Memoir of a Russian Punk

18

Today's Eddie-baby is standing in front of his building, No.22 First Cross Street, but he has no desire whatever to go home or to go to Auntie Marusya's. And so, after gazing pensively for a while at Auntie Marusya's lighted windows on the first floor, he decides to visit the benches under the lindens. Maybe some of the kids will be there, and maybe they can all have a drink and shoot the breeze. Therefore, zipping up his yellow jacket all the way to his throat and sticking his hands in his pockets and pressing The Soul Enchanted lent to him by Asya ever more tightly under his arm, Eddie-baby cheerfully sets off in the direction of Saltov Road, taking the asphalt path that leads past Kadik's building. Not far from that building is a large, noxious public toilet, which Eddie-baby needs to visit. If all he had to do was "take a leak," he would stand next to any wall (manners being unpretentious in Saltovka), but unfortunately he has to do a "big job," as his parents would say, or "dump a load," as Kadik might put it, or "take a shit," as the crudest inhabitants of Saltovka would say. Because of its crudeness Eddie-baby is embarrassed even to say this last denomination of the daily physiological process out loud.

The toilet is a stone hut with two entrances, the men's and the women's, and it's almost the only public toilet on this, "their" side of Saltov Road. Eddie-baby can't stand going inside it, but since he now spends the better part of his time on the street (his father and mother recall with nostalgic longing, as for some lost paradise, the time when it was impossible to get him to go outside), it is an establishment that he is sometimes obliged to visit.

Pushing open the wooden door, Eddie-baby notes with horror that the whole toilet is flooded with a nasty mixture of water and urine, although across that liquid expanse some anonymous folk craftsmen have laid a makeshift bridge constructed of bricks brought from somewhere outside the building and leading to a raised wooden platform with three holes cut into it. Trying not to breathe the foul air, Eddie-baby balances his way along the bricks over the murky swill and, dropping his trousers, squats over one of the holes. Since he has to breathe from time to time, he becomes aware against his will that the toilet smells not only of urine and excrement but also of vomit. The corner of the wooden platform opposite him is in fact thickly covered with it. The vomit is an artificial red color; obviously the victim who left the contents of his stomach behind there had been celebrating the forty-first anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution by drinking nothing but cahors, or fortified red. Specialists and professionals (Eddie-baby is a professional) are of the opinion that up to fifty percent of Soviet fortified red wine actually consists of dye, and that it will eat away the stomach of any idiot foolish enough to drink it.

From a rusty nail on the toilet wall Eddie-baby tears a scrap of newspaper left by some decent soul of the kind that will always be with us, and… wipes himself with it, remembering with a grin the theory advanced by Slavka the Gypsy that the ink in newsprint is harmful to the asshole, and that continual wiping with newspapers can give you cancer of the rectum.

Today the toilet is so disgusting that Eddie-baby hurries to get out of it as fast as he can, but he makes an unforgivable mistake. Standing up to toss the paper into the hole, he inadvertently looks down and notices that the level of excrement under the platform is unusually high, that no more than ten or fifteen centimeters separates it from the platform, and that squirming around in it are pinkish white worms!

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Eddie cries out in horror, and rushes away over the bricks and out of the disgusting cloaca, swearing at himself for having looked down. After putting at least fifty meters between himself and the loathsome, always lit building, he sighs with relief.

Eddie-baby is pleasantly surprised to find not only Cat and Lyova sitting on the benches under the lindens, but also Red Sanya, who after all isn't supposed to be there.

Between Cat, Lyova, and Sanya are a half-liter of Stolichnaya and a white bowl containing some cucumbers and slices of roast meat. The bowl has obviously been brought by Cat and Lyova, whose building – No.5 – is nearby. Sanya's building is closer to Eddie-baby's.

"Hey, Ed!" the three mates shout with delight.

Eddie-baby doesn't answer but just walks up to them, silently smiling. He knows that if he asks "What?" or says "Yes?" all three worthies will happily and gallantly shout back in unison, "Eat my dick for supper!" Eddie-baby isn't offended by this – it's a traditional, jocular flourish – but remembering it, he doesn't answer.

To be fair, it should be said that the same thing holds for Cat, Lyova, and Sanya. Sanya might call out "Cat!" and if Cat forgets and answers "What?" he will invariably get the response "Suck my cock!" and a roar of laughter. It's a friendly if coarse joke and nothing more.

"Sit down, Ed," says Sanya. "Lyova, pour the boy a drink."

Lyova pours Eddie-baby half a glass of vodka. Eddie drinks the cold, biting liquid, and after a respectable pause he says,

"Hey, Sanya, I thought you were going to Rezany's."

Only when he has spoken these words does Eddie-baby permit himself to reach out for a slice of meat and a cucumber. To be unhurried in the domain of drinking is a sign of superior skill.

It turns out that even though it's only half past nine, Sanya has already managed to have a tremendous fight with Dora, his hairdresser girlfriend, and has told her to go fuck herself, slapped her face, and walked out of Tolya Rezany's, slamming the door behind him (Tolya's a butcher too, and Sanya and Dora usually spend their holidays at his place), which is why Sanya's now sitting on a bench under the lindens. Where else can a young man from Saltovka go, where else can he take his grief and his troubles, and who else is there to console him and bring him good cheer, if not his loyal friends and a good glass of vodka?

"Fucking slut!" says Sanya in reference to his hairdresser, and chases his vodka with a cucumber. "And she acts like her cherry's never been popped. Abanya told me a month ago that some dude from Zhuravlyovka by the name of Zhorka Bazhok was screwing her. I didn't believe him then, but now I see he was right!"

"You ought to tell her to fuck off for good, Sanya," Lyova says. "You can always find yourself another pussy, can't you? All you have to do is whistle and a dozen will come running to old Red."

"Just ask Svetka," Eddie-baby chimes in, thinking of Sanya's sister. "She has plenty of girlfriends; she'll pick a good one out for you."

"Why the fuck should I ask anybody?" Sanya objects, maybe a little offended. "All I have to do is walk into a dance and every cunt in the place is looking at me, waiting for me to take her out and fuck her. As far as my sister Svetka is concerned" – and here Sanya turns to Eddie – "she's still pissing her bed, and her little friends are more your age, Ed. To me they're just minors."

Eddie-baby doesn't say anything. He's ashamed to be a minor.

Crunching their cucumbers, the group falls into a melancholy silence. Now and again from the neighboring buildings comes the sound of a drunken song, or snatches of music, or a burst of laughter.

"Well, shall we get another bottle, then?" Cat breaks the silence, addressing Sanya.

"Why not?" Sanya agrees, and reaches into his pocket for some money. "Grocery Store No.7 is open till twelve tonight."

"I've got some cash." Cat stops Sanya. Cat's a decent guy and earns very good money at his factory. Sanya, of course, earns a lot more as a butcher, and on top of that he's always well supplied with meat, but he's also pretty careless about how he spends his money. Cat wants to treat everybody now, which is his right, and so Sanya doesn't object, and takes his hand out of the pocket of his beige Hungarian ratine overcoat.

Cat gets up from the bench, straightens his jacket – he and Lyova have come outside without their coats on – says, "All right, I'll be back in a minute," and leaves.

"Buy a couple of bottles of Zhiguli, if they have any," Lyova calls after him as he walks away.

"Okay, fatso," Cat replies without turning around.