June 22, 1993
Tuesday
9:35 AM
Zhorik hadn’t wasted a second, not at all! He’d looked over the book spines on the shelves, fiddled with the cassette player on the windowsill, stuck his head in the wardrobe, rustled through the clothes, sneezed, moved on to the dishes, clattered them around. He’d shaken out my jeans, fished out the grenade, and transferred it to the nightstand.
Done rummaging through my belongings, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand:
— Gonna rinse your tusks?
— Planning to.
— Four minutes. Clock’s running.
«Who put you in charge?» I wanted to show my displeasure and find out on what grounds he was handing out orders.
After a moment’s thought, I swallowed the confrontational spit that had welled up.
Decided not to show any displeasure and not to go looking for a fistfight. You never knew.
Headed to the washroom.
By the time I got back, Zhora made me put on jeans with a denim jacket over my undershirt — the actual shirt was nowhere to be found — in about a second flat, and shoved me out of the room: «We’re late!»
Towed along by rocket-powered Zhorik, I touched down on the ground floor, whistled past the front-desk lady, shot out under the linden trees, and tore off toward the bus stop at a full gallop. On the way I tried to remember whatever devilry had happened the night before. My brain creaked and kept spitting out the same motto: «Chill! No pissing yourself, no shitting bricks, no freaking out!»
Empty head, heavy body! Ow!!!
My muscles hummed, ached, throbbed. My spine creaked and wept. A dull pain started pressing and kneading behind my eyes, as if I’d spent the whole night reading Crime and Punishment by candlelight.
By the time we reached the bus stop, I collapsed onto the wooden bench, squeezed my eyes shut... the pain vanished. «Finally,» I breathed out. Turned my head. Wiggled my arms and legs. Shifted around. Settled my aching tailbone into the planks. Felt better.
My mind sank into a stream of pleasant sensations. A jet of light carried me up to the surface of a reality where I played the leading role. There, life sparkled, and my name was up in lights. A benefit performance!
I was cruising down the Warsaw Highway in an enormous car. In the beige leather cabin, a soulful Chris Rea purred velvet-smooth.
«And I’m happy, la-lie la-la,» my carefree soul sang along in time. I’d never felt like that before. A shame the bliss lasted only fifteen or twenty seconds...
I came back to the bench, glanced at Zhorik. He was enjoying life, turning his face up to the sun. Hands clasped behind his back, tapping out a carambole with his left foot. Heel to toe on the left, toe to heel, and, breaking rhythm with the right foot, back to heel-to-toe on the left...
According to the dream, he’d been dispatched to fulfill my wishes. As a kid I’d watched the cartoon about the triplets from the chest and the movie about old man Hottabych, both of whom indulged Young Pioneers. Both of them screwed up plenty, but sometimes it worked out. What made me any worse than a Pioneer?
— Georgy, can you arrange for us to ride in a foreign car instead of a Soviet clunker?
— Easy, — Zhorik peered at the cars coming from the direction of Kantemirovskaya. About five seconds later he clarified: — A BMW 5-series work for you?
— Yes.
— Deal! Not a 750, but a B10 Alpina. Sweet.
