# Unedited Ai-translation 'the roots of my actions' book 1

Никита Александрович Капернаумов

Unedited AI-Translation of the original russian book "Истоки моих поступков" by "Никита Капернаумов"

04 april 2026


For those interested in the author"s personality: a reconstruction of the first thirteen years of life up to 2007. One of the largest childhood autobiographies ever (over half a million words across four books). AI comparisons include Proust, Limonov, Knausgård. Here, however - complete anti-literature, no artistry at all, and consistently very deep psychology.


Nikita Kapernaumov, born 1993, from Saratov. Attended kindergarten and school, played sports, rode a bike, saved money. Unrequited crushes from ages 2-3. At 10-11 - broke down. At 13 - involuntary psychiatric hospitalisation, labelled "schizophrenic," and then 20 years in a room in front of a monitor, consumed by destructive envy of other people"s sexual relationships in youth.


_________Book 1


.:.

___Part 1.

.:::.

Maternal Line Backstory.

.::::.

I"ll start with my great-grandmother on my mother"s side. Her name was Alexandra, but my mother and grandmother called her Baba Shura. She was born around the 1910s and, according to my mother, was poor and uneducated. Probably par for the course in the Saratov region in the early twentieth century. Judging by photos from that time - mud everywhere, old women in headscarves, half-collapsed wooden houses - it looks bleak. I hate even thinking about it. Baba Shura"s husband, Grigory Grishin, died in some war between Russia and Finland - in his very first battle, according to my mother. He was buried somewhere near Vyborg. Essentially, everything I"m going to recount about my mother"s side comes from her stories.

Baba Shura was left with two children in Engels - a town directly across the Volga from Saratov, where the river is about three kilometres wide at that point.

Baba Shura came from a large Mordvin family, originally from Serdobsk in the Penza region, bordering Saratov. The Mordvins are a people anthropologically linked to the Finns, though they live in central and even southern Russia. Mostly fair-haired, blue-eyed, short, and small-framed. Their mentality is unambitious and provincial, traditionally associated with rural life and a focus on daily survival. I absorbed the last of these ethnographic stereotypes from my father - he always treated people with such traits ironically and disdainfully, calling them "Mordva" and another, harsher term. My mother also used the word "Mordvin," but for her it applied only to men, describing appearance rather than character. Usually very pale, fair-haired men. Personally, this emphasis on my Mordvin roots affected me in my youth, when I wanted to be descended from pure Russians, from Vikings, only to disappointingly discover that I was descended from the people Vikings enslaved. So this particular complex doesn"t appear in my childhood narrative.

Baba Shura never learned to write and died around 1990. During World War II, as I mentioned, she lived in Engels with two children - my grandmother Klava, born November 1937, and Uncle Tolya. Baba Shura worked as a nurse at a nearby hospital, bringing home leftovers. According to my mother and Baba Klava, they lived in a clay hut, with a dirt floor below ground level. There was a garden plot. Their standard of living was closer to a remote village.

There was no bridge across the Volga back then. Until one was built and opened in 1965, people crossed by ferry. I don"t know the population of Engels and Saratov at the time, but in my era, it was 200,000 and 700,000 respectively.

The climate was extreme: sometimes forty degrees Celsius in summer, minus thirty in winter. The air was very dry - the Kazakh steppes start immediately beyond Engels. Beyond the sun-scorched, frost-bitten, hilly banks of Saratov, the steppe stretches for hundreds of kilometres, only gradually giving way to the forested landscapes associated with central Russia nearer Moscow. The Saratov region is sunny most of the year, with heavy snowfall in winter.

My grandmother Klava addressed Baba Shura formally - "vous" style. Perhaps that was still normal at the time. But the relationship, according to my mother, was as one might expect.

When Klava grew up, she entered the Polytechnic Institute in Saratov, quite a distance from the river. I don"t know the story of her commute. It was probably hell - travelling daily to Saratov, roughly fifteen kilometres, by all forms of transport except planes. Perhaps she lived in a dorm. I don"t know why she chose higher education or what inspired her. Likely, without technical training, there were no decent jobs - the country was industrialising. This was not a university for reading books and becoming a philologist, but an institute for training engineers. She became an engineer, involved in constructing large buildings, eventually specialising in the panelled nine-storey apartment blocks we know.

She graduated and, as was customary, was sent to work for several years in another part of the country - the city of Krasnoyarsk. I know nothing of her life there except that she wore down her front teeth gnawing on pine nuts, as she recounted.

A few years later, she returned to Engels, around age twenty-seven. By then, my grandfather had already moved to a neighbouring street to live with his relatives. From what I gather, Tolya - Klava"s brother - married a small Mordvin woman, Lyusya (they too were Mordvins).

My grandfather Vladimir, or just Vova, grew up with several brothers, raised by his mother in the distant small town of Ershov on the Engels side of the Volga, or more precisely, in a nearby village called Shturm. Somewhere in the steppe, where they had camels instead of horses. My mother said she visited once or twice, and it was extremely poor. She also said that Vova"s mother was huge, loved cooking eggs in fat, which nearly made my mother sick. Despite the dry steppe, there were plenty of lakes with fish nearby, and my grandfather learned to fish. His brothers - let alone his father - died from alcoholism. Somehow, he ended up in Engels studying to be a plumber.

Grandfather Vova was always quiet. One story he told drunk, according to my mother: once at school he made a sentimental or bold remark in class, the kids laughed, and he never spoke freely again. He was rather small, though handsome - dark hair, blue eyes. His face always reminded me of the hero from Gone with the Wind, or more precisely, Michael Madsen in Tarantino films.

He served in the army without incident, as a border guard. His relatives in Engels - not to mention my grandmother"s family - were very Mordvin in mentality: they had no lofty ambitions, wanted nothing beyond sitting on the bench and storing potatoes in the cellar (illustrative of my father"s disdainful stereotypes). My mother said everyone discouraged him from becoming an artist. He was already painting portraits. So he went to the simplest plumbing school and never pursued initiatives again.

My mother knows nothing about her birth. Baba Klava and Grandfather never told her anything. She has no doubt she is their daughter - she clearly inherited their features. Yet she told me that when changing my diapers, Baba Klava would comment, "Ugh, how can you?" and there were many other signs that left my mother - ironically but bewildered - questioning how Baba Klava even cared for her as a small child.

The three - Baba Klava, Grandfather, and my mother - lived together throughout her childhood. I don"t know the exact sequence of apartments they lived in. There was always the main family house on Frunze Street, where Baba Shura lived and where my mother spent much of her childhood. I will mostly call that house simply "Frunze." There were also state-provided apartments Baba Klava started receiving, replacing older ones - a common practice for working people in the USSR. If you had a family, you were given at least a two-room apartment.

The first apartment was probably near Frunze - a five-storey building in the district known as "The Living and the Dead" (built on a former cemetery). My mother said children sometimes found bones in dug-up soil in the yard. The area was also near a key location for my story - the city stadium. A whole block with various sports grounds, football fields, and groves with running paths.

That whole district - "The Living and the Dead," the single-storey blocks around Frunze, and eastern Engels in general - was always very Soviet in my imagination. The USSR promoted a healthy lifestyle and sport. I pictured frequent competitions, games at the stadium, brass bands, diligent working Soviet people and their children, pioneers gathering there on weekends.

Polygraphicheskaya Street runs along the district, a main route: buses went one way to the city centre and Saratov, the other to dachas, the military airfield (one of the country"s main ones), and the main cemetery.

My mother described childhood funerals: the body in a red, almost pink, ruffled coffin laid atop flowers and wreaths in an open truck bed, slowly moving along Polygraphicheskaya Street to the cemetery, followed by a procession of old men and headscarved women. First, the deceased would lie at home for three days according to Orthodox tradition - odd for the atheist USSR. Perhaps my mother"s image of funerals on Polygraphicheskaya came from particularly notable funerals - maybe war heroes, since ordinary city funerals wouldn"t be like that. As for the three-day home traditions with a coffin, formalin basin, and wired jaw - that"s a separate matter of how it imprinted on my neurotic mother.

My mother attended School No. 10 on Telegrafnaya Street, near the Volga. It was at the centre of a district of private homes, like Frunze, often poorer. The locals were simple village folk - outhouses, chickens, the lot.

At Frunze, on the plot where my great-grandmother"s semi-dugout stood, a new half-frame, half-brick house was built. Full brick was expensive and uncommon. These half-wooden ones quickly rotted, creaked, and stank.

The whole family helped with construction. By the time my mother was born, it seems it was done. Green wooden gates, single-storey, faced with orange brick. You enter the yard through the gate, then the porch, into cold vestibules with boots, galoshes, brooms, and dishes in a cupboard. Then the main insulated door leads straight to the kitchen: sink, stove, gas cooker, and table in the corner by the window. On the left, a small living room; ahead, a passage room leading to a tiny room of about three square metres; on the left, another room - the main hall with two windows. The house was about forty square metres. No toilet inside - you had to anticipate, grab a newspaper, put on a padded jacket and galoshes, and, if not too late, run to the stinking wooden outhouse in the freezing dark. Only later, closer to my childhood, did the first small room get converted into an indoor toilet, used solely by me, as the householder - Baba Klava - didn"t want to wear out the system or waste the cesspit, which had to be pumped out by a special service. This could even cause legal issues, since the pit was never legalised.

The school my mother attended had the same problem. Around 1975, there were still no indoor toilets. They were somewhere in the yard - I can only imagine how filthy. There was also a marsh with reeds and ducks.

My mother often said she couldn"t stop laughing in school when everyone giggled. A natural trait, like me. When the teacher ordered silence, others might comply, but not my mother - she got sent out of class.

Since childhood, she picked at her nails - the skin around them always raw, fingers swollen, though her hands were thin and model-like. By my time, her thumbs were the most "eaten," especially in the dirt that never fully washed off after cleaning potatoes.

For a while, she did gymnastics - not at the city stadium (not yet built), but in a building in the city centre near the main square and park. Her classmate Lena Semenova trained with her. Initially, she did well, but when risky jumps over logs began, she quit.

She also attended music school for piano. The teacher beat students" hands with a pointer.

Her family then consisted of: great-grandmother Shura, grandmother Klava, grandfather, my mother, Baba Shura"s son Tolya, his wife Lyusya, and the sons of the last two - Valera and Yura. Valera, I know, was three years older than my mother. All eight gathered at the Frunze family house for holidays.

Valera and Yura were both reddish, at least Valera. Valera had a moustache, and his eyes were close together, giving him a boiled-crayfish look in my childhood. Their mother, Lyusya - whom I"ll call Aunt Lyusya - was simple, modest, and worked as a nurse.

In this poor, neurotic environment, Valera apparently grew up mischievous and obsessed. When I was about nineteen, my mother told me a story from her childhood: she, Valera, and a neighbour peer played in the Frunze yard, and in the shed, Valera made a sexual advance. She told no one, kept it as leverage, and only then, when telling me, had she ever told Baba Klava during an argument.

Such "rapes" (experienced as such due to her neuroticism) weren"t rare. Once, walking past the stadium en route to Frunze, a man verbally harassed her with sexual hints. She remembered this vividly. She also described Engels city park as a place notorious for perverts.

But there was one actual attack - I"ll mention it later.

Grandfather was advancing in his career and now worked at the city power plant. According to my mother, he and his crew would crawl through manholes around the city at night, headlamps strapped to their foreheads, fixing who-knows-what. And in the evenings, he indulged in his inherited taste for alcohol. Grandma Klava couldn"t stand it and threw tantrums-sometimes even hitting him. At least, she certainly hit my mother. Eventually, things escalated to the point where grandfather would grab a knife and threaten to stab her, running after her around some table, according to my mother. Naturally, she was terrified. At those moments, grandfather would tell her to go to another room, only to get even angrier at how grandma Klava"s rages affected their daughter. According to my mother, that was the tone of her entire childhood. In other words, the problem wasn"t so much a drinking grandfather, but how grandma Klava nagged and provoked him into rage.

After failing to summon the courage to use the knife, grandfather would retreat into his gloomy solitude, and grandma Klava redirected her anger onto my mother, punishing her for the slightest misstep. My mother once recounted a time when her anxiety was so intense and prolonged that she went two days without sleep, seeing stars in the air before her eyes, and skipped school the next day.

Only grandma Klava physically punished and tormented my mother-and only when grandfather wasn"t around. After I turned eighteen or twenty, my mother would recall her childhood and her relationship with Klava in such a fury that she called her "a goddamn bitch" and swore she would kill her once we returned to Engels (by then we were living in Saint Petersburg). She believed grandma Klava deserved prison for the way she had treated her. Their relationship remained difficult throughout my mother"s childhood and escalated in her adult years-even fights with police reports filed against each other.

My mother often said that as a child she wished her parents would just disappear-not die, just be gone.

There were stories and photographs of them travelling to seaside resorts. On one trip, my mother recalled a stormy day when no one dared go to the sea-except grandfather. He went out into the rain to the shore "to meet the elements." Mother and grandma went to see what he was doing. He stood on the cliff"s edge, seemingly challenging the storm-probably drunk.

He loved disappearing to be alone and drink. I think his fishing trips were mostly for that. He didn"t have a car at the time, but by my early childhood he had a three-wheeled scooter with a sidecar. Presumably, he had it even before I was born, and he used it to go fishing. When I was six, he bought a car, and we started fishing together as a family of four; by then, he already knew the Engels riverbank and the fishing spots well.

They didn"t stay long in the house in "The Living and the Dead" district-they were allocated a new apartment and moved. It was a little farther from the family home, in a district known as "by the First School," named after the main school there. I don"t recall any interesting stories about that apartment, except that grandfather nearly burned it down once by forgetting to turn off the gas.

Soon, around my mother"s teenage years, grandma Klava-by then seasoned from working at the reinforced concrete plant-received a third and final apartment: a three-room flat in the centre of Engels.

Grandma Shura would throw fits whenever there was a prospect of grandma Klava moving too far from the family home. When Klava was offered a permanent position in Krasnoyarsk after graduating, Shura forbade it outright, and Klava returned.

The first two apartments had been close by. But when Klava was offered a move from the flat near the First School, the choice was either a two-room in Saratov or this three-room in central Engels. At the thought of Klava leaving for Saratov and the family routine being disrupted, Shura threatened to hang herself. So, the three-room flat on Lev Kassil Street, sixteen, was agreed upon. This is where my childhood would unfold. I"ll describe the apartment in detail when I start on myself. Lev Kassil Street is named after a Soviet children"s writer, whose little house was right under the apartment windows. The building is panel-built, six entrances, one hundred fifty meters long. The flat was a corner unit. It was a ridiculous flat-but at least it wasn"t Saratov. From Lev Kassil to Frunze Street-it"s three kilometres.

I also remember my mother saying they had offered Klava not only the three-room flat but also two one-roomers-or even a combination of one one-room and one two-room. That would have been "for the kids, for the future." But that was unacceptable to grandma. Throughout her life, she could not abide the thought that anyone, least of all my mother, should simply inherit a whole flat when grown. The attitude was that my mother had to earn her apartment herself, through blood, sweat, and long years of work, just like her. My mother often recalled grandma"s words during arguments: "Earn it yourself."

Honestly, I can hardly picture grandma Klava and grandfather living in apartments, let alone that three-room one. In my time, they lived in the family house. Nevertheless, it happened, and here"s what I remember about their life on Lev Kassil from my mother"s stories.

Not that anyone in the family was musical-just following a trend at the time-grandma and grandfather bought a piano for Lev Kassil. It cost several months" wages and six men carried it in.

Once grandfather came home drunk and fell asleep in the hallway amidst the shoes. Grandma and mother just stepped over him-he had even pissed himself.

When grandma Klava finished bathing, for some reason-probably the same disgust that made her avoid changing diapers-she didn"t skim the floating soap scum from the water. My mother had to clean it later. She also had to wash grandfather"s hellish socks, which she said nearly made her vomit.

There were no physical displays of affection between the three-no hugs, except maybe formal ones on birthdays.

As I understand it, shortly after the photo of grandma Klava in her early thirties-looking reasonably feminine with long hair-she cut it short.

From what my mother observed, there was never any romantic relationship between them. They slept in separate beds. Grandma slept on her back, hands under her head. Grandfather slept in rarely washed sheets, always howling in his sleep. My mother, too, screamed in her sleep throughout my youth, recounting nightmares inspired by her childhood. Grandma, apparently, did not.

Pigeons tried to settle and nest on the balcony, but grandfather scared them off-my mother said he even shot at them, though with what is unclear, as he never had a gun or hunting knife. Moreover, as my mother always put it, he was the kind who "wouldn"t harm a fly." I vaguely remember stories that he and other workers were issued rifles at work to cull pigeons, but likely only on industrial grounds, not where people lived.

Grandma Klava and grandfather worked in institutions located on Engels" industrial outskirts. I visited their workplaces once-they were the greyest places I"ve ever been.

I"ll give a bit of detail about the city layout, though it"s all visible on Google. From the district with Frunze Street and our family house to central Engels run several streets. Persidskaya (which I often call Persian Street) was crucial in our story and the one we took most often-it was the nearest route to the centre-leading to the Children"s Park, where there was an Orthodox church in my time. Across the street from the Children"s Park is the main city square, with access to the city park and embankment-or, turning left from the Children"s Park, after three hundred metres you reach Lev Kassil. Between the Children"s Park and the Volga lies the city fair-the main trading hub. Distances were short; the city was small.

Another parallel street, Telegrafnaya, closer to the Volga, was quiet, lined with one-storey houses, and led directly to the main square. Nesterova Street had buses to Saratov, as well as trucks and funeral vehicles. Telman Street passed by the previously mentioned First School, but in my mother"s and my childhood it was two lanes, mostly with trolleybuses heading to grey multi-storey residential areas in the city"s eastern industrial side. One of those districts was called Khimvolokno-nothing there except industrial zones and an old city cemetery.

The stadium was near the intersection of Poligraficheskaya and Nesterova. These two streets, in my memory, were festooned with artificial wreaths on poles and trees-commemorating those who had been crushed there.

Seeing that the home atmosphere with both parents was always tense, my mother liked spending time at Frunze. The family house stood at the edge of a long ten-to-fifteen-metre elevation (we also called it "the mountain"), stretching north to south across the city. Frunze Street ran along this slope. Parents said that thousands or millions of years ago, this was the left bank of the river-so all the lower city had been underwater. In the pre-Soviet era, the city often flooded-museum photos show people in boats among houses. Later, a dam and embankment were built, though it didn"t eliminate the mud. Engels is otherwise flat, famous for mud in rainy days due to no drainage.

Thus, the family house on the elevated edge overlooked the west-central Engels, the Ferris wheel, and even Saratov, at least where the bridge met the city.

In winter, there were snow and ice slides. The local population was poor, semi-rural, and the children rough hooligans. Boys in ragged coats, open earflaps, like little bums, and freckled, nasty, tripping each other. Mother remembered it, and I remember similar children in my own youth. So she went to the slopes with grandfather, who watched from above.

In her time, the most popular slide ran along Persidskaya Street-from the hospital where grandma Shura worked (by then an oncologist) down about two hundred meters to the local bathhouse. By my time, cars were sometimes there, and sledding had stopped.

Around this period began a series of deaths on Frunze Street. The first was uncle Tolya, Klava"s brother-some cancer. Probably his case made the deepest impression on my mother. Aunt Lyusya embalmed the body with formalin, tied the jaw, and the stench filled the house. Mother remembered all this with anxious humour and became a necrophobe.

There would be two more funerals in the same house. Neighbours (mostly elderly as the young moved to high-rises) also died there. This is why the house and area are associated with death in her dreams.

In my mother"s adolescence, there were frequent so-called "evening" or "nighttime outings." Originally, when I first recorded these stories, this happened as follows: after a home argument on Lev Kassil, when nobody spoke to anyone-my mother would silently get ready and leave for Frunze to see the calmer grandma Shura. I won"t remove this version because I remembered it for my youth. Later, when revising the text, she described these night trips differently; the only reliable version is that the outings started from Frunze. After uncle Tolya"s death, my impressionable mother developed nightmares and panic, imagining a coffin in the far yard or shed. Later, she even dreamed of a vertically moving ghost-like dead grandma Shura. In her youth, she couldn"t bear staying at Frunze and went silently to Lev Kassil, followed by grandfather. She went silently because, in their family, nobody hugged anyone and mental health stories were taboo.

What else about my mother"s childhood... In the place of the Frunze neighbours I will call the Gavelys, a Romani family lived during her time. Once, she climbed a fence, stepped on a nail, and literally hung upside down until rescued and taken to the nearby hospital. The city hospital, oncology, and morgue were all within a hundred metres of Frunze.

At some point, grandma Klava also had a dacha-built from some kind of concrete blocks, ten kilometres from Frunze. My mother associated the dacha with "hard labour." Like the cold corner three-room flat, it was a failure-sun-scorched, clay ground, no advantages like a nearby beach. Many dachas were near the Volga, but hers was a completely different story. By the end of her teens, my mother hated going to the dacha.

In Saratov Oblast, there was nothing to do; food was scarce. Same in all Soviet provinces, but Saratov was strategically important-aircraft plant, military airfield, other factories-so it was especially closed. Meat and sausage were problematic-hence the phrase "to Moscow for sausage."

Through grandma Shura, whose relatives were spread across the country, our family had distant relatives in Latvia (then part of the USSR). Mother visited them a couple of times; everything there was abundant-like Moscow.

If Saratov was like that, Engels was even more backward. Television had two channels. Nobody had jeans.

I never thought I"d end up telling the goddamn USSR story like some old man. But it was necessary to describe my mother"s childhood.

By now, she had finished school and, as she says, was almost the only one in her class to pursue higher education. The others went to trade schools or straight to work. One strange classmate, who dyed his hair green, eventually died or disappeared.

Almost forgot-one classmate was in love with her and trailed her around. I"ll tell that story another time.

In her final year of school, she attended preparatory courses in Saratov and got a taste of life there. The institute she intended to enter was the same one grandma Klava had attended.

Now back to geography and locations.

Saratov is on the other side of the Volga, across a bridge. To get to that bridge from the centre of Engels, you would take a bus - usually the one that went past the main square and the city museum. Then the bus went along a few small streets and areas, each named either after some communist figure or after industrialisation and labour - streets like Trudovaya, Rabochaya, Lesozavodskaya. On the right, past the tall embankment, you"d pass the beach. Then came the Glue Factory, stinking for kilometres around. After that, the bus would turn right and soon reach the bridge.

The bridge is three kilometres long, high, with three lanes of traffic, considered beautiful and a local landmark. It crosses over the beach in the middle of the Volga and reaches the Saratov side near a ten-storey residential building popularly called "the Pentagon." Alongside the "Pentagon," transport would either continue along the hilly Sokolova Street or, if it was public transport, turn left onto a small street, then cross the bridge over the Glebuchy Ravine, then follow more small streets on both sides before turning right onto Saratov"s long main street, Moskovskaya, which ultimately ends at the main railway station, the final stop.

Of course, I"ll be describing the streets and locations in central Saratov many more times. For now, I just want to outline my mother"s route to the institute.

I myself never went to the Polytechnic Institute and probably never saw it - only passed it a few times by car or bus, with my mother or father pointing it out: "There"s the Polytechnic Institute," but I still couldn"t tell exactly which building it was.

This institute, the Polytech, is almost at the foot of the hills, on the other side of the railway running along Saratov. Basically - far from central Saratov, and aside from going there, there was no reason to be in that area.

To get there, you had to get off the Engels bus at Astrakhanskaya and Moskovskaya, stand on the freezing bus stop while young people, who had chosen a "humanities" education, went into their university behind you - and then ride a cold tram for about fifteen minutes to reach the institute.

I don"t know for sure what she took to cross the Volga. If it was the popular trolleybus number nine, which stopped running in 2004, she would have had to board it near the Engels museum, where the terminus was. It depended on where her route began. But whenever we talked about the mud in Engels, she often remembered how Baba Shura would see her off and take her galoshes when she, wearing shoes meant for Saratov, got on bus 249. So either the route started from Lev Kassil"s apartment (and she rode the empty winter trolleybus number nine, or a crowded bus), or from Frunze, when she got on a still relatively empty bus at Poligraficheskaya.

In any case, as I understand it, she needed to get to the intersection of Moskovskaya and Astrakhanskaya in Saratov, where the tram to Polytech ran.

She said that before entering the institute, she wanted to become a ballerina - she even had the right figure. I don"t know why she didn"t try that path, since she often told stories about growing up and independence, saying no one guided her about her future and profession - she herself decided to go to Polytech, first taking preparatory courses, and then enrolling at around sixteen. Baba Klava probably hinted, in her own way, that she should go there.

In school, she had a classmate who, as I mentioned before, had a romantic interest in her. He carried her schoolbag home, probably gave her flowers, all that. She wasn"t interested in him. For now, that"s all I know about him; he will appear in my childhood.

Then, around sixteen, someone named Kozlov appeared. I don"t know how much of a jerk this Kozlov really was, but from what I gathered, she didn"t like him. I also don"t know where she met him. He was maybe eight or ten years older than her. I remember a couple of her stories involving him.

Once she went to his house, in Engels near the First School, where his parents were. His father also showed her affection in funny ways. When she was leaving and putting on her high boots, she screamed - felt something inside. His father tossed a brush there. Everyone laughed. And she, by the way, liked him more than his son - she always said so.

Later, Kozlov"s mother would call my mother asking, "When will you two get married?" Kozlov also liked to test people"s love for him, which my mother, naturally, did not like. So when they met on the beach years later and it turned out his life had gone poorly, my mother reminded him of those pointless tests. That"s all I know about Kozlov.

Then there was a cyclist. I don"t know how he appeared, but my mother clearly liked him more than the previous ones. By then, the USSR was in its last gasps, and borders would soon open. This cyclist - a fan of long-distance trips - promised to take my mother to Europe, to France. I don"t know how serious he was, maybe just a talker.

During the USSR, citizens were constantly being assigned somewhere - for work, military service, or other placements.

Before the institute, newly admitted students were sent to summer jobs, completely unrelated to their future profession. That"s how my mother and her future classmates ended up in Balakovo - a town 130 kilometres from Saratov - to either dig potatoes in collective farms or do work at a nuclear power plant under construction. They did such work more than once.

My mother remembers living in a dormitory there, or even a new but unfinished building without facilities - with a bucket for peeing at night. She told me about local perverts who gathered near their lodging, but nothing serious happened.

In general, she started studying architecture, and she liked it.

She made friends at the institute. The first was Shurygina, a Jewish girl: big nose, no chin, bat-like ears. The second was Rita Chyornaya, an unusual surname. She was slightly chubby, hair not very long, with a rough, cigarette-tinged voice. She could get into a car with a stranger and go god knows where. Such behaviour was unacceptable to my mother, but they still remained friends.

My mother said she got a room in a dorm. Shurygina"s father helped with light bulbs there, but my mother spent only one night - the place was crawling with cockroaches.

She told me how she and her classmates worked on assignments and projects late into the night, how interesting it was, and how she didn"t want to go home. Someone would often offer her to stay the night in Saratov.

Once she returned home very late, almost at night. There was no way to call Baba Klava. And public transport across the bridge was no longer running. She was beautiful, and people always helped her. On the Saratov side, there was a traffic police post, and she went to them. I don"t remember exactly, but either they offered to take her across the bridge, and she agreed, or they put her on a trolleybus returning empty to Engels depot - maybe both happened on different nights. While crossing the bridge, she met Baba Klava in a taxi, coming from Engels to look for her. This shows Baba Klava"s care - despite the punishments at home.

Another time, late at night at the intersection of Moskovskaya and Chernyshevskogo Streets, she was heading to a bus stop when, as usual, some pervert stuck to her until someone from the second floor of a passing building poured a bucket of water on him.

Baba Klava still ran the show, so summer still meant mandatory trips to the dacha. During that time, a major sexual assault occurred. The dacha settlement was far from the main highway, and for some reason - maybe no buses - my mother had to walk there alone. Fields of sunflowers on both sides. A rapist grabbed her and tried to push her down. But someone drove by in a car, as she told me, and saved her. The man fled, but the driver took her straight to the dacha, scolding my grandparents for letting her walk such a reckless route. Even if Baba Klava relaxed her grip after that, she restored balance with other demands or corporal punishment. It was strict. My mother often recalled things like the first time she accidentally said "damn" while decorating the Christmas tree at sixteen, and Baba Klava smacked her on the lips. When my mother began wearing makeup and freer youth clothing, Baba Klava called her a "slut."

After the cyclist, my mother had a new relationship - with a teacher and examiner at the institute, Uncle Seryozha, as I called him.

He came from Rostov-on-Don. He was Armenian or half-Armenian, with almost grey eyes, and not dark-haired (more like bald, at least in my time). In childhood, his poor mother sent him to an orphanage - a common practice, my mother explained. When the child grew up and could support himself, he returned home. He served in the army, studied at a well-known Rostov architecture institute, then moved to Saratov with other young architects, and by then held a senior position at the Polytechnic Institute with a promising future. He was almost twice my mother"s age and already had a family - a wife and a couple of daughters.

Relationships with a teacher in Soviet times were already frowned upon, but classmates were further outraged because my mother was more attractive than them. Her looks always gave her advantages, but also conflicts with peers everywhere. My mother and Uncle Seryozha got close during a semi-informal institute event. She was around nineteen.

While studying, she went with Rita to relatives in Latvia and, with an architect"s eye, examined local cathedrals, arches, and cobbled streets. She told me about visiting the Riga Cathedral to hear the organ - tombs of kings, Gothic vaults, stained glass - inside cold as a crypt. She brought back sets of postcards we looked at when I was very small. They sketched local architecture, visited a park - bigger and more forest-like than parks in Saratov or Engels - and she often recalled bending to pick a huge fly agaric mushroom, only to find a moose in front of her - apparently also after mushrooms, but late.

They went by local train to the sea - or a bay - to Jūrmala, a famous Soviet resort and music festival venue. The sand was pale or greyish, cold even in summer, and no one went deeper than knee-deep. Relatives welcomed my mother warmly - not Rita, who behaved too wildly for the strict European mentality. Locally, Russians were generally looked down upon.

From Latvia, my mother brought clothing novelties - denim shorts or something like that. She says she was the first to wear such things on Frunze Street.

In summer or holidays, she had many trips. She told me it was normal to go to Moscow for just two weekends, or once she missed a train, ran after it as it moved, friends and the conductor shouting for her to jump in the last carriage - she still didn"t catch it; the train picks up speed while the runner loses ground. She always wanted to live in Riga or Moscow because of memories.

Most trips were with Uncle Seryozha. He had a car. They didn"t take trains - only the car. From these trips, she remembered what driving to Moscow was like - only six hours, whereas the train took fifteen. They also went south - Rostov and the sea, as I understand. She always said: "Oh, where haven"t I been!"

It"s hard to understand why she fell for him. Neither in my time nor then, according to her, did he have the typical macho charisma or sense of humour so important to her (my father attracted her with that). In my childhood, after hours with Uncle Seryozha, she would tell me: "Oh, he"s so boring." He had bulging eyes and a mustache, reminding me of a walrus, and in my time, his face was a constant source of amusement between him and my mother.

Perhaps his silence and lack of humour reminded my mother of her own father, to whom she felt sympathy but could not express it. Both were older - grandfather more so - somewhat henpecked (to some extent), yet unavailable: grandfather because of his reserved nature, Uncle Seryozha because he was already a family man and could promise nothing beyond an affair.

Also, Uncle Seryozha was jealous, touchy, and his pride was easily wounded. According to my mother, he could even blackmail her - threaten to get her expelled if she wasn"t loyal. She says that when she disappeared for health reasons, he used his connections to verify her claims about calling an ambulance, and so on. Even in my time, he remained temperamental - could drop her from the car and drive off, after which they didn"t talk for a while.

Eventually, my mother became pregnant by him. When she told Baba Klava, it caused a scandal - she was thrown out of the house, but not seriously, more for drama. Baba loved that. My mother declared she would keep the child. That"s how it was, as I understand.

Giving birth was, of course, unwise, and my mother had an abortion.

A small note about "not seriously." This is a basic psychological trait in our family (from both sides): no one is ever serious when threatening. So if someone threatens to hang themselves, they don"t really mean it, and the threatened person, while understanding it"s a game, behaves as if the threat is serious - so that later, yielding, they can blame future misfortunes on being pressured.

My mother said she was completely clueless at some final exams, and Uncle Seryozha literally answered for her.

He was advancing in his career, already head architect of Engels in the city administration. He helped my mother get a job there, where she immediately worked among important people - which caused resentment but no one challenged her, seeing her protector.

In those years, two residents of Frunze passed away. Yura, the son of Baba Klava"s already deceased brother, died while serving in the army. No one ever found out exactly what happened. He served in a distant part of the country and, according to my mother, had been a rebel in his youth - although, as she put it, it was always "for the right cause," meaning against injustice. Perhaps this somehow related to his end. His brother Valera even travelled to the place where he served to find out, but it seems he was stopped by the entire military secrecy. Allegedly, Yura shot himself.

Baba Klava recalled: "Your mother cried so hard when she came here and saw the wreaths and everything - she ran out of the house and sat on the bench, sobbing."

Then Baba Shura passed away. I never saw any of those three deceased - not even in photographs.

Before her death, Baba Shura - the owner of the ancestral house on Frunze - needed to bequeath the house to someone. Aunt Lyusya and Valera, it seems, were already living in their own two-room apartment in a neighbouring district on the outskirts of Engels. My mother says that at first, Baba Shura willed the house to Baba Klava and Aunt Lyusya, split down the middle for some reason. But then a sensible neighbour from the lower street, a woman named Ilyina, came by and persuaded the illiterate woman, and everything went to Baba Klava. Yet Aunt Lyusya, through her marriage to Uncle Tolya, also had a stake in the house, so it was decided to pay her and Valera some money.

Then all the country"s crises hit, wiping out everyone"s savings - including that paid share, as well as what my grandparents had saved for a car. That"s probably the whole mess - along with other events - that soured Aunt Lyusya"s relationship with my Baba Klava. Even now, at the time of writing, Valera still lingers in Frunze with his sons, taking advantage of the perennial rift between my mother and Baba Klava, waiting for our Baba Klava to pass so that new inheritance opportunities might arise.

Meanwhile, my mother had an acquaintance - I don"t remember her name - but I always remembered where she lived: near the entrance to the Saratov city park, at the intersection of Rakhova and Novouzenskaya streets, in a ten-storey panel building.

When my mother spoke of her, she always seemed like one of those women (perhaps even fictional, because I never met anyone like them outside of fairy tales) whose main occupation was matchmaking - arranging and managing other people"s personal lives.

It was through her that my mother learned the then-popular post-Iron Curtain method for young women to arrange their lives, known as the "inter-girl" approach - that is, finding and marrying a man from abroad (nothing like this will ever happen in my story; I"m just recalling everything I can).

And it was through her that my mother met my father.

It happened at someone"s birthday - either this acquaintance"s or her husband"s. I don"t know the details of that birthday or how exactly they met, but I do know the details of another apartment party that happened soon after - and it was at that party, foolishly, that I was conceived.

But first, of course - about my father.

.:.

___Part 2.

.:::.

Background on my father"s side and my earliest remembered year.

.::::.

Throughout my autobiography, I will refer to my father simply as "father," even though in childhood I called him "dad." This relates to the central themes of my childhood story, particularly its ending - it will all become clear, so I won"t waste time explaining now.

My father"s mother, Valentina - whom I will call Baba Valya - was, as I recall, the twelfth and youngest in her family. Her family, as I understand it, was not as poor as my maternal great-grandmother"s family. According to my father, they were involved in something like trade and lived almost in central Saratov, with all its opportunities (the "centre or outskirts" theme is also one of the stereotypes my father instilled in me).

Still, Baba Valya had no real sense of thrift or financial literacy; for example, she had absolutely no desire to save money, which eventually led to a rather foolish life for her and my father in their small one-room flat.

Baba Valya completed only the mandatory primary school. Perhaps she was too busy with household chores - being the youngest and last, always serving her older siblings - and that shaped her entire future calling. Her family lived in a separate house near the Sennoy Market, the city"s main bazaar with a thousand stalls of all kinds. From there, it was about a ten-minute walk to the university (which I will later call "ES GU") on Astrakhan Street, and the main railway station of Saratov was nearby. Although I visited that house a couple of times, I can"t remember exactly where it was.

Living in that part of the city, near markets and the like, meant - in my stereotype - that they were unlikely to be cultured, and their activities were not intellectual. Although ES GU was nearby, the city centre and the residences of the urban intelligentsia were associated with the main square and areas down to the Volga, especially around Lipki Park. People living near Sennoy Market were more involved in trade, repair work, and car services. That was my stereotype, based mostly on my father"s obsessive storytelling.

In her youth, Baba Valya even took motorcycle driving lessons and obtained a license. Children of intelligentsia probably wouldn"t learn motorcycles - they"d go to conservatory courses instead. She never learned to swim, suggesting her family rarely spent weekends at the Volga or on beaches.

She was very talkative and told many life stories, though I remembered almost none of them - as a child, they didn"t seem exciting enough to stick; later, when I lived with her in adolescence, I hardly listened at all, just nodded, absorbed in my own thoughts.

Most of her brothers and sisters dispersed across the USSR - some to Latvia, others near Saint Petersburg - and Baba Valya visited both places. Once she spoke of a platonic relationship with a young man in Saint Petersburg. I barely paid attention. But when, at about age ten, she told the story of a pervert on a bus - feeling something rubbing her back or buttocks, seeing a whitish substance on her clothes, and stepping off in disgust - I listened.

In my youth, she liked talking about men and her desire to be "with some old man" ("old man," since she was already aged) - someone to talk to, live with, give each other massages, even share a bath. But the bus incident clearly affected her; sex was a problematic topic.

Saratov had a large aviation factory, strategically important, around which a whole residential district grew, called Zavodskoy - with five- and ten-storey buildings of various eras. Located on the southern stretch of Saratov along the Volga, the district had only two roads in and out. Baba Valya somehow got a job at the factory, commuting daily until she received a two-room apartment there when my father was about twenty-two. Later, she worked at the factory sanatorium, doing everything from cooking and cleaning the pool to hosting visiting Soviet officials - acting as both janitor and entertainer.

Workers from all over the USSR came to this factory, including - as I understand - my paternal grandfather from a town near Odessa, Ukraine. I say "as I understand" because I don"t know exactly why he was there, but living in a large house near the factory implies he worked there, since almost all nearby residents were factory employees.

They did not marry. Apparently they could have, but one evening, according to Baba Valya, my grandfather heard someone arguing, picked up a metal object to intervene, and was mistakenly arrested by the militia. He served a few years, then, for some reason, did not reunite with Baba Valya and returned to Ukraine. He wrote her to come with her son, but they did not go.

When my father was a few years old, Baba Valya had another relationship, which produced Larisa - my father"s full sister. This man was shady - Baba Valya didn"t even tell his story - and my mother later learned he may have been a murderer who went to prison.

