To my friend Emmanuel, part 1
Vlad Mitrofanov-Ramensky
Part 1
Tourists
One late summer, smoothly flowing into the early autumn of ninety-four, my friends Lesh Malyshev nicknamed (Baby), a healthy fellow with a heavy look of deep-set eyes, with his friend, a young student of the Polytechnic, Lenya Kokorev, went to Moscow to Izmailovsky vernisage to buy varnish and blanks for boxes.
They worked part-time as lacquerers for lacquer miniatures, and one day they took on an order, and they offered me to share in it and paint these pieces, and they would finish them, package them, and deliver them to the customer.
After returning from Moscow from the art exhibition, they came to my place and excitedly told me that when they were on the train back, they met some Belgian tourists who had come to explore Russia. They celebrated their meeting by drinking alcohol together in the bushes near the platform in Petushki. Fueled by alcohol and pleased with their new acquaintances, they reached Vladimir, and the guests, following the advice of my friends, settled in a hotel of the same name, agreeing to meet the next day. My friends came to me, telling me about it, interrupting each other, and inviting me to meet the foreigners tomorrow morning.
"Let's go to your village to drink wine, they want to relax in a Russian village," suggested Lasha, excited about sharing alcohol, which he was a big fan of.
Yes, I myself was not against joining in the general fun, having kindly provided a maternity home in the village of Voskresenskoye, forty kilometers from Vladimir, especially since I did not communicate closely with foreigners, and I was glad to talk with them.
So in the morning, my friends came to my place, and we went to the hotel together, deciding on the way what to do next. Entering the hall, we met our guests from the decaying West who were strolling there, to whom Lyosha and Lena introduced me. There were six of them, four guys and two girls. They were led by the oldest of them, a red-haired guy with two weeks' worth of stubble, who was dressed stylishly and fashionably. He worked as a cameraman for the European Broadcasting Union in Moscow and spoke Russian with a very funny accent. His niece, Barbara, a stocky girl with an athletic build, had come to visit him. She had two friends with her: a Korean living in Belgium, Peter, and a curly-haired, tall Flemish guy named Alexander Germu, and another guy whose name I don't remember, along with his French girlfriend. They wanted to go to Suzdal, a well-known ancient Russian city among foreigners, so we decided to go there. After spending half a day there and admiring the Russian folk art, we returned to the bus station, where Emmanuel treated us all to a glass of cognac at the bar. After that, the conversation became more lively, and when we returned to Vladimir, I called some of my friends who had cars to take us to the village at a lower cost than a taxi would have cost. They promised to come soon, and while we were waiting, we went to the village market, where my guests bought meat, vegetables, and, of course, beer and Russian vodka, which delighted Lenya and Leshya, who were looking forward to a fun party in the countryside. They also agreed to pay some money for the trip to the village, which made them look like unscrupulous businessmen.
After the market, we went to my old house, where we waited on a bench near the blooming garden for the late taxi drivers. Student Lenya was practicing his English, explaining something to the guests, and Lesha, who had already had too much beer, was frowning drowsily, trying to make sense of this international dialogue. The atmosphere was lively and relaxed, and I was chatting with Emmanuel, telling him about the place we were going to visit. I think he and his companions had placed their trust in us, even though we had only known each other for half a day. I appreciated their trust, especially since this diverse group of Western tourists had taken on all the financial responsibilities. And so, during our passionate conversation, a small figure appeared on the overgrown path from behind the neighbor's house, Aunt Lida Semushina, slowly walking with the gait of a heavily intoxicated person. This was my neighbor, Sanka, who lived alone in a large house at the back of my garden, abandoned by all his relatives due to his addiction to excessive drinking and the resulting violence towards his family. I occasionally interacted with him when he was able to speak coherently.He was a former gymnast, a master of sports, and had once trained with our famous Vladimir champion, who now has a monument near the house where he lived. Sanka was very short, although he had a well-proportioned body and a well-developed мускулатура from his professional athletic background. And so he heard our voices, apparently, and changed course to the right to my house from the course to the street Vatutina, where in every house practically churned out moonshine, he was a great hunter to this fiery drink, in the literal sense of knocking down even large people. And so with a cheerful smile on the good-natured face of a little man he came up to us, the foreigners were alarmed at first, but I explained to them that this is my neighbor, almost an Olympic champion in gymnastics. Apparently, they respected athletes, and so they clucked their tongues in admiration and gladly shook Sanya's hand, touching the legend of Vladimir gymnastics. Sanya was quite flattered by this attention, and so he suggested that we run out for moonshine to celebrate this pleasant admiration, and Lasha eagerly supported this idea, pleading with Emmanuel to give him some money for a half-liter of this magical beverage.
Emmanuel, already warmed up by cognac and beer, decided to try it out, giving Sanya a ten-ruble note, albeit with some hesitation. I assured him that he would not cheat and would bring everything back in good condition.
And so it happened, after a while I took the small glasses out of the house, my guests, having tasted the stinking moonshine from the Vatutinsky bootleggers, wrinkled their noses, which made our messenger furious. And he said in a slurred voice:
"Well, who drinks like that, eh, you look how it's done."
The guys who came to pick us up in two cars quickly took my guests, who were happily discussing the event in Flemish, to my mother's house in the village, promising to return in a day and take them back. Emmanuel paid them in advance, as they had requested, and I vouched for their integrity. After unloading our belongings and grabbing a quick bite to eat, we embarked on a tour of the village. I remind you that this was in 1994, and the last foreigners seen in the village were in the late 1940s, when they were German prisoners living in a barn outside the village and working on the collective farm. The appearance of these foreign citizens, dressed in such strange and elaborate attire, in my mother's house sparked intense discussions among the villagers. The women gathered in groups and whispered outside their houses, glancing sideways at my guests, who were strolling along with imported canned beer and smoking Marlboros, accompanied by the already quite inebriated Lenya and Leshka, who were swaying from side to side on the village road. The local men, smoking stinking homegrown tobacco, were also talking in surprise, looking in the direction of our procession, and a local farmer and artist, a bearded man named Valera, came out to meet us and invited us to his barn from the last century, which had been converted into a workshop, where he was showing his surrealist paintings. My guests were interested in his paintings and Valera himself, who looked like a homeless intellectual searching for the meaning of life. However, after engaging the foreigners in lengthy conversations about art and the hardships of being a poor artist, Valera displayed remarkable entrepreneurial spirit and sold an interesting surrealist piece to a Frenchwoman and her Belgian friend with round glasses. This piece, reminiscent of the work of Salvador Dal;, was diluted by Nikas Safronov, a well-known art publicist, and performed by Valera himself. They took out a hundred dollars in one piece of paper and gave it to him, which delighted him immensely, as there were clearly no connoisseurs of his art in the village, and here was such luck. Although he later claimed that his painting was worth much more, he had clearly underestimated its value, and he puffed out his chest and stroked his thick beard. He categorically refused to celebrate the deal, looking warily at our tipsy, cheerful faces. Hiding the cherished green paper with the hated image of his ideological enemy, he sent us away.We returned to the house, praising the acquisition of my guests, Lesh and Lenya, already heavily loaded with alcohol from the very early morning, began to assure the Western fans of Valery's sur, that it was necessary to wash, otherwise the customs would not pass such a valuable work of art. The buyers, frightened, took out a beer for themselves and a bottle of vodka for Lesh and Lenya, they opened it and poured a few drops on the painting.
"Now everyone will be allowed to pass the border," Lesh muttered confidently, looking with regret at the rapidly dwindling half-liter of Stolichnaya. But the other guests also took out several half-liters from their bulky backpacks, and the fun continued. They also served their neighbors, an unidentified woman named Marina and her son, a young alcoholic named Dima, who had spent the summer in the village, picking berries and mushrooms and selling them in Kovrov, where they had lived until they sold their apartment, or in Vladimir, if the locals didn't buy their forest products. In addition to my mother, there was Lyusya, her cousin, who cooked for us, and her boyfriend, Valera, whom my mother had invited to help at the church, where she was the churchwarden and in charge of the village cemetery. Valera came from a religious family, and his brother, Sasha, was a protodeacon at the Assumption Cathedral, while his younger brother, Misha, who later became a monk named Kirill, was the secretary of the Tula diocese under Bishop Serapion, and later became a bishop and a prominent figure in the Russian Orthodox Church. Valera, who lived in Rybinsk, had recently divorced his wife and, having been banished by her for his excessive drinking, had settled in Vladimir with his parents. However, he had apparently become a nuisance to his family, and my mother, who was well acquainted with them, invited him to her place to introduce him to Lyusya. Apparently, my mother hadn't pampered him, and when he saw all the alcohol, the cans of beer, and the packs of Marlboros, and when he saw my European guests, he became somewhat stupefied. Moreover, he seemed to be drinking something, although he didn't sit at the table with us. In the evening, I saw him and his neighbor, Marina, talking about something in a half-drunken manner and smoking Marlboros, which he gallantly offered to her, completely forgetting about the non-smoker, Lyusya, who was busy at the stove. A little later, in order to somehow dilute the celebration and not let everyone get drunk, I went and made an agreement with my mother's cousin to heat up the bathhouse for us, presenting two packs of red and white Marlboro cigarettes and a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and several cans of beer for her husband, Uncle Alexei. She didn't want to take it, but I persuaded her and told her that we would arrive with foreign guests in an hour, and she, who only remembered the German prisoners as a young girl, crossed herself in fear and said that they would do everything and allowed us to come. An hour later, as we had agreed, the whole group, except for the Frenchwoman and her Belgian friend, who apparently didn't want to part with their newly acquired surrealistic painting, arrived at the sauna. Of the girls, only Barbara was with us, and she modestly covered herself with a birch broom she found in the dressing room. I jokingly explained that it was a Russian tradition in the village to go to the sauna together and drink vodka, and that it was okay for her to feel comfortable. In response, she took off her tank top and revealed her beautiful, swaying breasts on her athletic body, but she kept her thin, light-ochre panties on, which sat seductively on her toned thighs. We all stripped down and happily entered the hot steam room, which greeted us with the scent of incense and the warmth of the heated stones. After sitting down on the benches, I poured water on the hot stones, and we were enveloped in a cloud of steam. We began to beat ourselves with birch brooms, and then Leshka winked at me and pulled out a frosted bottle of vodka from somewhere below, pouring it into the ladle that I had just used to add steam.
