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The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life). Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
Читать онлайн.Название The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)
Год выпуска 2020
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Автор произведения Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
Издательство Автор
Then came my turn. Walking back those 4 steps from the rostrum, I swallowed 3 times, which did not help though. Okay, let School 14 finish and…Oh, no! Second Secretary too, with her concluding speech!.
(…in those irrevocably faraway times—past any reach, recall, redress—I hadn’t realized yet that all my grieves and joys and stuff sprang from that rascal in the unfathomably distant future who’s now composing this letter to you stretched on my back inside this here one-person tent surrounded by a dark forest in the middle of nowhere and the never subsiding whoosh of the river currently named Varanda…)
In October, the seventh-graders started their preparation for getting admitted to the ranks of the All-Union Leninist Young Communist League, aka ALYCL, aka Komsomol. The membership in Komsomol organization was not a cheap giveaway passed out indiscriminately to lined-up squads or companies. Not in the least! You had to prove that you deserved that high honor at the special admittance sitting of the City Komsomol Committee whose Members would ask you questions as in a real examination because on entering this youth organization you became an ally to the Party and a would-be communist.
For a preparatory reading up, the Senior Pioneer Leader of our school, Volodya Gourevitch—a pretty young man with black hair and bluish-skinned cheek-and-jowls because of the thick but always close shaved bristle—distributed among the would-be members the Charter of ALYCL printed in the smallest typeface so as to pack all of its sections into a small accordion-folding leaflet. He also warned that at the Admittance Sitting the City Komsomol Committee Members were especially keen about the Charter Section on the rights and duties of the Komsomol members.
Volodya Gourevitch graduated from the prestigious School 11, between the Station and the Under-Overpass, as well as the class of playing button-accordion at the Konotop Music School. He dwelt in City, rather far from the Settlement, in a compact block of five-story buildings between Peace Square and Square of the Konotop Divisions, which area among the local folks was, for some reason, referred to as Palestine.
On his arrival to school from Palestine, he donned mixed paraphernalia of a very clean and well-ironed pioneer necktie and the golden profile of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin’s bald head and resolutely pointed wedge beard in the red enamel banner of the small badge of a Komsomol member pinned in the breast of his jacket. At shop-talks within the close circle of pioneer activists, Volodya Gourevitch liked to frequently announce, emphasizing his and the Leader of the Revolution coincidence in both name and patronymic, “Call me simply – Ilyich.” Following these words sounded his hearty laugh, loud and protracted, after which his lips did not immediately pulled back to the neutral position and he had to assist by pushing his thumb and forefinger at the short saliva threads in the corners of his mouth.
However, Volodya Sherudillo, a firmly built champion at Bitok gambling with the red turf of hair and a thick scatter of freckles in his round face, who studied in my class, in the close circle of us, his classmates, called Volodya Gourevitch – “a khannorik from CEC!”
(…at the shake-down period of the Soviet regime, before enslaving villagers into collective farms, the Communist leadership experimented about organizing rural population into fellowships of Collective Earth Cultivation, acronymically “CEC”
However, the meaning of “khannorik” is not recorded even in the multi-volume The Explanatory Dictionary of the Live Great-Russian Language by Vladimir Dahl, probably, because the prominent linguist never visited the village of Podlipnoye.
Who remembers CEC’s nowadays? Yet, the collective memory of village folks still keeps them dearly and transfers from generation to generation.
" Forgotten is the reason, yet feeling is still there…”…)
The Konotop City Komsomol Committee was located on the second floor in the right wing of the City Council building. The building itself, somehow resembling the Smolny Institute from numerous movies about the Great October Revolution, faced Peace Square past the greens and across Peace Avenue. Three short, quiet, flag-stoned, alleys beneath the umbrage of splendid chestnuts in the greens connected the building and Peace Avenue.
None of the guys from our school had any problem whatsoever at the examination on Komsomol Charter, neither had them other students of our age from the rest of the city schools, we got admitted to the Leninist Young Communist League nice and smoothly…
~ ~ ~
In autumn, they started tramway construction in the Settlement. The track ascended from the Underpass tunnel to pass Bazaar and dive under the giant poplars lined along the rough cobbles in the road of Bogdan Khmelnytsky Street. Gray pillars of smooth concrete for supporting the contact wire above the tramway rose at regular intervals between the mighty tree-trunks. By the October holidays, the track had reached our school and even turned into May Day Street, which stretched to the city limit at the end of the Settlement.
Then three small streetcars started running from the terminal on the city-side of the Under-Overpass tunnel to the terminal at the end of May Day Street. Stout female conductors collected the fare in the streetcars selling a three-kopeck ticket per passenger which throwaways they tore off the narrow paper rolls fixed on the canvas strap of their plum duty bags cinched across their trunks to keep jingling change and uphold their mighty busts.
In the large streetcars that ran in the city, the driver had only one cab, in the head of the car, and on reaching a terminal stop the streetcar went around the turning loop to start its route in reverse. The Settlement tracks were not equipped with turning loops because the small streetcars had two cabs, kinda heads of a pushmi-pullyu, and at the loopless terminals, the driver simply swapped the cabs and started back assisted by the conductor, who stood on the step in the back door pulling the robust tarp strap tied to the streetcar arc so as to flip it over because the arc should be in backward position when sliding along the contact wire over the track.
And again, if the doors in the larger streetcars were operated by the driver who slammed them automatically from her cab, then the small streetcars in the Settlement had hinged folding doors of plywood, so on reaching your stop, you pulled the middle handle in the door to fold its leaves, pushed them aside and got off, whereas in the reverse operation you pulled the handle fixed at the edge of the leaf opposite the hinges and pushed the middle handle to unfold and close the door, off we go!. But who cares for all that algorithmic trouble? That’s why the streetcars in the Plant Settlement ran their routes with both doors wide open except for the spells of devastating frost. To make it possible for the streetcars to give way each other, two of the stops in the Settlement had doubled track, one such stop was by School 13 and the other in the middle of May Day Street…
The toilet in the Plant Club was on the first floor – at the far-off end in a very long corridor that started by the library door and went on and on between the blind walls on both sides, you could touch them both at once, beneath the rare bulbs in the ceiling. In the dark green paint on the walls, there occasionally happened closed doors with the glazed frame-legends: “Children Sector”, “Variety Band”, “Dresser Room” and, already nearing the toilet, “Gym”. All the doors were constantly locked and kept staid silence, only from behind the gym door there sometimes came tap-tapping of the ping-pong ball or clangs of metal in barbell plates.
Yet, one day I heard the sounds of piano playing behind the Children Sector door and I knocked on it. From inside, there came a yell to enter, which I did and saw a small swarthy woman with a bob-cut black hair and wide nostrils, who sat at the piano by the wall of large mirror squares. Opposite the door there were three windows high above the floor and, beneath them, ballet rails ran over the ribbed heating pipe along the whole wall. The left part of the room was hidden behind a tall screen for puppet shows preceded by an unusually long and narrow, kinda refectory, table of taut thick lino in its top.
And