Prologue
One evening, Skipper and I were sitting on the veranda of the Sorella restaurant in the Italian city of Lido. It was late, the tired orchestra was sluggishly playing out the melody from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, the white veranda with bouquets of camellias on the tables was almost empty, and I took off my shoes under the table.
“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get back in.
I shrugged and put my shoes back on. Over Skipper's shoulder, she looked at the black invisible distant sea, completely dotted along the coast with multi-colored lights. There was a strong smell of flowers and salt water. My martini in the glass was exhausted and stood sad, without bubbles, with a soggy cherry at the bottom. Skipper's vodka held up well in a thick glass and calmly waited until it was finished off. The skipper, however, was in no hurry, smoking, shaking off the ashes over the fence. A candle in a blue crystal vase on the table unevenly illuminated his face with a slightly jutted chin, deep wrinkles on the forehead, drooping heavy eyelids. When Skipper suddenly looked at me without changing his position, I flinched. After so many years, I still haven’t gotten used to his gaze.
He guessed and looked away. Very light, gray, on a dark, dark face. The skipper might even seem attractive if it weren't for the look in those eyes. Or rather, its complete absence. As I grabbed my martini, I thought that Skipper must be aware of the impression his gaze made. That’s why he rarely looks people directly in the face – unless, of course, the goal is to throw the interlocutor off balance.
- Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked quietly.
Out of surprise, I told the truth:
- Not afraid.
– Have you ever regretted it?
- Why did I contact you? – I clarified.
I shrugged. I thought about it. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, looked at the illuminated pool below.
- Listen, Pashka, did I really have any options?
“Well...,” imitating a mortal insult, he put the glass on the table and even took the cigarette out of his mouth. - When did I put a feather to your throat?
“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. After choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on Skipper’s face.
“Well, let’s say you’ve been taking a break from me all your life.”
- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes you... Yes you...
He raised his hand, interrupting my cackling, and asked in a businesslike manner:
– How it started, do you remember?
– I remember, and you?!
He didn't answer. I pulled the scarf off the back of the chair (it was late August, evening dress It was getting a little cold), she wrapped her shoulders. After thinking, she asked:
– Have you read Pushkin’s “Queen of Spades”?
To my surprise, Skipper nodded.
– Do you remember the beginning?
- Well, that’s - sorry...
- “Once we were playing cards with the horse guard Narumov.”
“Oh, what are you talking about...” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I’ll have a smoke and let’s go... But they weren’t playing at the guardsman’s. And you and Stepanych.
I sighed. The skipper looked at me briefly and silently began to light a cigarette. And I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
Part I
That winter evening the windows froze from the cold. It's snowy outside. Behind round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker was already in its fourth hour. At that memorable game, I, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fedor’s mistress, were present. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat while playing, and so I, fighting against yawning, quietly play Rosenbaum’s “Boston Waltz” on the piano, Milka plays “Crow’s Feet” solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatyana just sits with her sharp nails running into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fedor. He is completely focused on the cards, does not notice Tanka’s gaze, and I am once again surprised: what is such a beauty, a graduate of the choreography school, thin, with gorgeous hair, could she find in an old bald criminal who was almost old enough to be her grandfather? Fyodor’s bald patch gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, and the tattoo patterns on his hands appear black. His whole dry and wiry figure is tense, as if about to jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor was holding a square of kings in his arms. He looks like Mephistopheles.
Grandfather Kilka is not so calm: he is unlucky today, he is already gambling and is noticeably nervous. Black, shiny, like an animal's eyes dart over the faces of his partners, from time to time Kilka curses in a whisper in gypsy.
“Lord, it’s great again...” Milka mutters, looking sideways at him. - In a minute it will be blown into pieces, and tomorrow it will begin: “Milka, give grandpa some beer...” And I have just millions!
“Pass,” says Sprat.
“Pass,” says Stepanych.
Fedor slowly turns over the cards. He has a square of kings. Kilka gasps and throws up his hands, but Fyodor does not notice him. He looks straight at Stepanych. In his usual cracked voice he says quietly:
- “American.”
- What?! – Stepanych jumps up, knocking over the stool. This is so unlike him that I lose my beat, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.
- You will not get it! I told you - you can’t wait! - my grandfather growls right in Fyodor’s imperturbable face and slams his fist on the table. Cards, money, roach bones fall at their feet. - I have Sanka! You understand - I have Sanka!
Grandfather Kilka instantly understands that it’s time to get away, and moves in reverse to the door, grabbing his granddaughter by the sleeve along the way. Milka does not resist, but manages to whisper to me:
– You’ll tell me tomorrow.
I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatiana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the car keys from the shelf, pulls his luxurious mink coat from the hanger in the hallway and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather silently stand at the table and glare at each other. Then they turn to me and say in unison:
Ten minutes later I’m lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.
“You don’t have any clean ones, you bastard!” Sit your crook wherever you want! And I have Alexandra! Child! She needs to study! And so all my life, like a turnip in a trash heap, no one needs it!
While I am surprised to comprehend Stepanychev’s last phrase (am I a turnip? Am I in the trash heap?.. Am I not needed?..), Fyodor quietly, convincingly says:
- Ivan, if you think that I’m taking you on as an “American girl”... Yes, I’ll be a fraternity, I don’t care about her! Forget! Consider it - I was joking! I’m just asking as a sidekick... I really need it! Very! When did I ask you for what?!
- Never. “Grandfather falls silent for a while, but then says firmly: “But don’t ask for that either.” If I were alone, at least bring shobla and arrange raspberries here. And I have Alexandra. All. Sorry.
A minute later, Fedor leaves. And for a long time I listened to my grandfather pacing around the room, coughing, smoking, drinking water from the kettle, muttering something in a low voice. Curiosity eats me up, but asking my grandfather questions is pointless.
My grandfather, Ivan Stepanych Pogryazov, was a great man in all respects. He was two meters tall, and to me, little, he always seemed huge, like a fairy-tale hero. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, strong, gnarled arms, like a miner’s. It is impossible to determine from such hands that the grandfather is a surgeon. When one of our male neighbors got drunk and started getting rowdy at our entrance, their wives would first run after Stepanych. He silently walked to the crime scene and sometimes did not even use physical force: drunks sobered up at the mere glance of his blue, icy eyes, like those of an ancient Viking. If this did not help, the brawlers rolled down all the steps of the stairs and flew out of the entrance door straight into a snowdrift. This savage method worked flawlessly, and usually our driveway drunks, even when drunk, behaved decently. Stepanych himself never drank, and when I was in his arms, he even stopped smoking, since it was harmful for the child.
My mother, Stepanych’s daughter, died during childbirth, nothing is known about my father, except that he studied with my mother in the same medical course and, having learned about her pregnancy, immediately transferred to the Leningrad Institute and disappeared from her life. I was received from the maternity hospital by Stepanich and grandmother Rebekah, whom I hardly remember, because when she died I was three years old. The only thing that reminded me of her was the portrait hanging on the wall in my room, painted in oil by one of my grandfather’s friends. A black-haired beauty with a biblical appearance looked at me languidly and slightly arrogantly from the oval frame, her slender fingers folded over the elegant embroidery. As a child, I remember I was afraid of her; as I got older, I began to envy her. I looked very much like my grandmother, but at the same time I seemed like a caricature of her: thin, tall, awkward, with darkish skin, sharp cheekbones, a coarse shock of hair that could not be combed, and an incredulous look in black eyes. By the age of twelve, I was finally convinced that my grandmother’s beauty would not shine on me, and I accepted the fact that I would remain a black jackdaw for the rest of my life.
The first thing I remember from childhood is my grandfather singing in the kitchen. He loved to sing, he had a beautiful, although not very strong, bass, and his repertoire was very unusual. So, for example, in a bad mood, he sang: “Eh, boss, little key, let me go home...” If life was more or less tolerable, my grandfather loved to sing Vertinsky, “The moon rose over the pink sea,” Petra Leshchenko, “ You are driving drunk and very pale...", ancient romances. My grandfather’s criminal lyrics organically fit into my ideas about beauty. However, he rarely sang thieves’ songs, and he never talked about his life in the zone, even when I grew up and impudently began to ask questions. In the same way, he suppressed talk about the war, although he went through it all, from Moscow to Berlin. “There’s nothing good there, and there’s nothing to talk about.”
