June 26, 1993
Saturday
9:00 PM
They let us go at nine in the evening. I’d recovered enough to move under my own power. Borscht churned in my stomach, the stuff they’d fed us at the «Terem.» My alcohol-flattened neocortex flickered back to life, the buzzing in my head giving way to questions: «where’s the exit? which way? what’s this? ah, a door… exit… the street… a streetlamp…»
I stepped out of the restaurant, caught my breath, leaning against the doorframe.
Zhorik tumbled out after me with a grand slate of plans: The night’s full of fire. We’re going to drink hard, burn it down like real men, torch the dawn over the city like big boys! We’ve earned it! Arrangements are already in place with a couple of loose-moraled Komsomol girls, we’re heading straight to a den of culture right now, where we’ll consume alcohol and, on an accelerated program, carry out the marriage ritual. In a circle of nervous young ladies, in the sharp company of dames, we’ll turn the comedy of life into a dream-farce.
Zhorka finished off his decadent speech with a flourish. Stretched an arm out and, chopping the air in measured strokes, declaimed:
Whirlwind, strike the Lyre,
Lyre, howl like a wolf,
Chaos ever wider, wider,
Lord! Grant repose.
Finished declaiming, Zhorik ran his eyes over my unsteady figure and grew disappointed:
— Eh, student. You’re completely limp. Fine, let’s go home. Sleep it off, we’ll see in the morning. We’ll talk the Komsomol girls into a rain check.
My mind brightened. Sleep!!!
I think I fell asleep before we got home. Passed out in the back seat of the taxi. Don’t remember the details. What lingered in my mind was the nauseating smell of exhaust and Zhorik’s question from the front seat:
— Student, can you drive?
Don’t remember my answer. Probably reported that my dad had a Moskvich, and the interior didn’t stink. That I could drive. Never got a license. No time for it… And no real need…
