© International Union of writers, 2019
Nelli Kopeykina (Nailya Gumyarovna) was born in the city of Furmanov, Ivanovo Region. Date of birth – 03/03/1959
Author of novels, short stories and adult stories, fairy tales and children books, poems for adults and children, prosaic and poetic scripts. Author of the lyrics to over a hundred songs composed for children's performances.
Member of the Moscow Municipal Organization of the Union of Writers of Russia; member of the Russian Union of Writers; member of the International Union of Writers, Playwrights and Journalists; member of the regional public organization “Club of Writers of the Central House of Writers”; member of the Literature Development Fund named A. M. Gorky and other literary associations.
Full-fledged member of the Academy of Russian Literature and the International Academy of Russian Literature.
Winner of a number of literary contests and literary prizes.
Awarded with the “For Major Contribution to Russian Literature”, “Alexander Pushkin’s 220 Anniversary”, “Vladimir Nabokov’s “Major Contribution to World Literature” medals.
Awarded with the title “Master of Russian Literature” by the Decision No. 39 dated March 6, 2019 of the Presidium of the International Academy of Russian Literature.
Nelli Kopeykina considers children's books to be the most important part of her work. Based on the “Fairy Tale Adventures”, her first series of children's fairy tales, she wrote scripts for staging musical performances accepted by various children's theaters in Russia.
Katia, a beautiful good-looking young woman, was sitting on a chair, smoking and looking enviously at Clara’s back
“You’re not getting fat at all sister. Getting prettier every day.”
“Thank you.” Clara was also beautiful and good-looking, but much more slim. She smiled without turning around, preparing cottage cheese pancakes by the order of her guest.
“Do you remember our childhood fights?”
Unpleasant memories hit Clara’s mind. She immediately stopped smiling. Her eyes got sad, and she slowed down a little. For some reason Clara wanted to answer with a loud “yes”, but restrained herself and put on a smile again. The smile looked somehow guilty. She turned to her sister:
“Honey, there’s nothing to remember.”
“Mmm… yeah. Well, I was a nasty kid. Okay, let’s forget about it.” Katia agreed, although none of them could forget their childhood just like that. It was an agreement not to remember.
Katia and Clara were siblings and had the same father, but different mothers. Clara's mother died when she was three. A year later her father married, and another year later Katia was born. The girls resembled each other like real sisters, but they had a different temper. Clara grew up as a dreamy girl. She was always an excellent student and everyone liked her very much. Katia was restless, spoiled, moody, and it has always been difficult for her to study. Now the sisters lived separately. Clara lived in the apartment she inherited from her grandparents. Katia had a studio apartment bought by her father, in the house opposite to his. Clara successfully graduated from the university and worked in the tax police. Katia's father bought her a philology degree, and she was considered unemployed. From mid-spring, the sisters suddenly became close. Katia began to visit her sister, share her women’s secrets, and even brought gifts. Clara took Katia cautiously at first, but then, seeing how her sister changed, she went limp and began to accept her with joy.
“You are very kind,” Katia spoke again, putting a cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’m happy to have you.”
Clara, having finished cooking, turned to her sister:
“Katia, what’s the matter with you today?”
“This, my dear Clara, is called sentimentality. One friend of ours said it’s fashionable, so now I try, ” Katia joked. “As I recall, you have always been sentimental.”
“It suits you.”
“What?”
“Sentimentality.”
“Ah… Haha, that’s what I think.”
The sisters laughed.
“Clara has a very positive effect on Katia,” Yuri Vladimirovich remarked during the evening tea. His wife, Vera Stanislavovna, thought differently, but decided not to argue with her husband and, just in case, she agreed:
“I guess so.”
“You know what she did,” Yuri Vladimirovich went on, touching a fine cup with a gilded border, “She even remembered my birthday!”
“I don’t understand,” his wife answered with undisguised irritation, putting the same cup with fragrant tea on her saucer, “what does Clara have to do with it!” Vera Stanislavovna even shook her shoulders in indignation. Not responding to his wife’s remark, Yuri Vladimirovich continued:
“Today she even washed the dishes for herself! For the first time in her life!” Yuri Vladimirovich shone with joy. He looked somewhere through his wife, thinking.
“Our daughter is growing up. I don’t understand why you are so surprised. I always told you to wait until she grows up and gets wiser. We should be happy.” Vera Stanislavovna retorted with the same irritation in her voice, pursing her flaccid, reminded lips and shaking her head.
“I am happy, dear,” Yuri Vladimirovich looked at his wife, who had already lost a hint of joy in reality.
“But you should talk to Clara as a father,” Vera Stanislavovna went on attacking. She shook her head like a horse throwing a long bang from the eyes.
“To Clara?” Yuri Vladimirovich repeated. “What for?”
“You know she has a crush on this poor professor. She wants to marry him. You won’t let her beggar for the rest of her life!
Vera Stanislavovna was holding a half-eaten piece of cake in her left hand that she couldn’t eat. She looked at it in frustration, threw it into a plate, took a napkin from the holder, crumpled it in her left hand, wiping fingers, and threw it on a beige tablecloth.
“I won’t let that happen!” Yuri Vladimirovich became cheered when he realized what they were discussing.
He stared at the yellow crumpled napkin, which fell not far from a gilded jam vase and was spoiling the general mood and order on the table. Thirty seconds later Yuri Vladimirovich looked up at his wife. For a split second, Vera Stanislavovna caught something very touching in this look. She used to like the way her husband, a handsome blue-eyed man, looked when he informed his little Vera about some joyful event, full of triumph. Mostly they were his financial victories, but this look appeared fewer and farther between, and finally was erased from her memory. This time the touching flash was not connected with any victory, so Vera Stanislavovna seemed to be offended and regarded it as a mockery.
“Isn’t it time for me to write a will? What do you think?” asked Yuri Vladimirovich, squinting.
Yuri Vladimirovich, the father of Clara and Katia, was an active party leader before Perestroika, and easily climbed up the career ladder. After the change of power, having a decent capital acquired by illegal actions, Yuri Vladimirovich quietly left the political arena, privatized a number of inconspicuous enterprises and actively engaged in commerce. Today, he was the owner of a land plot near Moscow which could house an entire cooperative, a mansion called summer residence, two cars, five apartments in Moscow in addition to the one in which he lived, one apartment in Leningrad and one in Tashkent. He also owned several gas stations along the ring road and three companies. He preferred to keep his wealth in foreign banks. Yuri Vladimirovich didn’t like fame or noise around him, and considered the desire for fame to be a sign of wretchedness. He preferred to be listed as an average, and because of this most of his property belonged to him incognito. No one, even his wife Vera Stanislavovna, knew the true level of his income. Vera Stanislavovna guessed about it, and it irritated her very much. Now when she heard about the will, she got worried. “Not again,” she thought. “After all, he will divide everything between