There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet

 

I'm hustling along. Gotta check on Mom. She's been going downhill lately. She can barely get out of bed. And Dad’s right there with her, picking fights as usual. It gets so bad the neighbors bang on the pipes and yell at them to cut out their nonsense.

I'm passing by the oil depot. Gotta keep your wits about you here – there's a whole pack of stray dogs hanging around. If they come at you, you're toast. So, I give them a wide berth, sticking to the far side of the road.

The depot's driveway isn't just paved with asphalt, it's got concrete in spots. But somehow, there's still places where the mud is ankle-deep. Where the hell does it come from?

After the depot, I walk past the fire department's training ground. Dad used to bring the whole family here when we were kids. He'd show off how his tough-as-nails buddies would put out fires in the practice area and then scale a sheer wooden wall. We'd sit on these open bleachers, getting absolutely roasted by the sun. When we got home, Mom would slather her reddened shoulders with petroleum jelly.

Across from the training ground is the hospital. I remember coming here with Mom to visit her dad, my grandpa. He had cancer and was living out his last days. Mom would bring him these gorgeous red apples (she never bought me ones like that) and peaches (which I rarely got to eat).

Up on the hill right in front of me is the factory where Mom used to work as a press operator. Grandpa put in his time there too, back in the day. He was a top-notch specialist, well respected. In our communal apartment, we had this engraved samovar sitting on top of the cabinet– a certificate of appreciation by the factory bigwigs to Grandpa. The factory kept thousands employed. We never knew exactly what they made there. We just knew it was always buzzing, especially when things got tense internationally or a conflict flared up on a far-off continent. They also turned out a few civilian goods like fire extinguishers, primus stoves, camping gear, and a few hardware items.

A railway spur ran up to one side of the factory. Railcars loaded with finished products used to roll out of the wide gates. On the other side, a huge concrete pipe stuck out from under the stone fence. It spewed out a turbulent stream of murky liquid. The stuff was a brownish-rusty color, flecked with spots of fuel oil and clots of different kinds of chemicals. That sludge painted the sides of the ditch it ran through in all the colors of the rainbow as it streamed toward our local river...

I'm walking along the factory's stone wall. It's all crooked now, with massive chunks missing here and there. I peer at the workshops on the other side of the wall. Windows are smashed out. There’s total devastation and silence, like a graveyard. It’s obvious that nobody's worked here in ages. There’s not a soul at the factory gates. And there’s no one in the guardhouses where armed security guards used to stand. That's it. The factory's done for. It’s sad to say, but after the collapse of the USSR and the "liberalization" of the economy, this has been the fate of many of the enterprises in our big industrial city.

There was a time, though, when life was buzzing around the factory, not to mention inside it. You'd really see that after the workers were paid on the 5th and 20th of each month. That’s when they’d be scurrying around like ants on an anthill. More than a few would duck into the liquor section of the nearest shop. The impatient ones would knock their vodka back right there in the store while perched on the windowsill, maybe chasing it with a candy, sometimes not even bothering with that. A bunch of guys who'd drunk more than they could handle would be sprawled on the hillside where the factory sat, looking to the world like "The Storming of Sapun Mountain." Once, one of them propped himself up on an elbow and waved a hand clutching a piece of cake at me.

"Hey, kid! Come ‘ere. I got a treat for you."

I wanted that cake something fierce, but Mom grabbed hold of my elbow and said: "Don't you dare!" To the guy, she said sweetly, "Thanks! You enjoy it yourself."

Ah, those were the days…

I'm walking along the fence and see some guy coming my way.

"Hey, buddy!" I call out. "What's the deal with the factory? Is it still running?"

The guy glances around, eyeing me suspiciously.

"What's it to you?"

"Just curious, that's all."

“Why didn’t you leave and go somewhere else?"

“Like where?"

“To hell!" the guy snaps. "There’s all kinds snooping around here. You an American spy?"

"Nah, I'm Japanese."

"Well, get lost then! There’s too many curious types around here."

I keep walking. What a vigilant comrade I've run into...

Well, I'll be damned. Look who that is. Tanka! I recognize her right off, though I couldn't tell you exactly how many years it's been since I last saw her. She clocked me right away, too. Tanka Chizhova used to live above us in our old two-story building. She was the girl next door, a year younger than me. Back then, in our preschool days, that was a big gap. To be honest, she was my first love. We were sweet on each other, thick as thieves. We swore eternal love to each other out behind the sheds and showed each other how boys differ from girls. At home, I drew her portrait with colored pencils. Tanka loved it, especially the red coat I put her in. Standing under my window, she'd yell, "Seyozh! (Neither of us could pronounce our 'R’s', but I also couldn't say 'Sh' and stuttered to boot.) Come out and play! Let's be fwiends!" We were great friends, and it broke my heart to leave Tanka when we got our own Khrushchyovka apartment and moved out of the communal flat. After that, I only bumped into Tanka by chance, and rarely at that.

For a while, she worked as a salesgirl in a haberdashery, and I'd drop by sometimes. We'd stand around and shoot the breeze about life and nothing in particular.

“Long time no see," she says breezily, as though we'd run into each other just yesterday.

"Oh, ages," I agree. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

"Quit your lying, Seryozhka! But never mind that, tell me how your kids are doing. Have they made you a grandpa yet?"

"They have. My grandson’s about to start school. How are things at home?"

I know things aren't great on that front with her. Her first husband, the father of her son, got hit by a car. She told me she’d kicked the second one out and said: "What do I need that drunk bully for?"

And she's had trouble with her son too. He did time in prison.

"How's your boy?" I ask.

"The idiot's back inside," she replies.

"What for this time?"

"Drugs. He doesn't use himself, but he’s been dealing. He needs money, but he doesn't want to work."

"How does he get by?"

"Off his girls. He's good looking. Women throw themselves at him. He’s a real gigolo. And he’s a smooth talker—you could listen to him for hours. Let his cellmates enjoy his fairy tales now. But how's your son doing?"