"Tradition, Russian tradition," he said, taking a large sip and passing it to the skinny student, Lena, who passed it on to the next person. Apparently, Lesh had taken too much to drink, but the Belgians pulled out a square bottle of whiskey and started a new round. Everyone was cheerful and drunk, laughing and whipping themselves with brooms, and Barbara was no longer shy, showing off her seductive and appetizing breasts. Then the water ran out, and we threw a coin to see who would go to the well, and I won, and I came out completely naked with two buckets, and I scared the owners, who were standing nearby, listening to our chatter and obviously worried about their old bathhouse. They recoiled, and Uncle Lesha, who was already half-drunk, swore cheerfully, and Aunt Galya started to cross herself again. I calmed them down and, half-covered with buckets so that they wouldn't see all my manly bits, I went to fetch some water.
After that, we sat in the yard and talked, completely happy and contented, and then we arranged the guests in different places, some in the large hayloft, I lay down on the terrace, and Valera and Lyusya went to Marina's place. In short, there was room for everyone. We slept almost until lunch, exhausted from the day before, but in the morning, Lasha and Valera were mumbling something outside the window, obviously looking for a drink, and when we all got up, their pleased faces and unsteady walk indicated that they had found it. By lunchtime, the cars arrived, and the guests boarded them and continued their journey. But not everyone, Peter and Alexander Germu were so inspired by yesterday that through Emmanuel they asked for permission to stay at my house for a week before their flight back to their homeland, even promised to pay for something and buy groceries.. After talking to his mother and Lucy and informing them that the guests want to stay and ask for permission.. My parent didn't mind and just warned them not to get drunk and buy groceries. Lyosha also pricked up his ears, apparently sensing commercial interest. I didn't need anything, and I was even pleased that they would stay. So we all left for the city, where I had business to attend to, while my guests remained in the village under the care of my relatives.After seeing off Emmanuel and his friends in Moscow, we said our goodbyes at the train station, promising him that we would visit him as soon as we arrived in the capital. A couple of days later, I arrived in the village on my motorcycle to check on my guests. When I arrived at the house, I found Valera and Marina, who were half-drunk and smoking Marlboro cigarettes.
"I see you've given up on homemade cigarettes and switched to imported ones from the rotting West," I joked, and then asked where my guests were. He drunkenly jerked his head in the direction of the camp site on the mill pond and said briefly.
- There.. And then my mother came out and said.
- We went to the forest together to pick mushrooms, Valera came back barely standing on his feet, they seemed to be sober, they said they saw traces of horses on the forest road.. I told them it was from the camp site, they have a farm there and horses.. So they went to look for them..
I kicked the kickstarter and drove in that direction, crossing the ravine with the key, I turned right from the Maryinskaya road and caught up with my guests as I approached the second ravine.. They were dressed in gray quilted jackets and high black rubber boots, and they looked no different from the German prisoners who had lived here after the war.. My mother had carefully dressed them in the clothes of my late grandfather, Sergei Ivanovich. When they saw me, they waved their hands excitedly, and from their halting English and hand gestures, I understood that they were following the horse tracks and wanted to find a stable and ask the owner for a ride, as Alexander was a professional equestrian. He showed me crumpled dollar bills, which he probably wanted to use to rent a pair of ungulates, but they each had half a bottle of vodka in their pockets, and they said that they didn't drink, but Valera did, and after drinking, he fell in the woods, and they brought him back to the village and sat him next to Marina.
Well, I said, I'll go check the situation at the campground, and you go straight down the road, then take a left turn when you see the buildings. I started my motorcycle and set off, and after a short drive, I parked near a small house. A short boy and a fair-haired girl with a round face came out to greet me.
In the house, I could hear a baby crying through the open window. The couple, whose names were Roma and Sveta, were already tipsy, explaining that they were from Vladimir, but they lived here and worked at the campground, taking care of the animals on the farm and in the stables. Nadya and Seryoga from Pirogovo were also working there, but they were not present at the time. I briefly explained the situation, stating that foreign guests would arrive soon and they wanted to rent horses for a day-long ride around the area, paying in dollars and bringing a bottle of vodka with them. If at the word about hard currency they reacted somewhat sluggishly, then at the mention of vodka, Sveta immediately ran to unhitch the horses, leaving Roma with me to wait for the guests.. A few minutes later, two figures appeared in gray tattered quilted jackets, Roma looked at the approaching guests with some distrust, then at me, thinking that we were deceiving him and these were ordinary village men.. I calmed him down and, in order to dispel doubts, shouted.
- Hello, my friends.. And they laughed, and when I came up, I explained to them that the boss was willing to rent them some ungulates, but first he needed a drink, elite.. Ok, ok, and they simultaneously pulled out two half-bottles that Valera had left untouched.. I explained to them that the boss's wife had gone to prepare and saddle the horses at the stable, and Roma quickly ran to the house and brought back some fresh cucumbers and two-hundred-gram glass bottles.. But I refused, because I was driving, and I might go to the city again, the Belgians said elite, fifty grams, and they poured Romain a whole glass.. He happily swallowed it while the wif was busy with the horses, and he asked for more, they poured him the rest of the vodka, and he swallowed the second glass without wincing.. Oh, champion, champion, little man, gymnast, they remembered the recent incident with my neighbor in the city and looked at Roma and his pants with curiosity, probably expecting him to squat down and smoke, but he didn't smoke, he just laughed and patted my guests on the shoulders, recalling the painful foreign words from his school curriculum. Schpaciren, gehen, zuryuk, gans, ich, fritz, or rather, schreibicus.
He was probably learning German, and we were all laughing at him, but then he suddenly stopped talking, staggered, and fell under the table, where there was some simple food. I explained to them that the boss was dead, that they had paid him, that the lease agreement had been signed, and that they should go to his wife and take the horses. They took out their crumpled dollars again, but I told them, "No, no, not now, not yet." Alexander took off his sheepskin coat and carefully covered the boss, who was lying under the table and mumbling something in German. Kaput, hende hoch, spatziren gehen. A baby was crying in the house, so we went in and rocked its crib, and then boss's girlfriend, Sveta, came back and started yelling at him. I told her, "He's settled things with Roma," and she said, "I can see that." Then, glancing at the guests, she said to Alexander: "Come on, I'll show you everything, and come tomorrow morning, I'll harness and cook everything for you, and she asked me: "Do they know how to drive?" EU, eu, frau, and then Roma shouted: "Damn hell." Shut up, asshole, you're going to wake up the baby, and you kicked him badly. Come on, she told Alexander, you can ride next to me, and I'll see what kind of horseman you are. He went with her, and I had to go, and I left Peter to guard Roma and look after the child, I went to the village, I said that my guests were at the camp site, and I went to the city.
