Constriction by J. Mogwai
Slavik, called Pipet by his deadbeat friends, is planning to leave his town and his girlfriend for a new life in Moscow - but will old habits get the better of him?
"Hans Zimmer is a loser," read a crooked scrawl on the wall of the bus stop.
Pipet stood across from it, frowning, lost in thought.
Something told him the name belonged to a composer, though he couldn't recall when or where he might've heard the guy's music. Not that it really mattered.
What intrigued him more was how a name like that had ended up on the grimy wall of a Zheleznogorsk bus shelter, wedged between a crumbling ad for a hardware store and a poster offering to buy hair - a mystery tugging at his mind, pulling it away from the biting November wind.
Once again, he pulled the dead phone from his coat pocket, tried to power it on, sighed, and slipped it back. Time dragged, unbearably slow, fraying his nerves. Even Hans Zimmer was starting to get on them, when a familiar voice called out behind him:
"Been waiting long?"
Pipet turned. There stood Seryoga, grinning like a punk and holding out his hand.
"Long enough. Hey."
"Sorry, man, totally spaced. Why didn't you call?"
"Phone dies in the cold."
"Ah, classic old iPhone crap. Should've stuffed it down your pants."
An awkward pause.
"You got it?" Pipet asked, impatience creeping in.
"Yeah."
Seryoga glanced around, pulled out a crumpled paper "receipt", and handed it over.
"Thanks," Pipet said, slipping off his sneaker and tucking the paper under the insole.
"Should've gone with the underwear. Way safer. Insole's a crappy safe."
"What, your underwear's a fucking bank vault?"
Seryoga just shrugged.
"Whatever. We're square."
"All good. I'm off - freezing out here."
"Later, Pipet. Call if anything."
"Will do. Hey, Seryoga... you know who Hans Zimmer is?"
"Hell if I know. Some kind of artist?"
As he walked, Pipet thought about what to do next. Going to Vika's made sense, but he didn't want the hassle - she'd start begging him to stay in Zhelek again. Much easier to go brood at Ilyich's. Besides, Ilyich had that brand new seven-string Cort lying around - untouched. But then... Vika. If he didn't show up, she'd end up at her friend's amphetamine night, and that would mean double the misery.
Pipet wouldn't be Pipet if he didn't find a middle ground - smoke a little with Ilyich, then head home to Vika.
Ilyich greeted him in a hulking terry robe, a furious ginger cat squirming under his arm.
"Well, well, look who's here! Shut the door before the cat bolts."
Pipet realized - he'd made the right call.
"You know the factorial of some number - hell, I forgot which - is so huge it's useless? There aren't even that many atoms in the whole Universe!" Ilyich announced proudly, quoting something he'd just seen on YouTube.
"Factorial's the one with the exclamation mark, right?"
"Yeah."
"First time I saw it on the board in college, I thought the prof had lost his mind."
"That's because physics and math aren't your thing," Ilyich said, letting go of the cat.
"That's why I dropped out."
They headed into the room. Ilyich's room was a world apart from the rest of the apartment. Inside, it was all him. Outside - his mother's domain. There were no curtains, just a sheet hanging over the window. Childish wallpaper with bears was peeling at the seams. From the couch - shaped like an elephant - a sad chunk of foam peered out. Only a widescreen monitor and a shiny new hookah above the desk stood tall against the decay. Pipet called it "the sanctuary of decadence," and never could understand why Ilyich, who made solid money as a sysadmin, refused to renovate - preferring to invest in PC parts, musical gear, and hookahs.
Ilyich rolled up an extra chair to the desk and pulled out a scorched bong.
"Got something new to try. Pass it over," Pipet said.
"What is it?"
"Seryoga says it's lemon skunk."
"Don't like sativa," Ilyich frowned.
"Meaning what? You don't wanna smoke?"
"Hell yeah, spark it!"
The bong gurgled; fragrant smoke began to curl through the room.
"When are you heading out?" Ilyich leaned back.
"No idea," Pipet muttered, trying to get the hookah going. "Maybe in a week."
"What about Vika?"
"She's the problem. Why's this thing not working?"
"No tobacco."
"Shit." Pipet tossed the hose aside and grabbed a cigarette.
"So what's the deal with her?"
"She doesn't want me to leave."
"Then take her with you."
"Her mom's sick, she can't."
"So what're you gonna do?"
"Why are you grilling me? I don't know. I have to go. I've got work lined up in Moscow, they're waiting. I've paid the rent here till the end of the month, but there's no job, no future. This place is a dead end. I'll rot here..."
"Yeah, Pipet, if you're staying, you'll have to find something at the plant. Selling toys again, like last year - forget it."
"With two semesters of math under your belt, they won't take you at the plant. Unless it's to guard the ore..."
"Light it up. Let's smoke a bit more."
Fine rain rattled against the window.
When Pipet got home, Vika was already back from work.
The apartment smelled of frying cutlets. Ever since she'd learned he was planning to move to Moscow, his diet had changed drastically: instead of pizza - which used to be his breakfast, lunch, and dinner - now there was borscht, ragout, meat au gratin, and other gourmet comforts. Pipet understood she was doing everything she could to hold on to him - and it made him ache, knowing he couldn't live up to that hope. That was partly why he started smoking more.
At the sound of the door, she stepped out from the kitchen.
"Slava, hey!" Vika kissed him and searched his eyes.
"Again?" she murmured sadly.
"Yeah. We watched a movie at Ilyich's... smoked a bit..."
"Hungry?"
Despite the slice of blueberry cake Ilyich's mom had bought for her friend's upcoming birthday, Pipet was starving.
"How was your day?" he asked, stepping into the kitchen.
"Awful, baby. Mom felt bad again - had to leave work early... then cooked..."
"You didn't need to," Pipet cut her off, sitting down.
Vika placed a steaming plate in front of him and sat across.
"It's really good, thanks," he said, chewing.
"Well, of course it is. After a film night with Ilyich," Vika smiled melancholically.
"Please, don't start. Your nights with Dasha - now that's a real freakshow."
"I only see her when you vanish and I feel unbearably alone."
"Doesn't mean you should stuff yourself with speed until you break down."
"Then tell me, Slava, what should I do? My boyfriend just walks out on me, because he hates his hometown and someone offered him a job in Moscow..."
Pipet put down his fork.
"Vik... just stop. We've already been through this."
"...and instead of talking to me, my beloved gets high at the place of a guy who ditched his wife and kid and lives with his mom!"
"What's Ilyich got to do with anything?"
"Everything! You're becoming just like him!"
Vika burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Pipet tried to hold her.
"Hush, baby..."
"Don't touch me!" she pulled away and curled into a corner.
Her crying turned into full-on sobbing.
Suddenly, music erupted from the neighbor's place: "Only a shot of vodka on the table..."
"Fucking hell, people are partying and I've got work in the morning... what kind of life is this?" she rolled her eyes heavenward.
"I'll go ask them to turn it down."
Pipet stepped out of the kitchen - he couldn't take being near Vika anymore. Out in the stairwell, he paused and lit a cigarette with quiet relief. He tried to remember when solitude had become a luxury.
He couldn't. Snuffing the butt in a rusty tin can, he climbed a floor up, following the blaring voice of Leps. The music was coming from Semyon's apartment. Decent guy. Blue-collar type, slowly drinking himself into oblivion under the silent reign of his iron-fisted wife. They'd had a few drinks together once or twice.
He rang the bell. No answer. He rang again, then knocked just in case. The door flew open. A shirtless man, unfamiliar and wobbly, stared him down.
"Who the hell are you?" the man slurred.
"Who the hell are you?"
For a few seconds they just stared at each other.
"Turn the music down. People are trying to sleep," said Pipet.
"What else you want?"
"Nothing. That'll do." He turned to leave.
But a punch caught him square in the side of the head.
"The fuck, man? Have you lost your damn mind?" Pipet yelled, shielding himself.
A kick to the chest knocked the wind out of him. Fists and curses rained down like bricks.
"Whoa! Cool it!" Semyon suddenly burst in, dragging the guy off.
"Semyon! Who the fuck is this psycho?" Pipet wheezed, getting up.
"Oh hey, Slava!" Semyon blinked in surprise. "Where's Vika?"
"Home, for fuck's sake! What the hell, man?"
"We're just celebrating... guy's birthday."
"And that means beating up the whole building?"
"You started mouthing off!" growled the birthday boy, still trying to wriggle free.
"Chill out! What happened, Slava?"
"Nothing. Your friend's nuts. Just turn the music down. Vika's got work early."
"Will do, no problem. You should put some ice on that cheek. And you," Semyon jabbed a finger at the guy's hairy chest, "settle the fuck down and stop making me look bad in front of the neighbors. In fact - shake hands. Now."
The drunker Semyon got, the more gentlemanly he acted - which never made any damn sense.
The two men obeyed, more out of confusion than peacekeeping.
"Slava," said Pipet.
"Tokha," grunted the other.
The tension eased a little. Someone handed Pipet a frozen mackerel for the swelling on his cheek, and someone else poured him a shot.
"Drink up, Slava. No hard feelings."
Pipet knocked back the shot and chased it with pickle brine straight from the jar.
"Better?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Stick around, the girls will be here soon."
"What about your wife?"
"She's at her sister's in Saratov." Semyon lifted his glass. "While the wife's away - we take what we can from life." He drank.
"I better head out. Vika and I... still got some arguing left to do."
"You sure?" asked the host, pouring another shot.
"Yeah. I should go. Just... keep the music down, or I'll end up thawing all your fish."
"Got it, Slav. One for the road, as tradition demands."
Pipet downed the drink, shook Semyon's hand, and slapped the cold mackerel into the birthday guy's open palm.
"God, what happened to you?" Vika gasped.
