July 9, 1993
Friday
6:00 PM
— So, girls, shall we dance? — Zhorik shouted the moment Lyubochka and her friend, a tall, pleasant-looking girl, hopped over to Bucephalus, which had swung smartly up to the bus stop.
— Of course! — they squealed, and climbed into the back seat.
— On the program: dancing, cognac, and champagne! Let’s fly! — Zhora floored the gas pedal.
We tore off past a car factory, past railway tracks, past mining slag heaps and construction debris, toward a Palace of Culture in a residential district way out on Moscow’s eastern edge. Nadya, Lyubochka’s friend, called out directions.
After parking Bucephalus, Zhorik and I headed to the House of Culture past teenage boys with cans of beer and high-school girls with cigarettes. At the entrance we passed security, a combined cashier-and-ticket-checker, and more security in the lobby. Looked around… decided against heading straight to the dance floor, spotted a bar up on a little balcony and a staircase. Went up, walked over to the counter, and ordered the bartender rum and cola.
Lyuba and Nadya had flitted off to the nearest nine-story building right at the start of the outing. Gone to change, promising to be back in an hour, once the crowd had gathered.
After three cocktails apiece, Zhorik checked his watch and concluded that a fourth round of this swill would be pushing it!
We went down to the lobby, followed the sound, and ended up on a dance floor blazing with color, thundering like cannon fire. Whoa!
Zhorik plunged into the crowd, I took up a spot by the wall.
First of all, I didn’t know how to dance. Wasn’t capable of pulling off any of those elaborate tricks with my arms and legs, didn’t have the nerve to step out into the circle of dancers.
Second, I hadn’t been to a disco in a long time, not since it started costing foreign currency. I no longer had any idea how I was supposed to act. Maybe English spleen was the fashionable pose now, and forward-thinking young men like me were supposed to knit their brows and mope, feel sad, feel gloomy.
Third, and most important, I just didn’t like discos. Not back when they were free, open to any student, and not now, turned currency-priced and elite. Guitar solos, the meditation of basslines, the hi-hat’s rhythm, the ecstatic computer pulse, the strobe lights, the enclosed space, all of it felt foreign to me. I felt like a foreign particle amid the thundering rainbow and the rainbow thunder, jerking around bodies of ghosts, bodies of zombies. Decay, loneliness, soullessness… what was I, a living human being named Roma Peskov, doing here?
«I don’t belong here» — an indisputable conclusion.
Having firmly decided to head back to the bar, I turned around and ran straight into Zhorik, shouting in my ear:
— Quit sulking. I got hold of some cognac, take a swig. C’mon, c’mon! The girls have already had a few.
— Come on, Roma! — Lyuba shouted over «No, No Limits,» materializing out of nowhere. Nadya squealed beside her.
If the ladies were asking…
I gulped down fire from the flask in small sips, grabbed a Fanta out of Lyuba’s hands, and doused the blaze in my stomach. Good stuff!
Zhorik spun around beside me:
— We should get a disco going at the «Terem,» but there’s not enough room!
I didn’t share his enthusiasm. Just an ordinary dance floor in a residential district, locals drinking, groping girls, enjoying a bit of culture.
— Come on, Roma, shake those bones, — Zhorik shoved me into the circle of dancers.
I bucked against it, resisting, but Lyuba latched onto my shoulder and dragged me over to Nadya, who already had her arms thrown up, moving to the beat. Kicking my legs about, I took up a spot across from her, closed my eyes. Tried to squeeze a little enjoyment out of being there. The cognac spread through my body, wiped out my shyness, infected me with boldness, and set me loose into an euphoric dance.
I merged with the dancing hall, became a particle of it. Alcohol, best friend of the partying crowd, whispered: «Romka, you’re the best there is! Light it up!!!»
I lit it up. I threw such kicks, pulled off such flashy little flourishes, folded myself up into such a Tsukahara that no words could describe it. I lost myself in the dance, dissolved into the rhythm.
