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

out even by the cost of your own life…

~ ~ ~

(…in my opinion, The Orion provided their musical services free of charge, that is for nothing. In any case, I do not remember any talks about any money for "playing trash".

For us, musicians in The Orion, just breaking out from the bounds of the Military Detachment 41769, playing dances for people dressed in civilian clothes was an invaluable payment in itself. So, if you like, we were paid by minutes of freedom, time is money sometimes.

Was there any dough sticking to a palm at the commanding level? Say, to that of Zampolit of our battalion? I have no idea and don’t feel like lying…)

With the draft from Simferopol, there arrived one more musician to join The Orion. Yura Nikolayev knew his worth because his price-list he studied well before the army, playing the rhythm guitar in a restaurant band.

And he also sang (without particular voice range and particular crap) within the framework of usual orders from restaurant revelers, heated with a couple of decanters of vodka.

"Here's water, it is good and cool!Adding it to vodka is the gentlemanly rule!"

After the third decanter, it was time for hard rock:

"…by softly murmuring waters of the Nile,Free of care, of pains, of nasty neighbors,There lived a small but happy crocodile!.."

And when the client grew fully ripe, the surrealistic splashes gushed forth:

The firewood bloomed and horses were a-twitting,A camel came from Africa on skates…

Chorus:

No, no no need to giddy-up me, sweetie,I’m daft enough as is–Aye! Aye! Aye!. "

So my presence in The Orion was justified by merely a couple of old numbers but the Ensign, appointed to supervise us at playing out of the battalion, could not inform Zampolit that I was going with the ensemble for no good reason. And not only I was getting something for nothing – 2 or 3 chmomen usually went along under the pretext of being sound engineers.

However, playing dances was a seasonal affair. The New Year parties were the main vent for The Orion getting outside the VSO-11. It’s only once that we were engaged in summer, or rather at the beginning of autumn. That was playing dances at a bakery plant. Whether it was the same one where my team-squad had been collecting alms from the production line conveyors, I couldn’t tell. Arriving in for that party, I saw only the asphalted courtyard enclosed by the row of locked truck boxes and the three-story building of the Plant Management with the party buzzing on its second floor.

Of course, I danced there quite a lot, and one of my partners got so charmed that she didn’t hesitate to go out of the hall, at my suggestion. We climbed the dark staircase to the third floor but the landing there with the locked door to a corridor was occupied by them those chmo sound engineers drinking wine.

On the first floor, the picture almost repeated itself, only there it was her female co-employees smoking cigarettes. I made for the exit with her docilely following in tow.

AW, FUCK!!

The bare asphalt area was flooded with arc light glare leaving no shaded nook. The only bit of shadow was the anthracite-black meager strip of it cast by the pillar which held that dazzling arc lamp in the middle of the yard… I was like that puppy named Tuzik who had snitched off a rubber hot-water bottle, yet couldn't find a place to tear it up… Reluctantly, I beat retreat…

Probably, the girl was disappointed by my not-soldierly lack of determination and too easy surrender to the plain minimalism of the conditions in the bakery plant yard. Anyway, the following evening she did not show up for the date in the park as we'd arranged.

I went a couple of circles along the dark alleys, stood for a while close to the brightly lit dance-floor inside which coral the youth of Stavropol were enjoying their recreation, although it was dangerous – a soldier in a casual wear outfit could be an easy mark for the military patrol. She was nowhere and the chances for her to pop up grew real slim.

"Got matches, soldier?" A dainty long-haired dude with a shoulder bag on a wide strap was addressing me.

I took the matchbox from my pants pocket. He picked it and unzipped his bag where, on top anything else, lay a cigarette pack next to a box of matches.

"Oh! I'm so forgetful. Will you?" He seized the pack and opened its lid over the densely lined filters. I pulled one out.

"Ah, it's so noisy here, gives me a headache. Will we walk a little?" With his right hand, he shook up the wide curls in his dark bob-cut hair.

…hell, what's up?. is he gluing me or what?. a short neat guy, long hair, a bag under his elbow… "Why not?"

We walked away, followed by the glances of those standing by the dance-floor, that part of the public who always keep outside. Strolling slowly, we headed nowhere in particular. He talked and talked with velvety feminine intonations. Then he told me a joke about gay life.

Some queen was arrested in Moscow and while they were beating him up at a militia station he squeaked, "Oh, Captain, I only wanted it in my mouth, not in the teeth!" A play on words, though not very funny, yet clear enough, as clear as what he was, it’s only that I just wondered what's next.

"Would you like some wine?

"Why not?"

We went to a nearby deli, there was almost no line there. Bubbling with joy, he asked for my advice on a wine over there, on the shelf behind the counter: would that do? As if I knew seeing the first time ever that "Mountain Flower". The shop was full of crude light and leering goggles of scanty buyers. He happily punched the check by the cashier, took it to the shop-assistant, exchanged the slip for the bottle and inserted it into his dangling bag.

We returned to the park, to its upper, dark,