Moscow. The Restaurant at Kursky Station.
No, definitely not between
the beer and Alba-de-dessert. There was no pause there. But before the koriandrovaya… quite possibly. Or, more
likely: I bought the nuts before the koriandrovaya
and the sweets afterwards. Or perhaps the other way around: having drunk the koriandrovaya, I…
- Nothing alcoholic here, the bouncer said,
looking at me as if I were a dead bird or dirty buttercup.
“Nothing alcoholic here!!!”
Although I shrivelled with
despair, I still managed to mumble that that was not why I had come there. How
do you know why I’ve come here? Maybe my express train to Perm decided for some
reason that it didn’t want to go to Perm, and so I came here instead: to eat
beef Stroganoff and to listen to Ivan Kozlovsky or something from ‘The Barber
of Seville’.
I had taken my suitcase with
me after all and, as before in the stairwell, I pressed it to my chest in
expectation of an order.
Nothing alcoholic! Queen of
Heaven! If you believe the angels, the place was abundant in sherry. Now there’s
only music, just some music with a kind of mangy modulation to it. It’s really
Ivan Kozlovsky singing – I recognised it at once; there isn’t a more nauseating
voice out there. Every singer has a nauseating voice unique to them. I can
therefore easily distinguish it by ear. So of course it’s Ivan Kozlovsky. “Oh,
the cup of my ancesto-o-ors… let me see you in the light of the st-a-a-ars…” Of
course it’s Ivan Kozlovsky. “Oh, I am bewi-i-itched by you… Don’t reject
meeee…”
- Are you going to order
anything?
- What’ve you got – just
music?
- What do you mean, just
music? We’ve got beef Stroganoff, pastries, udder…
I’m feeling nauseous again.
- Sherry?
- No sherry.
- Interesting… you’ve got
udder, but no sherry!
- Veeery interesting. No
sherry. But there is udder.
And I was left alone. So as
not to feel sick, I began to consider the chandelier above my head...
It’s a nice chandelier. But
it’s too heavy. If it slipped and fell onto someone’s head that’d be pretty
painful. Actually no, not painful… while it breaks off and falls, you’re
sitting there unsuspectingly drinking, say, sherry. And once it reaches you –
you’ve snuffed it. It’s a weighty thought – you’re sitting there, and on above
you is the chandelier. A very weighty thought…
Well actually, why so
weighty? If you are, say, drinking sherry, if you have a hangover, then it’s
not such a weighty thought. But if you’re sitting there after drinking yourself
stupid and haven’t yet succeeded in reaching a hangover, and they don’t give
you sherry – then it’s a weighty thought… A very depressing thought. A thought
that not everyone has the strength to bear, especially when incredibly drunk.
And you would agree to this
were you proposed this: we’ll bring you, they say, 800 grams of sherry, and in
return we’ll unhook the chandelier above your head.
- Well, have you made up
your mind? Will you order something?
- Sherry, please. 800 grams.
- Oh, you’re a good one, I
can see! You were told in plain Russian: we don’t have any sherry!
- Well then... I'll wait...
When will there be...
- Wait, wait... you’ll wait!
You’ll get your sherry, all right!
And I was left alone again.
I gazed after this woman in disgust. Especially at the seamless white
stockings; a seam might have mollified me, perhaps unburdened my soul and
conscience…
Why are they so rude? Eh?
This sort of rudeness is emphasised in these very moments where you cannot be
rude, when a person has a hangover and his nerves all over the place, when he
is fainthearted and silent! Why is that? Oh, if only the whole world, if
everyone in the world would be like I am now, quiet and fearful, and also not
certain about anything; about themselves, or about the seriousness of their
place under the heavens – how good it would be! No enthusiasts, no valour, no
obsessions! A universal faintheartedness. I would agree to live on Earth for
eternity, if I was shown just one corner where there’s no room for valour. “A
universal faintheartedness” - where there is truly salvation from all ills,
this panacea, this predicate of the greatest perfection! As for the active
storage of this nature…
- Who’s ordering the sherry?!
Above me stood two women and
one man, all three of them in white. I looked up at them – oh, how much
ugliness and obscurity there must have been in my eyes then – and I understood
by them, by their eyes, because this ugliness and obscurity was reflected in
their eyes… I somehow wilted and lost all my strength.
