The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)
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So, we started to pack things up for loading them into a big iron railway container, as other redundant people before us. However, the actual loading was done by Dad alone because the 4 of us left 2 weeks earlier…
On the eve of our departure, I was sitting on a couch in the room of the Mom’s new woman-friend across the landing. The woman and Mom left for the kitchen, and I stayed back with a thick book which I picked up from the piles of waste paper at the Detachment’s Library and later presented to Mom’s woman-friend.
Turning pages with the biography of some ante-revolution writer, I idly looked thru the seldom inset illustrations with photographic pictures of unknown people in strange clothes from another, alien, world. Then I opened the thick volume somewhere in the middle and inscribed on the page margin, “we are leaving.”
That moment, I remembered the principle of creating animated cartoons: if on several subsequent pages you spell some word—a letter per page—and then bend the pages and release them one by one so that they quickly flip one after another, then letters will form up the word you wrote.
And I inscribed separate letters in the corners of subsequent pages, “I-S-e-h-r-g-u-e-y-O-g-o-l-t-s-o-f-f-a-m-l-e-a-v-i-n-g.”
Yet, the cartoon did not work out as supposed. In fact, it did not work at all, but I did not care. I just slammed the book, left it on the couch, and walked away across the landing to a room with packs of things lined under its walls…
Early in the morning, a bus left the Courtyard for the station of Valdai. Besides the 4 of us, there were a couple of families going on their vacations. When the bus turned to the road of concrete slabs descending from Block, Mom suddenly asked me who we would better live with: my Dad, or the man whose name I absolutely do not remember.
“Mom! We do not need anyone! I will work, I’ll be helping you,” said I.
She answered by silence… And those were not just words, I believed in what I was saying, yet Mom was versed in the labor legislation better than me…
Down, at the foot of the Gorka, the bus stopped by the turn to the Pumping Station and Checkpoint. The man about who Mom had just asked me, climbed in. He approached her, took her hand, telling something in a low voice. I turned away to look out of the window… He left the bus, it slammed its door and drove on. In a couple of minutes the bus pulled up at the white gate of Checkpoint. The guards checked us and the vacationers and opened the gate letting the bus out of the Zona.
A black-haired soldier grabbed hold of a white-paint-coated rod in the gate’s grate while floating by behind the glass in the bus window.
I realized with absolute clarity that never again would I ever see the familiar gate of the Zona, neither that unknown soldier next to it, however, one thing I didn’t know yet… It was my way of leaving childhood.
~~~~~
~ ~ ~
The Adolescence
(…and, probably, that’s it. Enough is enough. It is time to roll the potatoes out from among the glowing ashes before they turned firebrands too. Yes, they told me that coals are crammed up with kilocalories, still I am not quite sure about the taste of those critters. Besides, it’s getting pretty dark and I’d rather not overeat at so late an hour. “And leave your dinner”, said some sage dietitian, “to your enemy”. Which is a pretty useless piece of wisdom in my case. Where could I possibly get them those enemies at all? I've been raised and carefully formatted for life in a society where each man is a friend, a comrade, and a brother to any other man…
Damn, but it’s so tempting to share the bullshit you once were fed with (and in ladlefuls too!) up to your ears. So, one day I poured a podcast homily to your step-sister, Lenochka, like, being good and kind is the innate feature of mankind at large, regrettably obscured by their ignorance of how immensely good they are deep inside, a sad pity!
She listened silently and same night my perversive stars flogged me Shakespeare’s “Richard III” on TV. What a treat! She stuck in the tube and watched, mesmerized, how all those good and kind people (sadly, uninformed of their hidden goodness) were strangling and shredding each other and cutting throats for a change. And sure enough, the next morning she watched the rerun too because Shakespeare isn’t a knickknack you can give the shake, it’s classic. Since then, my political line regarding the TV is that of armed neutrality.
Well, so much to emphasize the fact that, if I chance to come across an accidental enemy, I’d sooner give them my last shirt but not my dinner, moreover, the potatoes baked in the fire ashes.
The moment you break their charred crust and pour a pinch of salt into the steamy core, you see the light of Truth that no oysters, nor lobsters, nor any other fancy kulebyaki can hold a candle to them. Oh, no! Not a chance.
For their sake, all freaky nourishment leave willingly I to abstruse gourmets ‘cause we, uncouth and simple-minded garlic eaters, have no use for neither calipash nor calipee – nope! Our modest goal is an ample simple grub and plum dough, we’re not after excessive luxuries.
And were I a younger man but not a Negro advanced in my years and pressed by all kinds of problems which the struggle for life brims with, then to them, and them only, would I dedicate an ode of love and gratitude—to potatoes baked midst the fire ashes.
No wonder, that in the most poignant episode in all the pulp fiction series by Julian Semenov, his main protagonist Stirlitz, aka Soviet secret service agent Isayev, turns up the sleeves of his spiffy Fascist uniform and bakes potatoes in the fireplace of his Berlin apartment to celebrate the Soviet Army and Navy Day.
However, with all due admiration at his culinary patriotism, no, sir, dat’s ain’t da thin’. To really enjoy the taste of baked potatoes, you need to sit on the ground, under the open sky, with an evening like this one here around you…)
In Konotop, Grandma Katya kissed us all, in turn, confusedly, in her kitchen, and cried. So
Mother started comforting her and talking out of snivel, before she noticed two kids’ heads that peeked from behind the door to the room and asked if they were her sister’s children.
“Yes, here we have our Irochka and Valerik. So big kids already. The girl is 3 years old and he will soon be 2.”
When their father, Uncle Tolik, came home from his work, I for the first time saw, not in a movie but in real life, a man with a bald patch extending from the forehead to the back of his head, however, I tried not to ogle too obviously. An hour later he and I went out to meet my Aunt Lyouda. The food store she worked at closed at seven and, coming home, she always carried bags of chow from work.