I remember little of my father"s childhood. He, like Baba Valya, told many stories; he was considered eloquent in our family. I listened with interest to his humorous, mocking tales, though his past itself never gripped me as my mother"s did. His past seems free of suffering. Though neurotic with many phobias, he was always optimistic, carefree, and unaffected by serious topics like prison or war. He even loved the USSR - which I will mention repeatedly - while I hated the grey, ugly Soviet past and had to endure stories about it.

There were three in the household: Baba Valya, my father, and Larisa. My father spoke of riding little Larisa to school on a bicycle. Baba Valya was indulgent and never scolded him, though chores were shared and difficult. There was some adult relative - maybe one of Baba Valya"s brothers - nearby, a car enthusiast with a garage and tools. He once owned, or saw, an American car, which impressed my father.

My father loved and soldered radios in youth, enjoyed Soviet magazines on ships and technology, liked Western-produced films about Indians, and from his teens watched football and biathlon on TV.

In other respects, he always lived among women, influenced by them. Baba Valya was overprotective and indulgent. Coupled with how unmanly he became as an adult, one could fairly assume he was a mama"s boy. The USSR, judging by why he loved it, was like an overprotective mother.

He finished all eleven grades of school but did not go to university, so he served the mandatory two years in the army. I asked why he didn"t avoid it, as most did. He said men didn"t do that. There was postwar heroism and national pride. Service was a duty, though even then, it was possible to avoid it by attending university.

He described the draft as a lottery: recruits stood before officers, names called, groups assigned. A rumour circulated that the next group would go to the Baltic - the more developed western Soviet republics (Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania) - where everyone wanted to go. My father requested that group, not realising until days later from the train window that he was on the third luggage berth, in the steppe with camels.

In Uzbekistan, he was initially assigned to guard a male prison. There was an incident where a prisoner rebelled and theatrically cut himself under their guns. This, he said, gave him a lifelong fear of police, prisons, and criminals. The rest of his service was in a women"s prison. He told stories that interested me only in the sense of wasted years.

There were no hazing incidents. He spoke of eating mulberries, visiting local bazaars, and one comrade causing chaos by taking a gun into the city. Fellow soldiers bragged of rivers in their hometowns; my father astonished them with tales of the Volga. Two years in prison service gave him, besides phobia, a mild interest in prisons - sometimes he lingered on TV films about them.

Nothing remarkable in his army service, apart from the initial shock.

After the army, he still didn"t know what to do. He had no clear goals or hobbies, no mentor except one uncle, no influences to guide him. He experienced no real childhood trauma, so wasn"t psychologically scarred. He became a romantic - uselessly, untrained where romance could matter. He read books, but gravitated to films and filmmaking. Saratov offered no cinematic education.

He went to ES GU near Sennoy, initially geography - expecting adventures and expeditions. Soon he realised it would only lead to a dull government job or occasional Siberian trips. He switched to journalism, found it equally dull, and dropped out entirely, joining the staff of a local documentary film studio - immediately interesting, without four years of study. This studio was on Moscow Street, near the intersection with Oktyabrskaya.

The staff worked across the USSR filming documentaries. He saw a Soviet film star live and worked in a theatre college, shaking Evgeny Mironov"s hand, who would become one of Russia"s most famous actors.

I recall many stories he told - mostly about misfortune, enough that as a child I thought of him as a loser.

Once, while waterskiing, he fell, losing his trunks.

One winter, climbing a slippery street in central Saratov, he saw two children ahead: a girl fell, rolling down - he caught her, it was a dwarf; the other "child," her husband, looked outraged.

Another time, sent as a student journalist to cover a factory or farm, he wore rare Czech leather shoes gifted by someone, stepped ankle-deep in oil in a garage.

At a party, a man of thirty impressed everyone with encyclopedic quotes; my father, more artistic, told him he had no opinion of his own. The man punched him in the face.

At another gathering, someone needed to defecate, toilet locked. He climbed a windowsill, exposed himself - a couple entered, saw the scene. Not my father, but he told the story, illustrating misadventures.

He knew people who attended parties, so wasn"t socially isolated.

I know little of those years, and neither does my mother. She believes he was a drug addict then. I teased: "You were probably doing drugs?" He joked: "Of course, sitting under the toilet shooting up. What else could I do?" By the time I revised this text, my mother speculated he may have been in prison during those years, despairingly thinking she had got herself into trouble.

Regarding his sex life, he once told me, when I was about nineteen, that after the army, at twenty, a friend had invited him to a student party in a dormitory full of silly country girls, and that"s where he lost his virginity. For my father, it had no consequences, but the friend"s girlfriend got pregnant, and he was forced to marry her - and by the time he told me this, they were still living together in some grotesque arrangement, while keeping in touch with him.

Mom says she heard rumours that before her, he had an affair with a woman who had to have an abortion.

I can"t imagine anyone loving him. To me, he always seemed like a classic "friend-zoner" - though in his youthful photos he looks confident and presentable. He also always seemed to me a man of low sexual drive. I"ll describe this side of him later.

Baba Valya had an acquaintance, a contemporary of hers, named Nina Fyodorovna. Nina Fyodorovna saw that my father was wasting time with no career prospects without a higher education. She convinced him to go back to university, and he did. This time he chose the philology faculty, specialising in Russian literature. For some reason, going to Moscow or Saint Petersburg to study something he truly loved - cinema - was out of the question. I spent my whole life assuming I knew why, but by my thirties I realised things weren"t always so simple.

So at that time, he was in his third year of four, around twenty-four or twenty-five, when he met my mother, a year older, at that birthday party. Soon after, as I mentioned, there was another flat party they attended together.

That flat party was for another birthday - a friend of my father, as I understand - in an apartment on the western outskirts of Saratov. Starting from the Sennoy Market, there are a series of districts named "Dachnaya number..." up to ten for the farthest, and this was Ninth Dachnaya, as I recall. Very bleak residential areas with Khrushchyovka blocks.

Mom says they got drunk, which was extremely unusual for her, and she was sick, which was awful. She recalled that when she and my father were having sex there, she asked him to stop, but he didn"t, and in the end, she didn"t care anyway - she was so drunk. Everything happened utterly stupidly: neither their higher education nor mom"s puritan upbringing helped.

Early in the morning, they were at the bus stop near the circus and the Covered Market - one of the busiest places in town - waiting for a bus to Zavodskoy. My father was so carefree that he lay down on the asphalt at the bus stop. Mom says this was one of his typical theatrical gestures. At the time, it amused her.

They went to Zavodskoy, to the two-room apartment on Penzenskaya Street that Baba Valya had recently gotten through her work at the factory, where, after leaving her family home - possibly after the death of that car-loving uncle - some relatives of hers, they - Baba Valya, my father, and Larisa (twenty at the time) - now lived together.

Mom often recounted how strange it seemed that my father, who had to commute daily to the centre for university (where he was almost the only male in the group) and supposedly hated living in apartments, especially proletarian districts, made no attempt to move out and live separately from his women. But at that point, mom just wanted to escape her life with her parents, especially Baba Klava, who, even after stopping the beatings (after mom had hit her back somewhere in her student years), continued to oppress her psychologically. They still lived on Lev Kassil, while the Frunze house was rented to students.

For some fateful reason, mom was temporarily not in contact with Uncle Seryozha at that time. Maybe she hadn"t praised him for a construction project he designed, and he got offended, or maybe she was simply tired of his childish sensitivity and shut down.

All circumstances were favourable for mom to connect with my father"s side (more accurate than saying "with my father"). The home atmosphere in Zavodskoy was the complete opposite of what she was used to. Everyone joked, no one had headaches, no one threw tantrums or created scandals. I owe my existence to that mess she wanted to escape. Otherwise, mom might have met my father a little longer, seen all his oddities, had an abortion, and that would have been the end of the story. She said as much herself.

Mom often remembered asking my father about the pregnancy, whether to keep me, and he answered firmly "Yes" (I always imagine him saying this, lying on the asphalt at that bus stop near the circus). She trusted him, as a man, to take responsibility for the decision.

I don"t know exactly if mom moved in with them immediately after the events at Ninth Dachnaya or later, after the wedding. She recalled Baba Klava arriving at the wedding with bed linen and things for her from home - assuming there might be none in the Zavodskoy apartment.

The wedding was held a hundred metres from the apartment, right in the prophylactic clinic where Baba Valya worked. Baba Valya ran the event. Mom didn"t buy a wedding dress: she wore simple clothes. This wasn"t an indication that my father couldn"t afford a dress (though he probably didn"t have the money). More likely, mom never fully aligned with typical women - she never liked children, dolls, and all that - so she probably didn"t want a dress herself.

Guests were there as at a normal wedding. Mom"s friend Shurygina attended, along with Rita, one of whom was a witness. As far as I understand, Ivan, who later became Larisa"s husband, first appeared and met her there. Mom tried to set up the unattractive Shurygina with someone - probably Ivan - but it was useless. I visited that clinic in early childhood (and I pronounced "prophylactic clinic" in the feminine) - it had a dining hall like a restaurant, a couple of pools, and guest rooms with beds - so I think the event looked decent. A friend of mom"s filmed the wedding from the neighbouring house in Engels, and the videotape was at our house during my childhood, but I was never interested in watching it. I remember seeing only a few seconds - and that was it.

Mom now had her own bed linen and started living permanently at Baba Valya"s.

In the summer of "92, or maybe "93, mom and dad went with someone to a holiday base while I was present. I don"t know the details - just to give an idea of their leisure and travel. There were no trips to other cities. These holiday bases were small clusters of primitive guesthouses, with frogs in the rooms and outdoor facilities - usually on islands, of which there are thousands along the Volga. Mom said these islands and bases were havens for fugitives, especially in the "90s.

Larisa started dating Ivan. He had moved from Ulyanovsk, up the Volga, and lived in central Saratov on Kiseleva Street, near Chapaeva Street, the Circus, and the Covered Market - the city centre. Mom recalls that there was never meat on Baba Valya"s table - but as soon as Ivan was about to visit, meat would appear, as Ivan wasn"t used to poverty. The two-room apartment never had hot water, and Baba Valya ran between the kitchen and bathroom with buckets of boiling water.

Money for the young family largely came from Baba Klava in Engels. Baba Valya took it, and mom says she never even asked how it was spent. She was always "too busy" - always "too busy." She recalls my father lying on the sofa, reading books, going to university, and entertaining three cohabitants in the evenings with conversation. He often said, "I want to be paid for reading books."

When Ivan came to sleep with Larisa, my father and mom - with me inside her - moved the bed from the bedroom to the living room. Baba Valya probably slept in the kitchen.

Larisa was about twenty, as I said, with no education beyond primary school - and she apparently never studied anywhere else. Mom says she went to parties, came home drunk, and was sick. If my father had a mentor in the form of that uncle, Larisa had none except Baba Valya - who couldn"t develop anything intellectual or practical. Baba Valya always presented herself as well-mannered, cultured, almost knowing aristocratic etiquette - after all, she worked in a hotel dealing with important people - and always modest, and so on. Yes, that was true, but besides that, she had nothing. All the rules about table manners, all that Jack Dawson dinner etiquette - it doesn"t advance you in life. Just a form, a wrapper. My father caught the same foolish belief - lecturing on manners and gentlemanly ethics, claiming how many writers wouldn"t have worked if they weren"t dressed as gentlemen. In the end, both Baba Valya and he - were in the shit.

Mom says she lost all romantic interest in my father within the first months. Baba Valya was everywhere, all the time. She was the epitome of an annoying, intrusive woman. As if it weren"t enough that my father and mom were a separate family and should live separately, she barged into their bedroom in the mornings under the pretext of opening a window, aired the room, fussed around, put some snack on the table - just to make her mark. My father enjoyed it. Mom says it felt like she married Baba Valya. As I said, I think my father naturally had a low libido.

Mom started to find it unbearable, but focused mainly on her pregnancy and the impending birth, which was near.

Of course, my father wasn"t entirely useless. At some point during the pregnancy, mom fell ill and needed a hospital, and for some reason there were no other options. My father carried her all the way from their home on Penzenskaya Street, 25, to the bus stop - about two hundred metres if on Penzenskaya, or seven hundred if on Enthusiasts Avenue. Mom weighed around sixty kilos then.

At the intersection of Moskovskaya and Sobornaya, there"s a brick building - formerly a maternity hospital - where I was born on 3rd March "93. Caesarean section. In my childhood, sitting with mom at the clinic, she often told the doctors a story about how I was mishandled during delivery - something with forceps - and something got damaged. She even pronounced a diagnosis. But the doctors saw no signs or traces.

After the operation, she wasn"t given me for some time - as I recall, almost a couple of days. I don"t know why, but it was standard practice. Children weren"t handed to mothers immediately, unlike in films.

When mom was finally given the child, it wasn"t me. The nurses had switched babies. If it weren"t for my dark eyes, I probably wouldn"t be writing this now. In short, everything was absurd and typically Soviet.

A few days later, mom returned home in Zavodskoy with me - the fifth resident of the apartment.

Mom told me my first stool after two weeks of healing was as thick as an arm. As a child, I couldn"t believe such a thing could pass.

I"ve started including small (and sometimes large) obscene details, unavoidable in psychological self-examination, and therefore abundant in my autobiography, because I want to give a full account of what I remember - especially what influenced or impressed me.

They named me Nikita. Although the name derives from a Greek root, it has no Western European equivalents (Nicolas or Nick is Nikolai; the French-Canadian Nikita is female), and from all the information I found in my youth, Nikita as a male name is exclusively Orthodox Russian. Just a note, in the spirit of the one about Mordovian roots at the beginning. I hated my name as a child - for its feminine perception, and later for its untranslatability into English.

The meaning of my surname - later. My father got it from Baba Valya, who was never married and never changed her name. Mom became Kapernauomova through marriage; she was previously Bogomazova (meaning "one who paints icons with oil").

Once, walking from the clinic with me, mom and dad met the man whose surname I was to bear. Or rather, he saw them and approached. My father hurriedly took mom by the elbow and led her away, though this grandfather shouted something friendly. He had lived in Saratov until then, then moved to his Dzhankoy, from where he wrote and invited Baba Valya with my father - but they didn"t go.

The ages of my closest relatives at my birth: mom - twenty-six, dad - twenty-five, Baba Klava - fifty-five, Grandpa Vova - fifty-three, Baba Valya - forty-six, Aunt Larisa - twenty-one.

Baba Valya, my father, and Larisa always hid things from mom. They didn"t explain about my father"s father, or that Baba Valya got a second apartment - a one-room flat - in a building under construction nearby.

They weren"t secretive only towards mom. My father"s family, headed by Baba Valya, was foolish and therefore superstitious. In the first weeks of my life, mom says, they didn"t allow outsiders into the apartment or let anyone see me, to protect me somehow. There was a woman named Zinaida Fyodorovna, who I don"t remember and never saw again, who was very close to Baba Valya. Some kind of clairvoyant, extremely superstitious - she guided Baba Valya in all matters and, I think, was responsible for most of her nonsense.

All this was strange to my rational mom, but she didn"t pay much attention at the time.

Once, she says, she needed to relieve excess milk, and my father sucked her breast, then said he almost vomited. I"m simply recalling everything I can from mom"s stories of that time.

There are stories about my father and Ivan flying in a small plane for business, and about a gypsy woman tricking my father out of a valuable ring. Around the same time, another gypsy swindled him out of a pile of money in the park. Gypsies in Russia - for clarity - aren"t like in Guy Ritchie"s "Snatch," where they look like ordinary white Europeans. Here, they are tanned, dark-haired, and the women wear traditional clothes. They appear occasionally in my childhood story.

Ivan was an aspiring businessman. Short, small-built, and quiet - like Grandpa Vova. But while Grandpa Vova"s quietness came from some swallowed resentment, Ivan"s was natural to his personality and attachment style. My father called him a spy, but I think Ivan didn"t like it. Ivan was easily offended, our family said. I suspect my father called him a spy only privately. Usually, overbearing Baba Valya kept her distance from Ivan.

Ivan was confident and calm. Though living in central Saratov, he didn"t attend university, as far as I know, though maybe some college. My father said that once Ivan turned eighteen, he went to Poland, bought some goods, and came back to sell them. This was Russia in the era when anyone who needed money started hustling: the USSR was over, and people were allowed to get rich. Yet Ivan"s trip to Poland contradicts the fact he should have been conscripted at that age (only higher education could save him - not college). I don"t know how he avoided the draft. I don"t recall him ever being in the army.

In short, he was an aspiring businessman. He didn"t drink - or hardly at all - understood nothing of sentimentality, was quiet, very confident, and had connections (I don"t write "friends," as mom says he sometimes betrayed friends for money, and she once called him a "heartless bastard"). My father was a business partner for a while. When I asked about the criminal era in our country, he told stories of their first steps - selling cigarettes, furniture, anything. But Ivan even sold cigarettes - profiting from others" addictions - he was not picky, unlike my father, who was selective and feared crime, police, and law. Ivan continued to earn, grow, and live a man"s life - with a car, business, everything - while my father fell behind, remaining "under Baba Valya"s skirt," as mom and I say. My father doesn"t argue - he calls himself a dreamer.

My father was finishing university; he told me his thesis was on the Scandinavian Edda. My mother remembers that he studied lazily, and she even helped him with English. How she could help him, I don"t know - she herself knew only a few words in English.

She tells that sometimes he would come home, and his breath would stink like some kind of shit, as if he had been smoking some kind of shit somewhere. To these stories she always adds, addressing me: "It was all fun back then, pity about you," meaning that one shouldn"t have had a child with someone like that.

Some time passed after I was born - maybe a few months - and my mother started to recover, and life in that cramped forty-five-square-metre two-room apartment with me, my father, Grandma Valya posing as husband, Larisa, and Ivan - who had also moved in - began to wear on her. Grandma Valya constantly, in that tiny eight-square-metre kitchen, entertained new guests. She brought them from the sanatorium - she liked to please different important people, hoping to get in their favour, maybe even gain something. But mostly it was her acquaintances - mostly shallow women, though there were also the opposite type, like that Nina Fyodorovna. This Nina belonged to the type of Grandma Valya"s acquaintances who, on the contrary, exploited her shallow nature and, even while helping her in some ways, primarily thought of their own advantage. Later, this Nina worked at "Faberlic" and aggressively sold all sorts of unnecessary products to Grandma Valya.

There were no prospects of moving to a separate apartment, and my father didn"t have a stable job. Of course, it was hard to find work back then - but vacancies existed. He just didn"t like those jobs - they were physical and stupid. My mother recalls how once Grandma Valya told her: "No, Sasha won"t work." She also often told me that later, when she repeated those words - or simply explained that my father wasn"t working - to her own parents, who were digging in the garden on Frunze Street at the time, my grandfather literally dropped his spade.

And no one told my mother about another apartment that Grandma Valya had acquired. My mother says that Grandma Valya - a hyper-protective provider, obsessed with her children"s welfare - seized any opportunity to get some living space. She tells how she served wealthy elderly Jewish women, washed them after death, organised memorial services and feasts, always hoping to get something from their relatives. But she never got anything. Grandma Klava and my grandfather owned a three-room apartment and a house on Frunze. So there"s reason to believe that my father"s side decided to keep the new apartment secret, perhaps hoping my mother"s parents would offer something to the young family. In retrospect, this made things even worse for my mother: my father knew about the second apartment and stayed silent along with the others. But my mother"s parents, as I said, especially the dominant Grandma Klava, didn"t give up property easily.

In short, there were no scenes or scandals in that two-room flat in Zavodskoy. My mother simply got tired of that life, packed her things, and in November "93 moved with me to Engels, to an apartment on Lev Kassil Street with Grandma Klava and my grandfather. My father stayed with his people and eventually moved with Grandma Valya into that new one-room flat nearby - on Enthusiasts Avenue - where Grandma Valya settled in the kitchen for the rest of her life, and my father in the living room. The one-room flat was on the ninth floor, just like the two-room flat. Larisa and Ivan stayed in the two-room flat.

By then, the country was in the middle of the fuss known as "privatisation," which meant not only the future oligarchs taking over factories but also citizens taking ownership of the apartments they lived in or had some rights to. All the flats issued to people for work, like to my grandparents and Grandma Valya, and plots of land where private houses stood - all of it, by application, often through bureaucratic hurdles, was becoming private property.

A key factor in whether a resident had the right to formalise ownership was the Soviet-era, very bureaucratic concept of registration - the address in the passport where a person was supposed to live and the district in which they could access state-provided benefits like hospitals, schools, and so on. The registration address was also the first place the police or other authorities would go if they needed to find someone. A registered person could not be deregistered without their consent or that of their guardian, which made selling the property impossible for the owner. And if the registered person was a child, they automatically claimed a share during privatisation. Moreover, as far as I remember, the parent of the child also had to be registered or even have a share in the apartment with the child.

So, moving with me to Lev Kassil Street to my grandparents (that"s how we always called them, stressing the last vowel), in order to tie me to the children"s clinic in Engels and for me to even continue existing there, my mother had to register me at that address. As I understand it, this was done, and this - the moment when all the legal consequences, that is, my mother effectively becoming the apartment"s owner, became clear - marked the start of a lifelong psychological struggle between my mother and Grandma Klava.

Without "earning it," without "breaking sweat or blood," and after all the trouble - being tied to and giving birth to a non-working joker - my mother would get the result of thirty years of Grandma Klava"s work at the factory. For Grandma Klava, this was a nightmare, and it began what she was best remembered for. She followed my mother to housing offices, calling her a fraudster. The end result, as my mother often recounted, was that Grandma Klava gave up and transferred the apartment to her with a curse. And the aunts in the offices still asked my mother: "Is she normal?" I just don"t know exactly when this final privatisation happened - when I was one year old or slightly older.

At the beginning of "94, the grandparents finally and permanently returned to their ancestral home on Frunze, and the students moved out. But contact between my mother and Grandma Klava was by no means severed. All those tantrums and dramas were normal for Grandma Klava. And such dramas with my mother always happened - that"s why I said the psychological struggle that started with the move from Lev Kassil Street was a new one, i.e., just the latest.

There was even less of a rift with my father"s side, and he visited - or more or less lived with us - regularly. He took me to the building at 1 Lenin Street, near the Engels pier, which will feature heavily in my story later. In that old building there was some institution giving out free baby food. I don"t remember much of that.

Closer to the age when memory kicks in, more for love of books than for money, my father started selling books from a small stand on the street near the Engels city library. I mention this mainly in the main narrative. The "90s and racketeering, from my childhood recollections, seemed to bypass our region - my story will feature almost zero episodes of this - but even my father has memories on the topic: at first, some guys in tracksuits approached him hinting at tribute, and he gave them some children"s puzzles.

My mother needed money to live, so she had to find work again. That is - Uncle Sergey. As I already mentioned, he was the chief architect of Engels. She called him, they resumed relations, and what happened next - I didn"t really follow where he placed her. She was always somehow employed back then, but his main help in those golden years of her short architectural career was giving her clients, or simply jobs, which she spent my entire childhood drafting at home on the board. But she wasn"t business-minded or financially savvy. Quite the opposite.

She often recalled taking three thousand for a project when others had been charging ten for ages. She didn"t even think about rising prices - she was a fool. And no one advised her, of course, and she didn"t discuss money matters with anyone - after she initially learned that when it came to salaries and money, no one would help, and only ruin relationships if you asked. (Her work experience, for which she was always employed somewhere, counted for nothing, and she gets the minimum pension: "They need proof from colleagues, and no one will help me.")

In her early adulthood, even before I took an interest in money, she held her savings for a whole year, invested them in an apartment in a building under construction, and sold it once it was finished for the same amount - never even considering that prices had risen. How could someone live like that until forty-five? "Golden years," "golden vein" - that"s what she called the times when she was drafting projects. But we lived like the absolute middle class, closer to poor, while her acquaintances built cottages, changed cars, bought new tech instantly. She often recalls with delight: "Three thousand, another three thousand, like manna from heaven!" She was just comparing to poverty, physical labour, and "golden" meant that the money came for calm drawing at home, not for selling herring at the market. And the fact that those three thousand were even less than what one could get at the market didn"t bother her. Her mindset is the same even now, rummaging through bins to sell cardboard: "Wow! Walked around - and sold cardboard for a pie!"

I piled up these details so you can draw an even more important conclusion: she was problematic. The demoralising consequences of difficult relationships with one"s mother are known today as internet memes. My mother literally spent my entire youth recalling her fights with Grandma Klava. But beyond that, I know my mother"s "foolishness" from myself - in a more general sense. When I lose focus on something, I start failing at it. There"s no focus because other problems gnaw at me.

For example, now, at the stage of final edits, my mind is already at that point where I choose the wrong option out of two obvious ones. The same can be said about excessive meticulousness - then the focus is on details, not the task.

In short, my mother - problematic. And especially then - perhaps even more so. And I definitely sensed it.

I gradually move on to describing myself.

I consider the first two years of life the most decisive for the formation of the psyche (apart from and after genetic factors), though, naturally and unfortunately, I remember nothing from the first year.

My mother says I cried a lot as an infant, and was very hard to calm. When she lived with me in Zavodskoy, my father"s cousin, who inherited, as I understood, the house of Grandma Valya"s family near the Sennoy market, visited. Her name was Aunt Sveta. My mother says I would scream like I was being cut, and couldn"t be calmed until she left. I later saw this woman as an adult. Ordinary. The same age as my parents, maybe slightly younger. Character-wise - like Grandma Valya: flirtatious, optimistic. If there was fear, as seems likely, by analogy with other episodes, it might have been this: Aunt Sveta was blonde. I might have confused her with my mother - only I knew it wasn"t my mother. And altered mother, altered relatives - this is even scarier than my basic fear of losing loved ones. There they are, nearby, and clearly gone.

After moving to Engels, my mother and I visited my parents in Zavodskoy again - still in the two-room flat (that"s how my mother calls my father"s side: "yours"). I cried again, only now at Ivan"s mother - Tatyana; she apparently came over. With her, it wasn"t clear what caused it. Small, kind woman, hair dyed beet-red.

Also, when we still lived with them, a poplar grew right by my window, and it was struck by fire lightning - I screamed violently.

In short, I cried constantly, and often vomited in public transport. Also, my penis was constantly erect. My mother recounted all this.

She often remembers that I tore my toys (though this was years after infancy). I clearly remember occasions when I tore toys and things between ages three to six and older. Yet among my "victims," my mother often mentions, for example, some paper game that she says I tore at four, which I don"t remember. The game was from her childhood, so, being highly sensitive to my attitude toward it, she could have misremembered it - in reality, I might have torn it in those first years.

My grandfather bought me a toy crane, which I would throw from the cradle and demand it back - and repeat in a loop. I don"t remember. My mother told me in autumn "19.

She used to take me in a simple baby stroller, though I don"t remember it. In my earliest memory, I may have seen it folded in the vestibule, but soon it disappeared.

My mother says we constantly went to the city park, and I played there with peers, including Dasha Serebryakova, who will appear in my story around age ten. I don"t remember these park games at all. This was, it seems, summer "94.

Well, that"s probably all I can recount before beginning the autobiography. Pun intended... The main text will start in another style, and it will last - for quite a while, up to a certain point.

.:::.

___Part 3.

.:::.

Part 3 Text 1. Description of the apartment on Lev Kassil Street.

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Engels, Lev Kassil Street, building sixteen, sixth floor, apartment 204. Corner three-room, fifty square metres.

As you enter the apartment - the floor has old tiles made of some blue and red plastic squares. To the left - a corridor. To the right - the bathroom. Straight ahead - the kitchen.

Going right into the bathroom. There"s no space for anything but standing. On entering - laundry piled up to the right. Ahead - a bathtub along the wall; to the left - a sink. Next to the bathroom door - a tiny toilet. Apart from the toilet itself, nothing fits there. Between the toilet cubicle and the bath - a tall mirror hangs. It"s the one you see your reflection in. I can"t reach it to look.

Next, after the toilet - the kitchen. It has a door with coloured glass inset - some kind of pattern. Immediately to the right - the sink, with a trash bin behind a door underneath. Next along the right wall - a prep table. This is where my mother cooks. Then the stove. Above, on the wall, cupboards from the same set as the prep table. Everything for cooking is here. In front of the stove, by the window wall - a small cabinet with drawers. Full of interesting things.

Yes, in general, there"s plenty of interesting stuff everywhere. Everything is unexplored and largely incomprehensible, apart from elementary items, like spoons. You understand their purpose - to eat with. And yet even they have some strange pattern.

The window - faces the courtyard.

In the far left corner of the kitchen - an armchair. It"s the prime spot in the kitchen, the most comfortable. For adults - specifically those somewhat close to our family. You sit sprawled, which ordinary visitors don"t do, as I"ve noticed. I have only a few observations so far. I don"t sit in that chair myself.

In the centre of the kitchen - the main kitchen table. Tall for me. Stools around it. Everything kitchen-related, all tied to food. The table has triangular legs - only two, each formed by two boards joined at an angle. On the table - the phone. A phone that rings, through which Mum talks to people.

Turning back, leaving the kitchen: on the left - the toilet door, mirror, bathroom door, ahead - the entrance door, and to the right - corridor. On the left side of the corridor - a large floor-to-ceiling wardrobe spanning the corridor"s length. In this wardrobe, I don"t even know what isn"t there. In the main section, closer to the apartment entrance - various adult coats, my mother"s. They smell faintly of wood and wool.

In the middle of this wardrobe is a niche, and on the far wall - another mirror. In front - various little bottles. All Mum"s. I don"t notice her using most of them. Well, she uses some, but a significant portion, from what I see, goes unused. There"s some nail polish there - it even smells.

After the mirror niche - a section like the coat one, but this one holds my outer clothes. My jacket. I love my jacket. Immediately something new, unknown, outdoor, unexplored. Usually, a new discovery is tied to an intense positive emotion. Therefore, I"m interested in everything new. I keep discovering. Though I live in my apartment, only a small part is known to me. And about myself. But I won"t leave it like that - I"ll explore everything here.

In the section with my jacket - a vacuum cleaner. The wardrobe has lower compartments for shoes. At the top, near the ceiling - compartments I don"t even know about. I"d like to climb there.

In general, I"d like to climb there and watch the corridor passers-by. I"d like some guests to arrive, and I"d sit there, seeing everything and knowing all. Sitting there, cosy, warm, while everyone downstairs fusses for some reason.

Opposite the corridor wardrobe - the middle room. The door is where the corridor begins, near the entrance hall. The corridor, by the way, is narrow - half a step for an adult. Inside - the bedroom. At the far wall - a window facing the courtyard. In the centre - a large bed, and to the left, along the wall that borders the living room - my crib with tall rails. I couldn"t climb out myself. They lift me from it. This bedroom is called the middle room due to its size.

Under every window - radiators.

Back to the corridor, going further - we enter the living room, the largest room, with a TV. On the left wall, like in the corridor, - a wall with shelves. Books. Floor-to-ceiling, like the corridor wardrobe. Below - compartments with dishes and very interesting stuff. A box of buttons and much more. Various photos in a cardboard box.

Many books, but I don"t understand them. The text needs to be read, a story. Not interesting to me. Buttons, dishes, or the far bottom drawer - yes. The far drawer - by the window. That window is directly in line with the corridor to the living room. Corner apartment, remember. Living room - corner room. Second window in the living room - faces the courtyard, actually the balcony.

Entering the living room from the corridor: straight ahead - a window, to the right - the elongated living room. On the right, along the long wall bordering the middle room - the sofa. At the end - door to balcony. Next to the door, to the left - a window, with TV in front. Far corner, then the second long wall: along it - the piano. Nobody really plays it, maybe Dad does. Mum never. Near the first window - two armchairs from the same set as the sofa. I will play with them soon.

In the centre of the bookcase - suddenly a passage to the small room. The small room - exactly square - currently unclear. There"s a wardrobe with hanging clothes. Not very interesting, but I"m sure there"s something to be found. A sewing machine - a fairly large wooden chest, unfolding to reveal dangerous parts for fingers, and inside, threads and needles.

The room also has a window, facing the street, not the courtyard. Mum sometimes lifts me there, and I see the street, our red brick neighbour, and further beyond - a nine-storey building.

As for the balcony - haven"t been there yet.

.:::.

Part 3 Text 2. Pacifier, corridor walls, poo, the chicken and the psychology of tears.

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There are two of us in the apartment - me and Mum. A gloomy afternoon, grey outside. I"m in tears, crying as always, but stronger than usual: I found out Mum threw away my pacifier. I pronounce the word with emphasis on the last vowel: "titi". I hadn"t sucked it for a long time, don"t even remember how it looked, but now I remembered, and Mum said she threw it away, and I went into hysterics. Running around and crying: "Where"s my titi?" She says she threw it out because it"s time to grow up. I howl even more.

I searched the small room wardrobe - no titi, only clothes and a plastic "microphone".

Ran to the bathroom - looking in the laundry. She says: "Enough". She"s even cheerful. I cry even more. She fusses about laundry and house chores. I don"t know how to live without titi; it was very important.

Clearly, she"s doing the right thing. I can tell by her calm, even cheerful reaction that I"ll survive the loss. Otherwise, she would have tried to find it. She threw it herself - so it"s for my own good.

Still, I feel awful, despite the good intentions. Before, when I cried, I was always given the pacifier. I learned that, so now - suddenly, its absence is for my benefit. No warning, no preparation.

A few days later - calm. I don"t need it; other things occupy me.

Falling asleep, I remember the corridor walls and the wardrobe opposite: covered with plastic protruding squares with pointed centres. I like to press them in. Sometimes they pop back, sometimes stay dented. If plastic is brittle, may even break inwards. Mum doesn"t scold.

Plastic tiles on the floor too. Everything old, from a life I haven"t seen. I"m here after her.

Now - discomfort in my backside. Need to poo. I tell Mum: "I want to poo". A whole process. She opens the door, lifts me, I climb onto the toilet. She goes to the kitchen nearby. Toilet door stays open. Mum closes it with a bolt when she uses it.

I start peeing, then need to push. I say: "Po-o". She taught me this. The poo comes out. I shout: "I pooped!"

She wipes me. I could do it myself, but I like her doing it. Best feeling - when she cares for me. I"m loved, needed, the main one. I don"t care for anyone. I only pee myself.

She flushes the toilet - water takes it away.

Looking at my toys. Once had a toy chicken - very sad. It should have stood on a mechanical base, but didn"t. Metal stub legs, leaning, pecking. Now gone entirely. I feel sorry for it.

Once, perhaps evening or night, I, weak and sleepy, maybe sick, ran from living room to kitchen holding the chicken. I cried, can"t explain why. I imagined the chicken could speak and complain about being legless and existing. I cried just at that thought.

I wipe tears, don"t show Mum. I can"t explain the reason. I barely understand myself, she wouldn"t understand. I dislike being seen crying. Only cry alone. Then it"s pleasant.

Crying is often a reflex to signal need for help. I don"t want others to see me weak - it undermines my belief I"m not weak. So I hide all crying. Shame, humiliation, and disgrace form around this.

.:::.

Part 3 Text 3. Semolina, vomiting, enema, fear of my unknown body, first words diary, "We Have a Lion in the House", familiarity, Mum naked from the bath.

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Mum keeps a "diary of my first words". I sit on her lap, she recounts first words: "mama", then "tap", then "papa".

We have a magazine "We Have a Lion in the House". About a family with a lion at home. I sit on her lap again; she explains lions. My first contact with lions, and wild animals in general. Other animals too. Before, only familiar animals existed - cats, dogs, birds. Now I see others - like my toys.

Looking at the magazine photos, I feel "familiarity" with their household. I haven"t visited anyone yet, but I see toilets, pipes, sofas, kitchen, stove. Even strangers have relatives like mine - grandma and grandpa. Idea of cohesion forms in me.

Also, ideas of keeping animals at home emerge.

At home. Grey, cloudy morning. Mum and I at the kitchen table; I sit on her lap. Need to eat semolina - she feeds me. Phone at table edge, lamp on. After swallowing, something goes wrong. Horrible feeling in my stomach. Feels like the end. Never felt worse. Semolina comes up, out of my mouth. On the floor under me - more and more. I"m in a state of confusion; only what matters is what"s happening. First time. Worst in life. Mum worried, says things - bad. Not like the pacifier situation. Here, it"s really bad and scary.

When I suffered loss of the pacifier, I felt I"d "survive". But now? I"m scared. I know little of myself. Mum, adult, knows what"s needed. I rely on her.

I don"t understand what happened, but I"ll fear vomiting forever. Not knowing mechanisms only adds to fear.

There"s also something called an enema. Scary. Not sure if anyone gave me one before, but I know its shape - all orange, rubbery smell. Somewhere in the bathroom.

Thinking of it reminds me of Mum making me take medicine. Otherwise, she would do the enema. Fear of enema sets in - not because I know it"s terrible, but because I don"t know. Fear of the unknown body.

Also, fear links to excretions - milk, vomit, poo. Smelly, mysterious. I fear the unknown.

Noon. Mum in the bath, closed in. I need the toilet. Light - I can"t reach, don"t know what to press. Stand on stool, press something - no light. Mum speaks from the bath. She opens the door, nude. Where I have my pee - her hair. I glimpse it for a fraction of a second. Pacifiers seem familiar; this hair - completely unknown.

.:::.

Part 3, Text 4: Going out with Kassil"s Lions... to the shop with Mum on the square... memories of the embankment and tulips... back home via Teatralnaya.

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I don"t put on my shoes or tie my laces myself - Mum does everything for me. She"s put them on and tied them, and now we"re going to the park. It"s morning.

Outside the apartment door - a shared vestibule with the neighbours. This is where all the "other" starts. There"s often some sharp smoke and stench, and strangers squat around.

From that vestibule, the next door leads to the lift landing, and there are two more flats there. When you step out of this second door onto the stair landing, immediately to the left there"s a staircase up and down, and there"s also a thick garbage chute running through all the floors, with hatches on the landings between floors - that"s where Mum constantly goes with our blue bin and empties it into the hole between our floor and the seventh.

Mum presses the lift button, it arrives with a crash and opens. It fits four adults tightly. She presses the button for the bottom floor. Some of the lower buttons are broken, and a few upper ones are missing too. Our sixth-floor button is almost dented in, so it can"t be broken off. The lift is dark, damp, and smells sour.

On the first floor, from the lift - right, then right again. A few steps down to ground level. We haven"t left the entrance yet - to the right there"s a crawl into some basement that"s sometimes open, and you can"t tell what"s inside. We pass through torn wooden doors in the dim light and come into the yard.

Right outside the entrance, to the right, literally a step away, is another door - like an entrance to a building, but it"s a room where trash comes down the chute from above, and if the door"s open, you can see it flying out of that stinking tube. No one goes in there except homeless people - people living in trash - and sometimes cats. Garbage collectors also come endlessly to our entrance in a truck and scoop it all out with shovels. At those moments the stench rises to the sixth floor, and we close the windows. Then they leave, and if you go outside soon, you walk over the remnants of rubbish on the wet, stinking ground. But right in front of the bin is a bench, and there sit grandmas and grandpas, chatting - and they"re happy.

