The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life). Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

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      In the upper left corner, opposite the tower, the tall gate opened to the City Kolkhoz Market which, technically, was outside it and in Square itself the gate served the starting point for the line of small stores going down the gradual slant – “Furniture”, “Clothes”, “Shoes”…

      At its right lower end, Square was delimited by a tall two-story building with more windows than walls—the Konotop Sewing Factory—followed by a squat house with more walls than windows— the City Sober-up Station, yet the facility stood already in the out-flowing street which led to the dangerous outskirt neighborhood of Zagrebelya. Its hazardous nature was established by nasty scumbags who intercepted guys from other city neighborhoods, brave enough to see girls of Zagrebelya home. The valiant were made perform their version of rooster cry, or measure with a match the length of the bridge to Zagrebelya or just got a vanilla beating from the villains…

      Square of the Konotop Divisions was crossed, bend-sinister, by the tram-track which entered it on the left below the long blind wall with three exit doors from the Vorontsov Movie Theater, whose entrance was from Lenin Street.

      When a mobile menagerie arrived in the city, they would arrange their trailers and cages into a big square camp in the sector between the streetcar track and the Sewing Factory. The temporary enclosure looked like the Czech Taborites defense camp from the Hussite wars in The Medieval History textbook. Yet, inside their corral of wagons, they placed two additional rows of cages, back to back, for the thick crowd of Konotopers and folks from the nearby villages to walk around them as well as along the cages in the inner side of the mobile perimeter wall.

      Square legends in the cage gratings announced the name and age of the inmate, and the surf-like hum from the throng of on-lookers hung over Square of the Konotop Divisions, interspersed with wild shrieks and wailing of the caged animals. That happened once every three years….

      And a couple of times the Wall of Death riders also visited Square of the Konotop Divisions. In front of the gate to the City Kolkhoz Market, they erected a high tarpaulin tent with a five-meter-tall ring-wall of planks inside.

      Two times a day, they let the on-lookers to climb in from outside under the tent roof and crane their on-looking faces over the wall top and watch how the riders circled arena on two motorcycles to gain the speed sufficient for getting over the ramp onto the ring-wall, and bucket along it in a horizontal plane with the deafening rumble of their motors…

      Leaving Square of the Konotop Divisions by Lenin Street, you passed the Vorontsov Movie Theater on the left followed by the three-story cube of House of Householding with all kinds of repair workshops and ateliers. By the fence between the 2 landmarks and parallel to it was placed a tall stand of iron pipes and sheets. The catching legend “DO NOT PASS BY!” crowned the sturdy construction used for hanging black-and-white photos of people taken to the Sober-up Station, a paper slip beneath each glazed frame reported their name and what organizations they worked at. Some ripper creepy pictures they were, the close-ups of faces as if got skinned, or something. I felt a kinda pity for the alcoholics hanged there. Probably, because of that another, far away stand at the Object which I abhorred so much. The two stands established sort of affinity between me and, well… at least, their kids… No, I don’t think I exercised in any psycho-analytical speculations then, yet how come whenever passing that particular segment of Lenin Street I always found something else to look at beyond the ugly stand?

      Farther on along Lenin Street, past the first crossing, the House of Culture of the Red Metallurgist Plant stood a little way back, moved off the road by the tiny square of its own. Both sides of that square were bound by the stands planted for merrier ends, presenting glue-mounted pages from satirical magazines – the Russian “Crocodile” on the left, and the Ukrainian “Pepper” on the right.

      Between the road and each of the stands, there was a tin-and-glass stall facing its symmetric twin across the square. The one by the “Crocodile” was selling ice-cream and lemonade, while all sorts of nick-knackery were the merchandise at that by the “Pepper”. There, among the motley keep-sake ceramic trifles, plastic necklaces, paper decks of cards, I spotted sets of matchbox stickers and, starting for my next trip to City, I asked for extra kopecks and bought one, with the pictures of animals. However, when I brought the purchase home to enhance the collection brought from the Object, I realized it wouldn’t be right. The older stickers, peeled off their matchboxes, bore the small-printed address of the match manufacturing factory, as well as “the price – 1 kopeck”, while the set bought from the stall was just a pack of sticker-sized pictures. Since then I had lost all interest in the collection, and passed it to my friend Skully…

      Skully lived by the Nezhyn Store with his mother, and grandmother, and the dog named Pirate, although the last dwelt outside the puny house of so small a kitchen and bedroom that both would fit into the only room of our khutta, however, theirs was a detached property.

      Next to their khutta there stood an adobe-plastered shed which, apart from usual household tools and the coal stored for winter, sheltered a handcart – an elongated box of deals fixed upon the axis of 2 iron wheels the length of iron pipe that jutted from under the box bottom ended with a crossbar for steering the juggernaut when you pushed it or pulled along.

      Between the khutta and the wicket to the street, there stretched a long garden enclosed from both sides by the neighbors’ fences which, all in all, was bigger than those two or three vegetable beds of ours. In autumn and spring, I came to help Skully at the seasonal turning of dirt in their garden. Deeply stabbing the soil with our bayonet spades, we gave out the fashionable Settlement byword, “No Easter cake for you, buddy! Grab a piroshki and off to work, the beds wait for digging!” And red Pirate, cut loose, frisked and galloped about the old cherry trees bounding the narrow path to the rickety wicket…

      When we moved to Konotop, my first and foremost responsibility became fetching water for our khutta. Daily supply averaged 50 liters. A pair of enamel pails full of water stood in the dark nook of the tiny veranda, on two stools next to the kerosene stove. From a nail in the plank wall above the pails, there hung a dipper for drinking or filling a cooking pan. But first, the pails were used to fill up the tank of the washstand in the kitchen that held exactly two pailfuls.

      Mounted above the tin sink, the tank had a hinged lid and a tap jutting from its bottom. It was one of those spring-pin taps installed in the toilets of cars in a passenger train, so to make water run you pressed the pin from underneath. From the sink, the soapsuds dripped into the cabinet under it where stood the slop bucket which needed control checks to avoid brimming over and flooding the kitchen floor. The discharge was taken out and poured into the spill pit next to the outhouse in the garden.

      The water came from the pump on the corner of Nezhyn and Gogol Streets, some forty meters from our wicket. The meter-tall pig-iron stub of a pump had the nose of the same material enclosing the waterpipe, you hung your pail over the nose and gave a big push-down to the iron handle behind the stub for the vigorous jet to bang into the pail, brim and go splashing over onto the road if not watched closely. 2 daily water-walks–4 pails, all in all–were enough for our khutta, if, of course, there was no washing that day, however, the water for Aunt Lyouda’s washing was fetched by Uncle Tolik…

      When the rains set in, the water-walks became a little longer—you had to navigate bypassing the wide puddles in the road. In winter the pump got surrounded by a small, ripping slippery, skating rink of its own from thanks to the water spillage by the pump users, the smooth ice had to be walked in careful step-shuffles. The dark winter nights made you appreciate the perfect positioning of the log lamppost next to the pump…

      And also on me was the fuel delivery for the kerogas that looked like a small gas stove of 2 burners and had 2 cups on its backside to fill them with kerosene that soaked, thru 2 thin tubes, 2 circular wicks of asbestos in the burners which were lit when cooking dinner, heating water for tea СКАЧАТЬ