Envelope 9. The last issue, marked August 26, 2006. The picture with Guillaume on the envelope is turned face inside the sheet.
The addressee is the Letterhead Studio, that is, the author himself. At that time, the studio was housed in the Alfa-Design printing house, and that, in turn, was located in the building of the University of Printing, a former Printing Institute. So the letter for me was, in a way, a message to my Alma Mater, as if it were a symbolic return of the prodigal son.
In addition, I will insert a completely fantastic story about how the last thirteen (sic!) envelopes of the latest issue of Alcools were printed. The demons of the seal are always somewhere close.
When I started making up the ninth and last issue of Alcools, I set the release date on August 1. It was July 12th, and it seemed to me that two weeks would be enough for layout, pictures, and so on. But it was not there: there was a lot of urgent work, and the issue itself, eight-lane, with large pictures, took time.
I realized that if I did not have time to send Alcools before leaving for the sea on August 12, then I would have to do it after returning from the second week trip, that is, after Apollinaire's 26th birthday. I decided to make it in time. I moved the release date to 26 — a gift to Guillaume for his 126th birthday.
By the 10th, two days before departure, everything was ready except for a few envelopes. The printer was briskly printing, I wrote a few words to each addressee in a specially designated place in the newspaper and sealed the finished packages. Complete harmony of manual and machine labor, everyone did everything in time.
Suddenly. 13 envelopes before the finish, the printer fell into the deepest General Printer Error. It was not possible to bring a combat friend out of a coma. It was late in the evening on August 10th.
I have two printers at home, an Epson 1290 and an old faithful Apple Laserwriter Select 360. Black and white, but trouble-free. I put an envelope in it for a straight draw, optimistically thinking: "so they will be b/w." "Bang. Bang, bang," said the Selector— "Sorry, buddy. And I would be glad, but the format does not work."
"Okay," I said. "If you don't want to, whatever you want. I'll print it in the workshop." There is another printer, an Epson 3000, in A2 format. It's a big, rough animal working under the ninth system through some kind of transitional plug. It prints a little dirty, but it's fast.
I was well prepared for printing on outdated equipment from under the ancient macOS: I converted the fonts to curves, the files themselves to Illustrator 9, threw the files on two media so as not to forget anything. And at noon on August 11, I stood at the door of my workshop in the Park of Culture, hoping to have time to print envelopes, enter texts, pack everything and send it before 17:00, when the post office nearest to my house in Lefortovo stops, due to weakness of spirit, accepting parcels. He stood under the door and rummaged in his pockets for a long time. I seem to have taken everything. Except for the key to the door. I'll run to Lefortovo, then to the Park — I'll lose half a day. Calm down, don't panic. I'm calling the hostess.
Fortunately, the owner of the workshop, the artist Liya Orlova, turned out to be nearby — not in Germany, as it often happens to her, and not even at home on the outskirts. 45 minutes later, her son brought the key. I've been writing texts all this time, pressing the sheets against the wall.
So, the computer is on, the printer is working, I open the file... And I find that I forgot the pictures inserted there. Horror. I'm trying to take a picture of them with my phone. Then I remember that the studio "List" works in the next workshop (also subscribers of the newspaper) and they have a scanner. I'm running to the wonderful man Sergei Krupsky. He is calm and friendly, scans two necessary images. Hooray. Hooray.
I process the files, put them in place, and start typing. And the printer eats envelopes. One, two, five, ten... I understand that there won't be enough envelopes. We have to run to buy.
In the nearest post office there are large envelopes with only the inscription "Where to whom". In the nearest stationery— too. And time is passing. Empty envelopes were found only in the "Komus on Belorusskaya. Not so close, but I'm not up to the subtleties anymore.
I'm typing a sample — okay, but with my feet in the air. Another one went sideways. The third one is finally normal. Go ahead! The first is the order. The second one is not a very good color, but it will do. Third... The third one crawls out in azure color. Yellow and purple are packed tightly. So. So, after all, black and white envelopes. It's a terrible pity, but there is no way out.
I'm finishing typing. I'm packing. I turn everything off, joyfully run to Sergei to leave him the master key. I'm going to the subway. It's almost nine in the evening, but the soul sings: tomorrow morning at the post office. A mobile phone rings at the entrance to the subway. Sergey, in his polite and calm voice as always: "Tell me, Yuri, did you leave the workshop open on purpose?"
................
I'm going to the post office in the morning. You know, postmen get up early. There is a piece of paper on the door: "The department is open from 12:00." Well, that's fine. Taxi to the airport at two, I'll make it.
I arrive at 12 o'clock sharp. There are queues of five people at two windows. Nothing, we'll break through.It's my turn. I dump out a stack of envelopes. The girl in the window is in complete shock: "Oh, you know, we're all temporary here, we don't know the tariffs!" Sitting in the next window shouts: "First class? Don't take it, let them bring it on Monday!"
I must say that even when the first printer broke down, I decided that I would not be upset, but would accept it as a game. That's why I make scary eyes and speak in a terrible voice: "I sent eight such packs from here. Last time, interns, kindergarten graduates, were sitting in your seats. And despite the fact that there was only one simple pencil in the department, they managed to accept my correspondence. Now you will take the tariffs in your hands and do everything as it should be!" The trembling mailer runs off to make a phone call (I suspect that to that intern) and after two minutes of negotiations accepts my pack. However, she tries to get hysterical several more times, grabbing various pieces of paper and poking at them: "Oh, it's written here!..." But I mercilessly strangle the unfortunate woman, laughing to myself so that I can hardly restrain myself.
That's it. The taxi is still almost an hour away.