And a day later, the Belgians came to me in the city themselves, they had to buy groceries and boots for Alexander, which he had completely fallen apart, I went with them to the market, we bought groceries, several packages of meat, vegetables and fruits, and, of course, Russian vodka for Roma and Sveta, as they said. I asked Alexander how they had a private ride with Sveta, and he blushed and revealed that while boss Roma was asleep, she had tried to seduce him, but I wasn't sure if they had done anything. Peter laughed, and Alexander became even more embarrassed, lowering his eyes. Then we bought some boots and went for a walk around Vladimir, in Pushkin Park we met young girls, schoolgirls Vera and Yulia, who came to walk in the park after school, they were interested in my Belgian friends and talked to them in school English and even promised to come to them in the village, asking for the address where they live. After seeing the schoolgirls home to study, my friends, having boarded the Kovrov bus at the station and loaded with bags of food, departed for Voskresenskoye. The next day, Leshka and Lenya arrived in the village, sober-minded, after school, and the schoolgirls came with their bags of textbooks, their eyes lined and their lips painted on their innocent faces. I arrived a little later on my faithful and fast "Jawa-638" and found the whole company already having fun near the house, the girls were the center of attention, sprinkling English words, Lesh and Lenya were already under the influence, and Peter with Alexander gleamed merrily with their eyes and joked with schoolgirls, making eyes at them. Lesh muttered: "Look, Volodya, how much meat they have, they offer to go to the camp site, there Roma was going to heat the bath by the water." Well, if they're inviting us, we'll go, so we grabbed a few bottles of vodka and huge chunks of prime pork and headed over to the campground. The sauna was already emitting a fragrant smoke from the birch logs, and we were greeted by Sveta, who took the meat and promised to prepare the kebabs quickly. We went downstairs and, after a short walk, entered the building. It was, of course, not a village bathhouse, but a whole complex with a fireplace room, a large dressing room and a huge stove with a kamennik, near the bathhouse there was a large pier for boats and dipping after the steam room in the refreshing waters of the mill pond. Well, then the fun began, vodka flowed like a river over the edge, we sat in the fireplace room and savoring the fragrant and juicy shashlik, prepared by Sveta. But Leshka's mood was slightly dampened when he attacked Yura, who had a house in the village. When he saw the young girls, he joined us. He didn't drink much, but he spent more time in the steam room, gently brushing a birch broom over their delicate bodies, and then dousing them with cold water from a bucket. Lasha didn't like it, and he said to Yura, fists clenched, "This is for the Belgians," and punched him. I quickly jumped in and punched Lasha in his square jaw. He fell under the table in displeasure, and a muffled voice said, "This is for the Belgians." To avoid further confrontation, I told Yura to go home and apologize for Lasha, as he was older than us and we had a normal relationship. "This is for the Belgians," came the voice from under the table, and my friends lifted Leshka up and put him back at the table. We parted long after midnight, having somehow made our way back to the village. The girls were put to bed in the hayloft, along with their schoolbooks, and they were warm and content, already flirting with the foreigners. Leshka tried to climb into the hayloft with them, but Lеня grabbed him by the legs and pulled him back, growling menacingly, "This is for the Belgians."Then the Belgians climbed into the hayloft, fervent young laughter and snatches of English phrases could be heard from there, and I lay down on the terrace, clean, drunk and tired from the day, and immediately fell asleep.
And the next morning I had to work, go to the city, draw an order, Lyosha and Lena also had to go to the city, but Lyosha was rumpled and with a disheveled head. "I'm going to shake myself up and let's go," he reassured himself. "I'll shake myself up," and there was a small bruise on his cheekbone, which I had given him to keep him from being a troublemaker, but he didn't seem to mind and was just rubbing the sore spot. The girls, who were schoolgirls, happily climbed down from the hayloft, dropping their bags of textbooks, as they clearly had no intention of going to school, flirting and giggling with my guests.Lenya stood there with a stupid smile on his face, clearly trying to pick up one of them, I think it was Yulia, but she was clearly not interested in him, so he didn't stand a chance at the moment. He moved over to Valera, who was also in a state of disrepair, as he was planning to go mushroom picking and had a large wicker basket ready, hoping to bring home some fresh mushrooms and receive the well-deserved reward of a glass of vodka. In general, I started the motorcycle and drove first Leshu, and then Lenya to the highway, where they stayed to vote or wait for the Kovrov or other buses from that side, following to Vladimir. Leshu began to ask me for money, saying that he only had dollars, he apparently received them from the Belgians, now I understood why he was so zealously protecting schoolgirls from external male attention, he hit Yura and pulled down the foolish Lenya from the hayloft, a half-done pimp. I gave him a ride, taking a crumpled five-dollar bill from him, and I rode off into the city on my fast Jawa. A couple of days later, I returned to the village, and my mother told me that the Belgians went to the camp every day, came back in the evening, had dinner, and laughed all night. She didn't understand what they were saying, but she said that the Flemish language was like a mix of French and German, and the only words she could understand were "Roma." Valery brings mushrooms every day and asks for vodka, he doesn't help in the church, but sits with Marina and her son Dima, and they all smoke Marlboro. Lyusya went home, she was tired of watching these drunken parties, her husband was the same, that's why she divorced him. So, I started my motorcycle and drove to the campground, there was no one there, I went into the house, everything was open, the baby was sleeping, I quietly left so as not to wake him. A frightened man with a red face came up from the farm, and it was probably Seryoga Pugachev, a resident of Pirogovo. He said that he had just laid down, and he was screaming like a резаный, but he was quiet now, and the others had left in a cart, and the cow had run away, and they had gone to look for it, and the others who didn't speak Russian had also left, and it was still morning, and I didn't know if they had found it or not. I rolled the motorcycle down so as not to wake the peacefully sleeping baby, and already at the bottom started and, having passed the dam of the Mill pond, went towards Pirogovo, looking around, to the right of me was a forest, and on the left a field, and somewhere in the distance from the corner of my eye I saw some movement. I turned around, returned down to the pond and in front of it turned right and, having reached almost to the edge with densely standing pines, behind which was the highway, popularly called "pekinka", I saw a strange procession. A wooden hay wagon, drawn by a disconsolate bay horse, was slowly making its way down the field towards the pond. On the wagon, with her back to the direction of travel, was Svetlana, laughing merrily. Opposite her were Peter and Alexander Germe, who were clearly in high spirits and telling Svetlana a story. At the back of the cart was a struggling heifer with wild, bulging eyes, and next to her was a completely drunk Roma, slapping her on the sides and shouting at the top of his lungs: "You bitch, you ran away, you bastard, you whore." He swung his arm again and fell into the mud, already covered in grime. "A-a-a, you fascist!" he shouted at the cow. "You want a bull, you prostitute!" and, swinging his arm, he lost his balance and fell to the ground once again, but then he jumped up quickly, ran to the cow, and, holding on to it, was able to maintain his balance and stay more or less horizontal. Meanwhile, the three people on the cart paid no attention to Roma, as they were engaged in a conversation and slowly made their way to the campground. Then my guests, who were facing in the direction of travel, noticed me waiting for them and started shouting cheerfully: "Hi, Vladimir!" "Hello, our friend!" Svetlana also turned to me and said, "We've finally found you. She ran away to Pirogovo, got away from him, and all you could see was that stupid guy tying her up, and he kept asking for vodka, but they didn't have any money, they only had dollars left, so they went to Penkino and bought two bottles of vodka with their dollars, and they drank them on the way, but it wasn't enough, so they had to go to Pirogovo and get another couple from the old man, who sells vodka there, the old bastard, and he charges triple the price." Alexander, having grasped the essence of the conversation and having heard the word "vodka", pulled out crumpled green notes, and made a gesture that he was sponsoring and paying for everything. "Money, money, no problem." Seeing this, Roma stopped beating the cow and, with an expression of absolute bliss, approached the cart, swaying. "Volodya, burn it while we're carrying the cow, and tell me which house to go to." Alexander got off the cart, climbed into the back seat of my Java, and we headed off to get more. We found the house quickly, and it was opened by a cunning old man of about seventy, wearing a faded and tattered fur vest. He looked suspiciously at the dollars, although he had heard about them, and I assumed that his grandson had brought him fake vodka, which he sold to the locals at a high price. In general, we talked about the war, he was a veteran and took Alexander for a German, I explained everything to him, who Alexander is and why he has dollars, I told him about his grandfather Sergei Ivanovich, who was a native of this village, he knew him, of course, he knew his relatives. In general, we somehow persuaded him to sell us two bottles of palenka, giving a five-dollar banknote, which he suspiciously sniffed and examined while we were preparing to return.
The day after tomorrow, my friends had to leave for Moscow airport, and I said that I would come for them tomorrow, and today they should not relax, prepare for departure, and, starting the motorcycle, departed to Vladimir.
And the next day after lunch, I returned, again they were not at home, I arranged with a second cousin to take them to the city in his "Moskvich", and he agreed for dollars, which thanks to my guests now had many people in these surroundings. Then I went to the camp site, Roma was surprisingly sober, he says, went for vodka in Pirogovo and still not. Well, I started the motorcycle and went on the road, at the end of the dam stood two carelessly parked tractors of the Belarus brand, and next to the sand lay four bodies and something quietly conversed in an incomprehensible gibberish language. Seeing me, Alexander stood up and waved his hand. I called out to them and pointed to the time, and I managed to push my way through the drunken tourists, who were covered in a week's worth of stubble, and led them towards the campground. The tractor drivers also stood up, barely able to stand, and there were three bottles of vodka lying nearby. "Goodbye, my friends, goodbye." They waved as we left, enthusiastically bidding farewell to the Western tourists, who turned around and waved back.
