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Rode my bicycle out to the distant districts—the hundred-and-something-or-other ones—to a huge building-supply store. Need glue, mastic, putty knives, spray paint: I’m working on an art object in the workshop, getting ready for an exhibition. Across from those districts, if you turn right and ride out to the slopes that drop down toward Bogorodsky Island, there’s a wonderful spot. An expanse opens up over the distant city, over the blue hills, over the steppe, over the Selenga. Had my camera with me, took some panoramic shots of the city. Drank tea from a thermos, ate a cereal-and-fruit bar.

Suddenly I discovered I’d lost the pouch with the chain and lock for securing the bicycle: the pouch was fastened to the rack, but had fallen off somewhere. Oh, hell! How am I going to leave the bike? It waits for me on its chain when I nip into a shop. Dashed back along the route I’d taken to get here—I have to find it! Some sixth sense seemed to be showing the way. And—there it is! Lying beside the path, nobody’s touched it.

With my newly recovered chain I rode to the store, moored the bicycle at the entrance. An artist needs so many things! Varnishes, paints, wood stains shouted from the shelves: buy us, you need us! But fat chance… I’m buying everything on credit as it is, the shadows of enormous banks prowl behind me, watching every kopeck. My heart wept tears over that delicious spray paint… Ah, the colors I could give the art object! But… All right, loaded what I could into my backpack, sped off to the workshop.

On the Uda Bridge a strange man was coming toward me, some half-crazy local character. Two shepherd dogs on leashes, a boy running behind with a bicycle. Squeezed to one side to let them pass, but one shepherd, a nervous, wound-up sort of dog, apparently got frightened by something—and caught my leg with its fangs! Pain seared my ankle! I lunged forward, nearly knocking the boy over. The idiot was yelling, the shepherds were barking their heads off and straining at their leashes, the boy was crying. Trams thundered across the bridge, cars roared, below the Uda churned, giant clouds flew across the sky.

Rode off the bridge—and there, where the golden cross stands—the place where the city was founded—some drunken, homeless-looking women were sprawled on a bench (and under it). Bottles and rubbish everywhere. A little farther down, by the standpipe, I stopped, crouched, began examining my leg. Three furrows from the fangs, blood welling up. What if those mutts are rabid? Go to the emergency clinic? Or to the workshop? And anyway… they’ll bury me here (on the green hill by the Blue River; put a big red flag over my grave; clouds float past—greetings to Malchish; cars speed past—greetings to Malchish; dogs bark—greetings too).

But Who is above all this, I thought—great and almighty? His presence is in everything—in the clouds, in the river, in the golden cross. In the paints, in the art object, in the workshop filled with sunlight. And He said to me: rise and walk! Don’t get hung up on it, just carry on making art.

Source: Baikal, 2017, No. 4, pp. 102–103. Text prepared from a scan of the magazine publication.