October 2, 1993
Saturday
I woke up later than usual, around eleven. Glanced at the calendar.
The second of October! Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday, and mine too. I’d made it to twenty-one, though three months ago I’d doubted the possibility.
I lolled in bed a while, wandered around the apartment, brewed coffee. Took up a position on the little sofa with a cup in my hand. Didn’t switch on the VCR, embarked on philosophizing instead.
Chewed over the list of achievements of the past twenty-one years, zeroed it out. Imagined the years to come, was delighted, reflected, zeroed that out too. Understood that I was a toy in Zhorka’s hands. One must live in the moment. There is today, there is no future…
The rattle of the telephone distracted me. It was Verochka.
After an exchange of the sound sequence «hihowareyoufine,» I received the information that tomorrow’s meeting was being moved to the morning, ten o’clock, no later. Marveling at the categorical tone, I agreed, made a couple of assenting noises at her complaints about the instability of the exchange rate, and returned the receiver to its original position.
I sat for five minutes without moving. Got up, smiled, wondered: «If Verochka knew it was my birthday, what would she give me?»
Answered myself – a shirt. What else? Her head is stuffed with rags twenty-four hours a day.
I went over to the wardrobe, opened it, ran my eye over the outfits I’d never worn. Sighed. Verochka’s head is stuffed with rags twenty-four hours a day. Exactly the way mine is stuffed with booze. And neither of us has any personal life to speak of, beyond a vigorous screw once a week.
In honor of my birthday I could take some time for myself. Go out for a walk, meet a girl, arrange a date, give her flowers, invite her to the cinema… what else do people in love do? Yes! Fall in love, of course, lose your head, compose a bit of verse, wait for a call, call and call back, languish in anticipation.
If only I knew where to meet a girl worth forgetting work for!
Half past eleven. Time to get ready for the «Terem.»
Plenty on the agenda – boast about achievements, solve problems, consume alcoholic beverages, explain to Zhorik…
The door flew open.
Zhorik burst into the apartment as if he’d been waiting to be mentioned. He bounced over to me, tugged my ears… right, congratulating me on my birthday, chanting: «acowletripaquietone / itkilledtheredbullstonedead / andnev-er-lift-ed-its-tail!»
He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, flicked me on the tip of the nose and handed it over…
No, that’s not how it went.
I tore the envelope out of Zhorka’s hands, fired up with the anticipation of a surprise, opened it… gasped… Ten times a hundred bucks!!! And a driver’s license with my name and my photograph!
– It can’t be!
Zhorik smirked:
– It can, it can! Everything’s in order. Genuine, don’t worry. Vasilich has contacts everywhere. He put me onto Lenorych, who works miracles at the traffic police office in Tyoply Stan. Let’s go, we’ll wash it down.
On the way Zhorik checked whether I knew how to drive. Again I had to report that I did, my dad had a Moskvich Izh-412 nicknamed «Margarine,» which I’d cut around the dacha in every summer and had even…
Zhorik cut in to say he was taking Vasilich off the Taurus and putting him on the Bucephalus. Business meetings, drinking sessions and traffic cops with breathalyzers popping out of the bushes like fakirs were getting to be a strain. He’d spent a grand on bribes in September, and not drinking wasn’t an option. His cronies would take offense. So the Taurus would be under my ass from tomorrow.
While I digested the news, Zhorik told me not to sweat it. Vasilich would hand over the secrets of the driver’s craft: he’d come by in the mornings in the Taurus, put me behind the wheel and teach me the fine points. I’d be steering under his supervision until I felt at home in the traffic flow of the Hero City of Moscow.
We parked the Bucephalus in the yard of the «Terem» and went off to wash down the license, the birthday, the growth in sales and the rest of it.
On Sunday, at the crack of dawn, Verochka came tearing over, screwed me, packed me into the Golf and drove me to Luzhniki, God knows why.
We had to take back roads: here and there the streets were blocked by protesting citizens. We weren’t distracted by politics, we were pursuing a simple goal. In Verochka’s opinion I dressed like a provincial on a work permit. The situation had to be corrected while the masses were boiling. Verochka was delighted that the shoppers had scattered off to demonstrations and the pavilions were empty. You had to seize the moment: go through the deserted stalls with feeling and good sense and kit yourself out.
At the market we tried on this, then that, then that thing over there, moved on to Tamara, came back because Tamara was asking twice what Roza asked, set off toward Roza, learned on the way about Zina, who was dumping her prices, turned aside, realized it was dodgy stuff, ended up at Galya, who sells the real brand-name goods, and by the way, here’s Roza offering a discount…
We got home at eight in the evening. I hauled the bags of purchases up to the apartment in two trips, shoved Vera a twenty for gas and collapsed into sleep.
