They say milk is incredibly healthy, especially for kids. Well, I’m not a kid anymore, but I still love milk. Not the pasteurized stuff you get from the store, where all the goodness has been boiled away. I mean real milk, the kind I remember from when I lived with my grandma in the village...
To get that kind of milk, I head to the "ring," where a milk truck parks by the tram’s last stop before it turns around to head back toward the center of the city.
The truck with farm-fresh milk sits in a row with hawkers selling salted fish and other small-time vendors, including old ladies offering slices of pumpkin (buying a whole one isn't practical), garlic, and jars of homemade sauerkraut.
I’m waiting in line, milk jug ready. There aren’t too many people ahead of me —seven, maybe eight. I glance around, and… What do you know! There’s Vitka Novikov. Now, this is a surprise!
Vitka… Or should I say Funtik, as we used to call him. He joined us in the fourth grade; he was repeating the year. Yep, he was a kid who couldn’t pass fourth grade the first time, so he was stuck there for another year.
He was really short, which is how he earned the nickname Funtik — Russian for squirt. Thanks to him, I became the second shortest kid in gym class. Now, he was the last one chosen to be on a team instead of me.
He struggled in Russian. That was why he was held back. To be honest, he wasn’t great at other subjects either. But he was fantastic at PE. Small, compact, and as quick as a lizard, he displayed amazing agility and flexibility.
But when it came to dictation, he set records for illiteracy. In our class, which wasn’t exactly full of overachievers, there was a stable group of seven or eight underachievers. Who really stood out. And in that group, Vitka was the undisputed leader. Our strict Russian teacher, Maria Vasilievna, would fail us if we made five mistakes in taking dictation. Funtik never made fewer than fifteen. On a bad day, he could rack up twenty.
I, on the other hand, loved Russian. I rarely got anything less than an a five on dictation. That’s why Maria Vasilievna tasked me with tutoring Vitka, helping him with Russian.
I’d go over to Funtik’s house, and we’d start our lessons. I’d explain to him that you have to spell according to the rules. The key is not to just write what you hear but to use your head. The first thing is to remember that there’s no such verb prefix as "Z." It’s "S." So, even though you hear zdelat’ and zbezhat’,you write sdelat' (to do) and sbezhat' (to run away). But be careful with other prefixes. If the root of a word starts with a voiced consonant, you use "Z," as in razdelat' (to cut up), but if it’s a voiceless consonant, you use "S," like in raspisat'sya (to sign). If a noun ends in "N," then the adjective formed from it will have two "N’s," like karman (pocket) and karmanny (pocket-sized), or son (sleep) and sonny (sleepy).
When in doubt about when to write the soft sign in a verb, look to "chto delat’? (what to do?) as an example of when to spell a verb with a soft sign and when without. For example, "chto on delayet?” (what is he doing?); "On uchit” (he’s learning) — no soft sign. "Yemu nado chto delat‘” (What does he need to do?) — soft sign.
Remember, Vitka,” I’d say, “adjectives with the suffixes ‘an, yan, in’ have only one ‘N.’ But there are three exceptions.” I’d go to the window, tap on the glass and say: “Steklyannyy (glass). Then I’d point to the handle and say derevyannyy (wooden) and olovyannyy (tin). We spell these with two ‘N’s. Got it?” I’d ask Funtik.
“Of course I got it!” he’d confidently reply, and then we’d move on to the more exciting part of our sessions.
Vitka’s room was big and almost empty. Beside a table and two stools, there was nothing in it. So, nothing got in the way of the wrestling matches that followed our lessons.
Vitka was unbelievably agile and quick. We’d roll about on the floor for a long time, but I was bigger and heavier, so I’d eventually pin him down. Then, out of breath, we’d lie side by side on our backs, trying to catch our breath. Once we could breathe normally again I’d continue lecturing while lying flat on my back.
“If the participle is on its own, its suffix has one ‘N,’ like zharenaya kartoshka (fried potatoes). But if there’s an explanation, you add another ‘N,’ like zharennaya v masle kartoshka (potatoes fried in oil).”
“And if it’s fried with fish?” Vitka would ask. “Probably two ‘N’s,” I’d say after thinking it over. “But remember this too: if the participle has a prefix, there will definitely be two ‘N’s, like podzharennaya kartoshka (slightly fried potatoes). Got it?”
“Got it all!” he’d reply. And the next day, in another dictation, Vitka would break new records...