"Nothing," Pipet waved it off. "Just a misunderstanding."
"That could bruise... Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Might be a concussion. Wait, baby, I'll make you a compress."
"Vik," he took her hands, "it's fine. Just a bunch of drunk idiots. They mistook me for someone else. One stray punch. It's nothing."
"That Semyon guy?"
"No. Semyon was the peacemaker - he poured vodka."
"Yeah, I can smell it."
"Pick a movie?" Pipet changed the subject. "Let's watch something gentle tonight. There's a shortage of that lately."
"Sure..."
He stepped out onto the balcony for a smoke. Emptied half a cigarette, packed it with skunk. Taking a deep drag, he looked down at the city. A line of panel houses stretched toward the red-and-white smokestacks of some factory. The lights blinked cheerfully. The drizzle had turned to snow. Swaying slightly, Pipet came back into the room, lit only by the laptop screen. Vika glanced at him with a mix of reproach and resignation.
"I found one. Shia LaBeouf's in it..."
"As long as it's not Nymphomaniac, hit play."
Pipet sank onto the couch and pulled her into an embrace.
"Slav, why do your hands smell like fish?"
When he woke up, Vika was already gone - off to work. He stretched lazily and slid out from under the blanket, but the moment he felt how cold the room was, he climbed right back in. The radiator was barely warm. He grabbed his laptop from the nightstand. No new messages. He started scrolling aimlessly through his feed. Ended up on Vika's page. Last online an hour and a half ago. A photo from their trip to St. Petersburg caught his eye - their faces happy. Strange. Felt like it had just happened.
He opened the railway site. A ticket to Moscow in a third-class carriage - under a thousand rubles. No point putting it off. He booked it almost without thinking. Train leaves in three days.
That's it.
Somehow lighter. And unbearably sad at the same time. Wrapped in the blanket like a cloak, he took the laptop to the kitchen and turned on all the burners to warm up the air. Put the kettle on. Pulled an acrylic bong from under the sink.
The phone rang from the other room. He went back. It was Vika calling.
"Hey."
"Morning, Slav. Sleep okay?"
"I guess. Something wrong?"
"No, not really... there's breakfast in the fridge. Found it yet?"
"Nah. Just put the kettle on."
"M'kay. Any plans today?"
"No clue. Haven't even washed my face yet. Why?"
"Dasha called. She's planning something tonight. Wanna come with me?"
"Not really in the mood... but if you want, we'll go."
"See you at home then?"
"Yeah. Deal."
"I love you."
"Love you too. Bye."
The moment the call ended, an incoming video chat lit up the screen. Dasha.
"Hey."
"Slaaav!" she sang. "Heeey there! How are you?"
"Can't complain. Thanks."
"You look all gloomy... You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just woke up."
She'd clearly gotten ready for the call: her blonde hair perfectly styled, eyes lined just right. She had that kind of beauty that knew it was beautiful. Pipet kept his guard up around her. He was afraid she might make him fall for her. Afraid of her games. Like she was always waiting for the right moment to wreck his life.
"Slaav," she said his name with a kind of teasing lilt.
"What?"
"Are you coming over tonight?"
"Yeah. With Vika."
"Is it true you're leaving?"
"It is."
"When?"
"In three days."
"Oh... that soon? What are you gonna do in Moscow?"
"Live."
"Slav, I just wanted to see you... Never mind. Bye."
The kettle started whistling in the kitchen. Pipet made himself tea and pulled out a crumpled foil wrap with some weed left inside. Just as he sat down, another call lit up the screen.
"Hey," he answered.
Ilyich appeared, wreathed in smoke. Clearly, his morning had started earlier than Pipet's.
"Aah, my man! What's the plan?"
"Christ, what's with everyone today... I just woke up."
"I've got a proposal."
"Go ahead," Pipet flicked his lighter and took a hit from the bong.
"So. Remember Lyokha? Met him last year?"
"Mhm."
"It's his birthday today. He invited me, asked if I could bring someone along."
"Mhm."
"You coming?"
"Where?" Pipet exhaled.
"Kapyonki."
"Nope. He's your buddy - you go."
"Come on, Slav..."
"What?"
"He's got no one, man! Let's do one decent thing. Support the guy. There'll be booze, girls, drugs, precursors..."
"Sounds like a mess."
"Let's just go!"
"Bro. I already bought my tickets. Leaving in three days. Why the hell would I waste time on Lyokha?"
"Just for a few hours. No one's chaining us there."
"Damn it, Ilyich, you're such a pain in the ass. Fine. One condition - you drive both ways."
"Deal. I'll get a car just for you."
"Pick me up then."
"On it. Get ready."
Ilyich hung up.
"Fuck, you broke me down," muttered Pipet, heading to the bathroom to wash up.
Ilyich didn't keep him waiting - forty minutes later, he was already honking outside. Pipet came out of the building and spat before sliding into the passenger seat.
"Quiet for a sec, I'm leaving Vika a voice note."
"Cool."
"Vik, hey. I'm heading out with Ilyich for a few hours. If I don't make it home by evening, I'll head straight to Dasha's. Don't miss me. Later."
"All good?" Ilyich pulled off the lot.
"Yeah. What's that smell? You start wearing women's perfume or something?"
"Nah. My mom drives the car more than I do. Roll a joint, let's light up."
"Swing by the Greenhouse. I need to restock."
The detour to their old dealer turned into a short adventure, after which most of the drive passed in silence. Fields melted into forests, then back to fields. Only the skunk brightened the view.
"I don't like this whole thing, Ilyich. And this Lyokha guy... there's something off. He's got that government-issue look. Like a narc. And seriously... you've seen how he dresses? Light blue jeans with black dress shoes - never trusted a man like that."
"You're overthinking it."
"You always say that."
"What did Vika say about your move?"
"She doesn't know I bought the ticket."
"When are you gonna tell her?"
"I don't know. What about you and Sveta? She finally get tired of your cheeks outrunning your nose?"
"It's not about me..."
"Oh, sure. Let me guess - some guy named Gavrila's to blame."
"You don't know her," Ilyich waved him off. "Things were rocky even before she got pregnant. Then Aya was born..."
"Ilyich, whining won't get you sympathy from me. I know full well she's babysitting your daughter right now, and the second some clown invited you to party, your nostrils flared and you bolted off to Kapyonki."
"Why are you taking it so personally?"
"Your Sveta was great. I could barely hold back from using her as a role model for Vika. And now you two split. Soon you'll be dragging around some dwarf with a titanium leg from a dumpster dive. That's the last good one you'll ever get."
A sign reading Kapyonki appeared on the roadside. Ilyich grabbed his phone and called Lyokha.
"First right? Got it. That's all? Okay."
They turned. A hundred meters ahead, Lyokha appeared by the roadside.
"Man, I really don't like this," sighed Pipet. "Look at him - he's wearing the same clothes as last time..."
"Chill," said Ilyich, pulling over.
The birthday boy stood on planks laid over a stretch of oily mud. His face really did have that bureaucratic look - like a composite of every model worker in some lost film about Stalin's five-year plans, whether a steel mill foreman or a BAM bulldozer driver.
"Happy birthday!" Ilyich gave Lyokha a vigorous handshake. "Didn't have time to grab a gift, don't get mad, but I've got a little surprise... all in good time."
"Thanks," Lyokha smiled awkwardly.
"Happy birthday," said Pipet dryly.
"Thanks."
"Are we the first ones here?" Ilyich asked, stepping inside.
"Yeah... the others are having trouble getting here... for now..."
The brick house had low ceilings and tiny windows. The entryway opened directly into the kitchen. Towering like an altar over the wooden floor stood a fifty-year-old gas water heater. The table, covered with plastic cloth, held only a bottle of suspicious-looking vodka and a plate of sliced cervelat.
Pipet frowned.
"Take a seat," Lyokha offered. "I haven't really set the table yet, this is just... a warm-up."
Ilyich poured vodka into the offered shot glasses.
"Well then," he exhaled, "happy birthday once more. Wishing you happiness and good health."
They all drank.
"So, what do you think, Slav?" Ilyich turned to Pipet.
"I think you should tell me how you're planning to drive me home from this carnival if you're already drinking."
"It's not like I've never driven buzzed before..."
"Okay," said Pipet, sinking into heavy thoughts.
As the vodka took hold, Ilyich became livelier and started recounting wild parties from years past to a visibly bewildered Lyokha. Pipet shut down completely, offering only short grunts to keep the conversation alive.
Once the bottle was empty, Lyokha retrieved a jar of homemade moonshine from the fridge. Pipet got up and stepped outside, saying he needed some air.
He pulled out his phone. No signal. Not that he felt like calling anyone.
The day was nearly over. The clouds had turned a soft shade of pink. It was time to leave - but Pipet knew that was off the table. Ilyich wasn't going anywhere.
He rolled a joint and leaned against the wall. The alcohol was making its presence felt. The weed dulled the edge of his anxiety. He'd find a way to call a cab later. Somewhere around here, there had to be signal. Ilyich had already managed to reach Lyokha once.
It was very quiet. Not a single man-made sound. Only the distant barking of dogs.
Dasha's place was probably packed by now...
Pipet went back inside. The air was stifling, thick with booze.
"...anyway," Ilyich was saying to Lyokha, "moonshine's not all the same. There was this old guy who used to cook meth, and his wife - she made moonshine. He died, but the stash stayed. And she had a head for business - figured it shouldn't go to waste - so she started brewing her hooch on top of meth..."
"Nah," Lyokha slurred, "I get doing it with potatoes or beets... But chemicals? How's that even supposed to ferment?"
"I misspoke - she didn't cook it with meth, she just added something to the finished batch, maybe actual meth, maybe whatever her husband used to make it..."
"And how was it?"
