Gennadiy Loginov - Hired Self-killer or The Winner’s Trial. A Story About the Truth of Life and the Truth of Art

For a short time, the shivering street philosopher reflects on what will happen if he takes over all the countries in the world and all the stars in the sky someday. Well, then his stomach rumbling with all sorts of variations still won’t contain more food than allowed by human nature. Soon, a peaceful sleep comes to the drunkard.

Caring snow covers the tramp with a cold white blanket. Frosty shroud, the last gift of the white-faced Winter Maiden. The next day, the bum will probably be found in this very spot – stiffened, clutching a bottle in his hand, cold as the surrounding pavement stones…

But no – this time, a passing constable notices the man. The last thing he wants is to find some frostbitten vagrant in his area. However, if it were the only reason, the guardian of law and order would simply remove the body from his street and leave the guy to freeze elsewhere.

Instead, he leans over and decisively shakes the poor fellow, bringing him to his senses. The drunkard opens his eyes, not realizing where he is, who he is, and what’s going on. The constable raises him to his feet and leads him away from these places, giving the moralizing speech with irritation. At this time, London cells are packed with other vagabonds, and of course, jail is not a shelter of mercy. And yet it’s better than the street that promises frozen death. At least, you can sleep yourself sober there, and even get some food, if you are lucky.

The young constable is already sick of the man he has undertaken to accompany and the smell of his body. It disgusts him to touch the vagrant with his hands. But he fights his revulsion and goes on, without a moment of hesitation.

Patrolling the streets at this hour is the last thing the peace officer would do if he has any choice. He thinks about the warmth of the home. His young wife. The old parents and small but boisterous children. His modest salary is barely enough to feed the family and cover their needs.

The servant of law assures himself that it is the reason why he turns a blind eye to minor offences, charging a bribe for them. By doing so, he can also save precious time and concentrate limited effort on truly important and serious cases.

Heroics is a lot of single people, free from any obligations. You can’t be a hero when you have to treat elderly parents, raise sons and collect dowries for daughters. And in general, the constable is deeply convinced that people’s morality is largely determined by how far they are from making serious decisions. But in the moments when he is candid with himself, the constable admits that everything is much more prosaic.

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