After the garbage - right, then more entrances to our building, all the same as ours. But we turn left as we leave the building, along a narrow passage by the wall under the first-floor apartment that"s directly beneath ours, only it has no balcony. You can hear the residents banging pots and talking. We"ve passed the kitchen, and now we"re walking under our balcony, turning left again - as if around our flat. To the right of this path is a corner flower bed, and now there"s a birch growing there. When Mum lifts me at home, I look down from the small room window at this birch, swaying in the wind. Next to it grows a rowan tree with some berries.

We step onto Lev Kassil Street. The words mean nothing to me, except that it somehow connects with the little red brick house on the right.

We cross the road - this Lev Kassil Street - right there, and follow the street branching off at an angle. On the left, first, a car park. Then some private houses, from dusty old ones to a new brick one, strange because its entrance is outside, always locked, and it"s unclear how anyone gets in.

From this angled street, we turn right, and there"s a huge elm tree. Almost as tall as our nine-storey building. At its base is a water tap, and residents of nearby wooden houses come with buckets - sometimes a whole queue forms. Then they go through the gates to their yards, with dogs barking everywhere and buckets and sheds scattered around.

This path is the beginning of most of our walks.

The days are warm now. It used to be gloomy, like when Auntie disappeared and when semolina was around, but now the sun is constant. You can"t look at it - it blinds you.

We"re in a grocery shop on the city square. There"s a queue, and on the other side of the counters, women in aprons bustle about, handing out products. They have blue scales. The products are basic: bread, milk, and things like that. It"s all similar to our flat. I mean, it"s all strange, but there"s also this square tiling on the floor, everything is plastic and primitive. Plants in pots on the windowsills. I look at the ceiling - all mirrored, I see myself, and the ceiling fans spinning. Flies are buzzing, it"s hot, and the women bustle around.

We leave the shop. Ahead is a small road, then an alley with benches and trees, then the square. Beyond that - the city park, and to the right - the amusement park with the big swings. We"ve passed by it many times. The amusement park is slightly above, the park itself a bit lower, and after descending, there"s a shooting gallery, a small building. I don"t know what a shooting gallery is. Behind it grows a tree dropping small, light things that spin many times as they fall. Mum and I used to stand there and toss them into the air. She said they were called "helicopters". Further towards the Volga, there are flowerbeds with tulips. That spring we went there - it was misty, slabs on the ground, grass and moss between, a wild place. I ran around. There are also concrete stands with inscriptions, names. Something about "the war". I don"t know, I don"t need to.

I like remembering being there - almost just Mum and me, everything around ours to explore. People approached Mum, talked, while I ran and played in the fog. Beyond that was the Volga.

The Volga - our big river, edges lost in the mist. Just after the tulips runs a dam along the shore, below is the Volga. Beyond that - the unknown. I like that. Everything unknown, limitless. Full of things to explore.

We also went for bread there. Just below the dam, near the tulips and the stands with names, there"s a fence enclosing some area, and on the dam side, a building with a window, where we got, and sometimes still get, bread.

I don"t want boring shopping trips. I want to discover something new, to feel interested and happy, to be "pleasantly excited". Always safe, painless, but with something new to experience and learn. That"s what I like. Standing in line, waiting for groceries - I don"t want that.

We leave the shop to the left, soon turning left again towards home, leaving the square behind. Around here are places Mum usually goes for business.

We walk down a short pedestrian alley. Benches on the sides, trees in flowerbeds, sidewalks beyond. But we usually walk in the middle, like everyone. Reach the street, wait, cross. Mum always holds my hand, sometimes even carries me. Across the roads, cars drive.

On the far side was another bakery we visit often. On this side, on the corner left from us, another grocery. But we keep going home.

The big buildings to the right are "theatres". More than one here. First - the main one, large, Operetta Theatre. For adults. Further on, some one-storey old houses. People live there. I don"t know what"s inside. A few houses past the first theatre, to the right - another theatre, actually a cinema called "Udarnik", Mum says. Something for children. On its façade, a big children"s picture with human-like animals, faces with expressions. Next to Udarnik - gates, behind which a green courtyard overgrown with bushes, a long alley, and in the distance, something else for kids - swings.

Further right - a small wooden house, again theatre or cinema-related. I don"t know what"s inside, just buildings. Theatre, shooting gallery, etc. Unknown inside.

By the end of this street with theatres, we walk on the left side because we need to turn left now. We pass the water tap with a queue of people, extra water spilling, puddles around. All under the branches of the huge elm I mentioned. Its trunk thick, two people can"t even hug it. I notice its height, almost like our building. There"s our home. Turn left.

This is how most of our walks end.

Part 3, Text 5: Dream or reality about the square festival... park... rides... am I a weakling... Rita... Uncle Seryozha... crib.

.::::.

A very sunny day. Mum and I are on the square. Some festival... Lots of people, heat, stalls, a bit of chaos. It all feels lavish and bright. Lots of colourful outfits, like in fairy tales. There are even horses and haystacks, and pancakes being cooked.

Another day... Warm now, far from grey times. Mum and I leave the house, along the angled street, then past the theatre street, cross roads, cross the square, and enter the amusement park. Early morning, wearing my denim jacket-shirt, as usual.

Enter through the gate - ticket office right there. Mum buys the ticket, I wait.

Just past the booth - a children"s carousel: animals spinning in a circle, seats to ride. We head straight there. We"ve come here often. At first, I rode with Mum, now I go alone. I usually ride the horse.

I hold the handles like bicycle handlebars and ride in circles. Mum sits below, watching.

Next from this horizontal carousel, towards the Volga, is a mini Ferris wheel, as tall as three adults. Each carriage has space for two. Mum and I ride a few turns. I watch the rides for adults in the distance. In the far north-east corner - a big Ferris wheel. We"ll ride that someday.

Ahead - a chain ride swinging in circles. Single seats on long chains, strapped with a chain over the waist. Spins fast, high above the ground. Parent can"t sit next to child - too early for me.

Right after, a big spinning thing - "Surprise". For adults. People stand in cells around the edge, it spins horizontally, tilts vertically, throwing people against the backrests. People scream, it"s noisy and scary.

Some days we also go to another ride in front of the ticket office, with animal figures that peck or jump.

Mostly, we stick to the first classic carousel behind the ticket office, the mini Ferris wheel, and those pecking animal figures in front.

The first horizontal carousel - for the very young. I gradually love it more for the little animals, who become like friends and my only companions besides family.

In another corner near the ticket office - "Boats" ride. Big swings shaped like boats, two at opposite ends swing. You can go very high. No safety straps, just hold on. So we only watch for now. Same with other rides.

What strikes me about these rides is the theme of overcoming fear and moving towards a braver, more adult life. Each ride - a step. Not that I"m terribly afraid, except "Surprise", but each new ride I first try with Mum. I understand there"s something she thinks I might fear, some danger I don"t know. My instinctive fear is only "Surprise", as I said. The rest - discomfort before the unknown, thanks to straps, spinning, Mum"s initiative. The theme forms a kind of obsession for me: "Am I weak and cowardly?"

Late afternoon, sunny. Light fills the middle room. I"m in my crib. Someone comes. The door opens, Mum"s friend pokes her head in, smiling.

Mum has a few friends. This is Auntie Rita, related to Mum"s business. She comes from the square, greeting people in buildings.

Mum lifts me out of the crib - I run around the apartment. They sit in the kitchen, I roam everywhere. I like it when Mum"s busy - she"s happier. Alone with her, we feel vulnerable. Before, everything was grey and cold. Now, movement, sun, visitors.

Also Uncle Seryozha sometimes comes. He"s tied to Mum"s work. Men - less understandable. Auntie Rita - more relatable. I live with Mum, I understand her well. Women often flirt, speak in words I get. Men - strangers. Uncle Seryozha is still okay. I know only three men - Dad, Grandad, Uncle Seryozha. He"s middle-aged between them.

Dad and Mum - closest, always together, laughter, no complicated words.

I"ve been in this crib a long time but only remember the recent period. Once BabKlava came, lifted me, put me back. There"s fuss around me. Smell of wet laundry, rubber under the sheet. Mum and Bab fuss, change my nappies while I wait on the double bed.

.:::.

Part 3, Text 6. Playing on the floor in the living room - buttons - Mikhalkov films - the greyness of existence - sneakers with little holes like Uncle Seryozha"s - about the beach - white museum slabs - ice cream - riding a small bike around the flat - father making furniture for the small room.

.::::.

Lately, my favourite way to pass the time at home has been playing on the living room floor with whatever I can find. I don"t have my own room or a special place, so I spend most of the time in bed, sleeping. But when I"m not sleeping - I"m on the floor in the living room. My toys are there.

But it"s not really the toys that interest me so much, more like buttons or random little objects. Everything here is connected somehow to clothes, furniture, cleaning the flat, or the smell coming from the wardrobe in the corridor where the vacuum cleaner is. Everything is familiar yet still dull. Just like the magazines on the rolling table in the living room - full of drawings of women in coats and models. The pages are old, boring. The pictures are boring. Buttons too - boring. If a button is shiny, that"s more interesting. But most of ours aren"t.

On the TV there are uninteresting films. I don"t understand anything. They"re black and white, too. Our TV itself is black-and-white. I"ve seen colour TVs in shop windows - a completely different world. Everything here is dull, grey. Lately, I"ve heard the song "Ah, I"m Walking Through Moscow" more than once. The melody sticks, but it makes me feel a kind of melancholy. I remember that it"s sung by a man - as my mother says, with my name: Nikita. Nikita Mikhalkov. He"s also a director. I still don"t really know what he looks like. But he"s become my favourite director. Even though I don"t know anything about him - just like I don"t know other directors, or even what a director is.

In the small room wardrobe, among the laundry, there was some kind of "microphone" I stumbled upon during a tantrum over losing my tit. Alongside the microphone, for a while there was another thing with keys from the same set. Together, it had something to do with music. It never belonged to us, but to some acquaintance of my parents from the neighbouring building, although somehow it ended up here. That acquaintance also had a girl about my age - called Inga. Her father - very unusual, nothing like our family, with long hair.

The microphone is gone now. Those things were interesting. Unlike our laundry and buttons. Those items belonged to a life that doesn"t exist in our family. To shops with lamps, wires, unfamiliar smells, and long-haired men.

I note again - life here is soaked in unbearable grey boredom. All these buttons and rags. Endless dull clothes. I have no idea how life might be different, but I feel that where I am and what I deal with is too dull and gloomy. I love bright, vivid things. Like my bright yellow velvet home suit, especially when it glimmers in the light. That"s what I like. In all the dull black-and-white mess - cupboards with my parents" clothes, black-and-white films - I just can"t understand what anyone could like. Ordinary adults and their ordinary lives, like in a Mikhalkov film, don"t interest me.

Either Baba Valya brought them, or passed them on, or somehow - I got sneakers. White, with little ventilation holes. Clearly a cooler shoe than my previous sandals. And the best thing - the holes and the whiteness make me feel like Uncle Seryozha, who has white men"s shoes with holes. Uncle Seryozha - he"s cool and serious.

So we go with Mum to the amusement park on a sunny morning, with just a few people around, and we meet Uncle Seryozha there. They combined his business meeting with walking me. I stand, watching his shoes, shifting from foot to foot, comparing whose shoes are better: his or mine. I start comparing things. My sneakers are new. Mine are better.

I go on walks with my parents all the time, often to the beach. That"s a whole topic, a significant part of my existence, which I"ll describe separately in detail.

We go to the beach in threes, or sometimes just me and Dad. I have a three-wheeled blue bike, which we almost always take.

Returning from the beach with Dad, we come down from the embankment, walking past the museum. A light rain - that"s why we left. Wet asphalt, the smell of dust from the rain. I know it all: the places, the street, the smells.

Diagonal from the museum, they sell ice cream - a woman on a little stool, with a white box and a sliding transparent lid. We always get ice cream here. This time - just a plain plombir in a cup. For some reason, we never get the ones in shiny wrappers, even though that"s what I want.

I ride my bike inside the flat too. Into the small room. It"s almost empty - the wardrobe has been moved into the middle room, and here they"re preparing the room for me. Dad makes furniture. First, he made a bed for me. I no longer know where my little cradle-bed from the middle room went. The new bed is simple, made from chipboard. That"s the main material he uses; hardly any real wood. The base of my bed is hardboard - the kind that tears like paper if it gets wet. Dad constantly works around the flat, sawing, with shavings flying, and the smell of the materials. I like the shavings - they feel warm, like a little mouse nest, and I almost tumble into them.

Soon, I"m settled in the small room. Floor shelves have been installed, holding my dull toys, nesting dolls, plastic cars - all dull. My books too - even duller. But someone often reads stories or fairy tales to me from them. I believe in these stories, and it impresses me - but only as long as there are illustrations. Without them, I can"t picture what they"re reading. And our books have very few illustrations, usually very sketchy.

.:::.

Part 3, Text 7. Got sick - being treated - doctor comes.

.::::.

I got sick.

For me, this is already familiar - something that happens regularly, usually once a season. First thing in the morning I feel tired and a little sharp sting in my throat. Like a strip, just a tiny crack. After a few hours, I can"t speak at all. My whole throat hurts. Worst of all, there"s a strong shiver along with the pain. This is something unknown - I don"t understand the mechanism, don"t know what"s happening, can"t picture my throat. Mum looks into my open mouth and says it"s red, and I just lie in bed in my small room, while she fusses around, bringing out a big red box of tablets. From my observations, when I"m sick - Dad is immediately gone. Looking after me, running with tablets and raspberry drinks - that"s Mum"s job.

Mostly, she gives me tea and raspberry jam, or honey. The honey is in a three-litre jar in the kitchen, in the cupboard under the prep table. Honey - a solid yellow mass, which Mum almost chips off with a spoon. I don"t like it much - too sweet, and it feels like it makes the cutting pain in my throat worse. She starts giving me all this, and I shiver more, my temperature rises, and soon I just fall asleep in the hell of throat pain and everything else.

At night I wake up countless times, and everything gets mixed - has it been one night or several? During this endless night, Mum puts mustard compresses on my chest, gives sour or bitter tablets, constantly measures my temperature under my armpit, and if it"s too high, she brings fever-reducing suppositories - the scariest part. I resist until the last moment; she only gives them when I"m completely feverish and couldn"t care less about anything.

Mum"s bed is in the middle room, and every time I wake up, it"s nearby. Outside it"s dark. As I sweat through another raspberry brew, she waits to change my damp T-shirt for a dry one.

Often Mum calls on the phone, which can be plugged in in the small room, and in her conversations - probably with Baba - the word "angina" comes up again and again.

I lie in this fever and think how "angina" sounds like "Inga". Mum also has a large heavy white book with a thousand pages, called Mother and Child, which she occasionally takes to the living room chair and reads. I sometimes look at that book; it"s full of pictures of strange things, and some of them are images of throats sick with angina. Mum showed me, and at the top there"s a little tongue - I saw the same in my own mirror between the bathroom and toilet when Mum lifted me to look. But I never saw the white things drawn at the sides of the tongue. They look like a fly-agaric mushroom overall.

Being "sick" has something animal in it, but in this case it"s instinctively calming. With this kind of illness - cold and fever - there"s no strong fear that something bad will happen. This is what distinguishes being sick now from vomiting and other acute pains elsewhere. Those are instinctively frightening, as I"ve said.

The next day - morning. Awful: my throat feels like it"s wrapped in some hellish shell.

Mum is still fussing nearby, as if she never left. Her tone is different now: friendly but serious. "The doctor will come soon." Now everything is serious - a stranger will be in the flat, deep enough to reach my bed in the far room.

Then the doorbell rings. It sounds like "ding-dong", or even closer to "champ-cha", and I have no idea where from - probably I"ll never know.

Mum opens the door; I hear her comments: "Oh, no need, just come straight in." Footsteps along our long corridor. She"s already familiar - the lady doctor, having come before. Without taking off her shoes, she enters. She has a stethoscope around her neck. She asks Mum for a spoon. A spoon is ready. She looks at my throat. I need to sit up, and she listens. "Breathe deeper." When I take a deep enough breath, she says, "Good." That"s it - I can lie back down.

She writes prescriptions for Mum and explains some medicines I don"t understand. Tells us I need bed rest. I have the impression she"s known Mum for a long time, even outside my illness. She says something encouraging and teasing to me. Then gradually leaves. After she goes, I feel a little anxious.

It"s always a bit worrying after any guests leave and it"s just Mum and me. That"s because Mum herself is a bit anxious. When she"s alone with me, feeling the absence of extra support - like a doctor or guest - I feel she starts feeling helpless. If I exaggerate, after visitors or doctors leave, it"s "nauseating," as Mum herself has said. But when there are at least three of us in the flat - then it"s a proper celebration and fun.

I"ve noticed real joy and "collective" happiness starts from three people. With two, it"s risky. If one fails, the other is alone. If something happens to Mum, I"d be left alone. And I"m a child, so I understand that I"d be lost. I wouldn"t even reach the door handle, couldn"t help her or myself.

After a few days, my throat improves, strength returns, and in a pile of warm sweaters I can play on the floor a little.

Evenings, Mum reads me books. Currently - about people taken on an ice floe. There are also firefighters, how they rescued those on the ice floe, or something like that. Illustrations are sparse, one per story.

Mum"s kettle boils in the kitchen, she leaves, and I continue to leaf through the book. All this in the small room. Evening, light from the ceiling lamp. We can"t get past the first stories yet. Each time we start from the first, or I just sit, looking at the pictures.

We also have the book The Travels of Karik and Valya, very big and long, one big story. We tried starting it, but it hasn"t worked yet. About miniature children, finger-sized, who ended up in the world of insects and all the tiny life in the grass. Interesting idea.

Mum soaks my feet. She sprinkles some mustard in hot water in a basin, I sit and dip my feet. At first it"s hot and painful, but once it cools, it"s cosy. You sit, drink tea, smell the wet mustard, and look at the pictures with Mum. She reads; I imagine and look.

After I"ve recovered, usually a week and a half later, I already know I"ll need to go to the clinic. I haven"t been outside for a long time.

.:.

___Part 4.

.:::.

Part 4 Text 1. Going to the Clinic.

.::::.

Going to the clinic.

We stepped out of the entrance, walked between the front garden and the end of the building - and there we were on the street. This time we weren"t heading to the street with the theatres - which, by the way, is literally called "Teatralnaya" - but towards Grandma Klava"s place. So, after the garden - turn right. We pass the little red brick building of the "Lev Kassil Museum." There"s a staircase leading down to the basement floor - and then the same climb back up, and I"m always running up and down there.

After that little building, it gets dangerous right away - there"s a driveway from the courtyard, at the end of which our small room and the hall have windows. Cars can come in or out - so hand-in-hand with Mum, of course.

Next, we cross Lev Kassil Street to the other side. We walk the rest of Lev Kassil Street towards Svobody Square Street.

From Lev Kassil we turn onto Svobody Square Street. There"s some hotel here - I have no idea what it"s for. For grown-ups, probably. We keep walking, walking, walking along this street. It goes on for a long time. Along the way, there are all sorts of houses, windows on the ground floors - in the windows, plants in pots on the sills, and curtains. If I see people in these windows, it"s a whole event - and I spend half the day thinking about it afterwards.

There are also all sorts of entrances to courtyards along the street - so while walking here, I"m always holding Mum"s hand.

We reach the junction with Kommunisticheskaya Street. There"s a traffic light - one of the few I"ve seen in our Engels. Mum lectures me that we must wait for the green. Red - stop, yellow - get ready, green - go. It feels like forever before I"ll be walking the streets alone.

We cross Kommunisticheskaya, then the street we"ve been on - and end up at the corner near the descent into the Children"s Park - and there"s also a monument. This monument is either "Motherland" or some "Teacher with Children."

Across Kommunisticheskaya from this corner is a building literally called "Rodina" (Motherland).

Here, Mum explains all sorts of things about all this, but it all jumbles in my head. There"s Rodina here, Rodina there - and all of it is also Mother. And the woman with children in this monument doesn"t look like a woman at all, more like a bloke. I"ve also already heard the term "Motherland" somewhere and seen other similar women-blokes as statues. All this ends up linking in my mind with past times - something old and mind-numbingly boring. Something grey, like our worn-out, holey floor rag.

I even see women-blokes in real life. Right there - walking past us. They"re all "old biddies." Heading somewhere too - maybe the clinic or other business. Or going to that Rodina building. Their clothes - proper grey. Berets on their heads. They"re unpleasant to me - unlike Mum. Mum is delicate and obviously younger, while they"re full-on aunts. With bags, curly hair, ugly. Basically, I can"t. And I hate the chain of associations: Motherland, monuments, floor rags, ugly aunts-blokes, big-breasted, strong-armed carers, capable of chopping wood and all that. Living surrounded by this, forced to see it daily - that"s why I crave "things from over there" - like Johnson"s Baby shampoo. Saw it on TV, want it.

We descend into the park. It"s in a sort of hollow. A diagonal alley cuts straight through it - leading to Persidskaya Street, where the clinic is, the main road to Grandma. In the park, there are benches on either side, sometimes with drunks. Drunks and homeless people feel like wolves in cartoons to me - scary, unpredictable. I can feel Mum"s fear too. I feel she"s unprotected in this world - even she, an adult. She grips my hand tighter, quickens her pace. And they stink. Homeless people stick to bins; drunks, to benches. I don"t know exactly what "drunk" means.

In the middle of the park, behind a fence, is a big church. We"ve never been in - I don"t know what it is. Sometimes a bell rings - and if we hear it, that"s a big event too, and we talk about it afterwards.

Now we walk along the grey concrete fence of the churchyard on the right. It curves smoothly - dips, rises, dips again. On the ground beside it - mud, puddles, and planks over impassable spots to walk on.

On the left, there are trees. It"s wild here - no kids, nobody. I think there are wolves and those homeless people in those trees. I watch them - maybe I"ll see something scary. Sometimes something flickers and rustles like someone"s moving. And this is called "Children"s Park." But behind some bushes there"s a playground, and there"s a rocket. Painted bright, old, and I"ve never seen any children with it - no one goes there; everyone hurries through the park.

Finally, past the trees, civilisation and the street are visible again. A climb up - a few broken steps. Right and especially left - branches, brush, general wreckage.

Exiting the park - left in the distance, the Volga, right - who knows. Road with cars. We cross Pushkin Street and walk on the left side of Persidskaya - pavement only there. Cars are rare, but we still stick to the pavement.

At the start of Persidskaya, on the left - old houses, windows half below ground - puddles apparently drain there. Hard to imagine living there. Past that semi-underground life under puddles, women with children constantly go to the clinic - everything around utterly grey and joyless. Then after these houses, a workshop - smells of flour, biscuits, constantly humming. I wouldn"t want to live here.

At the end of the first block, on the corner - confectionery "Skazka" (Fairy Tale). There are sweets, but you have to earn them - give some tests or wait in the boring clinic queue. Since I can"t refuse anything, we almost always go to "Skazka," even if just seeing the GP, as now. It"s the only pleasant thing about going to the clinic.

Right across from "Skazka" - the clinic. Four floors of pain and psychic destruction. First, along the ground floor, a long balcony-veranda with railings. When Mum talks to someone leaving the clinic - I wander back and forth there. No doors lead into the building from it.

After the balcony - steps up and entrance to the clinic. Wooden, old, battered door. First, a cold vestibule - strollers sometimes stand here. Then a second door - now into the main hall. All these vestibule doors are clad in wood. Everything very old.

Entering the clinic - instant smell of medicine and hospitals. Mum knows the drill, goes straight to the window - called "registration" - where women in white coats hand out medical cards. The card - just a little booklet - in the spirit of Motherlands and floor rags. Open the dull, rough cover - a million slips of paper with mind-numbingly dull writing. Even if I could read, I wouldn"t understand. Mum, however, traces with her finger and figures things out.

There"s also a pharmacy inside. Before tests, Mum buys something there. And a cloakroom. In cold weather, we hand in coats, get a number - a metal disc with a hole to spin on a finger. Next to it - tray with pies and rolls with sausages. Mini-cafe.

.:::.

Part 4 Text 2. Clinic Tour - First Two Floors.

.::::.

Clinic tour. I"ll do it along the way of our usual post-illness visit to the clinic, when we only need to see the GP.

We enter, back to Persidskaya Street, registration ahead, pies to the left, cloakroom window, woman behind the counter. Pharmacy on the right. The bottom of the pharmacy window - a big children"s picture, drawn characters from storybooks. In the style of the picture at "Udarik" cinema on Teatralnaya Street.

After the pharmacy, corridor continues on the right of the first floor - dark, smells like a toilet. At the end - "Day Hospital" office, women sitting at desks writing. We haven"t been in there yet.

By the pharmacy - staircase. Up half a floor. From the window between floors - view of a building, Mum said - "former tuberculosis." Don"t know, but associated with germs and nastiness.

That"s the first staircase. There"s a second one, from the main entrance past the cloakroom and the like, to the other end of the first floor, towards "Skazka." We use that more. First cloakroom, narrow doorway, then doors to offices on the right.

Here, the offices don"t look scary. We haven"t been in yet.

Outside the entrance, floor tiled; rest of the clinic - old, worn orange linoleum.

All four floors are roughly the same. Walking west - along walls, in window recesses chairs. Wooden chairs, in a row, connected, with nasty tilting seats: put a bag on the far end - it falls. Stick fingers between seat and back - sit down, and you sink with the seat.

Sometimes no offices on the left - window recesses with pots and flowers. At corridor"s end, turn right for the stairs - left recess with balcony windows, circular waiting chairs. This office - smears and scraping. You have to pull down trousers, butt exposed, doctor pokes with dry file. Unbearable. I can"t imagine inside, all I think about is poop, dirtiest body part. Doctors seem obsessed. Cold hits as you undress - unpleasant. But after - candy from "Skazka," view from the scraping office window. Mum stays with me. Scraping is nothing compared to what"s one floor up, same corridor.

Now stairs to second floor, turn right - end of corridor with window to "Skazka," small offices with friendly GPs. Always busy, long queues. Sit or stand, no seats.

Between stairs and GP offices - dark recess, glass door - toilet. Once went in, window to tuberculosis yard, feels like I was born here. Bright tile, too big a window, lots of light despite dark side.

I wander bored along corridors while Mum waits at office door. Kids with grandmas, kids with moms come and go. When a mother and child leave, Mum calls: "Nikit, next. Quiet." Entry by invitation. Stand ready. Even friendly doctors - nerves tense. "Next, please." We go in.

GP offices - two women at two desks, lots of papers. Same women who visit home when I"m sick. Some I remember. Most familiar - dark-haired, short, attached earlobes. Strange ear shape, obvious.

Doctors rarely lift heads, scribbling giant handwriting. We sit quietly, don"t distract. Mum addresses them respectfully, tries to joke. They"re generally kind. Then Mum says: "Lift your T-shirt," I turn back or front, twist while she places cold stethoscope. "Breathe deeply." I face Mum, smile, wink. Mum on couch, I on chair by doctor - only needed for listening. Sometimes they press tongue with metal tool, check throat - unpleasant, metallic taste.

After GP - usually home via "Skazka." Let"s mentally run through remaining offices to complete tour.

Along corridor back to Grandma Klava direction - empty space instead of office: windows to Persidskaya, flowerpots, seating, office doors. One sunny office - woman examined my penis. Opposite, also sunny - completely dark, ultrasound. Only office with tiny medical TV. Black-and-white, uninteresting, but tiny size sparks fantasy - maybe portable TV possible.

Ultrasound tech makes you undress top, lie on couch, spreads wet stuff on belly, presses a bit - like a massage. Unpleasant - they control my body more than I know. Feels like they own me, more than Mum. Mum trusts them fully - source of clinic fear: belonging to strangers, deprived of Mum.

Dark side - neurologist. She taps painfully on tendons, internal knees, kneecap. Terrible. Endure as best I can. Like hitting elbow tendon - only pain, nothing else. One pain per treatment.

Next open space - circular seating, offices. "Manta office." Manta, semolina. Confusing - both mean painful or unpleasant. There are cops. In manta office - first blood. Needle into hand. I cry, don"t want to go. Mum calms: "Endure, son." Fast, sharp, young nurse. Needle in, I scream - puncturing instinctively scary. Then, tears of victory. Exit office - candy or banana reward.

There"s second blood, on third floor - that"s where the real sadism starts. Let"s finish second floor first.

East corridor - dark, broken chairs on right, unknown offices left, machines near couches. Exit to first staircase, further east - unclear.

.:::.

Part 4 Text 3. Third Floor Sadism and Rest of the Clinic.

.::::.

Third floor - east end clearer. Before corridor end - massage office, opposite - stinky toilet and lift (used only by white coats). End window - view of distant old people"s home. Right - procedure room. Left, dark side - unknown office, for mothers of tiny kids, changing table, walls full of posters, associated with "probe." Feels rubbery, scary, uncomfortable, wretched. Another office - large carpet visible on door open.

Main part - west, near "Skazka." Bloody sadism rooms. For full tour - start as if test day. Autumn, cold, no breakfast - fasting, adds chill and tremor of fear. Usual clinic entry.

Morning at home - stool, Mum collects in matchbox; also urine in mayonnaise jar - strange, unclear, but painless for now.

Arrive at clinic. Ground floor - muddy from boots, Mum takes card, we undress in cloakroom. Pies behind, can"t eat yet. Blood taken. Learned helplessness. Grandma Klava sometimes comes to occupy queue.

West stairs to third floor. Mum brings urine and stool. Many people with same jars, women with fur hats in cold. Grey everything - faces, coats, cloakroom numbers.

Third floor - right, turn into dead-end with window to "Skazka." Confidence drops, soon I"ll scream, become helpless child in front of many.

Unlike lower floor, no circular chairs - just labs on sides. Crowded, especially during test hours. No passage. Dead silence to hear doctor calls.

Near crowd - urine/stool lab window. Stool called "cal." Metal trolley, jars labelled. Mum secures place, submits our jars. Wait. Strangers sometimes offer laps, else I sit on Mum.

Feeling: current description of test day lacks contrast, previous days" context. Future real blood test will fill gap. Meanwhile, let"s finish remaining offices.

Third floor, from stairs - ENT office. Opposite - trauma office, exit with casts or bandages. Further - two unknown offices, one surgery. Not yet visited, always busy. Nearby - eye office. One visit, not scary, so forgotten.

Fourth floor, west stair side - nothing, almost empty. Corridor smells of wood, empty chairs. Near east stair - X-ray office, must go alone, take off shoes, hold something, nothing happens, doctor says "done," candy reward. Lift reaches this floor too, only doctors use.


.:::.

Part 4, Text 4. In Saratov, we had... Johnson"s Baby.

.::::.

Recently, Mom and I went to Saratov, to civilization, which happens very rarely, and we came back with a bottle of Johnson"s Baby shampoo. I"d seen its ad before at Grandma Klava"s, where the TV was colour, and it left an impression. Everything there was bright, juicy, and it promised to be "no tears," meaning it wouldn"t burn your eyes if it got in. And now this little bottle - it"s here at home, and it"s unusual in our life, like that microphone and that thing, like the sneakers back when I got them. Just saying the words "Johnson"s Baby" makes me feel like something is finally coming from "over there." By "over there," I mean new - compared to the old-era stuff, with all those blue grocery scales and fat shop ladies - perfumeries and the like, with lots of light, and in general - Saratov, civilization. For me, this shampoo is mostly associated with "Detsky Mir" in Saratov - that big store, full of light and new things, all in packaging.

Along with the shampoo, we also brought some bath granules. Translucent little balls, like lollipops, only Mom strictly forbade putting them in my mouth. Next time I bathe, we plan to drop them in the water - they"ll dissolve, and something interesting will happen, just as I imagine. In the days before bath-time, all I can think about are these granules and the new shampoo. Finally, everything will be like in the bright ad.

But it didn"t go that way. The day of the bath started badly. A gloomy, loss-laden kind of day: grey outside, Mom and I home alone again, she still had laundry and cooking to do, and something wasn"t going right for her. On top of that, I was being fussy and wearing her nerves thin, and knowing how much I"d been looking forward to the bath with shampoo and granules, she says: "There will be no Johnson"s Baby." She said she"d throw it away. I went into a meltdown.

It had happened before. Whenever we argue, she forbids me from something.

We argued in the morning, but by evening we had made up.

Now - bath time. Bathroom, dull monotone tiles on the walls, boring soap dish, grey-green sink. A piece of pumice stone lies on the edge of the bath, a porous rock. Mom explained: for scrubbing heels. But she"s not scrubbing mine.

We fill the bath halfway. Mom stands to the side, the door closed, barely enough room for her to stand, behind her a white painted wooden door. Here at last is Johnson"s Baby with me.

I usually have a pile of toys and stuff. Every bath turns into a game. Rub here, rub there. She"s teaching me independence. But for now, she mostly does it herself. With the sponge. She rubs my bottom, my legs, my feet, and I squeal - ticklish. When we bathe, drops always form on the concrete ceiling for some reason, sometimes dripping down, cold, making me want to immediately dunk that part of my body into hot water to get rid of the unpleasantness.

Sometimes I just lie in the water, and Mom lifts me with her hand, and I seem to float. That I like. Along the way she talks and teaches. When the water drains, we watch the whirlpool. It pulls so strongly that a little funnel forms, into which I dip a whole finger and try not to touch the edges - fun like that. I have no idea where the water goes. To some unknown place.

Then we dry off. Here comes the unpleasant part - stepping out of the bath, hit by a draft. Terrible. Long on my list of most hated feelings. Also unpleasant if the hot water isn"t quite right and you splash yourself with cold by accident. I hate unpleasant physical sensations with a passion. On bath days there"s always this background stress - anticipating these inevitable minor miseries.

.:::.

Part 4, Text 5. Cutting the willy... trip to Grandpa"s.

.::::.

(1995. September 18. The medical record says Mom noticed some pus-like discharge from my willy. Some sawdust from Dad"s furniture project got in there. On September 20, we went to have it cleaned.)

Autumn proper. Grey morning. Two days ago, we went to the clinic and visited a new room for me called "surgeon," in the middle of the third floor on the dark side. They looked at my willy there for some reason. And now - off again. But no tests this time, so I"m calm.

We arrive, go up the third floor via the east staircase - then immediately left. A woman is waiting for us. That means after the clinic, we"ll swing by "Skazka" and get a Misha bear candy. But first, something must be done in this room. Another new room on the dark side of the clinic. We wait to be called. Nearby - the elevator, doctors bustling constantly, gradually setting a nervous tone in their white coats. We are called in.

This room feels terrible right away. High couches, probably so they"re waist-high for the doctors. White tiles - instantly giving off "sterilisation," "bacteria," "immune deficiency" vibes. Air saturated with the smell of alcohol. On metal tables - all sorts of pain-associated stuff, like cotton, metallic clinking objects when the doctors drop them into glass containers. On those containers - brown writing, like blood. Two female doctors - one writing, the other clicking with some metal tools in the containers.

My parents just lead me in and then leave to wait in the corridor, leaving me alone with the doctors. Here comes earning the "Misha on the North" treat. From my gut feeling - better if there are no bears, just nothing done. But at the same time - it"s the far end of the clinic, opposite the sadism and the absolute worst. Maybe nothing bad will happen?

They lift me onto the high couch. I lie down. They pull down my pants and underwear. One stands behind my head, the other smears something on the tip of my willy. And suddenly - hell. One woman holds me, the other - hell. All the tricks, shits, vomit, enemas, sadism, blood from a finger - all of it seems paradise compared to what"s happening to my willy now. Complete chaos. I scream like I"m being cut - two-and-a-half years old, the favourite child of my parents, always cherished, and now this doctor, a stranger, is holding me in hell so I can"t escape, while the other cuts. I"m probably screaming all over the clinic.

Then - oblivion. I move from the room to the corridor, all in tears, my willy sliced, which I don"t look at or touch, as if it"s no longer mine. My parents try to calm me in vain. We go downstairs. I don"t care about Misha bears, the children"s drawings on the clinic walls, or anything else, and we go out onto Persidskaya and walk to Grandma.

Quick description of our route from here to Grandma. In this hellish state, I notice little, so this will be brief.

The stop at "Skazka" barely registered. I - as if not here. Walk along the left side of Persidskaya, past private house fences. Grandma and Mom hold my hands on either side. If not for what happened, I"d be jumping over puddles, but now I barely lift my eyes from the ground, my chest heaving post-cry. Dogs barking on the left behind fences, a factory always humming on the right: peeling green walls, big windows starting high above human height, huge industrial lamps inside, iron staircases, all awful, boring, mechanical. I"ve long hated anything technical, engineering, machinery, or other inhuman metal crap. From adult stories, I think Grandpa Vova works in such a place, probably right there.

We reach the first cross street. On the left - "Liliya" shop. Blue, wooden entrance, inside a small space, maybe five people max, with displays of sausages, milk, chocolates, beer. But we pass.

We continue, now with yards on both sides, all strange and boring, thoughts only about the willy and the new circles of hell discovered today. Life will never be the same. What the hell is all this for? What kind of world is this? Hopeless, nowhere to go. I must do what I"m told - or rather, just be led into a room, and some new hell happens, and I can"t do anything. I am a slave, nothing; they can do whatever they want.

With these thoughts, we walk this carless stretch of Persidskaya, a long distance, straight down the middle of the road. Then a descent through ruts and bumps, reaching another cross street, this one with cars. Cross and continue along Persidskaya. Now the street bends slightly right and slopes again, and on the right - a bathhouse. Bathhouse - for adults, boring, unclear why or what it is. Seems for washing, but why, if there"s a bath at home? Ground below is trashed and muddy. Persidskaya is fully paved but full of potholes, and in this autumn weather - mush.

A short climb, then continue. All these yards feel foreign, no one we know, nothing here brings happiness. Happiness would be deciding for yourself what to do, just sitting at home with toys, better on Lev Kassil, eating Misha bears, no clinics. Seems only I understand this. All adults, parents, kids at the clinic, people in these houses with barking dogs - all stupid.

Now a steep hill, but we turn left, climb a muddy mess to the upper part of Frunze Street, a few houses later - Grandpa"s house. Fence has a special slot to reach in, push the bar, and open the gate. Probably Grandpa invented this. He"s home, so gate open, and our cat Marsik sits on the top of three steps.

Grandpa builds various sheds from planks and blocks. He has some machines in the workshop, with a stump in front for hammering nails. He showed me, but I was bored, always wanting toys. The yard now grey, muddy, autumn. Sheds so dull they"re literally grey.

For a few days I must keep my willy in a warm solution with potassium permanganate - it looks like borscht, only more like juice, tempting to drink. But it"s forbidden.

.:::.

Part 4, Text 6. Window-taping... I pee... first snow... sledding to Grandma... a bit about Grandpa"s yard... triple mirrors... back to Gavel... to Gorky photo studio... trolleybus.

