A Touch of Absurdity

                                                                 

                                                A Touch of Absurdity

I first met Victor Rusakov in the early nineties at Metalexport, a company of savvy guys formed on the bones of a major heavy industry plant after the USSR fell apart. While the barely surviving factory churned out the products (steel and iron), our little outfit was busy selling them off cheap all over the world. The steelworkers sweated it out at open-hearth furnaces while we white collar types worked our butts off flogging the goods to eager buyers from London to Sydney.

The outfit was run by Aunt Katya, a crafty lady with connections and ex-Komsomol bigwig. Katya was seizing the moment to enjoy life. She'd often be absent from work for long stretches, leaving the company's affairs to her numerous deputies. She would fly in from the Bahamas, all refreshed and tanned, and strut into her office anteroom. Hitching up her panties over her wide hips with her elbows, she would bark out:

"How have you people been managing to get by without me?"

She'd summon her deputies (for export, import, foreign economic relations, legal and other matters), dish out valuable instructions to one, chew out another, and then jet off to the Canary Islands.

The company paid well. I'd bring home wads of devalued rubles, tied up with string and packed tightly in a shoebox. This was insane money after my last job, at the All-Union Research Institute of Polymers, where I wouldn’t receive my measly salary for months on end.

Victor had joined Metalexport before me, coming from a defense industry design bureau. Money was tight there too. The young reformers who'd clawed their way to power reckoned the national economy was too militarized and wouldn't be able to function under the new market conditions, weighed down as it was by orders from the military.

In those interesting times, some enterprises started paying their workers with the products they manufactured. But while they might just about get away with handing out fire extinguishers (sell 'em at the market, get some cash), the same trick wouldn't fly with flamethrowers.

The government strategists decided to repurpose the defense plant to produce civilian goods that people actually needed, so they tasked the design bureau with creating a Russian sewing machine. These glorious weapons engineers had been making excellent missiles with multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles, but the sewing machine they came up with would make you cry (or laugh?). Its stitching was crooked, the threads kept breaking, it wouldn't work at all without being cursed out, and it cost as much as a ballistic missile. Who'd buy something like that? And without sales, there'd be no money for wages.

At the design bureau, Victor had worked as a radio engineer. He designed the missiles’ electronic guts. At Metalexport, he was responsible for all things electrical and electronic. The first computers were appearing—big white metal boxes topped with goggle-eyed monitors. Assembling them, untangling the jungle of wires, installing the software, and keeping them running was all part of Victor's job.

He seemed to know everything there was to know about computers.

"This is just the beginning," he'd say, unpacking another CPU. "The time will come when computers will be tiny, we'll carry them in our pockets. And they'll be phones, TVs, radios, and movie cameras all rolled into one. We’ll get the Internet and it’ll go wireless. Kids will be playing with them in the streets."

"Victor, you're quite the dreamer, aren't you?"

"No, I'm a realist. I just know a thing or two about technology, and I can see where we’re headed."

Victor was everybody’s go-to guy: "Vitya, the copier's on the fritz again."

"Let me guess, you've been using toilet paper in it again, right? I've told you a thousand times—use only the company’s standard paper… Okay, I'll come take a look."

"Vitya, my VCR's eating tapes. What should I do?"

"Bring it in, I'll check it out."

"Victor, my TV's gone dark. Could you take a look?"

"Where is it?"

"It’s at home"

"?"

"Don't worry. I'll give you a lift there and back."

"Alright, I'll look at it."

Victor was welcome in all our company stores, both grocery and household goods. Their storerooms were always open to him; he didn’t even need to ask for permission.

Managers, salespeople, accountants, security guards—everyone greeted and welcomed Victor Rusakov.

He looked stern—tall, thin, slightly hunched, with an angry look from under furrowed brows. But when he started talking, there was something childlike in his voice. And he sounded just like a kid when he laughed.

Sometimes, he would be visited at work by his son Timur, a pale, chubby boy of about thirteen who always had a violin case slung over his shoulder. 

I don't know how or why Victor and I became friends. It's not like I needed anything from him. Or he from me. And yet, somehow... It happened that we became—if not the closest of friends—then intimate and trusting buddies. By the way (or rather, not by the way), the Russian word for friend is “drug," and a friend is a “DRUGoy ya”—literally “another me.”

He once came over to my place to upgrade my old laptop. He expanded the memory and installed some modules.

"The machine's old, but it still has plenty of life in it," he told me.

We went out into my garden. He cast a critical eye over my vegetable patch. He paid special attention to an old linden tree that was leaning badly. It must have been at least a hundred and fifty years old.

"Are you waiting for it to fall and wreck your neighbor's fence? Do you want to get into it with him?"

