It Happened One Evening

 

It was evening, and I was bored out of my mind. The weather was awful, and my mood was in the gutter. I thought to myself, "If I don't have a drink, I'll die." So, I shoved my feet into some rubber boots (to save time on lacing up shoes) and hurried off to the store.

As I walked, I realized what a mistake I'd made with my footwear. Our street in March is slippery as hell, and in rubber boots, I was like a cow on ice. I kept sliding around, about to wipe out at any moment.

Our street in this old Russian town is one of a kind. In spring and fall, you can't walk or drive on it. Walking is possible in the winter, but snow-covered potholes make driving a nightmare. In summer, every car kicks up such a dust cloud that you can barely see through ten meters ahead, and breathing is so hard it feels like you're in a gas attack.

I've complained about our street's condition to various officials countless times (I mean, what can I do besides clean up the bit in front of my house and plant some trees?) I've written to the district administration and even met with our people’s deputy.

The deputy, a pensive young guy with a full beard like some delegate from the Second Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party, didn't quite get what I was asking for at first.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want the street paved," I replied.

"That costs money. There's no money in the budget."

"The businessmen have money," I said. "Look how many of them have popped up! They've built parking lots on every corner. That's private business exploiting public spaces, by the way."

"What, you want to expropriate their businesses? That smacks of Bolshevism, my friend. That's not our way."

Long story short, I left empty-handed. We just didn't see eye to eye.

A couple of years back, an Englishman named John Stark visited me one day in November. He was a credit advisor from the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development, here to help set up new capitalist relationships in our city. It was autumn, and this guy showed up in shiny dress shoes. The moment he stepped onto our street, he started swearing like a sailor. And when he slipped and landed with his black macintosh in a puddle, he used words you won't find in any dictionary.

We washed his coat at my house. While it was drying on the kitchen stove, we drank vodka in the living room, and I showed him some family albums. John particularly liked a wartime photo of my dad next to his T-34 tank near Kursk. He said you'd need a tank like that to drive down our street. Those Brits, always cracking jokes...

 Anyway, I made it to the store without a tank. I grabbed my usual favorite, Golden Muscat, in a cardboard box. The fact that it's not in a fancy bottle doesn't bother me one bit. It's a tried-and-true drink. The taste, the alcohol content, and the price all work for me.

I hurried home. So slippery! My feet were doing pirouettes like a figure skater on ice. I was about ten meters from home when my latest move failed, and I did a triple axel, landing right on my tailbone.

Holy crap! What else could I say? I got up and brushed myself off. No big deal, nothing serious happened. And thank God I didn't have a glass bottle in my bag.

I got home, kicked off those treacherous boots, and carefully snuck into my bedroom past my mother-in-law's room (well, technically my wife's stepmother). I didn't want her to see or hear me, especially when I'd been drinking. We had a complicated relationship. Or more accurately, practically no relationship at all. In fact, she hated my guts. The feeling's mutual. Her name was Roza Borisovna. When I’m talking to my wife, I call her "Rosie."

In my bedroom, I took out a plastic cup I keep in the bottom drawer specifically for occasions like this. From the top drawer, I grabbed scissors to cut a corner off the box. The weather outside might be crap, our street might be crooked and impassable, and grumpy Rosie might be snoring in the next room, but now I was about to enjoy this elixir, a product of the warm Crimean sun, and forget all these troubles...

I tilted the box to pour out some wine, but only a few drops came out! What the hell? The box was empty! I took a close look. One side of the box was torn open. So that’s what happened! Cardboard packaging doesn't shatter when it falls, but it tears easily. Especially when it's full.

Oh, woe is me! I was all set to have a civilized drink, like a proper gentleman. I'd even grabbed two candies from the kitchen for a snack. Fat chance of that now!

I cursed the people’s deputy and the entire city administration (and didn’t stop there). Has it really been impossible to fix this street in the thirty-two years I've lived here? A normal person can't even go buy wine without incident!

But cursing doesn’t solve anything. I grabbed some money and headed back to the store. This time, I put on my Spetsnaz boots. They lace up to the ankle and it takes over a minute just to tie one. But the sole is thick with treads and spikes. You could climb Everest in these babies without slipping.

Ten minutes later, I was home with a new box of Muscat. So, it cost me double today.

I poured some wine into the cup... The first few sips quickly spread through my body and calmed me down. I turned on the computer and found one of my favorite websites – views and descriptions of an island in a far-off sea where I once worked. The walls of a fortress built by knights seem to rise from the water, protecting the island from invaders. Behind the walls are clusters of low white buildings, as if bleached by the sun under a pale, cloudless sky. Clean, straight, smooth streets. And it’s hot, hot everywhere...

