Kitabı oku: «The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy», sayfa 2

1993. Hospitals

I lay in hospital for the first time with pneumonia when was just one, but I certainly do not remember it. I only know about it from the stories grown-ups told me. But when doctors removed my adenoids at the age of seven – oh, yes, I won't be forgetting that one in a hurry.

In a large brightly lit room, there was a large table on which lay various white-enamel medical utensils and shiny tools. The soft summer sun shone through large clean windows, pleasantly and mysteriously illuminating the people dressed all in white, like angels. These angels circled around me, affectionately throwing a large white sheet over my chest and politely asking me to say «Ahhhhh». A stormy stream of warm scarlet blood spilled out of my mouth onto the white sheet and dripped down onto the floor.

And now I think: could they not have given me a heads up about that? I understand that doctors don't usually warn their patients to avoid panic, but my God, this scarred me for life…

1994. Bitten by a shepherd

Let's talk about my left arm again. Of course, it had already managed to heal after the last fall, but not for long. My power of deduction says it must have been 1994, but that's not that important.

It was summer, July. We went to visit my aunt Galya, who was widowed after my uncle, my mum's brother, Andrey Timanov, passed away. It was hot and we took the shortest path through the garden (a plot of 30 acres or so). Eventually, we saw our aunt entering the house. With joy, I rushed towards her. But as if to catch some kind of lawless maniac, a German shepherd grabbed my left arm by the teeth. He managed to bite right through the palm of my hand. Sticking out of the wound was some thick yellow thread – not from my t-shirt, oh no. It was a piece of muscle, or something.

Weirdly, the dog was usually well-behaved and had never harmed a child before. Perhaps he had just woken up or my movements were too loud and erratic. Well, either way, something wasn't quite right…

It was quite the family embarrassment. What do we do now? The next day we went to the hospital and got my hand treated. I was prescribed 40 injections to the stomach, which seemed over-the-top and downright troublesome to me and my mum, since the dog was our family's dog, it wasn't stray or rabid. So, we went to get an official document to certify that he was indeed rabies free, and as a result, I got off with only 2–3 injections to the stomach. It wasn't very pleasant, but I'd had worse…

1995. Sledging

I decided to give my arm a break and turn my attention to other body parts. This isn't going to end well. During the school holidays, I went out, without permission, to go sledding on the hill. Well, it wasn't really a hill, it was more like sneaking behind the local townhall and down towards the stream. The slope was fairly steep there. What we didn't know was that it was actually a pedestrian area, we barely even noticed the older ladies walking around with their shopping bags, blocking the runway…

At the time, I was ten years old and therefore far too old to be sledging the way I was used to (i.e., on my bum). I wasn't no toddler anymore. If I wanted to avoid being laughed at, I'd have to try balancing on the side of the sledge will going down the hill or going headfirst.

I decided to do it the way the others were – on my belly, headfirst. And I did so almost all day, until I had an unfortunate accident. Blockage on the runway, sledge jam, and a huge blow to the face as I smashed into the sledge in front of me. I walked home with my tail between my legs…

No one was home. I wetted and squeezed a little rag, which my mother for some reason washed regularly, dabbed it on my eye, went to bed and began to wait. No, not for it to get better – I was waiting for my fate. My time came when mum got home and I surrendered, awaiting the telling off I would surely get. But again, she didn't scold me; I guess she could see that I was already punishing myself for going AWOL and had already received my bad karma for running off like that.

1996. And again with the left arm

Obviously, the head is more important. So, let's turn our attentions back to the left arm. It had already been through the wars, one more accident wouldn't hurt. Although I couldn't help but think, why was this left arm of mine so unlucky?

It was 1995 or 1996, summertime. I was at a sanatorium. Nap time had just finished, I'd been sleeping sweetly. Then, we were allowed a snack and a play outside before dinner.

As was customary at playtime, we were hanging out with the girls in a little gazebo outside with a seating area. I decided that sooner or later I would have to impress them, so I jumped over the edge wall of the gazebo, hoping to land on the outside. But the jump was immediately unsuccessful; I tripped and slammed to the ground with all my weight on my left hand. Another miserable attempt to show off.

After that, the usual: losing consciousness, regaining consciousness, and waking up to my arm in plaster.