My grandfather was not involved in my upbringing in the strict sense of the word: he had no time to do this, he worked in a hospital, often, in order to be paid more, he took on extra duty, and on holidays I never saw him. We didn’t have any guests except my grandfather’s regular card partners, and I learned to play poker before I learned to read. Stepanych taught me to read and write when I was four years old - however, for purely selfish purposes: he was tired of me constantly asking to read a book. It took him two weeks to do this, but in the future I simply took from his shelves what I wanted and read as much as I wanted: my grandfather never limited me in literature. Stepanych himself read whenever possible. If he was not on duty at night, he would sit in the kitchen with some volume until the morning. Looking at him, I learned to read at any time of the day, in public transport, at school under my desk and standing at the stove with a ladle.
I was about six years old when Stepanych sat me on his lap and said sternly:
“Alexandra, remember, I won’t repeat it. No one in this life will do anything for you, for you or without you. Am I making it clear? Repeat. And remind me – where is the free cheese?”
"In a mousetrap..."
"Well done".
I never had any problems with my memory, and my grandfather was pleased, despite the fact that the meaning of these maxims fully reached me ten years later. That same year, Stepanych took me to a music school without even asking my consent. However, it never occurred to me to object: I always obeyed my grandfather, and there was no greater authority for me.
I also knew Fyodor from infancy and only recently began to understand who he actually was. Almost forty years ago, grandfather and Fyodor met in the zone, which for Fyodor was his home, and grandfather ended up there just before Stalin’s death in the case of killer doctors. Then Stalin died, my grandfather was almost immediately sent to a settlement, and soon rehabilitated (I know that Malenkov himself insisted on this). Fedor remained in the zone for another five years, but upon being released, he immediately found his grandfather in Moscow. Why they became friends there, in Siblag, what could have tied the thief in law and one of the best surgeons in Moscow for many years, I did not know, and it never occurred to me to ask Stepanych or Fedor about this. Poker on Fridays was quite common in our house, even when my grandmother was still alive. As the years passed, Fyodor’s mistresses became younger and younger, but he himself seemed to remain unchanged. During the years of widespread shortages, we always had meat, sausage, and imported canned food in our house; a peasant of unknown age brought them in a string bag, handed the bag to the indignant grandfather and, without listening to questions and curses, rolled down the stairs. On Friday, Fedor appeared laughing and feigning surprise.
"I do not know anything! No, not my job! Ivan, say no, it’s not mine, I say! If you don’t want to mess around, feed Sashka, she needs to grow!”
At the mention of me, my grandfather usually gave up, and the food from the string bag migrated to the refrigerator. Stepanich already thought that I spent too much time in queues for my tender age.
I began to feel Fedor’s patronage on myself from the day when, twelve years old, I rushed home in the evening all in tears: I was caught in the gateway by a group of half-drunk boys, with one of whom, Yashka Zhamkin, I even studied in the same class and lived on the same staircase site. They didn’t cause me any serious harm, but they scared me half to death, tore my dress and stuck their sticky hands in all possible places. Fortunately, Stepanych was not there, he was delayed in the hospital, but for some reason Fyodor ended up in the apartment. Looking at me, he immediately understood everything and, while I was crying and washing myself in the bathroom, he called someone on the phone and said a few words. I didn’t hear the conversation, I completely forgot about it and wouldn’t have remembered if the next day two of yesterday’s raiders had not blocked my path right at the entrance. I clutched the pre-prepared fork in my pocket, deciding to sell my honor dearly, but this time the guys were in no hurry to encroach on my innocence. Yashka standing in front, looking sideways, muttered:
“You, Pogryazova, this... Sorry... We weren’t aware of that... Who knew? Neither we, nor Nail, nor Ryakha are anyone else... Don’t think... In short, I’m sorry... We won’t do it again.”
And they disappeared into the gateway. And I, completely dumbfounded, continued on my way. Indeed, no one ever bothered me again. And for several more years these courtyard kings met me in the gateway, greeted me discordantly, or, if I walked too late, were indignant:
“Where are you going, you fool? You will get into something, and then prove to us that you are not camels...”
I got into the situation and tried not to be late.
But who did Fedor want to “add” to us? One of your bandits? It’s unlikely, he would never have involved Stepanych in his affairs... Without coming up with anything, I closed my eyes and indulged in my favorite pastime before bed: I started summoning a green ball. As a child, I found this activity very funny; I imagined a tiny green dot that gradually grew, eventually becoming the size of soccer ball, and I physically began to feel the warmth coming from him. The ball glowed and moved; one could move it all over the body, from toe to head, from one hand to the other, and at the same time feel how it pleasantly warmed the skin. What this meant, I didn’t yet know, I was absolutely sure that all people had these kinds of balls before going to bed, and therefore I didn’t talk about it with anyone. It would be as stupid as discussing whether every person has two hands or one nose.
After playing with the ball, I rolled over onto my stomach and fell asleep peacefully. And in the morning I woke up because Stepanych was shouting in the corridor:
- How? When?! What did you give him, fool?! What injection? What does “didn’t have time” mean, I told you a hundred times, an ambulance was needed!!! Your mother!!!
For the first time in my life, I heard my grandfather swearing, I flew into the corridor in my shirt, barefoot. The telephone receiver had already been abandoned, hanging on the untwisted cord and beeping sluggishly. The grandfather was sitting bent over on a stool. Seeing me, he said hoarsely:
- This is Tatyana. Fedor died. At night. Heart attack.
The funeral took place three days later. I followed my grandfather to the cemetery, even though he insisted that I stay at home. The Kotlyakovskoe cemetery was usually sparsely populated, and I was very surprised to see how the area in front of the church was filled with about four dozen cars. The cars were expensive, shiny, despite the Moscow winter mud, almost all were foreign cars, of which there were not so many in Moscow at that time. My grandfather and I were late for the funeral service: six men were already carrying the coffin out of the church.
The coffin with Fyodor floated under a gray sky along a snow-covered alley. A crowd was pouring in behind the coffin - all men, young, not so old, and very old, wearing leather coats and jackets that were expensive at that time, short sheepskin coats, mink and wolf hats in their hands. Of the women, there was only one Tatyana, tear-stained and discolored beyond recognition, she kept sobbing into a wet, crumpled handkerchief. Her bronze hair, escaping from under her black scarf, stuck to her face, but Tatyana did not remove it. When the coffin was lowered, the grandfather approached Tatyana (they apparently recognized him as they let him through) and said in a low voice:
– Let them come... if they still need it.
“It’s necessary, Ivan Stepanych,” Tatyana said hoarsely. - Thank you.
The next day she came to us, still in black, pale, several years older, with her hair tied up in a strict bun. Following her, a tall, dark-haired guy with light eyes stepped into the hallway. He only glanced at me, but even that short glance made me feel uneasy. This is how Skipper came into my life.
Hiding behind the kitchen door, I examined my guest. Something about his sharp face with a heavy chin and dark, as if smoked skin seemed familiar to me. Looking more closely, I realized: this guy was very similar to Fedor. Two more came in behind him. One was very young, most likely a Tajik or Turkmen, with impudent black eyes, and quite handsome. The second is huge, shapeless and clumsy, like a wardrobe come to life, with a flat face and thick eyelids, from under which narrow brown, not at all stupid eyes were barely visible. They stood silently at the threshold.
Grandfather, looking intently at Skipper, apparently also made the necessary conclusions, but did not ask any questions. They talked behind a closed door for no more than five minutes. Then they left. The skipper quietly said a few words to the others (they listened without interrupting), and the grandfather turned to me:
- You will go with them to Sokha. Let them live for a couple of months.
- Tomorrow? – I was delighted at the prospect of skipping school.
- Now. - Grandfather turned to Skipper: - You will go with Sanka. Mind you, asshole, if there’s anything wrong with her...
The skipper looked at Stepanych so that he did not continue and, sharply waving his hand, went into the kitchen. I rushed to get dressed.
