Sergey Dovlatov - Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“We’ll see about that.” And Natella broke into hysterical laughter.

She coquettishly swung her canvas bag with an image of James Bond [36] James Bond – агент секретной службы, главный персонаж романов британского писателя Яна Флеминга (1908-64) on it and walked off.

I set off for Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a cheerless field. Dark boulders loomed along its edges in shapeless piles. A ravine, thick with brush, gaped on the left. Coming downhill, I saw several log houses girdled by birch trees. Monochrome cows milled about on the side, flat like theatre decorations. Grimy sheep with decadent expressions grazed lazily on the grass. Jackdaws circled above the roofs.

I walked through the village hoping to come across someone. Unpainted grey houses looked squalid. Clay pots crowned the pickets of sagging fences. Baby chicks clamoured in the plastic-covered coops. Chickens pranced around in a nervous, strobing strut. Squat, shaggy dogs yipped gamely.

I crossed the village and walked back, pausing near one of the houses. A door slammed and a man in a faded railroad tunic appeared on the front steps.

I asked where I could find Sorokin.

“They call me Tolik,” he said.

I introduced myself and once again explained that I was looking for Sorokin.

“Where does he live?”

“In the village of Sosnovo.”

“But this is Sosnovo.”

“I know. How can I find him?”

“D’ya [37] D’ya = Do you mean Timokha Sorokin?”

“His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

“Timokha’s been dead a year. He froze, havin’ partaken…”

“I’d really like to find Sorokin.”

“Didn’t partake enough, I say, or he’da [38] he’da = he would have still been here.”

“What about Sorokin?”

“You don’t mean Mishka, by chance?”

“His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

“Well, that’d be Mishka all right. Dolikha’s sonin-law. D’ya know Dolikha, the one that’s a brick short of a load?”

“I’m not from around here.”

“Not from Opochka, by chance?”

“From Leningrad.”

“Ah, yeah, I heard of it…”

“So how do I find Mikhail Ivanych?”

“You mean Mishka?”

“Precisely.”

Tolik relieved himself [39] to relieve oneself – помочиться from the steps deliberately and without reservation. Then he cracked open the door and piped a command:

“Ahoy! Bonehead Ivanych! You got a visitor!”

He winked and added:

“It’s the cops for the alimony.”

A crimson muzzle, generously adorned with blue eyes, appeared momentarily.

“Whatsa… Who?. You about the gun?”

“I was told you have a room to let.”

The expression on Mikhail Ivanych’s face betrayed deep confusion. I would later discover that this was his normal reaction to any question, however harmless.

“A room?. Whatsa. Why?”

“I work at the Preserve. I’d like to rent a room. Temporarily. Till autumn. Do you have a spare room?”

“The house is Ma’s. In her name. And Ma’s in Pskov. Her feet swolled up.”

“So you don’t have a room?”

“Jews had it last year. I got no complaints, the people had class… No furniture polish, no cologne… Just red, white and beer. Me personally, I respect the Jews.”

“They put Christ on the cross,” interjected Tolik.

“That was ages ago!” yelled Mikhail Ivanych.

“Long before the Revolution.”

“The room,” I said. “Is it for rent or not?”

“Show the man,” commanded Tolik, zipping his fly.

The three of us walked down a village street. A woman was standing by a fence, wearing a man’s jacket with the Order of the Red Star [40] the Order of the Red Star: a decoration given for exceptional military bravery, or for long service in the armed forces. pinned to the lapel.

“Zin, lend me a fiver,” belted out Mikhail Ivanych.

The woman waved him away.

“Wine’ll be the death of you. Have ya heard, they got a new decree out? To string up every wino with cable!”

“Where?!” Mikhail Ivanych guffawed. “They’ll run outta [41] outta = out of metal. Our entire metalworks will go bust…”

And he added:

“You old tart. Just wait, you’ll come to me for wood. I work at the forestry. I’m a Friendshipist!”

“What?” I didn’t understand.

“I got a power saw. one from the ‘Friendship’ line. Whack – and there’s a tenner in my pocket.”

“Friendshipist,” grumbled the woman. “Your only friend’s the big swill. See you don’t drink yourself into the box…”

“It’s not that easy,” said Mikhail Ivanych almost regretfully.

This was a broad-shouldered, well-built man. Even tatty, filthy clothes could not truly disfigure him. A weathered face, large, protruding collarbones under an open shirt, a steady, confident stride. I couldn’t help but admire him.

M ikhail Ivanych’s house made a horrifying impression. A sloping antenna shone black against the white clouds. Sections of the roof had caved in, revealing dark, uneven beams. The walls were carelessly covered in plywood. The cracked window panes were held together with newspaper. Filthy oakum poked out from the countless gaps.

The stench of rotten food hung in the owner’s room. Over the table I noticed a coloured portrait of General Mao [42] General Mao – Мао Аньин (1922–1950), сын председателя Коммунистической партии Китая Мао Цзэдуна. Принимал участие в Великой отечественной войне на стороне России. , torn from a magazine. Next to him beamed Gagarin [43] Gagarin: Yuri Gagarin (1934-68), Soviet cosmonaut and the first human to travel into outer space. . Pieces of noodles were swimming in the sink with dark circles of chipped enamel. The wall clock was silent: an old pressing iron, used as weight on the main wheel, rested on the floor.

Two heraldic-looking cats – one charcoal-black, the other pinkish-white – sauntered haughtily about the table, weaving past the plates. The owner shooed them away with a felt boot that came to hand. Glass smashed. The cats fled into a dark corner with a piercing howl.

The room next door was even more disgusting. The middle of the ceiling sagged dangerously low. Two metal beds were hidden under tattered clothes and putrid sheepskins. The surfaces were covered with cigarette butts and eggshells.

To be honest, I was at a bit of a loss [44] to be at a loss – растеряться . If only I could have simply said: “I’m afraid this won’t work…” But it appears I am genteel after all. And so I said something lyrical:

“The windows face south?”

“The very, very south,” Tolik affirmed.

Through the window I saw a dilapidated bathhouse.

“The main thing,” I said, “is that there’s a private entrance.”

“The entrance is private,” agreed Mikhail Ivanych, “only it’s nailed shut.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.

“Ein Moment” said the owner, took a few steps back, and charged the door.

“What’s the rent?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” I asked.

“Just that. Bring six bottles of poison and the space is yours.”

“Can we agree on something a little more specific? Say twenty roubles? Would that suit you?”

The owner fell to thought:

“How much is that?”

“I just said – twenty roubles.”