July 3, 1993
Saturday
7:19 PM
I sat in front of the TV, flipping through channels with the remote, gnawing on a Snickers.
Nothing interesting was on. The rental tapes were all watched, too lazy to drag myself out for new ones. Thoughts hopped around in my head like fleas. Landed on a topic — «Mityay,» «Vera,» «seventy years,» «use the apartment for a month» — and jumped off again. No coherent picture would come together. I felt disgusting and just waited for Saturday to end.
The desk clock seemed determined to get stuck in Saturday forever. The second hand hobbled around the dial like a one-legged cripple, stopping to chat and smoke a cigarette at every number, every tick mark.
One more lap and I’m going to throw something at that clock! Come on!!!
Throwing the remote — too expensive! My hand reached for a slipper, froze halfway there. Too lazy to bend down…
Easier just to drink and paralyze the nervous system outright, meaning get plain, stupid wasted.
Zhorik burst into the room:
— Why the long face? Let’s go to a bar, celebrate the deal.
I breathed out in relief. At least it was something.
Got dressed, went outside.
The courtyard, which had looked like a grubby little patch of dirt yesterday, now presented itself as a blooming corner of unhurried Moscow. A toddler wandered the sandbox with a shovel and bucket, his movements tracked by an old woman with a hat and a newspaper on the bench across the way. Nearby, two car enthusiasts tinkered with a Zhiguli, watched over by a young mother with a stroller. Three teenagers walked past, vanished into the archway, thumping a soccer ball. Measured, ordinary life flowed on around me.
I, meanwhile, was thrashing like a puppy in a whirlpool of events, and hadn’t gotten any closer to my secret longing or to my openly stated goal. I’d gotten nothing — not the girl I’d dreamed of, not a pile of money.
— You’re a genuine tightwad, — Zhorik said, stepping up beside me. — When was the last time you rode the metro?
— Two weeks ago.
— When were you last at the dorm?
— Two weeks ago.
— When did you last borrow money?
— Don’t remember.
— I remember. Two weeks ago. Same day you last munched on squash caviar for lunch, too. I’d love to send you right back to the dorm, but can’t. We’ll do the experimenting after you’ve gotten everything you wanted. A separate procedure. Solvable, I’d say.
Zhorik hopped into the Taurus. I followed him.
While Zhorik steered us out, I gathered my thoughts, getting ready to launch a detailed interrogation about every person and every event that had happened to me and around me.
I understood that behind everything that had happened lay someone else’s will, not mine, not Zhorik’s either. Cold fingers with an impeccable manicure were laying out a game of solitaire with my new life, the one I’d agreed to. Impartial eyes watched the cards as they fell. What was the point of the game?
— We’re here. Out we go! — Zhorik cut off the stream of anxiety.
What do you mean, here? Where?
