June 22, 1993
Tuesday
2:30 PM
After lunch I felt like a human being, not a worm. My body filled with confidence. My spine straightened. My mouth spread into a well-fed grin. From my stomach crawled out:
— Hic.
Zhorik asked a question:
— Roman Viktorovich, who handles your wardrobe?
— I do. Why?
— You’ve got no taste. None at all! I think back on that wardrobe of yours and I get it now. No offense, — Zhorik’s voice filled with steel. — You go for clothes where the dirt doesn’t show. That’s low-class style. You’re not shoveling coal by night, are you?
— No.
– Why should other people think you’re bluffing? We need to work on your appearance, seeing as you’re no stoker or carpenter. Let’s take a stroll round the flea markets. I’ve worn out a bit myself.
No kidding. He looked as bad as it gets. A hundred times more disgraceful than me. If my outfit — pyramid-cut jeans, a rock-festival T-shirt, and a denim jacket — was the standard uniform of a technical-university student, then on Zhorik, corduroy pants and a red-and-black checkered shirt hung like they belonged to a bum.
Zhora ruled out the hard-currency shops: «I know those bag men! They rip off the tags with the Chinese characters, sew on brand-name labels, and mark the price up tenfold. We’ll do the same someday... Vera’ll do it... later... Let’s head to the Luzha, then up to Leningradka.»
In one day we combed through the flea markets at Luzhniki, Dynamo and CSKA, and called in at GUM, TsUM and Passazh.
We burned through a pile of money, time, and nerves, but in the end bought everything we were looking for. Or rather, everything Zhorik was looking for.
For himself he got a deep-blue cashmere blazer, three pairs of slacks, light and loose-cut, just right for summer, and a dozen thin turtlenecks in every shade of gray – from white to black. Along the way they bought me a bright red blazer and a dozen silk shirts with some thirty ties of unthinkable garishness and elaborate patterning.
Most of the time went on footwear. For me they found Italian inspectors for formal occasions straight away, and moccasins for everyday wear. Zhorik suffered over the choice. In dozens of places he turned up his nose at the shoes offered, and toward evening, in some little shop, he found what he was after – sharp-toed ankle boots on high heels. Trying them on, Zhorik licked his lips like a cat. Hearing the price, plucked from the ceiling and multiplied by two, he did not haggle. He took out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and handed the seller half a dozen with the comment: «Keep the change as a tip.»
He changed into the cossacks then and there, and threw the old shoes into a bag. We stepped out onto the street and looked each other over.
– If they ask, answer – I dress at «Topman» on Oxford Street. They won’t spot the catch, – advised the glossy Zhorik, brushing invisible dust off my red back. Then he walked over to a bin and threw away the bag with the shoes. He added in parting: «Clint Eastwood doesn’t walk about in clodhoppers.»
That was Zhora’s bourgeois little habit: put on the new thing right away and toss the old one with some profound remark. He’d made me part with my old clothes too. Now I sparkled like a Christmas ornament.
— Don’t worry. Break it in over a week, you’ll look sharp. Every girl’ll be yours. Now, to the dorm! — Zhorik ordered.
We loaded into the car and rolled along the Garden Ring toward Varshavka.
Zhora kept swiveling his head, falling for every female driver who whizzed past: «Look, look, what a little goat that one is! Off on Daddy’s Lada to go whoring around. Ooh, my bug-eyed little sweetheart!»
I paid no mind to the pointless chatter. My ears were soothed by the music seeping out of the tape deck. My soul felt light and at peace.
No wonder!
Turned out like a successful financier, well fed and at peace, I rolled along the Warsaw Highway in a foreign car. Practically Richard Gere in a Lotus Esprit. At my side Chris Rea purred «And you’re my love, my sweet, sweet love». «And I am happy, la-lie la-la,» my soul sang along in time. The condition of a happy man, unburdened by thoughts of the possible grimaces of existence, owned me from crown to heel. Never before had I felt so good.
«Stop!» I caught myself.
Not like that!
I realized I’d already lived through something just like this. The music’s spell felt familiar. And the languor wrapping around me wasn’t new either. All of this had happened before, but when? I’d never in my life ridden in a foreign car. Never experienced anything like it.
Or had I?
Valera had driven me around in his S600. No. That was different. This exact feeling, down to the last detail, had happened on some other day. When?
Today!
This exact languor had come to me while sitting at a trolleybus stop. But how? Made no sense.
Full of anxious thoughts, I didn’t notice us arriving at the dorm. I got out of the car in a sleepwalker’s daze and, with no strength left to process what had happened, not even aware of what I was doing, headed for the cafeteria.
– Hey, Botvinnik, you’re going the wrong way, – Zhorik hollered. – Go pack your things up. Yoo-hoo, Comrade Basov! Don’t forget! Tomorrow at eight we move into the apartment.
In a cloud of exhaust, he turned and was gone. I came back to myself. The fog in my head cleared, leaving an unpleasant residue: «What comes next?»
I went up to my room and, in a couple of minutes, gathered the pile of notebooks, lecture notes, and textbooks off the desk. By nine in the evening I had all my worldly possessions packed into three boxes. By ten I’d come to my senses and perked up. At exactly five past ten someone called me over for a game of preferans. A sacred duty!
Forgetting all about the misfortune that had befallen me, I spent the time until three in the morning declaring «In», «Pass», «Whist», repeating «He who plays six diamonds ends up screwed», rejoicing at other people’s tricks on a misère and moping as I ate points on the throw-ins. I lost a little, about two hundred rubles. Before sleep I remembered that the Nobel laureate Academician Basov had graduated from MEPhI and...
...I fell asleep.
