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Father Zhirtrest and Christmas

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Father Zhirtrest and Christmas

By evening he was very drunk. This time there really was a reason: not some kind of melancholy, not a children's insult to the whole world, but newspaper news that dryly stated a fact: Father Girtrest, your era really comes to an end.

The head of the reading suddenly became heavy, one thought darker than the other. No, of course, maybe he exaggerated everything. He had such a feature: to see everything more volumetric and convex than others see it. But how, tell me at the mercy, how to react to a formal, almost ordinary article in the German press, which the old priest very much trusted, that, in order to avoid sexual harassment, women and men will meet Christmas and New Year separately at the Brandenburg Gate? .. Literally, this means that a special sector with Red Cross volunteers will be set aside for the ladies in Berlin. Wait a minute, brothers and sisters, is it still your Berlin or is it a fucking Afghanistan? Father Zhirtrest lit a cigarette and poured a warm whiskey into an unwashed glass of warm whiskey. Even warm swill was less disgusting to him than this whole new life. Zakhmelev, he looked at his favorite image of St. Innocent – Pope, who bravely reigned during the time of Rome’s decay, looked at and recalled the letter received the day before from the episcopal curia. In the envelope with the red episcopal seal, as usual, there was a message at Christmas for parishioners. On the one hand, the episcopal epistles made life easier: it was not necessary to invent what could inspire such a blast at a solemn mass, because everything is already written, you just get up and read. On the other hand, this time in the letter was the same request, repeated ten times under different sauces.

– I, your ruling Bishop Mark, a servant of God, on the tenth anniversary of my enthronement in the bishopric, I ask your hot prayers for my difficult episcopal work.

And so on, in various ways the bishop kept complaining and complaining about the difficult 10 years of his bishopric, demanded universal prayers and, of course, money for repairs and utility bills.

“What a poor thing,” said Father Firtrest sarcastically, pouring out another batch of whiskey. And the fact that I have been sitting in this hole for the 15th year is nothing? The fact that I have one and a half sheep from the parishioners because of your political games of tolerance? What is it like? Yes, I had a parish, there was a youth, there was even a choir! They all left! All moved from the area. Now no one here knows a single Christian prayer, but they obediently read namaz. One day, one aprons threatened to blow up everything here. And to whom do you complain, your wounded, metropolitan eminence? BUT? To me, a fat, sick, tired padre, who gave his whole life to the mother church, who should ask for hot prayers? Pakistani neighbors down the street? Yes, you go to hell, dear lord … Unhappy metropolitan weakling and whiner …

Father Jirtrest suddenly decided to write a malicious reply letter to the curia, closed his eyes, as if picking up sharp words and scathing epithets, and so he fell asleep in the old, slightly tattered green chair. He was awakened by a bursting bell at the door: on the threshold of the parish house stood a dark-haired teenager Said with a large armful of yellow hay. That same arapchonok that once threatened to punish his Catholic community.

– Padre! I found it … This is hay, as you requested.

– What the fuck … He found … Damn you, Sayid! – the priest wrapped his arms around his head, splitting from a hangover. You ring out like crazy! I already thought that I had overslept the Second Coming.

“Excuse me … What is the Second Coming?” What will be necessary for him? Some kind of holiday too?

– In our situation, it would have been a holiday!

– And when is it celebrated?

– This is, Said, a floating church date. You can even today. I would be in favor.

“But we're not ready, are we?”

“You will not prepare for it anyway.”

My father slowly went to the kitchen in search of an effervescent hangover pill. Said hurried after him, briskly telling how he got an armful of real village hay in a bustling city. In the courtyard there was a pre-Christmas time, it was necessary to prepare the temple, put the figurines and the manger. For this, and ponabilos hay. Said helped Father Firtrest well for small pocket money, and the priest was grateful to him for that, although he never spoke about it. A lot of honor for arapchon. Closer to dinner, they set about building a nursery. The matter is simple, and although the hands of the elderly priest were no longer so obedient, Said easily coped with each task. When the nursery was ready, the hay was spread, it was time for the figurines. The priest carried out in cardboard boxes porcelain chickens, sheep, calves, donkeys, Said, like a child, enthusiastically looked at them, and then carefully arranged in a manger.

Finally it was the turn of the Bethlehem shepherds, of sv. Joseph and Mary. Said together with the priest arranged their bulky figures in a semicircle, the place in the center remained free, and the manger clearly lacked the Infant.

– And where he?

– Who?

– Baby.

“I'll bring it, but right during the Christmas service.” That is the tradition.

– Sorry, I really wanted to look at him. And why was your Jesu born in a barn? Didn't they have a house?

– was. Only in another city. Here they were visiting. They were looking for a place to spend the night, but no one let them go. Only this barn was free.