.::::.

Mid-autumn.

At home on Lev Kassil Street, Mom tapes the windows. First stuffing gaps with rags and scraps, then sealing them. Smell of wet paper, wet dust, glue.

The first snow fell, and it feels like I"m seeing it for the first time, consciously. Mom holds me in the small room. We watch from the window at this little house-museum below. Everything like a fairy tale.

By the way, did I mention - I often pee in bed when I wake up?

End of autumn.

Snow piled up enough to go out with sleds. Off to Grandma"s. I ride; Mom pulls. A whole adventure.

Metal sleds, with crosswise planks. Some planks missing - old sleds. We have more than one. I ride the ones with a backrest.

Seat padded with blankets for comfort.

Early winter.

With snow settled, Mom and I started visiting Grandpa and Grandma a lot. We call them "the Grandpas," accent on the second vowel. Go to the Grandpas. Or to Grandma with Grandpa. Or just "go to Grandma." "To Frunze" - more what Dad says. He"s not permanently there anyway.

At the Grandpas" - cat Marsik, as I said. White-grey, wavy stripes. Adult, not playful. Usually sits on Grandpa"s or Grandma"s lap. Cat as cat. Semi-streetwise. Likes fish.

In the living room, between two windows - a triple mirror. Like a ride, I"ll tell why later. Below - a shelf with colognes. Appear after holidays. I like the ones in new packaging best. Once a mouse ran among them. Mice live in this house.

We spend most time in the yard. Grandpa shovels paths between snowdrifts. Mom talks about this and that. Sometimes Grandpa joins in for fun, mostly silent. Grandma constantly cooking cabbage soup - main meal here. I"ll describe time on Frunze in detail later.

On a sunny, frosty morning, Mom and I prepare to go home. I barely know the neighbours. On one side, a family with a man driving a white car - adults call it a "Zhiguli." Big rear hatch that opens. He needs to go to the centre, maybe even Saratov, and will give us a lift. We get in. Cold inside, low to the ground. In the distance, Saratov visible in clear sunlight. It makes me think of the future. We drive. He drops us at the city square, even a bit further - where the trolleybus terminus is. We get out; he drives off.

Episode near home on Lev Kassil. Intersection with Gorky Street, trolleybus route. Snowy day. I"m in a fur coat, bundled with scarves, mittens, multiple trousers. Ushanka with suede outside and plush inside. Mom says - real fur.

Met Grandma Klava and went to the house, which from Lev Kassil, turn left onto Gorky, pass a low building, turn left again. Five-storey, ground floor has shops: photo studio, unknown dark salon, unusual displays.

We brought a toy train. I sit with it; photographed. Told it"ll be ready later. I don"t care much for photos; I"d rather have activities, entertainment.

Stepping out, left side - a recreation area, benches, alcoves, brick enclosure, old broken tiles, a pool that used to be a fountain, now off. Above - huge billboard showing a trolleybus, like the ones on this street, coming from the museum towards Engels, unknown destination. Another trolleybus runs from the museum to Saratov over the bridge. Mom says - Engels has a trolleybus factory, this poster shows city pride. Trolleybuses cold in frost, like outside.

We turn right back toward Lev Kassil. Snow everywhere, bright, sky winter-grey. Cross Lev Kassil, approach the shop adults call "101." In front - trolleybus stop to the museum. We part with Grandma, go home with Mom.

.:::.

Part 4, Text 7. My First Conscious New Year

.::::.

This is my first conscious and lavish New Year. In the living room, in front of the TV, we have a Christmas tree set up in front of the balcony door, which is sealed for the winter. The tree is decorated with baubles from a special box of New Year"s ornaments that my mum somehow got hold of. On the top of the tree sits a star, all glass with yellow rods. On the floor beneath the tree, among cotton that looks like snow, stands a plastic Father Frost about as tall as my waist.

It"s the three of us, my father included - he"s the one who put the tree up.

Throughout the last day of the year, my parents keep saying, "Look inside Father Frost." There"s a round hole in him, and he"s hollow inside. But when I lift him - he"s not empty, and there"s something inside, some kind of packet of sweets. Sweets I"ve never tried before, and my belly can hardly fit more today, yet it"s still exciting. My parents say that Father Frost leaves the main bulk of gifts for the morning.

The tree reaches the ceiling, filling the whole apartment with the scent of the New Year. There"s also the smell of tangerines, because there are heaps of them today, and someone keeps peeling them for me. While I eat, I amuse myself by squeezing the peel so little streams of juice spurt out. Every TV and the radio are on, lights everywhere, the garland blazing - nothing is spared.

Some parents of friends - at least they seem like that - come by to offer greetings. Mainly, they"re congratulating me; all attention is on me. Everything revolves around me.

In the corridor and hallway, where the floor is blue-and-red plastic tiles, there"s a little slope - the floor dips towards the living room. That"s where I sit, sending toy cars sliding down the slope, while the guests hand me little trinkets, and my parents supplement with sweets and tangerine segments.

Books also appear. Ones I, of course, don"t understand yet. For the future.

One book is Leopold the Cat. There are little mice - a fat one and a thin one, two rascals - trying to annoy Leopold, but he prevents it, being fair and merciful to the troublemakers; nobody punishes anyone. I"ve only skimmed the content so far, but I already recognise the theme. Mercy - it somehow resonates with me, with my family. For my tantrums and mischief, I am never punished in a way that"s really bad. And forgiveness always comes sooner or later. Just like for these mice. And in my experience, the absence of punishment makes mischief pointless.

On audio cassette, we have The Bremen Town Musicians. We listen to the songs. They stick immediately, even if I don"t yet understand what they"re about. There"s some prince, a princess, and talking animals. My father loves these Bremen Town Musicians; he tells stories about them. These are songs from his youth, maybe even childhood.

New Year is tied to fairy tales, princes, princesses, and all these talking animals. By the way, I"ve already seen clips of The Bremen Town Musicians on TV, and these secondary animal characters seem not to envy the prince and princess. To me, that"s strange - why wouldn"t they want to be the main characters? They even seem to rejoice in their secondary roles and freedom. I"ve noticed that characters like these are usually my father"s favourites.

When it gets dark, my parents show me sparklers. Mum goes to the kitchen, to the small chest of drawers under the stove, and takes out some grey sticks from the lower drawer, behind a grey cloth. They remind me of the sticks they use to prod me when doing a scraping test. We switch off the lights, strike a match, light the end of one stick. It sparks and burns, and for a moment you can wave it and see trails of sparks. Half a minute later, it"s all burnt, filling the room with the smell of the New Year. Then we turn the lights back on.

We also go to the square, me sometimes walking, sometimes carried by my father. He"s seen Father Frost pass by a few times, but I never catch him. Father Frost has a white beard and red robes. I don"t quite understand how he can be both under our tree and flying around the city - but I don"t know enough words to ask or figure it out. Same with many other things I don"t understand.

Back home. It"s still a long time until midnight, but fireworks have already started, and I rush to the living room window to watch. Nothing"s visible. Wash hands, get undressed. We continue unpacking the warming gifts from Father Frost"s bag.

There"s also Umka - another audio cassette. It"s a story about a mother bear and her bear cub of unspecified gender at the North Pole, thematically matching the post-clinic candy. Like The Bremen Town Musicians, Umka is a musical fairy tale with an instantly memorable main song. In my case, it triggered an immediate fear of losing my mum. This anxiety has always lingered in me, and in plots featuring a mother and child, like in Umka, it always surfaces.

There"s something especially poignant in the notes of a crystal-like instrument - a sense of something from a bygone era, before I was born, linked to our apartment, cupboards, coats, fur hats, and ultimately - my mum.

The plot itself is too puzzling: some North Pole, stars connected to bears for some reason. As with other cartoons and stories, what remains with me are only the music and the memory of the moment and atmosphere in which I listened. The storylines, messages, visuals - not interesting. With each new story or cartoon, my attention shifts more to music and associative links with environment and feelings, often unrelated to plot.

Another cassette has plain fairy tales, without dramatic intonation like Umka, without a soundtrack. Music only bridges the stories. Again, I don"t follow the plots, but I listen for the magic of the "voice from the speakers": it feels close, as if the speaker is right here, sitting nearby. These tales also feature princes and princesses, kings, and the music in transitions, played on a strange instrument like a piano, sounds bright and metallic; it reminds me of kings with white curly hair, only seen in pictures or cartoons, with grand halls, tall ceilings, and heavy doors. This gives a sense of correctness, order - contrasting all that"s rough and slapdash.

My father plays all these cassettes in his tape recorder, which sits in the living room wall unit near the window. Beside it are our two green armchairs and a chair for the third person, and there, behind the coffee table with snacks, the whole New Year"s feast unfolds. But I don"t make it to midnight - I fall asleep.


.:.

___Part 5.

.::.

________________New Year.

.:::.

Part 5, Text 1. The Morning of the New Year.

.::::.

In the morning, I step cautiously into the living room with my parents-and we look. There they lie. Little sacks under the tree. Santa Claus has come, didn"t forget. My parents are happy too. We settle under the tree. My father brings out the camera. Our old black-and-white TV, the archaic electronic clock with an alarm no one trusts, and me-with gifts, dressed as a gnome, against the backdrop of the tree-everything in the frame.

Despite my general distaste for boring factories and all things technological, I still love trucks and cranes right now, and there are some among the gifts, exactly as I wished. They"re in shiny new packaging, clearly from "Detsky Mir," where apparently all the toys are like that-modern, high-quality.

There are little animals, toy cars, and even some odd bits. I"m joking with that description. Also, a white horse and a circle with lots of little pegs to make pictures with. Mom shows me. A big alphabet board too: a metal board with magnetic letters that stick to it. Somehow linked to books. I don"t get any of it. The magnets are what fascinate me. How they cling to metal-that"s pure magic. Lots of other things in the sacks. Not just one. They"re all stuffed full. So many gifts-just for New Year. That"s why it"s the best holiday.

Then there"s the "edible set": chocolate figures, jelly sweets, jelly-coated chocolates, chocolate Santas, bunnies, tangerines, and again some odd bits.

In short, I"m satisfied with everything-I haven"t broken, thrown, or torn anything.

The TV or "The Bremen Town Musicians" on the cassette player runs constantly, and we sit, having breakfast at the coffee table. The whole room smells of tree and tangerines, and in the evening there will be fireworks and sparklers again.

In the evenings, my father introduces me to yet another phenomenon-filmstrips. He takes some kind of device, we turn off the light, sit in the living room near the passage to the small room, and coloured pictures are projected onto the far wall by the device"s light. They don"t move, but they"re colourful and large. They tell stories, and under the images are subtitles: something written, which my parents say I"ll understand when I eventually figure out the alphabet.

That"s how the festive days pass, day after day, sometimes with walks, heaps of snow, and a tree in the square, with garlands in the city.

Mostly I fall asleep early-exhausted by the day"s fun and games, while my parents continue to sit quietly in the living room with the TV dimmed. This is the very best time.

.:::.

Part 5, Text 2. Santa Claus at the grandparents", all the books, the primer, shovels, hockey.

.::::.

Santa Claus also visited my grandparents, so when we go there during the New Year, similar gift-giving processes repeat. These toys aren"t as glossy and from Detsky Mir, but I"m still very happy and don"t tear anything.

Satisfied, but overall I wouldn"t say any gift was a true "dream come true" like in TV ads. Little things, these cars-sure, they"re fine. But nothing I"d hug to sleep with. Yet at the same time, I hadn"t formed specific wishes to give to Santa yet.

So most gifts now are "teacher-things." Leopold teaches good behaviour, The Bremen Town Musicians teach manners, the alphabet will eventually teach me to write, the stories instil diligence, and the half-homemade toys among the glossy Detsky Mir ones teach gratitude. My father also went with us to the grandparents" and took photos, then left, leaving the usual four of us: me, Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa.

Earlier, my mother pulled out a very old-fashioned book by Lev Kassil, probably from her childhood. It"s packed with all sorts of things-a winter calendar-book, with different illustrations and scenes for each winter day: games, a scholarly cat on an oak tree, poems, riddles... even hockey.

There"s a page with children playing hockey on ice in some city unlike ours-a real city, not just a couple of streets and the Volga, but blocks upon blocks, as in the opening of that dull film on TV that aired at the year"s end and repeats over the holidays. Towering buildings, not just one or two like our Lev Kassil street, but dozens, whole neighbourhoods.

I don"t feel like playing hockey or team sports, but I still want to go there, to those big buildings, to all the discoveries. To justify myself, I try to get into hockey, showing adults my enthusiasm, and now at the grandparents", Grandpa finds me a stick and puck. I especially like the puck and want to know what it"s made of-is it rubber? I like that it"s heavy, that there"s something inside. I become obsessed with pucks. They look like candy-I want to bite them, though I know that"s silly and don"t. With thoughts like these, I fall asleep each night.

In the morning, outside the house by the vestibule, Grandpa shovels through snow to reveal a frozen puddle. I"m dressed in my coat and felt boots, take my stick and puck, and we almost play hockey with Mom.

At home, after games and walks outside by the fence, we open another new book-a primer. I learn the strange letters Й and Ы, and for the letter Г I"m shown the word "grack," and another letter-"blackbird." I mishear and repeat "tanduros," emphasising the O. This becomes a family amusement: any guest asked me to repeat my version of "blackbird," and I always say "tanduros," laughing with everyone.

In the living room, behind a glass door, are technical and engineering books-Grandma is an engineer. I don"t understand them, sounds boring, but I"ve looked through the drawings of cranes, which shaped my crane obsession. Plus, I"m often asked to pronounce "kran" to learn the R.

Grandpa, even more boring professionally, has "Modelist-Constructor" magazines. They"re in a small room, a heavy stack. Old-school. Full of home-made vehicles, tanks, icebreakers, submarines, schematics. I"m told these icebreakers sail somewhere in the Barents Sea and icy Arctic waters, where massive white whales and sperm whales live. Whales interest me more than submarines or tech.

I spread the magazines on the bed in the passage room by the fridges. In the small room, I fear the old big wardrobe with hanging coats and furs, imagining a Baba Yaga inside. Occasionally, Baba Klava enters and catches moths-good work, and if I catch one too, I"m praised.

Opposite the big wardrobe is another cupboard with dishes and drawers; inside is a bright packet with powder for a drink, which we won"t make because it"s harmful. Baba even calls it something frightening-"poison." She calls many things poison. Normally, the most desirable products from bright-shop packaging are fine, like cabbage soup with meat on Frunze street. Sometimes I persuade myself to ask for more bread, and everyone praises me.

In the small room"s cupboard are also cigarette packs, smelling strongly of tobacco. Grandpa doesn"t smoke.

Every morning at the grandparents" before breakfast, we brush our teeth at the sink in the bathroom. I stand on a stool. The sink faces the yard. You brush and watch Grandpa shovelling snow outside. To the right, shelves hold dentures, nuts, screwdrivers, soda, old shampoo, mousetraps, brushes. Along the right wall, a bathtub nobody uses; behind, laundry piles. On the left, under thick vests on hooks, a toilet nobody uses. The room smells bad-linoleum or the compressed-chip seat, perhaps.

I usually use the potty mid-day. I sit, saying "ka-ka, ka-ka," thinking about things-like mice under the laundry pile. I love the feeling. Then I wipe myself, more often alone now, wash my hands, use my own lower-hanging towel. Grandpa empties and cleans the potty. Adults go outside, put on vests and galoshes, and walk the cleared path to the outdoor wooden toilet.

Breakfast in the living room: TV shows, all New Year-themed. One called "Smak"-I don"t know what it means-but the host is Makarevich. Dad told me he"s somehow linked to cassettes. Makarevich is famous nationwide, and I associate him with the word "pasta." I"ve never eaten pasta.

After a quick breakfast-I rarely want to eat-I go down to the floor, crawling everywhere, under the table, around adults" legs, with Marsik weaving nearby. I tumble before the TV, all is great. In the evening, the adults hint Santa might visit again.

Back to the rook. "Rook," apparently like "doctor," is also a bird, and I"m constantly asked to pronounce it to learn the R. Thus New Year, especially on Frunze street, snow, holidays, sledding, and some Pushkin and Russia-all associate with birds: tanduros, rooks, tits, bullfinches. And rowan-the strange red berries that grow and redden in frost. The tree is in the front garden of our little room on Lev Kassil street, and birds eat it, and humans can too, though I haven"t tried. Rowan is common on winter calendar illustrations.

From Frunze, you can see civilization-the snowy Saratov in the distance, closer, the Engels Ferris wheel in the closed winter amusement park. After visiting the grandparents, Mom and I head home to Lev Kassil street.

Grandparents see us off; I"m sledded like a little king. Halfway, they part ways; Mom and I continue. If the asphalt is bare, I have to stand on the sled, but there"s none, so I stay seated.

At home, the holiday idyll continues for several more days: parents" merriment at the table with things I don"t understand, Santa"s visits, evening fireworks. By the end, the tree barely smells. We eat breakfast again, then the day comes to take down decorations, pack the tree into a box-very sad. Mom stores it on a high shelf, Dad takes it away, Mom sweeps needles, buckets and tubs clatter, and Dad heads to Baba Valya. Life returns to normal on Lev Kassil-just me and Mom.

.:::.

Part 5, Text 3. In Lev Kassil"s kitchen, Moscow, Mayak, Russia, postcards, new wallpaper, birthday, spring on the floor, "Bolshaya Igra" magazine.

.::::.

I sit in the kitchen in the "honoured guests and adults" chair by the window. For some reason, my parents call it mustard.

On the kitchen fridge, out of my reach, is a radio. Mom often switches it on. It says "Radio Mayak," "Moscow," then various phrases, voices, and tunes-associating with something old-fashioned or simply Russian, distant and "capital."

I realise we"re in a country, and the country has a capital-Moscow. It"s a city, but feminine in Russian. The main city, with Red Square. They tell me about it, though I haven"t seen a picture yet. The red walls-I saw them on TV at New Year-made of brick, pompous, but no palace feeling. More like the menthol ointment "Zvezdochka," which Mom makes me smell when I have a blocked nose, sometimes applying it too. The ointment comes in small red tins with a star on the lid.

The Kremlin"s red walls are in the same series. There"s a star atop them, like our Christmas tree"s. There"s also a clock, and at twelve, a chime. Then from somewhere, "Govorít Moskva" ("Moscow speaking") in a kind voice, seeming like a friend to all Russians-someone who would give you chocolate.

The Kremlin appears everywhere: old postcards, greeting cards, TV, old appliance boxes. All in Moscow, far beyond Saratov, where the sun sets. We have no relatives or friends in Moscow.

This whole associative chain-stars, radio, Mayak, Kremlin, bullfinches on calendars-represents the country I live in. Not some land of huge beasts like elephants, or palaces like in Bremen, or the North Pole, let alone where palms grow. Here in Russia, there are stars everywhere, the Kremlin, rowans, and hockey.

Where there are palms, seen on TV-it"s instantly alien. People behave unlike my parents, it all feels foreign, nothing like someone who could give me chocolate.

I like the whole set-Red Squares, Nikita Mikhalkov marching somewhere. Friendly, large, a world to move in: Engels and Saratov are not the limit-there"s Moscow, and from TV and parents" stories, other cities too.

Postcards: folded cards, often with a shiny embossed picture, mostly flowers. Inside, greetings. Boring, but giving them shows diligence. Mom gave me one for New Year, and I had to gift it to the grandparents. Later, I gave another to one grandparent for a male holiday. It"s late winter now.

By the end of last summer, as I said, I got my own small room. After a recent visit to the grandparents, new wallpaper appeared on the wall-one of my upcoming birthday gifts. The wallpaper is child-themed, with embossed trains and tracks along the walls. The embossed figures are colourful and rubbery. I like pressing them with my nails, leaving a mark, and watching it slowly fade-not to hurt anyone, just a fascination to poke things.

Birthday. Gifts again, visitors: Grandma, Grandpa, Baba Valya. Baba Valya brings delicious food and stays overnight.

Next morning, up early. As usual, I brush my teeth, Baba Valya beside me in the tiny bathroom. We have new toothpaste, very tasty, but I already know it"s not for eating. Baba Valya notes, "Oh, this toothpaste is so tasty, you almost want to eat it." I wash my face-rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

While everyone gets ready, I play with my toy excavator. Then we leave, escort Baba Valya to the bus at the "101st" shop stop to Saratov; Dad goes somewhere too. Sad. Another "holiday"s end" feeling.

It"s spring. Sunlight grows.

In the living room, playing on the floor with buttons and toys, craving progress, wanting to go far, I get up and approach the wall with books, drawers, doors. Too cool, too much unexplored-makes me want to explore. I always wipe myself.

Then I return to the living room. I leave the wall for dessert, eventually. I go to the coffee table-always between the armchairs, where at New Year there was salad, beer, dried fish, chocolate, tangerines. Now only dust. The table has shelves underneath:

Firstly, Mom"s boring magazines, with samples and sizes of women"s coats from the past-like the ones in her corridor wardrobe, made of felt, collars of fur. Boring and uninteresting, not glossy.

Secondly, glossy adult magazines about... I don"t know what.

I open them: unfamiliar cities, always at night, lights, round tables, playing cards, shiny floors, carpet runners, shiny cars, limousines, bright dice, sacks like in TV "Lotto," and vending machines with colourful images. Nearby, piles of money. I feel a physical pull of super-interest in my chest-a desire for all this. The magazines show what very serious, adult people have and do.

I can"t imagine my adults there-like in a grocery opposite the "101st" shop on Gorky, with men sitting under fake grape vines, smoking, drinking, discussing, and women serving them. My modest adults are nowhere there. The magazines are of this elite world, always at night, photos seemingly made without people, to help imagine myself in them. Some pages have palms, palm-patterned shirts, beaches.

Such a life doesn"t exist for my relatives or their friends-but I"m so excited I"m sure it will be mine. If I want it and see it for others, why shouldn"t it be mine? It will.

Audio cassettes, "The Bremen Town Musicians," remain a New Year theme; Mom can"t operate them, Dad won"t.

Spring passes in endless play with buttons, toys, and browsing those magazines. I spend hours on the floor in woollen socks and bright costumes; sometimes we bathe, and before bed Mom reads me books.


.:::.

Part 5, Text 4. Robot Policeman,,, Vermicelli.

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Spring. Everything"s gradually thawing.

The last few days, Mom and I were staying with the grandparents, and it was all as usual there: cabbage soup, white bread that you absolutely have to bite, Grandpa dunking the same pepper into the soup over and over, setting an example of finishing every last drop. Grandma endlessly reminded us that this is the true strength - the very last bit of broth, the final spoonful. I can"t stand that leftover broth, though, because it"s always cold, especially if you eat slowly like I do. Disgusting.

In the evenings, we watched films, and on the last night there was one called Robot Policeman. This robot looked human in the sense that it had a human face, but the rest of it was all metal. It also wore a helmet with a narrow eye slit, through which it looked. Only its mouth was open, so it could speak.

In this film, there were things that were new to me - namely, shooting guns, those sticks people point at other people, which, for example, are in the hands of little figures called "soldiers," just like those insects. I have a set with a couple dozen of these little figures. In the film, bullets come out of these things - I"ve now picked up imitating that sound with the word "dyshtsh" - and then the ones who are shot fall to the ground. But not the Robot Policeman. The whole point in this film was that he, unlike other people, didn"t fall: that metallic shell somehow protected him. Especially in that unforgettable moment when some villain was causing trouble in a shop, and then Robot Policeman entered. Even though the villain fired a machine gun at him, he didn"t flinch, walked right up to the villain, grabbed the gun barrel, and bent it down. And the gun - metal, as the grandparents explained. "It"s like bending a crowbar." A crowbar is that massive metal handle Grandpa uses to break ice in the yard. But Robot Policeman - he"s so insanely strong and cool that he bent the gun with one hand. And the best part? He threw the villain - a grown man - across the whole shop. That"s superhuman.

All through the film, Robot Policeman fights evil. The whole theme of the film is the fight against these villains. Like in Well, Just You Wait! where the wolf is the villain, or Leopold the Cat, where the mice are the villains. Only there, it"s all animals, just fairy tales. Here, it"s people, and the outcome of the struggle is different. If Leopold sets a trap and something falls on the villainous mice, or if the rabbit lures the wolf off a cliff and he flies down, the villains get back up. In this film, and others like it, the villains don"t come back. They either fall to the ground or off a cliff - mostly just fall - and don"t get up again. That"s something new. There"s no redemption of the villains, even temporary, like in Leopold the Cat, until the mice start misbehaving again. In these films, there"s nobody left to misbehave. They"re out of the story for good.

I didn"t really follow the rest of the plot as usual, but at the end, Robot Policeman removed his helmet, and his face looked like a Russian actor we know, who sings that weird but popular song on TV for adults during the holidays, "There"s an Island of Misfortune in the Ocean."

Today we returned to Lev Kassil Street. Dad hasn"t been around lately. A sunny autumn day, sunlight streaming through the poplars in the afternoon. Mom - in her red jumper, a word that sounds like "jam" - is preparing a late lunch in the kitchen, and I"m sitting on the floor in the little room, playing with my toys. In front of me are the soldiers, on their little stands, and I set them upright as they should stand. One soldier has a long gun barrel, and following the Robot Policeman"s example, I bend it down.

From the kitchen comes the call: "Time to eat!" But I"m absorbed with the soldiers: I"m Robot Policeman, the soldiers are the bad guys, the villains, and I"m defeating them. Mom comes in and repeats: "Come eat." I go.

In the kitchen, I sit on a stool at the table, facing the window and the poplars. Stove to my right, and a bowl of soup in front of me.

It"s the first time I"ve encountered it - vermicelli. Mom had never made this kind of soup before today.

She"s still busy cooking, wants a break, and leaves me with the bowl. It cools gradually. Something is off with this food. It gives off a strange smell that instinctively disgusts me. The vermicelli is overcooked, swollen, worm-like. I have no desire to eat it. I sit, just picking at it and sipping water, which is also unbearable. The vermicelli smells exactly like the dough it was made from. Some kind of... damn, shit. I tried one strand, and it triggered a gag reflex, just like semolina.

Not the best moment to refuse Mom"s food: she"s tired from cooking, in that slightly nervous mood she sometimes gets in the middle of the day when it"s just the two of us. The tense atmosphere of long cooking, water running in our perpetually clogged sink, clattering plates - and here I am, sitting with my toys in carefree childhood, as if in defiance of this Monday and Mom"s nervous dish-washing, this heavy Lev Kassil-ness. I start thinking that maybe I shouldn"t contrast so sharply with Mom, that I should fake some discomfort, maybe even say I"m feeling ill. I sense my carefree attitude might backfire, but I let it ride. And here I am - planted in front of a bowl of some vomit-inducing shit, which, considering Mom"s nervous, laborious cooking, I"m supposed to eat.

Mom comes back to the stove. She"s lowered the heat, and I tense, waiting for her reaction when she sees how little I"ve eaten...

Bluntly: "Eat." A shock hits my chest. She leaves.

I"ve never defied her like this, especially with that tone. That tone is new.

The soup cools quickly, I can"t even drink the water. Nothing like the slightly reluctant sipping of leftover broth after meat and potatoes - not vermicelli with some chicken skins.

I pick up a strand - it slips off the spoon - bite the tip, chew it through the gag reflex. No more.

I realise this is heading for a tearful climax, and so, as if in defiance, I start thinking of things completely opposite to my anxious reality: Robot Policeman, the soldiers, Leopold, Buratino, and all the rest. But this is like a different life, and I soon return to the present disaster.

At the start, I was in the sun, now it"s gone. The soup is cold.

Mom returns, yelling: "What did I say? Come on, eat!" Tears spill from my eyes. She turns off the stove, yells again, and says it all must be finished when she comes back. I"m in tears. She leaves.

I can"t eat it. I can"t even look at the bowl - I"ll vomit. And vomiting, after that penis-slaughter incident, is next on the list of the worst things in the world. I"d rather let someone squeeze blood from my ring finger than throw up.

Now "Mom makes vermicelli soup" goes on that list. Third place.

But now it"s less about fear of vomiting, more about her attitude toward me in that moment. Whenever I cried over how a caretaker - usually Mom - treated me, it was petty: I didn"t get something I wanted. Now, in this state, she"s not Mom, and I don"t get the basic, necessary thing. Not excess, but the essential. It"s a completely different situation, thickly mixed with fear - so it goes on the list.

Later she comes back, mumbling some melody, mockingly. I think: maybe she doesn"t realise I can"t eat this, maybe she thinks I can and I"m just choosing not to - being unmanly, childish, bad. Responsible for all this stress. Another wave of tears over that.

She takes the bowl, and I think: "Maybe it"s over now..." But no. Still humming, she pours it all into an empty ladle, puts it back on the stove, and leaves. I don"t dare leave the table. I understand silently that the ordeal isn"t over.

At least I get a pause, and can again escape into those amusements opposite to my current mood - thinking about past play, past leisure. Even the dullest thoughts from that other life are tempting.

The break ends, she"s back, and I"m in tears again over the steaming, vomit-like mass, and she forces me to eat again. But now less harshly. I pretend to comply and try to follow her demand - bring the spoon to my mouth, and trigger the gag reflex to soften her. Seems to work - she gradually eases the tone. I still haven"t eaten anything.

Slowly, she backs off. Shaking from crying, I sigh those deep, heavy sighs of someone who"s really cried. The sun has already left the wall - somewhere over Saratov. Evening.

It was a serious stress beat, as memorable as TitYa, semolina, and the penis massacre. I don"t know if Mom will make vermicelli again.

.:::.

___Part 6.

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Part 6, Text 1. Polar Bear in the Park,,, Sick as Always,,, Enema,,, Gypsies,,, Palms,,, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Snakes,,, Visiting Grandma Klava,,, Grandparents,,, Morning on Frunze.

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Now it suddenly thawed, got warmer, and Mom and I went to the park. Early morning, few people around. Some repair work in the park, dug-up soil, especially around the shooting range - piles of dirt. I play on them, and wow - I pull a toy polar bear out of the ground. Like in Umka. Half its head is missing. Plastic, proportions correct, like real bears on TV. I like it better when the proportions are accurate - everything natural, just miniaturised. I don"t like cartoonish or plush proportions.

We take it home, clean it, and I add it to my toy zoo. I already have a collection of such animals. Mom says it"s like a "zoo." She says there"s a zoo in Moscow where all these animals live for real.

I"m sick again, as usual. The sofa is spread in the living room, where the TV is, I lie down, and a doctor from the clinic has already visited and prescribed all sorts of things. Feverish companions: paracetamol, raspberry jam, thermometer. I drink herbal teas, Mom brings me food in bed, and we sleep together. I don"t know how many days I"ve been sick, and then I get constipated - Mom starts talking about an enema if I don"t follow her instructions. I don"t remember ever having one, but I fear it. Its very appearance panics me - feminine, with a scary string of letters: enema. She"s cunning and nasty. Like gypsies who might trick you, kidnap you, and you never see your parents or home again, everything would be different, like on TV, in unfamiliar places.

Gypsies, in general, are something completely alien. Near the grandparents, on a street parallel to Persidskaya, there"s the most alien building in the city - a "mosque." Gypsies, mosque - all part of the same alien series.

From the mosque, evenings bring strange, alien, though funny, chants. I think of Govorít Moskva, our familiar tunes, the Russian anthem - compared to those chants, everything feels home, mine.

And music - Dad plays guitar, and certain melodies feel even more "mine" than anthems or all the Russian stuff. Russian anthem is too adult, too grey. There, soldiers, tanks, bells, awards, songs, marches, wreaths, monuments - all mixed, incomprehensible.

With Dad and us, everything is clear: Dad strums guitar, he"s out running errands during the day; Mom drafts some plans, curling tongs heating on the floor under a mirror, forbidden to touch - they can burn. That"s all familiar.

By the end of the illness, I move back to my bed in the small room. At night, Mom comes to sit, reading me books - Leopold the Cat, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. I once saw a cartoon of that at the grandparents" on TV. I was more interested in the snake - its danger. Mom said snakes are poisonous, dangerous. I gradually start liking snakes. But Rikki-Tikki-Tavi defeats the snake - a mongoose, the only animal that can defeat a snake. Mom also says "Zvezdochka" ointment is made from poisonous snake venom. It"s all a confusing mix in my head.

Mom and I often go overnight to Grandma Klava. Called "going to Grandma Klava," because she"s in charge there. Sometimes it"s "going to the grandparents." Dad calls this place Frunze - after the street, as I mentioned.

We sit in the living room until evening. Adults chatter about things I don"t understand while boring TV plays; I occupy myself with toys on the floor. "Occupy" is better than "play" - I don"t really understand playing.

Then we all go to sleep. I lie with Grandma in the middle room; Grandpa on the sofa in the hall; Mom in the small room. I"m cozy against the wall; Grandma at the edge. Carpet on the wall. Two fridges in our room. Clock ticking above.

In the morning, Mom is gone. We sit with grandparents at the kitchen table, in the cosy corner by the window - I"m right at the window. Grandpa usually sits on a stool by a tall cylinder the adults call AGV, from which the radiators run. Grandma sits on another stool, constantly standing, refilling or bringing something. My stool is worn to black. Grandpa eats an egg and something else. Morning: egg; daytime: cabbage soup. Then he dips his dry pepper into the soup, soaks, takes some broth, lets it drip into the bowl. I don"t do that.

I also eat an egg. I like to pull another stool from the hall next to mine - like sitting on the sofa, makes breakfast fun. Marsik jumps on that second stool - smells of morning street and some fish. Breakfast sometimes has semolina, but Grandma knows I don"t eat it - only gives it to Grandpa, which makes me sick.

Then sweet tea, a candy. Then floor games. Grandpa puts on glasses and reads the newspaper; toys scattered; Marsik roams from sofa to sofa. But that"s weekends, holidays, Smak, Clever Hands and other shows - people stay home, Mom runs errands sometimes. Most days, grandparents vanish to their "jobs" and it"s just me and Mom; she draws at the table in the hall or on the folding table by Grandma"s bed in the middle room.

But I don"t just visit the grandparents. I also go to Grandma Valya in Saratov. Few trips in my memory, tiny compared to the grandparents. Grandma Valya has Larisa - her daughter, Dad"s sister - and Larisa has a husband, Uncle Vanya. I"ll recount trips to Grandma Valya later, when they"re packed with all the classic details.


.:::.

Part 6, Text 2. Going to the Dacha with the Grandads.

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Meanwhile, it"s just me and Mum at the grandads" again. It"s early summer now, and all anyone talks about here is dacha, dacha, dacha - so in the end, the four of us are planning to go together.

Mum, Grandma, and I head to "Mashinnaya-Dorozhnaya" - that"s what the place where buses to the dacha leave is called. There"s also a shop there and lots of old women selling all sorts of boring dacha stuff and a little bit of berries. Meanwhile, Grandad is going straight from Frunze on his scooter.

Grandad"s scooter is red. It"s like a motorcycle, only not the cool kind you see whizzing past on two wheels, but a proper old man"s scooter - it has three wheels, like dacha folk use, like in black-and-white films with soldiers. And it has this weird long seat that could probably fit three people. When he and Grandma ride together, she sits behind him - they don"t even need the bus - and they instantly look like professional dacha riders. Behind the seat there"s a rack for carrying all sorts of dacha stuff.

Right now, though, Mum, Grandma, and I are waiting for the bus. It comes from somewhere, dusty and stinking of petrol, full of sweaty old women in scarves. It"s not blazing hot yet, but the women are already squeezed dry like lemons - their whole lives squeezed out - and I don"t like any of this: the way they look, the way old people look. My own grandads are fine, they"re mine. But strangers... I judge strangers harshly, and very unfavourably: wrinkled skin, sagging big tits. My Grandma doesn"t even have any. And their grandads smell of old curd - mine doesn"t. And these old geezers are often grey-haired, whereas mine are still normal; my Grandad"s dark-haired, handsome. There he is, just outside the bus window, passing by on the road while we"re already on our way along the main road in town. The three of us wave, and he waves back. He"s wearing a helmet and glasses, by the way.

We keep going, and on the right, across a small nasty river, there"s some kind of "cemetery." A big area behind a fence under the blazing sun, with countless little posts sticking out of the ground, surrounded by piles of overly bright red flowers. A strange place - sweaty old women like to go there - some even get off at that stop. Bright but meant for old people, and therefore unpleasant.

We continue along the endless highway. No houses on the sides now, just trees or sun-scorched wastelands and fields. Here begins what"s called "nature." And in nature, as everyone knows, there are animals. That"s what interests me. I look out the window trying to spot any wildlife, and Mum says: "Who was that?" I ask: "Where, where?" but see nothing. She says: "Probably ran off, maybe a hare." I strain my eyes even more, determined not to miss anything next time.

Now the bus turns right, and there are fields on both sides again, this time with wheat, corn, and sunflowers. Further on the right, something new appears: some planes are parked, and it all reminds me of Grandad"s magazines, which always have diagrams - planes or combine harvesters that drive through the fields. But me - I want at least a tractor. I"ve got a craving for a toy tractor. Though I"d like a plane too. So far, I only have excavators and cars, no tractors or planes yet.

We arrive and get off at the bus terminus. Grandad"s already passed ahead of us, probably approaching the dacha now. The wind is blowing outside, and it feels different here - "like nature," because here you really are in nature: fields on one side, forest on the other, plus the kind of silence you never get in the city - no traffic noise, just birds. And it"s only just beginning - the atmosphere of some kind of beginning of life, the hike to the dacha ahead, everything new and unknown, and further life will be the same - endlessly new.

Right next to us is a cluster of little houses. Mum says it"s the children"s camp "Chaika." She explains that a camp is where children are brought for the summer to stay without their parents. I don"t see any kids, and anyway, I wouldn"t want to go to any camp. For me, it would be a tragedy: imagining children left alone without parents - hellish and terrifying. I don"t want to think about it, but the more I try not to, the more I do.

We walk, and I notice some old concrete slabs in the grass, and it looks like something"s moving and running there - some kind of wildlife. I need something to be running there so it"s interesting.

Then come narrow alleyways just wide enough for a car, winding through big blocks with lots of plots of houses and large gardens. In general, dachas are pretty much like private houses in the Frunze and Persidskaya area, including ours - only in the city houses are bigger and yards smaller, here it"s the opposite. Most houses here are one storey and flimsy.

People are everywhere now, and Grandma even says "hello" to someone. I like that she"s in her element here, and that it feels like a community of dacha owners who know each other. We stroll for about fifteen minutes - and finally we spot the parked red scooter.

.:::.

Part 6, Text 3. Layout of the Grandads" Dacha Plot.

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The layout of our dacha plot. Address: SNT Chaika, House 37.

