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).