When, I don’t remember something? “I didn’t want the person to feel awkward in front of me.” But he looked with such remorse that I had to confess. - Ah... then... It’s nothing. I forgot. Anything can happen along the way. Do you still remember this?

At another time, maybe I would have forgotten, but that day...

What happened? Isn't it an accident?

But how can I say, there was no accident, this is something else... - he said, searching for words, but then he laughed, forced himself to laugh... - Now I would take you anywhere in my car, but now I’m a passenger myself...

It’s okay, the horse follows the same trail a thousand times, maybe we’ll meet again someday...

Of course, if we meet, I’ll drag you into the cabin myself! - he shook his head.

So, have we agreed? - I joked.

I promise, yeah! - he answered, cheerful.

But still, why didn’t you take me then?

Why? - he responded and immediately became gloomy. He fell silent, lowered his eyes, bent over a cigarette, fiercely inhaling the smoke. I realized that I shouldn’t have asked this question, and I was confused, not knowing how to correct the mistake. He put out the cigarette butt in the ashtray and with difficulty squeezed out: “I couldn’t... I was giving my son a ride... He was waiting for me then...”

The main character of the story, Ilyas, has a rather highly developed perception of the world around him. At the very beginning of the story, this perception is reflected in the natural manifestation of the spiritual qualities of the person who loves. Then, after losing his love, he tries to find his lost love by expressing poetic tendencies. Ilyas shows the character of a man in the surrounding society. Baitemir, who married Asel, was a kind and sympathetic person, but to some extent, selfishness manifests itself in him. Perhaps this is because he was lonely for quite a long time, and now he is trying to hold on to the happiness that fell on him in the form of Asel.

The author shows the reunion of loving souls through subtly expressed details and actions of people. He shows the reader that a declaration of love to another person is not love itself. An example of this is the images of Daniyara and Jamil, who realized that they were in love with each other, without expressing their feelings with verbosity.

In the work, Asel saw traces of Ilyas’s car, among many of the same wheel marks. In these places where the events of the story unfold, a girl who is about to get married very soon cannot simply go out onto the road to wait for the unloved. Here the writer skillfully used a detail of the folklore of these places. Ilyas and Asel are led by love on the road, and this cannot be explained in words, because their actions can be understood from the point of view of psychology. And yet we see the writer’s desire to quickly connect loving people, because he wants to show us something more important. Ultimately, Ilyas destroys the family because he turned his aspirations in the wrong direction. He is hot-tempered and contradictory, but one can believe that this man will find within himself the strength that will not allow him to sink even lower morally. You need to believe that in the future, he will find his happiness.

To prove the depth of the character’s experience and the breadth of his soul, the author did not change his style of narration, and again left his character alone with the lake.

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Summary Poplar in a red scarf Aitmatov