“I want to see the Baby figure.”

– Come to the service and see.

– What more! I am Muslim.

– What can you do…

– So, do not show?

– Not yet.

– Well, it is not necessary. They also appropriated me … If everything was as you say, then He is more ours than yours.

– Like this?

– And so! I, my mother and brothers, our whole family from another city, and your Yesu too. They don't like me here, they think that I am a thief, a drug addict, or a terrorist, and people didn’t want to let Him into their homes either. So little Jesu is more ours than yours!

– Said, how dare you compare your damn loud-voiced little families with the Holy Family? Believe me, you have nothing in common. You…

– What we?

“You are arrogant barbarians, and they were humble, silent saints!”

– Yeah! Do you believe it?

– What?

– Have you seen at least one quiet family in the East?

– Do not interrupt! You still others.

– Why?

– You are alien, destroying a great civilization. You have made your emigrant bonfires under our great shrines. We arrived in a foreign country, brought your Islam with us and sat down on social benefits, which, by the way, are paid from our taxes.

– Oh! You know, padre, you, too, are not sticking to the factory, the corns are not visible. Collect money on Sundays, and then shamelessly drink. Holy figs!

– Better shut up, puppy. And then …

– But the fact that?

– You get a good catholic slap in the face.

– Come on, and I go to the police, where, with tears in my eyes, I will loudly declare that you beat the migrant again just because he wanted to look at the figure of the Child Yezu.

– Well, shit!

– Old alcoholic!

– Get out! Or in a second I won't even care about the police!

– Go! But little Jesu is still ours, do you hear, padre ?!

– Never, never will he be yours. He, praise the almighty God, has nothing to do with your wild Pakistani bedlam! Get lost, arapchonok, and never come here again.

– With pleasure! Fat asshole!

Said slammed the door with all his strength, and the heated priest remained completely alone in the temple. Another moment, he picked up the arguments of his obvious rightness in a dispute with an arrogant teenager, and to top it off, he walked into the sacristy, where he took a figurine of the Holy Infant out of the box. White, gentle face, light curls, well, what they have to do with it. No, thank God!

The last days before Christmas flew by. As usual, Father Zhirtrest confessed those who wanted to come, organized a small Christmas Eve for the poor and lonely, sent out greeting cards to fellow priesthood and just friends and acquaintances. He sent one of the cards to the ruling bishop, where he congratulated him on the decade of enthronement and promised to pray fervently for him. And during the service, he, as it should be, loudly read the bishop's Christmas letter. Everyone was satisfied. Home, however, no one invited the priest, everyone knew among themselves about his problems with alcohol, so they limited themselves to congratulations in the temple. When the last parishioners left the church, he was about to go home, but at that time he noticed some dark figures in the courtyard.

– Who is there? He asked loudly.

The figures began to bow out and say something quickly in some kind of guttural dialect.

– What the fuck? – Father Zhyrtrest did not understand. – Who are you?

– My name is Samira. I am your neighbor. To live that house.

– So what? A hundred of yours live in that house, do you think I know all of you by sight?

– But our Said say, you have a little child here. It is small, but like us, too, from afar. We want to help. When you are not at home, it is difficult. Need help. Here are clothes and dry milk for little ones.

– What? Nobody's here. No baby. This is just a tradition, no one was actually born.

– Oh! I still do not understand everything! Take it for a boy.

The figures moved to the side of the church steps and began to leave bags and bags with baby food, toys and diapers. Father Zirtrest just froze from such a turn of events. Dark-skinned women in long robes came and went, and he suddenly began to say “thank you very much” to each of them – what else to do in such a situation ?! When all the gifts were folded at the entrance to the temple, he thought that this was not the case in his practice, so that someone would literally take Christmas, and that tomorrow it would distribute all this to poor families. But all this will be tomorrow, and now he has an urgent business. So urgent that even the whiskey could not hold it. Like an angel of God was pushing him in the back. Half an hour later, in a small apartment where Said lived, they called, on the threshold stood a breathless depressive alcoholic, who is also a padre nicknamed Zhirtrest.

– Hello, puppy!

– Hello, father!

– Here, take it. Let him stay until the morning with you, – the priest gently stretched out to Said a small figure of the fair-haired Jesús. This is little Jesus. He should be fine with you.

– Thank! Yes, I myself would go. Podgadal moment when you will not, and went to look.

– And this is right. You better not come across my eyes. The fact that I am here, I just do the will of God, He himself showed me so. But if personally, pushing the good God aside, I have not forgiven you for the saint, the alcoholic and the fat idiot! I catch you, arapchonok, and even then just beat!

“Good, good, dear padre!”

– That's the same!

And dark-haired Said laughed loudly.

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