That's how the friendship of nations works, that's how Russian hospitality works, and those green pieces of paper with the faces of American presidents, I thought at the time. The grandfather, the seller of moonshine, had made a profit, and he was probably counting his dollars. Well, the vacation was over, and it was time to go.
My relative took them to Vladimir, also receiving a green ten-dollar bill for it, which he was very happy about, and invited my still-drunk friends to come again. When we got to the city, we took them to the train station, and while we were waiting for the train, I asked them where they got so much money, and Lenya translated. Well, they're students, and every year after they graduate, they work as construction workers for a month or two, which is hard work, but they get paid eight dollars an hour. That's around 60 to 80 dollars a day. Well, they get about 2,000 to 3,000 dollars for their work, and then they buy tickets at the end of the summer and go somewhere in Europe, they've been to a lot of places, and this year they decided to visit Russia. They'll remember this vacation for a long time, they say, but only if they have dollars, and Alexander slapped his pockets and laughed.
"Well, the locals will remember you for a long time, you've provided a lot of people, and you have dollars, but they don't," and we all laughed together, slapping each other on the shoulders. In general, all in all, they spent a thousand and a half dollars on the two of them, as Alexander admitted, but they don't regret anything, there was no such vacation as in Russia, in boring Europe, and they will always remember it. I asked about him, how are the Russian people to him? He said the people he met were very nice, open-minded, and kind, but they drank a lot of vodka, and Leshka looked like a Russian bear, and he imitated its lumbering gait and gloomy expression under its lowered eyebrows, making a very funny face. Everyone laughed and went to the platform, where the train was already approaching. We said our goodbyes, and my recent guests returned to their own Europe, but they would surely remember this crazy and delightful week spent among the Russian people in the Russian countryside near Vladimir.
Part 2. Leg
It was the late autumn of 94, I had been engaged in the sale of lacquer miniature for a whole year at the Izmailovsky Vernissage, living this creative work in the difficult 90s. And so, at the end of October, with a bag full of ready lacquer boxes with different plots, I went to Moscow to the art market in Izmailovo, with me went a young student Lenya, who wanted to meet with Emmanuel, and I planned to combine my work with a warm meeting with our Belgian comrade. At that time, there wasn't as much communication as there is now, and apartments had regular home telephones, but Emmanuel, as an advanced Western citizen, had a compact pager, and we could call his number from a regular payphone on the street and send him a message or simply call the home number of the one-room apartment he rented near the Shchukinskaya metro station on Volokolamskoye Highway, which he had given us when we saw him off in Vladimir. After selling most of my works at the opening night and receiving a small amount of dollars and rubles, Lenya and I went to the metro and started calling, but the phone was silent, so we sent a message to Emmanuel on his pager, wondering where he was. We had called him from Vladimir, and he had said he would be waiting for us. After walking through autumn Moscow, we called him several times, but he did not answer, already completely disappointed, we wanted to take the evening train home from Kursky railway station, but I came up with the idea to visit my Moscow friend Sergei, calling him and arranging for him to wait for Emmanuel's answer, we went to his Warm Camp, where he lived in a three-room apartment with his parents and was a rather strange type, he was ten years older than me, I had known him since childhood, his family had a house in the village of Voskresenskoye, where we met when I was sent there for the summer holidays. I will not tell you much about him, I will only say that he deserves a separate description for a number of reasons, and I will devote a separate chapter to him in my stories about my friends. Arriving in Teply Stan, we went to his panel house on Tyuleneva Street, Sergei met us as was his usual habit, very wary, suspiciously examining us with Lenya, I knew this property of his character for a long time, so in order to melt his wariness, I offered to drink vodka and have a snack with semi-smoked sausage, which I bought on the way, hoping to meet Emmanuel. But Sergey categorically did not like to be treated, I don't know why, but he met all these offers with hostility and always tried to treat himself. While we were deciding who would treat whom, sitting in his small room, Lenya finally called our Belgian friend, he returned to the apartment and waited for us there, the time was not late, and we, without treating Sergey, went to Shchukinskaya. Emmanuel was not alone, but with a girl, we drank vodka and went for a walk around the neighborhood, talking about different things. The girl hardly spoke to us, she and Emmanuel scored a joint, and she, wearing headphones with music, walked next to us, but was alone with herself. We walked, chatting cheerfully, Emmanuel, on the contrary, was cheerful and friendly and was happy to see us, however, he did not want to leave us overnight, preferring to stay, apparently, with this self-absorbed girl. But we, heated by alcohol and our meeting, didn't think about what would happen next. After reaching the Moscow Canal, we walked around the area and returned to the apartment. We talked, and Emmanuel shared stories about his work as a cameraman. He had recently returned from Chechnya and showed us photos of himself standing with a camera and Chechen militants holding guns and wearing machine gun belts. We argued a lot about politics, he shouted, jumped up, waved his arms, he was very hotly reacting to everything that was happening around, he inspired me with his politically non-indifferent position with some kind of trust, although I did not agree with everything. He told how he came to Moscow in the early 90s, having arrived with a humanitarian convoy from the West, how he was robbed by bandits on the very first day at the parking lot of heavy trucks, taking away a video camera, how before that he studied at the University in Brussels, then worked as a taxi driver. I liked his free and independent nature, especially since he spoke good Russian, and we could have a good conversation and argue. He told me about his family, his father had already died, and his mother lived in her house in Brussels and sold furniture and souvenirs. He had siblings, and he was the youngest. After drinking our vodka, he took out his own, and we drank it as well. We decided to take a walk, crossing the Volokolamka to the park, but since we were already tipsy, we didn't fully appreciate the danger of the busy highway. It was already dark, and the three of us, having crossed the dividing strip, waited for a window to appear in the cars that were passing by and blinding us with their headlights. Suddenly, Lenya rushed to the other side, and I followed him. Emmanuel grabbed my shoulder and tried to stop me from taking unnecessary risks, but I pulled away and ran after Lenya. And only the squealing of brakes, the impact, and I, as in slow motion, fly over the car and see everything around me, and fall to the asphalt, Emmanuel runs up, three guys jump out of the car and rush at him, shouting that he pushed me under the car, I try to get up, I don't feel any pain, but my leg gives out, and I fall back to the asphalt, Lenya runs up, some people. Someone shouts: "Call an ambulance, call an ambulance!" I don't understand what's wrong with me, and Lenya says that I have a bone sticking out of my ankle, and the guys from the Volvo are yelling that I broke their headlight, which costs \$300. A patrol car arrives, followed by an ambulance, and the guys are shouting and swearing, accusing the Belgian of pushing me. I'm loaded into the ambulance, and only then do I feel the pain in my leg, and I start shaking. My arms and body were shaking, and the doctor gave me a sedative and painkillers. Emmanuel persuaded the doctor to let him ride in the ambulance with me, and we were taken to the hospital with flashing lights. We were brought to the emergency room on a stretcher, where several other injured patients were waiting for surgery. I was shocked and afraid, but just a few minutes earlier, I had been happy, drunk, and talkative. I had been arguing and laughing, and I had rubles and dollars in my pocket from selling the boxes. And in a moment I could just die, and my life would end on this cold asphalt in a pool of my warm blood, and then emptiness and non-existence, tears of relatives and sorrow of friends and a lot of unfulfilled, unrealized and unmade. But fate kept me, hold me Emmanuel for a second, heavy Volvo would break and crush me and tear my young and strong body into bloody pieces, frightening such a terrible sight of my friends and passers-by. But here I am, waiting my turn, Emmanuel lights a cigarette and gives it to me, I'm afraid to look at my leg, it's aching and hurting. The doctor comes out and says, "Pay without waiting in line," my companion says, "I'll pay." 60 rubles to the cashier, and Emmanuel takes me, cigarette in her mouth, ahead of all the broken-down poor souls, and says, "This is an artist from Vladimir, let him through, we've paid for the surgery." No one argues, and I'm taken to the operating room, undressed, and given a sedative, but I don't fall asleep. Apparently, the alcohol is reacting with the medication, preventing me from dozing off. I pretend to be asleep, but occasionally I peek through one eye to see what they're doing to my leg, fearing it might be amputated. But Moscow trauma surgeons know their job, if it's an artist from Vladimir and the operation was paid by a citizen of the Kingdom of Belgium, who almost killed me, as I later joked with him, probably so as not to leave me overnight. My leg was eventually assembled, tightened with an Elizarov apparatus, the ankle, which was sticking out, was put back in place, the bone was aligned, and everything was bandaged and fixed with a plaster cast, or rather a sling. After all this, I was taken to a room for people who were intoxicated, with orange walls and fluorescent lights that were always on, and there were two other patients besides me. There was a thin, middle-aged man with a mustache who was completely incoherent and mumbling incoherently, and he had a serious injury, like a broken hip. And one of them was walking around with a bandaged head, he had been brought in from a rally, there were a lot of rallies in the 90s, I don't know if he was beaten by a riot policeman with a baton or by political opponents, but he was walking around reciting some political poetry. I