Two hours later we were sitting in a cold, almost empty train. It was a long drive, more than three hours, and I pulled The Master and Margarita out of my backpack. I hoped to hide some awkwardness by intensive reading: during the journey to the station, I did not exchange a single word with my companions. They were talking to each other in low voices, with those two doing most of the talking, and it was clear that they were very worried. The skipper was silent for the most part, in the subway he even seemed to be dozing, but already at the station square he turned to the guys and said something briefly. I didn’t hear anything because I was just picking up tickets at the box office. But Ibrahim and Bosun (that’s how they introduced themselves) noticeably calmed down, lit a cigarette, Ibrahim even began to tell some obscene joke, but Skipper pointed at me with his eyes, and he fell silent. The two fell asleep on the train as soon as the train left the platform. It was clear that they had not slept for several nights before.
I hoped that Skipper would fall asleep too, but he seemed to have nothing of the kind in his mind. Sitting by the window, he drummed his fingers on his knee, looked at the snow-covered forest rushing past, and was silent. Skipper's face was absolutely serene, but it seemed to me that something was hurting him. And it hurts a lot. I started feeling such things at the age of five, I took it for granted and, as a rule, I was not mistaken, but asking the question “Where does it hurt?” to an unfamiliar adult man?.. In the end, I buried my face in the book, without fear of seeming impolite. That's when Skipper turned his head.
- What do you have?
I shuddered, almost dropping the book. She said angrily:
– Don’t you see it yourself?
- I see. Let me take a look. And it’s better to use “you”, otherwise your nerves will hurt.
Surprised, I held out the book. The skipper opened it at the beginning and began to read quite calmly. I watched him with growing amazement. I had no doubt that a bandit was sitting in front of me. But a reading bandit? And even “The Master and Margarita”?.. From my grandfather’s words, I knew that this book was not easy, that at thirteen it was too early for me to read it, and that people had sharply polar attitudes towards it: either the novel becomes a favorite for life, or it is not. They admit it completely. I haven't figured out what type of reader I am yet, because I'm stuck somewhere on page twelve.
- Listen, can I read? – Skipper asked without raising his eyes.
- Now for you! – I was indignant. - What am I going to do for three hours?
- Take care of your eyesight, still young. Sleep out.
– I don’t want to, I slept all night!
- Do you want me to give you another one?
- Do you have a warehouse? – I said sarcastically.
The skipper silently put “The Master and Margarita” aside, reached into his bag and pulled out... “The Plague” by Camus.
– Did you read this?! – I was taken aback.
The skipper smiled somewhat embarrassed:
– I recently bought it at the market. I didn’t understand a damn thing, I quit. Maybe you can figure it out?
- And... why did you buy it?
– I liked the name.
I was silent, not knowing what to answer. The skipper, meanwhile, took up “The Master and Margarita” again. I hesitated and extended my hand:
- Give it back, you won’t understand anything here either.
- Why? – Light, either gray or greenish eyes looked straight at me, and I felt uneasy, although the Skipper was smiling. – It’s normal here... It’s clear for now.
– How many classes did you complete? – I asked sarcastically.
“Five,” Skipper answered calmly. - And those through the ass.
I got lost. It looked like he wasn't lying. But then we still lived in the USSR, which had not yet collapsed, with its compulsory and free education for everyone: even the children of our alcoholic neighbor completed the eighth grade. For the first time in my life I saw a person with “five classes through the ass” and worriedly thought: was he offended by me?
- Well, okay, read up to the twelfth. And then we'll be together.
When the train approached the tiny Krutichi station, Skipper and I reached page two hundred and twenty-seven. The cruel procurator of Judea, the horseman Pontius Pilate, carried out his judgment. I was completely frozen, but I didn’t even realize at what moment Skipper put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards him. Many years later, he laughingly assured me that he also did not notice how it happened. The most interesting thing is that it seemed to be true. I felt someone else’s hand on my shoulders only when Ibrahim woke up and neighed:
– Earned money for youngsters, Skipper?!
I immediately, although with some regret, freed myself (Skipper was warm under his arm), Skipper grumbled something about the goat and the idiot with one straight wriggle, but we both did not experience any awkwardness. The skipper at that moment was clearly occupied with completely different thoughts. And to me, a little guy, it couldn’t even occur to me to think of anything about the old guy that twenty-five-year-old Skipper seemed to me at that time.
Sokha lived in the village of Krutichi, Kaluga region - a complete wilderness, where buses do not go. For as long as I can remember, my grandfather sent me there for every vacation. From the age of eight, I traveled independently, on May 31, boarding the train at the Kievsky station and on August 31, returning to Moscow, darkly tanned, dusty, with bleached hair. Sokha was as integral an element of my childhood as Stepanych, Milka, the gypsy neighbors, books, and the piano. Like my grandfather, I called her to her face - Egorovna, behind her eyes - Sokha, and it never occurred to me to find out who she actually was to me. In addition to her, four ancient grandmothers lived in Krutichi; to the asphalt highway it was necessary to walk about five kilometers through fields, to the station - almost the same distance through forest, and on three sides the village was surrounded by a dense forest with elk and bears. Along the outskirts of the village ran the narrow river Krutka, overgrown with broom along its banks, behind Krutka lay an immense meadow, overgrown with all kinds of grass and fragrant so that all the surrounding bees flocked to it, and beyond the meadow a swamp and forest began.
Sokha’s house is blue, peeling, with white trim on the windows and a cockerel on the roof crown. Everything is already quite old, but good and not dilapidated. Around the house there is a huge garden of old apple, plum and cherry trees, a vegetable garden, half consisting of beds with medicinal herbs, behind a slanting fence there are traditional rows of potatoes, and behind the potatoes there are more herbs. Sokha was a well-known healer throughout the region, and people even came to her for treatment from Moscow.
When people first look at Soha, they usually get confused. Imagine a retired guard colonel with a straight back, broad shoulders, a meter eighty tall, with a wrinkled face, gray, coldish eyes, with steel in his voice and inflexibility in his gaze. Dress the colonel in a long pleated skirt and an old but clean knitted blue jacket, tie a scarf with blue forget-me-nots on his head, and pull warm chuni on his feet. Belt it with an apron with voluminous pockets, from which some dry seeds and inflorescences are constantly spilling out. This will no longer be a colonel, but Antonina Egorovna Sokhina, Sokha. In her youth, she was very pretty and looked like Marlene Dietrich, as evidenced by a fifty-year-old photograph pinned above the chest of drawers.
Sokha’s house is always very clean, the painted floors are washed to a shine, covered with homespun runners, the curtains on the windows are embroidered with roses and strange leaves (Maruska has nothing else to do in winter). Everywhere - on the walls, on the shelves, on the huge whitewashed stove - herbs, buds, dried flowers. Because of this, Sokha’s house always smells like a summer meadow. On the wall is a copy of Makovsky’s painting “Children Running from a Thunderstorm.” A poor copy, made by a village drunkard artist. On it, a girl carrying her brother is depicted as a completely grown-up girl of about eighteen years old and very similar to Maruska. On the other wall there are bookshelves. One is occupied by various publications and magazines on gardening, floriculture and canning: Sokha’s garden is the best in the village. The village grandmothers are jealous, whispering that all this is due to the fact that Sokha is a witch, and that’s why everything grows on her own. The fact that results can be achieved only through competent courtship does not even occur to them. Sokha has a lot of other books, she, unlike the village ones, loves to read and is not lazy to go skiing seven kilometers in winter to the village of Sestrino, where there is a library. Often my grandfather or I give her books; Maruska buys some when she goes to Moscow. But Maruska, who herself never reads, chooses books based on the principle of “respect”: the thicker and more incomprehensible, the better.
“Oh, you fool...” Sokha swears, sending some gilded “History of Russian Freemasonry” or “Geographical Atlas of the South Pole” to the farthest shelf. – If only I could look at the title, by God... I’ll make you read it yourself, you’ll find out then! I lost a lot of money, but no one needs it! It would be better to say something about love!”
“Isn’t it too late for you to talk about love?” – Maruska is impudently interested. With a squeal, she dodges a well-aimed felt boot and jumps onto my bed with her feet up. Her green eyes laugh, a light strand of hair falls on them, and Maruska becomes like a mermaid from Pushkin’s fairy tales.