“He’s got a job and he’s plugging away, trying to save up for a car."

"Good for him. That's worth doing."

I say goodbye to Tanka. I'm walking along the fence around the defunct factory. Hurrying along. And suddenly, there it is: that same concrete pipe. It’s still roaring out a stream of rusty, murky liquid, poisoning everything in its path. That toxic stream is still gushing, gurgling, and raging along. Could there be life in the old dog yet?

Translated by J. McVay

A Real Mouse

                                                                    A Real Mouse

Deep philosophy in the shallows of everyday life

I've written about a mouse before, but that was a computer mouse, a small oval-shaped device in a plastic shell. Here, I’m talking about an actual live mouse, an animal of the order Rodentia, a small, grayish creature with a long tail. Everybody knows what a mouse looks like.

I went to the kitchen early to prepare for my morning stretches and walk. I've stopped jogging. It's hard, and sometimes my heart gives me trouble.

I had just put on my training pants when I heard a snap. Clearly, it was the mousetrap. Nothing else in the kitchen could have made that sound. I quickly peered behind the refrigerator where I had placed the trap. It had been triggered, and a stunned mouse lay convulsing next to it.

The little beast was still alive! I had to deal with it. But how? A dust scoop was hanging on the wall next to the fridge. I grabbed it, intending to finish off the mouse and convey it to the trash bin. No such luck! The mouse had wedged itself under the refrigerator, with only the tip of its tail sticking out. I tried to catch the tail with the dust scoop and drag the animal out. It didn’t work. The mouse was wriggling, desperately fighting for its dear life. Then it disappeared into the barely centimeter-wide gap under the refrigerator. It was gone... The mouse wasn’t stupid. It wanted to live.

What a predicament! I didn’t need unwelcome roommates in my house. I didn't invite them! One evening, as I was settling into bed with my collection of Agatha Christie stories, I was horrified to see... a mouse on my pillow. My first thought was, have I gone mad? Or did I overindulge in that rowanberry brandy earlier? I put a mousetrap under the bed just in case the mouse was real. The next morning, it presented me with my uninvited guest. I wondered whether it was male or a female. But who can tell the sex of a mouse?

Joking aside, a mouse isn't a car or a computer. You can't make one with your hands. It's one of God's creatures, a mammal, just like a tiger, an elephant, or even a whale. A mouse has a heart, lungs, kidneys, and reproductive organs. A male mouse (a buck?) mates with a female mouse, just as a man does with a woman. Pregnancy follows, then birth. Everything’s the same as it is with people. Mice even have a courtship period during which males produce sounds that are inaudible to the human ear but act like love poems and attract females. A mouse's brain—which is about half the size of a pea, is functionally identical to a human's. Like a human, a mouse wants to live in comfort and safety, reproduce, and enjoy life.

What if it dies under the fridge? Would it stink? I needed to move the fridge and check underneath. The refrigerator was huge and loaded with food. Everything needed to be taken out of it. There went my morning exercise... Together, my wife and I pushed the refrigerator away from the wall. Dust covered its back. I saw tubes sticking out of the compressor that had been cut and sealed off, their ends covered with a suspicious green coating. It had seemed to me over the past year that our refrigerator's working cycle was too long; it rarely stopped running. I had called a repairman. A thick-lipped redheaded guy showed up. He looked like a blockhead and, as it turned out, he really was one. He cut out part of the refrigerant line, sealed the ends (which became corroded), charged us a hefty sum, and left. After that "repair," the fridge started cutting off even less frequently. It now runs almost constantly. What did you do, you red-haired bastard? You bungler! You’re a son of a bitch and an utter sleazebag! You ruined our refrigerator! I'm a pensioner. I can't afford to buy a new fridge. Our pensions are barely enough to keep us from starving. We're poor Russians. Still, I try to eat well, and, apparently, I manage to do so. For breakfast, I eat two walnuts, half a banana, and a bowl of buckwheat with milk or oatmeal. Sometimes I’ll have an egg. I take a pill for hypertension and drink coffee. After the food they served me in the Soviet Army—practically pig swill—I'm not picky about food at all.

I left for my walk much later than usual that morning. As I walked to the sports ground, I wondered where I’d find the money for a new refrigerator when this one finally stops working? I exercised and puffed without much enthusiasm, out of a sense of duty.

When I got back home, I baited the mousetrap with a piece of cheese and set it in a new spot, behind the cupboard. The next morning, the mousetrap's metal bar was pressing firmly down on a mouse’s crushed head.

So, I ended the life of one of God's creatures. I didn't create it, but I killed it. Did I do the right thing? Did I have the right to? Who can say?

Translated by J. McVay

Koshchei

  

We nicknamed him Koshchei. Why? Because he actually looked like Koschei, the fairytale hero and character from Pushkin's Ruslan and Lyudmila who "pined away over his gold." He was skinny, with no meat on his bones. He had a long nose and unkempt hair. He looked like the picture of Koshchei in a book I used to have that showed him hunched over an open chest, guarding a magical egg. 

Koshchei somehow came to be a manager in a cinema called the Zarya (Dawn). He might even have been its director. The Zarya was surrounded by five-story apartment buildings that had been constructed during Khrushchev's time. They were like beehives crammed full of Soviet families: that's where we grew up…

The Zarya was a place where magic happened. They showed movies there. It would be packed with hundreds of people gazing breathlessly at the screen. Things happened on the screen unlike anything we ever saw or could even imagine. Women with bedroom eyes and manly men flashed before our eyes. The things we felt! The passions we experienced! Sometimes, they even kissed. And then we boys whooped and hollered. We roared with the film broke, especially when it happened in the most interesting places. We whistled and shouted at the projectionists: "You bunglers!!!

