July 4, 1993
Sunday
8:40 AM
Zhorik blew through like a hurricane, threw together some coffee, dropped into an armchair, and boiled over:
— Guess what we’re getting into! Vouchers! And where? Nauchny Proyezd! Lyubochka’s waiting there for us, can’t wait to see us. Ah, how I love a natural blonde with little red curls! July’s here, the bees are getting busy, tomorrow we head over to Yurnatolich’s. Today the plan’s simple — get ourselves a proper set of wheels, so we look the part. We’re not raggedy nobodies anymore, kicking up dust in a Ford, we’re genuine portfolio investors now. Up and at ’em, we’re going car shopping!
I got up off the couch, shuffled off to the bathroom.
Didn’t feel like breakfast. Took a gulp of coffee and went outside.
Stood under the sun’s rays, looked around. Quiet and peaceful.
Butterflies darted through the air with no rhyme or reason, tracing flight paths — up-down-sideways-up-sideways-down. I felt like coming up with some allegory about my own scatterbrained life, comparing it to the flight of an insect. Didn’t get the chance.
A car horn sounded from over by the archway. Zhora, honking.
I hopped into the Taurus. We sped off to the northeast. Moscow was empty, only the occasional trolleybus out on the roads.
— Say what you will, student, but early Sunday morning is the best time to work out the shortest possible drive to your destination. Watch, we’ll make it to Fyodor’s in forty minutes flat.
We made it in forty-eight.
