Evening. Light as day, damn it all. These "White Nights" are a complete mockery. The embankment is buzzing, tourists are screaming as if they were in a zoo, street musicians are playing "Kalinka" mixed with some pop, "Ruki Vverh" I think. Drunk teenagers with "Baltika" in their hands are staggering, laughing, smashing bottles on the asphalt. And I'm walking, and this damn Halloween cloak of mine is catching on everything. My hat is slipping down over my eyes, my shirt is sticking to my back - it's hot, even though it's June. One passerby, his face red as a tomato, pointed his finger: "Heh, Count Dracula!" I answered him: "You're the Count yourself, moron!" He laughed, and I spat on the pavement and walked on. Let them laugh. I don't care.
I bought a Baltika at a kiosk. It was warm, damn it, but better than nothing. I sat down on the parapet by the Neva, opposite the Peter and Paul Fortress. Fireworks were going off, the crowd was screaming like at a fair. And I was sitting, drinking, smoking a Java. The smoke was bitter, but familiar. My head was all clouded up. Granny was grumbling again today, like, "Dmitry, stop drinking, you'll ruin yourself." Her borscht had gotten cold on the stove, and she was still droning on about Afghanistan: "You were there, and now you're wasting away at home." As if I didn't know myself. As if I was happy in this Khrushchev-era building, where the wallpaper was peeling off and the Rubin TV was blaring about Chechnya and Putin. She, Anna Ivanovna, still believed that I would "get out." And where to? To fix TVs for pennies? In the workshop Vaska started whining again: "Crisis, Dimych, no work, everything is lost." And I keep quiet. What can I say? I'm up to my ears in this shit myself.
The army creeps into my head, as if to spite me. 1987, Afghanistan, dust, heat, screams. That concussion is like a brand. The dreams come again: sand, explosions, faces of boys who are no longer there. I wake up - cold sweat, and a lump in my throat. Vodka helps, but not for long. Grandma sees that I'm drinking, crosses herself, wipes the icon with a rag. She says: "God will forgive." But I don't believe it. If He is there, then He has a sick sense of humor.
I sometimes remember LETI. 1994, my diploma, my project on EMP. Everyone praised me, saying, Sukhov, you're a star, you'll storm institutes in Moscow. Yeah, you stormed them. The crisis of 1998 finished it all off. My wife left, my friends disappeared, only Igor remained, and he was busy with his office. And me? I'm nobody. In this raincoat, with this bottle, I'm sitting by the Neva like a clown. Tourists are staring, they're raising bridges, and I'm thinking: why am I living? Grandma's right, I need to get out. But how? Who needs me?
I finished my Baltika, crushed the can and threw it in the trash. Of course, it missed. So what. I'll go home before the bridges are raised. Tomorrow I'll go to the workshop to solder these damn TVs again. Maybe God will send a sign after all. Although it's unlikely. It seems He forgot about me a long time ago.
I was just about to get up from the parapet when three people came. Young, about twenty years old, in jeans, sneakers, one in a cap, the other with a Nokia in his hand - a brand new one, 3310, probably bragging, the bastard. They walked, laughing, drinking beer, like I did recently. The one with the phone was big, with an impudent mug, his hair slicked back with gel, like a gangster from a TV series. He saw me, pointed his finger at me, and yelled: "Hey, Dracula, what, have you crawled out of a coffin?" The others guffawed, one of them added: "Where did you steal your cloak, from the trash, I bet?" I kept quiet, looked away, but inside I was seething. I thought they would pass, but no - the one with the Nokia came closer, waving his brick: "Hey, drunk, should I take a picture of you for a horror movie?"
I stood up. My coat rustled, my hat almost flew off. "Get out of here," I said quietly, but I clenched my teeth. He laughed even louder: "What, soldier, are you going to scare me? Go to your cemetery!" And he pushed me in the shoulder. Lightly, but brazenly. And then I got carried away. Afghanistan flashed in my head - dust, screams, a fist clenched by itself. I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulled him towards me, eye to eye. "You, puppy," I growled, "I laid out the likes of you in the mountains in 1987. Do you want me to show you?" He jerked, but I held on tightly, like that time, on patrol, when I broke someone else's machine gun in my hands. His eyes widened, the Nokia almost fell out of his hand. The other two froze, their beer dripping onto the asphalt.
"Let go, you psycho!" he yells, but his voice is shaking. I hold him for another second, then push him back. He almost falls, trips over the curb. "Get lost," I repeat, and my voice is like a knife. He backs away, mutters something like "come on, what are you doing," and waves his cap to his buddy, as if to say, let's go. And they run, the three of them, along the Neva, only the sound of their sneakers. He shoved the Nokia into his pocket, the unfinished hero. I spat, straightened my coat. My heart is pounding, like in those years when I fought for my life. It was not in vain that I fought, apparently. Even though my soul feels bad.
I went home. The bridges were about to be raised, and I still had to get there through Vasilievsky. My head was all muddled, but one thought was clear: these brats with their phones, they were nobody. And me? I was nobody either. But at least I knew what it was like to hold death by the throat. Grandma would grumble again when she saw me. And maybe I'd grab some Putinki on the way. So I could sleep without dreams.