 

And the cars they drove! Luxurious, with lots of shiny chrome! How snazzy America seemed! And the only cars running on our streets were Moskviches and Pobedas and, sometimes, a captured German Opel Kapitän.

Every foreign movie was an event for us, especially if it was an American film. We thought it an unforgivable sin to miss one.

Movies about cowboys were the best. We didn't even have the words to describe them. The men in them were free, strong and noble... They lacked all tolerance for evil and injustice. They wouldn't let themselves be humiliated. If somebody in a bar threw beer in a cowboy's face, he always had his Colt revolver on his belt.

 

We watched "The Magnificent Seven" over and over again. We couldn't get enough of it. How could 10-kopeck movies they showed at the children's matinee come close to a movie like that? Ilya Muromets was a dashing fellow, but he stood no chance against Lemonade Joe. However, the cheapest ticket for an adult showing was 25 kopecks. Where could boys like us, eight or nine year olds, get that amount of money? But the dark interior of the Zarya was an irresistible temptation...

That's when we did what we called "Penetrating Enemy Lines." That meant getting into the theater anyway you could, no matter what it took.

We had several ways of doing it. The safest (and doomed to failure) involved waiting at the exits. It occasionally happened that somebody in the audience didn't like the movie or desperately needed a smoke and would leave through one of the exits. Then we would dash into the theater. But people rarely left. So we would try to open an exit door ourselves. To do that we had to find a wire that was stiff enough to stick between the doors and lift the latch. That worked sometimes. But the employees eventually noticed that the gap between the doors was getting scratched up and nailed on thick iron plates.

We had another method we called "The Cossack Scout." But it only worked when a lot of people went to see a movie. A bunch of guys would gather at the entrance to the lobby and crowd against the people going in (ignoring cries of "Stop pushing?").They would cause a ruckus and start arguments, and the ticket taker would attempt to calm things down. In the commotion, one of the nimbler boys (Igor Yurchenko was one) would slip into the lobby behind the entering patrons. It would be the sacred duty of the "Cossack" to get into the theater and open the door for his friends who were waiting out on the street. The boy who could do that was well respected. However, on the steps leading into the lobby or further on, at the entrance to the theater itself, there frequently stood ... Koshchei. He would hover there, gray-haired, frowning and terrible, like a bird of prey on the lookout for a mouse. No one could ever slip past Koshchei when he was on duty. His very visage struck terror into our hearts.

Sometimes he would descend the stairs and say something to the ticket taker — probably telling her to be more vigilant.

 

Then there was another method. But it only worked in summer and early fall when second-storey windows on the side of the building were opened. They did that on a hot and stuffy day so that the audience wouldn't sweat up in the lobby too much.

Those open windows drew us like a magnet. But how could we reach them? There was only one way — up the drain pipe. You had to be careful and climb it like a cat. The pipe was old and rusty. If it didn't hold up, you would end up hugging the tarmac. The windows were on the second floor of the theater, or about the same height as the third floor of an apartment building. You would have to squeeze up against the window and do something heart stopping — ease several meters along a galvanized windowsill with nothing to hold onto. Thank God the windows were kept shut in rainy weather so we didn't have to walk on slippery wet metal. It was scary, of course. But hadn't Sheriff Johnson walked along a tight rope and then shot the leader of a band of robbers? He was our role model.

 

One day I saw an open window. Unable to resist the temptation, I scrambled up the drain pipe... I made my way safely along the windowsill. I jumped down into the lobby, took a few steps and ... there was Koshchei right in front of me... 

 

"Soooo...," Koshchei hissed ominously. "We got in, eh?"

"Yes," I mumbled, at a loss for what to do. Should I dart through the lobby and dash into the toilet? But surely he would find me there! Could I jump back onto the windowsill? It was too high... I was frozen with fear.

 

"Come with me! Koshchei ordered and, turning his back, strode off across the lobby. I followed meekly behind. On the other side of the lobby he turned into a narrow corridor that ended in a door covered with black oilcloth. He opened the door and motioned me inside.

I entered. It was apparently his office. On the walls were portraits of Soviet movie stars. Up against the wall there was a filing cabinet stuffed with papers. In front of the cabinet sat a large desk covered with green cloth. In the corner hung a large red banner with gold embroidered letters — "Winner of Socialist Competition."

Koshchei sat down behind the desk. I stood opposite him.

"What's your name," he asked, his eyes boring me from under the lowered eyebrows.

"Sergei," I squeaked in a trembling voice.

"And what have you snuck into, Sergei?"

The cinema. I wanted to see a movie."

“What movie?

"I dunno. Whatever's on."

"Tell me, do you go to the children's matinees?"

"Un-huh. But they aren't very interesting."

"And what do you find interesting?"

"The Magnificent Seven."

"Sooo..." Koschei drawled. You like cowboys?"

"Un-huh, I do."

"Did you think about that drainpipe before climbing it? What if it broke? You would have fallen to your death. Or you would have been crippled for life."

"I wouldn’t fall. I'm a good climber."

"Sure you are," Koshchei grumbled. I've seen what happens to clever boys like you. What am I to do with you?"

"I dunno..."

He scratched his head and looked at me in silence for a while. Then he came out from behind the desk and said, "Come with me."

He walked out of his office, and I followed him. Where was he taking me? To the police, probably. After all, I had broken the law! I'd done something I wasn't supposed to. What would happen to me now?

Koshchei led me up to the door leading into the theater, which was closed off by a heavy velvet curtain. He pulled back the curtain and cracked open the door.

"Go on," he said.

"Where?"

“Inside. From now on, if you want to watch a movie ask the ticket taker to call Vasily Ivanovich. We'll think of something. But don't climb through any more windows. Agreed?”

"Agreed," I replied and went into the dark theater…

 

I never did ask the ticket taker to call Vasily Ivanovich. But in the years that followed I never climbed through any more windows, and I never forgot the lesson I learned from that sad, scary-looking man.

