I entered and froze still. There was enough to make you dumbfounded! Brightly lit, spacious restaurant suite, at the table a drunk bunch of eight – ten people, table – my eyes hurt by the splendour– what you wouldn’t have there (later I was recalling, figured out – there wasn’t champagne on the table), chicks sat at the table, in front of each an open Marlboro pack. They giggle, squeal, kiss each other, and behind that door when I had been going after that drunk dickhead everything was quiet, dead kingdom. The door it turned out was soundproof. They stared at me, then at that chum who gave me the money. He already managed to cuddle up on the lap of one of the girls. “What is it? – that psycho said, fluttering his uncomprehending eyes at me.” I handed him his money back. He began, how he could, explaining to this crowd that he had been sending me to Kubinka after champagne. This news made them rejoice, they were all heavily drunk and were slow to grasp anything, so they also started giving me money. Well, I thought, if I start explaining anything to them – it will take till the morning, to hell with you, I’ll go, drink as much as you like. I thought why not, let’s have a free ride once in a lifetime at the expense of these nutters, and if some madman in my absence decides to clean the building site of the dog crap, I hope they choke on it! In short, I went to Kubinka and brought them three bottles of champagne, a box of American cigarettes and put it all on the table along with the change. When I turned around to leave, they clutched at my trousers and wouldn’t let go. They were laughing, looking at the crumpled notes on the table, you see, they were very amused by the fact that I returned them their change and they sat me at their table. I didn’t pose, drank with them, I was hungry too, and the food was top class. They were served by the chef of this stinking joint, turns out it was stinking for some and fragrant for others. And he served them at VIP standards so I understood that these are most likely big shots here, or at least wealthy people. Early in the morning the feast finished. Everybody left and my psycho asked me to take him home. “Do you remember the address? – I asked him.” “Sure, – he replied with a self – satisfied smile.” I had enough time till my boss would appear and I, supporting this fellow, flagged down a car and went with him. At his place I paid the taxi with my own money because I hadn’t taken the change from the table, woke him up and helped him to get to the third floor, or rather dragged him on my back. The flat astonished me much more than that luxurious night feast around the building site. I had only seen something like that in museums, and even that didn’t happen often. The flat was rich; it’s difficult for me to describe it. There were moulded golden cupids on the ceiling, splendid furniture, a video recorder, (I had only heard that they existed) great tableware, about a thousand rubles worth, one – hundred – and – fifty – ruble lighters on the coffee table, in short – you would be dazzled only by spending too much time in a flat like this. So I decided not to wait for this visual effect, especially because Osman – that’s how his friends called him, I remembered – dropped on the sofa and was already snoring. I left quietly closing the door behind me. That’s how I met Nagiyev, it’s Osman’s surname – for some reason he didn’t like being called by his first name. About two days later, in the evening as I started my shift, Nagiyev suddenly pulled in with his new “Lada”. He came to me and without any other words just said that he needed me. So I started helping him in some small ways, go there, and bring this and that, find something. He expressed his requests very cordially, so it looked as if he was asking me for a favour, he also paid not bad dough for that, often it added up to six – seven hundred rubles a month. Obviously it was much more than my pension. This money came in very handy at home, and soon enough I couldn’t even imagine what I would have done without Nagiyev’s money. Mom now had to stay in hospital longer and longer and that was again additional expenses and quite significant for me: to her doctor, for injections, to the nurse and so on – it cost a pretty penny, sometimes added up to a thousand rubles along with the food that I had bought and delivered to her because the food in our city hospitals was more symbolic than real, just enough so that the patient didn’t drop dead. So I couldn’t go on without that money anymore. I told mom that I was making some money on the side. She trusted me but tried to find out in more detail how exactly I was doing it. I didn’t reply, changed the subject and she didn’t insist just heaving a sigh. Then I was trying to convince her that I work honestly, no dodgy dealings, and she would calm down. And really I was working, wasn’t I? I wasn’t stealing or anything. Now quite often I had to take part in drinking sprees that Nagiyev was giving, sometimes he was bringing drugs and all his gang was screaming with delight. They tried to pull me into it but I refused categorically and they left me alone. They were all getting high from the drugs – it was funny to look at – they injected stuff, and smoked grass. Nagiyev was smart, his kind don’t rush headlong into it, he was far too serious for that, much too enterprising, he didn’t get too far into the drugs, and booze, he would chill out one day, then get some rest, and then doing business all week. His business was doing great, he was making good money, and mainly he was engaged in the clothing trade. I asked him once, how come he doesn’t work anywhere, isn’t he worried that they might declare him a sponger? “Well, – he told me – why do you think I’m not working anywhere? I work, if you’re interested, as a laboratory assistant at a factory laboratory. You see, I almost ruined my health working there with all those bad, poisonous chemicals.” He giggled. “I see, – I said.” I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that he “works” in the laboratory of the factory at which I toiled in the past. He lived alone in that luxurious flat of his. In his thirty four years he had been married twice and twice divorced. He black marketed big time, had connections with other cities, with their traders. They brought goods from there, he sent from here. A couple of times he sent me to Moscow and Vilnius with large parcels, in other words he was doing business and kept his eyes open. I often took bags stuffed with clothes to his mother, who lived with her feeble – minded daughter, Nagiyev’s sister, in another part of the city. I only had a glimpse of Nagiyev’s sister once when I was waiting in their hall. She had Downs’s syndrome, though it’s not easy to tell their age, I thought she was about forty – forty five but looked like a very chubby child. I also often brought stuffed bags from Nagiyev’s mother. One she would hang over my shoulder, the other I took in my hand, and it looked as if she’d rather I had not just two but four hands. Lately I moved about the place in a taxi most of the time. As to moving forward in time… I don’t really know whether I moved at all, as if time stood still for me, was kind of sticky… One day Nagiyev told me to go to the airport to meet some friend of his from Odessa. So I went. I met him. The guy was a bright, smart, kind of fashionable and jolly young man. With a porter we took all his suitcases to the car and rode. At Nagiyev’s there already were sitting two broads – when did he manage? – and all three of them were a bit squint – eyed. Nagiyev and Odessit hugged and kissed them and started partying straight away. I tried to leave but Nagiyev asked me to stay and have a drink with them. I stayed since I had nowhere to rush to, mom checked out of hospital a week ago and so far was feeling ok – touch wood! We drank vodka; there was caviar, Nagiyev’s favourite Swiss cheese, olives, mushrooms, pickled aubergine, skewered sturgeon, and our national pasty with meat or vegetables – kutabs.
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