The Moscoviad Read Online Free PDF Page A

still, the sad day invariably
came when they abandoned their hosts, taking with them something valuable as a
memento.
    And so you too,
Otto von F., decided in the midst of your insomnia that now your turn had come,
and this knocking at three in the morning meant that you were about to
entertain a lady guest, quite possibly, a VD carrying one. But having opened
the door, you saw not a young “wandergirl” with unwashed hair and lips red as a
flag, but a rather good-looking, and no less drunk, young man.
    “Hey, boss,” said
the boy, “sorry for bothering you at such a late hour. But I’ve gotta have some
vodka.”
    “And that’s it?”
you asked, Otto von F., disappointed in your hopes.
    “Hey, boss, let
me finish. They call me Ruslan, by the way. And you?”
    “Ivan,” you
answered, Otto von F.
    “OK, Vanya, let
me speak. I wanna go buy some vodka at the taxi garage. Here’s the money,” and
he showed me a handful of bills, as if that could be of any importance.
    “But the front
door is locked, boss. I ran through all the floors—you alone have let me in,
boss.”
    “So?” you asked
skeptically.
    “Let me finish.
From your room I’ll go to the taxi garage.”
    “From my room
you’ll go fuck yourself,” was the answer.
    “Nah, you don’t
see it, boss, and talk bull. You have the fire escape going by your window,
understand? I’ll climb down,” he showed with his arms, and also with his feet a
little, how he’d climb. “I served in the marines, got it? I can bring you some
booze too.”
    You wavered for a
little bit, but Ruslan’s confident, handsome smile and powerful build did their
job.
    “OK, go,” you
decided.
    “You’re the man,
boss, I saw it,” Ruslan’s face lit up.
    He came up to the
window, opened it widely, and the freezing November air, saturated with the
smells of autumn rains, dead leaves, neglected cemeteries, Pushkin’s poems, in
other words, the smells of late fall, Moscow-style, flooded the room, so that
you started rubbing yourself and shivering from cold.
    “OK, go now!” you
shouted.
    Ruslan stood up
on the windowsill, waved to you, and made a big step into the night. You peered
out after him. He was already hanging on the fire escape to the right of your
window, as if he were a drunken circus performer testing the nerves of the
foolish public; another moment, and he planted his feet on the ladder.
    “Hey, and how
will you get back?” you asked, suddenly coming to your senses.
    “You still don’t
get it, boss? Through your window! I won’t be long—there and back again, like
an anti-tank missile . . .”
    The ladder
uttered a metallic moan under his feet. He was rather agile for a drunk
climbing down. He didn’t play hooky back in the marines. But you kept cursing
everything in this world: the wandering girls with their ill-timed love, your
insomnia, and the young, alcoholism prone motherland defender, through whose
graces you’d have to wait by the window for some twenty minutes at the least.
    The night, as it
has been already mentioned, was slimy and cold. Pro-imperial dogs barked out
their fierce discomfort in some faraway backyards. Time dragged slowly, and
you, having nothing to do, even got dressed and smoked a cigarette or two. On a
lower floor a squeaky female voice suddenly yelled out, “You fucking bastard!”
Then the ringing of broken glass, muffled blows, as if someone was hammering
nails into the wall with someone else’s head, and then a low male voice
informed, “You’re a fool, Zinka, can’t you see I love you!” Then everything
grew silent.
    Finally you heard
again the moaning of the ladder. Ruslan was on his way back.
    He covered one
floor after another, and somewhere between the fifth and the sixth floor he
stopped to take a breather. Looked up and saw you leaning out of the window.
    “I’m already
here, boss,” he informed joyfully. “Sorry I took so long. Imagine, even the
taxi garage didn’t have any. The racket hit them today.