You reach the plot via the last narrow path, then turn right - no fence here, just an open gap between a green shabby house on the right and a big pear tree on the left, with the main house behind it. In the shade of the pear stands the scooter. We pass between the scooter and the green house and enter the plot. Ahead are the vegetable gardens and a path between the beds, but we turn left, pass the pear tree, and follow a path of concrete slabs under the windows of the main house until we reach the porch. The entrance to the house is from the garden side. Grandad has already unlocked the house.

The house is made of some kind of concrete blocks. Each block has a small metal handle sticking out, probably to lift it. Inside, there"s a tiny vestibule and a vertical ladder - only climbable by hand - leading to the attic via a ceiling hatch. It"s like the cellar on Frunze - there"s a hatch there too, but bigger and underground, I"ll tell later. In the attic, there"s seemingly nothing but some dried grass, planks, and dust.

From the vestibule, you turn left into the house - straight into the corridor-kitchen. A small table for eating potatoes with onions. Sometimes there"s meat, but mostly just potatoes with onions and maybe an egg, sometimes sausage. No electricity, tea is heated on a portable gas burner. The window in the corridor faces the garden in front of the house.

If you turn right from the corridor-kitchen, you reach the first room, the bedroom. Three iron beds, like hammocks - metal mesh under the mattresses that sag. Three of these beds. Window looks out to currant bushes, a water container, an outdoor toilet, and more garden. The next doorway, without a door like the first, leads to the second and final room, with a window facing the pear tree. That room is empty except for a carpet on the floor. It smells of wood from the wall paneling, and I don"t go there: that"s where Hoka lives.

Hoka is some kind of creature that always lives where you"re not supposed to go, or under stairs, in cluttered rooms, or empty spaces. It"s unclear how he lives in that room - maybe he comes out through a hatch under the carpet. I always watch that window when I"m on the toilet under the pear tree.

Back in the bedroom with the beds, above one along the wall shared with the other room - the bed I lie on during quiet time - hangs a straw picture. Some strange girls, Mum says "Japanese," and it can be rolled up. Everything"s beautiful - gardens, sunset - just like our garden when the sun sets through the branches of fruit trees at the end of the day before leaving. There"s also a fan in the house, probably Japanese too, from the same set as the picture. Use it to fan yourself when it"s hot. On the bedroom windowsill is Mum"s favourite object - a cat-shaped decanter we call "Kitty." It"s broken and half-disabled, so Mum cherishes it even more.

That"s the whole house, really - nothing else inside.

Around the plot are numerous paths.

If you exit the house and go straight ahead across the narrow plot, there"s a path to a bench. The bench is under an apple tree"s shade, where adults rest from the dacha toil in the midday heat.

Between the bench and the house is another apple tree, now gnawed at the bark. Grandma and Grandad say the hares did it over the winter. I imagine the snow piled up waist-high, hares running around, chewing the tree, playing in the snowdrifts, and no one could stop them - they ruled here.

Turning left from the house exit continues the concrete-slab path. It leads first under the currant bush by the kitty"s window - we pluck leaves for tea - past the water container with a hose for the garden, and past the outdoor toilet I don"t use. It has no hole, just some bucket. All this runs along the left edge of the plot; outside is the car track. After the toilet are gooseberry and red currant bushes. Then a pile of planks and brushwood. No fence, you can step onto the driveway. Next, a grove of sour cherry trees, and beyond that, the triangular far end of the plot, empty except for potatoes under the soil, with Colorado beetles crawling on the stems to be picked and squashed.

The plot narrows at the end, finishing in a triangle. The car path goes around the plot and turns right somewhere further, and on the other side of the path - a ravine, a wide open space - more on that later.

Near the planks and brushwood, toward the centre of the plot, are strawberry beds with paths to the other side, along which grow raspberries. Beyond the raspberries is a neighbour"s plot. At the end of the raspberries, near the Colorado beetles, is an apricot tree.

Along the raspberries is another path leading to the resting bench. Before reaching it, on the left grows poppy - a strange flower with tiny seeds like on buns - and on the right, another cherry grove in the plot"s centre. The wooden bench faces the house. Under and around it, grass grows, some planks, and the neighbour"s plot. Go further past the bench, and on the left is a small, always damp wooden washhouse. Adults wash there, scooping water with a dipper, though there"s a tank and shower above. Inside it"s gross and uncomfortable, smells of soap, wooden boards with huge gaps, and where the water drains - better not to know. The washhouse is covered in inedible grapes - too sour.

Almost done. Beyond the shower is another apricot, but that"s the end of the plot, actually its beginning. On the ground are vegetables and onions for the potatoes in the jar with sausage, so later your breath stinks. Turn right - back to the green house, between which and the pear stands Grandad"s scooter.

The green house is also overgrown with grapes, but they never ripen. Inside - a storage of old newspapers, damp, and a well that Grandad claims goes through the planet to the other side of the Earth - some America. Mice live there too; poison is scattered for them, and nobody ever goes inside.

To pick pears from the tree, Grandad has a special pole with a grabber at the end that clamps when you pull a rope. Otherwise, pears can only be collected when they fall, but they often break, and they fall right on my droppings. And green flies are always sitting on the droppings.

That"s the whole plot with the house.

Right now there are no pears, only strawberries starting to ripen. It"s boring: no hares, no blazing sun, no holiday summer vibe. Spring hasn"t properly left yet. But there"s that sense of beginning. We go with the adults to the edge of the ravine - down below it looks like a valley, but really a huge swamp, reeds waving in the wind like waves. We"re on high ground, like a multi-storey house. We pick stones and throw them down as far as possible. Grandad throws farther than me. This becomes our main amusement - going to the edge of the ravine to throw stones. Mostly, though, I wander the plot while the adults stand over the beds or water them with hoses.

By evening, we"re hungry and tired, wishing magic would transport us home instead of trudging to the bus, waiting for it, riding forever, then walking a fair distance once we arrive. We leave and head to the bus terminus by the "Chaika" camp - and there are those women and old folks again with buckets. Evening, cold. You sit on the bus - better, and almost don"t look out at the fields like on the way here. Sitting on Mum"s or Grandma"s lap, Mum tells me how every summer of her childhood was like this, and by her tone, you can tell all these dacha trips were exhausting chores.

Half-asleep - we"re back in Frunze. We stay overnight, eat something while Grandma and Grandad heat water. Then they wash my feet, and I go to sleep against the wall with a carpet, not knowing yet what tomorrow will bring.

.:::.

Part 6 Text 4. Exploring the surroundings on Frunze... evening on Frunze... cow parade... neighbours on Frunze... riding a blue bike on Frunze is tricky, neighbours around our house.

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On Frunze, I explore the surroundings. Burdock leaves - these are huge leaves, and in some "war" we used to cook soup with them. On the burdock are little round hooks that stick to clothes. Sand - that"s what pours out and by the end of the day fills your shoes, mixed with tiny stones. Bricks - well, bricks. Burrows - that"s where beetles and soldier bugs escape. Spider webs - sticky nets spun by spiders, meant to trap flies from the dung, which the spiders would then eat, though I haven"t seen that happen yet. Sometimes the webs brush against your nose and tickle.

Soldier bugs - black-and-orange beetles - are called "soldiers," just like the little toy figurines, though why is unclear. I can"t articulate this properly yet to clarify these subtleties, so I make up guesses and silly theories. Sometimes you smell water and the Volga from the river - it probably drifts over to Baba. Leaves and insects float along the little streams. At the end of the vegetable patch, by the rubbish heap, Grandad sticks a rake into a pile of rot, lifts it up - and there"s a million worms and gross things. The worst are the mole crickets: utterly disgusting, they make you shiver, and they dart away instantly; they"re the fastest. The worms are lazy, red, mysterious in how they breathe, and their eyes - who knows.

Grandad collects them into an old tin can, covers them lightly with soil, and takes them fishing, and by evening we"ll have rudd or perch. I prefer rudd. Baba Klava fries it in flour - you get the tasty crispy skin, the ribs, and the roe. While chewing the back, you have to spit out the bones; if you bite a bone and can"t spit it out, you must immediately eat a piece of bread - the bone embeds in it and passes down. The fish is eaten with salt, but not too much - it"s bad for you.

Then the adults go to the outhouse in the yard - a hole that leads to darkness, everything disappearing into unknown blackness. Behind the outhouse, in the far corner of the plot, is a heap of manure and other unknown stuff - that"s too wild, too unexplored, and it makes me want to poo. In the row of sheds that start at that manure heap, the first is a small shed: some canisters inside, smelling of something called kerosene. Next is Grandad"s workshop-shed - with machines, a vice, another motorbike, and some other junk. There"s barely any space, and it"s locked.

Next comes the cellar - home to Hoka, Leshy, mole crickets, moles, and all the nastiest creatures - and oddly, it"s where the preserves are stored. Jars of jam, various juices, spuds, carrots - and condensation drips onto Grandad when he"s sent to fetch something. But Baba, and Mum, also go in; Mum holds my hand while I watch Grandad digging around like a mole for the right jar. He shouts to Baba: "Klav, where did you put it?" - and she appears in galoshes, directing, and Mum"s in galoshes too, as is Grandad. Everyone is in galoshes here, even in dry weather, except me.

I have rubber boots for rain and mud, and, like the adults with their galoshes, I scrape the soles on a metal strip embedded in the ground outside the porch to clean them. But it"s dry now, so I"m in sandals. By evening, my feet are filthy, black under the nails, my fingers too - all grimy. Then they start warming basins of water for me. When Baba scrubs me in the rarely used bath, she says: "Look at all the dirt rolling off."

You can pull yourself up on tree branches - especially the bird cherry outside, just past the gate. The berries are sweet when ripe, sour when unripe, but always puckering. Eating them, I can see Saratov - a blue strip across the Volga far ahead: mountains, houses, a bridge, even cars driving over it. Sometimes in the blue sky appear white arrows with sharp heads, their tails dissolving into a white blur, then vanish. Beyond the sky, there"s space - something connected to rockets, though I don"t fully understand yet. On the ground, there"s glass to avoid, and bumps you can trip over - which hurts, but I usually don"t notice the spot because tears blur my eyes, and I run inside to Mum or Baba, who fuss over me. Later, a bruise forms. You can slip in mud, or ice in winter, and cry; throwing stones or sticks near people - forbidden.

Strawberries are delicious, just coming into season, but raspberries are even better. We grow raspberries both at the dacha and here, and a little strawberry grows on Frunze too. There"s also Chinese cherry - not very sweet, unlike sour cherry, and very scarce. Sour cherries make good jam because Baba adds lots of sugar, so it can be eaten with bread - white, black, or a loaf.

Upstairs, the attic is reached by a metal ladder outside a small room. I haven"t been there; it"s dangerous - you could fall, and there are wasps guarding the attic door. Wasps are vicious - adults say their sting is a thousand times worse than any mosquito. Yet somehow useful. They can"t be killed like flies, which are associated with dung. There"s a strange mix of good and evil in one insect.

Ladybirds are purely good, like our neighbour Fatyushkina, whom I"ll describe soon. They have bright orange-brown shells with spots, and mustn"t be crushed. Ants can be squashed; they eat bread, and Baba crushes them when they run across the table - I do too. You can hear tiny cracks - their micro-shells breaking. Ants can bite, but it doesn"t hurt.

There are also crayfish. They"re like beetles, but bigger, aquatic, and with eyes - seemingly smarter than beetles. Sometimes they"re bought at the market. Until the pot is ready, they"re put in the bath to stop them from escaping. Raw crayfish are dark green; when cooked, they turn red. You eat the tails and the flesh from the claws; parents clean and serve them. There"s even roe under the tail.

Grandad sometimes brings crayfish with the fish, and Baba prepares everything while I play with the crayfish and pull myself up on the bird cherry. Grandad approves my pull-ups from the gate, commenting: "Well done, athlete!" Towards evening, we sit on the bench in front of the bird cherry and the flowerbed by our house, and one or two elderly neighbours often join.

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Part 6 Text 5. Evening on Frunze... cow parade... neighbours on Frunze... riding a blue bike on Frunze is tricky, neighbours around our house.

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Evening falls, and as soon as the mosque drapes its drawn-out call, the lowing from the dacha responds. We sit on the bench, watching Saratov under the setting sun, when cows appear on the right, and within minutes - a full parade of cows: hundreds, moving noisily up and down our stretch of Frunze. Mostly women lead them with whips, mostly old ladies, like in the Motherland statue with children at the Children"s Park. They shout names like "Zoika," "Doika," urging them angrily: "Move it!" "I said so!" Pulling them by the halters if they get distracted by grass or branches. The herd moves down our street, towards Persidskaya and beyond, as if heading to the city centre. Unknown origins, unknown destinations - but this happens every evening. Behind the cows, dung falls - called manure - and the challenge is not to step on it. Step on it, and your shoe is ruined. Worse yet, dog droppings - they smell as bad as human excrement. If left long in the sun, dog droppings turn white.

On Frunze, in the neighbouring yard towards Persidskaya, live the Fatyushkins - Baba Valya and Uncle Tolya, old like my grandparents. Baba Valya - her leg is thicker than my torso - comes every evening to the bench by our house, and often goes inside to the kitchen: there"s a sturdy stool and chair just for her to watch the evening news and Yakubovich with his crab-like moustache. His show is called "Field of Wonders." There"s also a version in Burattino, but Mum and I haven"t progressed past the beginning and Papa Carlo; I mainly look at the illustrations.

Uncle Tolya constantly smells of "aged curd." He"s small and thinner than Grandad, wandering unpredictably, but seemingly harmless. He is roughly three times thinner than Baba Valya. Notice that? Two Baba Valyas - my neighbour and mine. Constantly on my mind. Like Uncle Sergey and my Mum"s earrings. Two (or even three) earrings for Mum. Uncle Sergey doesn"t appear on Frunze.

Like last summer, I ride my blue three-wheeled bike - light enough for me to lift with one hand - but riding it on Frunze is impossible: it gets stuck in stones, ruts, and grass. Only on very smooth paths can it be ridden, and those exist only along our house.

Besides the Fatyushkins, people live on all sides. After them, the Petrov family; below them - someone else; below us, in the blue house, lives a girl named Alina. Further down - less familiar. Across the street, neighbours above us - first an unknown family: the father drives a car, and they have a large new white-brick house. He gave Mum and me a lift in winter. After them, the Chizhs - as my adults call them; they constantly have manure issues and own cows. Then further along Frunze, the Beavers. People, yes, but why "Beavers" - unclear. They seem to have cows and it stinks, plus they have a granddaughter, a chubby girl. I haven"t memorised the Chizhs or Beavers yet.

Mum says in her childhood there were many children here - all now grown up. Adults her age rarely appear. Mostly elderly women and men. Despite Mum"s stories and my parents" tales of their own childhood, I can"t fully picture or digest it. Parents always were and will be adults, and I will always be a small child.


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___Part 7.

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________________Summer before kindergarten.

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Part 7 Text 1. Tarindra-Durindra... getting ready for Saratov... off to the circus.

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Summer has properly arrived now. Dad has pulled up, and he"s going to be with us constantly. He plays the guitar - all sorts of songs from his cassettes. He pronounces the performers" names: "Chizh," "Aquarium." And then there are the Chizhi. He has a few of those cassettes by the player, but he doesn"t put them on, and I just decided myself that it"s the same as what he"s strumming live here. A backyard style. Those neighbours, the Chizhi on Frunze Street - they"re old and reek of both aged curd and manure, so in my mind, those backyard songs get linked to stinky old age and shit. But I don"t focus on that.

Dad sings at full volume - the neighbours could hear him, but it"s daytime, so it"s okay. He improvises with his voice and syllables, throwing out all sorts of "hop-hey-lalaley" and other funny combinations with a mock-serious expression. Then he sits at the piano - and it"s all the same, only now he accompanies himself. And he presses those pedals on the floor for some reason - I don"t know why. I"ve never really tried, and I don"t know how to play piano, just poked at the keys for fun. And I never touched the guitar at all. Musical instruments didn"t interest me: the songs Dad performs are tolerable only as long as he performs them. Because of his performance, certain emphasised phrases like "Argentina - Jamaica" and, most likely, his own "jumalaya bingo bongo synestropa santarira umba chuchundra tarindra durindra," our whole Lev Kassil-like life as a trio becomes even more Lev Kassil-like, filled with family routines and jokes understandable only to us "in our key," and Mom laughs, and all that. Otherwise, if another man sang these songs, without Dad"s performances, I wouldn"t listen.

By the way, I don"t even see anyone else playing guitar. I mean - not in the courtyard on a bench like in the movies, not from a window in a building across the street - nowhere. Near us, on Lev Kassil, by the "101st" shop, there"s another big store - a grocery - and next to it an entrance selling electronics, TVs, and guitars. We went in once to look, but the staff won"t let you handle the guitars, and they probably don"t know how to play at all. Basically, Dad"s the only one in the area who can play.

Only in Saratov, on Kirov"s main promenade, might someone play guitar occasionally - that"s it. The rest of the street musicians are one-legged accordion players at bus stops. Everyone else on the streets are grey passers-by. They just pass from grey to grey, and it"s unclear if they even have any joy, because you can"t imagine them messing around with some jumalayas-santariras. Dad and I are full of enthusiasm and fun: I jump and tumble, he plays his guitar, and everything we do, as he calls it with another of his neologisms, is "tyndr-tyndr." Sometimes he playfully touches Mom at the waist while saying this phrase, and she laughs.

Today"s a day off, and we"re going to Saratov - to the circus. We"re getting ready in the morning. I put on all my most comfortable clothes, we eat well, I"m healthy, and I didn"t wet myself this morning. Mom fusses with her hair and lipstick. Dad"s already outside, smoking cigarettes - those pretty white sticks through which smoke is drawn, though it"s unpleasant for others, and I don"t understand how anyone can inhale it. I like only the smell of raw tobacco, though I haven"t smelled it anywhere except at Grandpa"s in that little cupboard, and Dad always has cigarettes in his pocket - a grown-up thing.

We head out, walking along Khalturina, then Theatre Street past the theatres to the square, and then turn left to the end. Mom keeps drifting into shops, and Dad and I wait. We cross the square, then Gorky Street. Now there"s a cluster of stops and transport: the ninth trolleybus terminus to Saratov and Engels. In the centre are a few small islands with spit-covered flowerbeds and curbs, where sometimes men squat with a bottle or a glass of beer. Dangerous people - more than anyone, you shouldn"t approach them. From this stop, there"s also a small market passage, with many old women selling sunflower seeds, cigarettes, pushing carts, and beggars. Also, one of those disabled accordionists I mentioned sits there. In front of him, a jar for coins. I"m brimming with anticipation for Saratov.

While waiting for our ninth trolleybus, we grab a cup of kvass. With summer, kvass appears on every corner - in big yellow barrels on wheels, affordable, and unlike ice cream in shiny wrappers or Pepsi, parents will even offer it to me themselves. Dad also buys dried fish for the evening, seeds, and cigarettes, and - since it"s a special day, circus day - we stop at a stall, and hell, we even grab peanuts in shiny green packaging, which I start eating immediately. The taste of kvass, peanuts, the cigarette stench of the stop, the scorching sun, and the anticipation of civilization and city bustle all mix into one great feeling of summer idyll for the three of us.

We return to the stop. The trolleybus arrives, we get on. Lots of people - all heading into civilization. Sometimes I sit on Mom"s lap, sometimes I have to give way to the elderly, so some old man takes me on his lap, while mine stand nearby. That"s what happens this time - I"m on an old man"s lap.

We ride winding streets, pass the starting point of the beach, approach the glue factory. It"s green-blue, old, and passing by, people try not to breathe - the factory always stinks of vile fumes. My parents smile, amused by my giggles.

Then the trolleybus turns right. On the left is the railway, on the right, first a school, then an industrial area with a huge crane, and tracks crossing our path leading to the industrial area. We continue, and soon a white stele with our city"s name in letters appears. Then the bridge.

The blue of the Volga begins. "Volga," "vobla," the Volga car, and "waves" - all merge into a single whole, tied to summer, parents, and jumalaya bingo bongo. Water all around, and Saratov visible in the distance; below, boats float, and we feel as if flying high above the water. Midway, in the Volga, there"s a beach with bridge ramps, where some people are already bathing - all fascinating to watch from above.

We continue, reaching the highest part of the bridge, high enough to match Saratov, which now looks taller and more civilized than Engels. We"re already almost at its level, then a slight descent, and finally - exit onto the pre-bridge square.

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Part 7 Text 2. Entering Saratov... the circus show.

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At the entrance, "Saratov" is written in big white letters. Some strange people linger here instead of heading into civilization, to the circus. We continue a short stretch, turn left, then left again, then right - now we"re on another bridge over the so-called Glebichev Ravine. Below is interesting too: small houses, swamps, debris, and trash. After the bridge, a few blocks later, we turn right onto Moskovskaya Street. Many people are getting off here, and finally I sit on Mom"s lap, Dad beside me.

We ride up Moskovskaya. For some reason, the bus is slow, then fast again. Various streets intersect Moskovskaya, and soon they show me the building where I was born - interesting yet boring, because it tells me nothing and I remember nothing.

We cross Radishchev Street; to the left, a square begins, like in Engels. Every city has a square. Mom says, "Like in Moscow, only much bigger," and I recall stories about the red square and "I - in Russia." After the square, we cross several streets and finally get off at Chapaeva stop.

Here, there"s kvass, just like in Engels, only more people. At the intersection where we exit - a tall building. Everything tall, more people, busier than Engels, lots of cars.

We walk along Chapaeva to the circus, crossing a few streets. Near the circus, there"s a market, and soon - there it is. We pass along the back, already hearing the animals and smelling them. We continue to the fountain square - the circus entrance. Posters cover the place, advertising the current programme, with a festive atmosphere, bustle around the huge Covered Market building, the adjacent bazaar, and the "Children"s World" across the street. Many parents with children - I feel we"re finally in the right place, and we enter the foyer.

The characteristic circus smell hits: a mix of rubber, balloons, and animals - exactly what we smelled approaching the circus. Besides inflatable balloons, there are other inflatable things shaped like sausages. I don"t like those much; I prefer balloons, especially the ones that try to rise - they seem alive, and if you have enough, it feels like you could fly. But such balloons are expensive, and the ones bought at ordinary stalls have to be inflated by hand - they don"t rise. Still, fine enough.

Even the slightest pin can burst them - scary and sad, a little tragedy. One side startles you with the pop - unpleasant - and the other, it dies forever. I sometimes almost cry - so sorry for a balloon that it can never be inflated again. It"s also slippery inside, from saliva or breath while inflating. Disgusting and sad. There"s a connection with beggars; I feel pity for them, though they stink like shit. I"m not sure how to respond to that.

Inside, the building has a semicircular corridor - the circus is round. Going toward Chapaeva leads to cotton candy and balloon stalls; the other way, you pass the photo spot with a macaque, ending at the toilets. I"m not fond of macaques: they look silly and unpredictable.

In the middle, by the macaque, is the entrance to the main arena. Inside, everything is dark burgundy - dim, no windows, spotlights off, pointed at the red arena. Around the edges is a low barrier, and above, a box for the musical orchestra.

Everyone takes their seats - with balloons, cotton candy, all noisy - then the lights go out completely, and no one knows what will happen.

Then the circus music starts, the spotlights ignite - and it begins: clowns, acrobats, magic tricks, and all sorts of acts. Everything"s interesting, novel, much better than staying home. The stunts - how acrobats aren"t afraid of anything - are especially impressive. Walruses are silly, elephants too. I even feel sorry for them and the clowns trying so hard - yet it feels pointless. More interesting are the acrobats who jump on elephants. The drum roll before a trick is thrilling. I watch it all for about an hour or less.

Then normal light returns. Parents explain it"s intermission, and after it, lions finally - like in that magazine "We Have a Lion at Home," which feels like toilet paper from overuse.

We leave the arena and wander the semicircular hall, go to the toilet. Dad teaches me to pee in a public toilet. It"s my first time peeing beside strangers in adjacent holes.

I barely notice other children: my parents are enough, I constantly talk to them about something related to us. I don"t ask about strangers - why would I care if I live with my parents and nothing hints that I"ll be tied to some strangers?

Then the bell for Act Two. We enter - now the arena edges have high mesh walls; the arena is fully caged. Music starts again.

Here they come - tigers, lions. The trainers toss meat into their mouths, and they devour it instantly, no chewing. The most applauded stunt is putting a hand or even a head into a lion"s mouth. That doesn"t impress me - a tiger"s mouth isn"t that scary.

Now I"m interested in the lions and tigers themselves, unlike the first act, where the humans were more fascinating than the animals. I want to see lions and tigers more often. I want to live with them, or have them at home, like the family in "We Have a Lion at Home." I want a mane like a lion"s and start growling. I love how a lion struts dominantly, showing it"s the boss, everything revolves around it, and it"s fed meat. That"s life.

The lion act is shorter, and the circus ends there. Sad to leave, but parents promise we can come again - it"s not a one-time show. That makes me happy.

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Part 7 Text 3. Into the Covered Market... into "Children"s World."

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We"re back in front of the fountains. It"s scorching - proper sunburn-hot - and behind the fountains, rising from white high walls, is the big Covered Market, and next to it a bazaar with a crowd of people. Everything"s for sale: food, clothes, souvenirs, toys. My favourite, of course, is the toy stalls. I look at tiny animal figures, hunting for a lion. No lions today, but I pick a toy anyway and keep thinking about it endlessly as we wander through the bazaar. Mom browses for herself, Dad checks out the shoes, but mostly everyone"s looking for something for me, otherwise I"ll get bored stiff.

We finish the bazaar and step into the Covered Market. It"s immediately cooler under the towering glass ceiling, where pigeons flit about. The most striking thing hits my nose right away: the smell of aged sausage and cheeses, because nothing here is in display cases, everything sits out on the counters, and the heat makes it reek. The floor is nasty and damp, and near the meat - red and especially foul. There are also fruits, lots of fruits, some grains, dried fish again... basically anything edible. But we buy nothing and move on.

We cross Chapaeva Street and finally arrive at "Children"s World." A tall building with a huge poster above the entrance showing a boy"s face - a boy like me. Inside, there will soon be thousands of toys. To the right, there"s another bazaar, also selling toys, but why bother - we"re entering the true sanctuary of childhood.

We climb the steps and pass through the glass doors. The air instantly smells fragrant, because besides toys, they sell perfumes for women and all kinds of hair dyes on the left. Every package shows a beautiful woman - most with angular jawlines. But even though the hair dyes are bright and glossy, and the women on the packages are all beauties, it"s still boring compared to the toys.

On the left are souvenirs: squinty-eyed sages, figurines, bonsai trees. Meh. We turn left - toward the toys.

And there they are: all kinds of cars, cranes, building sets. I don"t like building sets. I love the tiny cars, perfect and shiny, indistinguishable from real ones. I even prefer the ones I"ve never seen on the streets - capturing and preserving reality. I"d slip them into my pocket, take them out whenever I wanted, rub their smooth, glossy surfaces and miniature windows. Some even have side mirrors, though they"re fake foil mirrors, so I move on to the larger models. But my parents say those aren"t for us, we couldn"t afford them anyway. It annoys me that most toys here are out of reach. I realise money"s needed for everything. They make me understand we can"t even afford the tiniest cars. And then there"s this big one - perfect: real mirrors, proper black factory-new tyres, a little dusty, just like it should be - looks like it"s already been driven around here. Damn it, I want it, want it, want it.

Over there, check it out: a huge forest-and-nature set, with tracks and toy cars at the start line, buttons too. But this giant setup is, of course, not for sale. No one will ever buy it, which is somewhat comforting. But oh, how amazing it would be to have a whole room for this, where I could play forever and never leave.

Frustrated by what I can"t have right now, yet inspired by the thought I might one day get some toys from here - the same feeling I get from looking at the magazines on our coffee table at home - we leave "Children"s World."

We step out of the toy section, not the building. There"s a second floor. To reach it from the main entrance, on the right, there"s an escalator - a word that sounds like "excavator." Standing on it, you can fall backwards if you don"t lean forward immediately. I nearly topple, but Mom catches me. You need experience for this, and it irritates me that Mom and everyone else seem to have mastered it ages ago, while I"m here again, almost to tears. Mom says all of Moscow has these, and she learned there.

We reach the upper floor, pass through boring shopping stalls, and descend a regular staircase on the other side of the building. The second exit is right there, and that"s where we leave.

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Part 7 Text 4. Walking along Kirova... to the barbershop.

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Outside, people sell sunglasses, someone plays guitar. Along the wall of "Children"s World," they sell paintings. We"re in the busiest spot on pedestrian Kirova Avenue. People, with and without kids, stroll back and forth, and on both sides are stalls with kvass, ice cream, shops, cafés. We finally buy another kvass. Around us, bustle, music, summer.

After finishing, we join the crowd and continue down the avenue to a cross street. Mom decides we"ll pop into the barbershop on the corner, first floor. There"s also a person with a monkey here - you can hold it for money and get your picture taken. My parents ask if I want to, but I"m scared of its hands, scared in general - it"s dumb, as I said, and what if it grabs my nostrils or does something ridiculous, making me a spectacle on Kirova Avenue? That"s what I fear. Otherwise, the monkey"s small and doesn"t bite. I still don"t dare, so we head into the barbershop.

I"d love a lion"s mane, but obviously it"s impossible - everyone"s getting haircuts, so growing out hair isn"t normal. Some musicians, even men, wear long hair, but society treats it as odd, so you have to cut and stick to the norms.

Mom explains something to the friendly woman in the barber"s apron, and I sit down, barely reaching the mirror. Mom steps into the waiting corridor - it"s stressful, better if she stayed. The barber drapes me in a nylon cape, sprinkles water, and I feel tiny, like the youngest kids, with a napkin on my collar to avoid hair mess. She clicks scissors, saying, "Turn your head here," "Look that way," joking slightly - instantly, it feels closer. Thank goodness it"s a woman; if it were a man, I"d panic. I"m used to women.

Hair flies everywhere - on my face, nose, in nostrils, eyelashes, eyebrows - and suddenly all other thoughts vanish: all the toy cars, lions, raspberries, summer - lost in this overwhelming hell of tickly hair. I distract myself thinking: "What would I endure this for, voluntarily?" Ice cream? No. A lion"s mane? No. A model Zaporozhets? No. The entire store of toys? No. Avoiding semolina? No. This is hell, nothing but. Except - if I risked losing my parents, ending up with some gypsy woman, or even this barber becoming my new mom - then I"d endure as long as needed. Probably screaming, going mad, but I"d still endure.

The barber"s gentle sponge clears me, and I"m suddenly back in paradise. Alive. I want Zaporozhets again, I"ll ask for more than they can give, I"ll be spoiled, greedy.

I don"t like my head much. With this haircut, I look like a person, not a lion. We"ll take the photo with the monkey another time - lucky the parents didn"t insist - and we move on.

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Part 7 Text 5. Further along Kirova... cafés and pastries... end of the Kirova walk.

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Everywhere, kvass, ice cream, stalls - toys, books. Dad often drifts toward the books. What he finds there? I like only children"s books and those expensive ones with glossy covers and spines. Some are so shiny you want to stroke them.

Souvenirs - we glanced a few times; nothing new. Same stock of squinty, chubby figures. Women"s perfume shops - so boring even Mom skips them. Though, she might skip because she can"t buy me the cars in "Children"s World."

But there"s one thing Mom can"t resist: shoe stores. Most boring, longest stops, I hate them. Visiting is like grey weekday boredom smack in the middle of a weekend. They even smell - new shoes, leather. I moan the moment Mom veers off our path toward a shop like that, and sometimes she just doesn"t go in.

We walk on. Mom and Dad carry me by both hands - I jump, fly over gaps in the grates covering the pavement drains along both sides, partially open, littered.

Halfway down the avenue, cafés multiply. Outside, plastic tables and chairs, almost all full - people with chips, beer, the smell of grilled meats everywhere - same fascination as the expensive toy cars.

In the middle of the avenue, we enter a café on the left, under a sunshade. Tables along the sides, walkway in the middle, entrance to the shop-café. This is a proper pastry café, not a pub. They have pastries. We buy "Kartoshka" and "Wave."

I prefer "Wave": like a pie, with a thick chocolate layer on top - the tastiest part, bittersweet, makes it even better. We sit outside, and I start eating. Soon Mom asks for a bite, even though she has her useless "Kartoshka" - cocoa biscuit, slightly wet, lumped together. Reluctantly, I share, and she tells me I"m "good" for sharing.

When I finish, she gives me half her "Kartoshka" - amazing, even if less tasty. What you don"t eat at home is better eaten out.

Next to the café, a passage leads to a courtyard, and there"s a toilet inside the building. We always go there; it"s paid. Small, stuffy cubicle; stepping out, cool courtyard air. Important-looking people come and go side doors, papers in hand - extremely boring.

Leaving the café, I feel a bit down: the best parts of the Saratov trip - the circus and "Children"s World," and now the café - are behind us. The sun"s lowered behind the tall buildings to our right along Kirova toward Lipki Park. We cross the street with trolleybuses and keep walking straight. I still haven"t memorised how many streets cross Kirova, how many blocks before you reach the end at Lipki.

Everywhere, endless cafés, shoe stores, stalls with souvenirs, books, kvass, ice cream. Underfoot - tiles; I try not to step on the seams. We reach the Conservatory on the right - a kind of fairytale building, unlike the usual rectangular blocks: pointed roofs, tall windows. A landmark, but not captivating to me. It just adds to the Saratov atmosphere, part of the usual Kirova walk. I"m not interested in pure visual aesthetics. I"m interested in aesthetics mixed with behaviour. I want a lion, to be a lion, to live with lions, have a mane, learn to roar.

I start to tire, feel sleepy. At first, parents carry me by both hands, like a little monkey. Then Dad just lifts me in his arms. After that, I remember nothing.


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Part 7, Text 6. Morning walk with Dad across the square - chain carousel - mud - pedal boats - stones - Soldiers" descent - the Daring Pier.

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Lev Kassil and I go for a walk with Dad across the square, through the park, and down to the Volga. It"s morning, but the sun is already blazing. We enter the amusement park: the swings from last year are too childish for me now, so I don"t ask to go on them. Instead, we decide I should finally ride that chain carousel in the centre of the park. You sit down, a safety chain goes over your waist, and you hold onto the main chains with your hands. All of it is on a wooden platform. Then gradually the carousel starts moving, and soon there"s no wooden platform beneath your feet, and everything picks up speed so that all the riders swing outward. Dad stands below, and I glance at him every time I spin past. They don"t ride for long; the carousel slows gradually. It"s a bit scary, especially imagining what would happen if I unhooked myself and jumped - nothing stops a child from doing it. And the height is like one and a half grown men.

We leave the amusement park and follow the alley between it and the main park, heading towards the Volga. On the left is a café; smoke rises from it, smelling of frying. Half-naked men sit on plastic chairs and tables with beer, laughing and scratching their hairy chests. Everything screams summer, already exhausted by the heat. Fir trees in the flower beds on the left are some grey-blue shade, not green. On the right, the Ferris wheel lazily spins, empty.

But from the Volga comes the scent of the river - reeds and some kind of mud - along with the noise of motorboats, the main association and prelude to a day at the beach. The sky is clear and blue, making the Volga a deep, dark blue, seeming cold. In reality, it"s only just warming up, but soon people will be swimming everywhere.

We"re now at the tulip beds, where I once walked with Mum on that foggy morning long ago. We reach the embankment. Big cobblestones line the slope to the water, with only a narrow, stepped descent, its steps worn and dangerous. It leads to a small square concrete platform at the water"s edge, jutting slightly forward. Mostly adults with beer use this descent. By the water, they move aside on the stones, sit on the cobbles like chairs, and drink beer with chips, sunflower seeds, and similar snacks.

Dad and I, after a pause, head toward the museum. The cobbles continue along the slopes, now shaded by many trees.

Right now, my favourite thing is throwing stones into the water as far as I can. I ask Dad how far he can throw. He picks one up, throws it, and I can"t even see where it lands. Incredible. Mostly, though, he doesn"t let me throw from the embankment because people could be at the water"s edge, hidden by trees. If a stone misses the water, it could hit someone. So we go down closer to the river.

Walking down the cobbles is tricky; falling and rolling would be a disaster.

We reach the water. The river splashes over the stones, and when a big ship passes, large waves hit the shore - an instant thrill. I aim and throw stones into the waves. When it"s calm, I can see fish in the water, especially in sunlight. In still water, the bottom is visible even far from the shore: fish, cans, bottles, even crayfish.

In the distance are the green reeds of the island across the river. Some small boats, some fishermen, and it"s unclear where the island"s shore begins. The first trees are far beyond the reeds. Islands like these stretch along the entire Engels bank of the Volga. To the left of this island is a wide gap, where you can see Saratov: the bridge, and if you look closely, cars glittering in the sun as they cross. I remember our last trip to the circus and how I fell asleep. We"ll go again. Dad talks about the Saratov pier and the big ships - that"s where we plan to go someday. For now, we"ll head to the Engels pier.

We climb back up, eating chips bought from a stand along the way - in cylindrical packaging. Delicious, indulgent, for a day like this.

Between the tulip beds by the embankment and the Engels pier we"re heading to, there"s another public descent to the water with steps. From the city, you can reach it walking from the museum to the Volga. This is the most "bygone-era" descent on the embankment. Firstly, because the museum itself, when approached from this side, is faced with a material typical of some bygone era - a white stone, unlike the oldest or newest buildings. The stone evokes a particular past: tulip beds, the smell of rain, towering monuments with inscriptions and dates. Secondly, there"s a matching monument here too, with characteristic bygone-era steps leading up to the embankment. Flower beds flank the steps, and on the front wall, large soldier faces are carved in stone, with a soaring stela topped by a star above them.

On the other side of the embankment, steps descend to the water. They are wide, as if an entire row of soldiers could march down. Fascinatingly, they plunge deeper into the water toward the crayfish. When we visited here at the end of last summer in calm weather, the steps under the water ended in a concrete platform, as at the previous spot. So, long ago, the Volga level was lower. Now, the platform at the bottom is completely submerged - the water has clearly risen. I start thinking: if it keeps rising, what happens when it overflows the embankment? I ask Dad, and he explains that the river always rises in late spring as the snow melts. By the end of summer, the level falls again. That reassures me.

Another frequent, striking sight: logs tied into rafts float down the middle of the river between our shore and the islands. A small floating field - you could walk across it. Tugboats push them downstream. Dad explained these logs are used for paper and matches, and it"s good they soak in the water.

At this descent, a couple of people with snorkels and masks dive for crayfish. I"d be too scared - there could be something at the bottom, a sunken boat, and I"d freak out.

We leave this descent and continue toward the pier. Beneath the embankment, left side, a cage stands among the trees, like the one used to separate tigers and people in the circus, and grown men play basketball inside. On the right, cobbles slope down with trees, and a small concrete platform juts toward the Volga with a well on top. Below, near the water, a stream flows from the embankment into the Volga.

Closer to the pier, a strange three-storey building angles onto the embankment. I think it must be scary to live there, especially in a storm, and simply due to the risk of the water overflowing the embankment.

