Нелли Гуня

Меня зовут Нелли, и я не представляю своей жизни без искусства. Помимо писательской деятельности я очень люблю чтение и просмотр тематических лекций по литературе (особенно выделяю лектора Дмитрия Быкова), а также рисование мелкой техникой. Я учусь на профессионального музыканта, играю на альте. Творчество привлекает меня своей многогранностью, свободой и своим духовным началом.

Рассказ «Тотальный лжец»


Pierrot proudly woke up on the wrong side of bed and, without having lost a single nerve, had the audacity to enter this day to start it over with a new fresh lying slate out of a darkened from a spilled rancid mint tea calendar of his biography, and there was not a single scum around, who would say loudly, as if on bullhorn and spelling out every word as if talking to a deaf mute ‘my my how goddamn bad it is!’

He was smearing lowbrow paint over his face standing in front of a mirror and somewhere it was rolling off into lumps. He was smoothing out these lumps and did it again and again until the new lumps would appear. Pierrot scribbled a huge greasy black teardrop on his cheek, which real people in real life would never have and which made him look like a Dalmatian with one spot for some reason, and this spot was bulging out, like a brand on a cow, hideously. Pierrot looked in the mirror again: it was lying. But that didn’t repel him at all. He even liked looking in the mirror, if it was distorting, as he could blame his ugliness on distortion.

Having finished his strange arrangements, Pierrot in a translucent chiffon robe flew away from the apartment, like an unscrupulous girl, and hurried to the theatre.

He was descending the motley steps of bright stairs, clattering thin legs, like a small insect, and the light robe was rustling on his thin body. Pierrot’s eyes were anxiously shifting.

In theater, he appeared with a sourish smile as though recently was guilty and spoke to all «good morning», in thoughts he did not agree with one word and disproved it infinitely. White ladders shone, a handrail was polished, and huge wide walls kept silence.

Yesterday they played cards on desires as anybody had no money. Discussed last performance. One of actors who was known in theater that he played Hamlet and his not really ingenious reading and who did not participate in this fatal performance risked to tell the companions in misfortune that their game was not really good today. And his wife, Ophelia, the fragile girl with small black eyes, stood nearby and beggarly looked at the husband as if demanding from him to be even more tactful and courteous and, eventually, to be dissolved in his weak remarks. Actors knowingly nodded, both spoke «yes», and «agree», and infinitely repented that their game really was today rather weak and that could be played much better. On their hot assurances, they absolutely even did not take offense at an unflattering response, but, anyway, nobody called Hamlet on a gambling game.

At last Pierrot lost, and it was necessary to think out urgently desire while he still stood on the feet to be able this desire to execute. Then someone at the table told Pierrot:

’I know. You will go to Hamlet now and «admit» that’ ’ he giggled and, having seen the rounded Pierrot’s eyes added, ’but you will tell it so that he surely believed you. Do you hear me, the tramp? And for the next day we will tell him that it was only the joke, and then we will already have a look who is able to play and who is not able’.

Everybody burst out laughing as if a knot of dining hyenas. The suggestion was approved. Under the sounds of general rejoicing Pierrot went and did what was required of him in a half-hearted but skillful way.

Everything happened yesterday. But today one of the actors was waiting for Pierrot at the entrance to the rehearsal hall with a mischievous smile.

‘Do you know that because of your lies your friend died?’

And then it turned out that that night, Hamlet ceased to be Hamlet, because he hanged himself.

‘Do you understand that it’s because of your stupid antic?’ again sounded an importunate question. Pierrot smelled yesterday’s cognac on the man. However, this person was talking in an accusatory and arrogant way as if he wanted, using intonation, to show the dazzling brilliance of his clear conscience. As if he wasn’t at the table yesterday. Pierrot picked up this farce.

‘Generally, he was a very morose man’, he said piteously and indifferently. Stomped further and said in passing, ‘But what makes you think that I am to blame?’

Pierrot lowered his like river roach empty eyes and fell to thinking. He understood Hamlet well. One might even say he sympathized with him. But he also understood a red-nosed scavenger, who made a wish yesterday. He didn’t felt disgusted from his supporting the both; actually, he supported only himself. He was balancing on these curve crutches like a circus mare.


He lied from the scene, shamelessly raising his hands and wishing them, probably, to fell off quickly. He raised his eyebrows so high, like a foolish storyteller, widely placing legs, making meaningful pauses, as if he’s waiting for the prompter’s assistance. Finally, the performance stopped tormenting itself and came to the end.

He shines from each possible side, like a new statue. He bows at the waist, in a little while over his head should appear a halo. Applause showered his ears like hot prostitute’s kisses.

Someone in the thirty-eighth row, not seeing his round-square grey looking like two pierced thimbles eyes, solemnly and quietly as at a funeral said ‘We saw the genius. This is real art!’ and apparently forgot to add at the end ‘The real art of the lie.’

He leaves the stage as a winner and everyone understands and none of those present are confused by a redden-with-shame fact that it seems there was no war to have a conscience to win in it and the stage looks safe and strong enough (Builders swore to us on their mothers’ graves!) to leave it with a haughty grin of, unfortunately, a surviving equilibrist.


He let her come into the house. A tall young long-nosed woman with a huge pink hat on was standing at the doorway. She was slim like a fork in the theatre canteen and her name was Lady Lie.

She presented Pierrot flowers and began to crumble in admiration. He, of course, was flattered but not a bit embarrassed. Word by word and they already have been dancing to slow music. Lady Lie seemed to Pierrot more beautiful and elegant by the minute, though, in fact, far from getting prettier in this acidulous light, she became to look more like some dubious reptile.

And she coquettishly and simultaneously sarcastically asked

‘And what, do you love me?’

To say “yes” was not necessary, but rather even unrepresentative, because by the time the question was asked, the Lady-Lie was already completely naked. But, nevertheless, Pierrot muttered: «I love, love» and threw the Lady-Lie on the bed like a dead cat. She laughed like an insane fox; As if someone is ripping off the skin from this fox, and it’s all the same for her. And she’s laughing like a horse and eating her Roly-Poly. Pierrot tried to force himself not to hear this terrible laughter, when he cuddled to her like a helpless animal, and groaned.

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