never figured out what political party he belonged to, but in the morning, the nurses took him away, although I still couldn't sleep, my leg was hurting terribly, and I couldn't do anything but endure it while staring at the orange wall. After a while, an orderly came and said: "Get on the stretcher, I'll take you to the ward." He took me out into the corridor, and they brought me into the room, apparently, a suicide with bandaged hands, he was probably opening up because of his love for Lucy, whom he constantly called, although I did not see her anywhere. But suddenly he pushed the orderly at me, I instinctively cowered, trying to save my bad leg, the orderly falls, and the face-to-face suicide with a shout "Lusya, I-I" ran, apparently, to look for her, the orderly jumped up and, forgetting about me, rushed after him. And already in a couple of minutes he was brought back, handcuffed, three orderlies and one policeman, apparently on duty at the entrance, and behind him was some tearful, unremarkable woman. Probably, Lyusya, and begged him not to run away, but he could no longer run away anywhere, the orderlies brought him into the orange room and chained him with two handcuffs to the bed. And then finally remembered me and took me to a regular room with the same broken poor guys as I was, Emmanuel brought me crutches and cigarettes with gifts, and already quite familiar, galloping to the dressing, to the procedures and to the cigarette. There were three bent-edged spokes sticking out of my leg near the heel, and I went to the hospital every day for bandages and injections. Then my mother and my future wife, Tonya, came to take me home. The doctor in our department called me in and told me that they had done everything they could and that I needed to be monitored at my home address to preserve my leg. So I went home. Even though I was wounded, I went back to my homeland!A couple of weeks later, my Belgian friend came to visit me with two girls: Georgina, a Greek from Cyprus who lived in London and worked for a radio station in Moscow, and Nivea, an Egyptian. He brought a paper from the police, asking me to sign that I had no complaints against him. "Of course not, my friend, I pushed you under the car, and I have no complaints," I joked, and we laughed together. We decided to celebrate his arrival. As I understand it, he promised his female companions to show them around Vladimir, but after we drank some vodka and Emmanuel, as was his habit, rolled some joints with the girls, they forgot about their cultural program and plunged into a whirlwind of debauchery and unbridled fun. There was also the well-known Leshka, nicknamed the Little Bear, and my friend Igor, a former sailor in the fishing fleet who had traveled to many countries and was expelled for being drunk on board a ship, just as we were about to start a business venture. He rented half a house near me and often visited my place, and he couldn't miss this opportunity. We were having fun and joking, drinking vodka and talking about a lot of things. The girls didn't speak Russian, but they got into the spirit and laughed along with us. The next day, we went to Igor's house and spent the whole day there. Lasha took me on a sled through the snow, swaying from side to side. "It's okay, it's okay, Volodya, we'll get there," he reassured me, and I hit him on the back with my crutch when he hit the asphalt and almost tipped me over. But everything went well, and he took me back and forth without incident, saving my leg. We walked with Igor all day, until my neighbor Lenka, nicknamed (Gray), showed up, apparently because of the blond curls that fell on her shoulders. When she saw Emmanuel's dark-haired friends, she suddenly became jealous and started shouting, "What the hell are you bringing them here for? Don't you have enough of our girls?" We tried to explain to her that they were foreigners, but she kept looking from them to us with suspicion. Fortunately, the girls didn't understand what she was asking them, or there might have been a misunderstanding. But we sat Lenka at the table and poured her some vodka to calm her down, and then she realized her mistake, and we all laughed together. And then she even took the girls to the snowy garden to relieve themselves, and we could hear their laughter from outside. At that time, there were no toilets in the houses, and all the facilities were located outside. Yes, that's how life was, without warm amenities, and for foreign women, especially those from the south, peeing in the snow was quite an exotic experience, although Lenka was no stranger to it. Georgina sat next to me at the table and looked at my leg with sympathy and pity, and I took care of her a little, pouring her some drinks and serving her some food, and she told me about London and her family, and I liked her more and more. She was short and well-built, and her large breasts added to her charm and femininity. But I understood that she was Emmanuel's friend, and they seemed to have some kind of relationship, so I couldn't just go up to her and give her a kiss on the cheek, so I just kissed her on the top of her dark hair, and she looked at me and said, "Thank you" in Russian. That was the end of my infatuation with her. The party continued, and we didn't leave until late into the night. After walking around for two days, the tourists only looked at the sights of old Vladimir before leaving, with the help of my mother and friends, and quickly retreated to Moscow. Tonya took care of me, and I visited her in her apartment in the city center every weekend. My friends carried me up to the fifth floor, and I rewarded them with a glass of vodka, and they left, satisfied, leaving us alone. Tonya was very supportive, cooking delicious meals, washing me in the bathroom, and sharing a bed with me. As the days passed and the New Year of 1995 approached, we decided to celebrate the New Year at Toni's place. She invited her friend Larisa and her fat husband Seryoga, whom we had met at their wedding, as well as her friend Galya, a pretty girl from the Vologda region with a very Russian face. I invited a young student named Lenya and Emmanuel, who arrived just before the celebration. The festivities began with traditional toasts, greetings, and bidding farewell to the old year. Toni set up a lavish table. There were all sorts of salads and pickles, traditional Olivier salad and herring under a fur coat, fatty, spicy herring under onion rings, various cuts of smoked sausages and ham, pork jelly covered with a fatty crust with fragrant horseradish in a jar, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes, pickled mushrooms and pickled Volzhanka mushrooms, traditional orange tangerines and other fruits in a large and beautiful dish. Everything was neatly and tastefully arranged and ready to be consumed. And, of course, there was something even hotter: stewed fragrant meat with soft boiled potatoes and excellent chicken fried in butter until crispy. We brought a lot of vodka and champagne, a lot of alcohol, and it played a cruel New Year's joke on us. We celebrated for half the night, probably, first fell fat Seryoga, despite his weight and a satisfied round face, he was the first to be laid in the corner on the mattress, Galya laughed merrily and went out with us to smoke in the entrance, there we with Emmanuel felt and grabbed for various protruding and seductive places of Galya's slender figure, I praised her in front of him and said: "Look, what a beauty, a real Russian beauty from the Vologda hinterland", and he drunkenly and according nodded, not disputing this fact. But she was apparently not his type, he loved women with big breasts and large, as he later confessed to me in secret. All would be well, but all these signs of attention angered Tonya, who at first tolerated, but when Emmanuel climbed onto the couch to take pictures of us, he was shaken, and he could not hold on and fell on the decorated Christmas tree, toys, stars and snowflakes flew. Tonya couldn't bear it, and she kicked us all out, or rather, she left me behind because I was disabled at the time, and she left the fat guy, Seryoga, who was snoring in the corner, and his wife, Larisa, who was dozing off. Emmanuel, Lena, and Galya were shown the door. Later, I was kicked out, or rather, in the morning, and I left in a taxi that Lenya helped me hail.
Part 3 Guests
At the time when we were so fun to celebrate the 95th year, the Russian army began the assault on Grozny, I was sitting with a plastered broken leg and watching an old black and white TV, where they showed terrible war footage: burnt-out equipment, dead soldiers. But, as it turned out, Emmanuel went there with his camera to shoot reports, his broadcasting union issued him a business trip and sent him to the very epicenter of the confrontation. I don't know what he was filming, but he wasn't attached to the Russian army, as I understood from his stories when he returned from his trip in early summer. He came alone, as always dressed in fashion, and after a drunken evening spent at one of the disco clubs of the night city, where we met girls, Emmanuel found the lady of his dreams, full, stout, with a fifth-size bust and hung with gold trinkets like a Christmas tree, he did not miss a single dance with her, and she was also delighted with such a charming foreign citizen. Igor and I met girls, one was from Odessa and came to visit her brother. But they were busy the next day and couldn't spend time with us, and we were deciding what to do next, sitting on a bench near my old house. But then Emmanuel broke away from us and disappeared behind the neighbor's lilac bushes, and a few minutes later he returned with his plump queen, who was even more beautiful than she had been at the disco the night before, with more gold on her, and her beautiful, well-bred face was adorned with bright makeup, and she was dressed in an elaborate, colorful dress and burgundy high-heeled shoes. When we saw such splendor near my old house, we were deeply impressed, as such beauty was rarely seen, if ever. Emmanuel was also astonished, as she had dressed up for him, adorned with gold jewelry on her plump, velvety-skinned hands. The embarrassed foreigner introduced the Russian lady to us, the merry ragamuffins, and we began to joke and laugh, reminiscing about the wild night of dancing the previous day. But Natasha, that was her name, pouted her plump lips and fiddled with a lock of hair, clearly not wanting our company, we were no match for her. She whispered something in her suitor's ear and waved her plump fingers, adorned with gold rings and pendants, in the distance. Perhaps she was inviting him to a luxurious city restaurant, where he could spend the wad of dollars he had been paid for his televised reports from Grozny amidst the thunder of artillery. So we sat for a while, deciding what to do next, Emmanuel had already succumbed to the charms of the portly beauty, and a little more, and she would have taken him away from our merry company.