"No. I don't."

"Then cut it down. You won't be able to do it by yourself, though. I'll come over on Saturday. Be ready."

He showed up on Saturday with climbing gear. Ropes, carabiners, hooks, safety lines...

We spent the entire day cutting down the linden tree. As it turned out, it wasn't a simple job.

I offered him a bottle of vodka before he left, knowing he wouldn’t take money: "Here, Victor, It’s Belarusian vodka with pepper. Top-shelf stuff."

"Yeah, that’s good vodka. But keep it—I'm driving. We’ll share it together next time—provided you haven’t already drunk it all, that is.”

The vodka didn't last, of course, but he did visit again, to install a satellite dish for me. Grunting, he climbed up to the ridge of the roof and secured the antenna cables. What a mountain climber he was!

Later, we drank beer and snacked on smoked mackerel in the kitchen.

"Well, Sergey, you’ve got the whole world at your feet now. Or rather, in front of your eyes. Take a look!"

"Thanks, Victor! I'd be lost without you."

"Yeah, brother... You might be a decent translator, but you're a lousy handyman. Your hands are growing out of your butt... Ah, to each their own. By the way, some of your stories turn out pretty good. I like ‘em. They’re about life, brief and clear."

I knew Victor was a bookworm. He especially loved stories by Chekhov and Zoshchenko. Once, I bought him a two-volume set of O. Henry's stories as a gift, which he accepted shyly but with poorly concealed pleasure.

When I went abroad on business trips, I’d pick up some souvenirs for my family members, and I couldn't forget Victor. I'd buy him a folding knife, or an alarm clock, or a funny figurine made by a local.

I had the impression that, although he was seven years younger than me, he'd taken on the role of unacknowledged mentor for me and my son.

Victor was an avid outdoorsman. A whole group of active recreation enthusiasts and healthy lifestyle advocates formed around him. In winter, it was skiing (as soon as there was snow on the ground). In summer, they rode bikes. My son eagerly joined in. On weekends, the group would go hiking, sometimes sleeping out overnight. Victor taught my son how to pitch a tent, how to properly prepare a sleeping area, and how to build a fire quickly and cook a meal over it.

One day, my son dropped an unexpected bombshell.

"I'm going to Norway with Rusakov."

"What? Come again?"

"Rusakov's worked out a route. We're taking a ferry across the Baltic Sea to southern Norway. From there, we're cycling to the northern part of the country, up toward Murmansk in Russia."

"Are you out of your minds?"

"Not at all. We’ve got everything figured out, and we’re ready to go. We have passports and visas. There'll be four of us. Our bikes are in good shape. The roads in Norway are good, and the scenery is breathtaking."

Yeah, Rusakov was an original. He hiked solo in the Altai taiga. He climbed Mount Elbrus, Russia’s tallest mountain. From there, he texted me his heartfelt greetings with a selfie of himself wearing sunglasses and smiling against a backdrop of clouds.

"Where the hell have you ended up?" I texted back. "Don't fall off the mountain!"

"Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs!" he replied.

He returned from his trip satisfied, saying he’d conquered some mountain. It wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be his last. He had energy to rival a nuclear reactor... Once, in the city, we were coming back from somewhere on our bikes, and I don’t know what devil got into me, but I was behind and suddenly decided to pass him. I did it dashingly, boldly. And a few seconds later, he whizzed past me like he was on a motorcycle.

"You need to eat more oats, kid!" I heard him shout. Yeah... He had strength and agility to spare.

On the eve of his fiftieth, he shared some news with me—he was planning to run a marathon on his birthday. Or at least as much of one as he could manage.

He did thirteen kilometers. Later, he said that he’d started tiring in the fourteenth and sensibly dropped out. Why should he push his body to its limit? Why give up the ghost before his time? No, it’s important to live and enjoy life.

We'd call each other from time to time. Occasionally, he'd come over, and he and my son would go out and tinker in the garage. He saw it as teaching the younger generation common sense. He showed my son how to install the electrical wiring in a car, adjust engine valves, and set up a welding outfit.

Then we'd drink beer in the gazebo and chew the fat. He'd landed a steady, well-paying job at a solid company. He knew there were only a handful of specialists like him in Russia. His son gave up music and studied to become a programmer. Seeing no prospects for himself in Russia, the son moved to Montenegro. He even married a local beauty there. And Victor stayed here, skiing on summer skis in the park with his daughter's kids. Everything was going great...

Lately, we'd been meeting less often, staying in touch online.

The other day, my son's godfather dropped by for a chat. We'd known each other for over half a century. He brought some chacha (a gift from his daughter-in-law, who recently visited Georgia). A wonderful drink, it goes down like fruit juice and really improves the mood.