Beyond the trees on the right, the pier comes into view. It"s crowded - mostly young guys. Some are smoking. The bravest dive from the tallest iron supports - about two human heights. We stand watching. One plunges skillfully, hands and head first, very tanned. Everyone here is tanned. Others dive almost the same way. One in big shorts runs along the platform, jumps, tucks into a ball, sending a splash everywhere. They all laugh, shout, tease each other in that boyish way, and their shouts carry a special growl, like a membrane vibrating in their throats. That sound instantly makes me associate the whole pier with these tanned, daring boys. Bold voices, rough manners - even Dad seems to disapprove subtly, though indulgently, as if giving them leeway for not being grown up yet.

Here at the pier stands a dull monument, surrounded by flower beds, with ice cream sold nearby. We buy a scoop of plombir in a cup as always and head back. Dad tells a story about big shorts: how once he skied on water behind a boat, fell, and the weak elastic ripped them off, and how he managed - I find it hilarious. I"ll return to this topic soon to explain why.

Returning home to Mum, busy in the kitchen - worse if she"s mopping, even worse if washing clothes - is often as gloomy as when Baba Valya left us. Not to mention the harsh episodes with vermicelli soup, Mum is generally something anxious and "on edge." Something ready to develop into tension and poison the evening. She won"t drink beer with Dad; they won"t joke and laugh. It"s always better for me when they do - occupied with each other. Otherwise, Mum"s tense, and I"m likely to have to go to bed early or stop playing. Usually early bedtime wins. I hate going to bed when I don"t want to, especially in that mood and atmosphere.

In the past, after such days, Dad would disappear for weeks, leaving me alone with Mum in her constant borderline state - then the only hope to lift the tension was a visit to Baba. There, things are always more or less optimistic and cheerful, and I can play freely without risking annoying anyone with my joy.


.:.

___Part 8.

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Part 8, Text 1. Trip with Dad to Baba Valya.

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Nothing compares, or even rivals, the moments when "everything"s fine" at Lev Kassil, except this: a trip to Baba Valya. Baba Valya can even compete with New Year, those super-happy, fun days when nobody sulks, everyone drinks beer, eats dried fish, and there"s absolutely no damn floor washing. Because even washing the floors at Baba Valya"s is fun.

Off we go.

We leave Engels with Dad. Mum stays behind in a good mood; Dad will return to her after dropping me off - all perfect. I watch the familiar houses from the bus window, winding through the maze of streets, and finally the main stairway up to the beach. Many people here already, going up and down the steps with swimming rings. Many come from Saratov to our Engels beach. Now it"s late afternoon, so many are boarding the bus back. But some Sarato visitors are just getting off buses across the road. We"ve been to the beach too, but it was chilly. When we return from Baba Valya, we"ll start properly.

Passing the glue factory, I amuse myself - in the heat it steams comically. Sweat runs down the cheeks of the older folks on the bus, and I also feel sticky, wanting to stand in the breeze from the open window, but my parents won"t let me, even in hot weather - one of those things I can"t understand. How can I catch a cold in a breeze of hot air? I sit, and only the fluttering curtain teases my nose.

Dad tells stories from life that I can"t imagine as real - I have no idea what they actually look like. But I"m thrilled: I sit by the window - love it - looking left from the bridge. The sun"s setting; Dad points out the part of Saratov, this endlessly long city along the Volga, where I"ll be staying overnight at Baba Valya"s. I try to spot her house but can"t - everything blends, and the sun is blinding.

Halfway across the bridge, the main beach is to the right; a tiny patch below on the left still has people. I wonder what the main side must be like - probably packed in this summer heat. But I can"t see beyond the standing passengers.

Passing the high section of the bridge, through the driver"s window, the familiar large letters "SARATOV" appear, and I"m thrilled at the thought of an overnight stay in Saratov, in civilisation. I"m tired of Engels and want traffic under my windows, trams, honking trucks - real city life, not sleepy streets and one-storey theatres. In Saratov, the theatre is real: big, white, with columns. The circus is large. The Covered Market is so big birds fly inside - that"s a real city. Engels? Not even worth thinking about now.

We"ve passed all of Glebichev"s ravines, nearing Moskovskaya, and here we get off. We won"t continue to Chapayev and the circus; we transfer to a trolleybus along Chernyshevskaya Street, parallel to the Volga, heading straight for Baba Valya"s neighbourhood. The bus is crowded.

The closer we get to Baba Valya, the stronger the anticipation. No floor washing, no dishwashing. No clogged tubs, no leaky taps. And even with modest means like Dad and Engels adults, Baba Valya always has Tic-Tac candies.

Now I"m sun- and travel-weary; the view outside blends into a continuous grey of building facades and factories, chimneys, endless cars. After the middle of the route, no people outside, no residential houses - only cars, roads, bridges, trains, and turns I can"t yet memorise. After another turn - tulips in flowerbeds, grey-blue from car dust. Beyond them, civilisation returns: stops with people, residential buildings.

Squares, monuments from bygone eras appear. At a turn - a building faced in the same white stone as the Engels museum. A long square, then the trolleybus turns left again. In my fatigue, I think of trolleybuses: built in Engels, running in both Engels and Saratov.

Finally, our stop, near Baba Valya"s nine-storey building. Evening falls, the heat lingers, people bustle to shops for snacks and beer, to sit on sofas under fans. We buy mineral water at a kiosk, then through the arch into the yard, into the entrance. A familiar "unfamiliar" smell - the entrances of Zavodsky district in Saratov. I recall it not only from past trips here, but also pre-memory. This scent is in Aunt Larisa"s building too - we visit her with Baba Valya.

Dad and I take the lift. This lift feels different from the one at Lev Kassil: harsher, shaking, but still seems more reliable, especially since it"s newer.


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Part 8, Text 2. Visiting Baba Valya - dinner in the Babvalium - sitting in the lounge - bedtime massage.

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We step out of the lift at the iron door; my father opens it, then the apartment door. With a soft "peeling away" sound we open it-and there she is: Baba Valya. Arms wide, big breasts, all welcoming and immediately overloving, greeting us with a "Well, hello!" "How was the journey?" "Everything"s ready,"-and an atmosphere thick with little pleasant surprises ahead. She smells of a familiar-yet-unfamiliar cologne, while from the kitchen wafts the smell of food and a set table. Everything here feels welcoming, as if every object and wall were friendly. The only unfriendly one is Hans, Baba Valya"s cat. But he"s fully grown, not like Marsik-he"s not an outdoor cat: there"s nowhere to roam on this ninth floor, only the apartment with a kitchen, toilet, and room. He goes a bit mad and grows his long fur-it"s the breed. Of course, he"s not thrilled when someone comes "from the outside." Sniffing me from afar, he turns, heads to his special rag, and starts wriggling and yowling like a cat. The rag is dark grey, like him. He drags it everywhere; it"s full of holes and smells of currants.

We wash our hands in the bath, which also carries those familiar-yet-unfamiliar scents of the local soaps and shampoos, and head to the kitchen. Baba Valya"s menu makes me think of currants: she has a ton of bushes at her summer house, so currants are everywhere-in jam, tea, and even Hans" rag. But now we sit down for first and second courses-super-tasty food that you won"t find at "Lev Kassil," all spiced. Not too much, but Baba Valya always spoils us, with special pepper mills and sets of kitchen tools-she seems to have spent her whole life in the kitchen. We eat soup, then dish after dish. There are plenty of herring sandwiches on dark bread with butter and onions, then some sprats.

Sprats and shorts-just for me, and the words sound similar-then Baba Valya remembers something, and brings out black caviar from the fridge. A little, but rare and prized. I eat it; it"s excellent. Then red caviar. There"s plenty more, then dessert, some pie-homemade, not perfect, but fine. Finally, tea. It"s summer, so leaves of currant or mint-anything you like-go in, for an unusual brew, unlike the usual stuff at Lev Kassil.

Nine floors down-cars, trolleys, motorbikes-everything I hoped for. The sun"s long gone behind the buildings, we drink tea, and Baba Valya calls my aunt Larisa to report my arrival, then hands me the phone. "Hello." How am I? "Good." Baba Valya flits about, joking, amusing me. Chocolate comes with tea. Everything is perfect, and now we go to the lounge.

Father and I walk to the lounge; Baba Valya follows with a tray of bananas and apples-all extravagantly sliced in her style. Also kiwi. The tray is black, painted with old patterns. Much of her kitchenware is patterned-wooden spoons, cutting boards-always painted. A wooden spoon for flour like this exists at Baba Klava"s too. I imagine fairy-tale heroes eating porridge with such a spoon, delicious, but I wonder how it"s washed and whether water warps it-wood swells, windows stick. Do saliva smells get absorbed into it more easily?

In Baba Valya"s lounge, there"s a "wall unit"-a long cabinet with shelves: some books, some drawers with bedding, my clothes, even my father"s childhood clothes-hard to imagine. The central part has glass doors with wine glasses inside. On the radio, a song I know plays: "Sera, sweet lips like wine," and I hum along, mimicking the singer, amusing everyone-including myself.

Father has a guitar here, and sitting in the armchair, plays Lev Kassil songs. We show Baba Valya which songs we sing at home-all the "Argentinas of Jamaica." She"s thrilled that we all get along. "Rest," she says, while tidying the kitchen. If we want more tea, it"s always brewing there. She keeps saying, "Relax," "rest up," "how"s the rest?" Ninth floor and Baba Valya are made for rest. Nothing to do here-just eat, lie down, watch TV, relax.

Father flips through books with me. There"s a yellow, worn book with pictures-even coloured ones. A shark chases two boys who fell into the water, somewhere in a tropical cove near moored ships. The predator"s fin rises above the water near the boy"s feet. Then another story-a fable he loves: a big stone lies in the square, unmovable, impervious to lifting, breaking, or blowing up. A clever tramp asks only for a spade, digs, and rolls the stone into a hole; horses trample the soil over time. Genius and absurd, like wearing weak elastic underwear while waterskiing.

Also, a book of "American Poetry," with strange illustrations: odd human proportions, names like Jack, Elliot, Roger. Another, "History of Rock Music," has two jokers on each page spraying cologne into the musician"s hairy armpit-funny, though I don"t get the rest. "American Poetry" is incomprehensible-even intuitively. I recall only that America can be reached from the little summer house, according to my grandfather.

There"s a book on "Card Games and Tricks," cover green like magazine tables at home. I feel an urge to pee just looking at it.

Father reclines in the chair; I lie on the sofa, feet on the ottoman. Baba Valya has two matching ottomans with the sofa and chairs. I notice my grandfather and other adults stretch out their legs this way. I try it too, but it feels meaningless-if the reason comes, I"ll ask later.

Before bed, we give each other massages-mostly I get them, mostly from Baba Valya. I love massages. She also playfully tickles me-there"s something more than rest in that.

Mosquitoes fly around; a special plate is placed on a burning bulb. Heat releases smoke, and mosquitoes drop. The day ends.

We go to bed. Baba Valya is in the kitchen; my father and I sleep on the unfolded sofa: father at the edge, I by the wall, snug under Baba Valya"s familiar terry sheets, tucking the gap to avoid touching Hans-he"d probably scratch. He usually naps with Baba Valya anyway.

Here you fall asleep, but Entuziastov Avenue does not. I love the sound of cars at night under the window-it"s my first association with staying at Baba Valya"s.

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Part 8, Text 3. Morning at Baba Valya"s - off to the summer house with her.

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Father"s gone early. I wake; Baba Valya"s already sitting at the edge of the sofa. Flirting, giving massages again, chatting. She brings "bait food" to the bed, while the main spread waits in the kitchen. She likes her food eaten at the table, decorated with napkins, parsley, tea glasses on small plates.

I brush my teeth with my special local children"s toothbrush. Baba Valya has many colognes, ointments, and various scented things. She rubs, sprays, applies something to a scratch.

Above the hallway chest hangs a figure called Bibigon-narrow vertical wooden face, a towering forehead like a helmet, moustache, long beard. Looks like a fairy-tale bogatyr. Words like "idol," "totem," "tribe" come to mind. I fear him, but Baba Valya says he"s kind, guarding the home. She also says not to fear Hans-but I do, sensing his fear; sudden moves could make him scratch.

We sit to eat. Again, delicious food, more elaborate than yesterday"s simple "Lev Kassil" fare. Today, Baba Valya is baking pies and needs help. Normally I dislike helping, but here it"s interesting-rolling dough with that rare, characteristic smell of wet dough, flour on hands-it fascinates me. I shape the pies, she fries them, praising me as her "best grandson," but quickly correcting: "No, you"re my friend." She avoids calling me "grandson," preferring "son"-it feels warmer.

The pies are not everything. Today, Baba Valya has planned a trip to the summer house. We start getting ready.

I go to the bathroom, and I"m ready. Baba Valya is still gathering small things. It takes a while, and I get bored. Later, we put on shoes. She has a horse-head-shaped shoehorn. We each pop a Rondo candy. She says, "Go with God," and we step out into the blended smells of Rondo, the stairwell, lift, and courtyard. We head to the tram a few blocks away, stopping at the kiosk we visited yesterday to buy water and another pack of Rondo. We wait. Baba Valya holds my hand tightly as it approaches, though there"s no real danger. The tram climbs towards what feels like the city centre, one block before the bus terminus for summer houses.

The streets bustle-markets, kvass, cigarettes, pigeons. We feed the pigeons with crumbs, Baba Valya-style, always tending to the poor. People with buckets and rakes at the stop remind me of Engels" "Mashinno-Dorozhnaya." The summer house bus arrives-an Ikarus, long, yellow, two sections linked by a rubber accordion. We board, waiting for departure.

I sit on Baba Valya"s lap. Soon we pass a plane monument on the left, then a long grey abandoned building stretching a block to Baba Valya"s house. We pass her house on the right, strange small wooden houses, kiosks, elderly women selling things, and a school. At the market"s traffic light-oddly named after a dog, Sharik-the bus turns left.

We ride the rear; the front swings sharply, revealing passengers through windows, not the interior-interesting. Each stop adds more passengers, mostly elderly. We turn right, then left onto a highway with overtaking cars, probably also going to summer houses. Baba Valya points out a spring where people fill bottles; she calls it holy water. I wonder about the taste.

The road climbs. From here, you can see vast Saratov, the Volga, countless housing districts, countless small roofs. High enough, you might see Engels behind us, but I"ll check on the way back. I stay alert-wildlife could appear along the road.

We turn right, even as many cars continue straight. Where are they going? Beyond the city. Baba Valya says it"s Volgograd. I can"t picture it-some huge city like Moscow, far in the sunset"s direction. But we"re headed to the summer house, winding between groves. Soon the groves end; fields start. Scattered houses appear. On the right, past other summer-goers, a paddock with cows or horses.

We continue, passing dense one-storey summer houses, all flowering. Finally, we reach the terminus. People exit slowly, elderly with buckets and rakes. Hot sun, summer, quiet. The bus terminus has a small food shop; we enter but buy nothing-we have everything. The settlement is called "Kumyska." We head to our summer house.

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Part 8, Text 4. The path to Baba Valya"s plot - caravan house and garden.

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Walking along the road, Baba Valya points out a pond on the left. Smaller than a lake, smelling of algae and perch. I"ve only seen ponds or rivers. Here, a very small pond. Something moves fast on the smooth surface-water striders. I watch long, fascinated. Suddenly-rustle in the grass. "Lizards," she says-they don"t bite, eat insects, and can drop their tails to escape. I become obsessed with these elusive grass dwellers.

We approach our plot. Like my grandfathers" summer houses: plots on both sides, narrow single-lane driveways. When a car passes, Baba Valya holds me tight, and we press close to someone"s fence. Tall grass in the middle flattens under the car-how heavy must a car be! I wonder: what if it runs over a lizard? Or me? But Baba Valya keeps talking; I listen, unable to fully imagine these stories, like trips to seas I"ve never seen.

Some summer houses are just train carriages-strange and fascinating. Our house is a long, green-painted caravan, smaller than the others, but still tall enough for an adult. Baba Valya unlocks the far end; inside, cluttered with tables, kitchenware, a bed, a chair like ours at Lev Kassil. The metal floor creaks and clangs. There"s a small stove and a calendar with wild nature photos-winter, summer, all seasons; landscapes unbelievable: birches, firs, mountains multiplied in scale, waterfalls. Not in Saratov, not in Engels.

We settle in. The usual quiet is occasionally broken by neighbours" radios. Baba Valya greets them. People pass by, also greeting and amusing me with candy. Everything revolves around me-again. A stout woman with dyed white hair enters.

Baba Valya switches on the radio, gives me magazines, and tends the garden-watering, the main reason we came. A hose like my Frunze grandparents" summer house fills the air with the smell of wet earth.

Inside the caravan, a lamp burns; the back is dark and mysterious. Only Baba Valya knows what"s there-fans, a fur muff, painted old utensils. After a while, a noise above: "Nikita, look-helicopter!" she shouts from the garden. Nearby helicopters are constantly flying.

Baba Valya works endlessly in the garden; I wander, searching for lizards. Rustle! I freeze, scanning the brown soil-just leaves. Then-there she is: for a few seconds, motionless, small crocodile-like, vividly green, velvety. Then she darts away. I am now obsessed with lizards and all these elusive grass inhabitants, compelled to find and know them.

The radio plays, garden work, strawberries, dragonflies, helicopters, flies, wasps, rosehip, lizards, rustling bushes, pies with tea and currant leaves-all blend into one big mash called "summer house."


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Part 8, Text 5. Coming Back from Baba Valya"s Dacha... Bathing... Flashing Lights with Larisa... Massages.

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We return to the city in the evening, on some last bus.

We stop at a shop - to buy mineral water again. The mineral water comes in glass bottles, all green. It even tastes "green" - a kind of saltiness to it. At home, you need a can opener to open it; outside, only Dad somehow manages, using the apartment key.

We get home. That same door again, the one that seems to peel inward. Inside, it"s lined with a wood-effect film that rustles at the edges against the doorway - hence the constant "peeling" sound. Inside the flat, there"s the roar of traffic from the avenue below, a little cupboard, shoehorns with horses, Bibigon, and whining Hans. Hans has been bought some sprats, and so have we. Baba Valya will soon be bustling around the kitchen, warming up dinner, and in the evening, we"ll go bathing.

By now, we"ve eaten. Baba Valya has stored all the things brought from the dacha in the fridge, washed the dishes - she washes them fast, by hand - and a kettle of water is boiling: it"s bath time.

You step into the tub - the toilet is in front, immediately to the left is a small chest of drawers crammed with stuff, so much that I want to use the toilet right away. On the chest - a decorative cloth, a vase of dried twigs, and a load of colognes; behind it, along the wall, is the bath. Between the toilet and bath is a sink, but nobody uses it. Baba Valya lifts me, naked, into the bath, mixing cold tap water with hot water from the kettle. And we start pouring water over me, playing and laughing all the while. There"s this big bath sponge, and Baba Valya soaps me with it, foaming me up, and there"s this lovely shampoo - not just one kind - and the shampoos are decorated with different wave patterns. Especially those waves are painted on air fresheners. When Hans dirties himself, Baba Valya sprays the air freshener, and the air smells like, probably, the sea - because there are pictures of the sea on the canisters.

By the way, Baba Valya says she can"t swim. Neither can I.

I have some toys that float in the same basin, and everything"s just beginning, and I imagine going to the place on the air freshener pictures, where people are surfing on boards in the waves - and there"ll be fun and interesting things. I ask Baba Valya about it all, and we talk it through; she washes and pours water over me. It"s immensely entertaining when someone bathes you, fusses over you, does everything for you. I can"t imagine ever washing myself - I"d die of boredom.

Baba Valya rubs my feet - it tickles instantly, and I laugh and squirm. Later, when the soap is rinsed off, she takes the basin and dumps the remaining water all at once over me. I"m like under a waterfall, and, as always, I have no idea where all that water goes down the drain.

Then I drip a bit, and she lifts me out of the bath, placing me on a towel on the chest of drawers, where the vase and cloth have been moved. I stand there while the phone rings in the hall, but Baba Valya doesn"t answer - she"s busy with me; I"m the centre of attention, more important than anyone. She says, "That"s probably Larisa." She dries me with a big towel - flowers and some pears printed on it, soft and large.

She keeps laughing and joking with me, and after what feels like half an evening in the bath, we finally finish. Socks and underwear are put on, and I dash off to roll and tumble on the sofa in front of the TV, while Baba Valya calls Larisa from the kitchen, bragging about what a good boy I am. Then, without hanging up on Larisa, she calls me into the kitchen, lifts me up, switches off all the lights, and shows me a window far away, in the same kind of building opposite, on the same ninth floor - Larisa"s window. They play these evening flash-light games, and we respond by flicking the light on and off a few times.

Baba Valya wishes Larisa and Uncle Vanya good night, we switch the light back on and hang up. Outside, cars pass; across the street, all the windows are lit. We"ll have tea again, go to bed, and Baba Valya will give me a massage once more.

I lie down, and she says: "Rails-rails, sleepers-sleepers, a late train is coming, and from the last carriage run out..." - I"m ready - "Bibigons!" - and she tickles my back as if Bibigons are running along it, though I have no idea what they look like, and I laugh and wriggle in delight. I notice again that there"s something slightly shameful about being tickled. Something you couldn"t talk about with your parents - and anyway, I don"t know what it is myself.

Baba Valya says tomorrow it"ll be my turn to massage her.

She turns off the light and lies down with me until I fall asleep - she"ll sleep later. Tonight, she stays with me on the other end of the sofa, where Dad slept yesterday. He"s now at Lev Kassil with Mum.

While we chat, Hans meows in the hall, and Baba Valya hisses at him: "What is it? Quiet, Mum will be here soon." On the ceiling, lights from car headlights and reflections from windows opposite. Enthusiasts" Avenue never sleeps; it"s still hot, and the smell of decaying mosquito stuff lingers in the air.

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Part 8, Text 6. Baba Valya at the Preventorium... The Mask.

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The next day - after massages, despite protests, spoiling me and all her over-caring - we set off for the preventorium: that"s the special word for the building where Baba Valya works. We leave the flat, each with a "Rondo" in our mouths, Baba Valya with her "God," we slide down and exit the building. Turning left out of the entrance, then left again - around the corner, like at Lev Kassil. On the first floor of the corner - balconies - I pass beneath them, my little amusement here. And there it is - Enthusiasts" Avenue. Another strange word associated with Baba Valya. Left again - to the traffic light. We cross Enthusiasts and go back along the opposite side until we reach the driveway into the yards - right opposite Baba Valya"s windows.

We walk through the yards. To the right - a big, smelly, grey panel block. Another one after that. Panel buildings are already familiar: Lev Kassil, Baba Valya"s, and Aunt Larisa"s - all panel. Sometimes there are brick nine-storeys, but they feel "unfamiliar," "not home." We go straight. Behind a fence to the left - everything"s for children: swings, ladders. Baba Valya knows it all, and she greets passersby casually - everything here feels "familiar," "ours," close. There are no brick nine-storeys here at all. Giant pipes with peeling white insulation, manholes, the smell of basements. The asphalt - only in the drives, full of potholes; a little aside, grass and cracked soil, baked hard by heat. In wet weather, all yards turn to thick mud.

We turn right between buildings - now on the ground. Everywhere, playgrounds or schools. I have an inexplicable sense of familiarity from long ago with these residential courtyards - even a sense of connection with them. I also obsessively notice the people Baba Valya greets. My parents are socially connected, but none of these people are relatives; smiles are fleeting. This ever-present feeling of closeness to them - as illogical as feeling attached to all these entrances and schools I don"t use. Looking realistically, my adults" manners and confident social behaviour feel frivolous, unconvincing, or pretentious. It leaves me in a suspended, uneasy state, unsure how to relate to familiar and seemingly familiar surroundings.

Finally, the black fence and gate to the preventorium. To the left - a multi-storey building with continuous balconies. The building reeks of a bygone era - I"ve seen such balconies in old postcards. The yard is full of the same past-era charm: broken fountains, old paving; the preventorium building to the right has the same white tiles as the Engels museum and other retro-era buildings. Ahead, behind the fence and overgrown wasteland - Aunt Larisa"s house, which could see us from her ninth floor. The air in this area smells of basements and stairwells; Aunt Larisa"s is the stinkiest of any stairwell I"ve been in.

We enter the preventorium - a long corridor, doors to various rooms. At the end, passage to distant rooms, including pools for adults. Quiet now, carpet runs along the corridor from the entrance. It reminds me of "hotels" and of men in jackets - I"ve seen them on TV walking down carpeted corridors, often with Yeltsin. Baba Valya has a dull photo album showing her with such men - at the preventorium, at their banquets. The men often have narrow eyes - not Russian. Loads of glasses, long tables, food - very boring.

We enter a side room; I sit and wait. Baba Valya knows everything and is in charge. No one else is here. Everything"s tidy, but she vacuums the carpet, then calls me out to the front flowerbed. She takes a hose and starts watering the flowerbeds and trees, like at the dacha. Soon, the air smells like rain - wet earth, wet asphalt, the start of life. I recall this smell from my past. Sunlight filters through the trees as I wander and explore. Baba Valya lets me water, though I"m clumsy, then I follow the flow of water into the soil, laughing when it sprays me.

After enough watering, we return inside to eat and have tea.

Then Baba Valya asks: "Want me to show you a mask?" I want to, though I don"t know why it will be interesting. She warns me it"s scary, but I still want to see. She takes something from a cupboard, turns her back, does something at her face - and suddenly, it"s not her, it"s a monster - I scream and squeal. Baba Valya laughs, quickly removes the mask, and I"ve already started crying. She calms me. I don"t understand what it was, but now I"m afraid of the mask.

After lunch, we leave, passing through shops. Walking along the straight street to our noisy avenue. I still don"t understand why it"s called an avenue - on Kirov Avenue, people walk; here, cars drive like any normal street. At the corner, in a large brick residential building, the entire ground floor is shops - all connected, like a small, long bazaar. Toy shops, food, electronics, cigarettes, magazines. We buy food and head home.

At home in the evening, our little local idylls resume - massage, Baba Valya"s kitchen stories, flashing lights with Larisa. The floor lamp glows; the ceiling lamp is wooden, its shade like crossed boards. The lamp"s light is dim, very Baba Valya, very local. On her far kitchen counter, wooden holders for pepper grinders and kitchen tools, halved apples interlocking. Sauerkraut, garlic, drying mint and currant leaves. Seeing currants, I think of Hans, who meows and drags his rag around the hall all day, standing and shifting on it with his paws.


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___Part 9.

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Part 9, Text 1. Going to the Beach... The Path There.

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I"d spent several days at Baba Valya"s. In the second half of one day, Dad comes to pick me up. Baba Valya bustles around, packing lots of food and small things for me - socks, tights she bought. She escorts us to the lift, joking about things only we understand now. She tries to please us - even pressing the lift button herself. I can"t reach it. Off we go.

The trip to central Saratov is quick. Transfer to the Engels bus, Volga, the beach, another beach - soon we"re walking along Lev Kassil Street to the house. I have to admit - it"s sad. But I"ll visit Baba Valya again; summer has begun, the heat, and the beach awaits.

The beach outing happens later in the day, when both Dad and Mum are free. Dad arrives home, Mum is already there - drawing something boring, the smell of ink in the air. After a little food, we begin to get ready.

Mum takes a special mat to lay on the sand - orange, with a little fawn printed. I take my blue tricycle - and off we go. I ride the bike as usual along Khalturina, along Teatralnaya Street. Where the asphalt is particularly smooth, like on Teatralnaya, I sometimes don"t pedal at all; Dad just pushes me from behind, and I glide.

Some people are clearly going to the beach too, carrying swimming rings. Fathers sling them over their shoulders, hand through the hole. The closer to the Volga, the more rings. On the square, people are strolling. We pass the museum, out via the Monument to Soldiers on the Volga - until then, boats could only be heard. Now, on reaching the embankment, we can see them. Someone is being towed by a boat, like Dad used to. Others paddle twin pedal boats slowly. Adults drink beer, kids eat ice cream. Summer fun, all scented with river air.

We turn left along the embankment, pass the pier where daredevils jump - a boat has docked and people board. We pause, watch, then move on. Soon, a kind of slope to the water begins. Concrete, with a diagonal car ramp from the embankment to the waterside, and another identical ramp back up. The river is still high, water splashes onto the ramp. The bottom here is unclear - not sand, maybe cobbles? Yet boys jump from the concrete edge regardless.

The spot is also popular with anglers. Some fish from the ramp; others inflate boats and paddle off to islands. The concrete slope is covered with handprints, footprints, and markings - people deliberately left their mark as it set. In front of this descent stand five-storey flats, presumably with a great view of the Volga, islands, and Saratov. The slope is for enthusiasts; we rarely descended, mostly just looking down.

Boat engines hum endlessly from the Volga - giving life, a sense of ongoing motion. The closer to the beach, the more beach-like everything feels: more boats, smells of shashlik from the floating café on pontoons. Tables, chairs, men with red faces diving in while women sip beer - very unlike Mum.

To the left, slightly below, a small tennis court behind a mesh fence. A game is on; we stop to watch. I find it boring, but the bright, acid-green ball and the new rubber court are nice. You can run, fall, and not hurt yourself - I dislike hurting myself; I always cry and feel ashamed.

After the tennis court, past a concrete fence, abandoned industrial zones with collapsing buildings begin. The city noise fades; the dam curves, hiding distant walkers from view. Slightly scary here, but currently crowded with beachgoers. Sometimes a police car passes - everyone scatters.

To the right, another slope to the water - rough steps, many trees sprouting through cobbles. Nobody swims here; it"s quiet, anglers fish.

From afar, the beach noise grows - first a murmur, then a clear crowd roar. To the right, another special café. From the dam, a steep slope; I hold parents" hands, get off the bike. A horizontal path along the dam leads to a platform on metal stilts above cobbles, almost over the water. On the platform - the café, fun partly due to its precarious location.

Inside - shashlik, smoke of inaccessibility, music, patrons very unlike my parents: openly drinking beer, indulgent, merry, eating the smoky meat. Shashlik always seems like food for strangers. We never eat there.

Beach noise intensifies.

People approach barefoot along the asphalt dam, hair still wet, drying. Countless bathers shimmer in the sun"s reflection on the water. To the right, islands with trees and reeds; sometimes people there too. Approaching the beach, the slope is ancient, unmaintained; water at the edge overgrown with duckweed, lilies, reeds, and rusty metal rods, as if sunken boats. The worst shore along the embankment, clearly not for swimming.

Now we walk almost alongside the beach. The slope is concrete, the waterline recedes from the dam, replaced by sand. Stairs lead down to a gate behind the fence; beneath growing willows, a path leads to the shore with a boating theme. Boats, catamarans, even a floating structure - in the centre, a rescue station with antennas and loudspeakers issuing instructions to careless swimmers.

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Part 9, Text 2. Swimming, warming up, wallets and money, the chill, the shiver.

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As we walked to the beach, the sun was already sinking toward Saratov, but there was still time to swim before it went down, and my father said that by the end of the day the water is at its warmest right now. Ahead of us stretched a whole beach, teeming with people. Far off, between the shore and the islands, was the evening view of the Saratov Bridge. But here, at the bottom, the beach begins, and we head straight for the part closest to the fenced-off boat area. People were everywhere on blankets, more so closer to the water. Children splashed along the shore and built sand houses. Somewhere, music played. We found an empty spot near the water and spread out.

I was already in my swim trunks, my father in his adult-style briefs-like shorts-and he asked me, "Ready?" And I was ready, brimming with anticipation, and he went first. More theatrically than recklessly, like other men, he ran, dived, and surfaced a little further out. He turned, his hair plastered to his head by the water, and he looked "like a church clerk"-that"s what he and my mother called it, laughing. I had no idea who a church clerk was. My father said, "Come on in," and I waded deeper and deeper, already up to my shoulders, jumping in the water. Jumping off the bottom lets you soar higher than from the ground-the water helps. My father grabbed my hands and, holding me, pulled me deeper where I could no longer touch the bottom. I kicked my legs, and he guided me through the water, sometimes letting go, supporting me under the stomach, showing me how to stroke, and so on. And finally, my mother, having stripped down and entered the water, joined in-teaching something too-but then my father mostly kept an eye on our things.

So we swam, and the sun had already set behind the trees on the island-only its rays shone through the gaps in sparse areas-revealing meadows of flowers, untouched forest, even though people occasionally visited the island: in another part, there"s a small bay with a pier and buildings. Along the shore nearest us lay driftwood and fallen trees, and there were clearly plenty of frogs: the later the evening, the louder and more continuous their croaking-the main sound I associate with the Volga.

We got out to warm up, and right then, weaving between people on blankets, an old woman-apron on, shuttle bag in hand-was repeating the word "pies" almost like a song: first "pi"-slowly, then "rozh"-a note a fourth higher, adding "ki"-and continued a rapid recitative, in triplets, repeating "pies" over and over. Then she mixed in the word "hot": starting again off the beat-syllable "ho," stretched on the main note, now down in pitch-"t," back to the tonic for the rest, and again recited "pies" in a loop, so that at some point the stress shifts to the first syllable.

My father bent down for his wallet, and the old woman, who reacted to even a movement toward clothing, was already coming our way. I loved wallets-they were something adults had and needed, and that was really cool. Inside-those beautiful coins, especially the metal ones. Seeing metal coins made me think of ice cream, pies, "Rondo" candies, trips to Saratov, and I could hear in my memory the clink of these coins on a saucer at a kiosk on the way home from the beach, and beyond the window-two bottles of beer for the adults, a lollipop for me, and then dinner for the three of us at home. Of course, money could also mean the boredom of waiting for my mother in the stores, paying for all those tedious groceries on the blue, dull scales, behind which stood a shop assistant who didn"t look like my mother.

And so, my father and I-my mother didn"t want to-ate a potato pie, which tastes incredible when you"re cold and just out of the water. I was all gooseflesh, shivering at times, and my father told stories about walrus people, and it struck me as strange that the same word could describe both people and animals. I"d seen walrus animals in children"s books, but had no idea what walrus people looked like. I also remembered Umka and the Arctic North Pole, and if not for that hot pie, I"d have frozen completely. But thanks to the pie, I came alive again and stopped shivering. My hands were greasy, and my mother handed me a cloth to wipe off-and we went back to the water.

At the water, I accidentally stepped on some sand construction, but no one was around-it didn"t matter. My father left deep footprints in the sand, while mine barely showed. We waded back in, and he kept teaching me to swim. Water went up my nose-and that hurt. My father pointed to the side: "Look, fish," and I tried diving to see underwater, but could barely make out shapes-faint outlines of fish and people"s legs-and the water stung my eyes. Then, when you surface, you blink forever. These are the unpleasant parts of swimming.

After enough swimming, we got out, and I got cold again, shivering-what we called the chill-and no more talk of walruses or icy oceans. We started drying off with towels from home: I mostly dried myself, while the parents dried gradually. A dry towel from home, wiping off and stopping the cold-pure bliss. My father only dried his face, saying it immediately warmed him. I didn"t agree-seeing the water drops on his back and imagining his sensations even from that light breeze, I felt the chill all over again. I really hate being cold.

Thus, there are three unpleasant physical sensations on a beach trip. First, the water tearing up your nose if you accidentally inhale it while diving. Second, stinging eyes underwater. Third-and the most agonising because it lasts longest-is the chill, this shivering, what we called the shiver. These physical torments are the price for the fun you have at the beach. The same goes for washing up in the morning. The toothpaste tastes good, your hand warms under the hot stream, and then, when you finish, there"s the joy of completing this tooth-and-face ritual-a pleasant sense of freedom. But to reach it, you have to wash your face with cold water-a mini-hardening, a bit like a walrus. My father says it"s necessary. And I hate washing my face with cold water when I just wake up, all warm from bed, shivering. I just hate it. Or the nice feeling after pooping-when you"ve wiped, dressed, and feel so comfortable that you just want to crawl back into the warm bed with something soft to hug. But to reach that, you must endure the unpleasant pain of the poop itself. I enjoy the sensations before and after-the urge and the release-but I don"t like the actual act, forcing it out. And it"s right near the penis, which I associate with the pain from the clinic earlier.

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Part 9, Text 3. About covering the penis, psychology of shy laughter, leaving the beach.

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So, roughly those were my thoughts as I dried off. Then my parents held a towel around my waist while I took off my trunks and put on dry ones from home-and only then did I truly feel comfortable and warm. My comfort and warmth came from my penis and the rest down there, not my face like my father"s.

And about the towel-well, I was already at the age to hide my penis from other people. Last summer, I could still strip down completely here-like other younger kids-without covering myself. But this year-no. Adults don"t show their penis to others. There are even changing booths on this beach. The walls of these booths are slightly raised from the ground so you can see legs, checking if someone is inside. One leg, then the other, gets lifted-that"s how you know they"re taking off their underwear.

And this whole topic is tied to laughter. If someone sees someone else"s bare penis, it should be funny to them. This never actually happened to me-I"m just describing what it would feel like. It requires explanation. I"ll try to convey my perception of it.

For instance, I probably wouldn"t bother hiding my penis if my parents hadn"t started covering it themselves, teaching me that at my age-emphasising "age"-you must hide it. I never got a clear reason why. Then, because I naturally seek amusement from boredom, it all becomes a game. Now, for example, they hold the towel while I change, and if my mother drops it-I lose. Hiding my penis became a game. On a larger scale-"not sliding back into childhood" became a game. If someone saw my bare penis-I"d lose, becoming small and powerless again, like if I were seen crying. So while I balance on one leg, struggling to get my foot into my trunks, we all laugh.

Why laughter? My parents laugh simply because I laugh. Laughter is contagious. And my laughter masks genuine emotions in an imagined humiliation scenario. I imagine all these people around-with their advantages, experience, independence, sleepless nights, swimming skills, wallets with money exchanged for goods-while I am "below" them in ability and age, yet striving for adulthood, trying to hold it together-I"d fail and drop the towel, exposing my bum or penis. And in such a scenario, my only way to mask defeat is to imagine the surrounding people-exulting in their superiority, happy and gleeful-reacting with me, laughing at my problem, making my shame shared. I"d split in two. Can"t remain myself-a disgrace?

We gather our things and dress. Father puts on his work shirt, mother a T-shirt and shorts. We fold our blanket into a bag-and off we go.

Walking on sand is hard, and I can"t imagine the strength it takes to run across it, like those guys always playing volleyball on the far side of the beach.

Next, we climb the concrete slope from the sand up to the embankment. Broken glass here and there, and my father avoids it, walking barefoot a bit so sand falls off and doesn"t get into his shoes. I wear sandals, so I"m already shod.

On the way back, nothing has changed except that what was on the right is now on the left, and vice versa, and most people are leaving the beach. For those still arriving, I think: "How will they swim in the evening chill, without the warming sun?" Still, I feel proud-I endured even this shivering without showing how rough it was. Father-and mother too-want me to be a man, so I was. Well, "man" figuratively, because real men are over there on the left, in the café on the columns: beer, roaring laughter, loud music, and a dense, meaty haze of kebabs.