Translated by J. McVay

My Cousin Kolya

 

(A family tale)

I remember the first time I saw him. He was lying stark naked on a blanket behind a curtain. He had a big round head and was kicking his crooked little legs. A miniature pee-pee was sticking up over his belly. He was mewling like a kitten.

"This is your cousin Kolenka," my dad told me. "Katya's son." (Aunt Katya was my dad's younger sister.)

That's my earliest memory of Nikolai. We grew up in parallel worlds, mostly meeting only on holidays. Our families lived far apart in different parts of the big city. Before a holiday, my dad would arrange a visit with Aunt Katya. They worked at the same factory in adjoining departments, so setting a time and place to meet wasn't a big deal, even back then when hardly anyone had a phone at home.

Aunt Katya and Uncle Grisha lived in a private home in Zarechye. To enter, you had to climb up onto a high porch and go into a dimly lit vestibule. From there, you'd walk through a small kitchen to a room that served as entrance hall, living room, and bedroom all in one. Their house was tiny. The adults would sit around a table in the middle of the room. They'd drink vodka, eat snacks, and talk about things Kolya and I couldn't understand. Sometimes they'd sing. My dad was always the loudest. The veins in his neck would bulge, and I'd worry they might burst and he'd die.

"Nye pey!" I'd say to try and stop him singing. My knowledge of Russian was still pretty limited, so I didn't know I should have said, "Nye poy!" Dad would get what I meant and tease me: "But I've already had a drink!"

There was no running water or sewage in the house. So, I was shocked when I once saw Kolya squatting with his bare butt over a piece of paper in the kitchen. It seemed gross to me. If I'd tried something like that in our kitchen, I'd have been in big trouble. It wasn't right! I went and tattled to Aunt Katya. What a little snitch I was! But she just told me not to worry about it, and said if I needed to go too, she'd find me a potty.

Kolya and I played in the corner. He had cool toys: a toy train set with tiny cars, and a tabletop — well, more like floor-top — football game. It was a metal football pitch with miniature football players. We made them kick a ball by working springs attached underneath.

Kolya also had a bunch of toy guns. I liked one so much that I wanted to keep it... so I did. When my parents saw the gun at home, they really laid into me. They made me feel ashamed of myself and taught me a lesson about not taking other people's stuff no matter how much I might like it. That stuck with me.

His parents would pay us a return visit on the next holiday: maybe May Day or Revolution Day on November 7th, the biggest state holiday back then. Some of the guests who came would try to kiss me, which I hated. I'd wipe my face after each kiss. This embarrassed the kisser but for some reason delighted the other guests.

"Please take a seat," my mom would say, pointing to the delicious-smelling plates on the table. "Where would you like to sit, Kolya?" she'd ask.

"Close to the sausage," he'd reply, to roars of laughter from the adults.

The guests would stay for ages, not just an hour or two. Mom would turn on the Minsk-55 radio gramophone (a huge box in the corner of the room), put on some records, and the dancing would start. Uncle Grisha, Kolya's dad, would dance with my mom. There wasn't much space in the room, but they would twirl around gracefully without bumping into any furniture. Out of breath, Uncle Grisha would then head to the balcony for a smoke. He smoked a lot. It seemed like he lit up after every shot of vodka. He loved his vodka too. And not just on holidays, either. I don't think I ever saw Uncle Grisha (who was my godfather, by the way) completely sober or without a cigarette between his yellow teeth. Once, he left a pack of cigarettes on our windowsill, and I snagged a couple. I tried smoking behind a fence outside. Ended up coughing and spitting for ages. Nasty stuff. Didn't like it one bit.

Kolya and I would play while the adults were eating and drinking. We often butted a blown-up balloon around like it was a football. The grown-ups would sometimes ask us to stand side by side to compare our heights. I was a bit taller at first, then he caught up and just kept growing and growing... I couldn't keep up. But I decided not to fall behind in other ways. I bought some dumbbells and started pumping iron. Now, whenever we met, I'd proudly show off my biceps to Kolya.

"Wow," Kolya would marvel. "I'm gonna get some of those too." And sure enough, dumbbells and a kettlebell appeared at his place, and Kolya himself bulked up and got more solid.

There was a stack of books in one of his desk drawers.

"Take whatever you want," Kolya would tell me. I'd grab and read "Indian Fairy Tales," which had amazing illustrations, a historical novel by Tsarevich called "For the Fatherland" (it was a serious book, but an easy read), or an old, tattered book by Zagoskin, "Yuri Miloslavsky, or the Russians in 1612."

"Think you can handle that one?" Kolya would ask. I wouldn’t just read the book; I’d devour it with great pleasure. I loved reading.

When Kolya was older, he got into cycling. He joined a cycling club. Once, he even let me borrow a real racing bike for a while.

 Time flew by. I got into college. Kolya went off to the Army and ended up somewhere far away in Siberia. We didn't see each other for two or three years. Then he suddenly came home on leave. I went over for a visit. The fine gray greatcoat he had hung in the hallway made quite an impression on me.

Kolya greeted me wearing a tracksuit and gave me a strong hug. He was tall and broad shouldered. He radiated strength and confidence.

"Come on in, cuz!"

We sat at the table, had a few drinks, and chatted. Nikolai drank every little, just enough to be sociable. He wasn't into it (unlike his dad, who loved a drink, with or without a reason).

Nikolai had received an offer he couldn't turn down: assignment to the Strategic Rocket Forces. I suppose before making an offer like that, they would put a candidate under a microscope and thoroughly check him out.

"So, what do you do in the Army?" I asked.

"What I'm supposed to," he answered vaguely. "Defend the strategic security of the Motherland."

"Sit in silos? Aim ballistic missiles at Washington?"

"All sorts of things," he didn't want to specify.

"Is it worth it?"

"Yeah. The pay's good. Full benefits. When the time comes, I'll get a nice pension. I won’t have to wait long either."

