July 11, 1993
Sunday
2:10 PM
A day later I was still trying to remember the name of a tape that made the rounds of the dorm on a month-long waiting list. I’d watched the tape twice with a group, and both times sat there, frozen stiff, watching depravity in full, unrestrained glory. A quartet of ridged-muscle strongmen worked over countless girls every which way. The much-hyped «Playboy» turned out to be kindergarten stuff, training-wheel pants, next to this super-tape watched down to black-and-white streaks, from either «Private» or «Vivid» studio, or maybe «Magma.» Where, oh where, could I get my hands on wonders like that? Which video club should I go storming into? Although… maybe I should vacuum, tidy up the apartment, for the first time ever?
A crash in the hallway knocked my train of thought off course. Zhorik’s silhouette flashed through the corridor. A yell of «Quit jerking off!» pulled me away from the arts.
What was that?
I was sitting there properly in the armchair, watching girls on the TV, not touching a thing.
— Take the docs. Study them!
Zhora tossed a stack of A4 sheets onto the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Shouted something. Ah, wanted signatures. Where? What for?
Right. Time to look through the papers, see what’s there.
There, by a majority vote (unanimous), Roman Viktorovich Peskov was appointed General Director of the Limited Liability Partnership «Proma Impex»…
Didn’t get it!
How could a student become General Director a month after being disgracefully fired from a night-watchman job?
I had every step of my life mapped out forty years ahead!
First, as the foundation of foundations and the beginning of beginnings, a MEPhI diploma. Then about five years working the lowest rungs of the social ladder… decades of active hustling a level or two higher… and then a catapult out to a little plot with a cottage, some garden beds, and a heap of grandchildren. Dreams and daydreams, flowers and fantasies… Not even in my most boastful future did I ever picture myself as a General Director.
Zhorik popped up from behind me, snatched up the documents, cracked me over the head with the stack — heavy as hell! — and shoved it back at me: no point standing around thinking, a new life’s starting, quit dragging your feet, sign where indicated, that is, wherever there’s a check mark. We’re launching!
Stepped back, struck the pose of a poetic hero: threw his head back toward the ceiling, flung his right arm out to the side, stamped his little foot:
— So they march with a sovereign stride, behind them, a hungry dog, ahead of them, a blood-red flag, unseen behind the blizzard, unharmed by any bullet… — Zhorik declaimed the excerpt from the school curriculum, with an expressive howl.
Kicked a leg out, flailed his little arms, collapsed into the armchair, sprawled out like a corpse… came back to life, took a swig from the bottle, scratched his belly, belched, set the bottle down on the floor, sprang up, and smacked the back of my head with his palm.
He was drunk out of his mind!
— What’s your problem? — I flared up.
— Bolt in the eye! Words and poses don’t mean a thing. Time for action’s arrived. No more persuading from here on out. Just cuffs on the head and kicks in the backside.
Took a swig straight from the bottle, continued:
— Today you’re Romka the student, tomorrow you’re Roman Viktorovich, mister director. Nothing new about it. Like they used to say in the old days: yesterday a bastard’s son, tomorrow a lord! That’s you and me, Romka. We’ve got to be tough, sharp, and first. These days it’s not the big fish eating the small ones, it’s the fast eating the slow. Got it? How’s it go?
There stands the bourgeois, like a hungry dog,
Stands mute, a question mark.
And the old world, like a mongrel dog,
Stands behind him, tail tucked.
Zhorik burst out laughing:
— You get it? Tail tucked! You get it, huh! Our time has come!
He listed sideways — a step to the side, two back, oop! Zhorik braced himself against the doorframe, stood there a moment, dropped back into the armchair, revived, felt around for the bottle, took a swig straight from it. I peered at the label, «Porto Cruz.» Had to try it! Blew the top of your head clean off, apparently. Zhorik went on:
— Take note! «Proma Impex» is a clean company, official, no setups. No bank account yet, hasn’t registered with the tax office either. You’ll handle that whole business next week. Right now, sign the bank cards, the charters, the contracts, the meeting minutes, and the copies. By the way, your first salary’s on the nightstand, we’ll celebrate later.
Having dumped out all this information, none of it absorbable, he got up from the armchair and vanished. As if he’d never been there at all, just a hallucination.
I signed everywhere it was needed, and got to thinking: «What should I do now?»