Maruska appeared at Sokha’s house when I was eight years old and she was fifteen, and I didn’t wonder where she came from. As a child, you rarely ask yourself such questions. It was enough for me that in the summer I had someone to run with to the river and the forest: there were no other children in Krutichi even during the holidays. Most often, Sokha sent Maruska and me to get grass; we left at dawn and returned, dead tired, already in the light of the moon.
Most of all, I loved being in a large round clearing in the forest, to which I had to walk for more than an hour through spruce, hazel and dense thickets of ferns. The tall grasses in the clearing have a strong and pungent smell, there are not a single tree, but right in the middle there sticks out a cracked wooden post, all black, as if scorched, and rounded at the top. Sokha once mentioned that this pillar is an idol spoiled by time Slavic god Perun. Beyond Perun, through the dark trunks of spruce trees, you can barely make out a small forest lake. When I, having undressed, step onto the mossy bridge, yellow-headed snakes silently slide off them and swim, sticking out their heads. I don’t want to scare the inhabitants of the lake, I carefully, trying not to disturb the thickets of grass, go into the water, but Maruska doesn’t care about the laws of water society, she flies into the lake with noise and splashes; screaming, suddenly disappears headlong, jumps up in a column of water, laughing:
“Oh, it’s deep, you can’t reach the bottom!”
I slowly swim towards the middle. Below, through the greenish thickness, small pebbles and sand are visible. Overhead, in a wreath of green leaves and branches, a blue window of the sky shines through. I close my eyes and summon my green ball as usual. Here, in the clearing, for some reason he always comes much faster than at home before bed. The coldness of the water goes away, I feel warm, almost hot. Maruska’s cry pulls me out of my strange sensations:
- Hey! Sanka! She's frozen, isn't she?
The ball disappears. I get out of the water and within a minute I forget about everything.
...The guys and I approached Krutichi when it was already completely dark. There was no sleep at Sokha’s house; a kerosene lamp was burning in the house.
“Are you sure they won’t push us out of here?” – Skipper asked concerned.
- Don't be afraid. “I opened the gate, walked along the cleared path between the snowdrifts piled up to my height, and knocked on the window. Shadows darted in the house, and Maruska ran out onto the porch in a nightgown and cut-off felt boots on her bare feet.
- Sanka, is that you?! – she was amazed. - Why are you here in the middle of the week, what happened? Is Stepanych healthy?
- Healthy. I'm with the people here.
The guys came closer. The first thing I saw was Skipper’s stunned eyes. He silently looked at Maruska. The lamp was behind her, and her nightgown showed through, but Maruska, looking at strangers in amazement, did not notice this.
“Shut up, you fool,” I said in a whisper.
Maruska caught herself and dashed into the house, shouting as she went:
- Egorovna, Sanka has brought some kind of herd!
- This is what I understand! – Ibrahim said admiringly. - This is a gerla! She's got a lot of buffers, eh, guys? Shki-i-iper, what is it? By the way, I...
One evening, Skipper and I were sitting on the veranda of the Sorella restaurant in the Italian city of Lido. It was late, the tired orchestra was sluggishly playing out the melody from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, the white veranda with bouquets of camellias on the tables was almost empty, and I took off my shoes under the table.
“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get back in.
I shrugged and put my shoes back on. Over Skipper's shoulder, she looked at the black invisible distant sea, completely dotted along the coast with multi-colored lights. There was a strong smell of flowers and salt water. My martini in the glass was exhausted and stood sad, without bubbles, with a soggy cherry at the bottom. Skipper's vodka held up well in a thick glass and calmly waited until it was finished off. The skipper, however, was in no hurry, smoking, shaking off the ashes over the fence. A candle in a blue crystal vase on the table unevenly illuminated his face with a slightly protruded chin, deep wrinkles on his forehead, and drooping heavy eyelids. When Skipper suddenly looked at me without changing his position, I flinched. After so many years, I still haven’t gotten used to his gaze.
He guessed and looked away. Very light, gray, on a dark, dark face. The skipper might even seem attractive if it weren't for the look in those eyes. Or rather, its complete absence. As I grabbed my martini, I thought that Skipper must be aware of the impression his gaze made. That’s why he rarely looks people directly in the face – unless, of course, the goal is to throw the interlocutor off balance.
- Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked quietly.
Out of surprise, I told the truth:
- Not afraid.
– Have you ever regretted it?
- Why did I contact you? – I clarified.
I shrugged. I thought about it. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, looked at the illuminated pool below.
- Listen, Pashka, did I really have any options?
“Well...,” imitating a mortal insult, he put the glass on the table and even took the cigarette out of his mouth. - When did I put a feather to your throat?
“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. After choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on Skipper’s face.
“Well, let’s say you’ve been taking a break from me all your life.”
- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes you... Yes you...
He raised his hand, interrupting my cackling, and asked in a businesslike manner:
– How it started, do you remember?
– I remember, and you?!
He didn't answer. I pulled the scarf off the back of the chair (it was the end of August, it was getting a little chilly in an evening dress) and wrapped it around my shoulders. After thinking, she asked:
– Have you read Pushkin’s “Queen of Spades”?
To my surprise, Skipper nodded.
– Do you remember the beginning?
- Well, that’s - sorry...
- “Once we were playing cards with the horse guard Narumov.”
“Oh, what are you talking about...” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I’ll have a smoke and let’s go... But they weren’t playing at the guardsman’s. And you and Stepanych.
I sighed. The skipper looked at me briefly and silently began to light a cigarette. And I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
That winter evening the windows froze from the cold. It's snowy outside. At the round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker was already in its fourth hour. At that memorable game, I, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fedor’s mistress, were present. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat while playing, and so I, fighting against yawning, quietly play Rosenbaum’s “Boston Waltz” on the piano, Milka plays “Crow’s Feet” solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatyana just sits with her sharp nails running into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, does not notice Tanka’s gaze, and I am once again surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who is almost old enough to be her grandfather? Fyodor’s bald patch gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, and the tattoo patterns on his hands appear black. His whole dry and wiry figure is tense, as if about to jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor was holding a square of kings in his arms. He looks like Mephistopheles.
Grandfather Kilka is not so calm: he is unlucky today, he is already gambling and is noticeably nervous. Black, shiny, like an animal's eyes dart over the faces of his partners, from time to time Kilka curses in a whisper in gypsy.
“Lord, it’s great again...” Milka mutters, looking sideways at him. - In a minute it will be blown into pieces, and tomorrow it will begin: “Milka, give grandpa some beer...” And I have just millions!
“Pass,” says Sprat.
“Pass,” says Stepanych.
Fedor slowly turns over the cards. He has a square of kings. Kilka gasps and throws up his hands, but Fyodor does not notice him. He looks straight at Stepanych. In his usual cracked voice he says quietly:
- “American.”
- What?! – Stepanych jumps up, knocking over the stool. This is so unlike him that I lose my beat, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.
- You will not get it! I told you - you can’t wait! - my grandfather growls right in Fyodor’s imperturbable face and slams his fist on the table. Cards, money, roach bones fall at their feet. - I have Sanka! You understand - I have Sanka!
Grandfather Kilka instantly understands that it’s time to get away, and moves in reverse to the door, grabbing his granddaughter by the sleeve along the way. Milka does not resist, but manages to whisper to me:
– You’ll tell me tomorrow.
I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatiana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the car keys from the shelf, pulls his luxurious mink coat from the hanger in the hallway and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather silently stand at the table and glare at each other. Then they turn to me and say in unison:
Ten minutes later I’m lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.
“You don’t have any clean ones, you bastard!” Sit your crook wherever you want! And I have Alexandra! Child! She needs to study! And so all my life, like a turnip in a trash heap, no one needs it!
While I am surprised to comprehend Stepanychev’s last phrase (am I a turnip? Am I in the trash heap?.. Am I not needed?..), Fyodor quietly, convincingly says:
- Ivan, if you think that I’m taking you on as an “American girl”... Yes, I’ll be a fraternity, I don’t care about her! Forget! Consider it - I was joking! I’m just asking as a sidekick... I really need it! Very! When did I ask you for what?!
- Never. “Grandfather falls silent for a while, but then says firmly: “But don’t ask for that either.” If I were alone, at least bring shobla and arrange raspberries here. And I have Alexandra. All. Sorry.
