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Today, just as I was about to run across a wide road (where you’re not supposed to cross), a sad Buryat stopped me. He’d been drinking for three days, probably—and asked where the bus station was. I said, straight ahead; just keep going straight. He made to run, but I grabbed him—where do you think you’re going, the cars! Then I dashed forward—he yanked me back by the scruff, right out from under a Nissan. And so we kept catching each other on the bank of the iron river. We had to make a rush for the other side almost embracing, keeping each other safe. I shout to him that I’m from Moscow, ended up staying here, my father’s in the hospital, had a stroke.

And the man shouts—he’s from Gusinoozyorsk, brought meat, has relatives here who sell at the market. He works at a substation himself, doing something or other. Great, sold all the meat.

What’s good where you are, in Gusinoozyorsk?

But then I ran into an old mate, served in the army together. Had a drink to celebrate. My wife’s still asleep, well, not asleep, just lying there so she doesn’t have to get up, start bustling about. Our son lives with us, daughter-in-law. I’ve got a grandson, a granddaughter. Then my son’s father-in-law came running over, and my brother, and uncles, I don’t know how many. Went on a bender. My son works in a duty unit, gets home late, tired, so as not to wake him. And you, did you have a good life in Moscow, what’s special there?

Oh, it’s good in Moscow. Worked as an artist at RDM.

You know, in winter it’s still dark, freezing outside, my shift starts at six. I’m quiet in the kitchen, so as not to wake anyone, pour boiling water over three sausages in a little saucepan. Brew tea in a mug, strong, with milk. While I’m getting ready. I drink my tea, we’ve got a little vent window, low down, smoke one cigarette. People are already hurrying past, some to work, some wherever. Whitish figures in a white blizzard, snow blowing everywhere. And I have to go too. What were you saying about Moscow? What do you remember, the most important thing?

Oh, me… Once Marina and I went out to Pirogovka, to the reservoir. A long ride, on the bus. Then on foot. And it’s all built up out there—cottages everywhere, fences. No way to get to the water. Huge dogs, Caucasian shepherds, barking. Well, we walked and walked. Then little patches of woodland began. Hills, our own countryside, came out by the canal. Everything wide open, spacious. Little birch groves on the slopes. And a gray day, windy, steel-gray ripples on the water.

“Whoa… brother!” the man shouted. “Like I’ve been there myself!” We even slowed our running together. Cars howled, reared up their hoods, bared the teeth of their grilles. The stench of burning rubber from tires worn away.

“Well, with us…” I’m already gasping. If we lose this drive now, this momentum—the iron monsters will gather round in a pack, trample us. “Don’t piss yourself, Moscow, we’ll make it through!” the man roars. “Come on, Gusinoozyorsk!” I cheer him on. “Uragsha, fuck! The Airborne never surrender!!” We make dashes and leaps in every direction.

“Uh…” I go on. “We’ve got a bottle of wine, some cheese. We’ll light a little fire, grill some sausages. Sit there, have a drink. The sky is deep, gray. A dense color, shading into blue. And the blue itself, in places washed out to whitish, in others going the other way, toward ultramarine. And all of it reflected in the river. Grasses along the banks, reeds sticking up.”

“There, good for you, you Muscovites!” We made it onto the bank, caught our breath. And the wind took the man, carried him farther and farther away, toward the bus station. It was as though someone had fitted a translucent cube inside my head. Half-darkness and bitter cold in Gusinoozyorsk, a warm little kitchen, a house filled with living breath. The man drinking tea, cautiously smoking through the vent window. And perhaps he, too, remembered our little gray day, the rippling water, the nodding plumes of grass. How we sit and look, drink wine. And that way—everything breathes, the world still holds together, as long as we’re here.

Source: Baikal, 2017, No. 4, pp. 103–104. Text prepared from a scan of the magazine publication.