So that was that. Kolya had his life figured out. He knew what the next few years held for him. And me? How would my life turn out? All I knew was that after college, I’d be sent off to teach in some village in the middle of nowhere. What would happen after that was anyone's guess.

Nikolai returned from Siberia after mustering out. And he didn’t come alone. He had a beautiful wife, Svetlana. Tall, slim, a former flight attendant. A perfect match for Kolya.

However, he had nowhere to live in his hometown, so he moved in with Aunt Katya and Uncle Grisha. They were living with their young daughter in a cramped two-room apartment, and the addition of two more people with a small child didn't make for more comfortable living conditions. Uncle Grisha, with his incessant smoking, foul odor, and chronic drinking, became a thorn in beautiful Svetlana's side. And she didn't get along with Aunt Katya, either. My aunt is an angel incarnate. She always agrees with everyone. She could get along with the devil himself. But things didn't suit Svetlana. She turned out to be a bit of a diva. This wasn't right, that wasn't good enough, especially in the kitchen. Aunt Katya would cry. Clearly, there should only be one bear in a den, and only one woman in a kitchen.

Kolya watched all this for a while and then went back into uniform. He joined the Russian troops heading to the war in Yugoslavia, hoping to earn enough to get his own place. He served in the Balkans. The Russian troops departed with little glory, leaving behind a shattered, dismembered Yugoslavia.

"What was it like there, Nikolai?" I asked him when he returned.

"What do you think? It was war."

"Did you fight? Shoot?"

"Hardly. We were just there for show. The Americans were the ones fighting. They bombed anybody they wanted to."

"And what about you guys?"

"What could we do? Launch a strategic missile and split the planet in half?"

The money he earned was only enough for a small, previously owned apartment. He settled his now grown son and moved back in with his mother, along with his wife and newborn daughter. That didn’t really solve his housing problem. Kolya continued serving in his hometown.

 Aunt Katya fell seriously ill. She didn't suffer long. One day, Kolya called me.

"Come to the funeral. Mom's gone."

I went. She was lying on the floor, not yet in a coffin. She looked neat and clean with her thin, dried-out legs in plain brown stockings. Lung cancer had done its job. What caused this tragedy? She was a sturdy country woman. Could it have been a parting gift from her husband, Uncle Grisha, who was always smoking and had long since passed away himself? There’s no way to know. But we had to do what was needed in such cases and move on with life...

A high-level commission from the Ministry of Defense visited Kolya’s unit to inspect the performance, combat readiness, and living conditions of its personnel. That's how an important boss from the capital learned about Kolya's housing problem. How could this be? It was a disgrace! Here was an exemplary soldier with many years of impeccable service and nothing but medals to show for it. Not even a place to live! Urgent action and a report were required.

That's how Kolya got an apartment. A residential complex for high-ranking officers had been built on the outskirts of town, in a wooded area overlooking a large pond or small lake. That's where Kolya, who had served as a simple warrant officer in the Soviet Army, ended up living.

"Come to the housewarming," he invited me. I don't remember why I didn't go but my mother went and told me about it later.

It was a general's apartment with large, bright rooms, a spacious entryway, and built-in closets. It had a long, glassed-in loggia, and a tiled bathroom and powder room with shiny, nickel-plated fixtures.

For my mother, who had spent her whole life first in a communal apartment and then in a shabby Khrushchevka where two people couldn't take their coats off in the corridor at the same time, this wasn't just an apartment - it was a fairy tale. I wish you the best, Nikolai!

After serving all the time he was allowed, Nikolai retired. A pensioner, it was time for him to live and enjoy life.

Once, coming out of the bank in my neighborhood, I saw Kolya standing next to an armored minivan. He was wearing the uniform of an armored car guard and a bulletproof vest, with a pistol in a holster on his belt.

"Hey there!" I greeted him. "Are you back in the service? Can't just sit at home, huh?"

"Why sit around," Nikolai replied. "It's boring. Plus, extra money never hurts. After paying for gas, electricity, and water, and what's left to live on?"

"How's the family?" I asked.

“The kids moved to Moscow. My son found work there, and my daughter married a Moscow guy."

"So, it’s just you and Svetlana now?"

“That’s right. Just the two of us in the apartment."

We chatted about some trivial things then shook goodbye. His hand was big, his handshake firm. He looked like the actor A.D., a hero of Russian action movies, an athlete and ladies' man, who died in a car accident along with his wife and son.

 Busy with our own lives, we only called each other occasionally. One day my sister called and, after talking about life, told me at the end:

"Did you know Nikolai is sick?"

"No, I didn't. What's wrong with him?"

"The same thing Aunt Katya had."

“That can't be!"

"Oh, but it can. Nikolai had surgery last month."

Well, damn... I called Nikolai. His voice was cheerful, but the news was sad.

"Yeah, they cut out half of my lung. I'm going through chemotherapy now. That’ll be followed by radiation. Gotta stop the cancer from spreading."

"How are you feeling?"

“About like you'd expect. I go outside, but I can’t walk far. I get out of breath. And climbing the stairs to the apartment is a struggle."

"Kolya, cancer isn't a death sentence. Solzhenitsyn overcame it. And so have others."

"I know, cuz. I'm not planning on giving up. Come visit. It's been a long time."

"Yes, yes, I'll come," I promised and, among other things, made a mental note to be sure and visit Nikolai. As always, I didn't make it in time.

Misha, the husband of Kolya's younger sister, called. He told me Nikolai was gone.

"What? When's the funeral?"

"It's already happened."

"When?"

"Last week."

Misha explained. They brought Kolya's body back to the apartment from the hospital. His wife didn't tell anyone he’d died, not even Nikolai's own sister. At the funeral, apart from his wife and children, there was no one. None of the relatives even know where he's buried. Why beautiful Svetlana did this, nobody knows.

All I have left of Kolya is a two-pood (about 32 kg) kettlebell. He loaned it to me before he joined the Army ("Keep training, cuz") and then never asked for it back.