Chapter 4. 1990. Mischief amp; More

1990. Got a bus to a nearby village

A little boy with no pranks is like a pair of shoes that fasten with Velcro: flat, predictable and uninteresting. Little boys should always have at least a little bit of zest and mischief going on in their heads, or else where would we get our brave and daring heroes come from?

It's hard to tell whether this story is one of recklessness or not, but at the age of five I went out without my parent's permission and got the bus to the nearby village of Sertyakino, where there was a pea field. I had no adult supervision, I was just with a mate of mine, Roma, from the second floor. He was wise and experienced, two years older than me. At this age, you can feel the difference: it's like a high school student hanging out with a university graduate.

We were quickly ratted out, and on my return home, instead of being greeted with bread and salt⁷, I got a good spanking from my mum before being made to sit in the corner. By the way, in my time, the corner was often used. We can't really do that these days, times are different.

Just imagine: a whole field of peas! I don't know if it was a fodder field or not, but either way, it was an unreal even by adult standards. I often have to drive along this road even now, and these memories of it are the best. The smack I got at the end of that day pales in comparison to the joy of that pea field. I'd felt such a rush of freedom, an impenetrable sense of excitement on the edge of a big adventure with a hint of mischief. Just like the Russian poet Sergey Vasilyev said in his song: «Everything around me is kolkhoz⁸, and everything around is mine!» And it all paid off in the end: stuffing my face with young, springy, juicy peas…

1991. The lift: riding with open doors

Of course, it is very risky for children of such a tender age to travel to whole other villages, but that's not to say home can't be just as dangerous. We had a lift in our apartment block. Boy, what a lift it was! The coolest! Why? Because, from the inside, you had to open and close the large, wooden folding doors by hand. On the outside, on each floor, there was also a large metal door which you also had to operate manually.

Have you ever taken the lift with the doors open? Oh, you're missing out. It's an indescribable feeling. I don't remember who taught us this little trick, probably some older boys in the building. But this is what we did: we headed inside the lift, closing the outside door but not the inside one. Then, we would push our arms to both sides of the lift wall and, feeling steady, would lift up our feet to hang there. The lift senses that there's no one there anymore, and so will wait until someone presses the button on another floor. Next, your partner in crime (which you need to arrange beforehand) would press the button on another floor and the lift would shoot off and the metal bars from the elevator shift would flash before our eyes. If we got dizzy (which was a common occurrence), then we'd just drop back down to the floor and the lift would stop dead. No need to worry, the ride's not over yet, you'll be off again soon.

There's another trick «for the older ones». Why? Because you want to keep the outside door open too. To do this, your partner needs to get in place before pressing the button to call the lift. They must:

1) Open the outer door;

2) Reach behind the wall and find the little switch that senses when the doors are open or closed. Switch it so the system thinks the doors are closed (when actually, they're open). Then, reach into the elevator shaft to find the lever and pull it out;

3) Then, they can twist this lever clockwise to tighten it and put it in the «outside door is closed» position;

4) Then, the doors will stay like that until you undo the lever. So, your partner can go up all the floors, doing this, leaving all the doors open;

5) All that's left if for you to fly up all the floors in the lift, watching all the open doors fly past you!

When these new modern lifts with automatic doors came out in the 00s, parents everywhere breathed a sigh of relief. Now our children will not be able to get themselves into such danger. The elevator shaft isn't a playground, no sir.

But what I'd give for another go right now! Especially with the new mod cons…

1992. The tunnel under the bridge

No less dangerous were our little walks through the tunnel under the main road. That's where the river Petritsa flowed through. We used to go there all the time. What on earth for? First of all, there were lots of crayfish. I didn't catch any of them, but the boys I was with managed to. I was just afraid to stick my hands under the stones – what if it bit me! Even now I would think twice before doing that…

Second of all, me and my friends had made a dam there. I'm not really sure what it was for, but we took joy in the making of it. It was quite fun wading through the wet mud against the current; we had to be resourceful, trying not to drop our building materials but also not falling into the water ourselves. We didn't always get it right, so quite often our spare parts would float off downstream or we'd lose them. We'd finish the day soaked, wet all the way through, stood in this raging stream. We'd walk home, tails between our legs. When mum always asked «Why are you so wet?» I told her the standard lie «I fell in a puddle…» If she had seen this «puddle», I'd have got a clip around the ear.

