September 18, 1993
Saturday
6:00 PM
Guests began drifting into the restaurant. The little banquet, powered by enthusiasm and faith that everything would be fine, dissolved. The Terem staff scattered back to their posts. Zhorik and I moved to the table that had become ours on Saturdays — the one farthest from the entrance.
They brought the hot dishes, the salads. In front of Zhora they set a carafe of vodka, in front of me a mug of Heineken. Zhorik shook his head no: tradition’s tradition, but tonight our wine list was cognac. No mixing alcohol. Nodded toward the «Hennessy» swiped off the banquet table. The waitress Zhanna shrugged and carried the vodka and beer back to the bar. I asked:
– What are we doing tonight?
– Nothing. Drinking, like always. It’s Saturday.
I remembered what day it was. For a month and a half, Zhorik and I had claimed this table on Saturdays, Vadim joining around seven with his latest girl, and we’d settle in for some cultured relaxation, after which I’d drive home alone, moderately well-fed.
Tonight was turning out differently. We’d started early, at five. By any reckoning, I might keel over before Vadim even showed up.
– Don’t rush it. You’ll last till eleven, – Zhorik advised.
– Then, to «Proma Impex»!
We clinked glasses, sipped the cognac, had a bite.
Zhorik pulled out his notebook, scribbled something. Gestures like that unsettled me. It seemed like my life, like everyone else’s, was some kind of Bradis table, calculated to the tenth decimal place. Name a tangent, a cosine, a mantissa, and the answer comes out unambiguous.
Looked like tonight’s reason for writing was Nastya. She’d also been riding the metro that evening. Just half an hour ago, drinking to that wonderful woman in every sense, I’d recalled how the tank crews had hit on her. Decided to ask Zhorik to clarify:
– Did I understand right, that the director’s position was her dream?
– Not quite. She dreamed of owning a restaurant, any restaurant, as long as it was close to home. She lives on Olonetskaya Street.
– You going to grant it?
– Nah. Too far to drag myself out there. Easier to buy an apartment around here. Just around the corner, some friends are clearing out a communal flat on Ovchinnikovsky. Once she’s settled in at the Terem, we’ll move her there.
– Nothing else she wanted?
– She doesn’t need anything. Has a husband, an auto mechanic with steady work. Drinks a bit, but a mechanic can’t do without that. Daughter’s ten. Goes to three schools — music, sports, and regular. Doing well in all three. If the daughter were a bit older, maybe Nastyukha would’ve thought of something else to wish for. But as it stands, she’s set. All she was missing for complete happiness was her own restaurant.
Envy got the better of me, at how little it took for a woman to be happy — her own restaurant near home, and that’s it. I sighed. Remembered there were other names in Zhorik’s notebook.
– Anyone else had their wish granted? Who’s gotten everything?
– So far two, Verochka and Vadim. – Zhora checked his notebook. – Verunchik wanted an apartment in central Moscow, not necessarily owned outright, and her own business. Ah, and a new foreign car, straight from a dealership. And a man with staying power, didn’t have to have money. Nothing else she needed. Everything she asked for, she got. Vadim wanted a job with no bosses, a flexible schedule, and a thousand dollars a month. Arranged it the very first day. The rest are in progress.
I sipped the cognac, mulled over the word «progress.» So I was in progress too, and pragmatic Vadik had been right after all. Instead of chasing after vague dreams, he’d priced his wish in one flat number, like a produce vendor at the market. Got what he’d dreamed of and sank into joy and merriment. He’d come into the office by lunchtime, spend till seven playing «Wing Commander» and «Civilization,» then hang around the Terem till midnight. On Saturdays he went to discos. Blew his money down to zero and didn’t sweat it. And me, chasing some vague, unclear desire, I slaved from morning to night and earned a hundred dollars a week that I couldn’t spend on anything. Six days a week, morning to night, stuck at work. Once a week, Verochka came by. Wait! Did that make me that very same man with staying power?
Funny and absurd.
Verochka took twenty thousand off the nightstand for gas and left me alone in the empty apartment. An hour or two later I’d go out and wander the side streets. I’d roam from Tverskaya to Povarskaya, stop by Patriarch’s Ponds, sit on a bench, and come back by nine in the evening. No other entertainment. Sometimes I’d run the VCR. The last two months had all looked alike.
Nothing in my life had changed. All I’d added were workdays indistinguishable from one another. I’d traded boredom and being broke for routine and tedium.