I walked through Vasilievsky, my legs carried me to the kiosk on the corner where they sell vodka. It was light, damn it, almost midnight, but it felt like daytime - those damned "White Nights." My head was spinning, I was still shaking after those brats with their Nokia. I thought a bottle would help, drown it out. I went into a store, a kiosk, or rather a plywood booth, that smelled of tobacco and shashlik from the counter next door. Behind the counter, a woman of about forty, with a face like a bulldog, was looking at me as if I already owed her. "Putin," I muttered, pointing my finger at the shelf. She reached in, put the bottle on the counter, and said, "Forty rubles." I reached into my pocket, and it was empty. Not a kopeck. Just a crumpled pack of "Java" and a lighter. I must have forgotten my wallet in the workshop, or even at home. "Damn," he blurted out. The woman narrowed her eyes: "What, no money?"
"Not now," I mumble, feeling ashamed like a kid. She snorts, "I can lend you some, I know you'll pay me back." I shake my head, "No, I don't borrow." I remember my father, Viktor, how he got into debt up to his ears in Novosibirsk in the nineties, borrowing vodka, TVs, everything. Then they almost beat him up, and my mother fled to Finland, just to avoid seeing this shame. I'm not him. Better without vodka than like this. "Okay, without it," I say, turn around and walk out. The woman mutters something about "alcoholic paupers," but I don't care. My coat is fluttering behind me, my hat is hanging over my eyes, and there's a lump in my chest. What the hell am I like this for? No money, no life, no meaning.
I'm walking home, my legs are heavy, as if I'm stomping through Afghan dust in boots. It's quiet on Vasilievsky Island, only the GAZelle minibuses are honking and a dog is barking somewhere. As always, the old ladies on the bench at the entrance are whispering: "And the son of that, what's her name, Sofia Pavlovna, has been drinking again!" I haven't been drinking, grannies, I'm as sober as a slate, and that makes it even worse. Of course, the elevator in the Khrushchev-era building doesn't work, so I drag myself up to the fourth floor on foot. I open the door - the smell of borscht, grandma's, warm, familiar. Anna Ivanovna in a dressing gown, her gray hair in a bun, is standing by the stove, turns around: "Dmitry! My God, where have you been hanging out? You look like you've been torn apart by dogs!" She groans, crosses herself, grabs my sleeve, peers at me. "You've been drinking again, I bet?" - she asks, and her eyes are like two wells, full of anxiety.
"I didn't drink," I lie, and my voice is hoarse. She shakes her head, muttering: "You don't take care of yourself at all, grandson." She wants to say something else, probably about Afghanistan or about work, but I wave my hand: "Go to sleep, granny, I'm tired." I go to my room and fall onto the sofa. The icon in the corner, small and darkened, looks at me. And I think to myself: "Forgive me, Anna Ivanovna, my wayward grandson. Forgive me for being like this." There is emptiness in my head, only the Neva is roaring somewhere in my memory, and dreams about sand are creeping up again. Tomorrow to the workshop, to solder these damn TVs. Maybe God really has forgotten about me. Or I have forgotten about Him.
I'm lying on the couch, the room is dark, only the light from the street lamp is coming through the curtain. "White Nights", damn them, won't let me sleep. The icon in the corner is silent, grandma is snoring behind the wall, the Rubin TV is turned off, thank God, otherwise it will start droning on about Chechnya again. My head is a mess, Afghanistan is crawling up, the woman from the kiosk with her "drunks" is ringing in my ears. I took Efremov's "Razor's Edge" from the shelf. An old book, left by my father, tattered, the pages are yellow, smell of dust and something familiar. I opened it at random, read about Girin, about his search for meaning, beauty, truth. Yes, Efremov knew how to write - not like these scribblers who crawled out here and there after the collapse of the Union. Back then, under the Soviets, books were about the big things, about the stars, about a man who is above himself. And now what do they publish? Cheap detective stories, about bandits and money, or snot about love. Writers have become petty, like everything around them.
I read, and my chest aches. We lost such a country. The Soviet Union - it was not a bed of roses, yes, but it had dreams. Space, science, my LETI, where I thought I would turn the world upside down with my EMPs. And what now? Kiosks with "Putinka", bread lines, MMM ads on fences. Efremov wrote about people who are searching, and me? I'm lying in a Khrushchev-era building, soldering TVs for pennies, drunken brats on the embankment laughing at me. In the nineties, everything collapsed - the country, hopes, and good books. Only this book remains, "The Razor's Edge", and even that as a memory of what could have been.
I finished the chapter and closed the book. My eyes were closing, but I didn't want to sleep - the dreams would come again, the sand, the screams. I'd rather have a sip of vodka, but I have no money, and I won't borrow money, I'm not my father. Grandma would say: "Dmitry, read, study, you'll get out." And I look at the icon and think: forgive me, Anna Ivanovna, for being like this, for not saving that country, for not saving myself. Yefremov would probably write about me as a loser, who was looking for the truth and tripped over a bottle. I put the book on my chest, the street light hurts my eyes. Tomorrow again to the workshop, soldering, listening to Vaska's whining. Maybe it's all in vain.