We were already in high spirits when suddenly my mobile phone rang.

I put the phone to my ear.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's me, Timur."

"Timur? You’re calling from Montenegro?"

"No, I'm back home."

"How come?"

"Dad passed away."

"What??!!"

"Dad died. We're having his funeral tomorrow in the crematorium at the cemetery. It’s at one o'clock. Sorry, I can't talk anymore."

The line went dead.

I sobered up instantly.

"What happened?" my buddy asked.

I gave him a brief explanation.

"Well, I'll be..." he said and, grabbing his jacket and cap from the hook, headed for the door...

I arrived at the cemetery the next day at noon along with Lyosha Golubev, a member of Victor's "healthy living" group who gave me a lift.

A large crowd had gathered outside the solid gray building of the crematorium. Most had brought flowers. There were over a hundred people there. A thought crossed my mind—how many people would come to my funeral (we all go someday). Not many, I guessed—maybe five or six of my closest relatives.

Although we hadn't seen each other in a long time, I recognized Timur right away—a tall, pale young man. Next to him stood a slender young woman in a black dress and black headscarf. Probably his wife, I figured.

"What happened, Timur?"

"He had a stroke. It was completely unexpected. He died in the ambulance."

After a while, we entered the chapel.

Victor lay in a coffin on a pedestal in the center of the chapel, surrounded by flowers. People were walking up one by one to say goodbye, and I joined them. I looked at his furrowed brows and his drooping mustache like Gorky's. I looked and couldn’t believe my eyes. What a terrible absurdity this was! Was this a dream? Or was it a nightmare?

I don't like giving speeches and I'm not good at it. But here I couldn't hold back. Turning to face the crowd, I said that we had lost a rare person, an honest man with a good heart and an exceptional sense of decency. And that was the pure truth, not just the kind words that people typically say about the deceased.

"God rest his soul," said a black-clad employee of the crematorium. He pressed some levers on the side of the pedestal, and the coffin slowly descended.

People unhurriedly filed out of the building.

Outside, people talked quietly, slowly got into their cars, and drove away.

Lyosha Golubev walked over to me.

"Can I give you a lift home?"

"Yes, please."

We drive off. The day is warm and sunny, an incredibly beautiful Indian summer day. It is hard to believe it is all for real. It all seems like a bad dream, a touch of absurdity…

The Little Linden Tree

 The other day, I stepped outside and looked around — and my heart sank.

 

The young linden across the street from my house was  broken. I’d planted it a few years ago. It had been snapped so many times, but a sprout left in the ground would stubbornly reach for the sun. I’d tied it to a stick to protect it from passersby and to make sure they noticed it. I watered it during scorching heat. The linden was growing…

 

But then, someone decided to build a car wash not far from my house. A dump truck pulled up, full of gravel. The driver, without so much as a glance, plowed right over the spot where the linden was growing. He broke it off at the root and crushed it into the mud.

 

I crouched down beside the broken linden. Tears started streaming down my face. Tears of anger, frustration, helplessness, and injustice. Why do they break us like this?

 

No. I DON’T want to live on this street anymore. I don’t want to live in this city. In this country. But . . . where else can I go?

My Days

 

I'm kind of proud that I can be tough when I need to be. I mean, who's gonna admit they're a wimp, right? When I was wrestling back in my younger days, even the bigger guys had a hard time pinning me. I fought like a madman, like every match was my last.    

I got a call yesterday; it was my son’s birthday. A woman's voice asked, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“I need something translated from English. Can you do it?”

What an odd question! I've been translating English for ages. It's not work for me — it's my passion.

“I’m sorry, but I'm really busy today.”

After a pause (I always try to be straight with people), I added, “It's my son's sixteenth birthday, and we’re throwing a party for him at our house. I'd rather not work today?”

“Please, I'm begging you. I'll pay for it.”

It was the first sentence that got my attention, not the second. When someone asks me for something (without telling me to do it — ordering me around is pointless), I can't say no. Requests? Sure. Orders? Screw that!

First thing that morning, I'd gone to wish my old English teacher a happy birthday. She was born on the same day as my son. She's well over seventy now and in rough shape. I stepped inside.

“Come on in, Sergey!” she called out softly from the couch, trying to gesture with her hand. Paralyzed by her illness, she’d barely been able to move for quite some time . . .

What a woman she used to be! She didn't just walk; she soared like a big bird. If a slow student got in her way, she'd call out, “Move it, buddy!” and keep on flying. She was a brilliant expert on English who'd never heard a native English speaker in her life. The Iron Curtain saw to that.

And now she was . . . I looked at her . . . Lord, forgive me for thinking it, but I believe I was her favorite student. When she's gone, a part of me will go with her. 

