June 27, 1993
Sunday
11:20 AM
By morning my condition could best be described as «apathy and infirmity.» I lay sprawled in bed, moving felt like a chore. A couple of times I dragged myself to the kitchen, peered into the cupboard and the fridge, chewed on something, washed it down with something. Zhorka, looming over the phone stand in the hallway, was slogging through a long, tedious call, asking to have things spelled out and repeated, arranging a meeting with some distant Gennady Ivanovich, who was explaining how to get to his dacha.
Having worked out the route ahead, Zhorik hung up the phone with a comment: «Another have-not has turned up. Works at the local housing office and wants a minister’s salary and a black Volga with fancy plates. You have any idea where guys like that come from?»
I yawned. Zhorik laid out the plan for what came next:
— Right, here’s the deal. I’m flying out to Gesha’s dacha. You come to your senses slowly and head to the store. Buy a proper telephone. Panasonic cordless with an answering machine, got it? This piece of junk’s had it. And another thing. Starting next week we’re going to be dealing with respectable types. So buy an iron, an ironing board, and a washing machine. Automatic, Swedish or German. Italian only as a last resort. You following? Oh, and don’t forget a coffee grinder! Grab that too. Pre-ground stuff loses its flavor sitting in the bag, damn thing…
Zhorik darted around the kitchen, a coffee pot in hand. In time with his darting, I nodded my throbbing head.
— Remember this: buy the washer with delivery and installation included. Don’t bother hunting around for shops. Go to the same place we got the TV and VCR. It’s called Impuls, Alexander Nevsky Street. Remember it? All right, take note of the first rule of shopping — don’t switch vendors until the one you’ve got screws up. If the purchase suits you, go back for the next one and pay up. Keep repeating that until the first screwup, then think it over. Clear? You’ll get the cash right now. And don’t forget. Tonight we’re going to a restaurant. Get ready. Need to look decent. We’re marking the start of a new run. You were kind of limp yesterday.
Zhorik pulled a wad of dollars out of his pocket, peeled off about fifteen bills, and handed them over with the words:
— No showing off. Keep the change for later. Grab some action movies from the video rental. Don’t plan anything for tomorrow. We’ll sit down and figure out how to live from here.
Where Zhorik had gotten the cash from, I didn’t even bother guessing. My head was splitting, but it still worked — looted it off that gang of four yesterday, so those handbags hadn’t been for nothing. Looked like criminal athlete-racketeers were Zhorik’s one and only source of income. So what was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to live from here?
I sighed, shut the door behind Zhora, wandered around the apartment a bit, and, bang! felt a surge of energy.
Shoved the dollars in my pocket and set off shopping, brimming over with feeling. I’d never held that much money in my hands before. Only in sweet daydreams had I ever burned through capital on something wild and unimaginable, nothing remotely like a washing machine and an iron. Two weeks ago I hadn’t been dreaming about appliances. I’d wanted to plunge into the depths of carefree, reckless living… or had I?
I strained to remember what I’d dreamed of during four years of student life, and couldn’t come up with anything concrete, tangible, buyable with dollars. My old fantasies had been utterly immaterial. Ugh…
And there was the shop.
In my pocket lay money I couldn’t have spent even in my dreams a week ago. The unfamiliar sensation was bracing, refreshing. I hemmed and hawed, shifting my weight, moving the cash from one pocket to another. Then I counted the bills — sixteen hundred bucks!!!! Way more than a million rubles!!! — swallowed hard, screwed up my nerve, and walked into the store. Walked in with every right to call myself a genuine millionaire, exactly as I’d dreamed my whole life before.
Er… the money in my pocket wasn’t actually mine, but still…
An hour later, a Panasonic cordless phone with an answering machine stood on the stand in the hallway, an ironing board with a Bosch iron in the corridor by Zhorik’s room. The washing machine was promised for delivery and installation tomorrow.
I tidied up the clothes closet and set to ironing shirts, brand new, creased at the folds. Around six I took the top tape off the stack of rentals and loaded it into the VCR.
«The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.» Clint Eastwood. Zhorik’s favorite actor, apparently. Never heard of the guy.
Well, Zhorka definitely wasn’t the Bad one. The Good or the Ugly? Now that was a question…
Two and a half hours later it turned out that Zhora looked nothing like a weary cowboy, the exact opposite in fact. Made me wonder why every last Hollywood hero was some tight-lipped guy with cold, piercing eyes. I thought back over the current heroes of the video club circuit — Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Michael Dudikoff. All silent types and introverts, not like Zhorka the chatterbox and joker. And speak of the devil, there he was. Burst into the apartment, making noise, boiling over:
— What? Not ready yet?! Get dressed. Uniform number eight, whatever you put on, that’s what you wear! Move it! We’re running late like Fanny Kaplan for the electromechanical works!
Whirled past with the telephone:
— Panas is solid! Exactly the machine we needed!
Whirled past again.
Looked like he was changing clothes, eating dinner, and fondling the new purchases all at once. In five minutes flat I was dressed up like an authentic Moscow dandy — a red cashmere jacket, a pale pink shirt to match, and shiny black dress shoes peeking out from under trousers pressed to perfection — a fly could’ve cut itself on those creases!
— What about a tie? — Zhorik asked.
Catching my surprised look, Zhorik waved a hand:
— Fine. I’ll tie it this once, but this is the last time, learn to tie it yourself. It’ll come in handy.
He himself went without a tie. Black trousers, a black turtleneck, and a blue jacket.
