June 25, 1993
Friday
5:25 PM
We kept moving, slowing down to a walking pace. Didn't help. A traffic cop at the intersection waved his baton. Off to the side, in a white Lada Seven, sat a second officer with a machine gun across his knees. Sat there for effect. Door thrown wide open, the whole martial posture demanding respect.
We stopped.
The traffic cop came up to Zhorka's window and, saluting, mumbled: «Captain Bmbmbmumov, papers please.» Zhorik jumped out of the car and rattled off:
— Listen, Cap. My documents got lifted this morning along with my bag. Heading to file a report, nerves shot.
— Lifted this morning, you say? Let's see what got lifted off you, — the captain glanced into the car, let his gaze slide over me, and turned back to Zhorik: — Remember the plate numbers? Eh-eh-eh, stand still, don't peek.
Zhora deflated, started studying his cossack boots.
— So, lifted this morning?
— The bag, with the documents, — Zhorik wheezed.
— And you're off to report it? — the captain went on mocking him, circling the car clockwise. — Need any help, sir? Want to report it over the radio right now?
— Could report it. But what's the point? Let's work something out instead?
— Work something out, huh? Why would we? The owner's running around frantic, looking for his carriage. Announced a reward, did he? Must be a big one. Fine little swallow, this one.
— No reward. The owner's in Hamburg collecting insurance. You can check. Why put me away?
— For the quota, for the record. So how do you want to work this out?
Zhorik showed the captain a wad of rubles. The captain glanced at it and slapped Zhorik on the shoulder:
— What are you, a kid? Stole a Zaporozhets or something? Or are you just cheap? If you're cheap, you need a lesson. You'll get plenty of time to learn one out in the logging camps, two, three years.
— Not cheap, just don't have any more.
— Then what are you doing driving around with no money? You definitely need locking up, so you get some sense.
Zhorik shrank, wilted… then perked up, started digging through his pockets and little pouches. A minute later he fished a hefty ring out from under his arm, studded with glittering stones — splashes of clear tears catching the sun.
— Worth millions, — Zhorik admired the play of the gems and handed the ring to the captain. The captain took the jewel in his hand, brought it close to his nose, and peered into the radiant play of the stones.
— Cubic zirconia? — he squinted at Zhora.
Zhora looked offended:
— Do I look like a Gypsy to you? Family diamonds.
— Where'd you steal it?
— Nobody in the Soviet Union has anything like this. My ancestor took it as a keepsake from a Spanish museum, long ago, before the revolution. On the back, look, a knight's coat of arms is stamped in. Passed down to me. Not stolen!
The captain turned the ring over in his hands and slipped it into his pocket:
— Fine, get out of here, so I don't see you again. On foot. The car stays.
Zhorik smirked, and I felt the tension let go. The captain called over to his partner in the car:
— Sanyok, tell the duty officer we found an abandoned Audi 100. Suspected stolen. Have them check if there's been a report filed...
— What now? — I asked Zhorik, once we'd left the car and crossed to the other side of the street, to the trolleybus stop. Reclassified as a passenger of public transportation.
— Hell if I know what now. Fedya's right — cruising around in a hot car with no papers is great short-term, a couple days tops. Now we'll ride the horned beast for a while, think about the long-term outlook.
— What was that ring you gave the cop? Really worth a thousand bucks?
— More. Significantly more. Don't sweat it, though. That ring's not simple, it's a return trip. Changes five, six owners and comes back.
— What?
Zhorik smiled:
— The fifth or sixth owner brings it back himself. Right before he dies. Well, maybe the seventh. Ten would be better. The record's thirteen. Trouble is, can't even get it to make it to the eighth. Tough times, can't plan anything properly anymore…
Complete nonsense. Strange guy, this Zhorik, and his stare was bottomless, frightening. It became clear — this person, this creature, wasn't joking. It knew everything, and its place wasn't here, on this earth, but there, under some blazing red sky...
Brrr-rrrr!
I broke out in goosebumps, felt cold and uneasy.
— Don't clam up! Not your turn yet, — Zhorik flicked me lightly on the nose with a finger, snapping me out of the trance. — Let me jot some things down before the trolleybus gets here.
Zhorik pulled a notebook out of his back jeans pocket, filthy beyond belief, coverless, its shaggy pages covered in stains, ink blots, and scrawls. Fishing a pen out of his pocket, he started scribbling and muttering: «So, Khrapchenko's in… move Krasny to tomorrow… put Igoryok and Petrovich here… so, Petrovich again, cross him out… add Tanyukha… so-so-so…»
I glanced across the road.
The traffic cop was inspecting the Audi, his partner still perched in the Lada. Nothing interesting. I turned my gaze to the roadway. Ah, a trolleybus pulling up to the stop. Wonder if it's ours?
Zhorik stopped multiplying his scrawls, glanced at the trolleybus, and nodded: «Ours!» We loaded into the cabin, a quarter full. I looked around for a seat. Zhorik turned his head, pronounced:
— Interesting building. Seems like we cooked something up here about five years back.
The trolleybus rolled past a building that looked like a scientific institution: dusty, dreary, with Doric-order columns and elaborate curlicues along the facade.
— On your list?
— Don't know, — I shrugged.
— Let's check, — Zhorik dug through his pockets, pulled out crumpled scraps of paper, winked: — Never throw out your drafts. They come in handy.
He ran his eyes over the scraps:
— If this isn't the Institute of Physics, Mathematics, and Special Sciences, and the director there isn't Vyacheslav Alexandrovich, then today's not our day. Let's get off!
Turned out to be our day. The institution was run by Vyacheslav Alexandrovich Kopyev, whom, the guard explained, there was absolutely no way to meet given the late hour. We sighed, and the security officer wanted to know: «And who exactly are you two?»
Zhorik answered:
— Forgot me, old man? I did intellectual labor here before perestroika. Don't remember? Is Dmitry Yefimovich still running the place? Fill out an entry request like before?
— Don't remember. He's running it. Order's the same as always, — the guard reported.
We got home late. After dealing with the police, I felt shaken.
— Don't worry about it. As an accomplice you'd have gotten three years suspended and become a respected businessman, — Zhorik comforted me. — Don't sweat it. There's more important business starting up now. The ring's off on its journey, be back in a couple days. And what does that mean?
— What?
— We're starting a new notebook. Get it?
— Don't get it.
— Go to sleep. You'll understand later. Tomorrow's a heavy day.
I shrugged, made up the bed, and collapsed into sleep. Through the haze of sleep, exclamations, interjections, and other sounds drifted in. Zhorik was churning with emotion, transferring entries from the old notebook into the new one.
Something else was on my mind. I drifted off hoping for a new day that would bring money and peace, turning miserable Romka into lucky Roman, squinting contentedly at the world scurrying at his feet. Maybe it hadn't been for nothing, selling off what was, in essence, not needed. I didn't manage to finish the thought before I fell asleep…