- Well, I am… Though I’m
almost…not asking. But if there’s no sherry, then I’ll wait, I’ll just…
- What do you mean, ‘just’?
What exactly will you ‘wait’ for?
- Well, nothing. I'm just
going to Petushki, to my beloved girl (ha-ha! To my ‘beloved girl’!) – I’ve
bought some goodies...
The executioners waited for
me to speak again.
- I’m just… I’m from
Siberia, I’m an orphan… I just wanted to avoid feeling sick… I’d like some
sherry…
Alas, I shouldn’t have
mentioned the sherry again! It set them off again. All three grabbed me by the
arm and – oh, the pain of such shame! – pulled me right across the hall and pushed
me outside. My suitcase of goodies swiftly followed after me.
Outside again. Oh, empty
language! Oh, the fangs of life!
Moscow. To the train by way of the shop.
What happened then - from
the restaurant to the shop and from the shop to the train - the human tongue
cannot bring itself to express. I dare not either. And if the angels should try
– they’d simply burst into tears and the tears will prevent them from doing it.
It’s better this way – let
us observe a minute of silence for these two fatal hours. Remember these hours,
Venichka. In the most enthusiastic, the most effervescent days of your life –
remember them. In moments of bliss and ecstasy – don’t forget about them. This
should not happen again. I appeal to all my family and friends, to all people
of good will, I appeal to everyone whose heart is open to poetry and
compassion:
Drop what you’re doing. Stop
with me, and observe a minute of silence for that which is inexpressible. If
you have some kind of horn that nobody wants to hand – toot it.
So. I also stop. For exactly
one minute, gazing vaguely at the station clock, I stand like a column in the
middle of Kursky Station Square. My hair flutters in the wind, then stands on
end, then flutters again. Taxis flow around me on all four sides. People flow
around too – and they stare so ferociously – they probably think, has he been
sculpted like this for the edification of future generations, or not?
And the silence is only
broken by a husky female voice, pouring out of nowhere:
“Attention! At 8:16 a.m. the
train to Petushki will leave from the fourth terminal. Calling at: Hammer and
Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except
Esino.”
And I continue to stand
there.
“I repeat: at 8:16 a.m. the
train to Petushki will leave from the fourth terminal. Calling at: Hammer and
Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except
Esino.”
That’s it. A minute had
elapsed. Now, of course, you pounce on me with questions: “Hey, are you out of
the shop yet, Venichka?”
- Yes, I am, - I say to you.
And I continue to move in the direction of the platform, bowing my head to the
left.
- Is your suitcase heavy
now? Yes? And is a pipe playing in your heart? Is it?
- Well, that’s an iffy
question! - I say, bowing my head to the right. - My suitcase is definitely
heavy. And it’s too early to tell as far as the pipe is concerned…
- All the same, what did you
buy, Venichka? We’re really interested!
- Well, I do understand that
you’re interested. Now, now I’ll list them: firstly, two bottles of Kuban at
two sixty-two each, for a total of five twenty-four. Next, two Russian quarters
for a rouble sixty-four for a total of five twenty-four, plus three
twenty-eight. Eight roubles and fifty-two kopecks. And something red. Now I
remember. Yes – some strong rosé for a rouble thirty-seven.
- So-so-so, you say, and the
grand total? This really is terribly interesting...
Now I’ll tell you the grand
total.
- The grand total is nine
roubles eighty-nine kopecks, - I say, joining the platform. - But that’s not
quite the grand total. I did buy two sandwiches, so I don’t spew everywhere.
- Did you mean, “So I don’t
throw up everywhere”, Venichka?
- No. I said what I said. I
can’t get past the first dose without snacks, because otherwise I spew. And I
can drink the second and third dry, because it’s OK to feel sick, but I definitely
won’t spew. And so on until the ninth, where I’ll need another sandwich.
- Why? Will you throw up
again?
- No, I won’t throw up for
anything. But as for spewing, I’ll spew.
You’re all shaking your
heads at this, I know. I can even see, from here on the wet platform, how all
of you, scattered across my world, are shaking your heads and getting ready to
sneer:
- How complicated that is,
Venichka, how subtle!
