June 24, 1993
Thursday
8:30 AM
I didn’t get enough sleep, didn’t get to finish some wet, revolutionary dream where I was the main man everywhere and in everything. Zhorik shook me out of it at an ungodly hour, half past seven:
— Get up, student. Enough snoozing. Consultation in an hour and a quarter. Chew down a sandwich and get to the institute. I’ll manage without you. «The water splashes quietly, a ribbon of blue…»
Whistling some old-school tune, Zhorik vanished. I, angry from lack of sleep and baffled — «how does he know about the consultation?» — went to the institute anyway, though I might as well have skipped it. The professor rained down terms, tortured the chalkboard, and I understood not one grain of it. I moped, sniffled, and scowled. Buried under multi-story formulas and gnarly diagrams piling up on the board, a failing grade glowed.
To stop torturing myself, I turned my gaze to the window, past the window, to the trembling leaves, and thought: «So how, how am I supposed to pass this damn exam?»
No answer came.
I knew nothing about the subject. Not a shred of knowledge worth even a miserable C-minus had accumulated. I’d made it to lectures twice all semester. They started at an inconvenient hour — eight forty-five on Saturday morning. Only a complete idiot or a hopeless grind could, in their fourth year, wake up at seven on a Saturday and drag themselves to the institute. The Friday disco at the Orion thundered till five.
Seminars were a different kind of pain — they ended at 6:45 PM. My night-watchman shift started at 6:00 PM. So every other seminar I skipped, to not be late for work.
I moved my gaze from the leaves back to the board, followed the chalk in the professor’s hand, and felt a pain at the back of my skull.
Ah, damn it!
I arched my neck. Flame tore through my body, scorching nerve endings and paralyzing my limbs.
«Again,» I breathed out.
All-consuming pain crashed down, twisted my body and wrung it out like a rag. Carefully, measuring out every millimeter of movement, I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes. A flash of light tore my body out of the ring of pain, spun it through a space stripped of color and smell, and returned it to the classroom — not the one I’d been in, but another one, bigger, echoing, cool… and sat me down at a desk. A professor appeared beside me, the same one who’d recently been buzzing at the blackboard, and asked:
— What’s the first question?
— DMA organization and memory management in microprocessor systems. The principle of direct memory access.
— Go ahead.
I started reciting foggy terms and phrases. The professor nodded, and a minute later interrupted my answer:
— Excellent. Second question.
— The structure and operation of a typical microprocessor system based on the K1821 VM85. The K1821 VM85 microprocessor is an improved version of the 580IK80, meaning that within a single chip is combined… — I started rattling off.
— Good. — The professor slid over a blank sheet of paper and asked me to draw the timing diagrams of the K1821 VM85’s operating cycle. With a steady hand I drew out the lines and squares.
— Full marks. Your grade book.
I came to. There was no pain. Dima was shaking my shoulder, an inveterate lover of drinking, freeloading, and preferans:
— Beer?
— No, Dimas, — I refused. — Things to do.
A hunch struck me. I headed to the library, buried myself in microprocessor reference books, and after flipping back and forth a dozen times, found the answers to both questions I’d just seen in the vision. Excited, driven from within by «not for nothing, not for nothing, none of it for nothing,» I copied the terms and formulas into my notebook and, finally, ready to break into a joyful dance, studied the timing diagrams. Inside me churned a certainty that the vision meant something, that someone was looking out for tomorrow’s me: the exam would go off without a hitch!
Inspired, exultant, I headed to the apartment. Zhora met me at the door with the news «Bought dishes! Now we can eat like kings!» I grimaced sourly.
The excitement drained away, leaving only the thought: «And if I draw a different question card, what then?»
— What time’s the exam? — Zhorik asked.
— Ten.
— Last one?
— Yes.
— That’s good, very, very good. Let’s go to Palik’s, get some lunch.
After lunch we stopped by Alexander Nevsky Street and — a miracle I could never have imagined! — in a shop on the ground floor of an elite brick apartment building, casually bought a television, a VCR, and a refrigerator.
Well, how about that!