"A hit. The old lady's already doing time, but the line under her window still forms every night."
"Lyokha," Pipet cut in.
"Huh?"
"Be honest - did you invite anyone besides us?"
Lyokha hesitated. A knock at the door. He jumped up from his chair and opened it. A plain-looking girl stepped inside.
"This is my sister, Nastya."
"Hi."
"Hey," nodded Pipet.
Ilyich smiled warmly.
"So? A toast?" Lyokha suggested.
"Hold on, time for the surprise." Ilyich pulled a ziplock bag of white crystals from his pocket. "Might not be the classiest gift, but it'll light up the party for sure."
"Fuck, what is that?" said Pipet.
"'Salt'?" asked the girl, stepping toward the table.
"Yeah," said Ilyich. "Want some?"
"No thanks," she replied nervously. "I only drink."
"I'll have some," Lyokha volunteered.
Pipet cursed and walked out.
Still no signal. Dusk was deepening. A pale moon peeked out from the clouds.
He walked down the road, holding his phone high in the air. Nothing.
He had no choice but to go back.
Lyokha was in high spirits, gesturing wildly as he talked. Ilyich and Nastya laughed. On the table was a plate with crushed crystals, a plastic card, and a rolled-up bill.
"Ilyich, can I talk to you for a second?"
They stepped out onto the porch.
"What the hell have you dragged me into?" Pipet said quietly, barely containing his anger.
"What's wrong?"
"Everything! You said we were going to a birthday party - instead we're trapped in some kind of moonshine-fueled fever dream. Clearly Lyokha didn't invite anyone else, and that Nastya chick - there's no way she's his sister. And that shit on the table... where the fuck did it come from?"
"I found a dead drop in my building's stairwell..."
"I'm not even going to ask how. But tell me, why the fuck are we still here? It's almost night... I've got a million things to do..."
"We'll head out soon, bro, once the booze wears off a bit..."
"It's not going to wear off if you keep drinking."
"I've stopped already."
"You've been using?"
"Yeah. Since morning."
"Well, that explains this whole damn trip... Ilyich, why the hell do you even need this shit?"
Ilyich looked away.
"All right, pull yourself together and we're out of here."
"Fine."
Not wanting to take part in whatever celebration this had turned into, Pipet dragged a chair over to the old gas heater and tried to lose himself in the flickering blue flame visible through a narrow slit. Above it, stamped in steel, was a fading inscription: "Made in the USSR. 1963."
When he woke up, the kitchen was empty. Dawn shimmered faintly outside the window.
"Ilyich!"
Silence. He checked the rooms and found only Lyokha, sleeping in the same bed with the girl he'd bizarrely introduced as his sister.
His head pounded. No booze left in the house - the squat jar that once held moonshine lay on its side, discarded. Only a couple of crystals sat abandoned on a plate. Pipet crushed one with a spoon and rubbed it into his gums, just enough to wake up.
The stimulant kicked in shortly after. A light euphoria crept through his body. The fog in his head began to lift.
He had to call a taxi. Whatever it took.
Outside, he spotted a rough wooden ladder. He leaned it against the wall, phone in hand, and climbed to the top step.
One bar. A signal! He dialed.
"Hello, this is Maxim Taxi."
"Hi -"
The wood beneath his feet gave way with a sickening crack. The step collapsed. Pipet reached out to grab the gutter, but his fingers slipped, and he tumbled down.
The drop wasn't far, but the fall was bad. He landed in the mud, twisting his ankle on impact.
"Fuck!" he yelled at the morning sky, sprawled in the dirt.
The village responded with a chorus of barking dogs.
Lyokha came rushing out.
"What happened?" he asked, alarmed.
"Nothing," snapped Pipet. "Just trying to call a damn taxi."
"Won't work. Barely any network out here. But... there's a bus..."
"Go fuck yourself with your bus. Got a phone I can use?"
"Nope," Lyokha spread his hands. "Ilyich borrowed one last night and dropped it in the toilet."
The outhouse stood nearby like a mute witness.
"Jesus Christ... You got anything I can clean my clothes with?"
"Yeah, come on, I'll get a brush..."
Lyokha opened a wardrobe, and Pipet recoiled - hanging inside was a police uniform.
"Lyokha... who the hell are you?"
"What do you mean?"
Pipet pointed at the wardrobe.
"Don't pay attention to that. It's in the past."
"No, Lyokha, I can't not pay attention to it. You and I both know - there's no such thing as an ex-cop. Where's Ilyich? What did you do with him?"
"He left during the night. Said he'd be back. Wanted to bring someone... or something. I don't remember."
"Fine. Just give me the fucking brush. I'll clean up and get out of here."
Unable to scrub away the ingrained grime, Pipet stepped out into the brightening morning. Lyokha walked him to the gate and held out his hand. Pipet ignored the gesture and limped off in silence.
He had no money. Paying the taxi driver on arrival might have been an option, but now even when there was a signal, the phone kept shutting off in the cold.
Once he reached the highway, he tried to hitchhike. Cars roared past. Pipet hobbled along the shoulder, cursing Ilyich, Lyokha, and everything that came with them. The high from the "salt" was fading fast. His hands were shaking. He was parched. The depression hit like a wave.
He knew exactly what he looked like now, and it wasn't good. Nobody in their right mind would stop for him. Every hundred meters became a battle. He tried to keep himself going by whistling Wind of Change...
Pipet was limping along the highway, hopelessly trying to hitch a ride. Cars sped past without slowing down. Just as he was about to give up, a black SUV pulled over beside him. The driver, a guy with a southern look, leaned out the window.
"What are you doing out here, man?"
"Walking to Zheleznogorsk."
"You won't get there by nightfall. Want a lift?"
"I've got no money."
"I can see that. I don't need your money, but..."
"But?"
"You look like hell, man. I don't know who you are, where you came from, or what happened to you - and I don't want to know. Your ID is the only thing I need to make sure this won't get me into trouble."
Pipet hesitated, then got in. There was no real alternative.
A phone charger was plugged into the lighter socket.
"Mind if I use it?"
"Go ahead."
A couple of minutes later, his phone buzzed to life. Notifications poured in. Vika had tried to call nearly thirty times. Dasha - around ten.
He called Vika back.
"Slava, fuck! Slava! What happened? Where are you?"
"Somewhere on the highway. Caught a ride. Ilyich bailed on me. Total shitshow. But it's... sort of okay now."
"I need to talk to you."
"Of course. Where are you?"
"At my mom's for now, but I have to stop by work - inventory on the warehouse. Stay home. Don't go anywhere!"
"I won't."
"Promise me?"
"I promise. Were you at Dasha's yesterday?"
"Yeah. Everyone was asking about you."
"Got it. We'll talk at home."
He tried calling Ilyich - phone off. Then Dasha called.
"Slav, hey. Where are you today?"
"That rhymes, you know."
"I'm serious."
"I'm heading home. Why?"
"I wanted to say goodbye yesterday, but you didn't show... Vika was really worried..."
"Get to the point, Dasha..."
"I want to come over."
"Not the best time."
"Then there won't be a time at all!"
Pipet turned to the driver.
"How long till we hit the city?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take."
"Fine, fuck it. Come over."
They dropped him off right at his building.
"Thanks, man. You really helped me out."
"No problem. If I were in your shoes, I'd hope someone would stop too."
"Let's hope."
"Here's your ID."
Pipet hadn't expected to be this glad to see his dingy rented apartment again. He ate a plate of cold borscht, finished the last of the skunk, and slid into a hot bath.
The last twenty-four hours felt distant, unreal. He didn't want to think. About Ilyich, about Lyokha, about Vika, Dasha, the trip ahead... Everything spun around him like a carousel. He just wanted everyone to leave him alone. No expectations, no visits, no hopes.
He dried off and, with a towel wrapped around his waist, stepped up to the mirror. One cheekbone was swollen, his ribs were bruised, and the faded tribal tattoo on his forearm looked like it was begging for a cover-up.
The intercom screeched. Pipet pressed the button and buzzed her in. The stairwell was filled with a draft. The elevator doors opened, and Dasha stepped out slowly.
Once inside, she gracefully shrugged off her coat, revealing a white blouse and a high, tight skirt that clung to a model's figure.
"You look like shit," she noted, giving him a once-over.
"Thanks. So do you."
He looked into her eyes. It was clear she hadn't slept since their conversation the night before. "Are you on speed?"
"Is that a problem?"
Pipet shrugged.
"Are we going to move somewhere, or are we just going to stand here in the hallway?"
"Where would you like to stand?"
"For starters - the kitchen."
"Let's go."
Delicately sitting on the edge of a chair, Dasha pulled a small pill case and a cut straw from her purse.
"Here we go," grumbled Pipet.
"Still going. You want some?" She carefully poured a bit of powder onto the back of her phone.
"I don't like stimulants."
"Vika liked it yesterday..."
He said nothing. Dasha made two neat lines and inhaled them through the straw, throwing her head back after each - revealing her slender neck.
"It's hot in here," she said, unfastening the top button of her blouse with deliberate slowness.
"I can open the window," offered Pipet, sitting on the windowsill, arms crossed.
Keys jingled, the front door slammed. He stood up and looked into the hallway.
"Hey, Vik. You've got a visitor."
Vika stepped into the kitchen.
"Hi," she said, her eyes jumping between Dasha and Pipet.
"I just came to check on you after last night," Dasha purred, pulling the pill case out again.
"You shouldn't have... I've still got some," Vika muttered, her gaze catching on Dasha's blouse.
A glimpse of expensive lace lingerie peeked through the neckline.
Before Pipet could process what was happening, Vika lunged at her friend with clenched fists.
"You think I don't know why you're here, you bitch?"