- You said it!
- Such clarity of thought!
And that’s all?! That’s all you need to be happy? Nothing more?
- What do you mean, nothing
more? - I say, getting on the train. – If I’d had more money, I’d have got
another beer and a couple of bottles of port, but then...
At this point you really get
ready to moan.
- Oh-oh-oh-oh, Venichka!
Oh-oh, how primitive!
Well, so what? Let me be
primitive, I say. And at this point I’ll cease talking to you. Let me be
primitive! And I’ll no longer respond to your questions. I'd better sit down,
press my suitcase to my chest, and look through the window. Like this. Let me
be primitive!
And you’ll keep pestering:
- What’s the matter? You
offended?
- Course not, - I answer.
- Don’t be offended, we wish
you well. But why do you keep pressing your suitcase to your chest, you fool?
Because there’s vodka there, or what?
Now I really am offended.
What’s the vodka got to do with it?
“Dear passengers, this train
is for Petushki. Calling at: Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo,
Zheleznodorozhnaya, and then at all stops except Esino.”
Seriously, what’s the vodka
got to do with it? I can see you can’t talk about anything but vodka. This vodka
was given to you! I was pressing my suitcase to my chest in the restaurant, if
you will, but there was no vodka there. And in the stairwell if you remember, I
was also pressing it to my chest, and there was nary a whiff of vodka! Since
you want to know everything, I’ll tell you – just wait a moment. My hangover
will come at Hammer and Sickle, and
Moscow – Hammer and Sickle
and then I’ll tell you
absolutely everything. Be patient. Look how patient I am!
Of course, they all think
I'm an evil man. I also think that, in the mornings or when I’m really drunk.
But you can’t trust the opinion of someone who hasn’t reached their hangover
yet! But in the evening – what an abyss there is in me! – if I’ve managed to
get good and loaded during the day – what an abyss there is in me in the
evening!
But so be it. If I’m an evil
man, so be it. In general I’ve noticed that if that if a person is bad in the
morning and in the evening is full of ideas, dreams, and labours – this is a
very evil man. Bad in the morning, good at night – this is a sure sign of an
evil man. But if you take the opposite – a man who, in the morning, is cheerful
and full of hope, but who is overcome by exhaustion in the evening – this sort
of person is also lousy, a wheeler-dealer, a centre of mediocrity. This sort of
man is loathsome to me. I don’t know about you, but it’s simply loathsome to
me.
Of course, there are those
who are equally pleasant in the morning and the evening, to whom both sunrise
and sunset are equally pleasant – but they’re just bastards. It’s sickening to
even speak of them. And, if someone is equally nasty morning and evening, I
really don’t know what to say about them. They’re perennial shitstains and
loudmouths. Because our shops are open until nine - and the big store at
Eliseev until eleven - even if you're not a bastard, by the evening you’ll
always manage to conjure up some kind of trifling abyss…
So, what do I have?
I pulled everything out of
my suitcase and felt my way through its contents: from the sandwiches to the
strong rosé at one rouble thirty-seven. I felt I was suddenly becoming rather
tired and faded… Lord, here you see what I possess. But do I need it? Does my
soul really long for it? This is what people gave me in exchange for what my
soul longs for! But if they had given it to me, would I really need it? Look at
this, Lord, this strong rosé for a rouble thirty-seven…
And, all in blue lightning,
the Lord said to me:
- And what did Saint Theresa
need her stigmata for? She didn’t really need them. But she desired them.
- Exactly! I said in
ecstasy. – It’s the same with me; I desire all of this, but I don’t need it!
“Well, if you desire it,
Venichka, go ahead and drink,” I thought quietly, but hesitated. Will the Lord
say something else to me, or not?
The Lord was silent.
Oh well. I took one of the
quarters and went out into the vestibule. So. My soul had been languishing in
its prison for four and a half hours; now I’ll let it out to walk. There’s a
glass and a sandwich, so as not to be sick. And there is a soul, still slightly
ajar from the experience of being. Share my repast, Lord!
Hammer and Sickle – Karacharovo
And I drank it all down…
