The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

ages long need of paint. The blind wall opposite the windows separated their home from the neighbors' half-khutta.

Galina Petrovna had the job of a nurse at the Plant Kindergarten concealed in the bush between the Plant Park and the road diving into the tunnel of the Under-Overpass. At times, she was paid visits by her cousin. She called him Pencil or Pencilletto, depending on her current mood which, in its turn, depended on whether or not the cousin popped up with a bottle of wine on him. The honorific ‘Pencil’ was saved for officially dry visitations. I wouldn’t hastily rule out his kinship because Vladya’s and his eyes had something common in their look. Vladya's two elder brothers, who looked different from each other, and from Vladya as well, were separately traveling about the Soviet Union in their chase after the long ruble…

Among the guys from both Forge and Smithy Streets Vladya enjoyed well-deserved popularity. And it was not merely for the fact that his two elder brothers had managed to gain proper respect and unquestionable recognition in the eyes of the entire Settlement before they launched on their ‘chase’, and even though certain gleam of their reputation touched Vladya, yet, apart from all that, he had merits of his own. He could drive a fool like no other guy in the neighborhood.

In the Settlement parlance "fool driver" was someone up to fool you by their jive for one or another private purpose, yet mostly for mirthful entertainment. The subjects for such recreational fool-driving could vary widely. Here, for instance, he drove a fool about blocks in Scotland throwing logs in competition, which he told on behalf one of those kilted sportsmen:

"Well, that guy did not get it that I had already made my throw and he caught it square on the pate. That’s when he kicked the bucket. What else would you do under such a predicament, eh?" And Vladya closed one eye while drowsily rolling the other one up under the still half-open eyelid.

Or he shared local news how Kolyan Pevriy, thoroughly well-oiled, took a lamppost for a passer-by. He bullied it for a starter, then went over to extorting a cigarette, but since the held-up lamppost neither talked nor showed proper respect, Kolyan began to kick the shit outta him in earnest…couldn't fell, though…

And one evening, our company on the porch was joined by a guitar borrowed from Vasya Markov, and Vladya sang the song about Count and his daughter Valentina, who fell in love with the page playing the violin so well. That's when and where I got into servile bondage and begged Vladya to teach me too. He replied that he also was learning from Quak to who I'd better turn directly, yet what the use when I did not have a guitar, and he couldn't give me the one he played because it was Vasya's who did not allow to farm it out or let be strummed by anyone except for Vladya…

If you dearly want something, the dream would come true in seconds, plus or minus a day or 2. There appeared a guitar! Vadik Glushchenko, handled Glushcha, from that same Forge Street, sold me his. And with no ripping off at the transaction, down the soundhole, you could read in the sticker inside: "7 rubles 50 kopecks. The Leningrad Factory of Musical Instruments."

The needed sum was almost immediately procured by Mother. True enough, the plastic handle on the third-string peghead was missing, but later Father took off the tuning machine, smuggled it to his work and welded a neat iron rivet in place of the lost one.

Quak gave me a crumpled sheet from a copybook with the invaluable, exhaustive, list and tablature of all the guitar chords in existence: "the small starlet", "the big starlet", "the poker", and "the barre". Just a little more and I would start singing about the Count’s beloved daughter!. But no, I was not allowed that tiny stretch of time. Vladya's brother, Yura, on his way from Syktywkar to Zabaykalsk (or maybe vice versa), brought him a brand new six-string guitar, and I again remained hopelessly behind because on the six-stringed, aka Spanish, guitar there were neither "pokers" nor "starlets". And so I had to cut notches in the nut of my guitar for the six-stringed layout instead of the seven-stringed, aka Russian, one.

Mid-October, the weather was still soft and Galina Petrovna arranged Vladya's birthday party in their khutta’s yard for her son to invite and entertain his classmates in the open air.

The table from the room was taken out into the front garden strip and, with the protective oilcloth stripped off, it turned to be a varnished sliding table long enough to span the stretch between the khutta and the wooden shed with latticed, veranda-like, panes, which in summertime served both a kitchenette and a bedroom.

It was at that celebration table that for the first time in my life I drank wine. What a stunner feeling! The world around got wrapped within the thinnest lacework of translucent—like dragonfly wings—pattern of floral petals passed thru with sheer tiny veins… Beautiful friends sat around me—the best of the best in the worlds—we were engaged in the wittiest conversation and Vladya's mother’s laughter ringed so melodiously while the soft shadow beneath the bush of red currant grew darker, blurrier, and deeper…

With the onset of winter, another of my classmates, Lyouba Serduke, also had a birthday, and those who handed in two rubles to our Class Monitor, Tanya Krasnozhon, came to the khutta of the birthday girl.

Until then, all kinds of bigger parties were arranged exclusively at school, under the supervision of Class Mistress, Albina Grigoryevna. We gathered there in the evening, drank lemonade brought to the classroom by a couple of mothers, then they left and all the desks were moved into one corner to make room for playing Brook, and the guys from higher grades opened the door and peeped in, but Albina would drive them away with her