A People's Car

Hurrah! Here it is! At long last, my son has bought a car. He's been dreaming about, nay, hankering for it since his childhood. Some twenty years ago, as he was in the hospital to remove his adenoids, I presented him with a toy car. He liked it very much. His eyes lit up. He stroked the toy and said: "It's a nice little thing. But I want a big one".

Years have flown by fast. Our son has grown up. He has left high school with a medal, and then graduated from university with distinction. The specialty he's acquired, applied mathematics and information technology is quite promising. But the coveted dream of having a car has remained with him. True, we do have one. From the deceased grandfather our son has inherited a Zaporozhets, a wonder vehicle that bears lots of offensive names because of its ridiculous design and inferior workmanship. The Zaporozhets served our grandfather neither well nor badly. Anyway, our grandfather spent more time under the car than inside it since the machine broke down so often. In terms of age the car is much older than our son and has long deserved either rest eternal in a junk yard or being re-melted into something more modern at a metallurgical plant.

Our son is renovating the car in all sorts of ways. Having browsed the Internet, he came up with a technique of enhancing the engine, and reinforcing the rear suspension. But suddenly a front wheel came off. Metal fatigue is a serious factor.

My son started saving money for a real car. For three years, he's been depositing nearly all of his salary into the bank. By nights, he completes tests and course papers for students. On vacation, he enlists with a construction team. He puts away ruble after ruble. All towards the coveted goal.

I tell my son: "You are on the wrong track. Become a classy programmer. This specialty is high in demand. Once you get money, you'll buy whatever you like".

But this is a long way away. The son is dying to get the fond toy here and now.

- What kind of a car do you want? I ask.

- Any kind except Russian.

- Why? In what way is the Kalina bad?

- It's a wheeled basin.

- How do you mean?

- It's the self-same Zhiguli car, but nickel-plated. One should by nothing but a foreign-made thing.

- Mercedes, for instance? I offer. 

- No. I won't have money for that. I'll buy something more modest, but German just the same.

- What, specifically?

- Volkswagen. This too is a trustworthy firm (my son went red in the face at his own daring).

- Do you know how this name is translated, - I inquire.

- Of course! A people's car. Adequate quality for reasonable money.

My son seeks out sellers of this model. Somebody calls him. He calls somebody. But the saved money is desperately short. He borrows from friends. From one, and then from another, and then from another still. The collected money is just enough for a used Volkswagen.

Early one morning, on Saturday, my son is leaving the house for an auto market in the suburb of Moscow.
Late in the evening, our dear Zaporozhets comes to the gate accompanied by a white paunchy and very squatty car, from which two of my son's friends climb out. He had invited them as experts and assistants.

It had become dark when my son and I started inspecting the car. I liked it at once. (After our Zaporozhets in which you sit with your head drawn in like a tortoise, any car will take your fancy). Here the sedan is spacious. And there are armrests. Everything is nice and clean and every little part glistens.

I couldn't conceal my delight.

- It's like new, - I said.

- They've polished it all up. To make it more sellable. - my son explained.

- How old is it?

- Twenty years.

I shuddered inwardly. Twenty years ago I had presented my son with that little toy car.

- What is its mileage?

- Two hundred forty thousand.

- Wow! Six times around the world! Isn't it a little too much?

- Never mind! It's not in bad condition. The Germans don't make trash, you know. It's only that the tachometer is out of order. And the fuel tank indicator doesn't work.

In the morning, happy like a Prince, he drove to work in his pseudo-new car.

He came back home late at night. He looked more dead than alive.

- What's wrong, - I asked.

Reluctantly, my son explains. At any small jolt, the car touches the road with its belly. It sits way too low. Because it doesn't sit on its original wheels. The fifth gear won't switch, just because it's missing. The gearbox doesn't have all the right cogwheels. The right side is damaged. But done up so expertly, you won't detect it soon. It seems to be not a car but an assembly of auto components presented as a motor vehicle.

- Show me the deed of purchase, - I say to my son. Let's see who sold you this artifact.

My son produces papers from the glove compartment. I study the copy of the seller's passport. Anvarov Eduard Teimurazovich. The section "residence registration" reads that since last week he has been living in South Butovo. Next week, he may well live under a different name in North Chertanovo. An elusive second-hand dealer.

- Did he speak good Russian? I asked.

- With an accent.

I entered the kitchen.

- How did it happen, - my wife asked me.

- Very simply. Like in "The Virgin Soil Upturned" by Sholokhov, the Nobel winning author.

- And what was it like? I can't remember.

I remind her. The old man Shchukar had bought a horse from Gypsies. Not hot stuff, but quite a paunchy mare. Overjoyed, he leads her to his house. As he reached it, he looked at the purchase to discover just a bag of bones. As it happened, the Gypsies had inflated the horse, put a plug into its asshole and passed her off on old man Shchukar. On the way home, the mare broke wind and lost her shape and flesh.

- Sholokhov tells us a fib, - my wife smiled wryly.  But our case is a fact of life.

At midnight I entered my son's room. He was sitting over the desk, staring at the PC monitor. There were shafts and cogwheels on the display. He raised his eyes. His face was drawn. The corners of his mouth twitched. No, he wasn't crying. I have never seen him cry in his twenty-five years of life, except the first five years or so. Not even when his grandfather, the man who was dearest to him, had died. The son was staring at his grandfather in the casket with dry unblinking eyes. Only the corners of his mouth worked.

- Dad, why are there swindlers in the world? he asked in a trembling voice.

- I don't know, son. They've always been around.

My son heaved a deep sigh.

- Ah, I will replace the wheels. That's easy. Also, I'll fix the tachometer. Then I shall install a new gearbox. It's just a matter of money. You know what, Dad, I've examined the car thoroughly. True, it's old, but not rotten.I'll make a gem out of it. After all, the Germans build really fine cars.