But suddenly, an old Gazonchik, a small bus from the Gorky Automobile Plant, turned around a bend in the street.
— Stop, boss, slow down! We all shouted together.
The lanky driver stopped abruptly and asked: "What do you need?"
"Chief, will you give me a ride to the village? We'll go to the store first, and then to Voskresenskoye," I asked him. His eyes widened.
"I'm at work, but if you could come back in about three hours, how much would you pay?" But then a citizen from the decaying West came up and, apparently wanting to surprise his new Russian girlfriend with a fifth-size bust, took out a green piece of paper, which had a truly magical effect on the bus driver, who widened his already wide eyes and said briefly:
— Let's go.
— What about work? I joked, but he waved his hand.
— Let's go, let's go.
And our merry company boarded the bus, and I, riding my faithful motorcycle, followed them. The astonished bus driver took my friends to a long floodplain lake located in a picturesque pine forest near the village, and I met him on my way back, beaming with the currency he had earned. I arrived just as my friends were indulging in alcohol, and a cheerful campfire was emitting a pleasant aroma. Lenya and Lesha were fiddling with the barbecue and cutting up vegetables, while Natasha, in her beautiful dress and high-heeled shoes, sat in the distance, staring in horror at my half-drunken friends. Emmanuel was doing his best to entertain her, but she seemed horrified that she had planned to go to a restaurant and instead found herself at a drunken get-together in the middle of nowhere in Vladimir. Seeing her condition, I also tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, that Emmanuel was indeed a Belgian citizen, and that he would take her to a restaurant once he arrived in the city. She told me that she was the owner of a fish trading company. I thought that she would make a great match for my Western friend, as she was a serious and positive woman, exactly what he needed. Meanwhile, while we were preparing the appetizers, Lesha had already had a good drink, and he was starting to sway and repeat the same thing. By these external signs, I always determined his condition and told my friends to pour him less, but everyone was already cheerful and drunk, and they went swimming in the dark water of the floodplain lake. Lesh also wanted to join them, but after slipping on the sticky mud near the shore, he was on all fours, resembling a playful Russian bear. Then they picked him up, and he stumbled around the beach in his big family-style knee-length pants, looking suspiciously at everyone and repeating like a mantra:
"I'm going to shake myself up, I'm going to shake myself up." Lenya joked about why Leshya always wore knee-length family-style pants.
"Why?" we wondered.
"Because his penis is like this," he said, spreading his arms comically.
"Haha," we laughed. Only Natasha looked at all this bravado with fear and contempt, and Emmanuel initially hovered around her, but he probably got tired of her and joined in the fun. Leshka eventually fell into a weeping willow tree near the shore and remained there, unable to get out, while we continued drinking, enjoying delicious fried chicken, and enjoying life. We were young, full of energy, and drunk with happiness. In the evening, we returned to the village and went to bed in my mother's house, while my Western friend was given a separate bed in the terrace with his voluptuous lover, where he apparently spent a passionate night of love. Leshu and Lenya were sent to the hayloft, from which Leshu fell with a loud crash, startling us all.
"It's all right, it's all right." Finally, after laughing our fill, we calmed down and fell asleep in a young and restful sleep, and in the morning, a cheerful bus driver arrived to pick us up, receiving a fee in a freely convertible currency for his work.
With Emmanuel's arrival, life, which had seemed dull and ordinary, always took on a new lease of life. He usually visited several times a year, and as he himself said with a funny accent, "I'm an exotic, I'm an exotic."
"Yes, you're a rare sight in these parts," I echoed. I liked his cheerful disposition, and at first glance, he didn't seem to have any European practicality or stiffness. Moreover, he was quite interesting as a person and could engage in any conversation. He usually didn't spare any money, treating everyone to wine and snacks, and I reciprocated by always providing my old house for him and his friends and girlfriends, whom he brought from Moscow. And he had quite a few girlfriends and friends, I must say.I was in Moscow on business one autumn, and I visited Manu, as his friends called him. In the apartment on Shchukinskaya, he had a guest, a thin curly-haired guy in round glasses with a laptop, he was typing something there with inspiration, Emmanuel introduced us, and he told me in Russian that this was a famous documentary film director, he won several prizes at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival for his films, and now he was looking for a location for his new film. He needed a rural landscape with some animals: chickens, geese, and pigs. Then we went to visit their American friends, a married couple who were also creative and passionate, somewhat reminiscent of the hippie movement, who lived on Leningradka. We enjoyed a meal of pilaf, had a few drinks, and engaged in discussions about movies, albeit in English, where I only caught snippets of the conversation. But I remembered Rudolf's desire, as the director's name was, that he wanted chickens and pigs, and I invited him and Manu to my place in Vladimir, and I happily promised that I would take the director on a ride on my fast Jawa, and we would definitely find what he needed. Well, as they say, "Once bitten, twice shy," and after the guests left, I took the evening train back home. The next evening, as I was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on the window from the street, and I opened the gate to see two figures in the darkness. It was Manu and Rudolf, standing there, frozen from the last Moscow train. I put them up for the night, and in the morning, the well-known Lesh and Lenya, as well as Igor, a retired sailor from the fishing fleet, joined us. After a joyful reunion, they stayed with Manu and went for a walk around the city, while I put a motorcycle helmet on Rudolf and tightened the strap to prevent it from falling off in the wind, and took him on a search for nature. We drove out to the Suzdal highway, and I gunned it on a fast two-cylinder Jawa, as the dreary autumn landscapes of the Suzdal Opolye flew past, but there were no chickens or pigs anywhere, as the director needed. But then it came to me, I remembered that I had recently visited my cousin Lyudka in Mordysh, and there were pigs grunting in the barn and chickens walking around the garden. After that, I turned right off the main road and sped past the passing ancient villages, and Rudik, when he saw some landscape with wildlife that he liked, slapped me on the shoulder, and I slowed down, while he took pictures with his camera. But then we reached Mordysh and arrived at Lyudka's house. However, it was not her sister who greeted us, but her husband, Yurka, who worked as the head of the garage at the collective farm. He was a tall guy with black curls, cheerful and sociable, and when he saw us entering the gate of his two-story panel house, he was surprised and delighted to see us and invited us inside. I briefly explained to him that Rudik needed to take photos of chickens, pigs, and other animals, but he seemed to ignore my request when he realized that the director was a foreigner with round glasses and a stylish scarf.
"Oh, a capitalist, oh, business." "Come inside, come inside, to the table." To be honest, we were cold from our motorcycle ride, so we followed Yurka inside to warm up and then do what we had come for. I'm reminding you that this was the mid-1990s, when the vast country was transitioning to a capitalist system, abandoning its socialist course, and people were starting to think in different terms. Business, money, and profit became the primary focus. And the cheerful, half-drunk Yurka apparently saw in the fashionable foreigner a shark of Western capital, whom I brought to buy their collective farm, and, apparently, to appease the rich capitalist, he climbed into the cellar and took out a liter bottle of Absolut, which he had saved for the most urgent case, I tried to explain to him that Rudik was not a capitalist, but in his understanding, all foreigners were probably capitalists, and Lyudka did not even interfere, but only put salted, crispy cucumbers and pickled mushrooms with garlic on the table and sliced fresh and fragrant bread from the village store where she worked as a salesman. Rudik, who was freezing, didn't refuse to drink and eat, and after engaging in conversations that were incomprehensible to each other, he and Yurka quickly drained more than half of a liter bottle and seemed to have found common ground. The thing is, neither I nor Yurka spoke any languages, and I tried to explain to the director that we hadn't come to drink vodka, but he was already warmed up and waved me off, listening with interest to Yurka's stories about the collective farm, the harvest, the lack of spare parts in the garage he managed, and the drivers who stole gasoline from his responsibility. In short, he was fed up and ready to sell the garage or even the entire collective farm to the capitalist Rudik. Rudik, who was already quite tipsy, blinked his eyes comically behind the lenses of his round and fashionable glasses, and, switching from English to his native Flemish, replied to Yurka. It was clear that they were talking about different things and didn't understand each other, but they continued their conversation with interest. He had already forgotten about finding a subject, and I decided to take him back to the city before he became completely inebriated. I led him away from the welcoming hosts, placed the helmet back on his curly head, and tightened the strap. But when I got to the motorcycle, I was horrified to find that there was barely enough gas in the tank to get to the city. I turned to Yurka, who had come out to see us off, and he waved his hand vaguely in the air and said, "Lyudka will show you where to drain it."