The kitchen exploded into chaos. Pipet, holding his towel with one hand, grabbed Vika with the other, pulling her away from Dasha. Vika thrashed and tried to bite him. Limping on his bad leg, he dragged her into the bathroom, braced the door shut with his foot, and wedged a stool under the handle.
"You're not coming out until you calm down!"
"Bastard!" came the shout. "You didn't tell me you're leaving in two days! Even that slut knows!"
"I was going to tell you in person! I told her because I don't give a damn about her opinion!" Pipet moved the stool and cracked the door open.
Through the gap, Vika flung a cup full of toothbrushes at him - it hit his shoulder.
"Are you insane?" He slammed the door again and shoved the stool back in place. "Sit in there, then!"
Pipet returned to the kitchen. Dasha stood as if nothing had happened, a faint smirk on her face.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He stepped up close, fists clenched, but her eyes held him frozen.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then... she kissed him hard. Pipet tasted the bitter sting of amphetamines and fruity chewing gum. His fists relaxed, arms circling her waist on their own. Dasha tugged the towel off him. The fevered kiss deepened. She let out a low moan. Pipet covered her mouth with his hand...
He let Vika out of the bathroom ten minutes after Dasha had left, having thoughtfully cleaned up the kitchen in advance.
Vika didn't speak to him but quietly followed him into the bedroom. He sat her down on the couch, wiped the tears that hadn't yet dried, and lay down beside her. As he drifted off, Pipet felt her arms wrap around him.
He woke up around noon the next day.
The smell of food drifted through the apartment. Limping into the kitchen, he found it spotless. Vika stood at the stove. Hearing him, she turned and looked at him long and hard.
"Hey," Pipet broke the silence.
"Hello."
He didn't know how to act or what to say, so he simply sat at the table. Vika went back to what she was doing. His eyes wandered to the windowsill, and he shuddered - in the corner lay a small, neat pile of buttons from Dasha's blouse.
Buttons he had torn off.
"Do we have anything to drink?"
Vika took a can of beer from the fridge and set it in front of him. Pipet took a few sips and closed his eyes, lost in thought about everything that had happened.
"It would be easier if you completely gave up on me and left."
"It would," Vika agreed. "But I'm still here. And so are you, for now."
He drank some more.
"I don't think you ever really loved me," she said after a pause.
"I think the opposite."
"And that's why you're leaving?"
"Don't tie it to that. Leaving is self-preservation. You see what this city is doing to me. It'll only get worse."
"Nonsense. The city's got nothing to do with it."
"Maybe. But that's how I see it. You don't have to agree. If things work out, I'll be able to take you with me."
"Did you forget my mother's disabled?"
"You plural. I'll take you both."
"Do you even believe that yourself?"
Pipet didn't respond.
"Where did you disappear to that night? What happened?"
"Remember the beginning of the movie Cargo 200?" "Yeah."
"That's pretty much how it felt. Ilyich ditched me in a village with some lunatic. And he still hasn't gotten in touch..."
"I told you he was capable of something like that."
Pipet waved it off.
"I don't think we'll be seeing each other again."
"The train's in the morning?" Vika asked, trying to hold back tears.
"Yeah."
"What am I supposed to do when you're gone?"
"I don't know. You don't owe me anything - just remember that."
"How can you say that?" She came over and pulled him into a tight hug. "You can't just..."
He hugged her back.
"Let's just spend our last day together," Pipet said. "Let's live it the way we should've spent all the others."
Instead of answering, Vika kissed him.
"Forget all that cooking - I'm ordering pizza."
"Alright. I'll just jump in the shower."
Left alone in the room, Pipet took out his duffel bag and packed his things. There were fewer than he expected.
Out of curiosity, he tried calling Ilyich.
On the fifth ring, he picked up:
"Hello."
"Ilyich!"
"Hey, Slav."
"Where the hell did you disappear to?" Pipet said, smirking. "Lyokha and I've been waiting for you."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I mean, what did you say when you left?"
"Uh... I said I'd go get something for the party..."
"...and come back! Come on, man, we're waiting!"
"Ah... I gotta get ready."
"Make it quick. Things are moving here too. Listen, there's no signal - I'm on the roof just to call you - so you won't be able to reach me again. Lyokha says hi. And hey... one more thing - swing by Dasha's place and bring her with you. Don't tell her anything. Just say I'm waiting."
"Damn... fine, okay," Ilyich agreed, a bit thrown.
Pipet ended the call. Just in case, he texted Dasha:
Ilyich will pick you up soon. He'll take you to me - I want to say goodbye this time. Don't mention last night to him.
He switched on airplane mode and set the phone aside.
Vika came in and noticed the packed bag.
"Slav, let's make it so we don't have to see that thing today."
"Deal," he said, sliding it under the couch.
That night gave them what two years together never had. There was tenderness and passion, words and silence, bitterness and joy. Everything between them had finally found a fragile balance.
That glow was as bright as it was fleeting. It existed only to vanish with the first light of dawn. It existed to be carried in the heart to the very end. It was.
Pipet woke long before dawn. Vika was curled up in her sleep. He moved silently, careful not to wake her. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, pulled the duffel bag from under the couch and checked its contents one more time. Everything was ready - but leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to crawl back under the blanket, wrap his arms around her, inhale the scent of her hair and drift off again.
But... that couldn't happen. Behind those few happy minutes would follow countless miserable days. It would all repeat again. He'd be back smoking skunk, staring out at the striped chimneys of god-knows-what factories, seeing people who only acknowledged him when he was right in front of them...
He laced up his sneakers and picked up the bag. The door clicked softly as he unlocked it.
He turned back. Vika wasn't asleep. She lay in the same position, eyes wide open, watching him for who knows how long.
He looked at her for a long time, one last time, and without a word, slipped out of the apartment like a shadow.
She stayed still, unmoving, and only when the first light of morning spilled into the room did she bury her face into the cold pillow and begin to cry softly.
For the first time in weeks, the day was sunny. The washed-out sun broke through the haze. Pipet stood on the square outside the train station, looking out over the small industrial town nestled in the hollow, trying to burn it into memory just the way it was now.
He took a swig of warm beer from a bottle and, suddenly remembering his phone, turned off airplane mode. A flood of notifications came in - missed calls from Ilyich and Dasha. Several angry messages from Dasha too.
Without reading any of them, Pipet unclipped one of many safety pins from his jeans, pulled out the SIM card, snapped it in two, and tossed it in the trash. He took another sip of beer and, limping slightly, walked out onto the platform. The train was due in five minutes.
The first month working at the tire shop was rough. It was the busy season - everyone was switching to winter tires - but the pay made it worth it. He rented a room in Medvedkovo, bought a new phone, and replaced the tattered old blanket the landlady had lent him with a soft, furry throw.
His new life was slowly finding its footing.
The repair bay was hot - one of the industrial heaters was running. Pipet sipped coffee and listened to the news on the radio.
A black Opel pulled in; its sides scratched like it had just come from a wreck.
Out stepped a jumpy young guy and a girl covered in tattoos from wrists to face. They were deep in conversation, oblivious to everything around them:
"I don't know," the guy was saying. "Clint Mansell is memorable - his score for The Fountain carries the whole film. But Hans Zimmer... I can't even remember his Inception score."
"What about Requiem for a Dream?" the girl asked with a sly smile. "Checkmate, Alex."
"Hey man," the guy turned to Pipet, looking for backup. "You know who Hans Zimmer is, right?"
"Back where I'm from, people say he's a loser."
"What? Come on."
"Well, at least there's this graffiti on a bus stop: Hans Zimmer is a loser."
"Checkmate, Alisa," the guy grinned. "A loser's a loser - even in Africa."
Alisa looked at Pipet.
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. But personally, I've got nothing against him," he took a sip of coffee. "So, what can I do for you two?"
"We need a tire change. I'm Sasha, by the way," the guy reached out a hand.
"Slavik. But friends call me Pipet."
"You really ought to fix up your ink, Pipet," said Alisa, eyeing his forearms.
"And you might want to touch up the sides. On your car."
"Can you do that?"
"Sure. I can respray the whole thing if you want. We just got an extra batch of purple in. Quick and cheap. Maybe even free - if I find someone to redo my tats."
"You've found one," said Sasha. "Come by tonight. We're throwing a party to say goodbye to the year. A proper get-together. Call it what you want - house party, blowout, whatever."
"Is there a dress code?"
"Nope, but you might want to ditch the coveralls. Here, take my number. Where do you live?"
"Medvedkovo."
"Perfect. We're near VDNH. Not far at all."
When Pipet got home, he dug out a blazer from the bottom of his duffel - a piece he hadn't thought he'd ever wear again.
He slipped it on in front of the mirror. Just right.
There was something in the inside pocket.
He reached in and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
He finished reading and stepped out onto the balcony. Placed the letter in the ashtray and struck his lighter. The lines vanished in the orange flame, rising skyward in flakes of ash. He lit the lighter again - this time for a cigarette.
Now, instead of smokestacks, he saw the lights of the Ostankino Tower.
Since the day he left, Pipet hadn't spoken to her. Though on quiet nights of solitary drinking, he burned to call - he would dial the number, but never hit the green button. He didn't want to remind her of his existence, didn't want to summon the ghosts of their past.
He'd managed to forget many things. But one memory he held onto with care, knowing it would stay with him forever.
Their last night. He would recall it when flying to South America and seeing the ocean for the first time. When Alisa, trembling, would rest her head on his lap and weep. And when he found himself in the holding cells of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.
But Vika wouldn't remember. As fate had it, the new life began not for the one who had planned it.
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
Once again, he pulled the dead phone from his coat pocket, tried to power it on, sighed, and slipped it back. Time dragged, unbearably slow, fraying his nerves. Even Hans Zimmer was starting to get on them, when a familiar voice called out behind him:
"Been waiting long?"