It stands in the corner of my room, but I don't touch it. It's heavy, and it keeps getting heavier and heavier as time goes on.

Translated by J. McVay

 

The Chinese Pistol

I’ve never wanted to own a real gun. I don't like weapons at all, even though I spent a good chunk of my life working for an arms manufacturer. The sight of a cannon makes me feel sad, and seeing a tank turns my stomach. A heap of metal for mass murder. Ugh!

But I've got a soft spot for pistols. Don't know why. Maybe I didn't play enough as a kid? This hobby isn't exactly unique, though. It's pretty common among guys. Like the mumps in children.

I've got a whole collection of pistols at home. Not real ones, of course — BB guns. I wouldn't take a real gun even if you paid me. I wouldn't even go for an airsoft gun. That's just asking for trouble. Why would I need them? After all, as they say, even a stick shoots once in a blue moon.

My collection includes a German Walther (that's like the Mercedes of guns), an American Beretta (the Cadillac), and a Russian Aniks (think of it as the latest model of an ugly Russian car). When I'm home alone, I work in the bedroom and spread out my collection on the couch in the next room.

From time to time, I come out from behind my desk and go into the other room. I pick up a pistol and caress the grip like a horny old man fondling a woman. Sometimes I go out into the garden, where I've got a sort of shooting range out behind the shed with paper targets pinned to a board. After emptying a magazine or two, I go back to work.

All my pistols are the most faithful replicas in their class. But when it comes to their actual firepower, well, that's another story. The Walther, for instance, can't even puncture a milk carton from four meters away in cold weather. But if the CO2 cartridge is fresh and it's warm outside (which boosts the cartridge's performance), it can put a hole in a beer can at close range.

Still, these pistols are toys. A sharpened pencil is a more effective and more dangerous weapon.

I wanted to add something unique to my collection — a plastic, Chinese-made, BB-shooting copy of theI’ve never wanted to own a real gun. I don't like weapons at all, even though I spent a good chunk of my life working for an arms manufacturer. The sight of a cannon makes me feel sad, and seeing a tank turns my stomach. A heap of metal for mass murder. Ugh!

But I've got a soft spot for pistols. Don't know why. Maybe I didn't play enough as a kid? This hobby isn't exactly unique, though. It's pretty common among guys. Like the mumps in children.

I've got a whole collection of pistols at home. Not real ones, of course — BB guns. I wouldn't take a real gun even if you paid me. I wouldn't even go for an airsoft gun. That's just asking for trouble. Why would I need them? After all, as they say, even a stick shoots once in a blue moon.

My collection includes a German Walther (that's like the Mercedes of guns), an American Beretta (the Cadillac), and a Russian Aniks (think of it as the latest model of an ugly Russian car). When I'm home alone, I work in the bedroom and spread out my collection on the couch in the next room.

From time to time, I come out from behind my desk and go into the other room. I pick up a pistol and caress the grip like a horny old man fondling a woman. Sometimes I go out into the garden, where I've got a sort of shooting range out behind the shed with paper targets pinned to a board. After emptying a magazine or two, I go back to work.

All my pistols are the most faithful replicas in their class. But when it comes to their actual firepower, well, that's another story. The Walther, for instance, can't even puncture a milk carton from four meters away in cold weather. But if the CO2 cartridge is fresh and it's warm outside (which boosts the cartridge's performance), it can put a hole in a beer can at close range.

Still, these pistols are toys. A sharpened pencil is a more effective and more dangerous weapon.

I wanted to add something unique to my collection — a plastic, Chinese-made, BB-shooting copy of the Crosman C11. People were raving about it online. Supposedly, it's as good as the Russian Aniks, and the price is reasonable (35 bucks in America, 100 here). So, when I finally saw it in a local shop, I knew I had to have it.

I grabbed some cash (finally got paid by a few clients), strapped on my "suicide bomber belt" (a heavy, sand-filled, canvas belt I wear to lose weight), and set off, excited to make my purchase.

Mission accomplished. I left the store feeling pretty satisfied with myself (almost happy even?). I sat down on a bench somewhere, looked around, and, making sure no one was watching (who knows what they might think), I took out the pistol to take a closer look and see how it felt in my hand. It was nothing special. Molded plastic. But the magazine was nice, made of metal. I loaded it with BBs, slid it into the grip, tucked the toy into my bag, and headed home, anticipating a world of fun.

So, here I am, walking along the bank of our flooded river. The stream has thrown up piles of trash here. Cans, bottles, jars. It's a mess. There’s not a soul around. Not even any dogs. I figure I might as well try out the pistol. I take it out, spot an empty beer can, and fire. Seems like I missed. I fire again. And again. Hit it. All right, I'll have plenty of time to mess around in my garden. I chuck the pistol back in my bag and continue walking home. Suddenly, someone calls out to me. I turn around and see a police car. And two cops standing next to it. Whoa! Where did they come from? It’s like they fell from the sky!

What should I do? I really don't want to deal with the cops (they must've seen me shooting at the cans. They'll confiscate my toy). And I can't think of anything better to do than to hightail it. They won't chase me, right? Cops can't be bothered to run after someone, wearing out their shoes for nothing. Everybody knows what they're like....

So, I take off running. But where to? I’ve got the river on my left and a fence to my right. Still, I run.

Can you picture it? A guy of retirement age, huffing and puffing uphill (no wonder he's puffing, with that suicide bomber belt on his belly — it’s heavy as a tombstone), and coasting along behind him there’s a police car. It might not be a race car, but it's still faster than any runner.

I make it up the hill. In front of me is the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I look around for an alley to duck into. Holy Mother of God! Save me! But there's nothing but fences all around and no gap to be seen....

And here come the cops. There they are, right alongside me. The one behind the wheel grabs my jacket and holds on tight. The other one jumps out of the car. They throw me onto the hood, twisting my arms behind my back. I'm not resisting. I'm just yelling: "Guys! What are you doing? Let me go! Let's talk about it!"