Then he continued his conversation with Rudik, who was already quite drunk. We went with Lyudka, and the neighbors poured me a liter bottle of gasoline with oil, they probably also had motorcycle equipment, and they helped me so much, and when we came back, there was no one near the house. Lyudka swore and said:
"Let's finish drinking, we should have hidden it, but I left it on the table." We entered the house and saw Rudik wearing a white motorcycle helmet and Yurka near the table with an empty bottle of Absolut and a half-eaten snack. After somehow getting the wobbly director into the car with Lyudka, we headed back. I was afraid he would fall off, so I drove slowly, holding the steering wheel with one hand and supporting the passenger with the other. Eventually, we reached my old house, where we found a half-drunk Leshka and some other villagers. Lenya, Igor, and Emmanuel had gone to the city, but they hadn't returned, Leshka informed me. I asked them to take Rudik off the motorcycle, and they carefully lifted him off the back of my fast Jawa so that he wouldn't fall, and together they carried him to my house, where they laid him on the bed in my workshop, still wearing his motorcycle helmet. I had twisted the helmet so tightly that Leshka tried to remove it, but he couldn't.
"Let him lie there, we'll take it off later," I said, not wanting to disturb him. A few hours passed, I went into the room, Rudik was lying in the helmet and looked at me in surprise, not understanding who I was and where he was. I signed to him: "Let's go for a walk in the center. The nature has not been filmed for the film, at least walk around the city." He nodded in agreement and staggered to the exit.
"Take off the helmet, we are on foot," and I signed to him what to do. In general, we got to the center, the director was sick, but he held on bravely and tried to shoot the sights of the old city with his camera. Walking from the Golden Gate to the Cathedral Square, we were surprised to find Emmanuel, Lenya and Igor climbing and having fun on the monument, colloquially called "Three Fools". Manu asked a few leading questions to the battered director and sadly stated that Rudik did not remember anything. He remembers that we came to the village, and then he woke up in my house, feeling sick and with a headache, which was the first time that had happened to him. I, in turn, told him what had happened, and that Rudik was known as a rich capitalist in Mordysh, which is why he was so well received and treated. We laughed and walked my guests to the train station, saying goodbye warmly and inviting Rudik to come and make a movie, but he smiled sourly, and I realized that there would be no movie.
Part 4. Life should be like this!
And the next year I married Tonya, although I did not want to become serious in any way, and I imagined family life in some distant way, but the young wife, on the contrary, imagined how it should be, very well, and thereby pointed the right direction where we should move together. Emmanuel was invited to our wedding celebration as a videographer, or rather, he was simply invited, but he took a camera with him just to shoot. At that time, video shooting was not particularly practiced due to the high cost of equipment and the lack of awareness about this service among the general public. The peak of wedding video shooting would come later, and I would eventually become interested in this activity, as I would happily inform Emmanuel about it. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and before the big event, Manu came to my old house with a large Canon video camera, and we had a small bachelor party in my modest art studio, drinking vodka and letting my young assistant, Sergey, film us. Then we went for a walk, and when we saw our neighbor, Lenya, we approached him, and he showed us his restored Zaporozhets. Manu was a big fan of old Soviet cars, and he listened to Lenya's stories with great interest. And the neighbor was bursting with pride for his rare copy of the Soviet auto industry, that he even allowed an interested foreign motorist to ride on the hump near the house. What Manu did, driving a few meters and stalling on the road.
And in the morning we were woken up by my friend, the fat Seryoga, who came in his black lacquered Volga to take me to the bride and then to the registry office, then the rest of the friends came, several cars came to make up the wedding cortege. We all had a little drink and went to pick up the bride, Manu professionally recorded everything on a video camera, getting out of the car window with his whole body. And at the registry office, congratulating us, he drank vodka and said toasts, filming the ceremony itself, however, making a marriage, apparently drunk, stopping the recording at the most important place, when we signed in the marriage certificate. But the camera worked well when the guests were congratulating him, and he was pouring another shot of Stolichnaya and saying with a funny accent, "Life should be like this!Like this!And he was raising his thumb up, saying, "Like this!Life should be like this!And then there was a fun wedding banquet at the restaurant, we were young and happy, so we had fun from the heart, then his colleague Bruno came, and then there was also a fat Seryoga, who did not want to go to the banquet at first, but after drinking in the garage, where he put his Volga of the director of the bank, he still attended our event. However, not for long, apparently, during the day he drank a lot, so after several toasts, he went out to smoke, and began to walk, holding on to the walls so as not to fall, amusing the drunken guests with this. And two of my Belgian comrades, seeing his plight, took him by the arms, led him down the stairs and put him in a taxi, sending him home. Bruno turned out to be a quick-witted fellow, and while Manu was filming, he made contact with the bride's maid of honor and left with her, while Manu, offended that he didn't get a girlfriend at the wedding, went to a nightclub after the reception, but he didn't seem to have any luck there either, and he caught a taxi and left for Moscow.
In the spring, he came with a plump, dark-haired, and dark-skinned Parisian woman named Julia, who worked at a radio station and was clearly his type. I took them to Suzdal in my newly acquired red Ford, but halfway there, the car stalled, putting us in a difficult situation. I was still a novice driver, but Manu, Julia, and a student named Lenya, who had joined us, got out and pushed the car, which eventually started and took us to my old house. I was already living with a young wife, so I gave the whole house to Emmanuel and Julia, where they spent several happy days and nights on my worn-out old sofa.
After a while, Manu showed up in an old, rare GAZ-21 Volga with a slender Belgian woman and her brother with bright yellow hair. She worked at the embassy and, in my opinion, didn't fit his taste preferences. He preferred larger women, but this one was quite slim. And he brought it in such an exotic car, and I asked where he got this rare car.
Manu laughed: "I was hitchhiking, and this car stopped, gave me a ride, I liked it, I bought it from him, I gave the driver a thousand dollars, and now I'm here, although I had a hard time getting here, as it uses more oil than gasoline." Later, we went to Suzdal in this Volga, and in the evening, we drank vodka and danced to the songs of Krug, whose cassette I had recently purchased. It was a fun time, then everything was still ahead, and it seemed that everything would be like this. We were young and full of energy and different plans that we shared with each other. I do not know why the nineties are being so criticized now, in my opinion, it was a time of opportunity, there was no state domination then, you could do anything, and most importantly, we were young, and this covered everything, everything negative and dark that was nearby.Youth is wonderful in itself, but then the country and society began to live in a different way. I liked this freedom, I liked my friends and our time together. We lived with hopes, and that's the most important thing when you believe in something bright and beautiful ahead!Then there were a few more visits, he came with Bruno, they were making a report, Bruno was a correspondent, and Emmanuel was making a video, they didn't come to me, living in a hotel, as they were paid by the European Broadcasting Union, for which they worked. I vaguely remember what they were making, but something about a party of beer lovers, I think. Then in the 90s, there were all sorts of parties, but I wasn't interested in politics, so it wasn't as exciting for me as it was for the politically-minded Emmanuel, who was literally living and burning with it all.
