Moscow-Petushki, Part II

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…