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

dude came up to us between the Under-Overpass and Bazaar and we stopped for a talk nearby the closed already Deli 1. Or rather they talked because of being from the same school, and I just stood there like an odd lamppost.

He had a cool shirt on, I had not seen anything like that before—red and green stripes as wide as in pajamas. Not that I had ever had pajamas, but they could sometimes be seen in movies… He rhapsodized which of the Moscow universities he would enter because his uncle was a diplomat and knew everyone there. And he, the uncle, invited him to go to the Black Sea after the entrance exams by his, uncle's, Volga so that the attractive nephew would serve a bait to lime the girlies.

Then they see-youed each other and we parted, but the chat had obviously put Natalie out of humor. Already at her khutta gate, she told me that she had already been dating a guy and once late in the evening they were going on an empty bus and he looked back at the conductor in her seat by the door, and said, "Conductor is not a human," and kissed Natalie.

And then I also felt down in the dumps, because it was clear that they were kissing without conductors as well. And I thought that it was, probably, that same red-green yakker but I didn't ask questions. That evening all the way from Suvorov to Nezhyn Street I walked forever crushed by grief…

In those times to gauge a Konotoper's level of prosperity was a trivial task – you just inquired if they had a hut at the Seim river.

Upstream from the Bay Beach, about half-kilometer closer to the railway bridge, the Willow thicket on the bank was gashed by a long gully. At the end of that inlet, amid abundant growth of pliant Willows, there stood some four to five dozen huts of the Partnership "Priseimovye".

True, it called for a certain stretch of liberality to use the name of “huts” for those thrown together booths with deal-walls under the roofs of tin. They were small in size – for a couple or three iron beds on the floor of sand. No window was needed; on their arrival to relax in nature’s lap, the hut owner kept its door open all day long.

But if they were a fisherman, they would lock the door and go down to the gully, where a row of long narrow flat-bottom skiffs stood afloat, chained and padlocked to the pales in the sandy bank. Putting the tackle on the bottom of their boat, they would unlock the weighty padlock, get seated in the narrow stern and paddle with a single oar to come out of the gully to the expanse of the Seim river, and then proceed to their favorite fishing place, the spot where they kept chumming fish with caked chaff.

Having a hut was of great convenience – you could go swimming to the Bay Beach (directly two hundred meters thru the Willow thicket), come back and cook your meal on the Primus stove, blazing its blue flame on the table dug into the sand next to your hut.

Many people went to their huts by the local train on Friday evening and returned by the last one on Sunday. While having no hut on the Seim, you could go there only Saturdays and Sundays; in the morning – there, and by 17.24 or 19.07 – back to Konotop.

When Kuba arrived in the summer after his first year at the Odessa Sea School, we, sure thing, decided to rush to the Seim. Only we had to wait for the weekend because of my job at the Vegetable Base, besides, it was on weekends only that the ORS booth trucks came to the Bay Beach to sell ice-cream.

"Skully says, Grigorenchikha's become your squeeze, eh?"

"Tell Skully her name is 'Natalie'."

"Okay, whatever. Then invite her too."

Natalie agreed quite easily and we went all together: Kuba, Skully, I and Natalie. When we got off the train and were discussing where to—the Bay Beach or the Lake at the Pine grove?—Natalie suggested crossing the Seim, over there'd be not as much of a madhouse as on the Bay Beach.

On the other riverbank, there also were huts whose owners, if arrived on Friday, the next morning were meeting theirs from the Saturday train to take them over the river. One of those could ferry us just for asking… And it happened the way she predicted, probably, because it was her to ask the skiff guy for a ride.

It was an excellent day. We found a sandy glade in the Willow thicket quite close to the river, at some hundred meters from the huts. On the soft white sand, we spread the only bed cover we had, because no one except Natalie was clever enough to bring it along. When she changed into her two-piece swimsuit, she overshadowed the entire Film a Divadlo because along with her lush breasts and plum bottom there also was such a slender waist.

For bathing, we went to the small beach by the huts with the skiffs tied to the bank. Natalie preferred sitting in one of them but Kuba, Skully and I got as furious as in good old days on the Kandeebynno.

Then we ate sandwiches, drank lemonade and switched over to sunbathing. The bedspread on the sand had room only for two: for Natalie, as it was she who brought it, and for me, because it was I, who she was going out with.

She was lying on her back wearing wide black sunglasses, I stretched by her side on my stomach, being embarrassed with my trunks sticking out because of the boner. My sidekicks lay on the hot sand (also on their stomachs) fitting their imprudent heads onto the bedspread corners at our feet… And – all-embracing, sultry, tense, silence…

Of course, the next weekend only two of us went to that place… And again we lay side