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

completely unbearable, and I stuffed a joint from Lyalka's donation in the car vestibule, while Slavic acted a make-believe screen around me with his fur headgear on top… We sparked it right there, smoked, entered the car and got seated on the benches, opposite each other. He looked at me, I looked at him, in the hope, so to speak, maybe it's just that I didn't have time enough to feel the touch?. But it's all bullshit. If you start cultivating wishful expectations of that sort, then the stuff has no more dose in it than clippings from a kitchen broom.

We arrived in Nezhyn, each one full of glum and dismay. By the time we reached the Hosty, it was completely dark. But, just in case, we walked to the Old Building… Night. Desolation. Winter… I stuffed one from the grabbed in the attic. Sparked it. Slavic was standing by, but manly restrained himself.

I took another drag and said, "Slavic…" (…and from the marble plaque on the corner of the Old Building with the inscription “N. V. Gogol studied here…” my own words echoed back to me…), "…it's not in vain, that we have ridden three horses to death today." So said I, and passed the joint into his craving claw…

As for Twoic, he was a guy from Bakhmuch named Sasha whom I renamed into "Eternal-Two-Getter" because "two" was the poorest mark for school kids, but then the handle was shortened to Twoic. Reciprocally, he dubbed me with the handle of "Hooey-Pricker" derived from my half-tabooed warcry by which I answered any kickbacks in life, "We'll prick any hooey thru!"

In fact, he was not from Bakhmuch itself but from a village adjacent to it. On account of that, he liked to pass for a naive child of nature and acted a simple-minded peasant yokel. Each weekend when he started back to Nezhyn his parents collected him a generous "torba" with ample grub. On the whole, it was a bulky farm boy.

Man's nature is best reflected in their laughter. By Twoic it was a sharp yank of his moon-like broad face up to chortle two-three squeaks out, with his eyes shut tightly, and then, as the round face was lowering back, the pair pin-sharp pupils would frisk thru the portholes of his squint, checking the current situation: what's how? Just so a recklessly cautious character…

Studying at the Biology Department, he, naturally, lived on the second (the Bio-Fac's) floor at the Hosty. Twoic was another "tail-clinger", though not as keen as Slavic. The main factor to turn us into an inseparable trinity was Preferans which is a great game if you take a closer look at it. Poker, Snore, King or its reduced version – Eralush, are just a contest in actor skills, while Preferans is an intellectual game of mind. Only I had constant bad luck at it… I tried to break that tendency and tame the fortune, and, because of that, I kept taking desperate risks. "Bluish" misers became the trademark of Hooey-Pricker.

It was clear as day that because of the crimson tablecloth stolen from the redhead dembel, I had fallen out of grace by Luck, so I tried to overcome that status quo, whatever the costs, and gain back a grip at the fortune's forelock. As a result, getting 2 or 3 "throw-ins" or even a "train" of them at playing a regular "bluish" miser, I sat, deject, indifferent, and languid, in a bummed-out prostration until the end of the "pool of 40" in progress…

I was paid the regular student scholarship of 45 rubles a month. Almost every weekend, my mother gave me 10 rubles before I left for Nezhyn. All the money went to my card debts, well, plus the havvage at the canteen. The tall bottles with dry wine forsook me; I switched over to the healthy way of a sober life. Although constant being down-and-out was f-f…er…I mean, flatly bending me out of shape.

Besides, Twoic and Slavic played "a mutual paw", that is as a team, having conspired, which means forget the hope that your seconded King, or Queen backed by two lower cards, will ever bring you a trick. United efforts of 2 playing "a mutual paw" would strip the single-handed opponent of a trick, or a chip at 50 percent of the games in the pool. Such is the law – severe, but just: there are no bros at cards; shut up your driveling gape when among pals.

(…of course, you do not need to understand all this Preferans terminology, but, to get the feel, imagine a couple of muggers working in a minibus: one holds the victim's hands while the other frisks and picks the pockets.

The difference though is that you won't take the same minibus seeing them on it, while in Preferans' case you will come up to them the next day and say, "Well, will we "draw a pool", or will we?" Of their conspiracy, I was directly told years after graduating from the NGPI…)

Of course, I noticed their "mutual-paw pedal system" of scratching their eyebrows and pulling themselves behind the earlobe, under the guise of reflexive body movements, but I did not care a damn. It was not them but my fate I vied to vanquish in the single combat gambling, even if it chose to wile using the pair of tricky pawns… Knowing that "they play" in Room 72, Preferans lovers from other Departments also came to us. With those, I was breaking even, I would have stayed in the win, but for the adamant propensity for unreliable—"bluish"—misers…

In addition to being always ready to play cards, Twoic served a source of useful acquaintances. With his mediation, a pair of cute, educated local fags paid a couple of visits to our room. One of them told "pinkish" jokes, "Then get, you naasty fascist, a grenade from a Soviet homoseexual!" With much gusto and very accurately, he emulated the fey droll of fairies. And Dr. Grisha shared how visiting the beach of