December 30, 1993
Thursday
19:30
The Terem greeted us with a lavish spread, or rather four rows of tables forming the shape of the letter «Sh», around which fifty-odd people had settled amid noise and whooping. The whooping and hollering came from «Proma Impex,» all young men. The Vatrushka’s lady staff took their seats with dignity and gravity.
Zhorik sat down beside me, turned his head this way and that. Unlike me, he wasn’t counting the boy-to-girl ratio, but sizing up both crews. His assessment came out low:
– A pack of Bandar-log. The males are deciding who is the chief baboon. The females are fluffing their tails. We have to knock it off after the holidays.
– What break?
– Take your exams. Yura will manage without you.
He was right, no arguing that. Yurik hadn’t just pulled his grades up, he’d passed all his credits early, plus two exams.
Zhorik surveyed the crowd anticipating the bender and reached for a bottle of vodka. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed. A rustle went up over the tables: «A toast! A toast! Georgy Albertovich, if you please!»
Zhorik filled a shot glass with vodka and rose with a somber air. Frowning, thoughtful, he swept the hall with a heavy gaze, cleared his throat, waited for silence, for everyone to fill their glasses and settle down… cleared his throat once more. In a hoarse, muffled voice he announced that a start had been made. Nineteen ninety-three was being seen off with success. Everyone who’d forged those successes would be issued a bonus of a thousand dollars… Each of them…
Dead silence fell. No one could believe what they’d heard, and everyone wanted to know whether they counted among those who’d forged the success.
Zhorik, poseur and windbag that he was, savored the effect to the full and proclaimed loudly:
– To everyone who’s worked at «Proma Impex» and «Vatrobank» more than two months! To the winners!
And drank. Everyone jumped up and clinked glasses together with enthusiasm. I joined Zhora’s toast a beat late. First I was struck by the unprecedented extravagance. About ten people at Proma Impex had been working since October. Meaning ten thousand dollars would be pulled straight out of the company till… not out of Zhorik’s own pocket, surely… though then again…
I remembered how, half an hour earlier, Zhorik had flicked me on the nose with Yurka’s report. «Popoff» vodka had sold like hotcakes after the ad campaign. Regular clients had steered clear of it like the devil steers clear of incense, but out-of-towners had snapped it up in an instant. Reasoned, why not buy real American vodka from a real American movie for the New Year!
Right. Zhorik had won the bet outright, hadn’t said a word about the Torus. Figured a flick on the nose was lesson enough. I passed a law of my own: with the right approach, there shouldn’t be any losses. The twelve thousand I’d written off as lost, Zhorik had returned to the till with remarkable ease. Wasn’t a shame to set some aside for staff bonuses. So be it. Time to drink!
I drank. Glanced at Zhorik.
He, having knocked his back to the last drop, set the shot glass aside. Not enough. Splashed vodka into a whiskey glass instead. The holiday had arrived!
Zhorik tapped his fork against the glass. Once the murmur died down, he proclaimed:
– And now the time has come to raise our vessels of alcoholism, to grasp a simple truth. Any vessel is a simple glass, a tool for drinking. But let us not forget the glass has other properties too. A glass is a heavy object, which can serve as a tool for throwing. A glass can serve as a paperweight, as housing for a captured fly, and, handled skillfully, as a broken bottle in a good brawl. A glass can also be a work of art, or vulgar trash with a naked woman stenciled on it. And all of this regardless of whether the glass is fit for drinking. So then. Each of us has a glass in hand, and it’s full. What shall we do? Philosophize, or drink?
– Drink! – the collective roared, a bit ragged but loud.
– That’s what I think too. We must drink. But to what? – Zhorik swept the room with a lingering gaze. – To what, my falcons and little birds? To the company’s prosperity? No need to drink to that. That, you work for. You’ve got to plow the fields! Got to bust your ass! So, to what, then? What’s the salt of life? I don’t know, but I’d like to recall the motto of a fine fellow, a linguist and connoisseur of life: «The main thing is your dick’s up and the money’s there!» To that, I’d like to drink.
In the ensuing silence, Zhorik’s own throat answered with loud guffaws. When he slammed the drained glass down on the table, everyone snapped out of it, burst out laughing, and set off into the land of alcoholic euphoria.
Set off to where people are friends and brothers, where things get done in a snap, where life is pleasant and incomprehensible. A hundred grams, hup! Then a chaser and a bite on top, and the journey had begun.
I got swept up in the euphoria too. Moved over to sit with my classmates, who’d struck up a conversation about cars and the prospects for parking by the dorm.
It became clear what all the money had been earned for – six «eights» and one «forty-one.» That was Pavel, setting himself against the group. Declared that the Moskvich-41 was a real car, unlike the Tolyatti rattletraps. Yurik and Vova started tossing around technical terms, called Genka in for backup. He came in with a trump card: Porsche had been involved in developing the «eight,» Europe, man! Pasha waved it off, held his ground – Russian roads should carry Russian cars. His reasoning reminded me of my father’s, the seasoned Moskvich driver.
Not burdened by a pedestrian’s dreams, I stayed out of the debate. Admired the guys, glad for the chance to work together. Zhorik had said it right – a gang! We’ll move mountains!
An hour later, both collectives, sales and banking alike, had turned into a herd.
I tried not to drink, held back as best I could, but in vain. By ten o’clock I’d lost control of myself. Discovered a fog swirling over the table, blurring reality. A state familiar to the point of numbness. Needed to air out my brain.
I went to the bathroom, relieved myself, stepped outside to breathe in the frost, meditate on the stars, freeze stiff, and… whoops! Ran straight into a girl I’d crossed paths with a couple of times in the hall. A sparkling blonde in a fitted pantsuit, taller than me and slimmer. As an old acquaintance, I asked how it was out there, wasn’t it cold? Heard a complaint that everything was wonderful, except there was no one to keep her warm.
No need to say that twice. I offered my services in the warming department.
As a veteran of the place, I led her up to the second floor, supposedly warm, and started fondling her body, bulging where it should, moderately concave everywhere else. The girl locked her lips onto mine and shrieked. A bucket of white paint tipped over underfoot. Looked like we’d gotten splattered. I focused my eyes on the goings-on below the waist and marveled at the leopard-print pants, either someone else’s or my own, hard to tell in the dark and the drink. Still, I didn’t lose all clarity of thought. Suggested a quick run to my place, get washed up, and come back. Nobody would notice. The girl agreed, hiccuped, asked my name. I introduced myself as Roman, she as Alina.
We went outside, piled into a taxi.
Once in the apartment, we started kissing like it was the first time in our lives, fervently, in a mad rush, greedily. Tore off our clothes, plunged into the whirlpool of sex. Didn’t go all that well, but a fever raged inside that wouldn’t let us stop. About half an hour later we settled down, drowned in drowsiness. Toward morning we came to and resumed sex sober, with fresh sensations. After the second round we fell into a deep sleep.