Pipet turned. There stood Seryoga, grinning like a punk and holding out his hand.
"Long enough. Hey."
"Sorry, man, totally spaced. Why didn't you call?"
"Phone dies in the cold."
"Ah, classic old iPhone crap. Should've stuffed it down your pants."
An awkward pause.
"You got it?" Pipet asked, impatience creeping in.
"Yeah."
Seryoga glanced around, pulled out a crumpled paper "receipt", and handed it over.
"Thanks," Pipet said, slipping off his sneaker and tucking the paper under the insole.
"Should've gone with the underwear. Way safer. Insole's a crappy safe."
"What, your underwear's a fucking bank vault?"
Seryoga just shrugged.
"Whatever. We're square."
"All good. I'm off - freezing out here."
"Later, Pipet. Call if anything."
"Will do. Hey, Seryoga... you know who Hans Zimmer is?"
"Hell if I know. Some kind of artist?"
As he walked, Pipet thought about what to do next. Going to Vika's made sense, but he didn't want the hassle - she'd start begging him to stay in Zhelek again. Much easier to go brood at Ilyich's. Besides, Ilyich had that brand new seven-string Cort lying around - untouched. But then... Vika. If he didn't show up, she'd end up at her friend's amphetamine night, and that would mean double the misery.
Pipet wouldn't be Pipet if he didn't find a middle ground - smoke a little with Ilyich, then head home to Vika.
Ilyich greeted him in a hulking terry robe, a furious ginger cat squirming under his arm.
"Well, well, look who's here! Shut the door before the cat bolts."
Pipet realized - he'd made the right call.
"You know the factorial of some number - hell, I forgot which - is so huge it's useless? There aren't even that many atoms in the whole Universe!" Ilyich announced proudly, quoting something he'd just seen on YouTube.
"Factorial's the one with the exclamation mark, right?"
"Yeah."
"First time I saw it on the board in college, I thought the prof had lost his mind."
"That's because physics and math aren't your thing," Ilyich said, letting go of the cat.
"That's why I dropped out."
They headed into the room. Ilyich's room was a world apart from the rest of the apartment. Inside, it was all him. Outside - his mother's domain. There were no curtains, just a sheet hanging over the window. Childish wallpaper with bears was peeling at the seams. From the couch - shaped like an elephant - a sad chunk of foam peered out. Only a widescreen monitor and a shiny new hookah above the desk stood tall against the decay. Pipet called it "the sanctuary of decadence," and never could understand why Ilyich, who made solid money as a sysadmin, refused to renovate - preferring to invest in PC parts, musical gear, and hookahs.
Ilyich rolled up an extra chair to the desk and pulled out a scorched bong.
"Got something new to try. Pass it over," Pipet said.
"What is it?"
"Seryoga says it's lemon skunk."
"Don't like sativa," Ilyich frowned.
"Meaning what? You don't wanna smoke?"
"Hell yeah, spark it!"
The bong gurgled; fragrant smoke began to curl through the room.
"When are you heading out?" Ilyich leaned back.
"No idea," Pipet muttered, trying to get the hookah going. "Maybe in a week."
"What about Vika?"
"She's the problem. Why's this thing not working?"
"No tobacco."
"Shit." Pipet tossed the hose aside and grabbed a cigarette.
"So what's the deal with her?"
"She doesn't want me to leave."
"Then take her with you."
"Her mom's sick, she can't."
"So what're you gonna do?"
"Why are you grilling me? I don't know. I have to go. I've got work lined up in Moscow, they're waiting. I've paid the rent here till the end of the month, but there's no job, no future. This place is a dead end. I'll rot here..."
"Yeah, Pipet, if you're staying, you'll have to find something at the plant. Selling toys again, like last year - forget it."
"With two semesters of math under your belt, they won't take you at the plant. Unless it's to guard the ore..."
"Light it up. Let's smoke a bit more."
Fine rain rattled against the window.
When Pipet got home, Vika was already back from work.
The apartment smelled of frying cutlets. Ever since she'd learned he was planning to move to Moscow, his diet had changed drastically: instead of pizza - which used to be his breakfast, lunch, and dinner - now there was borscht, ragout, meat au gratin, and other gourmet comforts. Pipet understood she was doing everything she could to hold on to him - and it made him ache, knowing he couldn't live up to that hope. That was partly why he started smoking more.
At the sound of the door, she stepped out from the kitchen.
"Slava, hey!" Vika kissed him and searched his eyes.
"Again?" she murmured sadly.
"Yeah. We watched a movie at Ilyich's... smoked a bit..."
"Hungry?"
Despite the slice of blueberry cake Ilyich's mom had bought for her friend's upcoming birthday, Pipet was starving.
"How was your day?" he asked, stepping into the kitchen.
"Awful, baby. Mom felt bad again - had to leave work early... then cooked..."
"You didn't need to," Pipet cut her off, sitting down.
Vika placed a steaming plate in front of him and sat across.
"It's really good, thanks," he said, chewing.
"Well, of course it is. After a film night with Ilyich," Vika smiled melancholically.
"Please, don't start. Your nights with Dasha - now that's a real freakshow."
"I only see her when you vanish and I feel unbearably alone."
"Doesn't mean you should stuff yourself with speed until you break down."
"Then tell me, Slava, what should I do? My boyfriend just walks out on me, because he hates his hometown and someone offered him a job in Moscow..."
Pipet put down his fork.
"Vik... just stop. We've already been through this."
"...and instead of talking to me, my beloved gets high at the place of a guy who ditched his wife and kid and lives with his mom!"
"What's Ilyich got to do with anything?"
"Everything! You're becoming just like him!"
Vika burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Pipet tried to hold her.
"Hush, baby..."
"Don't touch me!" she pulled away and curled into a corner.
Her crying turned into full-on sobbing.
Suddenly, music erupted from the neighbor's place: "Only a shot of vodka on the table..."
"Fucking hell, people are partying and I've got work in the morning... what kind of life is this?" she rolled her eyes heavenward.
"I'll go ask them to turn it down."
Pipet stepped out of the kitchen - he couldn't take being near Vika anymore. Out in the stairwell, he paused and lit a cigarette with quiet relief. He tried to remember when solitude had become a luxury.
He couldn't. Snuffing the butt in a rusty tin can, he climbed a floor up, following the blaring voice of Leps. The music was coming from Semyon's apartment. Decent guy. Blue-collar type, slowly drinking himself into oblivion under the silent reign of his iron-fisted wife. They'd had a few drinks together once or twice.
He rang the bell. No answer. He rang again, then knocked just in case. The door flew open. A shirtless man, unfamiliar and wobbly, stared him down.
"Who the hell are you?" the man slurred.
"Who the hell are you?"
For a few seconds they just stared at each other.
"Turn the music down. People are trying to sleep," said Pipet.
"What else you want?"
"Nothing. That'll do." He turned to leave.
But a punch caught him square in the side of the head.
"The fuck, man? Have you lost your damn mind?" Pipet yelled, shielding himself.
A kick to the chest knocked the wind out of him. Fists and curses rained down like bricks.
"Whoa! Cool it!" Semyon suddenly burst in, dragging the guy off.
"Semyon! Who the fuck is this psycho?" Pipet wheezed, getting up.
"Oh hey, Slava!" Semyon blinked in surprise. "Where's Vika?"
"Home, for fuck's sake! What the hell, man?"
"We're just celebrating... guy's birthday."
"And that means beating up the whole building?"
"You started mouthing off!" growled the birthday boy, still trying to wriggle free.
"Chill out! What happened, Slava?"
"Nothing. Your friend's nuts. Just turn the music down. Vika's got work early."
"Will do, no problem. You should put some ice on that cheek. And you," Semyon jabbed a finger at the guy's hairy chest, "settle the fuck down and stop making me look bad in front of the neighbors. In fact - shake hands. Now."
The drunker Semyon got, the more gentlemanly he acted - which never made any damn sense.
The two men obeyed, more out of confusion than peacekeeping.
"Slava," said Pipet.
"Tokha," grunted the other.
The tension eased a little. Someone handed Pipet a frozen mackerel for the swelling on his cheek, and someone else poured him a shot.
"Drink up, Slava. No hard feelings."
Pipet knocked back the shot and chased it with pickle brine straight from the jar.
"Better?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Stick around, the girls will be here soon."
"What about your wife?"
"She's at her sister's in Saratov." Semyon lifted his glass. "While the wife's away - we take what we can from life." He drank.
"I better head out. Vika and I... still got some arguing left to do."
"You sure?" asked the host, pouring another shot.
"Yeah. I should go. Just... keep the music down, or I'll end up thawing all your fish."
"Got it, Slav. One for the road, as tradition demands."
Pipet downed the drink, shook Semyon's hand, and slapped the cold mackerel into the birthday guy's open palm.
"God, what happened to you?" Vika gasped.
"Nothing," Pipet waved it off. "Just a misunderstanding."
"That could bruise... Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Might be a concussion. Wait, baby, I'll make you a compress."
"Vik," he took her hands, "it's fine. Just a bunch of drunk idiots. They mistook me for someone else. One stray punch. It's nothing."
"That Semyon guy?"
"No. Semyon was the peacemaker - he poured vodka."
"Yeah, I can smell it."
"Pick a movie?" Pipet changed the subject. "Let's watch something gentle tonight. There's a shortage of that lately."
"Sure..."
He stepped out onto the balcony for a smoke. Emptied half a cigarette, packed it with skunk. Taking a deep drag, he looked down at the city. A line of panel houses stretched toward the red-and-white smokestacks of some factory. The lights blinked cheerfully. The drizzle had turned to snow. Swaying slightly, Pipet came back into the room, lit only by the laptop screen. Vika glanced at him with a mix of reproach and resignation.
