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

dust about the bunker, climbed down the ladder and jumped off. Having seen neither the face nor the skin color of the man I had talked to, I still felt that some dictators were worthy of respect…

Back at the field camp, they called us into the trailer with a long table for the midday meal. Such a dinner does not fall under the category of havvage, it was some really cheerful chow. The cook in his camouflaged by layers of grease, but otherwise white, jacket splashed half-dipper of sore cream into a huge enamel bowl and filled it over with red steaming borshch. A big piece of boiled meat was put on top. On transferring the bowl’s content into me, I got filled to the brim.

For the second course, the cook served golden balls of fried young potatoes in the veil of dill, then poured with meat sauce. Absolutely delicious, but having no room for the additional treat, I finished it off only for principle's sake.

The compote seemed a glut excess, yet I managed to poured it, gradually, in.

With thanks for the meal, I rose and very very carefully ascended the steps in the front porch. Reaching the ground, I unbuckled my belt and walking the gait of parted dividers proceeded to the garden at the field edge. There I gradually laid me down on an armful of dry hay under an Apple tree, in the hope that maybe I still would not explode. Somehow.

And so it happened! By the time the blonde came into the garden, I felt normal. She sat under the same Apple tree, leaned her back on the trunk and smiled at me her sweet inviting smile.

I was amazed by the exact coincidence in the scenic design – a garden around her and me below the Apple tree, and only Serpent was skipping the picture. And, with warm tenderness, I began to think of Eera and pride myself for keeping staunchly truthful. Because I abstained from falling in the usual groove and going along with the flow despite all too ingratiating conditions for the purpose – the bed of hay in the Apple-tree shade in the Garden of Eden conveniently supplied by the blonde…

The next morning saw me, and the chief engineer, and a long tape measure marking out the projected walls of two inspection holes in the boxes under construction. Tshombe did find what to keep us busy with…

A couple of days before the completion of the term at the construction platoon, Sasha Chalov popped up at the Auto-Depot 4 on no particular purpose, just to drink the sun in the tumbler. Giving a tender jerk to his briefcase he, as was his custom, recited his favorite quatrain:

" One won't sound at allAnd two won't jingle this wayWhen people of such qualityLive in the Soviet land!"

From the poetry standpoint, the piece sucked more than absolutely, yet in the same breath, conveyed an optimistic message, inspiring and bright. The stoker-"chemists” helped to sort out the contents of the portfolio, which made one bottle for a snout and soon after the consumption, Sasha Chalov left.

It was already late, so Tomato and Yura also steered to their stoker-house but, on the way, they knocked on the door of the girls' room. It happened to be locked. They knocked again and then, carried away with the recollections of their happy school days and themselves—adolescent hooligans—they started cutting capers around the locked door. Some paper slips were lit to burn and shoved in the gap under the door. The girls defended their safety pouring, from inside, water from their kettle.

In the background was I, stretched out on my bed, producing a soundtrack of hue and cry. A sudden rage against the whole female tribe flushed me, like, because of them all was so boring and awry that I myself did not know what I needed. So, I lay there yelling the most disgusting things.

Were the door open from the very beginning, the "chemists" would simply get in and out, but now they were burning with hunting ardor. Under the sword of Damocles of getting sent back to Zona, they surely had no intention to jeopardize their present conditions, they were just having fun.

However, the poor girls in the besieged room were not up to all these logical operations or seeing any fun at all, when a pair of convicts were attacking their door, under my instigating, idiotic, shrieks from the common bedroom, "Bitches! Wolf whores!" Finally, one of the guys from their Phys-Math course approached my bed and said that it was not right. I shouted to the stokers that that was enough, and Tomato with Yura faded in the woodwork right away; "chemists" have no problems concerning logic.

Next morning I knocked on the door to the girls' room. It was not locked. I entered and apologized for the previous night. "Afraid of expulsion from the institute?" asked the one with the brown hair.

Hardly would she believe that I was just ashamed. Even less, could I bring it over to her that I did not know exactly whether I was afraid or wanted to be sent down…

(…looking back brings not too much fun because of frequent temptation to spit in your own face. However, the truth remains true only when it's unvarnished, and all that shit is also me…)

~ ~ ~

Since I earned some kopecks at the student construction platoon, I bought a doll for Lenochka. Of course, I wouldn't be smart enough to do it, but the All-Union radio station "Mayak" for at least thrice a day aired the most popular hit of season:

"Daddy, present me,Daddy, present me,Daddy, present meWith a doll!."

And during a day that hit would get you someplace or another and start to spin on and on in your brains even without the radio around until—click!—hey, that's an idea! So I went to the Department Store after a doll, but there were no dolls.

It wouldn't be right to always blame the era of shortages. It's no