A minute later, Fedor leaves. And for a long time I listened to my grandfather pacing around the room, coughing, smoking, drinking water from the kettle, muttering something in a low voice. Curiosity eats me up, but asking my grandfather questions is pointless.
My grandfather, Ivan Stepanych Pogryazov, was a great man in all respects. He was two meters tall, and to me, little, he always seemed huge, like a fairy-tale hero. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, strong, gnarled arms, like a miner’s. It is impossible to determine from such hands that the grandfather is a surgeon. When one of our male neighbors got drunk and started getting rowdy at our entrance, their wives would first run after Stepanych. He silently walked to the crime scene and sometimes did not even use physical force: drunks sobered up at the mere glance of his blue, icy eyes, like those of an ancient Viking. If this did not help, the brawlers rolled down all the steps of the stairs and flew out of the entrance door straight into a snowdrift. This savage method worked flawlessly, and usually our driveway drunks, even when drunk, behaved decently. Stepanych himself never drank, and when I was in his arms, he even stopped smoking, since it was harmful for the child.
One evening, Skipper and I were sitting on the veranda of the Sorella restaurant in the Italian city of Lido. It was late, the tired orchestra was sluggishly playing out the melody from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, the white veranda with bouquets of camellias on the tables was almost empty, and I took off my shoes under the table.
“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get back in.
I shrugged and put my shoes back on. Over Skipper's shoulder, she looked at the black invisible distant sea, completely dotted along the coast with multi-colored lights. There was a strong smell of flowers and salt water. My martini in the glass was exhausted and stood sad, without bubbles, with a soggy cherry at the bottom. Skipper's vodka held up well in a thick glass and calmly waited until it was finished off. The skipper, however, was in no hurry, smoking, shaking off the ashes over the fence. A candle in a blue crystal vase on the table unevenly illuminated his face with a slightly protruded chin, deep wrinkles on his forehead, and drooping heavy eyelids. When Skipper suddenly looked at me without changing his position, I flinched. After so many years, I still haven’t gotten used to his gaze.
He guessed and looked away. Very light, gray, on a dark, dark face. The skipper might even seem attractive if it weren't for the look in those eyes. Or rather, its complete absence. As I grabbed my martini, I thought that Skipper must be aware of the impression his gaze made. That’s why he rarely looks people directly in the face – unless, of course, the goal is to throw the interlocutor off balance.
- Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked quietly.
Out of surprise, I told the truth:
- Not afraid.
– Have you ever regretted it?
- Why did I contact you? – I clarified.
I shrugged. I thought about it. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, looked at the illuminated pool below.
- Listen, Pashka, did I really have any options?
“Well...,” imitating a mortal insult, he put the glass on the table and even took the cigarette out of his mouth. - When did I put a feather to your throat?
“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. After choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on Skipper’s face.
“Well, let’s say you’ve been taking a break from me all your life.”
- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes you... Yes you...
He raised his hand, interrupting my cackling, and asked in a businesslike manner:
– How it started, do you remember?
– I remember, and you?!
He didn't answer. I pulled the scarf off the back of the chair (it was the end of August, it was getting a little chilly in an evening dress) and wrapped it around my shoulders. After thinking, she asked:
– Have you read Pushkin’s “Queen of Spades”?
To my surprise, Skipper nodded.
– Do you remember the beginning?
- Well, that’s - sorry...
- “Once we were playing cards with the horse guard Narumov.”
“Oh, what are you talking about...” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I’ll have a smoke and let’s go... But they weren’t playing at the guardsman’s. And you and Stepanych.
I sighed. The skipper looked at me briefly and silently began to light a cigarette. And I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
That winter evening the windows froze from the cold. It's snowy outside. At the round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker was already in its fourth hour. At that memorable game, I, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fedor’s mistress, were present. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat while playing, and so I, fighting against yawning, quietly play Rosenbaum’s “Boston Waltz” on the piano, Milka plays “Crow’s Feet” solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatyana just sits with her sharp nails running into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, does not notice Tanka’s gaze, and I am once again surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who is almost old enough to be her grandfather? Fyodor’s bald patch gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, and the tattoo patterns on his hands appear black. His whole dry and wiry figure is tense, as if about to jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor was holding a square of kings in his arms. He looks like Mephistopheles.
Grandfather Kilka is not so calm: he is unlucky today, he is already gambling and is noticeably nervous. Black, shiny, like an animal's eyes dart over the faces of his partners, from time to time Kilka curses in a whisper in gypsy.
“Lord, it’s great again...” Milka mutters, looking sideways at him. - In a minute it will be blown into pieces, and tomorrow it will begin: “Milka, give grandpa some beer...” And I have just millions!
“Pass,” says Sprat.
“Pass,” says Stepanych.
Fedor slowly turns over the cards. He has a square of kings. Kilka gasps and throws up his hands, but Fyodor does not notice him. He looks straight at Stepanych. In his usual cracked voice he says quietly:
- “American.”
- What?! – Stepanych jumps up, knocking over the stool. This is so unlike him that I lose my beat, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.
- You will not get it! I told you - you can’t wait! - my grandfather growls right in Fyodor’s imperturbable face and slams his fist on the table. Cards, money, roach bones fall at their feet. - I have Sanka! You understand - I have Sanka!
Grandfather Kilka instantly understands that it’s time to get away, and moves in reverse to the door, grabbing his granddaughter by the sleeve along the way. Milka does not resist, but manages to whisper to me:
– You’ll tell me tomorrow.
I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatiana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the car keys from the shelf, pulls his luxurious mink coat from the hanger in the hallway and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather silently stand at the table and glare at each other. Then they turn to me and say in unison:
Ten minutes later I’m lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.
One evening, Skipper and I were sitting on the veranda of the Sorella restaurant in the Italian city of Lido. It was late, the tired orchestra was sluggishly playing out the melody from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, the white veranda with bouquets of camellias on the tables was almost empty, and I took off my shoes under the table.
“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get back in.
I shrugged and put my shoes back on. Over Skipper's shoulder, she looked at the black invisible distant sea, completely dotted along the coast with multi-colored lights. There was a strong smell of flowers and salt water. My martini in the glass was exhausted and stood sad, without bubbles, with a soggy cherry at the bottom. Skipper's vodka held up well in a thick glass and calmly waited until it was finished off. The skipper, however, was in no hurry, smoking, shaking off the ashes over the fence. A candle in a blue crystal vase on the table unevenly illuminated his face with a slightly protruded chin, deep wrinkles on his forehead, and drooping heavy eyelids. When Skipper suddenly looked at me without changing his position, I flinched. After so many years, I still haven’t gotten used to his gaze.
He guessed and looked away. Very light, gray, on a dark, dark face. The skipper might even seem attractive if it weren't for the look in those eyes. Or rather, its complete absence. As I grabbed my martini, I thought that Skipper must be aware of the impression his gaze made. That’s why he rarely looks people directly in the face – unless, of course, the goal is to throw the interlocutor off balance.
- Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked quietly.
Out of surprise, I told the truth:
- Not afraid.
– Have you ever regretted it?
- Why did I contact you? – I clarified.
I shrugged. I thought about it. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, looked at the illuminated pool below.
- Listen, Pashka, did I really have any options?
“Well...,” imitating a mortal insult, he put the glass on the table and even took the cigarette out of his mouth. - When did I put a feather to your throat?
“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. After choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on Skipper’s face.
“Well, let’s say you’ve been taking a break from me all your life.”
- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes you... Yes you...
He raised his hand, interrupting my cackling, and asked in a businesslike manner:
– How it started, do you remember?
– I remember, and you?!
He didn't answer. I pulled the scarf off the back of the chair (it was the end of August, it was getting a little chilly in an evening dress) and wrapped it around my shoulders. After thinking, she asked:
– Have you read Pushkin’s “Queen of Spades”?
To my surprise, Skipper nodded.
– Do you remember the beginning?
- Well, that’s - sorry...
- “Once we were playing cards with the horse guard Narumov.”
“Oh, what are you talking about...” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I’ll have a smoke and let’s go... But they weren’t playing at the guardsman’s. And you and Stepanych.