But they're not listening. Click! That's the sound the handcuffs make snapping shut behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some old ladies coming out of the church. They're watching what's happening and crossing themselves in fear. They've caught a thug! Thank the Lord...

They shove me into the back seat of the car. One cop gets behind the wheel. The other one, with stripes on his shoulder boards, sits next to me. I'm in shock. I've never been in handcuffs before. It feels like it's not happening to me. It’s like a nightmare.

"Guys!" I say. "Let me go. I just bought this pistol. It's a toy. I've got the receipt for it. Look in my pocket. I've got my passport with me too. Just check!"

"Shut up, you idiot!" the sergeant jabbed me in the side with the barrel of his shortened Kalashnikov.

I shut up.

We arrived at the district police headquarters, an old three-story building with a large new addition on either side.

They lead me to the end of a long corridor on the first floor, take off my belt, and empty my pockets. The handcuffs stay on. "Sit here!" The sergeant points to a bench and walks away.

There’s a guy sitting next to me on the bench, a dusty, rumpled drunk. His face is purple and swollen from boozing. Looks like he's a regular here. His hands are free.

"What? Cops nabbed you?" he asks me.

I say nothing.

"They're like that. Grabbing people for no reason. I should crush those bastards. With these hands." He shoves his hands under my nose. "But they don't know who they're messing with. They’ll soon learn who Vanka Novikov is." He stands up and walks away.

Soon, two cops bring him back, holding him by the scruff of his neck. "Listen, you walrus dick. Sit down and shut up or it'll get worse."

The guy obediently plops down next to me. He explains his relationship with the police in great detail and with colorful language. He reeks of booze and wet dog. Sitting next to him is disgusting. I stand up and walk to the end of the corridor and spot the sergeant that had the Kalashnikov.

"Comrade Sergeant. Why did you detain me? What did I do wrong?"

"You broke our mirror."

"I didn't break anything."

"We'll see about that."

Right... A broken mirror — yeah, right. I did that. And if the gearbox is noisy, they'll pin that on me too.

"What law did I break, Comrade Sergeant?"

"Don't worry, old man! We'll find something to charge you with."

The time drags on with no end in sight.... Finally, after a couple of hours, the sergeant walks over and, apparently following orders from above, removes my handcuffs and returns my wallet, passport, and mobile phone.

There it is, the device that connects me to the whole world, wherever I am, even on some deserted island. With it, I could call the CIA if I wanted to! But first, I call my wife.

"Hi, dear. Don't worry, but I'm at the police station right now."

"Hi, honey. What happened."

"I'll explain later. But for now, can you give me Ashot's mobile number?"

Ashot Mirzoyan is a good acquaintance of mine. We’ve been friends — or, to be more precise, friendly — for about fifteen years. He started out on our street as a district lieutenant. We've helped each other out from time to time, and we’ve emptied quite a few bottles of vodka together. Now he's a colonel in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, a department head — of the very department where I'm currently occupying a bench. But right now, he's off fighting in the Caucasus. They call it restoring constitutional order. They’ve offered him a deputy minister position in some small republic. But Ashot's in no hurry to accept the offer. He’s got several children and wants to live.

"I don't have his number," my wife says on the phone. So, Ashot's out. Why hadn’t I added him to my contacts! He could’ve helped! I should've also saved that photo of me signing a contract with the governor to my phone. It was when we were selling Russian tanks in a Middle Eastern country. He was still the chief engineer then. And I was, and still am, just a translator.

A policeman approaches me, a huge guy in gray spotted camouflage and a black OMON beret. "Come with me."

I follow. We enter an office. We sit at a table across from each other. He's a major, so he's a big shot here. A broad-shouldered athlete with large, strong hands. If he's into wrestling, he'd compete in at least the light heavyweight class. The major has a handsome, masculine face, and his whole appearance exudes health, strength, and confidence. He looks like he's just returned from a combat operation. Or stepped off a recruitment poster for the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

"So, we've been shooting, have we?" he asks me.

“I had nothing to shoot with, Comrade Major," I say. "Is that even a weapon?"

"What is it then?" The major pulls out a drawer and puts my pistol in front of me. "Nobody would say this is a pencil."

"A pencil is more dangerous," I object.

The major takes the pistol in his huge hands, turns it over.

I think I see something like a smile flicker across his face. "Read the report and sign it," he says, handing me a sheet of paper.

I know very well how dangerous it is to sign any document without thoroughly examining it. But I need to get out of this building. So not signing isn't an option.

I read the report carefully. It seems accurate... Shot at cans on the riverbank. Detained by a police patrol. Didn't resist. All correct. What do I have to fear? I'm not really a criminal! I sign the report.

“All right, you can go," says the major.

"I have two requests."

"What are they?"

"Return the pistol and don't report this to my workplace."

"You'll get the pistol from the district officer. And we won't report it to your work. You're free to go!"

I look at him. No, he definitely wants to laugh, but he's making an effort not to....

I leave the building. Lord, am I really free? I want a smoke. I take out my cigarettes. But I dropped my lighter somewhere.

I approach a group of policemen chatting animatedly.

"Excuse me, do you have a light?" One turns to me.

"Man, you've got some nerve. Get the fuck out of here!"

…. I get home. My wife is surprisingly calm. She looks at me with irony. "Well, dear, did you get yourself into jam?"

“I’m afraid so."

"What are you going to do now? Write a story about it?"

"I don't know. Right now, I just need a nap."

I collapse on the couch and drop off to sleep immediately, like falling into a deep dark hole... I dream that I’m on a combat mission somewhere up in the mountains. We need to hold a mountain pass, not let the enemy through.

"We'll die, but the enemy won't get by," my comrade-in-arms says and turns to me. It's the athletic major in a spotted camouflage uniform. He pulls a long-barreled Mauser out from his belt.

