The winter has gone and summer’s here, we thank our party for this beautiful year . Something like this.” “Oh”, – mom gave me a faint smile and slapped me on the back, – even after having been to war you haven’t become more serious.” “Never mind – said mom – we’ll survive, now that you’re back we’ll survive. Just don’t say things like that, be careful, for a hasty word you can pay with your youth.” That fear of the old times repressions still lives in mother. “Well – I said – don’t you worry about paying for it, we paid for it a long time ago, I have become disabled at my age, let’s see now how they pay us back.” And as if I knew it about this payment. I was entitled to a pension as a disabled war veteran, but I nearly dropped dead while I was trying to get it. It’s disgusting to even remember how many thresholds I had to haunt, references to get, applications to write, decorations to show, sort of, here they are, everything is in order, all by the rule, not only our wise leader has them, I also have them, don’t you worry, and my stump is also real, dear comrades from the military medical commission, not a fake, you can touch it if you like… Eventually I got so disgusted by all this stuff that I wanted to scream, to get a knife and stab all these bastards from whom this miserable pension of mine depended, or stab myself like some Japanese samurai, with a hope that for the rest of their lives they will be conscience stricken… Then I went to my factory, even though I knew in advance that it would not do any good. And so it happened. Some bastard in the personnel department – with a well fed mug – declared at the end of our conversation that, well, I didn’t send you to that war and you can’t have any grudges against me because we can take you back at the factory – and then this bastard smirks like all them bastards smirk – only if your hand grows back again. He didn’t manage to hold himself and chuckled at his own wit. Yes – I said and felt that my kettle was boiling over, a bit more and I’ll explode and then won’t be able to say anything at all, I barely held myself because I had left my last nerves in Afghan, became a real psycho. Yes – I said – it wasn’t you shit face sent me to Afghan, but I fought there and risked to get killed there every minute only so you here with your other bastards could grow fat cheeks and backsides, so you here could rip off dough from young guys for their employment, you dirty scum, and then pay off for your bustard son skipping his army service, and avoiding going to war. So that you on the money of workmen like me, money that you suck from them like a leech, making up various reasons, you could on that money fix your bastards in institutes, buy them cars and leather coats. I told him roughly like that, in the end I couldn’t hold on and yelled at him. He stared at me, flushed with anger, eyes bulging out, he hadn’t faced such dumbfounding impudence for a long time, in short he looked as if he would kick off right now, which would be very appropriate from my point of view. But I’m all wound up, on the edge, I couldn’t just leave slamming the door behind me – not enough, that’s for the refined. I was ready to kill him for mocking at my battlefield wound. So I grabbed the first thing I got my hand on – pity it was a light plastic stationery kit – and hurled it at his red bald spot. Take this! – I said *** your mother…! And I stepped out. I didn’t hear a sound behind my back, that scum was probably still in shock. Well, obviously with my character (though, if you think of it, what did my character have to do with it, people have to be provided with work regardless of their bad or good characters but here it’s different and everyone considers it normal) afterwards I didn’t find any other work except as a night watchman. Eventually I began receiving the pension, an unexpected miracle, I by the way thought that everyone had forgotten about my existence. So the pension plus wages as a night watchman at a construction site, overall: five or six trips to the market. In one word, if you don’t spend anything on clothing and medical treatment or do this very seldom – the money was just enough for food. But I was young, and still am young now, though I’m disabled, sometimes I forgot about it. Honestly, I wanted to dress well, wanted girls falling in love with me, or at least have money for hookers, who in our city you couldn’t even come close to if you had less than a fifty in your pocket. I wanted us to have plenty of everything and first of all wanted that mom was in no need of anything, because she unlike me needed only the necessary things. What kind of a son I am if she wouldn’t have the very necessary things? That’s why I constantly thought about money, thought where to get, earn more money, what I could do, fix something. So one night I sat in my booth, looking after some dog shit which in our building site was more common than any construction materials, I sat looking at my stump, smoking my favourite “Prima”, because I started to love what I could have; I sat thinking my sad thoughts: how could I start living normally, like a normal person. On my arrival from Afghanistan I tried to enter the institute again, but it was more like trying my luck, I understood that I had lost my last knowledge at war but thought that like a war veteran I would get some discount. But regardless of my veteran benefits, they cut me down like a rabbit. And now before the new attempt to become a student and eventually an engineer I had a whole year ahead. A whole year of expectations and loads of unrealized opportunities to become a human being without a higher education. So I sat there thinking about all this stuff and heard some steps. I looked out of the booth and saw one absolutely plastered guy staggering towards me. I met him and said – what are you wandering about the building site for? Either you’ve got no better place for a night walk, or you’re trying to steal something? If you’ve come for stealing, I’ll knock you down stiff in a second, because it is my job here to protect our precious and not yet dragged away socialist property. He looked at me with his cloudy eyes, he was drunk but my refined wit at such late hour surprised him. He flapped his eye lashes, suddenly hiccupped, smiled and moved to me trying to hug and kiss me. So I easily, to keep him on his feet, shoved him off with my hand, which even though it is in the singular is, thank God, healthy, and persistently repeated the question. He mumbled something, nodded benevolently, went in his pocket and pulled out – my God! – a wad of fifties. He took one note from the bundle and pushed it to me and put the bundle back in his pocket, pity not the other way around. Champagne – he mumbled, stammering, stumbling over his words so I could hardly make out what he wanted. “Champagne, – he said, – and be quick.” “Shoot off to Kubinka and back, – he continued, – quickly.” Kubinka – our soviet black market in Baku where you could buy anything anytime was quite far away from the site. “Get a taxi, – he said in the end.” I stood there like fool with the green note in my hand, and he was already walking back. That moment I woke up and rushed after him. I reached him when he was entering through the back door – it must have led to the kitchen – of the glass – fronted café which was across the road from our building site. This café, they said, was about to be demolished due to the new construction of a multi – storey building nearby, but it was still standing there, all shabby, covered with dust from the pile of cement and sand at the building site. Our builders lunched there during the day for a ruble or two. So I went into this glass café after him. Called him, shouted a couple of times but he probably hadn’t heard me or paid attention, so I went after him through a rotten, stinking corridor and entered an inconspicuous little door after this jolly fellow.
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