1992. Bike theft

One day, my list of fibs I used to tell my mum grew one lie longer. It was about a stolen bike. Not my bike, I was the one who stole it… Not exactly GTA, of course, but these criminal acts were barefaced, committed in broad daylight. And the thing was that I was forbidden to ride a bicycle, because, well, the roads were chaos! Gena from flat 36 would drive around in his cherry-coloured Lada Zhiguli⁹ and there would be at least three Zaporozhets¹⁰, including ours, out on the road each hour…

And suddenly there it was, the transport of my dreams. A kind of confusion came over me, an inner tightness at the same time as a rush of determination and a passionate desire. It was impossible to resist. I wanted it and that was enough.

Within just fifteen seconds of riding the stolen bike I saw a whole spectrum of emotions: it went from euphoria, to joy, to lightness, anxiety, burden, fear, and finally horror. The latter was so depressing that I immediately parked the bike behind the khrushchyovka¹¹ opposite us. And immediately the horror turned into annoyance, then even into anger. With that, I ripped off the spoke nipples and threw them into the bush. If I couldn't enjoy it, nobody could!

The next day, my friend's father had a polite conversation with me, trying to nip anything like that in the bud. It was very embarrassing, and I couldn't say anything, not even the standard «I won't do it again.» I muttered something to myself, and they let me go. I didn't do it again. At least not with bikes. You know, it's busy out there, with all these cars about…

1993. Prawns and dentists

Though not criminal, it was dangerous of me to try and catch prawns underneath an abandoned building. It was when I was at the Oleg Koshevoy summer camp in Yepatoria. Of course, we didn't realise it was so dangerous, but that's another story…

When we were caught red-handed, the supervisors made a note of our names. In the evening, they cooked us these shrimps and made us eat them. The next morning, we were sent before the Comrades' Court¹². It was quite the event, you know, but there was an issue: someone lost that list with our names on. The teachers asked us to own up and stand up. All the culprits stood up, except me. I just sat there. What was it to me? Nothing to do with me what they got up to. My mates whispered to me, «Get up!» But I couldn't. I was an excellent student and an exemplary little lad. I was the first to «perfectly» make the bed, the first to brush my teeth… You name the Soviet summer camp activity, I excelled in it. So, I didn't own up.

Later these mates launched a campaign of blame against me, and then a terrible punishment. A couple of days later, we were taken to the dentist for a routine check-up. I wanted to go among the first so I could finish earlier. But I was pushed to the back of the queue. Here it was: public shaming in all its glory. I had to wait for a couple of hours and then, when I had almost reached the front of the queue, I lost my nerve, turned around, and left.

The next day, my counsellor caught me by the hand and marched me back to the dentist. She put me in a chair and asked me to open my mouth. It was already scary, but bearable. But when they put cotton wool on one of my teeth, I started to panic and ask her not to hurt me. I sat there for a minute and the kind woman promised that it would not hurt. She pulled out the cotton wool and I began to stutter on about injections, drilling, and so on. When I was really nervous, that lady showed me the cotton wool, upon which lay a baby tooth.

I couldn't believe my eyes, so I asked, «Is that all?»

«That's all!» Said the lady, calmly and even a little sloppy. And off I went…

1994. Kitten of dreams

But prawn, bikes, and milk teeth… That's nothing. Here's a very serious tale that got out of hand. Everything else pales into insignificance and seems like childish fun by comparison…

Ever since I was a child, I had dreamed of having a kitten. A small, fluffy, grey kitten. One day we even got one, but it cried all night, and my stepfather insisted on returning it to its mother.

I was about eight or nine years old. One day, out on another one of my walks, I was walking down some stairs and, through the broken window between the eighth and ninth floors, I saw the kitten of my dreams on a windowsill. I calmly came up to him and stroked him. And what do you think I did next? Did I take it home? Did I take care of this kitten? No. I threw it out of the window onto the street…

Yes, that's right, through the window. You know, those apartment blocks have these little openings for various kinds of needs. I guess this was one of them…

What happened next was even stranger. I almost immediately forgot about it. I calmly continued about my business, slowly planning my new day. I realised what I had done only when I went outside. The kitten was coming towards me, meowing and limping. I, in my childish naivety, had been sure that it would just have splatted into a flat cake – and that's all… So that's how it happened… I felt ashamed and ran away.