I found the translation job waiting when I got back home. It was something Galsworthy had written, dropped off while I was out. I fired up the computer and got to work. Guests were already arriving. Not many, just close family — my parents, my sister and her daughter.

They sat down around the birthday table. My wife had laid out some simple grub she’d whipped up with budget wizardry: salted fish, salads, a piece of KFC chicken for everyone — a cheap import from good ol' Uncle Sam — and a bottle of vodka. It's not a Russian party without vodka.

The guests drank and talked, badmouthing President Yeltsin and all things American.

“Everything that’s bad is from the West,” my dad declares.

“Especially from America,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “They're all so arrogant over there.” She’d never met an American in her life — only seen them on TV.

I didn’t butt in or argue. It was pointless. They had their own truth. They reminisced about the good old days and the way Comrade Stalin had maintained order with an iron fist. I kept tapping away at the keyboard . . .

The phone rang.

“Sergey? How's my translation coming?”

“I’m getting there, but can't it wait till tomorrow? What's the rush?”

“No, no! It has to be done today — by this evening, if possible. I'll pay you.”

To hell with this job! I wanted to drink and eat! Hadn’t I earned it? It has been exactly 16 years since my firstborn came into the world. I only had one life to live. Didn’t I deserve my share of happiness?

“PLEASE?”

That “please” sealed the deal.

“All right, I'll do it. Come by at nine. It'll be ready.”

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

No, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. With the pittance they pay me at work, it'd be a crime against my family to stuff my face with American chicken now instead of earning a bit extra. I needed to man up. I needed to work.

So, I worked until the guests left and kept on working. The phone rang again: “Is it ready?”

“It’s done. You can come pick it up.”

Soon, a young woman showed up with a tough-looking guy. The streets in our town weren’t safe at night. The girl was pretty cute, and her escort looked ready for anything.

“Here's your translation.”

“Oh, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

I told her.

“Can I bring you the money tomorrow?”

“That’ll be fine.”

The next day was a workday: smelly and soul-crushing. Our team’s boss walked over to my desk (oh, you bosses — you’re the stuff of legends).

“I need you to translate this.”

“What do you want me to translate?”

“From here to there.”

“Show me, please.”

“Fuck you!” That’s the boss's favorite phrase. “Are you drunk?”

I flare up instantly. “Fuck you, too. Did you get me drunk?”

“Watch your mouth! Wanta kiss your bonus goodbye?”

“I don't get bonuses.”

“And you never will, I promise you that.” Red-faced with anger, the boss scurried out of the room.

Sasha yelled at me from the far-right corner: “Tell her to go fuck herself, Sergey. It'd be cheaper.” We're surrounded by women. Are they deaf or what?

“Come get your pay, please!” called the cashier from behind the partition. I went and got mine.

I saw how much my colleagues got even though I didn’t want to. Payday is always a day of shame for me. They pay me only a fraction of what the others get. Actually, they don't pay any of us for the work we do. They pay us for the vibe we've created for ourselves, and my vibe sucks. I talk back. I don't do like my female colleagues and say, “Why are you insulting me?” When I’m hit on one cheek, I don't turn the other. Bosses don't like me.

And to top it all off, I'm a disgraced outcast. I'm not allowed to travel abroad. It's a concept left over from the days of “mature socialism.” I’ll swear on the Bible or the Quran that I've never committed any crimes, never betrayed anyone, never passed on any secret documents. My knowledge of the technologies our design bureau works on doesn't go beyond what's in its ads. But I don't want to know or remember even that. My head's full of other stuff. A jumble of words from six languages with one thought burning through — why? A criminal has a right to his day in court. He’s told what he’s accused of and the punishment he faces. I don't have that right. I'm beyond the law.

But I’m needed. I'm a person of interest for “operational investigative activities.” I provide justification for high salaries and excellent pensions.

I watch in pain every day as my colleagues butcher the language of Shakespeare and Milton. My attempts to correct even the most glaring mistakes are angrily rejected. “Where did you study?” the boss asks, glaring at me. “Harvard or Oxford? You graduated from some crappy teachers' college and think you know something?” The torment continues. Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

Stunned by the how little I received, I hurried to the bathroom. Leaning against the wall, I greedily inhaled a bitter cigarette. We would scrape by for another week or two somehow, but what then? How would I live and feed two kids, a wife, and a big dog? Damn it, I was so sick of all this!

The workday ended. I rode the company bus to visit my aunt who lives nearby. I rarely see her.

“Want a drink, Sergey?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do!” Especially after abstaining yesterday.

Vodka. Conversations. Stupid, thieving bosses. Workers know their stuff but can't get anywhere. I was getting tipsy and more outspoken than usual. “Take a look,” I said, pulling out my packed lunch: a carton of kefir and a piece of bread. “My pay was so small today that I couldn’t swallow a single bite.”

