The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
Шрифт:
Интервал:
Закладка:
Probably, the drunk really have their guardian angels, but with that preventive blow at the blockhead’s scull my thumb got dislocated and I couldn't box anymore, so when Quak rose to his feet the fight transformed into a wrestling single combat. We reeled over the ground and after the high-pitched admonitions by Vera threatening to call her brother and father to the scene of discontent, we left the yard.
Walking in the same direction, we gradually restored being on speaking terms and briefly discussed details of our recent confrontation, touched, in passing, undeniably succulent attractions of Vera Yatsenko. We never returned to the subject of Olga.
Near the Under-Overpass, he boarded Streetcar 3 departing to the Settlement and I went on, bypassed the Station and proceeded along the railway tracks to Decemberists Street because my shoulder was slightly bleeding, torn by the coal slag cover of the walkway in the two-story block courtyard.
Coal slag is good to keep in check the mud after a rain or autumn drizzle, but as tatami, it falls short of the cinder path.
The next morning I had to tell my parents about my fall off a bicycle – the traditional excuse which causes an understanding smirk in the inquirer’s countenance.
(…probably, the guardian angels are also retiring from their job. Many years later, Quak died the traditional Ukrainian mujik's death – fell asleep in a snowdrift and froze a few meters from his khutta.
Sometimes it seems to me that the only place where he still exists is my memories of him…)
Soon I was summoned to the militia station nearby Deli 5 to explain my role in Olga's suicide attempt of which they were informed by the ambulance workers. They took my word that I was neither the instigator nor an accomplice, and let me go.
My mother collected all Olga's clothes and shoes that still stayed in the khutta, both light and warm – for all seasons. It turned out a bulky bale which she shrouded within a white cloth to be sent by the railway post cars. I asked Vladya for help and we dragged that bale along the tracks to the station luggage office. For convenience, we cinched it with a rope to the nickel-plated pipe of a window curtain shaft, like, prehistoric hunters or Aborigine savages carrying killed game home. Only we dragged it in the opposite direction – away, for it was not prey, but a loss.
In the office, I wrote the Theodosia address on the cloth and got their receipt indicating the weight. When we got out of there, Vladya obviously wanted to tell me something, but he restrained himself, I always knew that he was more tactful than Quak.
…certain thoughts are better not to be started…
The curtain shaft developed a bend under the load carried all that long way, and I threw it into the bushes behind the high first platform of the station before going to Lyalka…
~ ~ ~
On September 1, at the ceremonial line-up around the big pensive bust of Gogol between the Old and New Buildings, Rector of the Institute, as always, announced that the classes were starting for all except the second and third-year students, who would go for a month to villages with their patronage assistance. The second and third-year students of all the Departments, as always, shouted "Hurray!"
Next morning, the convoy of two big buses carried their load of sophomores along the Moscow highway to the district center of Borzna, from where they took the bumpy dirt road to the Bolshevik village, yet failed to reach it because of the too deep mud in the final couples of kilometers. The students and half-dozen of overseeing teachers get out of the buses onto the roadside and walked along a narrow path trodden thru the green thicket of the rain-drenched corn stalks towards the village where they were to patronize hops harvesting. Almost each one dragged a "torba", the gunny cloth bag filled with the provision taken along from their respective homes.
My burden was much lighter – the guitar put with its neck across my shoulder, and cigarettes in my pocket, so the walk would be a breeze but for my leaking sneakers. In front of me a red sweater, blue jeans, and black rubber high boots, with a white kerchief-visor on top of all, were schlepping their "torba".
(…I am often amazed at my own self – when meeting an object with their hair longer than mine, the hips wider and rounder, I get taken in completely. I am routed, conquered, delighted and, sticking my paws up, ready to surrender and plead for the victress’ mercy…)
"Hi, beauty, your high boots are size 45?" A haughty look down her nose, "46." Like the "hello" so is the response, a poor try at hooking, but, at least, I was not ignored completely. Overtaking the girl, I looked back to smile at the condensed chill in her face and went on, because winking at chicks never was a habit about me even though, reportedly, they like it…
The village of Bolshevik was one wide empty street of half-dozen khuttas, and some larger buildings hidden deeper in the fog and dank dampness behind the seldom big trees that still dropped rare heavy drops from their foliage. Everyone went into the one-story canteen filled with grave gloom because of the bad weather outside the low windows. Long tables under the tattered oilcloth and the piece of plywood to stop dispensing window indicated the purpose of the room.
After protracted negotiations between the overseer-teachers and local authorities, the students began to settle for their stay in the village… A pair of log-walled two-story buildings split inside into four-person rooms were allocated to student girls, while all