"I found one. Shia LaBeouf's in it..."
"As long as it's not Nymphomaniac, hit play."
Pipet sank onto the couch and pulled her into an embrace.
"Slav, why do your hands smell like fish?"
When he woke up, Vika was already gone - off to work. He stretched lazily and slid out from under the blanket, but the moment he felt how cold the room was, he climbed right back in. The radiator was barely warm. He grabbed his laptop from the nightstand. No new messages. He started scrolling aimlessly through his feed. Ended up on Vika's page. Last online an hour and a half ago. A photo from their trip to St. Petersburg caught his eye - their faces happy. Strange. Felt like it had just happened.
He opened the railway site. A ticket to Moscow in a third-class carriage - under a thousand rubles. No point putting it off. He booked it almost without thinking. Train leaves in three days.
That's it.
Somehow lighter. And unbearably sad at the same time. Wrapped in the blanket like a cloak, he took the laptop to the kitchen and turned on all the burners to warm up the air. Put the kettle on. Pulled an acrylic bong from under the sink.
The phone rang from the other room. He went back. It was Vika calling.
"Hey."
"Morning, Slav. Sleep okay?"
"I guess. Something wrong?"
"No, not really... there's breakfast in the fridge. Found it yet?"
"Nah. Just put the kettle on."
"M'kay. Any plans today?"
"No clue. Haven't even washed my face yet. Why?"
"Dasha called. She's planning something tonight. Wanna come with me?"
"Not really in the mood... but if you want, we'll go."
"See you at home then?"
"Yeah. Deal."
"I love you."
"Love you too. Bye."
The moment the call ended, an incoming video chat lit up the screen. Dasha.
"Hey."
"Slaaav!" she sang. "Heeey there! How are you?"
"Can't complain. Thanks."
"You look all gloomy... You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just woke up."
She'd clearly gotten ready for the call: her blonde hair perfectly styled, eyes lined just right. She had that kind of beauty that knew it was beautiful. Pipet kept his guard up around her. He was afraid she might make him fall for her. Afraid of her games. Like she was always waiting for the right moment to wreck his life.
"Slaav," she said his name with a kind of teasing lilt.
"What?"
"Are you coming over tonight?"
"Yeah. With Vika."
"Is it true you're leaving?"
"It is."
"When?"
"In three days."
"Oh... that soon? What are you gonna do in Moscow?"
"Live."
"Slav, I just wanted to see you... Never mind. Bye."
The kettle started whistling in the kitchen. Pipet made himself tea and pulled out a crumpled foil wrap with some weed left inside. Just as he sat down, another call lit up the screen.
"Hey," he answered.
Ilyich appeared, wreathed in smoke. Clearly, his morning had started earlier than Pipet's.
"Aah, my man! What's the plan?"
"Christ, what's with everyone today... I just woke up."
"I've got a proposal."
"Go ahead," Pipet flicked his lighter and took a hit from the bong.
"So. Remember Lyokha? Met him last year?"
"Mhm."
"It's his birthday today. He invited me, asked if I could bring someone along."
"Mhm."
"You coming?"
"Where?" Pipet exhaled.
"Kapyonki."
"Nope. He's your buddy - you go."
"Come on, Slav..."
"What?"
"He's got no one, man! Let's do one decent thing. Support the guy. There'll be booze, girls, drugs, precursors..."
"Sounds like a mess."
"Let's just go!"
"Bro. I already bought my tickets. Leaving in three days. Why the hell would I waste time on Lyokha?"
"Just for a few hours. No one's chaining us there."
"Damn it, Ilyich, you're such a pain in the ass. Fine. One condition - you drive both ways."
"Deal. I'll get a car just for you."
"Pick me up then."
"On it. Get ready."
Ilyich hung up.
"Fuck, you broke me down," muttered Pipet, heading to the bathroom to wash up.
Ilyich didn't keep him waiting - forty minutes later, he was already honking outside. Pipet came out of the building and spat before sliding into the passenger seat.
"Quiet for a sec, I'm leaving Vika a voice note."
"Cool."
"Vik, hey. I'm heading out with Ilyich for a few hours. If I don't make it home by evening, I'll head straight to Dasha's. Don't miss me. Later."
"All good?" Ilyich pulled off the lot.
"Yeah. What's that smell? You start wearing women's perfume or something?"
"Nah. My mom drives the car more than I do. Roll a joint, let's light up."
"Swing by the Greenhouse. I need to restock."
The detour to their old dealer turned into a short adventure, after which most of the drive passed in silence. Fields melted into forests, then back to fields. Only the skunk brightened the view.
"I don't like this whole thing, Ilyich. And this Lyokha guy... there's something off. He's got that government-issue look. Like a narc. And seriously... you've seen how he dresses? Light blue jeans with black dress shoes - never trusted a man like that."
"You're overthinking it."
"You always say that."
"What did Vika say about your move?"
"She doesn't know I bought the ticket."
"When are you gonna tell her?"
"I don't know. What about you and Sveta? She finally get tired of your cheeks outrunning your nose?"
"It's not about me..."
"Oh, sure. Let me guess - some guy named Gavrila's to blame."
"You don't know her," Ilyich waved him off. "Things were rocky even before she got pregnant. Then Aya was born..."
"Ilyich, whining won't get you sympathy from me. I know full well she's babysitting your daughter right now, and the second some clown invited you to party, your nostrils flared and you bolted off to Kapyonki."
"Why are you taking it so personally?"
"Your Sveta was great. I could barely hold back from using her as a role model for Vika. And now you two split. Soon you'll be dragging around some dwarf with a titanium leg from a dumpster dive. That's the last good one you'll ever get."
A sign reading Kapyonki appeared on the roadside. Ilyich grabbed his phone and called Lyokha.
"First right? Got it. That's all? Okay."
They turned. A hundred meters ahead, Lyokha appeared by the roadside.
"Man, I really don't like this," sighed Pipet. "Look at him - he's wearing the same clothes as last time..."
"Chill," said Ilyich, pulling over.
The birthday boy stood on planks laid over a stretch of oily mud. His face really did have that bureaucratic look - like a composite of every model worker in some lost film about Stalin's five-year plans, whether a steel mill foreman or a BAM bulldozer driver.
"Happy birthday!" Ilyich gave Lyokha a vigorous handshake. "Didn't have time to grab a gift, don't get mad, but I've got a little surprise... all in good time."
"Thanks," Lyokha smiled awkwardly.
"Happy birthday," said Pipet dryly.
"Thanks."
"Are we the first ones here?" Ilyich asked, stepping inside.
"Yeah... the others are having trouble getting here... for now..."
The brick house had low ceilings and tiny windows. The entryway opened directly into the kitchen. Towering like an altar over the wooden floor stood a fifty-year-old gas water heater. The table, covered with plastic cloth, held only a bottle of suspicious-looking vodka and a plate of sliced cervelat.
Pipet frowned.
"Take a seat," Lyokha offered. "I haven't really set the table yet, this is just... a warm-up."
Ilyich poured vodka into the offered shot glasses.
"Well then," he exhaled, "happy birthday once more. Wishing you happiness and good health."
They all drank.
"So, what do you think, Slav?" Ilyich turned to Pipet.
"I think you should tell me how you're planning to drive me home from this carnival if you're already drinking."
"It's not like I've never driven buzzed before..."
"Okay," said Pipet, sinking into heavy thoughts.
As the vodka took hold, Ilyich became livelier and started recounting wild parties from years past to a visibly bewildered Lyokha. Pipet shut down completely, offering only short grunts to keep the conversation alive.
Once the bottle was empty, Lyokha retrieved a jar of homemade moonshine from the fridge. Pipet got up and stepped outside, saying he needed some air.
He pulled out his phone. No signal. Not that he felt like calling anyone.
The day was nearly over. The clouds had turned a soft shade of pink. It was time to leave - but Pipet knew that was off the table. Ilyich wasn't going anywhere.
He rolled a joint and leaned against the wall. The alcohol was making its presence felt. The weed dulled the edge of his anxiety. He'd find a way to call a cab later. Somewhere around here, there had to be signal. Ilyich had already managed to reach Lyokha once.
It was very quiet. Not a single man-made sound. Only the distant barking of dogs.
Dasha's place was probably packed by now...
Pipet went back inside. The air was stifling, thick with booze.
"...anyway," Ilyich was saying to Lyokha, "moonshine's not all the same. There was this old guy who used to cook meth, and his wife - she made moonshine. He died, but the stash stayed. And she had a head for business - figured it shouldn't go to waste - so she started brewing her hooch on top of meth..."
"Nah," Lyokha slurred, "I get doing it with potatoes or beets... But chemicals? How's that even supposed to ferment?"
"I misspoke - she didn't cook it with meth, she just added something to the finished batch, maybe actual meth, maybe whatever her husband used to make it..."
"And how was it?"
"A hit. The old lady's already doing time, but the line under her window still forms every night."
"Lyokha," Pipet cut in.
"Huh?"
"Be honest - did you invite anyone besides us?"
Lyokha hesitated. A knock at the door. He jumped up from his chair and opened it. A plain-looking girl stepped inside.
"This is my sister, Nastya."
"Hi."
"Hey," nodded Pipet.
Ilyich smiled warmly.
"So? A toast?" Lyokha suggested.
"Hold on, time for the surprise." Ilyich pulled a ziplock bag of white crystals from his pocket. "Might not be the classiest gift, but it'll light up the party for sure."
"Fuck, what is that?" said Pipet.
"'Salt'?" asked the girl, stepping toward the table.
"Yeah," said Ilyich. "Want some?"
"No thanks," she replied nervously. "I only drink."
"I'll have some," Lyokha volunteered.
Pipet cursed and walked out.