I sighed. The skipper looked at me briefly and silently began to light a cigarette. And I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
Part I
That winter evening the windows froze from the cold. It's snowy outside. At the round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker was already in its fourth hour. At that memorable game, I, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fedor’s mistress, were present. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat while playing, and so I, fighting against yawning, quietly play Rosenbaum’s “Boston Waltz” on the piano, Milka plays “Crow’s Feet” solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatyana just sits with her sharp nails running into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, does not notice Tanka’s gaze, and I am once again surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who is almost old enough to be her grandfather? Fyodor’s bald patch gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, and the tattoo patterns on his hands appear black. His whole dry and wiry figure is tense, as if about to jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor was holding a square of kings in his arms. He looks like Mephistopheles.
Grandfather Kilka is not so calm: he is unlucky today, he is already gambling and is noticeably nervous. Black, shiny, like an animal's eyes dart over the faces of his partners, from time to time Kilka curses in a whisper in gypsy.
“Lord, it’s great again...” Milka mutters, looking sideways at him. - In a minute it will be blown into pieces, and tomorrow it will begin: “Milka, give grandpa some beer...” And I have just millions!
“Pass,” says Sprat.
“Pass,” says Stepanych.
Fedor slowly turns over the cards. He has a square of kings. Kilka gasps and throws up his hands, but Fyodor does not notice him. He looks straight at Stepanych. In his usual cracked voice he says quietly:
- “American.”
- What?! – Stepanych jumps up, knocking over the stool. This is so unlike him that I lose my beat, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.
- You will not get it! I told you - you can’t wait! - my grandfather growls right in Fyodor’s imperturbable face and slams his fist on the table. Cards, money, roach bones fall at their feet. - I have Sanka! You understand - I have Sanka!
Grandfather Kilka instantly understands that it’s time to get away, and moves in reverse to the door, grabbing his granddaughter by the sleeve along the way. Milka does not resist, but manages to whisper to me:
– You’ll tell me tomorrow.
I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatiana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the car keys from the shelf, pulls his luxurious mink coat from the hanger in the hallway and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather silently stand at the table and glare at each other. Then they turn to me and say in unison:
Ten minutes later I’m lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.
“You don’t have any clean ones, you bastard!” Sit your crook wherever you want! And I have Alexandra! Child! She needs to study! And so all my life, like a turnip in a trash heap, no one needs it!
While I am surprised to comprehend Stepanychev’s last phrase (am I a turnip? Am I in the trash heap?.. Am I not needed?..), Fyodor quietly, convincingly says:
- Ivan, if you think that I’m taking you on as an “American girl”... Yes, I’ll be a fraternity, I don’t care about her! Forget! Consider it - I was joking! I’m just asking as a sidekick... I really need it! Very! When did I ask you for what?!
- Never. “Grandfather falls silent for a while, but then says firmly: “But don’t ask for that either.” If I were alone, at least bring shobla and arrange raspberries here. And I have Alexandra. All. Sorry.
A minute later, Fedor leaves. And for a long time I listened to my grandfather pacing around the room, coughing, smoking, drinking water from the kettle, muttering something in a low voice. Curiosity eats me up, but asking my grandfather questions is pointless.
My grandfather, Ivan Stepanych Pogryazov, was a great man in all respects. He was two meters tall, and to me, little, he always seemed huge, like a fairy-tale hero. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, strong, gnarled arms, like a miner’s. It is impossible to determine from such hands that the grandfather is a surgeon. When one of our male neighbors got drunk and started getting rowdy at our entrance, their wives would first run after Stepanych. He silently walked to the crime scene and sometimes did not even use physical force: drunks sobered up at the mere glance of his blue, icy eyes, like those of an ancient Viking. If this did not help, the brawlers rolled down all the steps of the stairs and flew out of the entrance door straight into a snowdrift. This savage method worked flawlessly, and usually our driveway drunks, even when drunk, behaved decently. Stepanych himself never drank, and when I was in his arms, he even stopped smoking, since it was harmful for the child.
My mother, Stepanych’s daughter, died during childbirth, nothing is known about my father, except that he studied with my mother in the same medical course and, having learned about her pregnancy, immediately transferred to the Leningrad Institute and disappeared from her life. I was received from the maternity hospital by Stepanich and grandmother Rebekah, whom I hardly remember, because when she died I was three years old. The only thing that reminded me of her was the portrait hanging on the wall in my room, painted in oil by one of my grandfather’s friends. A black-haired beauty with a biblical appearance looked at me languidly and slightly arrogantly from the oval frame, her slender fingers folded over the elegant embroidery. As a child, I remember I was afraid of her; as I got older, I began to envy her. I looked very much like my grandmother, but at the same time I seemed like a caricature of her: thin, tall, awkward, with darkish skin, sharp cheekbones, a coarse shock of hair that could not be combed, and an incredulous look in black eyes. By the age of twelve, I was finally convinced that my grandmother’s beauty would not shine on me, and I accepted the fact that I would remain a black jackdaw for the rest of my life.
The first thing I remember from childhood is my grandfather singing in the kitchen. He loved to sing, he had a beautiful, although not very strong, bass, and his repertoire was very unusual. So, for example, in a bad mood, he sang: “Eh, boss, little key, let me go home...” If life was more or less tolerable, my grandfather loved to sing Vertinsky, “The moon rose over the pink sea,” Petra Leshchenko, “ You are driving drunk and very pale...", ancient romances. My grandfather’s criminal lyrics organically fit into my ideas about beauty. However, he rarely sang thieves’ songs, and he never talked about his life in the zone, even when I grew up and impudently began to ask questions. In the same way, he suppressed talk about the war, although he went through it all, from Moscow to Berlin. “There’s nothing good there, and there’s nothing to talk about.”
My grandfather was not involved in my upbringing in the strict sense of the word: he had no time to do this, he worked in a hospital, often, in order to be paid more, he took on extra duty, and on holidays I never saw him. We didn’t have any guests except my grandfather’s regular card partners, and I learned to play poker before I learned to read. Stepanych taught me to read and write when I was four years old - however, for purely selfish purposes: he was tired of me constantly asking to read a book. It took him two weeks to do this, but in the future I simply took from his shelves what I wanted and read as much as I wanted: my grandfather never limited me in literature. Stepanych himself read whenever possible. If he was not on duty at night, he would sit in the kitchen with some volume until the morning. Looking at him, I learned to read at any time of the day, in public transport, at school under my desk and standing at the stove with a ladle.
I was about six years old when Stepanych sat me on his lap and said sternly:
“Alexandra, remember, I won’t repeat it. No one in this life will do anything for you, for you or without you. Am I making it clear? Repeat. And remind me – where is the free cheese?”
"In a mousetrap..."
"Well done".
I never had any problems with my memory, and my grandfather was pleased, despite the fact that the meaning of these maxims fully reached me ten years later. That same year, Stepanych took me to a music school without even asking my consent. However, it never occurred to me to object: I always obeyed my grandfather, and there was no greater authority for me.
I also knew Fyodor from infancy and only recently began to understand who he actually was. Almost forty years ago, grandfather and Fyodor met in the zone, which for Fyodor was his home, and grandfather ended up there just before Stalin’s death in the case of killer doctors. Then Stalin died, my grandfather was almost immediately sent to a settlement, and soon rehabilitated (I know that Malenkov himself insisted on this). Fedor remained in the zone for another five years, but upon being released, he immediately found his grandfather in Moscow. Why they became friends there, in Siblag, what could have tied the thief in law and one of the best surgeons in Moscow for many years, I did not know, and it never occurred to me to ask Stepanych or Fedor about this. Poker on Fridays was quite common in our house, even when my grandmother was still alive. As the years passed, Fyodor’s mistresses became younger and younger, but he himself seemed to remain unchanged. During the years of widespread shortages, we always had meat, sausage, and imported canned food in our house; a peasant of unknown age brought them in a string bag, handed the bag to the indignant grandfather and, without listening to questions and curses, rolled down the stairs. On Friday, Fedor appeared laughing and feigning surprise.
"I do not know anything! No, not my job! Ivan, say no, it’s not mine, I say! If you don’t want to mess around, feed Sashka, she needs to grow!”
At the mention of me, my grandfather usually gave up, and the food from the string bag migrated to the refrigerator. Stepanich already thought that I spent too much time in queues for my tender age.