The Golden Muscat made me all warm and fuzzy. I lay down on the couch and felt like I was sinking into a warm sea of memories...

...Emerging from a green wave, I walk onto a sandy beach. There’s a young woman lying on the sand. I could tell she was young right away from her slim figure. She’s wearing nothing but a wide-brimmed soft white hat and tiny blue bikini bottoms. She’s topless. Who’s there to be shy around on this deserted beach?

My appearance distracts her from reading. She puts down her book and looks up at me. I glance at the cover. An avid bookworm, I immediately recognize "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo. So, she at least speaks English.

"Hi, good woman!" I say to her in English.

"Hi, good man," she replies in the same tone. I hear a British accent.

"Hope I'm not intruding," I say.

"Not at all. This little island is big enough for the two of us."

Ha! What a friendly lady. And what a figure! I try not to stare at her small, firm breasts. It isn’t easy...

"Where are you from?" I ask.

"The UK. And you?"

"What's your guess?" The girl thinks for a moment.

"Your English is fine. But you're definitely not a native speaker. Are you Polish?"

"I'm Russian to the backbone," I reply with a phrase from Maugham.

She absolutely loves that phrase. We get to talking. Her name is Jane. She works in a clothing store in Bristol. Divorced.

I know tons of English jokes (not to mention Russian ones). I’m on fire. Like a peacock, I spread my tail in all its glory...

"My gosh! You're such fun. Where are you staying?" she asks.

"The Luna Hotel."

"Really? Me too."

I grow bolder. "What's your room number?"

"Want to pop in?" She laughed. "Two oh two."

Her laugh is melodious, like a bell. And what a pleasant accent. Charming girl!

That evening, I find myself walking down the hotel corridor. There it is, room two oh two. A thought flashes through my mind – what if? I knock on the door of room two o two.

"Who's there?"

“Just me, Jane."

The door opens. Someone grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into the dimly lit room. Jane! But why do you look so much like my wife? Why are you shaking me?

 "Wake up! Wake up, I'm talking to you!" I see my wife's face in front of me. "Wake up! Something's wrong with Rozochka. Come help me."

I shake off the last vestiges of sleep and follow my wife into the hall. There are two women in white coats standing there. My wife must have called them while I was asleep.

From the hall, my wife and I go into Roza’s room. She’s lying face down on the floor, next to a sticky puddle of blood and vomit. Roza was a large, heavy woman. We can’t lift her. My wife and I start pulling her across the floor. Mixed smells of blood, vomit, and feces hit my nose. Roza is moaning. Can’t those two ladies help us? They stand still, watching indifferently as we drag the immobile sick person like a heavy sack of potatoes.

Finally, we get Roza to the middle of the hall, and I go back to my room. I lie down on the couch. I hear rustling, muffled conversation, and the clinking of medical instruments in a metal box.

Suddenly, Roza lets out a loud groan. "Oh, I'm dying. I'm dying..." And then all goes quiet...

About a minute later, I get up from the couch and go into the hall. "What should we do now?" my wife asks one of the doctors.

"There's nothing more for you to do. Here's the number for the funeral home. They'll take care of everything."

The doctors close their bags and head out. My wife goes with them. I’m left alone with Rosie in the hall.

She’s lying on her back, completely naked, arms and legs spread out like a huge letter X, as if carved from a bar of soap. Her large, sagging breasts with brown nipples have fallen to the sides. Sparse reddish hair peaks out at the base of her belly...

I go to the kitchen and sit down at the table. Well... Who would have expected that? On the table, there’s half an orange lying on a saucer. Rosie had eaten one half in the morning and left the other for the evening. The orange was still waiting for her.

My son came in from outside. My wife must have called him, and he'd rushed over on his bike from another part of town.

"Where is she?"

"In the hall." My son went into the hall. In her own way, Rosie had loved him.

Soon, a specialized service vehicle arrived. Two guys came into the house. "Do you have an old blanket?" one of them asked. My wife gave them a blanket.

The men put Rosie on the blanket and, throwing the ends over their shoulders, carried her out feet first.

My son and I followed them.

Outside, in the same spot where I had earlier slipped with my Muscat, one of the guys lost his footing and fell to his knees. Rosie's head lolled, and her loose hair dipped into a puddle.

"Damn it! Can't they pave this fucking street?" the guy exclaimed.

They shoved the body into the open doorway of the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and climbed into the cab.

The vehicle drove off.

My son watched it go with blank eyes for a long time.

"One day, you'll carry me out like that," I said to him.

He didn't reply.

"All right, son, don't mope. Let's go back inside. We've got things to do now."

(translated by James McVay)