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Part 9, Text 4. Father at the library, mosaics, puzzles, rough textures, Moydodyr, exercise, mother with "tidy up" and the knot.

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We"ve taken to going to the beach.

Now it"s the afternoon, and we walk with mother from the Volga, eating ice cream, passing Gorky Street by the city library. Through the large windows, you can see the reading room full of books-like at home, only bigger, to the point that when we once went in out of curiosity, it even smelled of books. It"s hot now, and right outside the library entrance, in the shade on the pavement, stands a stall, and behind it, the seller-my father. His stall has all sorts of things, mostly books, with a selection just like all the other book vendors along Kirov Street.

Here, I can linger over all these books with bright, glossy covers, which have long captivated me at Saratov"s book stalls. These are nothing like the books at home. Except for a dozen glossy ones, the massive bookshelf at home is full of decrepit, terribly boring-looking books, without any cover images, let alone gloss or illustrations. And these stall books have all of that-plus characters in proper proportions-I"ve noticed I like realistic proportions, not the exaggerated ones in cartoons. And these books depict things you don"t see on TV or anywhere else: kings, people in robes, daggers-or spaceships, incredible technology, monsters, even oddities. In just my father"s stall, there"s more interesting stuff than I"ve seen in life, and it all smells of new paper. The thickest, most colourful books are wrapped in cellophane. If we had this at home, I"d just run around leafing through them.

Besides books, there are mosaics. My father now gives me a new one from his collection. They"re also called puzzles-you assemble a picture from them. I love them-glossy, smelling new, vivid colours. Usually featuring characters from cartoons I"ve never seen. There"s a popular cartoon with humanoid ducks. There are also some machines, robots, and such, but I"m not too interested in them or the ducks. I look for a lion, a tiger. I want to be them-the king of nature, not this technological stuff. King of real, natural things, not tech.

At home, from New Year"s gifts, I have a mosaic-real mosaic. Lots of even buttons, like the metal ones my mother pins to her special drawing board on the table for boring sheets. Mine are plastic, mushroom-shaped. Three colours-blue, white, red-with a special plate with holes to insert them as you like, creating mosaic patterns. I don"t actually make pictures. I just arrange each colour together, creating three zones, and smooth the caps: I like the smooth surface and the order. Patterns-chaos.

Puzzles-same story, but order is reversed-you must fit them into the picture. Smooth and glossy to the point that I want to caress the completed result with my cheek. I love everything shiny, new, perfect, and also unknown and unexplored-like these cartoons.

I"m not interested in rough and old-fashioned stuff. Chipollino, Cheburashka-no. Among rough things, maybe "Nu, pogodi!" because it constantly changes locations-unlike Tom & Jerry. I once saw Tom & Jerry-it was very boring, foreign language didn"t save it. But Tom & Jerry also grabbed me in the opposite way: the cozy, hideaway comfort of the mouse"s den, the escapist theme-running into the den, being absolutely safe, with cheese and food stored. Sitting in hiding, observing life outside, safe from intruders. In such secluded passivity, there"s a sense of control-control over everything outside, like my dreams sitting on the cupboard watching the world. Control over my fate, at least.

But this escapism is for autumn, illness, chills, mother with raspberry compote, and infantile comfort. Dynamic foreign cartoons-or chase games like "Nu, pogodi!"-colourful, energetic, are summer, lions, potency. And in summer, I want that more.

What I dislike: morning exercise. Father insists; I pretend to like it. We run in the room, careful not to hit the piano, then push-ups, father lifts me, I try pull-ups. Despite wanting activity, I dislike it. Two reasons:

First-the early physiological state-I don"t want to exert myself so much, it seems morning exercises and cold washes are deliberately cruel. I want activity in the day.

Second-to be active and agile with my father-it"s pointless. I want agility where it actually matters.

Besides Moydodyr-like and shivering torment, there"s another unpleasant morning association: water always runs in the kitchen, mother washing dishes and preparing breakfast. I hate it when mother handles kitchen tasks-her stress and my anxiety combine. It started with "Police Robot" and noodle tortures-but not while father is with us-but even then, it was always the same. She loves to start washing dishes when it"s just us. She"ll stand forever; nothing will rinse off the burnt eggs. The clogged sink barely drains; she takes a blue bucket from under the sink to empty it in the stairwell pipe. Cigarette smoke from crouching neighbours wafts in. It enrages her, and she tells me to do something.

"Go tidy your room." Oh, how I hate tidying my room. I can"t even trace why-it"s a deep dislike, tied to my mother"s nervousness. Her stress poisons my mood. She turns from the omnipotent mother into someone unsure, unable to help or protect herself, let alone me. If she fails, what then? When it"s just us at home, this knot of nervous tension settles in my stomach: a sense of impending trouble, helplessness. I wish someone would call-then it would vanish. While she speaks, I lie on the bed, touching myself, recalling all sensations from tickling massages-connected, somehow, to the penis.

After talking, she relaxes, becomes cheerful. She also relaxes-meaning I don"t have to do anything-when I go to poop. Going to poop or pee is a legitimate excuse to be freed from everything, the calmest time when nothing happens. And the poop comes out brown and smelly; I can"t see it in the mirror between toilet and bath, no other mirror exists.

I play with buttons, cars, assemble puzzles, while dragonflies fly in through the open balcony and flies buzz around.


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Part 9 Text 5. Evening - second trip to the beach... life vest... sand like beads... Sanya... strangers.

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In the evening, it"s Dad again, and we"re back at the beach. Peanuts, ice cream, the same blanket with the little fawn, the same paths and piers. And now we"ve brought an inflatable life vest. For some reason, it"s linked in my mind to jelly, and jelly - well, that"s something set, like aspic in the cold, though not necessarily cold. I"ve never seen jelly; I"ve only seen meat aspic in winter, and it had to be eaten with mustard - I liked that. But I don"t like meat in cabbage soup, because it"s hard to chew and gets stuck between my teeth. Still, if you fish it out with your tongue an hour after eating, it"s like a second meal, and I imagine myself as a mole or that little mouse hoarding supplies in its burrow - except I stash it all in my mouth at once. I also think of the rice and some boring grains stored down below on the shelves in the cupboard under the counter between the sink and the stove. There are cockroaches running around there, but I"m not afraid of them. Though cockroaches are considered really harmful, much worse than flies, and certainly more than dragonflies. A dragonfly is noble, almost like a helicopter; a cockroach is just a cockroach, hanging out near rice stores and trash bins in panelled apartment blocks like ours.

The vest - inflatable - and Dad blows it up on the way, while I watch the ships, catamarans, and boys shouting as they launch themselves into the water, their sunburnt backs and straw-coloured hair blazing. To the left, people are playing tennis; to the right, dancing; ahead, the beach crowd builds, and I"m about to swim out there. If it weren"t for my parents, I"d swim to the island. At least, I think I wouldn"t be scared.

We strip down; I put on the vest, and Dad fastens some plastic clips to keep it on - I don"t know how to do that. I can only fasten my sandal buckle. And now we"re in the water, and I"m swimming.

Dad says the way I swim is called "doggy style." I paddle underneath, especially with my hands, so my head stays above water - it"s amazing, like flying in zero gravity. But Dad demonstrates the "proper" way - he calls it swimming breaststroke, scooping the water sideways with your hands. He says: "Slide, slide," and you have to glide over the water, keeping your chin down. It"s already a pattern: no matter what he teaches, it"s either boring or awkward.

So I get tired of all these strokes and just float like a barrel or a buoy, imagining I"m flying with fish below - I think I even brushed one with my foot. There are so many; sometimes a whole school passes, but they"re elusive. I try to catch one, but nope - they"re like underwater sparrows, lightning-fast, impossible to touch unless by accident. But fish and sparrows both love being fed bread, and you can lure them close. Try to grab them, and they swim or fly away immediately. I don"t get why they won"t let you - I"d hold them and let them go.

We warm up again. The sand is still hot from the day. I sit in it wet, and it sticks immediately - making me look ridiculous. It also shields me from the wind - it doesn"t reach my skin under the sand, which is brilliant. I examine the tiny grains, trying to find similar ones - none match: all the billions of grains on the beach are unique. Like snowflakes, my parents told me - all different shapes. Occasionally, you spot a pretty pebble, but it"s still like a bead. Like the tiny beads at home in the button boxes that make me want to poop - so many treasures, all unknown.

Dad stands or sits on the blanket; he doesn"t play with the sand. Mom sometimes shows me things with sand, and he hums our songs from Lev Kassil: "Djumalaya binga-bonga," and it instantly connects us, reminds us of home. We talk about home, what to buy to eat, then they drift into boring conversations, and I just watch everything around me: the floating house on pontoons, waves lapping the shore, two girls nearby who look alike, probably sisters, playing in the sand. I feel like I"ve seen them a couple of times on other days.

I watch the volleyball players, amazed how they throw themselves onto the sand, fists together, falling flat and yet not seeming hurt. Strange. If you fall on your elbow or knee, the sand cushions you. But falling flat like them - the impact is strong. I understand the physics, but they don"t seem in pain, or they just don"t show it.

We get dressed to leave again. I hold the towel, laughing again, walking past the changing rooms, where people hide to keep their genitals private, not to be humiliated in childhood nudity. Many have dark hair, sunburnt backs. Someone shouts a friend"s name far away; all voices are strangers. They all feel alien. They may look like us, speak our language, some even called Sanya - like Dad. Ordinary people, two eyes, hands, and genitals. But every detail - tan, voice, manners - is completely unlike ours. Dad has loose shorts; theirs are tight. They eat seeds differently - not like my parents with two hands, just one seed at a time. I tried mimicking - pressing the seed carefully between my teeth to crack it - but it broke unevenly.

Everything about strangers is different from our family. At their homes, too - I imagine cupboards, wallpaper, tablecloths - all alien. And the smell in their homes is different, like walking past a neighbour"s open door - a strange scent, everything else unfamiliar. Unpleasant. I want to go home, to our flat, where we"ll have dried fish, Mom"s salad, everything ours.

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Part 9 Text 6. Heat... beads Kirov... dreams... mosquitoes.

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At home, the heat sets in. Real heat. This summer, our windows stayed patched up and can"t open. In other apartments, I barely see open windows either - probably patched out of laziness. Everyone has vents, and those are wide open, plus balcony doors. The fan never stops; it"s somehow cosmic, named "Orbit."

I recently remembered the beads in the button box. That"s the word Dad jokingly uses for sweat, especially his own on his shoulders. He usually says not just "beads," but "beads Kirov" - and it cracks him and Mom up. I always join in laughing. I sweat, but not much. Mostly it"s them, especially Dad - beads Kirov-ing - hence the fan. Plus, as I said, they can"t blow directly on me, or the sheet moves. Annoys me - yet another sign I"m still a kid.

This whole growing-up theme shows up not just in exposure but in other things. It bugs me that adults can do this and that, smoke, sit under the fan, while I can"t do anything - only ice cream, and in tiny bites. Damn "small sips." Annoys me when other adults hear mine being told these rules while we drink kvass.

Back to heat. I"m not sweating much. My bed is now in the middle room, where I sleep - the double bed is gone. Parents are in the living room under the fan on the sofa-bed by the balcony. I fall asleep thinking about the beach, my parents joking about their own things. Mom"s laughing, squealing - that means all is well, and no washing or floor-scrubbing tomorrow. Then I think of the Volga, of flying over it on a catamaran - or rather, above the islands, to Saratov. I think of small sips of kvass, of those strangers, their swimsuits on tiny bodies.

That night gets hot even for me. I wake, half-asleep, in half-something - like the first fever day. Maybe I even wet myself - I"m disoriented, like standing asleep. End up between parents on the unfolded sofa. Dad curls into a corner; I"m next to Mom, now under the fan too. Mosquitoes buzz; I hear Mom trying to clap them in the dark. Outside, crickets, insects, barking stray dogs, and a car passing every half hour on Lev Kassil street. I sleep, drifting, imagining floating catamarans, ice cream, the beach, Detsky Mir, a wallet with shiny money. Like an adult...

Morning comes late. No one rushes me. As always. Even if tedious exercises, Moydodyr, boring black-and-white cartoon on the living room TV - the good home atmosphere and morning idyll make it bearable. I run around the flat in my inflated vest - green-blue. My autumn jacket is the same colour but still too big.

I look forward to wearing clothes I"ve outgrown, pants from New Year gifts, and Mom has future clothes too: in the corridor closet, near the living room section, besides coats, a green, very warm down jacket for the future.

I return to the magazines on the coffee table, and again I poop. Heat makes it harder, sweaty. Also hard in the toilet when it"s hot. And, Dad having been there, it smells like cigarettes - rarely though.

.:::.

Part 9 Text 7. Third beach trip... sisters... strangers theme - don"t tell parents.

.::::.

Today we head to the beach earlier. Didn"t eat much, so Mom makes sandwiches to take. Same fawn blanket. There"s something sad in all these primitive child amusements - the fawn drawing, clinic wall art, oversized simple toys. Among my toys, there"s a plush bear from Mom"s childhood - same series. I"ll return to this later.

And, of course, whether it"s the rough fawn, the plush bear, the wooden inside of a matryoshka, or the coarse throw on the mustard chair in the kitchen - the first thing they evoke is that musty sense of bygone eras. Boring, rough, matte, not bright poison-green like my swimming vest or outgrown jacket. I want vivid, smooth, shiny. Lots of green, like leaves in sunlight or grass on the island before the beach. Full of life and potential, not these old-fashioned coats and broken fountains.

We leave on Lev Kassil street. Again Hal"turina, Teatral"naya. After the adult theatre, left side - an adult café with beer, shashlik, plastic chairs. Square, towards the embankment. Cafés on both sides, still beer, smoke, music, all foreign.

And now we"re at the beach, from our usual end. Roar of boats, waves, sun high. We"ll stay longer today. I bask in the sand, now put on my vest, and we run into the water with Dad. We run.

Waist-deep, water slows our legs - no longer running, but slogging - then splash! - fall in and float on the inflatable vest. Without it, swimming is impossible. When I can swim without it someday, it"ll be a big step toward adulthood. Music from a floating house surrounded by boats; kids building sandcastles by the water.

Look - the girls are here again, the ones I thought I"d seen before. Same ones. Solid green swimsuits, about my age. They look very much alike. Dark hair. Judging by how they play, they understand each other - likely sisters. Building sandcastles near the water. My parents and I are several groups away.

These girls - completely strangers. My parents don"t know their parents. Our parents know no one here, and we"re always alone.

For some time, I"d been pondering: we don"t interact with strangers, yet we cover our genitals, dress decently, follow social norms. But these people remain strangers. In Engels, my parents" town, there"s not even the pretense of closeness like with Granny Valya"s neighbours - no handshakes or exchanges on the street - that I noted then. So why do strangers, with no connection, even minimally follow these life norms?

Seeing the girls consciously made me want to know: how adult are they - how they sip kvass, do they cry in clinics, all these nuances.

Mom pulls out sandwiches; we eat. I watch the sisters from the corner of my eye. The more I think about them, the more I want to know. Soon, I want to know everything: what they eat, their home scent, where they live, their toys. No way to know any of it.

Later, after another swim, we head home. Again past the changing rooms; I go in to change underwear after Mom, for variety. The room is unpleasant: sand cold from lack of sun, and if you spot a spit from bold Sanyas or fearless volleyball players - gross. Spit feels nasty, like excrement, something separated from a person. Spit mixes with sand into a wet, unpleasant clump underfoot. Cigarette butts too.

Then we climb the dam; Dad and I want to pee, go down the other side. Trees, zigzag paths - left, then right, like in mountains. On a bend, spruces and needles on the ground. Dad stands guard while I pee, and then vice versa. People walk above, slapping sandals, kids audible; sometimes a car delivers goods, and everyone parts reluctantly, like on Kirov Avenue.

I try not to let parents know what"s on my mind. Think about it on the way home, during our light dinner, and while falling asleep.

Morning comes as usual. New discoveries, new topics, plans, upcoming trip to Granny Valya. The girls? Not on my mind. No point. They are the beach. Without a beach trip, they don"t exist. Any theoretical closeness seems as far-off as adulthood - "in a thousand years."

Why hide it from parents? Too early to answer. It"s only just begun. From the first moments, the feeling connected to thoughts I haven"t told anyone - not even myself yet - was there. I need to keep feeling it.


.:.

___Part 10.

.:::.

Part 10 Text 1. Back to Grandma Valya,,, the zoo and the lion,,, to Larisa"s.

.::::.

Back to Grandma Valya. My father drops me off with her in central Saratov, and we set off. Minty Tic-Tac, a sense of celebration, the lion easing away the stress.

But we don"t go straight to her place. She says some animals have just arrived nearby. The zoo - somewhere I"ve wanted to visit for a long time. So we get off one stop before home.

It"s all on a small square in front of a park - across the street from the aeroplane monument. We head to the ticket office. The animals are already close; you can hear them roaring, mooing, and babooning. I can hardly wait. Grandma has bought the tickets, and we go in.

I"ve never seen anything like it. This is exactly what I want. No clowns, magicians, or acrobats on elephants. No circus smell - no candy floss or anything like that. Just the raw scent of animals, animal dung. The cages are arranged in a circle, forming a little courtyard, and you can only see who"s inside from the inside. I immediately spot the predator cages in the distance, but I deliberately decide to start with the boring ones - mammoths, bison, and some antelopes. The girls are watching them.

And finally, after the bears - menacing but not elegant, and still living in the silly North - we reach the lion"s cage.

There he is. Look at him. He paces with his shaggy mane. That"s power - and see him yawn. Even when he yawns, he growls like a grandfather"s scooter.

We stand by him for half an hour, and I just keep watching. Occasionally, we wander to another cage - Grandma Valya is interested in all that boring stuff - but I always bring us back to the lion. You can"t get close: the fence around all the cages is especially far from him. This is the real deal. This is how I want to be.

At home - everything"s the same as back then: delicious "meal-of-the-day" food, a simpler next day; massages before sleep, currants, Hans and Bibigon on the hallway wall.

The next day we head out and enter that commercial ground floor of a large apartment building, with one store after another. Boring sections selling groceries and household chemicals. Household chemicals smell strange and make me think of tropical islands, sea waves, and beaches - exactly like in the cartoon Boniface the Lion, except the images on the air fresheners are perfect, real photos, while in Boniface everything is drawn awkwardly and out of proportion. I especially dislike how the little black kids are drawn. The only thing I like about that cartoon is the music.

We wander through this shopping centre with Grandma. The smell of old meat, red puddles under the counters, blue scales with the sellers, ribbons hanging from the ceiling with flies stuck to them. Disgusting. Grandma buys some boring stuff and mineral water, and we go outside. Hellish heat. I eat a banana and will later suck on a Rondo.

We stop briefly at Grandma Valya"s sanatorium and then head to Aunt Larisa"s house, right across a small empty lot from the sanatorium, as I mentioned.

We turn into the courtyard. Right in front of Larisa"s entrance is a small grocery kiosk. It"s always busy at the window, even a queue. While Grandma buys boring stuff and mineral water, I, as always, watch the rats by the entrance. They"re cat-sized here, looking mischievous, fighting each other. Many are bald. They run between the holes in the basement and the bin by the entrance - just like at Lev Kassil. We eat, breathe not-so-fresh air, and jump back into darkness - they"re everywhere.

We enter the building. It smells of pipes from the rat basement. We take the lift. Everything"s the same as in countless panel-blocks across the city - and that unites people. We exit on the top floor. A staircase on the right leads to the roof, but it"s closed. I want to climb up there, to feel above everyone. The landing smells of smoke, ashtrays stand around.

And Aunt Larisa opens the door: all "Hi," all friendly. In the shared hallway we take off our shoes. Another unfamiliar smell, a sense of the unknown. But I"m fine here - I feel confident for everyone, since Grandma Valya knows everyone and everything, and she works and lives nearby.

Larisa says, "Come to the kitchen," "Wash your hands."

Inside the apartment, you first step into the corridor. Right leads to the living room with a balcony. Straight ahead is the bedroom. Left - bathroom, then a right turn to the toilet and kitchen. That"s the apartment. Two rooms.

In the corridor by the front door is a small table with patterned iron legs. It feels palace-like. Next to it is a low stool with a green soft seat, like a card table in colour. The stool immediately brings excitement and the urge to pee. Dark linoleum and wallpaper, a green carpet along the corridor. The overall vibe - interiors from that adult games magazine on Lev Kassil. Above the table - a mirror in a patterned frame. Nothing else. Nothing more, really.

We wash hands - first task. Multiple leather strips hang from the ceiling to the floor toward the bathroom, like long sliced strips of skin - a local entertainment. While washing, I inspect everything, as always. Everything here is amazing: pristine white new bath, shiny chrome mixer, spotless new tiles. A whole different world compared to Lev Kassil. Our floor there - ugly plastic, nothing shines. The floors there bring tension about cleanliness. Here everything gleams, everything is always cleaned. I can"t imagine Larisa herself cleaning, but someone does - Uncle Vanya? He"s at work, serious, quiet. Hard to picture him mopping. And no one else - just me and Grandma Valya today and yesterday.

Strong smell of cleaning chemicals, detergents. Like at Grandma Valya"s, just more - all those bottles, sprays, with palm trees, waves, islands - you want to live there or at least always look at the pictures. I wish Lev Kassil had such bottles; I"d spray them everywhere, imagining a tropical beach.

Then I go pee - next door from the bathroom. Like Lev Kassil, only here everything is shiny: dark tiles like black marble, matching the corridor. The decor together with the corridor - all dark tones - amazing: palace-like, and I want to be in palaces, because the most powerful live there. The toilet smells of air freshener. I, as always, pee on the seat. I tell Grandma, she comes in, wipes. She ensures everything is clean for Larisa.

Speaking of order - the apartment is minimalist. In the living room, only a sofa, two armchairs, exercise bike, coffee table, TV, small cabinet, a bonsai, and a couple of magazines. Seems few things, but standard. I know how it is at Grandma Valya"s, Lev Kassil, and Grandma Klava. Look at Grandma Klava"s living room: same, but a closer look - glasses, remote, newspaper, Marsik on the sofa. A throw on the sofa. Around the TV - sockets, pass-through window to the toilet with a pile of newspapers from years. Side - a flower pot or seedlings. Coffee table with colognes - like Larisa"s, endless details. Cabinet - more stuff than Larisa"s, three times bigger. Everywhere - books, cords, piano. At Grandma Valya"s - two footstools, huge cabinet with palace-worthy glasses. Windows - sheer curtains, then drapes. Hot everywhere, radio playing some Latin something. At Larisa"s - cool. Light in the living room. No dust. Sun soft through white curtains, like a resort idyll on TV. Also Santa Barbara-like, only here she"s Barbara, on a bright new TV, channel switched with a light touch, huge remote. Sitting on a soft, light sofa, cold cover you want to caress. I could stay here forever.

.:::.

Part 10 Text 2. Santa Barbara,,, sofa,,, unpleasant nap,,, Grandma Valya"s Sveta,,, circle.

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We eat in the kitchen. Even in this heat, it"s still somewhat stuffy. But everything is more or less new. The kitchen counters are solid, rounded edges - you won"t hurt yourself. In other apartments I visit, the cabinets are old, metal-edged. Here the doors are wooden, with real grain - amazing, Santa Barbara-style.

We eat, wash hands again, the smell of cleaning products, islands, basins with soaking clothes that could probably go unwashed. Marble floor, walls, suspended ceiling with lights. You want to embrace all this perfection.

Then - to the living room, but along the way we peek into the bedroom. Double bed, wardrobe, nothing else. Super atmosphere: velvet bedspread, trees moving outside the curtains, silence. The wardrobe - unlike any I"ve known, here it closes perfectly. It"s ideal, like a bath.

In the living room... I"ve already described it. I sit, become the "driver" of the sofa, given the remote, while Grandma Valya and Larisa go do something in the boring part of the apartment. I control the automatic channel of perfect life - Santa Barbara, cities with palms, arched villa entrances, pools in the yard. Comfortable seat, minimalist style.

I spread my legs like a ruling lord, centre of the sofa, tickling myself. Ahead - endless life, everything just like Santa Barbara and this room.

I fall asleep. Now some fuss around. Uncle Vanya comes. Just "Hi," he shakes my hand - like a real man. I think: "Wow, I"m grown up." But I"m in an unpleasant state after the nap. Only solace - everyone here is familiar.

Grandma Valya fusses around the table, Larisa unexpectedly brings me delicious ice cream with super-tasty jam - nothing like Lev Kassil - Santa Barbara and America. Even though we have ice cream at home in Engels, here you eat it as a given; there, as dessert - deserved, life had been crap before it.

We fully dine at home with Grandma Valya - more salty, herring, spices. Larisa eats mostly bought or semi-prepared stuff; Grandma Valya likes making things herself. Evening - massage, again that weird tickling-shame thing. What is that, really?

Next day, "Kumyska" - kiosk, Rondo tram, Volga stadium, Ikarus, dacha folks. We go to the dacha, water bugs again, long walk to Grandma Valya"s through alleys and pumping stations, with stories about the water being healing, unlike tap. I play in bushes with sticks, most of all wanting to see lizards, dragonflies flying around. Cars sometimes pass - narrow street, and the side plots spring to life - dacha folk stand to see who passes, and the driver knows all eyes are on him.

Back to civilisation - suffocating crowd: many dacha folks, smell of "old curd," buckets of berries, sitting on laps, itchiness, sweat on wrinkled chins. Boredom, craving attention, antics like loud burps with commentary: "That"s me eating radishes," everyone laughs.

Evening - bath with basins, pots, scoops. Tropical islands on toilet air freshener and shampoo.

Next day similar, but Grandma Valya"s neighbour Aunt Sveta visits - super-friendly like Larisa. Grandma Valya briefly enters her apartment, invites me in. Same shiny clean interior, similar corridor carpet - lively ticklish colour. Basins, detergents, shampoos. My adult homes have no such scents; only at Grandma Valya"s with air freshener.

Aunt Sveta - noticeably older than Larisa, a proper aunt, with light-coloured hair. Her name means light - three words of "light" now. Also what people call where we live - like love. "Love" is a name and the heart graffiti on garages. In adverts, chewing gum images - red heart - adult childhood association.

Grandma Valya sometimes mentions enrolling me in a local "circle." I don"t know what it is, imagine a chalk-drawn circle with kids, chairs, games, fuss. Once we walked to the local aviation factory gate, multiple entrances - circle there. Across the street, an old white-tiled building - she meant circles are there.

.:::.

Part 10 Text 3. Daytime beach with father,, sisters there,, thinking more about them,,, father"s friends arrive with Valik.

.::::.

At Lev Kassil, mostly boring: daytime games with confusing toys, evening - beach.

Sometimes father is home during the day; we go to the beach - amazing. Evening beach is routine, daytime - unknown, lots of possibilities, whole day ahead. I love beginnings, all pleasure ahead.

We go with him; more people than evening - nowhere to spread out. No mat, we stack shorts on shoes, close to water. Father watches our stuff and wallet. I swim with help, can"t without him. Daytime visibility makes swimming calmer, though evening is more romantic. Evening - island landscape, sun through trees, empty clearings. Once we saw grazing cows - still puzzling how they got there. Many mysteries remain; I can"t ask parents about everything. Beyond this island, other islands, so much unexplored - endless life ahead.

Two girls? They"re here, probably beach more often. Splashing in shallow water, playing in sand - strangers.

We eat pies - everything"s super, life endless. I just wait. Recent thoughts on fitting norms give me hope. Logical: I act like everyone else, they do too, our conformist behaviour is like a common language - sooner or later something happens, someone says something, someone notices, contact begins. I just wait for that.

Each day, I dream of them more "realistically." First, just memories before sleep - silhouettes of two girls. Now, I visualise them fully: individual habits, behaviours, gestures. Five-ten minutes before sleep not enough; I think about them whenever possible - waiting in a store, while father plays piano. Being unoccupied is frequent.

With no other option to satisfy curiosity, thinking about them grows into a need, driving me to escape distractions.

Meanwhile, some random friends of parents arrive - seemingly from another city beyond Saratov"s hills. They have a car, a child my age or younger. Called Valya, but male.

They treat me well - stickers, puzzles, trinkets. My parents... look, they give same things to Valik! What the hell?

A strange, unprecedented feeling flares. How the hell? Am I the main one here? Why equal kindness to some Valik? He"s nobody. I mask it - civility learned from Leopold cats and damn books. But hell.

After a six-person beach day, they stay overnight. Adults - fine. But this little guy? Where will he sleep? On my bed? On my bed? Are you crazy? I hide it politely, but I"m fuming. I sleep next to parents. Mosquitoes, Kirov beads - now far from funny. Two adults on floor. This Valik - miserable bastard - sleeps on my bed, bastard. Ruins my life just by existing.

I know I can"t blame parents; etiquette demands it: greetings, thanks, please - naturally, Valik goes on my bed. Only solution: Valik doesn"t exist.

Think that"s it? No - Valik pees on my bed. A truly vile day, first time I"ve felt such anger, jealousy, humiliation. I think about it the next day, many days, will remember all my life.

Later that day, we ride in their car. Valik silent, like me. No contact.

We pass Engels museum, take usual road to Saratov. My parents to Valik: "Look at the Volga, probably don"t have this at home."

Then circus, fountains, walk along Kirov Prospect. I know it, sun behind us, conservatory to the right, Lipki ahead. Left turn toward the square.

Valik"s father carries him on his shoulders - now Valik feels like the main one, not me. I hate guests.

We reach the attractions, walk between them. Evening sun, a huge Lenin monument nearby. Many Lenins everywhere, super boring.

Finally, late evening, we part ways - they drive the hell away.

.:::.

Part 10, Text 4. Puzzles,,, going to the grandparents,,, mornings at the grandparents,,, evening with Grandpa and the train,,, morning with Dad at the square,,, boy on a bicycle,,, Robin-Bobin stuff.

.::::.

Being without Valik is fine, even though there"s again that stressful Kassil-like atmosphere when it"s just me and Mum. The visiting relatives gave me some stickers - scary monsters, men with fangs and pointy ears. I stuck them on the big shelves Dad had made from some boards, and now they stand in the middle room.

Closer to evening, one time Mum and I go to Dad on Gorky Street, where he"s standing selling all those books and puzzles. He gives me some more new puzzles there, and I look forward to putting them together, imagining how they"ll smell - that cardboard, that whole newness smell. After that, the three of us go to Frunze Street. All the adults are in the kitchen, and I sit on the floor in the living room, on the red carpet, assembling all these puzzles. When I finish, I smooth the perfect, flawless surface of the completed picture. The colours are bright, the lines sharp, and it"s nothing like the old books and postcards from before I was born, from that previous era. Those are all murky and faded - I hate them.

Outside, by evening, cows are walking, and for dinner - fish soup, and it"s funny because Grandma says it"s made from a rooster, but actually it"s from the fish Grandpa brought. He"s always disappearing on his fishing trips.

I stay overnight at the grandparents, and my parents eat and leave. I sleep with Grandma on her bed in the middle room. Two fridges hum at our feet, and crickets chirp outside the window. It"s hot now, and the window is wide open. I fall asleep easily and quickly, not thinking about my little sisters. I think about puzzles and Grandma"s garden, how the raspberries grow there, and how hard it is to ride my blue tricycle because the ground is all bumps and there"s no asphalt anywhere. And where there is - on Persidskogo - there are cars, and it"s far from home. If I"m not in the yard, I"m only riding near the fence here, under adult supervision.

In the morning, I wake slowly, thinking about the lilies of the valley outside the window, while Grandma tells some story - either a fairy tale or a song - about berries, raspberries, and all sorts of old-time tall tales. In my head, all of this connects with the lilies, the morning garden, the path to the toilet. Grandma continues: something about dew on the grass. And we remember words: "braid," "fox," "wasp." And a braid can be either a hair braid or that big stick I sometimes see in scary pictures, held by some black hooded figure. It"s on the stickers, too.

Then - we get up. Grandpa is already doing something in the yard. Marsik scurries underfoot. I brush my teeth; it"s unpleasant and cold - the water is cold - but I brush diligently anyway, because I"ve seen Grandpa brushing, and he"s an adult, and I want to be an adult too, which means doing everything adults do. And I don"t want anyone to see my penis anymore.

Then Grandma cooks, and I eat an egg. And then - the porch, and right away - the ring, pollen, foot, under the hill, mine, yours, howl, into battle. All this, endlessly, coincidences and discoveries. Marsik wanders off somewhere, and I"m not allowed to go alone. By the way, I have to be careful in the yard - don"t go too close to the lilies or the little room. Behind the low fence - the neighbour"s big black dog Mukhtar on a chain barks. I keep thinking of the fly agaric mushroom, which is somehow dangerous too, apparently.

Inside the house, I play on the floor, assemble puzzles again, flip through a couple of children"s books I have here, and fiddle with the cologne in that cabinet between the two windows in the main room. Mostly I play with old little bottles. The new, shinier ones are Grandpa"s gifts. And with Grandpa"s terseness and grumpiness, I"m supposed not to play with his things. Grandma"s are much easier to play with. Even easier - Mum"s. And easiest - Dad"s and Valik-Grandma"s. They"ll forgive anything.

By evening, Mum comes, and at the same time, there"s a topic brewing - Grandpa plans to buy me a toy. This feels strange, out of the ordinary: Grandpa, without his scooter, taking the bus, just with me, into the centre. The sun shines closer to the cows, and we leave Frunze with Grandpa, walk to the stop at Polygraphicheskaya and Nesterova. Then - onto the bus, and we go to the intersection of Telman and Volokh - a district I rarely visit, though the street is busy. We backtrack slightly and climb the steps to a toy store. I look around and point at a train. After a while, it"s mine. Grandpa now looks like he"s accomplished something long planned.

We don"t go anywhere else. We talk occasionally along the way. The train has three cars, and it"s really a proper train - the first with a chimney and wheels connected by a bar. We return to Frunze and will have yesterday"s fish soup for dinner. I put the train on the empty shelf in the living room. There"s also an old doll from Mum"s childhood called Pupsik.

Mum sleeps here in the little room too. I sleep with Grandma, as always, and in the morning - breakfast: egg, cheese sandwich, and tea. Then we go with Mum to Lva Kassilya Street.

One morning, Dad and I are walking again in the park and along the embankment. From the Volga and the islands, boats hum with their motors. It"s the start of the day, a long day ahead with lots to do, and we"ll go out again in the evening. I, as I"ve said, love this feeling of "beginning" and that "everything is ahead" - much more than the actual "ahead" when it happens. I"m on my little blue tricycle. It"s already small for me, and I ride it more like a scooter.

On the dam, we go down to the water, and I, as usual, throw stones. Then we climb back and head home.

Coming out of the park onto the square, we see a boy on a bicycle. His bike is a normal two-wheeler with pneumatic tires, but the rear wheel has two "training" wheels for beginners. He circles around us - and I, also on a bike, like a magnet, follow - showing skids and tricks, provoking Dad to ask him something. My Dad plays along. Can you do this? Can you do that? The boy can do everything - it"s his shining hour, even overdoing it. He"s about a year older than me, probably more. Otherwise, how could he be allowed outside alone?

I feel jealous - Dad talks to him, even laughs - but not too much. Moreover, even if Dad asks something, he immediately turns cheerfully to me, not leaving me out. So I"m on equal footing with this boy. I could probably like him and even be friends.

But the boy is overconfident - almost clownish. Sure, he can skid with the back wheel and make turns. But he seems likely to overdo it, and I think: sooner or later, it will get him into trouble. That"s why I"m not jealous. He"s not eternal. Sooner or later he"ll make a fool of himself. And I, overcautious, will be the winner in this race for adulthood and respectability. A companion like him would suit me. Not some silent, unknown Valik Lyalik. That one - who knows what he was. He said nothing. What if he"s like me? Smart, with similar thoughts and depth. I don"t need that kind of companion. He"d be a rival. Everyone loves me. And if he"s like me, everyone would love him too. I don"t need that. I"ve always been the centre of attention; everything revolves around me, that"s paradise, and it will always be so, otherwise - disaster.

Still, I pull Dad away from the boy by showing no interest in his showmanship. In the end, Dad says goodbye with "be careful," "take care," "we"ll meet again." The boy says he"s always here, though we see him for the first time, and we leave.

We go to the store opposite the "101st" store on Gorky Street, with a section where men sit drinking beer and artificial grapevines hang from the walls. These vines and the beer interior would bring to mind "Robin Bobin," "Baron," and "Robert," if not for the blue scales and all the grocery stuff here.


.:::.

Part 10, Text 5. The Wardrobe,,, Penis,,, Tickling,,, Strangers.

.::::.

Last year, along with my bed, my father built me a wardrobe. It stands in the middle room where the crib from my already hazy past used to be. At the bottom of the wardrobe, there"s a drawer that slides out, and above it is the main compartment. On the left are a few shelves where Leopoldites make me fold my clothes neatly, teaching me orderliness-which I can"t stand, especially since it"s all for some clothes. On the right is a free compartment, with a rod at the top for hanging things that need to hang. All the interior surfaces of the wardrobe, except the shelves, are unpleasant; you could get a splinter from them.

Next to this wardrobe in the same room is my mother"s wardrobe with her boring clothes and some coats. She also has belts hanging there, their buckles jingling when she rummages through them.

At the bottom of her wardrobe lie soft, foam-filled square cushions from some old sofa-six of them.

Right now, my parents are home, but they"re busy with something boring in the kitchen, endlessly chattering, while I romp around in this middle room among all the furniture. I climb here and there, jump, tumble, stand with my bottom up like I like, resting my head on the bed while kneeling.

After exhausting myself, I lie down to rest. I rest in the half-open wardrobe on those cushions, under various coats. I love hiding places, love the quiet and stillness inside a wardrobe, and even though I hate the coats themselves for their boredom, I love the smell of the coats. Because where there"s the smell of coats, there"s a wardrobe, and where there"s a wardrobe, there are buttons and treasures, unexplored drawers, and that makes you want to mess around, especially around lunchtime. Perfect moments, especially if you"re home alone-which sometimes happens. Mom doesn"t interfere, and ahead of you are entire wardrobes and a whole apartment of the unknown. A whole life.

I lie on the cushions and look out the window-the sky and the tops of poplars swaying in the wind. I"m in just my underwear. The light from outside reflects on my stomach. My stomach skin is smooth and hairless, unlike my arms, for example, where fine white hairs grow. On my stomach is my navel. My navel is a perfect shape, like a little pocket. Some are just a slit-which usually means the person is chubby, or worse-I"ve seen them on some kids at the beach-like a pompom or a knot on women"s hairstyles. My father"s is a little knot of skin, sticking out. Ugly, I think. My father, like many adults, also has a small circular scar on his shoulder, which also disgusts me. In short, my navel is perfect, and so is the rest of me.