I didn’t rack my brain over the question «where’s all this grace coming from?» Didn’t stop to ponder, weigh, or reason it out. I melted and dissolved into bliss. I’d been dreaming of owning an Elektronika VM-12 VCR, and instead got a four-head video deck and a Sony Trinitron with a twenty-nine-inch screen.
That’s exactly how it happened!
Like something out of a fairy tale, we walked into the showroom, Zhora pointed a finger at the biggest television with the order: «Wrap up the unit. And a VCR to go with it, make it a double.» The quick-moving salesmen did just that, and we — distinguished customers! — wandered along the shelves, Zhorik priced out a couple of trinkets and paid for the biggest refrigerator. My chest tightened. What next?
Zhorik counted the remaining cash and concluded: «The rest, in a week.»
We drove home with the television and VCR barely wedged into the car. Once we arrived, Zhorik ordered: «Hook it up and test it. I’m off for the fridge!»
I unpacked the VCR, set it on the stand, hooked it up to the television, and slotted in a music-video tape bought with the change.
Ah! It couldn’t be, and yet it happened. I jumped around like a young goat and couldn’t believe my luck. Something like this couldn’t happen to me, it couldn’t, but it did! Ah!
How many times, handing a ruble to the owner of the dorm’s makeshift video parlor, had I stared at a flickering «Horizont» screen and dreamed of the day I’d bring a girl home, slide a tape of «Emmanuelle» into the VCR, sprawl on the sofa, and wink: «All right, kitten, let’s see what they’re showing.»
The dream, one of the sweet ones, had run through my head a hundred times, and now it was real. Television, VCR, and a wide sofa — bought, arranged, and waiting to be used. Now it was just up to the girls!
I jumped up and, laughing, collapsed into the armchair. Took the remote in hand and started running a tape of music videos by foreign bands back and forth. INXS, Alice in Chains, House of Pain, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Thompson Twins flickered past one after another.
Would you believe it!
An hour ago I’d had only the vaguest idea who any of them were, and now, here you go! Eat your heart out! — they were prancing around on my own television. Great!
Before long Zhora pulled up with a three-compartment Stinol and, with the help of two movers, set it up in the kitchen. The movers left with two bottles of vodka. Zhorka froze in the kitchen, having discovered a sad fact: «Damn it! Forgot about the kitchen table.»
I waved a hand: «Never mind, let’s go watch the VCR!»
Zhorik agreed: «Never mind,» and pulled a bottle of Barbera d’Asti out of the cabinet.
He went to his room and came back with two glasses and a box of chocolates. We stood by the window. I opened the box and picked out a couple of chocolates. Zhora popped the cork and filled the glasses, then offered a toast:
— A friend of mine used to say: «Never drink on an empty stomach or an empty wallet.» Let’s drink so that from now on, neither ever happens to us again!
I clinked glasses and took a sip.
Then we drank to a cigarette between the teeth, to the table, to the cue and the chalk, to the bet, and to bearing a loss with dignity. I didn’t understand any of it, but I kept up the toasts. The clearest one turned out to be the last: «Never chase after women or buses — you’ll never catch either one anyway.»
We moved to the room with the television and, watching the achievements of Western show business, worked through a second bottle and decided morning would be wiser than evening.
Zhorik handed over a set of bedding, a pillow and blanket — brand new, tags still on — and was gone, disappearing into his own little room.
I didn’t dawdle either. Sorted out the bedding and dove under the blanket.
I couldn’t fall asleep, tossed and turned like a spinning top. Something at the back of my skull kept hammering out a premonition of trouble. When, flipped over for the hundredth time, I pried my eyes open and glanced at the clock — «half past midnight, what trouble?…» — an angry force clamped down on my temples and stirred up the thought: «It’s all very simple. Wildly, wildly, wildly the top is spinning.»
Sweating like a mouse, I shook my head, chasing off what was left of the hangover.
What?
What top?
I saw a beam of light thrown through the window by a streetlamp… the beam reflecting off the ceiling onto the floor, where lay… where my lecture notes, written today in the library, were scattered. I picked up the notebook, made my way to the bathroom, settled onto the toilet, and got down to reviewing…