Funtik was indispensable on hiking trips. Gathering firewood, managing to light it even if it was damp, and cooking a stew so good you’d lick your fingers—only he could do that.
If we were collecting scrap metal, Funtik would somehow haul in a full wheelbarrow of rusty junk, like an ant dragging a dead fly, which really helped our class win those important political campaigns. In short, he was a very useful member of the group and a close friend of mine. The only problem was, he always had trouble with schoolwork.
After the eighth grade, the school’s pedagogical council made an unprecedented decision. They held back an entire group of our students. Yep, that same "mighty handful." They decided it was time to stop promoting the underachievers. So, the whole group (with Funtik in the lead) was kept back for another year...But Vitka didn’t want to stay back a second time.
All those guys quit school. Some went to vocational institutions, others got jobs. Vitka became a worker at a weapons factory. He managed just fine without knowing his suffixes and prefixes.
My life went on as usual. I finished school, went to college, and so on. I only ran into Funtik by chance, and very rarely.
One day, a car suddenly stopped next to me on the street. A beat-up old Zhiguli. I looked— Vitka Funtik was behind the wheel. Next to him was a curvy lady that could have been painted by Kustodiev.
“Need a ride?” Vitka asked, glancing proudly at his wife.
“If you’re headed downtown, sure,” I said.
“Of course, let’s go,” Vitka agreed.
Later, I’d often see him at our local ice rink. In the beginning, and see him at raTces, among the competitors. Standing at the starting line, he’d slap his thighs, getting ready to go. Funtik’s legs may have been short, but they were fast...
Later on, when I started bringing my kids to the rink, I’d see Vitka in a different role.
“I got a job in security here, Sergei. And I sharpen skates too. Need yours done? Come on, I’ll do it for free... Or maybe your knives are dull? Bring them over! I’ll get ‘em razor-sharp. You can’t do it like that at home.”
I brought him my knives to sharpen. When he brought them back, Funtik complained about his health.
“I’ve got high blood pressure, Sergei. It’s always high. My head’s killing me. Last month, I was laid up in the hospital. They managed to bring it down a bit, put me on meds, and prescribed a diet. No salt, no fried food. And no alcohol. Do you drink?”
“Sometimes, but not much.”
“Don’t overdo it. A little’s okay, actually good for you,” Vitka explained. “It dilates your blood vessels.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out a half-empty bottle. “It was the rink director’s birthday yesterday, and I’ve got some left. It’s pine nut liqueur, a great drink,” he said, pouring two shots. “Have a snack,” he said, offering a candy. “And bring those knives for sharpening anytime. I’m here every other day.”
That’s how we used to be. Feels like it was just yesterday. And now I’ve seen him again. I could see he’s put on some weight. He’s leaning on a cane with his right hand, holding out his left for a shake. His palm is dry and rough.
“Long time no see, Sergei. How’s life?”
“Same old. And you?”
“As you can see… Got hit by a stroke. Can’t seem to recover... My right side’s almost numb… Sold my car. Can’t drive anymore...”
“How’s your wife?”
“She’s fine. A bit heavier, though.”
“And your son?”
“He’s gone. Been dead two years.”
“What happened?”
“He overdosed, the idiot. Vodka wasn’t enough for him, apparently. He got into drugs.”
“Did you know? Couldn’t you do something?”
“I noticed. But what could I do? I told him off time and time again. We even got into fights. Once, I hit him over the head with a pot. It was all for nothing. Did you hear that Alka Vetrova died?”
“I heard.” Alka was our classmate. She was a cute girl. I even liked her. Back when a lot of people were traveling overseas to buy stuff for resale in Russia, she sold all sorts of stuff from China at the market. She once tried to sell me some trousers when I ran into her there: “Take them, Seryoga! I’ll give them to you at cost.”
“Are you here for milk?” Funtik asks.
“Yeah, for milk.”
“I decided to buy a little herring. I’m sick of bland food, can’t stand it. I can’t have much, of course, but if the body’s craving it, a little piece should be fine. What do you think?”
“I agree.”
I look at Funtik. He weighs well over a hundred kilos, maybe closer to a hundred-fifty. He’s standing with difficulty, leaning on a cane. One nudge and he’d fall over, and he wouldn’t be able to get up without help. My old school friend, the former acrobat, is only a year older than me. How many times did we roll around on the floor together, out of breath… God! It feels like it was just yesterday.
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