I began to feel Fedor’s patronage on myself from the day when, twelve years old, I rushed home in the evening all in tears: I was caught in the gateway by a group of half-drunk boys, with one of whom, Yashka Zhamkin, I even studied in the same class and lived on the same staircase site. They didn’t cause me any serious harm, but they scared me half to death, tore my dress and stuck their sticky hands in all possible places. Fortunately, Stepanych was not there, he was delayed in the hospital, but for some reason Fyodor ended up in the apartment. Looking at me, he immediately understood everything and, while I was crying and washing myself in the bathroom, he called someone on the phone and said a few words. I didn’t hear the conversation, I completely forgot about it and wouldn’t have remembered if the next day two of yesterday’s raiders had not blocked my path right at the entrance. I clutched the pre-prepared fork in my pocket, deciding to sell my honor dearly, but this time the guys were in no hurry to encroach on my innocence. Yashka standing in front, looking sideways, muttered:
“You, Pogryazova, this... Sorry... We weren’t aware of that... Who knew? Neither we, nor Nail, nor Ryakha are anyone else... Don’t think... In short, I’m sorry... We won’t do it again.”
And they disappeared into the gateway. And I, completely dumbfounded, continued on my way. Indeed, no one ever bothered me again. And for several more years these courtyard kings met me in the gateway, greeted me discordantly, or, if I walked too late, were indignant:
“Where are you going, you fool? You will get into something, and then prove to us that you are not camels...”
I got into the situation and tried not to be late.
But who did Fedor want to “add” to us? One of your bandits? It’s unlikely, he would never have involved Stepanych in his affairs... Without coming up with anything, I closed my eyes and indulged in my favorite pastime before bed: I started summoning a green ball. As a child, this activity seemed very funny to me; I imagined a tiny green dot that gradually grew, eventually becoming the size of a soccer ball, and I physically began to feel the warmth coming from it. The ball glowed and moved; one could move it all over the body, from toe to head, from one hand to the other, and at the same time feel how it pleasantly warmed the skin. What this meant, I didn’t yet know, I was absolutely sure that all people had these kinds of balls before going to bed, and therefore I didn’t talk about it with anyone. It would be as stupid as discussing whether every person has two hands or one nose.
After playing with the ball, I rolled over onto my stomach and fell asleep peacefully. And in the morning I woke up because Stepanych was shouting in the corridor:
- How? When?! What did you give him, fool?! What injection? What does “didn’t have time” mean, I told you a hundred times, an ambulance was needed!!! Your mother!!!
For the first time in my life, I heard my grandfather swearing, I flew into the corridor in my shirt, barefoot. The telephone receiver had already been abandoned, hanging on the untwisted cord and beeping sluggishly. The grandfather was sitting bent over on a stool. Seeing me, he said hoarsely:
- This is Tatyana. Fedor died. At night. Heart attack.
The funeral took place three days later. I followed my grandfather to the cemetery, even though he insisted that I stay at home. The Kotlyakovskoe cemetery was usually sparsely populated, and I was very surprised to see how the area in front of the church was filled with about four dozen cars. The cars were expensive, shiny, despite the Moscow winter mud, almost all were foreign cars, of which there were not so many in Moscow at that time. My grandfather and I were late for the funeral service: six men were already carrying the coffin out of the church.
The coffin with Fyodor floated under a gray sky along a snow-covered alley. A crowd was pouring in behind the coffin - all men, young, not so old, and very old, wearing leather coats and jackets that were expensive at that time, short sheepskin coats, mink and wolf hats in their hands. Of the women, there was only one Tatyana, tear-stained and discolored beyond recognition, she kept sobbing into a wet, crumpled handkerchief. Her bronze hair, escaping from under her black scarf, stuck to her face, but Tatyana did not remove it. When the coffin was lowered, the grandfather approached Tatyana (they apparently recognized him as they let him through) and said in a low voice:
– Let them come... if they still need it.
“It’s necessary, Ivan Stepanych,” Tatyana said hoarsely. - Thank you.
The next day she came to us, still in black, pale, several years older, with her hair tied up in a strict bun. Following her, a tall, dark-haired guy with light eyes stepped into the hallway. He only glanced at me, but even that short glance made me feel uneasy. This is how Skipper came into my life.
Hiding behind the kitchen door, I examined my guest. Something about his sharp face with a heavy chin and dark, as if smoked skin seemed familiar to me. Looking more closely, I realized: this guy was very similar to Fedor. Two more came in behind him. One was very young, most likely a Tajik or Turkmen, with impudent black eyes, and quite handsome. The second is huge, shapeless and clumsy, like a wardrobe come to life, with a flat face and thick eyelids, from under which narrow brown, not at all stupid eyes were barely visible. They stood silently at the threshold.
Grandfather, looking intently at Skipper, apparently also made the necessary conclusions, but did not ask any questions. They talked behind a closed door for no more than five minutes. Then they left. The skipper quietly said a few words to the others (they listened without interrupting), and the grandfather turned to me:
- You will go with them to Sokha. Let them live for a couple of months.
- Tomorrow? – I was delighted at the prospect of skipping school.
- Now. - Grandfather turned to Skipper: - You will go with Sanka. Mind you, asshole, if there’s anything wrong with her...
The skipper looked at Stepanych so that he did not continue and, sharply waving his hand, went into the kitchen. I rushed to get dressed.
Two hours later we were sitting in a cold, almost empty train. It was a long drive, more than three hours, and I pulled The Master and Margarita out of my backpack. I hoped to hide some awkwardness by intensive reading: during the journey to the station, I did not exchange a single word with my companions. They were talking to each other in low voices, with those two doing most of the talking, and it was clear that they were very worried. The skipper was silent for the most part, in the subway he even seemed to be dozing, but already at the station square he turned to the guys and said something briefly. I didn’t hear anything because I was just picking up tickets at the box office. But Ibrahim and Bosun (that’s how they introduced themselves) noticeably calmed down, lit a cigarette, Ibrahim even began to tell some obscene joke, but Skipper pointed at me with his eyes, and he fell silent. The two fell asleep on the train as soon as the train left the platform. It was clear that they had not slept for several nights before.
I hoped that Skipper would fall asleep too, but he seemed to have nothing of the kind in his mind. Sitting by the window, he drummed his fingers on his knee, looked at the snow-covered forest rushing past, and was silent. Skipper's face was absolutely serene, but it seemed to me that something was hurting him. And it hurts a lot. I started feeling such things at the age of five, I took it for granted and, as a rule, I was not mistaken, but asking the question “Where does it hurt?” to an unfamiliar adult man?.. In the end, I buried my face in the book, without fear of seeming impolite. That's when Skipper turned his head.
- What do you have?
I shuddered, almost dropping the book. She said angrily:
– Don’t you see it yourself?
- I see. Let me take a look. And it’s better to use “you”, otherwise your nerves will hurt.
Surprised, I held out the book. The skipper opened it at the beginning and began to read quite calmly. I watched him with growing amazement. I had no doubt that a bandit was sitting in front of me. But a reading bandit? And even “The Master and Margarita”?.. From my grandfather’s words, I knew that this book was not easy, that at thirteen it was too early for me to read it, and that people had sharply polar attitudes towards it: either the novel becomes a favorite for life, or it is not. They admit it completely. I haven't figured out what type of reader I am yet, because I'm stuck somewhere on page twelve.
- Listen, can I read? – Skipper asked without raising his eyes.
- Now for you! – I was indignant. - What am I going to do for three hours?
- Take care of your eyesight, still young. Sleep out.
– I don’t want to, I slept all night!
- Do you want me to give you another one?
- Do you have a warehouse? – I said sarcastically.
The skipper silently put “The Master and Margarita” aside, reached into his bag and pulled out... “The Plague” by Camus.
– Did you read this?! – I was taken aback.
The skipper smiled somewhat embarrassed:
– I recently bought it at the market. I didn’t understand a damn thing, I quit. Maybe you can figure it out?
- And... why did you buy it?
– I liked the name.
I was silent, not knowing what to answer. The skipper, meanwhile, took up “The Master and Margarita” again. I hesitated and extended my hand:
- Give it back, you won’t understand anything here either.
- Why? – Light, either gray or greenish eyes looked straight at me, and I felt uneasy, although the Skipper was smiling. – It’s normal here... It’s clear for now.