А lot of things happened in my life. But I am not as sad and ashamed of anything as for what I did to this kitten. Even making corrections for childish stupidity and curiosity, I can find neither an explanation for the act, nor an excuse for myself. If I had the opportunity to correct just one episode in my life, it would definitely be this one.

1996. Gorodki and a gas mask

Yeah, that was a pretty serious mistake to make. But life goes on and so does my moderately criminal track record. Now let's switch from pets to items. It was summer, I was at a sanatorium in Stupino, outside of Moscow, and I was in a bad crowd.

Well, they weren't that bad, but they did force me to climb into someone else's shed. It fit snugly against the fence of the sanitorium. So I broke in, and heroically retrieved one gas mask and Gorodki set¹³. The gas mask was lost quickly – hidden under a pillow and successfully seized by unidentified persons. But we played Gorodki for ages. When the adults asked where we got it from, our official story was «I got it for my birthday».

So, yeah, they tricked me again but I recovered quickly. When I was getting ready to go home, I started to gather it up to take it with me. The band of lads started pressuring me to leave it behind for others. Of course, I was hardly going to do that. It was a matter of principle! I said: «It's my birthday present, why the questions? Do you want to discuss it with the adults?» And as a result, I took it home, which I am still childishly happy about.

At least one lesson was learned from this. Later, I realised I could smell bad crowds a mile off and always avoided them, not getting involved in any confrontations.

1996. But I don't want to go to school!

Hooliganism was later replaced by social protests. Perhaps the latter logically ran from the former. In the sixth grade, when I was about 12, I gave myself a holiday of disobedience. I'd told my mother that I would not go to school that day. And, would you believe, I really didn't go. With mum's permission, of course!

In fact, I was surprised by my mother's sensitivity and the understanding with which she accepted this riot of mine, because everything happened spontaneously and in the moment. There was no apparent reason for this behaviour. No tests or exams were scheduled for that day, I hadn't fallen out with anyone in my class. It was an unexpected whim. Or really, I needed to be alone and think about something.

Quickly getting my bearings, my mother gave me a list of chores for the day and rushed off to work. After spending the whole day doing household chores and having worn myself out, I'd knocked some sense into myself. I never acted out like that again. No wonder they say that hard work ennobles a person…

2001. Smoking on the first day back at school

Not going to school is one thing, but to let down your class leader¹⁴ on the first day of school is quite another. After all, in Russia, we all go back to school on 1^st September and line up in the playground. It's all quite a spectacle for everyone involved. I couldn't miss it.

In those days I smoked quite often. It was trendy, cool and new. I still steal a cigarette every now and again, although much less often, maybe five or six a year. Smoking is no longer new or fashionable, but it still looks cool. Especially when it's not often.

So there we were, first day back, 1st September. People were rushing around, running here, there, reading this, reading that. Why not to go for a smoke? Why not, I thought, and started smoking in the back row. In a flash, my eyes met those of the class leader…

I still wonder at Mr Yuriy Yarkin's restraint that day, it was solid, soldier-like, like that of a Lieutenant Colonel. In fact, he had been in the military before becoming a schoolteacher. I'd like to have even a fraction of that kind of restraint. He didn't even say anything to me: his eyes did the talking. They said, «You, my boy, are making a mistake…».

I didn't argue with him – if said I was in the wrong, I was in the wrong. I wasn't a baby anymore, I understood everything indeed…

Chapter 5. 1990. First Disappointments amp; Grievances

1990. «I want to be able to fly!»

Frustrations and resentments are a subtler matter than just mischief and messing around. Disappointments bring down one's inner world, and resentments distort it, deforming your personality. At the age of five or six, I had been lied to. It was a big lie. And it was my family who did it.

One day, I told my mother all about my dream: «I want to fly!» The new school term was coming up and my mother «explained» to me that «if you want to fly, you first need to read 30… no… 50 pages per day…» So, I read 70 or even 100 pages.

Before I knew it, I was starting to be able fly. Very quickly there was a feeling of lightness and airiness, as if I was floating, but for some reason I just couldn't get off the ground. Apparently, I read a lot, but not carefully enough, I thought. I pushed a little harder. Time passed, and I never learned to fly. Well, what can I say? A young boy getting first place for reading speed in primary school is very rare. It was a point of pride for me, and all good things, as you know, have to be paid for…