Still no signal. Dusk was deepening. A pale moon peeked out from the clouds.
He walked down the road, holding his phone high in the air. Nothing.
He had no choice but to go back.
Lyokha was in high spirits, gesturing wildly as he talked. Ilyich and Nastya laughed. On the table was a plate with crushed crystals, a plastic card, and a rolled-up bill.
"Ilyich, can I talk to you for a second?"
They stepped out onto the porch.
"What the hell have you dragged me into?" Pipet said quietly, barely containing his anger.
"What's wrong?"
"Everything! You said we were going to a birthday party - instead we're trapped in some kind of moonshine-fueled fever dream. Clearly Lyokha didn't invite anyone else, and that Nastya chick - there's no way she's his sister. And that shit on the table... where the fuck did it come from?"
"I found a dead drop in my building's stairwell..."
"I'm not even going to ask how. But tell me, why the fuck are we still here? It's almost night... I've got a million things to do..."
"We'll head out soon, bro, once the booze wears off a bit..."
"It's not going to wear off if you keep drinking."
"I've stopped already."
"You've been using?"
"Yeah. Since morning."
"Well, that explains this whole damn trip... Ilyich, why the hell do you even need this shit?"
Ilyich looked away.
"All right, pull yourself together and we're out of here."
"Fine."
Not wanting to take part in whatever celebration this had turned into, Pipet dragged a chair over to the old gas heater and tried to lose himself in the flickering blue flame visible through a narrow slit. Above it, stamped in steel, was a fading inscription: "Made in the USSR. 1963."
When he woke up, the kitchen was empty. Dawn shimmered faintly outside the window.
"Ilyich!"
Silence. He checked the rooms and found only Lyokha, sleeping in the same bed with the girl he'd bizarrely introduced as his sister.
His head pounded. No booze left in the house - the squat jar that once held moonshine lay on its side, discarded. Only a couple of crystals sat abandoned on a plate. Pipet crushed one with a spoon and rubbed it into his gums, just enough to wake up.
The stimulant kicked in shortly after. A light euphoria crept through his body. The fog in his head began to lift.
He had to call a taxi. Whatever it took.
Outside, he spotted a rough wooden ladder. He leaned it against the wall, phone in hand, and climbed to the top step.
One bar. A signal! He dialed.
"Hello, this is Maxim Taxi."
"Hi -"
The wood beneath his feet gave way with a sickening crack. The step collapsed. Pipet reached out to grab the gutter, but his fingers slipped, and he tumbled down.
The drop wasn't far, but the fall was bad. He landed in the mud, twisting his ankle on impact.
"Fuck!" he yelled at the morning sky, sprawled in the dirt.
The village responded with a chorus of barking dogs.
Lyokha came rushing out.
"What happened?" he asked, alarmed.
"Nothing," snapped Pipet. "Just trying to call a damn taxi."
"Won't work. Barely any network out here. But... there's a bus..."
"Go fuck yourself with your bus. Got a phone I can use?"
"Nope," Lyokha spread his hands. "Ilyich borrowed one last night and dropped it in the toilet."
The outhouse stood nearby like a mute witness.
"Jesus Christ... You got anything I can clean my clothes with?"
"Yeah, come on, I'll get a brush..."
Lyokha opened a wardrobe, and Pipet recoiled - hanging inside was a police uniform.
"Lyokha... who the hell are you?"
"What do you mean?"
Pipet pointed at the wardrobe.
"Don't pay attention to that. It's in the past."
"No, Lyokha, I can't not pay attention to it. You and I both know - there's no such thing as an ex-cop. Where's Ilyich? What did you do with him?"
"He left during the night. Said he'd be back. Wanted to bring someone... or something. I don't remember."
"Fine. Just give me the fucking brush. I'll clean up and get out of here."
Unable to scrub away the ingrained grime, Pipet stepped out into the brightening morning. Lyokha walked him to the gate and held out his hand. Pipet ignored the gesture and limped off in silence.
He had no money. Paying the taxi driver on arrival might have been an option, but now even when there was a signal, the phone kept shutting off in the cold.
Once he reached the highway, he tried to hitchhike. Cars roared past. Pipet hobbled along the shoulder, cursing Ilyich, Lyokha, and everything that came with them. The high from the "salt" was fading fast. His hands were shaking. He was parched. The depression hit like a wave.
He knew exactly what he looked like now, and it wasn't good. Nobody in their right mind would stop for him. Every hundred meters became a battle. He tried to keep himself going by whistling Wind of Change...
Pipet was limping along the highway, hopelessly trying to hitch a ride. Cars sped past without slowing down. Just as he was about to give up, a black SUV pulled over beside him. The driver, a guy with a southern look, leaned out the window.
"What are you doing out here, man?"
"Walking to Zheleznogorsk."
"You won't get there by nightfall. Want a lift?"
"I've got no money."
"I can see that. I don't need your money, but..."
"But?"
"You look like hell, man. I don't know who you are, where you came from, or what happened to you - and I don't want to know. Your ID is the only thing I need to make sure this won't get me into trouble."
Pipet hesitated, then got in. There was no real alternative.
A phone charger was plugged into the lighter socket.
"Mind if I use it?"
"Go ahead."
A couple of minutes later, his phone buzzed to life. Notifications poured in. Vika had tried to call nearly thirty times. Dasha - around ten.
He called Vika back.
"Slava, fuck! Slava! What happened? Where are you?"
"Somewhere on the highway. Caught a ride. Ilyich bailed on me. Total shitshow. But it's... sort of okay now."
"I need to talk to you."
"Of course. Where are you?"
"At my mom's for now, but I have to stop by work - inventory on the warehouse. Stay home. Don't go anywhere!"
"I won't."
"Promise me?"
"I promise. Were you at Dasha's yesterday?"
"Yeah. Everyone was asking about you."
"Got it. We'll talk at home."
He tried calling Ilyich - phone off. Then Dasha called.
"Slav, hey. Where are you today?"
"That rhymes, you know."
"I'm serious."
"I'm heading home. Why?"
"I wanted to say goodbye yesterday, but you didn't show... Vika was really worried..."
"Get to the point, Dasha..."
"I want to come over."
"Not the best time."
"Then there won't be a time at all!"
Pipet turned to the driver.
"How long till we hit the city?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take."
"Fine, fuck it. Come over."
They dropped him off right at his building.
"Thanks, man. You really helped me out."
"No problem. If I were in your shoes, I'd hope someone would stop too."
"Let's hope."
"Here's your ID."
Pipet hadn't expected to be this glad to see his dingy rented apartment again. He ate a plate of cold borscht, finished the last of the skunk, and slid into a hot bath.
The last twenty-four hours felt distant, unreal. He didn't want to think. About Ilyich, about Lyokha, about Vika, Dasha, the trip ahead... Everything spun around him like a carousel. He just wanted everyone to leave him alone. No expectations, no visits, no hopes.
He dried off and, with a towel wrapped around his waist, stepped up to the mirror. One cheekbone was swollen, his ribs were bruised, and the faded tribal tattoo on his forearm looked like it was begging for a cover-up.
The intercom screeched. Pipet pressed the button and buzzed her in. The stairwell was filled with a draft. The elevator doors opened, and Dasha stepped out slowly.
Once inside, she gracefully shrugged off her coat, revealing a white blouse and a high, tight skirt that clung to a model's figure.
"You look like shit," she noted, giving him a once-over.
"Thanks. So do you."
He looked into her eyes. It was clear she hadn't slept since their conversation the night before. "Are you on speed?"
"Is that a problem?"
Pipet shrugged.
"Are we going to move somewhere, or are we just going to stand here in the hallway?"
"Where would you like to stand?"
"For starters - the kitchen."
"Let's go."
Delicately sitting on the edge of a chair, Dasha pulled a small pill case and a cut straw from her purse.
"Here we go," grumbled Pipet.
"Still going. You want some?" She carefully poured a bit of powder onto the back of her phone.
"I don't like stimulants."
"Vika liked it yesterday..."
He said nothing. Dasha made two neat lines and inhaled them through the straw, throwing her head back after each - revealing her slender neck.
"It's hot in here," she said, unfastening the top button of her blouse with deliberate slowness.
"I can open the window," offered Pipet, sitting on the windowsill, arms crossed.
Keys jingled, the front door slammed. He stood up and looked into the hallway.
"Hey, Vik. You've got a visitor."
Vika stepped into the kitchen.
"Hi," she said, her eyes jumping between Dasha and Pipet.
"I just came to check on you after last night," Dasha purred, pulling the pill case out again.
"You shouldn't have... I've still got some," Vika muttered, her gaze catching on Dasha's blouse.
A glimpse of expensive lace lingerie peeked through the neckline.
Before Pipet could process what was happening, Vika lunged at her friend with clenched fists.
"You think I don't know why you're here, you bitch?"
The kitchen exploded into chaos. Pipet, holding his towel with one hand, grabbed Vika with the other, pulling her away from Dasha. Vika thrashed and tried to bite him. Limping on his bad leg, he dragged her into the bathroom, braced the door shut with his foot, and wedged a stool under the handle.
"You're not coming out until you calm down!"
"Bastard!" came the shout. "You didn't tell me you're leaving in two days! Even that slut knows!"
"I was going to tell you in person! I told her because I don't give a damn about her opinion!" Pipet moved the stool and cracked the door open.
Through the gap, Vika flung a cup full of toothbrushes at him - it hit his shoulder.
"Are you insane?" He slammed the door again and shoved the stool back in place. "Sit in there, then!"
Pipet returned to the kitchen. Dasha stood as if nothing had happened, a faint smirk on her face.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He stepped up close, fists clenched, but her eyes held him frozen.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then... she kissed him hard. Pipet tasted the bitter sting of amphetamines and fruity chewing gum. His fists relaxed, arms circling her waist on their own. Dasha tugged the towel off him. The fevered kiss deepened. She let out a low moan. Pipet covered her mouth with his hand...
