Fardwor, Russia!: A Fantastical Tale of Life Under Putin

XXIX

THE GROUP FILED into the dining room, maybe a hundred or so people, both men and women. Their ages, as it seemed to Close to Zero, varied from thirty to fifty. They were also dressed differently, but normally, we all pretty much dress like this, and Close to Zero, distracted by observing the faces and outfits, hadn’t immediately noticed that the people who walked into the dining room in pair formation holding hands—man and woman, man and woman—this was strange in and of itself, but the look on their faces was so peaceful and serene, it was obvious that they felt no embarrassment that they were going to dinner as if they were in kindergarten and they themselves were little kids.

This odd crowd took their places at the table, a bell sounded, and three fat women in white smocks started to run around the room, placing big aluminum crockpots onto the tables, with “Course No. 1” written on them in red paint. Close to Zero noticed that one man or woman with a red armband sat at every table, obviously in some official role, and everyone sitting at the table would hold out their plates to them, and they poured the soup for everyone using a big ladle, and the process of pouring the soup looked very strange too—whether they were seriously worrying that they wouldn’t get theirs, or just having a little fun, the people were laughing and shouting, poking at each other with their elbows, pulling each other’s hair (more often men did that to women), someone was crying—and Close to Zero thought that they must be mental patients.

“So you see—ordinary people from the country,” the director laid his hand on his shoulder. “At first I couldn’t get used to them either, but then I got over it, even made friends with them. They’re very nice, really. You know that yourself—the modernizational majority. And if they are like children—then it’s your job to make sure that they grow up more quickly.”

Close to Zero was silent; the director was silent too, looking into the face of the future lecturer, as if doubting whether he would get through this, then he took Close to Zero by the hand, as if to say, “Okay, take the day off, we’ll work tomorrow.” A woman came up to him, took him to Building 14, a little two-story structure where on the second floor a two-room apartment had been prepared for Close to Zero. He took a shower—the towel had some words on it: “Dreams Come True,” along with a logo of a state-owned corporation—then got under the blanket and fell asleep. His dreams, of course, were nightmares.

And the director couldn’t get to sleep that night. He poured himself some whiskey and walked out of his room—in Building 12, across from 14—sat on a bench, and had a drink. The most detestable thing was that there was no particular need for this modernizational majority right now, and not only now; they’d done just fine without them in ‘07. They found enough of them to fill Luzhniki Stadium, and if needed, there were enough to fill all of Tverskaya from Manezh Square to the Belorusskaya Train Station. He had this feeling that there—the director even gestured to himself, over there—they had simply decided to play with this idiotic invention, they were so fucking interested in seeing what would happen if they injected that shit into children. It would have been better to give them to some childless foreigners, really—but now, this was sure to end badly. The director raged, went to get more whiskey, then looked at the sky, pulled out his phone and called the woman in charge of the female dormitory.