“That's how it goes,“ my uncle said. “You can't earn anything doing honest work. This country's not a country, it's a madhouse. You've got to be a bastard to get anywhere in life.”

That was followed by more talk — and more vodka. My uncle named off his ailments one by one. The metallurgical plant where he works is in crisis; it’s only producing mineral water now.

“Can you believe it?” my uncle said. “There’s no money to pay the workers, but the bosses are building palaces for themselves.”

I believe it. I've seen the palaces.

I finally got home and turned on the computer. As always, I opened my email inbox with a little flutter in my heart. It's what connects me to the outside world. I'm very curious. I want to know how other people live.

Grey started barking. It was the lady from yesterday with her bodyguard friend. What a beautiful girl she was! — and how bad her English was! At her age, I was reading Dickens in the original.

She’d brought the money she owed me. I was touched.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Write an essay or grade an exam?”

“No, thank you. You did a good job on the translation. Here's the money I owe you.”

She handed me the amount we’d agreed to. In Moscow or anywhere else in Russia, they'd charge at least three times what I do. Especially on a son's birthday.

Something hit me. I took a bill from the thin stack she gave me and handed it back to her. No, I'm really not a tough guy at all. I never have been.

The Pond

 It was early December. We had just finished dinner. My wife took the trash out to our garbage bin, which is located in the backyard some distance from the house.

She came back a little while later, set the trash can under the sink, and said, “Someone’s swimming in the pond. Can you imagine? In this cold? And there’s some woman sitting in the bushes, laughing her head off. What do you think’s going on?”

“Some drunk homeless guys decided to take a refreshing dip,” I guessed. “Normal people don’t go for a swim in weather like this, especially at this time of year.”

Here, I should tell you a few things about the pond. It’s located around fifty meters from our house, right behind our garden. The shore is lined with private gardens and vegetable plots. It’s a super convenient source of water for irrigation. The pond itself is pretty big — forty meters wide and over a hundred meters long, with a depth of five meters at its deepest point (I measured it with a plumb line one winter); so it compares favorably to small seas like the Azov or the Aral.

The pond doesn’t have a name. It’s just the pond. Once upon a time, it was crystal clear — so clear you could see the bottom from the shore and watch little fish swimming around. Its banks were picture-perfect, with “willows green, their branches leaning over water’s glassy sheen,” like in the song. In the summer, kids would swim there; in the winter, they’d skate on it. It was a little slice of paradise {I am delighted!}.

But then people came. After all, it’s a nice spot. Tall apartment buildings were built and people moved in. After that, the pond turned into a floating dump of cans, bottles, broken shoes, and even dead cats and dogs. Someone’s beloved Tuzik died? No problem — just grab him by the tail and toss him into the pond.

Duckweed took it over, and it turned green and became a stinky little swamp. I tried to clean it up, but it’s an impossible task for one person, especially when garbage keeps getting dumped into it. People have turned our pond — once a gift from heaven —into an obscenity.

We had some kefir, watched a little TV, and went to bed.

The next morning, my wife heard the news and told me about it. Divers had been in the pond overnight, searching for two boys.

Here’s what happened: four seventh-graders were walking along the shore, and suddenly they got the idea to walk on the fresh ice. They wanted to stomp a hole in the ice and watch water spurt up. Fun, right? Three of them went out onto the ice, but one stayed on the shore.

 “I’m scared,” he said.

The other three laughed at him for being a coward and went out onto the ice. They made it all the way to the center of the pond, and then . . . the ice cracked. It started breaking apart under their feet. It was only the beginning of December, after all, and Russian winters aren’t what they used to be. No wonder meteorologists keep going on about global warming.

The boys were instantly plunged into the freezing water and began thrashing around, yelling for help. The kid who stayed on the shore started calling for help too, but of course, there was no one nearby. He took off his jacket and pants, tied a sleeve and leg together, and crawled out on all fours toward the hole in the ice. He tossed the makeshift rope to his friends. One of them took hold of the jacket’s sleeve, pulled himself to where the ice was stronger, and was able to climb out. The other two tried to follow. One of them grabbed the edge of the ice and tried to pull himself out, but he lost strength. The dark, smelly water closed over the heads of the two boys . . .

I went down to the pond the next morning and saw the hole in the ice at its center. From it, a ragged path that had not yet frozen over stretched to the opposite shore. That’s how the third boy had crawled out the day before. He was in the hospital now, and the bodies of the other two boys were already home.

Two men in plain clothes and a police officer stood by the shore. One of them was filming the scene with a video camera.