He let Vika out of the bathroom ten minutes after Dasha had left, having thoughtfully cleaned up the kitchen in advance.
Vika didn't speak to him but quietly followed him into the bedroom. He sat her down on the couch, wiped the tears that hadn't yet dried, and lay down beside her. As he drifted off, Pipet felt her arms wrap around him.
He woke up around noon the next day.
The smell of food drifted through the apartment. Limping into the kitchen, he found it spotless. Vika stood at the stove. Hearing him, she turned and looked at him long and hard.
"Hey," Pipet broke the silence.
"Hello."
He didn't know how to act or what to say, so he simply sat at the table. Vika went back to what she was doing. His eyes wandered to the windowsill, and he shuddered - in the corner lay a small, neat pile of buttons from Dasha's blouse.
Buttons he had torn off.
"Do we have anything to drink?"
Vika took a can of beer from the fridge and set it in front of him. Pipet took a few sips and closed his eyes, lost in thought about everything that had happened.
"It would be easier if you completely gave up on me and left."
"It would," Vika agreed. "But I'm still here. And so are you, for now."
He drank some more.
"I don't think you ever really loved me," she said after a pause.
"I think the opposite."
"And that's why you're leaving?"
"Don't tie it to that. Leaving is self-preservation. You see what this city is doing to me. It'll only get worse."
"Nonsense. The city's got nothing to do with it."
"Maybe. But that's how I see it. You don't have to agree. If things work out, I'll be able to take you with me."
"Did you forget my mother's disabled?"
"You plural. I'll take you both."
"Do you even believe that yourself?"
Pipet didn't respond.
"Where did you disappear to that night? What happened?"
"Remember the beginning of the movie Cargo 200?" "Yeah."
"That's pretty much how it felt. Ilyich ditched me in a village with some lunatic. And he still hasn't gotten in touch..."
"I told you he was capable of something like that."
Pipet waved it off.
"I don't think we'll be seeing each other again."
"The train's in the morning?" Vika asked, trying to hold back tears.
"Yeah."
"What am I supposed to do when you're gone?"
"I don't know. You don't owe me anything - just remember that."
"How can you say that?" She came over and pulled him into a tight hug. "You can't just..."
He hugged her back.
"Let's just spend our last day together," Pipet said. "Let's live it the way we should've spent all the others."
Instead of answering, Vika kissed him.
"Forget all that cooking - I'm ordering pizza."
"Alright. I'll just jump in the shower."
Left alone in the room, Pipet took out his duffel bag and packed his things. There were fewer than he expected.
Out of curiosity, he tried calling Ilyich.
On the fifth ring, he picked up:
"Hello."
"Ilyich!"
"Hey, Slav."
"Where the hell did you disappear to?" Pipet said, smirking. "Lyokha and I've been waiting for you."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I mean, what did you say when you left?"
"Uh... I said I'd go get something for the party..."
"...and come back! Come on, man, we're waiting!"
"Ah... I gotta get ready."
"Make it quick. Things are moving here too. Listen, there's no signal - I'm on the roof just to call you - so you won't be able to reach me again. Lyokha says hi. And hey... one more thing - swing by Dasha's place and bring her with you. Don't tell her anything. Just say I'm waiting."
"Damn... fine, okay," Ilyich agreed, a bit thrown.
Pipet ended the call. Just in case, he texted Dasha:
Ilyich will pick you up soon. He'll take you to me - I want to say goodbye this time. Don't mention last night to him.
He switched on airplane mode and set the phone aside.
Vika came in and noticed the packed bag.
"Slav, let's make it so we don't have to see that thing today."
"Deal," he said, sliding it under the couch.
That night gave them what two years together never had. There was tenderness and passion, words and silence, bitterness and joy. Everything between them had finally found a fragile balance.
That glow was as bright as it was fleeting. It existed only to vanish with the first light of dawn. It existed to be carried in the heart to the very end. It was.
Pipet woke long before dawn. Vika was curled up in her sleep. He moved silently, careful not to wake her. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, pulled the duffel bag from under the couch and checked its contents one more time. Everything was ready - but leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to crawl back under the blanket, wrap his arms around her, inhale the scent of her hair and drift off again.
But... that couldn't happen. Behind those few happy minutes would follow countless miserable days. It would all repeat again. He'd be back smoking skunk, staring out at the striped chimneys of god-knows-what factories, seeing people who only acknowledged him when he was right in front of them...
He laced up his sneakers and picked up the bag. The door clicked softly as he unlocked it.
He turned back. Vika wasn't asleep. She lay in the same position, eyes wide open, watching him for who knows how long.
He looked at her for a long time, one last time, and without a word, slipped out of the apartment like a shadow.
She stayed still, unmoving, and only when the first light of morning spilled into the room did she bury her face into the cold pillow and begin to cry softly.
For the first time in weeks, the day was sunny. The washed-out sun broke through the haze. Pipet stood on the square outside the train station, looking out over the small industrial town nestled in the hollow, trying to burn it into memory just the way it was now.
He took a swig of warm beer from a bottle and, suddenly remembering his phone, turned off airplane mode. A flood of notifications came in - missed calls from Ilyich and Dasha. Several angry messages from Dasha too.
Without reading any of them, Pipet unclipped one of many safety pins from his jeans, pulled out the SIM card, snapped it in two, and tossed it in the trash. He took another sip of beer and, limping slightly, walked out onto the platform. The train was due in five minutes.
The first month working at the tire shop was rough. It was the busy season - everyone was switching to winter tires - but the pay made it worth it. He rented a room in Medvedkovo, bought a new phone, and replaced the tattered old blanket the landlady had lent him with a soft, furry throw.
His new life was slowly finding its footing.
The repair bay was hot - one of the industrial heaters was running. Pipet sipped coffee and listened to the news on the radio.
A black Opel pulled in; its sides scratched like it had just come from a wreck.
Out stepped a jumpy young guy and a girl covered in tattoos from wrists to face. They were deep in conversation, oblivious to everything around them:
"I don't know," the guy was saying. "Clint Mansell is memorable - his score for The Fountain carries the whole film. But Hans Zimmer... I can't even remember his Inception score."
"What about Requiem for a Dream?" the girl asked with a sly smile. "Checkmate, Alex."
"Hey man," the guy turned to Pipet, looking for backup. "You know who Hans Zimmer is, right?"
"Back where I'm from, people say he's a loser."
"What? Come on."
"Well, at least there's this graffiti on a bus stop: Hans Zimmer is a loser."
"Checkmate, Alisa," the guy grinned. "A loser's a loser - even in Africa."
Alisa looked at Pipet.
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. But personally, I've got nothing against him," he took a sip of coffee. "So, what can I do for you two?"
"We need a tire change. I'm Sasha, by the way," the guy reached out a hand.
"Slavik. But friends call me Pipet."
"You really ought to fix up your ink, Pipet," said Alisa, eyeing his forearms.
"And you might want to touch up the sides. On your car."
"Can you do that?"
"Sure. I can respray the whole thing if you want. We just got an extra batch of purple in. Quick and cheap. Maybe even free - if I find someone to redo my tats."
"You've found one," said Sasha. "Come by tonight. We're throwing a party to say goodbye to the year. A proper get-together. Call it what you want - house party, blowout, whatever."
"Is there a dress code?"
"Nope, but you might want to ditch the coveralls. Here, take my number. Where do you live?"
"Medvedkovo."
"Perfect. We're near VDNH. Not far at all."
When Pipet got home, he dug out a blazer from the bottom of his duffel - a piece he hadn't thought he'd ever wear again.
He slipped it on in front of the mirror. Just right.
There was something in the inside pocket.
He reached in and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Slava, please read every word I write below carefully. Don't let anything distract you, I beg you.
Slava, my sweet kitty, you are the most precious, the dearest thing in my life. I love you madly - you are my everything.
Kitty, forgive me for not saying it enough lately, but I want you to know - when I look at you, I still catch fire like before. My heart races, and butterflies flutter in my stomach.
I want you to know that you are my only man, my ideal, my perfection. Those magical emotions we gave each other - when we breathed each other in like we couldn't get enough - they're priceless.
Every moment, every second, every day with you has been the most beautiful of my life. I'll cherish the memories and emotions you gave me. You are the best man in the world. I admire you. I'm grateful fate brought you into my life - you are my treasure.
I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose us.
I want to live this life for you. I dream of making you happy. I dream of watching your smile, the sparks in your eyes. I dream of us drowning in each other again, like before, like now - and of you owning me in every sense...
But in just a few hours, you'll leave.
You'll leave me alone...
You can't imagine how much it hurts. I don't even know what to do. All I can do is wait. And hope. Hope that one day you'll change your mind and come back.
And in the meantime, I just watch you while you sleep.
Maybe for the last time...
He finished reading and stepped out onto the balcony. Placed the letter in the ashtray and struck his lighter. The lines vanished in the orange flame, rising skyward in flakes of ash. He lit the lighter again - this time for a cigarette.
Now, instead of smokestacks, he saw the lights of the Ostankino Tower.
Since the day he left, Pipet hadn't spoken to her. Though on quiet nights of solitary drinking, he burned to call - he would dial the number, but never hit the green button. He didn't want to remind her of his existence, didn't want to summon the ghosts of their past.
He'd managed to forget many things. But one memory he held onto with care, knowing it would stay with him forever.
Their last night. He would recall it when flying to South America and seeing the ocean for the first time. When Alisa, trembling, would rest her head on his lap and weep. And when he found himself in the holding cells of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.
But Vika wouldn't remember. As fate had it, the new life began not for the one who had planned it.
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