Текст песни Леинатас - Илья Масодов - Экзамен

Exam
      And then Martova came in. She carefully closed the door and looked at the examiner. Sergey Sergeevich nodded, making an inviting gesture with his hand. There was no one else in the class, because Sergey Sergeevich did not tolerate simultaneity.
      - Hello, Martova. Take a ticket.
      The girl went to the table at which Sergey Sergeyevich was sitting, and took one of the upside-down pieces of paper. Her hand shook a little.
      “Show me,” Sergey Sergeyevich asked.
      A high school student raised her ticket so that he could see the number.
      - Ticket forty one. Sit down, get ready.
      Martova went to the desk, sat down and pulled up a rough leaf from an uneven pile. Bending over the ticket, she tensely began to study it. Sergey Sergeevich looked at Martova and could not understand where that obscure golden radiance accompanying her comes from: maybe from the tips of the transparent hairs covering the girl’s skin, or from tiny sparkling droplets embedded in the lobes of her ears, or the flowers that smell pretending to be her deodorant? Sergey Sergeevich imagined how Martova raised her bare hands at home and scrubbed shaved armpits with a deodorant, from where she probably smells like ordinary girlish sweat, spinning by the mirror. And then she pulled up her skirts and poked herself out of the bottle into her underpants, laughing loudly from her insolence, oh this Martova, she undoubtedly always throws something like that when no one sees her, or with her friends, but over such as Sergey Sergeyevich, they simply giggle.
      The schoolgirl, meanwhile, began to write something, squeezing her pen too hard with wet, thin fingers and stupidly looking at the sheet. Her eyes were moving. Sergei Sergeyevich had no doubt that Martova was writing some kind of nonsense. And it’s not an accidental nonsense that could be smiled on such a sunny June day, when the tops of poplars froze against the background of clouds going into the unknown, the leaves of wild vine growing around the institute’s fence seemed to be cast from green iron, and dandelions banned the stuffy with bright spots heated lawns, on such a day you would sit on a bench in the shade of park trees and take warm, inflated chest with this Martov’s one’s hands, it’s possible through a dress, no one wears a bra anyway, take it with your hands, I repeat, warm, alive e, only the udder has sprouted, and squeeze slightly, changing its shape, so that Martova squeezed her eyes from the sweet pain and the holes in her nipples widen to her dry depth, so Martova writes in her draft, not accidental, windy nonsense, but hateful, the stupid nonsense that the lazy students wrote, write and will write with stupid mistakes caused not even by ignorance, because Martova was preparing and trying, but by stupidity, the tenderness of the girl’s chicken mind, annoying disorder, that brainlessness, which explains the law e things God knows what, instead, to try to understand them. Everything is boring for them, these cute girls, they have only tights, shoes, chains, overlays and panty liners on their minds, they are so absorbed in the functions of their own stupid organism, they only want one thing, although they themselves sometimes will not tell, but they will only be tormented by a vague longing, they lie in dark rooms, their faces buried in the walls and wet pillows with warm tears, and the reason for this is the same, the same, and why should they be taught anything at all, why is it a scoff at the sciences?
      “Enough, Martova, go answer,” Sergey Sergeyevich said irritably. Enough of this theater with him.
      “But I'm not ready yet,” Martova timidly tried to object.
      “You are ready,” Sergey Sergeyevich muttered with malicious malice.
      Martova stood up, perplexedly collecting the leaves.
      - Come on, let's go, - Sergey Sergeyevich hastened her. - I’m sitting here for the fifth hour.
      Martova came up, sat on a chair next to the teacher and began to look for the first among the papers. Her hands trembled even more.
      “Start,” said Sergey Sergeevich, closing his eyes tiredly and dissolving his eyes again.
      Martova read the question and began to answer. As the story progressed, her voice became lighter and more confident. Sergey Sergeevich asked her some questions. She answered simply and clearly, only the fingers with which she mechanically removed the hair from her forehead shook like weightless leaves of meadow aspens. Sergey Sergeyevich turned to the second question, then to the third. Martova faltered on the third question, it was clear that she had not time to think through the answer in advance to the end. For a while she was silent, thinking that her face was not concentrated, but pale tense, as happens with foretellers at the time of the prophetic sight, and not only her fingers bent at the forehead trembled, but the girl's lips, carefully covered with an even layer of pink lipstick. Sergey Sergeyevich carefully watched the student, his heart froze in his chest, a wild, cold tremor passed through him, scattering and melting. He gripped the ink pen in his hand painfully and could not even breathe. Suddenly Martova took her hand away from her face and began to speak. She said Sergey Sergeyevich listened.
      “You talk nonsense,” he said, when with? 6?