I went back to the house. So, the “drunken bums” my wife had mentioned weren’t vagrants — they were divers. And the sounds from the bushes weren’t laughter, but the screams of a distraught mother.

The boys were buried the next day. I went to pay my respects. They had been classmates, neighbors living in the same apartment building, on the same floor.

A massive crowd had gathered outside the building’s entrance— schoolmates, families, neighbors. Flowers were everywhere. I’ve never liked cut flowers.

I went up to the ninth floor and stepped into one of the apartments. It was packed with people — relatives, neighbors, mourners. Sobs and laments filled the room. A man in his forties stood next to the coffin, his eyes red and dry, staring blankly. Before him lay his son — a handsome boy with a pale face, a faint shadow of peach fuzz above his upper lip. Two days ago, that boy was supposed to come home from school. In fifteen minutes, he would leave home forever.

Judging by the decor, the family was well-off. A computer sat by the wall with a stack of discs sitting next to it. None of that mattered anymore. I felt a lump rise in my throat. I have a son too. We’re all in God’s hands . . .

In the apartment next door lay his friend, a freckled redhead in a plaid suit.

The coffins were carried outside. Relatives followed close behind. One woman, her eyes swollen from crying — likely one of the mothers — wailed, “This can’t be happening…” Her legs buckled, and she nearly collapsed.

“What were you boys thinking?” muttered an older man in the crowd, mournfully shaking his head.

The procession moved toward two waiting buses. The rear doors opened . . .

I went home, feeling down. Two days ago, this tragedy was unfolding outside my window as I was tapping on my computer. But what could I have done? Run onto the ice and add to the body count?

I know what it’s like to plunge into icy water. I’ve done it before. I took part in Polar Bear Plunges for two years. I even participated in a New Year’s swim at the pond in the city park. To prepare, I trained rigorously from mid-summer, swimming daily in all kinds of weather. My usual training spot was a secluded pond in Platonovsky Forest near where I worked. I swam in the buff — there was never anyone around. But one day, as I climbed out of the ice hole, I found myself face-to-face with two police officers.

“Why are you naked?” one of them demanded sternly.

“There’s no one here, Officer,” I said, covering my private parts with my hand. “No one can see me. And I don’t want to haul wet underwear around in my briefcase.”

“Come with us,” the other one ordered.

I had no intention of going anywhere.

“All right,” I said and made as though to bend down for my clothes. I grabbed my boots and briefcase and bolted, stark naked. The officers gave chase, but they clearly weren’t fit enough to catch me. I ran barefoot, in my birthday suit, until I reached the outskirts of the city. I got dressed in a thicket and hopped onto the nearest trolleybus.

I quit winter swimming after that incident and quickly got out of shape.

Once, my wife accidentally dropped our son’s pants into the pond while she was washing them in the pond and asked me to fish them out.

“Do you think you can manage?” she asked skeptically.

“Of course I can! I’m a Polar Bear!” I declared and headed off to the pond with her.

I started by warming up —swinging my arms about and doing jumping jacks, stretches, and push-ups until I was sweating and ready to face the icy water. Then I stripped down and climbed into the hole in the ice. Sinking up to my chin, I began feeling around on the bottom for the pants. I didn’t last long. Something was happening to me. I scrambled out of the water, and as soon as I reached the shore, my body seized up as if caught in a vice. A wave of unbearable pain shot through me, and I let out a howl. So much for being a Polar Bear.

Try sticking your hand under cold running water for just a minute. Only your hand. Now imagine what those boys endured before they slipped into unconsciousness . . . 

 The New Year snuck in. At last, the weather turned colder. I went down to the pond again and saw someone walking on the ice.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Get off the ice! You’ll fall through!” A teenager, maybe seventeen, approached me.

“What’re you yelling about, dude?” he said, his two drunken eyes fixed on me.

“It’s dangerous out there,” I said. “Two kids drowned here not long ago.”

“Won’t happen to me,” he replied. “Fate’s got something else in store for me. Quit shouting, idiot — you’ll strain your voice.” He belched and staggered off. They say you won’t drown if you’re destined to be hanged.

 . . . Around the New Year’s table, we ate delicious food and drank sweet wine. We toasted and celebrated. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky we were — how precious it is just to have your loved ones alive. What wouldn’t those two families whose windows overlook our pond give to have their sons back? I can’t forget that mother’s cry — “This can’t be happening!”

Thank God we were spared that grief. May He spare you too.

 

Translated by James McVay 

Thou Shalt Not Steal

                                                        

                                             Thou Shalt Not Steal

My daughter sent me out to take my grandson for a walk. She was off to work, and there was no one else to watch the boy. Fair enough. Got to help her out while she earns her daily bread.

