The Balcony on Kutuzovsky

An address is a small life. Limited not only by geography and time, but also by the things you love, the view from the window into the courtyard, the cozy home scents and sounds that belong only to this place—and, above all, by the warmth of this home that fills you. In front of you is a new novel about my next address—Kutuzovsky 17—and about the time that many remember: the sixties. It’s about childhood, about grandmothers, about Polya and Lida, about parents who are always away, and about a school I didn’t like. When my parents are not there, I sleep in dad’s office—I love everything there: the portrait of Hemingway on the wall, fashionable furniture, striped rugs, and shelves of books. And when they finally come, there are always guests I don’t like: they drink port wine, eat everything the grandmothers have prepared, constantly smoke, argue, and read poems. Boring… This is an attempt to immerse yourself in the sixties—the sweet, simpler reality when everything was easier, more human, kinder, and clearer.