On the early Epiphany morning of 1971, a half-dressed and obviously drunk woman was running along the central street of Vologda. Seeing the policeman, she rushed to him in hysterics: “I killed my husband!” What a beauty, but her lip is split, the black eye is swelling under her eye... “Go to sleep, citizen,” advised the guard. -You're very drunk. Otherwise, go to the sobering-up station.” “The citizen” stood her ground: “My husband is the poet Rubtsov!” I just strangled him!” The young guard had recently read Rubtsov’s poems and therefore peered with interest into the woman’s half-mad eyes. Apparently, the “distressed madam” will have to be taken not to the sobering-up center, but to the madhouse...