We head out to the playground. It’s got the usual stuff — ladders, slides, balance beams, and a slide for kids who don’t care about the condition of their pants. Off to the side, there are swings and benches.

My grandson is running around the slide, tossing a plastic ball onto it and catching it when it rolls back down.

Nearby, a group of kids — boys around ten or twelve years old — are kicking a soccer ball high into the air. They’re having a blast, shouting and yelling things that Roskomnadzor would censor. As a grandfather, it pains me to hear boys throwing around swear words for private parts and sex acts so casually. They’re as eloquent as Pushkin was with his evocative expressions.

As I pass by one of the benches, I spot a smartphone lying there. Huh. Where’d that come from? Did one of the boys lose it? Or maybe some absent-minded adult left it behind after sitting for a while? It won’t stay there long, that’s for sure. Anyone passing by could pick it up.

I figure I should find the owner. I’ll pocket the phone for now and ask the boys if anyone’s lost something — without getting into specifics. If it’s not theirs, I’ll call someone in the phone’s contacts to track down the owner.

Just then, I spot a young guy walking up to the bench.

“What’s up, uncle? Got your eye on my phone?” he says.

I freeze, embarrassed, feeling like I’ve been caught stealing something. Shame shoots through me.

“I’ve got my own phone — why would I want someone else’s?” I mutter, completely flustered and unable to think of anything better to say.

“Yeah, sure, I’ve seen your type before!” the young man shoots back, snatching the phone off the bench and walking away.

My jaw nearly hits the ground. I don’t know how to respond. Consumed by shame, I shout after him that I’ve never stolen a thing in my entire life.

Really? Never? Not quite true. You could say I robbed a little boy when I was seven. I snatched a toy from him and ran off. Another time, when I was about nine or ten, I was playing with my cousin’s toy pistol during a visit and “forgot” to give it back.

When my parents found the toy at home, they gave me a talking-to I’ve never forgotten. I didn’t get a spanking, though my father wasn’t one to hold back when needed. That lesson stuck with me. From that moment on, the biblical commandment “Thou shalt not steal” took firm root in my conscience and became a guiding principle in my life.

Years later, as an adult, I once “borrowed” something from an organization. I could use it, but they had absolutely no need for it — they’d never miss it. For several days, I wrestled with myself: should I keep it or not? In the end, my sense of formal integrity won out. I returned the item to its place, where it still sits, untouched and unwanted to this day.

One day, my granddaughter had some news.

“Grandpa! I found some money!”

“What money? Where?”

“On the street. I was walking and found a whole wallet full of money!”

“Was there anything else in it besides cash?”

“There were some bank cards.”

“And where’s the wallet now?”

“Daddy has it.”

Soon after, my son came up to me.

“Dad, you’ve got a city directory on your computer, right?”

“Yes. Why do you need it?”

“Masha found a wallet. It’s got cash and cards. Luckily, the owner’s name is embossed on one of the cards. I’m going to try and find their address.”

“Go ahead.”

He sat down at the computer.

“Got it. I’ll take it to them. Go with me, Masha.”

They came back about an hour and a half later.

“Well?” I asked. “Did you find them?”

“We did, but they were… strange people.”

“What do you mean, strange?”

“It took me a good hour, and they didn’t even offer to cover my gas. The woman who came to the door just took the wallet and shut it.”

“She didn’t even give me money for ice cream,” my granddaughter grumbled.

What could I say to that? I’m no sage, no moralist. I didn’t know how to respond to my son or granddaughter. All I knew was this: they did the right thing. And deep down, I am proud of them for it.

Translated from the Russian by James McVay 

Zoya

 

Zoya

     (Eternal Questions)

Our neighbor Zoya has passed away. She lived in a shabby old wooden house beyond the fence we shared. At ninety-four, she’d lived a long and respectable life — hardly the kind of loss people mourn too deeply.

But her son, Kirill, took it hard. Early that morning, he knocked on my gate and, in keeping with Russian tradition, handed me a bottle of vodka to honor his mother’s memory. Through his tears, he rasped, “Here… drink to my mom, remember her.”

Life won’t be easy for Kirill now. In fact, it’ll be tough, because he has no job. About eight years ago, he was laid off from his poorly paid but steady job as a warehouse guard. Since then, despite half-hearted attempts to find something, Kirill hasn’t managed to land even a crappy job or scrape together a stable income. And what can he offer an employer? He has no real skills, just a high school diploma he barely earned ages ago.

