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.
— Then why should anyone think you are? We need to work on your look, seeing as you’re not a stoker or a carpenter. Let’s hit the flea markets. I’m looking pretty worn 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.»
We spent the rest of the day shopping: combed through the flea markets at Luzhniki, Dynamo, and CSKA, dropped by 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 snagged a deep-blue cashmere blazer, three pairs of light, loose-cut slacks, perfect for summer, and a dozen thin turtlenecks in every shade of gray from white to black. Alongside that, they bought me almost the same: a bright red blazer and, instead of turtlenecks, a dozen silk shirts and some thirty ties of unthinkable garishness and elaborate pattern.
We spent most of our time on shoes. They found me a pair of Italian brogues for formal occasions right away, and a bit later, moccasins for everyday wear. Zhorik suffered through the shoe hunt. At dozens of stalls he turned his nose up at whatever shoes were on offer, and toward evening, in some little shop, he finally found what he was after — sharp-toed ankle boots on high heels. Trying them on, Zhorik licked his lips like a cat. Hearing a price plucked out of thin air and doubled, he didn’t even haggle. He pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, peeled off half a dozen for the seller with a comment: «Keep the change for a tip.»
He switched into the cossack boots right there and tossed his old shoes into a bag. We stepped out onto the street and looked each other over.
— If anyone asks, tell them you shop at Topman on Oxford Street. They won’t catch the lie, — a glowing Zhorik advised, brushing invisible dust off my red back. Then he walked over to a trash bin and tossed in the bag with the old shoes. He capped it off with: «Clint Eastwood doesn’t wear shitkickers.»
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!
Dressed like a successful financier, well-fed and at peace, I was cruising down the Warsaw Highway in a foreign car. Practically Richard Gere in a Lotus Esprit. Beside me, Chris Rea purred «And you’re my love, my sweet, sweet love.» My carefree soul hummed along in time: «And I’m happy, la-lie la-la.» The state of a happy man, unburdened by any thought of life’s ugly grimaces, held me from head to toe. I’d never felt this good before.
«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 headed the wrong way, — Zhorik hollered. — Go pack your stuff up. Yoo-hoo, Comrade Basov! Don’t forget! We’re moving to the apartment tomorrow at eight.
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 until three in the morning calling out «In,» «Pass,» «Whist,» reciting «Whoever bids six diamonds gets screwed,» celebrating other players’ tricks on a misère hand, and moping while I ate points on the throw-in rounds. I lost a little, about two hundred rubles. Before falling asleep I remembered that the Nobel laureate Academician Basov had graduated from MEPhI, and...
...I fell asleep.