CHINGIZ AYTMATOV

MY TOPOLAK IN A RED KERCHIEF

INSTEAD OF A PROLOGUE

DRIVER'S STORY

...It all started quite unexpectedly. At that time I had just returned from the army. He served in a motorized unit, and before that he graduated from high school and also worked as a driver. I myself am from an orphanage. My friend Alibek Dzhanturin was demobilized a year earlier. He worked at the Rybachinskaya motor depot. Well, I came to him. Alibek and I always dreamed of going to the Tien Shan or the Pamirs. They received me well. We settled in a hostel. And even the ZIL was given almost new, not a single dent... I must say, I loved my car as a person. Take care of her. Successful release. The motor was powerful. True, it was not always necessary to take the full load. You yourself know what the road is - the Tien Shan, one of the highest mountain highways in the world: gorges, ridges and passes. There is as much water as you want in the mountains, but you still carry it with you all the time. You may have noticed that a wooden cross is nailed to the body in the front corner, and a chamber with water dangles from it. Because the motor on serpentines overheats terribly. But you are not carrying much cargo. At first I was also wondering, racking my brains to come up with something like this, so that I could take on more cargo. But it seemed like nothing could be changed. Mountains are mountains.
I was pleased with the work. And I liked the places. A motor depot on the very shore of Issyk-Kul. When foreign tourists arrived and stood for hours as if stunned on the shore of the lake, I was proud to myself: “This is what Issyk-Kul is like here! Try to find more such beauty..."
In the first days, only one thing offended me. The time was hot - spring, collective farms were gaining strength after the September Plenum. They got down to business, but there was little equipment. Some of our depot vehicles were sent to help collective farms. Especially newcomers were always driven around collective farms. Well, me too. As soon as I get ready for flights along the highway, they film again, go to the villages. I understood that this was an important and necessary matter, but after all, I was a driver, I felt sorry for the car, I was worried about it, as if it was not for her, and I myself had to shake over potholes and knead mud along the country roads. You won’t see roads like this even in your dreams...
So, I was once on my way to the collective farm - I was carrying slate for a new cowshed. This village is in the foothills, and the road goes through the steppe. Everything was going well, the path was already drying out, the village was only a stone's throw away, and suddenly I stopped at a crossing over some ditch. The road here has been so beaten up since spring, torn up by wheels, a camel will drown - you won’t find it. I tried here and there, tried everything, and nothing worked. The earth sucked the car in and held it like it was with pincers. In addition, out of frustration, I turned the steering wheel so much that the rod jammed somewhere, I had to crawl under the car... I was lying there covered in dirt, sweating, cursing the road in every possible way. I hear someone coming. From below I can only see rubber boots. The boots came up, stopped opposite and stood there. Evil took me - who did it bring and why stare, is there a circus here or something.
- Come on in, don’t stand over your soul! - I shouted from under the car. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the hem of the dress, it was an old one, stained with manure. Apparently, some old woman is waiting for a lift to the village.
- Come in, grandma! - I asked. - I still have a long time to sunbathe here, I can’t wait...
She answered me:
- I'm not a grandmother.
She said somewhat embarrassedly, with a sort of laugh.
- And who? - I was surprised.
- Young woman.
- Young woman? - I glanced sideways at the boots and asked for the sake of mischief: - And beautiful?
The boots shifted in place, stepped to the side, preparing to leave. Then I quickly got out from under the car. I look, in fact, there is a thin girl with stern, frowning eyebrows, wearing a red headscarf and a large, apparently her father’s, jacket thrown over her shoulders. He looks at me silently. I forgot that I was sitting on the ground, that I was covered in mud and clay.
- Nothing! Beautiful,” I grinned. She really was beautiful. - Just some shoes! - I joked, getting up from the ground.
The girl suddenly turned around and, without looking back, quickly walked along the road.
What is she? Offended? I felt uneasy. He caught himself, rushed to catch up with her, then returned, quickly collected the tool and jumped into the cabin. With jerks, back and forth, he began to rock the car. Catching up with her - I didn’t think about anything else. The engine roared, the car shook and drove around, but I didn’t move forward a single step. And she went further and further. I shouted, I didn’t know to whom, under the skidding wheels:
- Let go! Let me go, I say. Do you hear?
I squeezed the accelerator with all my might, the car crawled, crawled with a groan and just miraculously escaped from the quagmire. How happy I was! He ran along the road, wiped the dirt from his face with a handkerchief, and smoothed his hair. Having caught up with the girl, I braked, and God knows where it came from, with such chic, almost lying on the seat, I opened the door:
- Please! - and extended his hand, inviting him into the cabin.
The girl, without stopping, moves on. Here you go! Not a trace of my daring remained. I caught up with her again, this time I apologized and asked:
- Well, don't be angry! It’s just that I... Sit down!
But the girl didn’t answer.

At the bend in the road there was a truck parked at a pump. The driver had just filled up and was screwing on the gas tank cap. I was delighted. On the glass of the cabin there was a sign for international flights “SU” - Soviet Union. This means that the car was going from China to Rybachye, to the Vneshtrans motor depot, from where you can always get to Frunze.

Are you leaving now? Please give me a ride to Rybachye! - I asked the driver.

He turned his head, looked sideways over his shoulder and, straightening up, calmly said:

No, yeah, I can't.

I beg you very much! I have an urgent matter - they are calling me to Frunze.

The driver frowned at me again.

I understand, but don't be offended, yeah. I don't take anyone.

I was surprised. The cabin is free, what did it cost him to take a person?

I'm a journalist. I'm in a hurry. I'll pay whatever you want...

“He should probably take someone along the way,” I decided.

Well, what about in the back?

Anyway... I'm very sorry, yeah.

The driver looked at his watch and hurried off.

The car drove away.

The gas station attendant left the booth. She apparently wanted to calm me down.

Don’t be upset, you will leave now too.

I was silent.

The guy is worried... It's a long story... He once lived here with us, at the transshipment base...

I was unable to listen to the gas station attendant. A passing Pobeda approached.

Hello, agai! - he said, smiling guiltily.

I gave him my hand.

Are you traveling far?

To the Pamirs? So, on the way. I'm in Osh... On vacation? Or are you transferring to work?

Yes, it seems so... Would you like to smoke?

This story in different times told to a journalist who ended up in the Tien Shan due to his profession, a driver and a road foreman, whose destinies are involuntarily intertwined. From the driver's story we learn about his difficult fate. Driver Ilyas grew up in orphanage. After serving in the army, he gets a job as a truck driver at a car depot. On a dusty steppe road he meets his first and last love Asel...

The main idea of Aitmatov is my Topolek in a red scarf.

This is a story about unhappy love, about the irreparable consequences in life that cowardice and cowardice lead to.

Summary of Aitmatov My Poplar in a red scarf

The young driver Ilyas gets stuck on a steppe road and meets a young thin girl in a red headscarf, Asel, from a local village. They fall in love with each other at first sight. Asel is married to someone else, and her family is preparing for the wedding. Ilyas is unable to control himself and takes his beloved away secretly from her parents.

The lovers settle in an apartment given by Ilyas’ friend Alibek. Soon the young couple has a son. But due to failures at work, Ilyas increasingly turns to the bottle and starts relationships on the side. The young wife finds out about everything and leaves with her son in her arms.

Years later, fate brings the lovers together again, but now proud Asel has a different family and a sensible, kind husband.