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
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