He lived with his mother. Zoya had worked nearly seventy years as a machinist at a machine building plant and retired with a halfway decent pension — enough for the two of them to live on. They also had a small backyard business going. Kirill had rigged up a greenhouse — just some plastic sheeting stretched over wooden poles — where he grew cucumbers and tomatoes. Zoya sold the extras at the market. His father had left them some chicken coops in a shed where Kirill kept a few laying hens. Occasionally, he’d let them wander around the yard. The rooster’s crowing in the morning was proof that Zoya and Kirill’s poultry business was thriving. They lived simply — maybe even happily.

One of their silly chickens would occasionally find a hole in our shared fence and wander into my yard. When that happened, Zoya would ring the bell on my gate, announce the border breach, and we’d team up to catch the illegal immigrant.

There was one occasion when our dog Rada — who knows what got into her —tore up some pumpkin vines that had wrapped themselves around the fence poles. Zoya grew amazing pumpkins, some weighing over thirty pounds. She got really upset over losing some of those future giants and didn’t hold back when she told me about it.

“Sergei, why don’t you keep an eye on your dog? Are you trying to ruin me?”

I felt terrible. I went to the store, bought the biggest box of chocolates I could find, and gave it to her. “Auntie Zoya,” I said, “please forgive me. It’s my fault — I wasn’t watching the dog. I hope these chocolates will make you feel better.”

Zoya absolutely refused the chocolates. “Oh, it’s no big deal,” she said. “Don’t you dare punish the dog. Give the chocolates to your wife instead.”

One day, I was walking to the market, and who do I see coming toward me with an empty bag but Zoya.

“Hi, Sergei! Happy birthday!”

Well, what do you know? I’d almost forgotten my own birthday, and here was my neighbor congratulating me as if she’d been living just for this moment, counting down the days.

Around noon, Kirill came over with a bag. Inside were about a dozen eggs and a few big, ripe tomatoes.

“These are from Mom,” he said. “Here’s hoping you have many more good years, neighbor!”

“Thank you. Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Thanks, but maybe another time.”

How’s Kirill going to live — or rather, survive — without Zoya now? She was like his fortress. But everyone has their own worries and problems.

One day, Kirill stopped me in the street to vent about a new issue. Apparently, some neighbors had moved in next door to him — folks from one of the sunnier republics. Kirill wasn’t thrilled about it and had taken to calling them by a rather offensive term. What kind of neighbors were they? In just a few weeks, they’d thrown up a two-story brick mansion on their little plot of land. Everything was done quickly and properly — except there was one big problem. The sewage from their household — urine and feces — was being dumped right past Kirill’s greenhouse into a nearby pond, the same pond he used to water his plants. The pond was big and deep, almost like a miniature Azov Sea. It was a large body of water, sure, but Kirill wasn’t keen on using his neighbors’ crap as fertilizer for his tomatoes — or seasoning for his meals. Zoya wasn’t happy about it either. She kept urging Kirill to do something.

Kirill approached the neighbors and even threatened to take them to court. They, in turn, asked him if anything hard and heavy had ever fallen on his head — or if his house had ever mysteriously caught on fire. Kirill got the message. He dropped the issue and told Zoya not to stir the pot either.

“Tyu-ka-tyu-ka-tyu-ka!” she’d call her chickens on the other side of the fence. It reminded me of my childhood in the village, where my grandmother used the same call at feeding time. Sounds like that are especially pleasant when you live in a city.

Somehow, I found out when Kirill’s birthday was. One year, at noon on that day, I knocked on his gate (he didn’t have a bell). I had a gift under my arm — a box with a wall clock in it. Its face was decorated with pictures of vegetables and fruits — perfect for a kitchen.

I knocked for a long time before the gate finally creaked open. It wasn’t Kirill who greeted me but Zoya.

“Tell Kirill I said happy birthday,” I said, handing her the box.

“Oh, thanks, Sergei. Thanks,” she replied. “But he’s already… taking a nap.”

“Well, that’s understandable. It’s a special day. Please give it to him.”

“I will,” she said. Her eyes, bright and a little glassy, told me she’d been celebrating too.

 I saw her almost every day,. her head wrapped in a colorful scarf, always moving about on the other side of the fence. She was part of the landscape, and it seemed as though she would always be there. But her gait became more unsteady and hesitant with time.

And then… well, the thing that was natural, logical and expected happened. You could even say it had to happen, that it was right it happened. After all, as the saying goes, we’ll all end up there someday.

I’m young enough to be Zoya’s son, yet more than half of my classmates have already crossed over to the other side. With her passing, I found myself pondering once again — just as I did when I was a teenager —why am I here? What have I lived for? What’s the meaning of my life and life in general? Is it just to leave offspring behind? Maybe. But is that all? Or is a person supposed to do something more with their life? And if so, what exactly?

Or maybe it’s better not to think about it at all. Just live your life and don’t clutter up your mind with questions that have no answers.

Translated by James McVay