– How many classes did you complete? – I asked sarcastically.
“Five,” Skipper answered calmly. - And those through the ass.
I got lost. It looked like he wasn't lying. But then we still lived in the USSR, which had not yet collapsed, with its compulsory and free education for everyone: even the children of our alcoholic neighbor completed the eighth grade. For the first time in my life I saw a person with “five classes through the ass” and worriedly thought: was he offended by me?
- Well, okay, read up to the twelfth. And then we'll be together.
When the train approached the tiny Krutichi station, Skipper and I reached page two hundred and twenty-seven. The cruel procurator of Judea, the horseman Pontius Pilate, carried out his judgment. I was completely frozen, but I didn’t even realize at what moment Skipper put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards him. Many years later, he laughingly assured me that he also did not notice how it happened. The most interesting thing is that it seemed to be true. I felt someone else’s hand on my shoulders only when Ibrahim woke up and neighed:
– Earned money for youngsters, Skipper?!
I immediately, although with some regret, freed myself (Skipper was warm under his arm), Skipper grumbled something about the goat and the idiot with one straight wriggle, but we both did not experience any awkwardness. The skipper at that moment was clearly occupied with completely different thoughts. And to me, a little guy, it couldn’t even occur to me to think of anything about the old guy that twenty-five-year-old Skipper seemed to me at that time.
Sokha lived in the village of Krutichi, Kaluga region - a complete wilderness, where buses do not go. For as long as I can remember, my grandfather sent me there for every vacation. From the age of eight, I traveled independently, on May 31, boarding the train at the Kievsky station and on August 31, returning to Moscow, darkly tanned, dusty, with bleached hair. Sokha was as integral an element of my childhood as Stepanych, Milka, the gypsy neighbors, books, and the piano. Like my grandfather, I called her to her face - Egorovna, behind her eyes - Sokha, and it never occurred to me to find out who she actually was to me. In addition to her, four ancient grandmothers lived in Krutichi; to the asphalt highway it was necessary to walk about five kilometers through fields, to the station - almost the same distance through forest, and on three sides the village was surrounded by a dense forest with elk and bears. Along the outskirts of the village ran the narrow river Krutka, overgrown with broom along its banks, behind Krutka lay an immense meadow, overgrown with all kinds of grass and fragrant so that all the surrounding bees flocked to it, and beyond the meadow a swamp and forest began.
Sokha’s house is blue, peeling, with white trim on the windows and a cockerel on the roof crown. Everything is already quite old, but good and not dilapidated. Around the house there is a huge garden of old apple, plum and cherry trees, a vegetable garden, half consisting of beds with medicinal herbs, behind a slanting fence there are traditional rows of potatoes, and behind the potatoes there are more herbs. Sokha was a well-known healer throughout the region, and people even came to her for treatment from Moscow.
When people first look at Soha, they usually get confused. Imagine a retired guard colonel with a straight back, broad shoulders, a meter eighty tall, with a wrinkled face, gray, coldish eyes, with steel in his voice and inflexibility in his gaze. Dress the colonel in a long pleated skirt and an old but clean knitted blue jacket, tie a scarf with blue forget-me-nots on his head, and pull warm chuni on his feet. Belt it with an apron with voluminous pockets, from which some dry seeds and inflorescences are constantly spilling out. This will no longer be a colonel, but Antonina Egorovna Sokhina, Sokha. In her youth, she was very pretty and looked like Marlene Dietrich, as evidenced by a fifty-year-old photograph pinned above the chest of drawers.
Sokha’s house is always very clean, the painted floors are washed to a shine, covered with homespun runners, the curtains on the windows are embroidered with roses and strange leaves (Maruska has nothing else to do in winter). Everywhere - on the walls, on the shelves, on the huge whitewashed stove - herbs, buds, dried flowers. Because of this, Sokha’s house always smells like a summer meadow. On the wall is a copy of Makovsky’s painting “Children Running from a Thunderstorm.” A poor copy, made by a village drunkard artist. On it, a girl carrying her brother is depicted as a completely grown-up girl of about eighteen years old and very similar to Maruska. On the other wall there are bookshelves. One is occupied by various publications and magazines on gardening, floriculture and canning: Sokha’s garden is the best in the village. The village grandmothers are jealous, whispering that all this is due to the fact that Sokha is a witch, and that’s why everything grows on her own. The fact that results can be achieved only through competent courtship does not even occur to them. Sokha has a lot of other books, she, unlike the village ones, loves to read and is not lazy to go skiing seven kilometers in winter to the village of Sestrino, where there is a library. Often my grandfather or I give her books; Maruska buys some when she goes to Moscow. But Maruska, who herself never reads, chooses books based on the principle of “respect”: the thicker and more incomprehensible, the better.
“Oh, you fool...” Sokha swears, sending some gilded “History of Russian Freemasonry” or “Geographical Atlas of the South Pole” to the farthest shelf. – If only I could look at the title, by God... I’ll make you read it yourself, you’ll find out then! I lost a lot of money, but no one needs it! It would be better to say something about love!”
“Isn’t it too late for you to talk about love?” – Maruska is impudently interested. With a squeal, she dodges a well-aimed felt boot and jumps onto my bed with her feet up. Her green eyes laugh, a light strand of hair falls on them, and Maruska becomes like a mermaid from Pushkin’s fairy tales.
Maruska appeared at Sokha’s house when I was eight years old and she was fifteen, and I didn’t wonder where she came from. As a child, you rarely ask yourself such questions. It was enough for me that in the summer I had someone to run with to the river and the forest: there were no other children in Krutichi even during the holidays. Most often, Sokha sent Maruska and me to get grass; we left at dawn and returned, dead tired, already in the light of the moon.
Most of all, I loved being in a large round clearing in the forest, to which I had to walk for more than an hour through spruce, hazel and dense thickets of ferns. The tall grasses in the clearing have a strong and pungent smell, there are not a single tree, but right in the middle there sticks out a cracked wooden post, all black, as if scorched, and rounded at the top. Sokha once mentioned that this pillar was an idol of the Slavic god Perun, spoiled by time. Beyond Perun, through the dark trunks of spruce trees, you can barely make out a small forest lake. When I, having undressed, step onto the mossy bridge, yellow-headed snakes silently slide off them and swim, sticking out their heads. I don’t want to scare the inhabitants of the lake, I carefully, trying not to disturb the thickets of grass, go into the water, but Maruska doesn’t care about the laws of water society, she flies into the lake with noise and splashes; screaming, suddenly disappears headlong, jumps up in a column of water, laughing:
“Oh, it’s deep, you can’t reach the bottom!”
I slowly swim towards the middle. Below, through the greenish thickness, small pebbles and sand are visible. Overhead, in a wreath of green leaves and branches, a blue window of the sky shines through. I close my eyes and summon my green ball as usual. Here, in the clearing, for some reason he always comes much faster than at home before bed. The coldness of the water goes away, I feel warm, almost hot. Maruska’s cry pulls me out of my strange sensations:
- Hey! Sanka! She's frozen, isn't she?
The ball disappears. I get out of the water and within a minute I forget about everything.
...The guys and I approached Krutichi when it was already completely dark. There was no sleep at Sokha’s house; a kerosene lamp was burning in the house.
“Are you sure they won’t push us out of here?” – Skipper asked concerned.
- Don't be afraid. “I opened the gate, walked along the cleared path between the snowdrifts piled up to my height, and knocked on the window. Shadows darted in the house, and Maruska ran out onto the porch in a nightgown and cut-off felt boots on her bare feet.
- Sanka, is that you?! – she was amazed. - Why are you here in the middle of the week, what happened? Is Stepanych healthy?
- Healthy. I'm with the people here.
The guys came closer. The first thing I saw was Skipper’s stunned eyes. He silently looked at Maruska. The lamp was behind her, and her nightgown showed through, but Maruska, looking at strangers in amazement, did not notice this.
“Shut up, you fool,” I said in a whisper.
Maruska caught herself and dashed into the house, shouting as she went:
- Egorovna, Sanka has brought some kind of herd!
- This is what I understand! – Ibrahim said admiringly. - This is a gerla! She's got a lot of buffers, eh, guys? Shki-i-iper, what is it? By the way, I...
