February 18, 1994
Monday
Ten days later Chicha barged into the office, dropped into the chair across from me, and, smiling unpleasantly with eighteen gap-toothed teeth, suggested I stand a round to celebrate the start of our joint venture. I broke out in a cold sweat. The prospect of doing business with a criminal frightened me to the point of trembling. That was one thing. Second, from my Chelyabinsk youth I’d absorbed a lesson: when dealing with a criminal, never discuss topics. You could verbally state obvious facts and refuse to admit fault. Especially if you hadn’t done anything wrong.
The subject had been explained to me by a classmate whose forebears ended up at the Chelyabinsk mines under the tsar, got on their feet in the mining settlement named for the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Komsomol, and who himself moved with his father seven years ago to our post office box.
What was going on?
– Now we’re in it together, – Chicha explained, looking me straight in the eye. – A truck is going to Khryakino. With goods from the devils you pointed out. The rates are right – a fiver for a ruble forty-six and the punishment. Ten in all. This week we’ll feel out another warehouse. Get the cash ready. Only this... If anything... So as not to get caught in the mix, behave yourself carefully…
I didn’t understand a thing and wished Zhorik were around. Punishment was all well and good, but why had Chicha decided to feel out another warehouse? What warehouse? What was «a ruble forty-six»? And how was I supposed to behave?
Sweat poured from my forehead onto the bridge of my nose and my cheekbones, my back went cold, my gut hollowed out. Anatomically speaking, I was a corpse. From a negotiating standpoint, I turned out to be quite the fellow. Settled the financial question. On the prospect of a joint business, I proposed not to rush, to discuss it later…
Chicha grinned lecherously and left the office, limping.
I kept thrashing in my chair, gasping for air. Incapable of anything else. Had no idea what to do about the situation I was in. Didn’t know what to come up with. I ground through, cranked through in my head the ten seconds now left in the past:
– the first three seconds I mumbled to Chicha that we’d hand over the ten grand, no problem, needed to discuss it with the accountant… restoring justice, that’s good;
– the next four seconds I babbled that goods from another warehouse weren’t needed… criminality, that’s bad, not needed at all;
– at the eighth second Chicha shrugged, drawled lazily: if not, I’ll pass it to someone else… missed profit, that’s bad, not needed;
– at the tenth he walked out of the office – that’s good, excellent!
And around again, first through tenth: I mumble, babble, Chicha shrugs, walks out… mumble, babble, shrug, walkout again… what is good and what is bad?
Where’s the good in it, when there’s nothing but pure evil all around!
I sweated, shook in a chill, and wanted to drink water – a liter, two liters, three… Called Vasilich and asked him to drive me home. Coming down with the flu, can barely stand…