The last time I saw him was when he came to visit me in the summer with a fat black woman, who had an interesting hairstyle with many thin braids. We certainly celebrated his visit with such an original lady. But such characters were to his taste, and I remember him passionately telling me how much he loved Africa and its people. He said that they had a kind of vitality and primitiveness that Europeans, spoiled by civilization, no longer possessed. He loved their rituals and drum dances, and sometimes, after drinking Russian vodka, he would engage in African dances himself, perhaps imagining himself as a Mumba-Yumba tribesman. I don't know where he found this chocolate, but she seemed to be quite educated, as she arrived with several books that I noticed in her large handbag. She didn't engage in conversation, as she didn't seem to understand Russian, but she smiled widely, revealing her dazzling white teeth that contrasted sharply with her dark skin. After enjoying a drink and Russian pelmeni, we went outside for a walk. It was a warm summer evening, and the sun was setting, casting a gentle warm-ochre glow on the treetops. It was a place of peace and tranquility, and as we were chatting peacefully, we suddenly saw the bulky, ungainly figure of Fat Seryoga coming out of the street where they were distilling their intoxicating moonshine. He was carrying two plastic half-liter bottles, into which the Vatutin bootleggers were pouring their stinking, narcotic moonshine. When he saw us, he waved his arms joyfully and headed our way, and the black woman hid behind us in fear. We greeted Seryoga. He invited my friends to taste the yellowish drink, praising it. We took a sip, and the dark-skinned girl grimaced and twisted her face, then spat on the ground and said something in English. We all laughed, and my fat friend downed half a plastic bottle in two large gulps, saying, "That's how you do it, Russian schnapps." Apparently, he was expecting her to admire him, but she just wrinkled her nose and laughed with her white teeth, adjusting her thin braids. Seryoga seemed to like her right away, and he pushed Emmanuel aside, wrapping his arms around her and inviting her to go for a walk and finish the moonshine.She laughed flirtatiously and pushed him away, their physiques were a perfect match and they looked very harmonious together, but Seryoga's clothes didn't quite fit the mood of their intimate moment, as he was usually dressed in fashionable attire, but now he was wearing a torn and dirty T-shirt, as if he had been lying under a bush, and his shorts were equally unkempt. However, Emmanuel, who had been pushed aside, was tired of watching Seryoga steal his fat girlfriend. "That's my woman, and she's not going anywhere with you," I said, and to avoid provoking an international conflict, I supported Manu and told him that we had business to attend to and didn't want to drink moonshine, especially since the black woman might get sick. Seryoga continued walking down the street, swaying from side to side and looking back to catch a glimpse of the dark-skinned woman he had taken a liking to, while she laughed merrily and waved at him, repeating with an accent, "Seryoga, Seryoga." And in the morning we went for a walk in the city center, Emmanuel was a little irritated by yesterday's incident with Seryoga and seemed gloomy, walking from the Golden Gate to the Cathedral Square, he suddenly became terribly economical and did not even want to buy a beer and did not want to pay for a taxi to Bogolyubovo, where we were going after a walk in the center. He said it was expensive, but I, in order to provoke him, offered a bet that we would get there for a much smaller amount than the taxi was asking for and what Manu was counting on. If I lose, I'll buy 10 cans of beer, and if he loses, he'll buy the beer. Emmanuel, probably to avoid embarrassing himself in front of his dark-skinned companion, agreed, explaining the subject of our argument in English. She responded with a dazzling white smile and shook our hands, which we had clasped when we made the bet. Relying on Russian luck, I began to stop cars, offering a small sum, but no one agreed. Manu and his friend were already laughing and joking at me, thinking that I would lose and buy them a beer, but I couldn't lose because I didn't have any money. I only had enough for the fare. But then a small Golf stopped, I told the driver the amount, and he said, "Yes, let's go, I'm on my way to Novoye anyway," and as we talked, we even found some mutual acquaintances.Arriving in Bogolyubovo, Emmanuel gloomily bought a beer, his mood was completely spoiled, and he practically did not talk to me, answering with monosyllabic phrases. And so, after walking along the green Bogolyubsky meadow, we approached the Church of the Intercession, and then settled near Nerli on a small sandy beach, looking at the slow current and drinking foaming beer. After drinking one can, the black woman lay down on the grass and read Doctor Zhivago in English, while we walked around, looking at the surrounding scenery. Manu's irritation had passed, and he was chatting with me cheerfully, telling me various funny stories from his travels around the world. As we walked back, he held my elbow, slightly tipsy from the beer, and looked back at the temple standing alone among the green trees. "I felt that God was there near this church, I didn't feel it anywhere else, but here I felt his presence." After that, I escorted them to the train station and returned to my old house, where I was greeted by a fat Seryoga holding a bouquet of flowers, a stark contrast to his previous appearance. He was wearing a crimson jacket, his snow-white shirt was tied with an original tie with a drawing of an important boss and a long-legged secretary next to him, his trousers were perfectly ironed, and his patent-leather shoes, although worn without socks, harmoniously complemented his entire luxurious wardrobe. "Oh, what a woman, what a woman," he repeated tirelessly. "Come on, let's go drink moonshine, I've set the table at home." "Is Matvey here?" He was referring to Manu. "Haha, Seryoga, they've already left, I'm taking them to the train station." Seryoga's face changed, he took out a plastic bottle, took a sip, and, after throwing away the flowers, trudged home dejectedly, completely forgetting about me. After this visit, Manu disappeared, his Moscow phone was unreachable, his pager was blocked, and there was no way to find out anything about him. My friends and I speculated about his whereabouts, but we never reached a consensus.But instead of Emmanuel, Alexander Germu suddenly appeared at the end of the summer. He had written me a paper letter a few months earlier, saying that he might be in Russia, but he didn't provide any specific dates, so I had forgotten about him. And so, one day in the middle of the day, I was sitting in my studio and drawing, when suddenly there was a knock on the window and on the door from the street, I came out in surprise and saw a very thin man holding a sports bike with huge tires with mud treads and hanging from the sides of large bags with things. He shouted joyfully: "Vladimir, Vladimir!" In my head, I thought: "What kind of idiot is this, what kind of phenomenon is this?" He didn't look like one of the many drunks who came out of the detox center and asked for directions. "What do you want?" I asked, and then it hit me."My friend, Alexander," and we embraced. After bringing the bike into the room, we had a bite to eat, and he ate voraciously, smacking his lips and enjoying the dumplings I had boiled. After finishing his portion, he looked at my dumplings, and I gave them to him to finish, and he quickly finished them as well. He had been eating bread and water for a week, and he told me where he had come from. Here's the story: He had long been interested in cycling and long-distance cycling trips. From Brussels, he flew to Mongolia, to Ulaanbaatar, where he picked up his prepared bicycle and headed towards Russia. After traveling more than 800 km to Irkutsk and spending the night in a sleeping bag, he boarded a train and reached Kirov. However, it is unclear why he chose to travel to Kirov instead of coming directly to me. Apparently, the journey from Ulaanbaatar wasn't enough for him, and he decided to complete another 700-kilometer bike ride from Kirov to Vladimir. He spent the night in the bushes along the road, as he told me, and only ate bread and water, covering 100 kilometers in seven days. I was astonished and deeply impressed by his story, so I invited him to visit the village where my wife and young daughter were spending the summer, so he could have a meal. We drove there on my fast Jawa, had a drink and a snack, and he ate two more plates, which surprised my wife. But we didn't have enough to drink, so we went to the officers' bar in the military town, where we got quite drunk, and I decided to introduce Alexander to Russian girls. When I met my wife's younger brother, Kolka, I explained the situation to him, and he promised to find some girls. After a while, he brought two girls, who were scared and didn't understand what was going on. Russian Russian literature, and he launched into a lengthy discussion about Russian literature and talked in a mixture of English and Russian about the greatness of Leo Tolstoy's novel "War and Peace." The girls blinked uncomprehendingly and looked around in fright. I told Kolka: "Who did you bring? They don't know Leo Tolstoy.Take these, bring the next ones." He brought some more people, and then some more, but none of them could talk to Alexander about Tolstoy and his novel. Frustrated, I kicked Kolka out, and we finished the rest of our alcohol and drove slowly back to the village in the dark, weaving back and forth on the road and talking about Leo Tolstoy and his immortal works. The next day, we walked around Vladimir and drank beer, and then Alexander collected all the bottles and we took them to the recycling center. "I'm an economist," he said proudly, patting his chest. "You're not an economist," he tried to tell me. I argued with him, saying that you couldn't make much money from glass bottles, but he insisted that he was an economist and I wasn't. He stayed with me for about three days, and I promised that the next time we would meet in Belgium, we would borrow his father's Mercedes and drive to Paris. After that, I saw him off at the train station, and we never saw each other again.
Years have passed, the drunken, joyful youth has passed, and new times, a new Russia have come, and suddenly, when I typed Emmanuel Leus in a search engine, I found his page on a non-Russian social network. It was the same face, only older, but the look was the same, lively, cheerful, and he was traveling around the world with a video camera. It was definitely him, and it had been about fifteen years since our last meeting. It's amazing how the internet brings people together. I wrote to him, and he responded, and we started chatting. He said that he left Russia at that time. He lived and worked in South Africa, got a plane license and became a pilot, then he lived in Thailand, came home and lived in Belgium, then he had a French girlfriend who gave birth to his daughter. But she is not a wife, so he is free, he supports his daughter, of course, and helps financially and takes her on trips. A lot has happened over the years. And now he's back in Moscow, working for the Arab TV channel Al-Jazeera in its Moscow office as a videographer, traveling around the world and filming his own video reports. I invited him to visit me again, and he promised to come, and after a while, he did, but he got off in Petushki, where I picked him up in my car after he called me. He was sitting on the lawn, drinking beer with some random passers-by, just like when they first went to see Vladimir and Suzdal. We embraced joyfully, and I drove my Ford to Vladimir, stopping at Zhukovsky's estate on the way, where we walked and took some photos. Manu was ill, as evidenced by his appearance, which was thin and haggard, and he was sad and more thoughtful than before, no longer joking or laughing as he had in his youth. We came to the city, sat at my house, I boasted to him that now I also work as a videographer and take photos, this is also his contribution, although I myself achieved everything and learned also myself. Then we drove to my newly built and restored house, were guests of the former sailor Igor, but Manu suddenly started to get ready, saying that he had work tomorrow, and we saw him off at the train station. I never saw him again, but we did keep in touch. He wrote to me that he had collapsed on a film set in Turkey and had to return home to Belgium for medical treatment. He underwent a liver transplant, but it was too late, and he passed away on a December night in 2015. According to his friend, with whom he lived before his death, he often reminisced about Russia and mentioned a friend he had there. He expressed a desire to bring her to Vladimir if he recovered. However, he never fully recovered. He bequeathed himself to be commemorated, if he died, with Russian vodka in the church after the funeral service, then burned in the crematorium, and his daughter scattered his ashes over the North Sea. Everything was done as he wanted, he has no grave, and only the memory of the Belgian with a Russian soul Emmanuel Leus remains.
Dedicated to my departed friend Emmanuel!
© Copyright: Влад Митрофанов-Раменский, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №226022701908
Свидетельство о публикации №226022701908
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