Igor Savelyev - Off the Beaten Tracks - Stories by Russian Hitchhikers

After Vadim fell to the ground, the gang would probably have had a field day with their latest victim if it hadn’t been for Nastya’s resourcefulness. It would have been a waste of time to call for help — they might as well have been in a ghost town, and psychologically it was better to assume that was the case. Better not to expect any help from the local residents. So Nastya’s response was to pick up a stone from the ground and throw it through one of the ground-floor windows. She knew exactly what to do! She knew that people these days are only willing to step forward when it comes to defending their property and saving their own fat, complacent skins.

It worked! The thugs dispersed. Retreating to their own courtyards to hide was not something they would normally consider, but seeing as the enraged owner of the window was going to come out any minute, seeing as the police were bound to turn up… They ran off, calling to one another, making plans for the rest of the night.

Now our young couple had to make their own getaway, because the enraged owner wouldn’t be interested in their version of events. Nastya helped Vadim up, and they ran off in the opposite direction. In the centre of the courtyard, the bunch of lilac blossoms lay abandoned in the circle of light from the street lamp. There were probably some ‘lucky’ flowers among them.

Everything was still and quiet once again. No enraged owner came rushing out. Maybe he was scared, poor bloke. Or maybe he was out. Or maybe… It sounds crazy, but maybe there was no one else in the whole city?

The indifference of the empty avenues, buildings and alleys… The wind chasing a newspaper along the tarmac… This madness… There wasn’t a single soul anywhere, just endlessly unfolding panoramas, like something out of Tarkovsky’s Stalker .

Finally, there were the bottles of beer, the reason they’d come out in the first place. The shelves were full of them, all different shades of brown. The all-night kiosk smelled of smoke and the ice melting in the fridge.

Nastya went up to the counter. The girl working there might have been younger than her, but her eyes had already lost their spark.

“Excuse me, could you tell us where the nearest emergency clinic is, please?”

They’d already forgotten about the beer.

The girl looked Nastya up and down in search of obvious injuries.

“Keep walking along the main road until you get to the second bus stop. Then cross the tram ring and follow the fence.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“Look at the state of her!” the girl thought about Nastya, amused rather than annoyed as she usually was. “Dressed like a tramp, and not a scrap of make-up on! Who goes out without make-up on these days? There must be something wrong with her…”

She herself was done up as though she were going into battle. Effectively, she was.

Coming out onto the kiosk steps, Nastya panicked, thinking he’d gone… But no, a shadow peeled away from the wall. Vadim was holding a paper napkin to his broken nose.

“There’s no point!” He was still weakly protesting against the idea of the emergency clinic. “It’s just a broken nose! Feel it yourself if you like, it’s not even dislocated.”

“Don’t be stupid. What if you’ve got concussion or something? You’re going to be out on the road tomorrow. You might die out there… in Systert or some other godforsaken hole.”

“Oh, what delights await me!”

He grinned, and Nastya grabbed his hand and started pulling him along behind her. Meanwhile Vadim kept up his protests.

“OK, look, I’m not registered as an Ufa resident, am I? And I left my passport at home… I mean, at Squire’s place. My blood’s full of alcohol. And anyway, it was a fight! They’ll have to report it to the police!’

“Oh, just be quiet!”

There was a pause, then he laughed and said, “You’re dragging me along like a little boy!”

“What choice do I have, if little Vadim doesn’t want to go and see the nice doctor? Oh, he can be a stubborn little chap when he wants to be. Look at him, digging his heels in and everything!” Nastya started laughing and Vadim played along, pouting and pulling a face like a toddler having a tantrum. Now they were both laughing, and the tension of the situation was diffused. Vadim didn’t put up any more resistance. It was just a shame, the way things had turned out in this damn city! He should have spent the night on the road.

The napkin was wet through and he had blood all over his fingers. The blood had started clotting inside his nose, so he had to do a lot of sniffing and spitting to get rid of it.

“Shit! That was bad luck, wasn’t it? Where did those bastards come from anyway?”

“Just a street gang!” Nastya shrugged. “We should’ve stuck to the main road. You know what city courtyards are like at night… Never a good idea.” She paused. “I was attacked, you know, a few months ago, back home in Tyumen. They broke my nose too.”

“Really? They attacked a girl?”

“What’s the difference? Anyway, they weren’t after me, it was my bag they wanted. They came out of nowhere, punched me in the face and ran off. It was one of those drawstring ones, and I’d customised it… You should have seen it! It looked like a general’s uniform.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was covered with badges and medals. It started when I found a few vintage badges — you know, with revolutionary slogans on, stuff like that — and pinned them on. People noticed, and someone gave me a medal commemorating the Fiftieth Anniversary of Victory Day. It wasn’t actually that special, but I pinned it on anyway. And that’s how it started. It’s amazing how much of that old stuff people have lying around at home. They just kept bringing me more and more! My best friend Luda’s grandfather died. He was a really good bloke, you know… Anyway, she gave me some of his medals and even promised to give me his Soviet order, but… well, there’s no point now.”

“Hey, I’m sorry you lost it… Maybe I’ll have a go at making one like that myself. But why on earth were you wandering about the courtyards on your own at night?”

“I wasn’t on my own. That’s the whole point. That was the worst of it.”

Nastya’s mood suddenly changed and she retreated into herself. They continued walking in silence along the empty avenue, which was flooded with toxic orange light from the street lamps. The only sound was Vadim forcefully clearing the blood from his nose. Finally they came to the tram ring, which was empty at 4.00 am, of course… The trams were all at the depot, sleeping companionably side-by-side, just like their passengers. There was a white fence on the other side of the ring. Excellent! They were nearly there. Intending to share this with Nastya, Vadim glanced at her then decided against it. “We might not appear to have anything in common,” he thought, “but we’re in this together. A boy from St Petersburg and a girl from Siberia.”

Tyumen! He’d never been there. Maybe he’d go there one day, maybe he’d make it that far… He tried to imagine the city — grey snow piled up along the sides of the roads in winter, minibus taxis, smoke from the factory chimneys a blurred trail in the frozen air. Rows of identical nine-floor apartment blocks, home to Nastya and her best friend Luda. And Luda’s grandfather, once a merry soldier.

There had been hundreds, thousands of men like Luda’s grandfather — full of vigour, optimistic, ‘thoroughly decent chaps’. Who remembers now the military operations in which Luda’s grandfather was wounded and displayed his valour? He and his kind were immortalised affectionately in Soviet literature. Then he became a grandfather, proud and wise, with medals on his jacket and grandchildren on his lap. The same merry soldier. He even had a smile on his face as he lay in his coffin. It was an eerie and pitiful sight.