"They'll soon learn who Vitka Firsov is," I reply and pull out a slingshot from my breast pocket....

I woke up in a cold sweat... Went to the kitchen. Drank water from the tap.

In the morning, I discovered that my left arm wouldn’t bend properly at the elbow. And the left sleeve of my jacket is ripped out of its place. I suppose my arrest wasn't carried out in the gentlest manner. No matter! The jacket is old, and my arm will heal...

I sit down at my computer. Slowly, thinking through every word, I write an explanation. I write that I'm an amateur collector of air guns. That my pistols aren't weapons and were all bought without even having to show my ID. That I made a mistake when, after buying another one, I couldn't resist trying it out on the deserted riverbank. That I deeply regret what I did. That I perceive what happened as a nightmare. That I'm a law-abiding citizen, not involved in any illegal activities, which can be confirmed by my friend, Colonel Mirzoyan, who's currently deployed.

I especially pinned my hopes on that last statement. In official offices with a hierarchical structure, a boss's name carries a lot of weight.

In the afternoon, I went to the police department. Initially, the duty officer didn't want to accept anything from me. But I insisted, saying it provides new information about the case.

 The next morning, the phone rang. I picked up.

"Hello! I’m calling from the police station about your pistol. You can come and pick it up."

"Thank you very much. When can I do that?"

"Any time that's convenient for you. It's at 13 Pervomayskaya Street."

I hung up, jubilant. Is this really the end? Thank God! And how politely they spoke to me! Maybe mentioning Colonel Mirzoyan actually worked? For a few seconds, I felt happy....

I immediately rushed to the address. I ran part of the way. Only when I got close to the police station did I slow down so as to look presentable and not out of breath.

At the station (a spacious room in a semi-basement), a young junior lieutenant sat behind a desk. A fair-haired boy with chubby cheeks. I greeted him and introduced myself.

The junior lieutenant asked me to sit and handed me a piece of paper. "Here's the receipt. Please sign it." I sign. The junior lieutenant opens the safe behind him, takes out my pistol. He holds it in his hands, examining it. "How does it shoot?" he asks me and starts fiddling with the pistol. "There's a gas cartridge in the grip. Be careful, Comrade Lieutenant!"

Wanting to be as polite as possible, I give him a promotion.

"What, you think I don't know pistols?" he replies. And at that moment, a shot rings out. Apparently, the fair-haired boy got carried away and pressed something he shouldn't have.

I shuddered inside. The last thing I needed was for Comrade Junior Lieutenant to shoot his eye out. Then I'd really be in trouble.

I glance furtively at the ceiling. It's a powerful pistol after all. No wonder they praise it on the Internet. The BB went in so deep you can barely see the spot where it hit.

Another policeman enters the room, with the shoulder straps of a Senior Lieutenant. Apparently, the  fair-haired one’s boss.

"Are you the owner of the pistol?" he asks me.

"Yes sir," I reply, military-style. "Do you need anything else from me?"

"We need you to sign the act of transferring your case for review by the administrative commission."

"Is that like a trial?"

"Something like that."

"What am I being tried for?"

"I'll tell you."

The Senior Lieutenant takes a book with the Russian tricolor on the cover from the shelf. He opens it to a bookmarked page. He reads. "Article 20, paragraph 13 of the Administrative Code. Shooting from a weapon in places not designated for this purpose entails an administrative fine of up to ten minimum wages."

My insides went cold. That's a huge amount of money. And my salary has been delayed for half a year already.

I dejectedly put the pistol in my bag, say goodbye to the policemen, and trudge home...

What a disgrace! The father of grown children, a well-regarded specialist in a respectable firm, and I get caught like a mischievous kitten stealing cream. Bah!

At home, I sit at the computer and try to work. I can't. My mood is foul. I want to die...

 A day or two passes. The phone rings.

I pick up. A woman's voice speaks to me. "Hello! Is this Viktor Firsov? You need to come to the police station to pay an administrative fine."

"With pleasure. How much is the fine?"

"You've been fined five hundred rubles. But if you don't pay on time, you'll be charged penalties."

"I'll be right there!"

I grab the money and run to the police station. I'm elated. Five hundred rubles isn't ten salaries!

I arrive at the station and go into a room. In front of me is a slim, pretty girl in civilian clothes. "The fine for the pistol. Do I pay you?"

"Yes, me. But you pay through Sberbank. Here' the instructions. Return it to me along with the receipt."

I run to the bank. There's a long line. But I have to stand there and put an end to this. I've had enough!

Finally, I'm at the window. I hand over the instructions and a five-hundred-ruble note.

"I need to pay a fine."

"That'll be another fifty rubles for our fee," the lady teller tells me. I take out my wallet.

Quickly, quickly back to the police station. To give them everything and wash my hands of this. In the same room, the same pretty girl meets me. "That's it," she tells me. "The case is closed. You can go home."

"Is this really the end?" I think. I take a BB from my pocket. Four millimeters in diameter. You can barely see it between two fingers.

"Look, miss," I say. "You couldn't even kill a sparrow with this BB. And they opened a whole case against me."

"That's not my concern," the girl replies.

At that moment, a man in a suit enters the room. Short, bald, athletic build.

"Are you dissatisfied with something?" he asks me.

"He says the measures taken against him were too harsh," the girl explains.

"What? Harsh measures? We processed you at the very lowest level. You got off easy! Our chief was very interested in you. It's a shame the case is already closed...."

I go out onto the street. The sun shines bright and hot at the end of April. Yes, I suppose I did get off easy after all.

So, the Chinese pistol joined my collection. I have to say, it's a piece of junk. A plastic soap dish. If it falls on the floor, it'll break. How can you compare it to the Walther made of blued steel? It lies in its blister pack behind the couch. I look at it sometimes and remember a few things. I don't even feel like touching it....

(Translated by J. McVay).