After breakfast, something gurgles in my stomach. I watch it rise and fall. I stroke it. Flat-handed, it"s just stroking-warmth from my palm, no resistance-but you have to press the whole hand immediately, not just the edge first, otherwise the stomach misreads the intention. But the thinner the object, the more ticklish it is. A little feather, not soft side but the sharp stem-the stomach fears that most.

I stroke it with both hands, barely touching with my pinkies, and the poor stomach flinches and dodges the tickling.

I tickle under the navel, which is more or less tolerable, but once I move outward toward the sides, the stomach"s torment becomes desperate.

Meanwhile, the penis rises again-a topic I usually pay little attention to because it has become self-evident, like breathing. When I need to pee in the morning, it rises. When I lie on my stomach and Baba Valya or someone tickles me, it rises. When I climb into some wardrobe imagining danger I"m hiding from, it can rise too. Because it tends to rise in all kinds of situations, I don"t assign the penis and its erections to a special department of my body.

Anatomically, I understand there"s a bone in the penis, and that"s what rises and lifts it from inside. But I"m not particularly interested. Nor am I curious about where my poop comes out. Interesting, yes, but not enough to actively investigate. I mean the anatomical mechanics.

Psychologically, though, lying there tickling my stomach and seeing the penis rise so stubbornly, I start thinking about it more deeply.

It"s an odd, strange state, the penis standing like this. You can"t sit still. There"s a persistent urge either to tickle myself more, think about feet, the rising stomach, the navel, the pale skin between underwear and navel-as if to push my thoughts to the limit, though unclear what next-or to "press it down" with my hand, so it lies flat and stops tormenting me.

Almost never, however, does it lie down on command-it only does so on its own, or when called by my parents, forcing me to focus on something else. Then it drops within moments, pulsing faintly. The penis instinctively seems unwilling to rise around parents, and I instinctively want to hide its erection from them. When Baba Valya tickles me and it stands pressed against the mattress, I invent reasons to stay lying on my stomach until it calms down. Perhaps this instinctive reluctance is secondary, developed through observation. I have no explanation yet why it generally drops around parents.

Some things need further analysis. Among the various situations in which "penis-rise" occurs, tickling holds a special, dominant role. And here"s another nuance. I mentioned the penis rises when I hide in the wardrobe, imagining external danger.

I don"t imagine Baba Valya or my parents. I imagine, say, Hoka from the basement on Frunze, or Baba Yaga, or some thieving fox. Someone usually depicted as cunning, alien, incomprehensible. Someone you can"t reach or speak to like you would parents. Someone inaccessible, whose presence makes you uneasy. Someone a stranger.

In some fantasies, to heighten emotional intensity, I imagine this someone has caught me. And caught, what could they do? The scariest thing I know they could do? Tickling. Tickling to a state of panic, like Baba Valya would never do.

Thus, even the fear of Hoka, the adversary lurking in an abandoned room or cellar, subconsciously still leads to the theme of tickling-painful physical interaction. Tickling is the most torturous thing you can do to another being, as far as I know. Of course, there are worse things-like the pain of the clinic or vomiting. But those don"t happen between people. The penis being hurt was an automatic consequence of some infection; no one would touch it with bad intentions-it was explained to me that it was for my own good. As for semolina and vomiting-my mother stopped giving those immediately after that incident. And the hell of vermicelli soups, which never made me vomit anyway, is a different story, more about conflict than about vomiting, not physical-even if my mother"s screams felt physically piercing.

Given how I deliberately tease myself, thinking about all this-bare stomachs, tickling-I endlessly drive myself into thoughts about physical interactions with strangers. Hoka, Baba Yaga, gypsies, the Snow Queen-these are the most alien organisms possible. For some time I think about them, but given who my most important strangers are now, I quickly arrive at the natural conclusion: fantasies of tickling my beach-aged little sisters. And in these fantasies, there"s no urge for closeness to them, not like with my mother or Baba Valya. It"s about contact, connection, while remaining strangers. This is the fantasy that cements the erection. With the little sisters, since they"re nearly my age, it becomes possible for me to tickle them, which cements it even more.

There"s much more to feel and conclude in the penis-erection and related themes, but progress is gradual. From tickling to tickling, day by day, evening by evening...

In bed, falling asleep, I less and less fly on an air catamaran thinking of toys. More often I imagine the beach mentally, near our bedding with parents, watching my little sisters out of the corner of my eye, as always. Sometimes I even dare to imagine approaching them without hiding my attention. But I cannot imagine interacting with them-I simply don"t know what it could be, because I have no scenario where we"d connect. There"s just an intuitive understanding: follow the norms, wait for some random circumstance bringing us closer. How long to wait, what circumstance it would be, or whether it would happen at all? So I can"t tell if friendship with them is hope or fantasy. Tickling games-definitely fantasy. I"ve never seen physical interaction among strangers. Specifically bodily-for bodily, psycho-physiological sensations.

.:::.

Part 10, Text 6. Summer Rain and Rainbow,,, New Bike,,, Walking and Photos,,, Mulberry Tree,,, Watermelons.

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It"s already late summer.

A summer rain, a summer downpour, and Mum shows me a rainbow. We stand by the living room window, looking toward the little red museum-house. Mud, puddles. Cars drive along Lva Kassila, water up to the middle of the wheels, brown splashes everywhere, then waves. I imagine floating over such big puddles on something.

If you stand very close to the glass and higher up-which Mum doesn"t allow-she holds me, and looking straight down is always somehow scary. Instinctive, like with the penis. Below is a birch in the garden, a rowan, and cars drive into the yard from Lva Kassila.

The rain stops, and Mum goes onto the balcony to hang the laundry. Bowls, boring sheets, a sense of boredom, stress, uninteresting life. Hurry up, sun, and back to the beach.

Once dry, we go out for a walk as a trio. I recently got a new bike, almost like that boy"s, with proper inflated wheels-now it rides smoothly over bumps. But that boy had a two-wheeler; his training wheels could be removed, mine"s still a tricycle. I often remember and torment myself with envy: he was effectively riding on two wheels, his side wheels in the air. I wish I knew his age, so I"d know when I need to master riding to keep up.

Finally, we go out. Dad brings a camera-film one, he knows how to use it. With the camera, he looks cool, and we, on a sunny, classically Engels beachy day, go to the park and the waterfront. I ride my bike, Dad photographs me. We even go down to the water on the rocks; I throw stones in, he photographs that too. He also frames shots so that, in the distance, Saratov is visible-with civilization, Baba Valya, "Children"s World," Kirov Avenue, and the circus with acrobats and animals.

During the day, while Dad sells his books by the library, Mum and I also go out on her errands, as last summer, near the square. Sometimes we visit a boring place full of adults; I"ll describe it later. Then we often go to that hellishly boring grocery store on the square-if not for the mirrored ceiling with propeller fans. Afterwards, we cross a small road to the alley with benches along the square, where there are mulberry trees, about ten along the alley.

These trees are shaped like fountains or wigs. As tall as an adult, with a trunk in the centre and long branches cascading from the top to the ground like hair. Looks like Mum after washing her hair uncombed-she sometimes throws it over her face to hide her eyes. You can stand inside these trees, and no one will see you.

The mulberry bears tasty berries, and we constantly check and eat them. They"re not visible from outside, dark like black raspberries. A local amusement.

At home, Dad buys a watermelon, also a seasonal, spot-specific thing, like crayfish-rare but present-also red, with a small ritual around it. Crayfish are sold at specific spots in the city, brought by people in boxes; same with watermelons: brought by special vehicles, people gather like spectators, buying one at a time. Kvass and ice cream are similar. Always outside normal stores, with bolder, streetwise vendors calling you over, unlike store clerks with their huge breasts standing behind counters and blue scales. Also, flower vendors on the street. All this street market trade creates the general atmosphere of "resort Engels"-and Saratov too. Or rather, just summer. Summer, sun, entertainment, happy life.

Baths at home every few days. Mostly Mum bathes me. A full tub is an adventure; I try to swim like in the Volga, but there"s no space, I bump my knees anyway, so it"s unclear if I"m swimming. Sometimes Dad bathes me. Rarely, the penis rises. But fortunately, only when I"m alone, and if parents, especially Dad, approach, it calms down instantly. It has its own life. Mostly, it rises when I"m nervously excited-I"ve noticed this pattern-or thinking of tickling.

.:::.

Part 10, Text 7. To Granny Valya"s Dacha,,, Tai,, Alla,,, Berries.

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And once again, off to Granny Valya"s. Again with Dad, again by trolleybus. Hot, peanuts. Peanuts smell like farts, the clay factory smells like farts, and I even farted myself.

At Granny Valya"s, everything"s the same as always. But it"s better than home because there"s nothing to do. At home, on Lev Kassil Street, you don"t have much to do either - except occasionally endure stress, and sometimes tidy up your toys. At Granny Valya"s, you literally do nothing and stress about nothing.

With Granny Valya, we"re at the dacha again, walking through the long corridors between plots, too lazy to go all the way from the bus stop, even though there"s always a chance to see a lizard or maybe some other critters. But there"s nothing. Also, when you go to the dacha with Granny Klava and Mom, Mom is always pointing at the sky: "Look, an eagle!" But Granny Valya doesn"t really know which bird is an eagle and which is just a bird.

Granny Valya cares more about people and relationships. She"s always like: "Oh, I almost forgot, I need to visit the neighbour," or "I promised some friends I"d...," or "Marin, hi, how are you? Everything okay?" or "I helped a friend of mine a little..." - and so on. That"s what Granny Valya is all about.

We"re at the plot. Granny Valya is fussing in the garden beds, I"m sitting by the entrance to the caravan. By the caravan door, there"s a metal railing leading up, you could climb onto the roof. I haven"t, but I"d like to. The rails are boiling hot in the sun - you could burn yourself. Right by the door, on the side, you can get pricked by rosehip thorns, and if a wasp shows up, well, that"s the end of it.

Near our caravan, on the plot side where the outdoor table stands - where we eat, drink tea, and play the radio - there"s a folding wooden chair with fabric for a seat, like a hammock. You can sunbathe there, which I do, though it"s very boring and I can"t stay long.

Neighbours keep dropping by - some Allas, Tais, Tamars, Ninas. All grown women with big breasts. I"m always the centre of their attention and always praised. Even for no reason.

Among them is this Tai - closest to Granny Valya. Tai has a husband, and he has a car, a green UAZ. Not exactly city-style - the kind you see in boring war movies. Tai"s husband, Valera, is all manly macho. He shakes my hand and adds things like: "There"s a man," "Hello," "Athlete!" "Helping Granny Valya?" - that kind of thing. He"s clearly not dominated by Tai, even though she"s the type to tame or dominate an ordinary man. If my Dad were here at the dacha and Tai came in, she"d treat him almost like she treats me, a child.

They have meat pies, smoked fish, and their dacha isn"t a caravan but a two-storey brick house. We occasionally visit them.

But we have plenty of raspberries, currants, mint tea, gooseberries, and rosehips - so much that it"s overflowing like crazy. At Granny Valya"s dacha, the outhouse is like at Frunze - at the end of the plot, with the same hole, and poop underneath. Like in the caravan, there"s a calendar with nature pictures, and when I go there, I study the huge mountains and crystal-clear lakes.

And I pee near the house, in the rosehips - good for the soil, everything"s dry from the blazing sun. And the main point of visiting the dacha is watering the beds. Granny Valya walks with the hose, watering everywhere. Sometimes I wonder why so much, but she says: it has to be. I often help water. Mud splashes on me, and then Granny Valya washes my feet in a basin - ticklish. If I look around and see strangers watching me, given the complicated system of feelings I"ve described before, I feel vulnerable.

We leave the dacha. Some Allas stick around Granny Valya, but not for long, then go off separately. Everyone carries buckets and takes the same bus according to the schedule. Around us, the train car plots - bigger than ours - serve as dacha houses. Plots look similar to ours, but are all strangers" - different paths, different garden layouts; raspberries at the end for some, along the street for others - strangers might pick them. I"ve been taught not to touch what isn"t mine. Everyone has radios playing; hearing the music makes you think of planes, Red Squares, Moscow, and all the cities from which the music comes.

Younger people on the plots - often stand, eat, or sit; older ones - bent over the beds. All tanned. I"m tanned too. Older people wear hats or panamas, their skin sagging. Younger people are more pleasant to look at - only pleasant in that ticklish, uncomfortable way, the "dangerous stranger" tension.

By "older" I mean middle-aged between my parents and the grandmothers - none among our acquaintances. Adults we know are mostly peers. By "young" I mean younger than my parents, adult-sized but still youthful features, like the older kids on the pier in Engels. They are the most alien; we barely know anyone that age.

We wait for the bus. While waiting, I think about water striders, little sisters, helicopters, and tickling. Everything"s boring here; I want to get home to familiarity and ease. At home, Hans, Bibigon, and Granny Valya will serve dinner, entertain, bathe me, and massage me - I can"t wait.

In the distance, on the road to the city - a mirage. Mom told me about it once, going to the dacha in Engels: "Look, like a lake at the end of the road reflecting the sky - it"s called a mirage. Desert people see it, think there"s water, but no matter how far they walk, they can"t reach it." It"s the same here.

Soon a yellow Ikarus bus appears - a messenger of civilisation. It will take us from this wilderness back to TV, phone, fridge, Hans, and the busy street of enthusiasts outside the window. After dinner, bath, and dark, we"ll signal lights to Larisa and she"ll blink back.

.:::.

Part 10, Text 8. To the sanatorium,,, fell asleep,,, in the car to Frunze in Engels.

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The next day, we go to Granny Valya"s sanatorium for a long visit. The word "sanatorium" immediately makes me think of white walls, the smell of water-soaked flowerbeds outside the entrance, the long carpet along the corridor, and pools in the distant halls. We"d been a few times. The first pool was unpleasant, dark water; the second - clear, deep, for adults.

Along the main corridor there are rooms with beds - at least one - and that"s where I end up at lunch while Granny Valya fusses.

The room has nothing much: a double bed, a wardrobe, a bedside table. It feels like a hotel room. The bed has a synthetic throw - the ones that zap you. Granny Valya and Lev Kassil have the same at home. Bright, floral patterns. Sunlight shines through the curtains onto it. Lying there feels like being at Granny Klava"s dacha at nap time, when everyone lies on beds. Atmosphere of a "quiet hour," encouraging tickling, pulling down shorts, self-tickling where the elastic rubs. Here it"s even better - less stress, more care - thanks to Granny Valya. Outside: summer, hose play, balls - you"ve run enough, now rest while she prepares your snack. Ice cream, perhaps, instead of boring soups. Lying, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the Grannyvalium idyll. Silent room - feels like a dacha, far from the city, a real retreat. Strange, because lying somewhere usually means your own bed, home, or relative"s. Here - foreign place, foreign throw; no point unpacking; you"ll leave soon, maybe forever. Strange.

The sanatorium has a big hall for guests - all those boring adults in photos with Granny Valya. Long table, many chairs, many glasses - first floor. The second floor is less formal: sofas, coffee tables, taxidermy on walls, wooden decor, and a big painting of hunters resting, setting the theme. I go there when Granny Valya is busy upstairs. Sit on a sofa, look at the painting, think about autumn, rifles, hunting...

Later that week, another long stay at the sanatorium. Despite the hotel vibe, I settle in enough to fall asleep in the bed at lunch. Meanwhile, some people arrive - all know Granny Valya, or she knows them. Adults, polite, relaxed, drinking, eating, enjoying the sanatorium.

I wake up to the bustle and feel left out, humiliated for napping while events happen outside. Combined with post-nap weakness and memory fog - hellish humiliation. Similar to the jealousy when Valik peed on my bed.

By evening, the bustle turns to farewells: people in corridors, doors opening. The once quiet sanatorium turns into a thoroughfare. Granny Valya isn"t the main figure anymore. Among adults now is Valera, Tai"s husband, cars, Dad arrives, and I can"t process it all. Men offer to drive us - mainly for me and Dad - all the way to Frunze in Engels. Not just any car, but a white Volga. Low, classy. Interior strict, smells of leather - foreign, all needs care, way fancier than our usual.

We race through dusty, evening Saratov, along Chernyshevskaya Street, past houses I don"t fully remember. Crowded, I sit on adults" laps. Soon we cross the bridge into Engels, past the clay factory, beach, Lev Kassil streets - past our house. Adults chatter, but don"t forget me.

Through Engels: past the centre, Rodina building, Babina monument with kids, Children"s park, Nesterov street. Cars headed to Granny Klava"s go on Nesterov - dusty, unpleasant. Past the mosque, up the hill to Poligraficheskaya, then turning onto Frunze. On buses with Dad, we"d barely reach Moscow street in Saratov.

Finally Frunze - a village after civilisation thirty minutes ago. Waiting men drop us off. Mom, Granny Klava, everyone is here. Family gathered, two city ends. Granny Valya greets Granny Klava - probably haven"t seen each other in a century. Grandpa, Volga, Marsik, watermelons, Fatyushkin - chaotic reunion.

I soon say goodbye to Granny Valya, Dad leaves too, leaving me with Mom and the Frunze side. Then cows come by. We go eat watermelon.

Coming from Granny Valya to Frunze always feels like "returning." Granny Klava is the main grandmother, mother of my mother, I"m my mother"s son first, so I spend most time with her. With Mom in Frunze, I"m in the safest hands - first priority, even if Granny Valya is tastier, more civilized, more joyful.

In Frunze and Engels, tasty treats are mostly the "Winnie-the-Pooh" candy by the clinic: chocolate outside, marshmallow inside. Also marmalade - similar, but marshmallow is better. Marmalade tastes like jam, and Granny Klava has plenty. She made it all summer, entire cellar full. Chocolate-covered marshmallow is store-only - that"s why it tastes better.

.:::.

___Part 11.

.::.

________________Autumn Before Kindergarten.

.:::.

Part 11, Text 1. Very Grey Autumn Begins,,, Walking with Mom through the Grey.

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The beach abruptly ended. Engels grey set in: first rain, then we closed the vents, then I had to put on my yellow velvet jacket and pants, and wool socks Granny Klava knits. Granny Valya can"t knit. Dad is more absent than present. If grandmothers, now it"s mostly Frunze theme.

Mom and I go to the grandmother more often - good, because Frunze is warmer, carefree, and without Lev Kassil stress, no worry for Mom. I already understood the three-people theme... At the grandparents" we"re not three, but four, plus other neighbours nearby.

All dachas ended. Now hares gnaw apple bark, wolves try to catch hares. Wolves eat hares - that"s exactly what wolves want to do in "Well, Just You Wait!" The hare runs. Only now do I really grasp that animals eat each other. Lions eat meat only in circuses; in nature, they eat other creatures.

Evenings in Frunze: usual scene - me with toys, cologne bubbles, small stuff; adults on sofas, chatting about boring things. On boring TV: either Yeltsins or series with police and other extremely boring adult stuff.

"Nikit, try the jacket," "Try this, try that." I try on new clothes, autumn jackets, boots. I try to tie laces but can"t as deftly as Mom. She loops one lace, slides the other somewhere - done in seconds. I fuss for ages, retying.

With autumn, Mom also pulls out wool coats from the hall closet on Lev Kassil. All coarse wool. I dislike.

Cold, but we still walk for bread to the bakeries on Kommunisticheskaya and Teatralnaya, also to the corner grocery opposite the bakery. Right corridor: groceries, blue scales, sellers" big breasts. Left corridor along Kommunisticheskaya: old, maybe café, very old, feeling of a bygone era. Old tiles, stools, mostly empty displays. In boring grocery dreams - dumplings, endless queues, "weigh me a kilo of cheese," that cheese smell - this part of the store appears in my dreams.

On the other corner, where summer outdoor tables were near the adult theatre - café removed.

Walking the square, we pick up or kick chestnuts. Trees along the square, same alley as mulberries. I love chestnuts - shiny, rich brown, fresh-looking, chocolate-like. Heavy, can throw like stones into the Volga, competing with yourself. Square empty, grey. Park yellow, only a few grey people. Puddles, leaves fall.

Along the important building"s street, cars pass. After the Volga ride from the sanatorium, I always look for that Volga. If Mom sees first: "Look, Volga" - yes, there it is.

We climb the stand with two side stairs and back slopes. Stand has many nooks, upper platform - we play hide-and-seek. Mom in her grey wool coat. Behind the stand, across a small road, is the telephone station - hall, many booths, can call even to Moscow. Booths many, people rarely. Mom comes often, mostly for boring payments, rarely calls.

Two grocery kiosks by the telephone station - summer we bought peanuts, beer, "Rondo"; Dad - cigarettes; also sell "Rafaello" candies individually, best candies - we bought maybe twice. Coins clink on plates in the window; grids on glass, sometimes locked at night.

Near the telephone entrance is a hairdresser; Mom says we"ll go soon, or to another on Kommunisticheskaya, between Teatralnaya and Gorky. All that "haircut," "dress," "wash," "brush teeth" - I hate, very boring.

Mostly, I spend time at Lev Kassil apartment - living room, my room, now small with train wallpaper after summer furniture shuffle. Dad added some shelves. Shavings everywhere - familiar from last year. Smell of sawed wood - associated with home, Lev Kassil.

Little sisters on the beach - topic stalled at fantasy, partly forgotten. But penis still hard in briefs - fantasy or not. Especially when cold, when I need to pee, or other discomfort. Usually hangs down or, depending on tightness, pressed to balls, forming a gap. I sometimes close it with a finger, trying not to touch - obsessive game, like putting a finger in draining bath water. Main obsession: constantly wanting to lower it, pressing and bending down like a banana. When hard, my whole nervous state is on edge, can"t focus, can"t think - attention fully on that sensation. Wild frustration.

In short, very very grey days. Sun comes occasionally, but clear - summer is gone. Only thing to look forward to: New Year. No boring paperwork, no aimless walks, just guests, gifts, tinsel, Dad, all grandmothers on the phone, frequent calls and greetings. Kitchen busy, living room TV running festive shows, coffee table with dried fish, beer, tangerines. Lights on in all rooms, Santa visits - probably go to Granny Valya. In Frunze: carefree, crisp snow, New Year atmosphere. That"s all that cheers me. Until then, just waiting and passing time.


.:::.

Part 11, Text 2. Games in the Hall with Cushions... Bridge... Penis.

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I turn on the lights in every room - even on sunny days - and draw back all the curtains so the windows bring in the maximum light. I switch on every lamp, every chandelier, even the TV and the radio - it creates this strange artificial atmosphere, like in those super-bright lighting stores. I love lighting stores.

I carry the six cushions from the ticklish cupboard into the hall and start building something with them. I grab four more from the armchairs, some from the unfolded sofa, and I even use the wall as part of a maze - I"ve decided to build a maze - to save cushions and make more paths. I use every normal cushion in the flat, all the blankets, and finally a throw - the same kind they have in the sanatorium - to cover everything like a roof; it also holds the whole thing together. I climb inside and imagine I don"t know where the exit is, as if I"m truly lost in a maze - and then my penis gets hard.

I especially like making a genuinely dark dead-end, far from the entrance, with no light - and I crawl in like a mole, living underground, fully protected in my little den, hiding.

From inside, I call out for Mum to find me, wanting her to join the game, but she"s busy sketching. By the time she comes, it"s already hot in my deepest hiding spot, so I climb out and enjoy the cool air. Then I crawl back in.

At the end, when it"s time to put all the cushions back, I stand up at full height inside the structure - without sparing it - and everything collapses. Chaos everywhere; I romp, jump, fall onto piles of cushions toppling like dominoes, somersaulting.

While I"m on the cushions, Mum talks about PE exercises, like the "birch tree." Lie on your back, put your hands under your lower back, elbows on the floor, and lift legs and torso toward the ceiling, supporting yourself on your elbows, neck, and head. She also mentions the bridge. Lie on your back, hands on the floor beside your head, fingers pointing toward shoulders, knees bent, heels near your bum. Push with hands and feet to lift yourself up - belly to the sky, head down.

When she leaves, I try it myself. If it weren"t for the sweater - the flat is cool - when I do the bridge, my sweater, tucked nicely into my trousers (I like tucking it deep, it"s cosier), slips out from the waistband and underwear, exposing my stomach. The cool air makes me feel vulnerable and imperfect - and my penis gets hard. The pose itself - arching forward with the stomach - naturally leads to thoughts of the navel, which leads to ticklish thoughts, and, well, arousal.

Almost the same happens with the birch tree, which I can do. My torso lifts, but my stomach sags in that position; the heavy sweater shifts down from the waistband, exposing my stomach and navel. I remember the beach, my sisters, all things connected with bare stomachs.

The word "stomach" even sounds like "animal," and it really feels like a little creature, almost separate from me - it dodges if you tickle it, like a living being you torment, but you suffer too. This is connected to my childhood meltdowns with toys, remembered more subconsciously than consciously. I"d tear, hit, or toss aside toys to upset adults, but then feel sorry for the adults and end up upset myself.

While lying there, this whole topic "annoys" me and tickles me mentally, so I take off my socks - so my feet feel the cool floor, rough surfaces, and are theoretically vulnerable to tickling. I tug my sweater deliberately, twist it so it stays, and tickle the sides of my lower stomach deliberately. No fantasies - just observing myself as I look now. My penis is rock-hard.

You can also tense it physically - strain it - to get it to full strength, testing if it can push against tight underwear. I"ve described this before. Mostly, I want it fully erect so it doesn"t just soften, to maximise it.

Mum calls from the kitchen to put the cushions back and come to lunch before it cools. I drag my penis down and stall a bit with the cushions, so it"s not sticking out, and come to Mum calmly. Even after it softens, nervous energy lingers. I"m uncertain, dissatisfied, restless - can"t concentrate, just want to shake or jump, as if to shake something off.

.:::.

Part 11, Text 3. Going to the "Pig Market" or "Collective Farm Bazaar"... Junk Sellers... Clothing Stalls... Animal Section of the Market.

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It"s a day off, Dad is with us, and today we"re going to the clothing market. Morning brings the usual boring exercises, a cheese sandwich, a sausage in a dish. The kettle whistles, the almost-bare poplars sway outside, gray and cold. But we"re three, and an adventure awaits - it"s fine. We"ve been to this market before, but not deep inside. Parents say it"s big, with animals at the far end. Today we"ll reach them. I can"t wait.

We leave via the yard, not the front garden. We pass a grocery store across the five-storey building, where Mum usually buys bread and dull food. Then a small one with steps up - in summer Dad bought beer there. We cross a busy street - they hold both my hands. This is Petrovskaya Street. Beyond it, we enter areas we never go to except for the market.

A fresh-looking grocery at a corner - we reached it in summer - has a display fridge with ice cream we never buy; it"s cool in there, unlike the first two stores. The floor has new tiles, not worn linoleum.

We walk along Volokha Street. To the right, behind a grey concrete fence, a pit is visible: a large water-filled hole with concrete posts sticking out - probably ruined, never to be built on. Under the windows of a nine-storey building, mud, puddles, pedestrians balance on curbs.

At Telman Street, where we bought me a toy train with Grandpa, a big grocery on the right - circular corridors, many stalls, some duplicate items, and an audio cassette section. Outside, a mini-market chops meat, shuffles fish and crayfish - all of it.

Crossing Telman, a serious intersection with traffic lights, there"s a "phone station" on the first floor, like in the square - booths for long-distance calls.

Beyond this, the district feels unfamiliar. Schools, yards, grey mud everywhere. We switch to the left side of the street past a school and walk along private houses, windows right on the pavement, some with cacti or geraniums.

We cross a large grey road, squelch through mud another block. Many people head the same way. Soon, asphalt appears, flanked by junk sellers - everything on display: dumbbells, books, old clothes, sleds. Mostly old people.

It"s fascinating: Dad looks at books, Mum checks coat collars and threads, I examine toys and obviously valuable "antique" items. Some seem like treasures; at home around lunch, I"d want them. Crowds are heavy, but this isn"t the main market. The main market is further.

After passing the junk stalls, we turn right across the road. Now a busier market section: mini-cafes with hot dogs and greasy pies. We don"t buy pies - supposedly "unhealthy," but mostly Dad and Mum can"t afford them. People older than my parents eat such things, laugh loudly, licking fingers. My parents aren"t like that.

Next is the huge clothing market: jackets, trousers, glasses, bags - all the tedious stuff, jeans, boot racks. "What size is this?" "Smaller size?" "How much?" Sellers call: "Shirts, jumpers!" Stop at a stall, and a voice from a folding chair shouts: "Ask anything you want!" Sellers don"t need to reply. "Just arrived, 250, but I"ll take 200." "Last ones left." "Nastya, can you break a hundred?" - all in that vein. You hear only this; one could go insane in a day. Our family word for it: opupet" - mind-blown, freaked out...

Radio plays in many stalls, especially near cassettes - walking under music: songs of past summer, songs from the beach, the ones I watched my sisters to. Where are they now?

The market is outdoors, stalls under canopies, puddles everywhere. Wooden planks over puddles. Sometimes a seller drops a pant leg in a puddle: she swears, Mum says "she said that badly." Our family has milder expletives: Mum says "yoprost," "yo-moyo," "golly." Grandma: "yokarny babay," "yoshkin cat." Dad: like Grandma, plus "kirdyk," "khana." Some harsher words from Mum"s side, but I know not to repeat them.

We wander the stalls; parents eye items for me. Sellers sip tea from plastic cups, buy pies from roving vendors with bags like summer beach sellers. Market chatter continues about sizes and prices.

We try on clothes and boots - cramped tents, squashed by other women. All awkward, but manageable thanks to parental supervision. Boots fit, parents buy them. I walk in them; Dad carries summer shoes in a bag.

Walking, I notice new shoes" feel, newness. Clothing stalls continue. Cassette stalls have circular booths; sellers sit inside like rockets. We usually scan one side, then return along the other side, sometimes revisiting interesting stalls. I memorise the layout, but we"ve only covered the clothing area.

Deeper inside, wider aisles, stalls with tools, household goods, male stuff. All inaccessible: glue tubes we never had, new wall clocks, tools with shiny handles, modern radios - unlike our old Moscow bell radio. Buyers seem more alien, less like us.

Next, the food section - grains, sugar, oil, flour, buckwheat - dull.

From the far opposite corner, through people"s chatter and music, pig squeals start piercing through. That"s where I need to go.

We reach the animal area: piglets, chickens, goats, quails, roosters, stinky rabbits. We call it the "Pig Market." Feed, special grains, cats in laps, dogs nearby, caged parrots, muzzles, cat houses.

We wander like in a zoo. Sellers joke with parents: "Buy a rooster." Parents: "Aha, for soup?" - everyone laughs. Boars look devilish, with hooves. Important: when to say "devil" - about a demon, okay; otherwise forbidden, especially by Mum.

The other side: more junk sellers, dumbbells, books on blankets. After browsing, we head back through clothing. I walk with Dad, heavy grocery bag; Mum buys carefully - like herring - standing in queues; I can"t bear boredom, start whining. I rarely want to eat, except rare treats like sweets or crayfish.

With the animal section open - a free mini-zoo - weekend trips become autumnal idylls, the best moments in the grey pre-New Year time. But we don"t go every weekend; full idyll only when Dad joins. Only then is the return from the market worry-free.

.:::.

Part 11, Text 4. Again about Vermicelli... Stress with Mum.

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A very grey autumn. Dad"s away. Just Mum and me.

Another ordinary Lvov-Kassil day. She cooks soup, and from the smell, the harsh kitchen sounds, the way she empties the blue bucket into the drain, and the clattering water in the bath, I"ve already worked out it"s vermicelli soup. We both know what"s coming.

After "Eat!" and "Wash your hands!" I wash them more thoroughly than ever, dry them carefully, do as much as I can along the way. But noodles are unavoidable, and I sit at the cursed table. She says: "Alright, eat," then goes to the bathroom to soak our thick, heavy sheets for hand washing in a week - as usual, once they start to smell.

There"s nothing to discuss. All one and a half hours - a continuous ache in the solar plexus from anticipating her return to the kitchen, fear, resentment, nausea from vermicelli and chicken skin.

She keeps coming back from the bathroom, wet, angry, smelling of detergent, water clattering, even when leaving.

The "worst" stress, for me, is when she leaves the bathroom and water clatters in the basin. Not only does she usually issue commands then, but you know she won"t shout or force anything immediately - she must return - water flows. Returning, she may have another heavy chore to do. So the prelude to the main scolding stretches, and you sit in tense, pressing anticipation, waiting for the tears and shouts to start. Lvov-Kassil at its peak. "Eat, I said!" - bang on the table, and I sit sobbing. Dad"s away, no one calls or stops it.

Why vermicelli, when she could use potatoes? Now pasta appears as a second course. All these macaroni-type foods are usually for lunch, later in the day. Grey courtyard outside, damn grey kitchen, Mum with her pots. By noon, I"ve lost all carefreeness; closer to lunch, chest tightens with anxious, stressful fear, physically felt.

On evenings like this, sighs carry that wavy chest feeling - as after long crying. You start appreciating small things. If everything bored you before, now you can play with a scrap of torn paper, roll it into a stick, sit quietly somewhere - in an armchair, on the floor - guiding it along surfaces and cracks, imagining the paper bundle as a treasure hunter: crawling into pits, searching, finding nothing, moving on, jumping across gaps between armrest and knee - that sort of thing.

Sometimes, when the vermicelli has long passed and I feel Mum and I have "made peace," I dare turn on the TV. Sometimes "Man in Mask" airs - a strange show with a masked man, but nobody"s scared; they just talk boringly. Or "Field of Wonders" with moustached Yakubovich. Or other shows from "another world," free of laundry and vermicelli soup.

.:::.

Part 11, Text 5. Mum starts running errands... "I"ll leave you"... "I"ll call the police"... Home alone.

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Alongside all this Lev Kassil-style apartment stress, culminating in endless vermicelli lunches, another theme gradually sets in - almost as a counterbalance to the first: Mum starts regularly going out on errands, and I find myself home alone, finally fully at my own disposal.

Being alone, of course, is only truly good if you can be sure Mum will return. But at the height of our arguments, she already has a way to exploit that fear: saying, "I"ll leave you." For me, that"s far worse than any cut to my penis.

Not that she could actually make me do anything physiologically impossible with this tactic, but paired with the words "Just you wait" and her moving toward the coat cupboard - where she supposedly will now slip on a coat and leave me behind - it drives me into such a panic that I don"t just cry while sitting at the table; I leap off the stool and rush to pull her back from the cupboard, from all those coats, begging her not to go.

But the "I"ll leave you" phase doesn"t last long. Soon Mum sees it"s pointless - it only triggers my tantrums. At some point, I understand that this tactic has run its course, that Mum has softened and won"t use it to scare me anymore, and in fact she wouldn"t leave me at all. So, when another blow-up happens - and besides the food fights we have plenty of other arguments - I even deliberately bring up the old, now-absent threat to elicit Mum"s pity, hoping she"ll relax other measures as an apology. When she"s about to press down on me, I say, "You"re not really going to leave me, are you?" It softens her and makes her pause the other measures. Once, my trick backfires and she does say "I"ll leave," even heading to the cupboard, but I can tell from the signs that it"s just for show.

Sometimes I notice that these little tricks - reminding Mum of something terrifying to me - aren"t really tricks at all, but a perverse sort of entertainment, a way to tickle my nerves, related even to the same ticklish thrill: deliberately provoking her to do what I most fear. But it only brings pleasure if I"m almost certain it won"t actually happen.

Also, for some time now, Mum sometimes says, "I"ll call the police." She says it at moments that make it clear this is an alternative to "I"ll leave you." I picture those policemen - strangers in grey uniforms in our hallway, scolding me, while Mum looks sad. But it"s not as frightening as the "I"ll leave" threat. It"s more about pity - for her. I know that feeling when someone stands up for you. It"s happened in very small domestic situations, like when Mum wanted to bundle me up warmly before going out and Dad intervened, saying I"d overheat. In such moments, I almost cry - tears for the person being scolded, for Mum. She meant well, but she"s being reprimanded.

So here"s the scenario with me, Mum, and the police. They scold me, and Mum feels sad - even more so, because she blames herself for calling them. The men are outraged by my behaviour. Everyone feels bad. All of this - over some vermicelli, some fucking nonsense. In Lev Kassil-style life, it"s all over bullshit.

Otherwise, this novelty - my time alone at home - is, as I said, a counterbalance to all the crap. It"s the best time of my life. Except for New Year or holidays, when being at home with parents brings nothing but joy.

When I"m alone, I"m completely liberated. My penis can be hard as much as it wants; I touch and play with my body however I like. I lie on the floor, think about lions, stare out the window - there"s dirt, puddles, and the little red Kassil house. Back on the floor, warming my feet on the radiator, on our green carpet, I try a bridge, and my penis rises again. I lie down, stroke my smooth open belly - penis rock-hard - then warm my feet again on the radiator, and it softens. Then I play with a spinning top, buttons, earrings, rummage through a wooden box with gold crosses and old watches - and eventually I can"t hold it and I go, solid and disgusting - but then immediately it"s easy and pleasurable again, like putting my feet on a radiator after suffering in imperfect chill with exposed belly. I wipe my arse - which I"ve long learned to do myself - and it"s even better. I collapse on a blanket, tuck all its ends around me, cocoon myself, watching through a slit as the bare poplars sway outside. I constantly get shivers, I constantly want to lie under a warm blanket. When I do, thinking of the little sisters, I don"t think about tickling or anything else, and my penis doesn"t rise. It never rises when I"m cosy under a heap of sweaters. But if I get hot, kick off the blanket, and expose my belly to the chill with my jumper untucked - that"s when it rises.

In the kitchen there"s usually dodgy biscuits if I want to nibble, but only Mum can heat proper meals like soup - which I never want, and in vermicelli cases, I physically can"t eat anyway. She usually only goes out briefly; then I hear the keys, the door swings open, and through the doorway, squat-smoking men can be seen outside, while Mum carries her bag with bread, sugar, and the usual boring market groceries.

If it smells of fish - even better: no vermicelli, no pasta, certainly no milk. I recently learned you shouldn"t eat fish and milk together - I might vomit - so I"m careful now. Mum never forces me to drink milk anyway, so I don"t understand why she can"t treat vermicelli the same way. With fish, we get soup, probably with caviar. Of all soups, I like fish soup best - for the caviar and guaranteed lack of vermicelli. I can tolerate cabbage soup, though sometimes it has veins in the meat - and veins are like vermicelli to me. I can only eat the fibres themselves, which has caused arguments even with cabbage soup.

.:::.

Part 11, Text 6. In the evening, Leopold the cat... Uncle Seryozha comes for lunch... I don"t want such a grey future.

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In the evening, Mum and I sit in the living room - she in the armchair, me on the floor - looking at postcards of the mysterious city of Riga for the hundredth time. It always reminds me of Mum"s friend, Aunt Rita, who has vanished. The mystery of Riga is that it seems far away - and therefore must be better, especially if Mum remembers it fondly - yet when I look, apart from one unusual building, a cathedral - which looks like our conservatory - it"s the same as at home: flowerbeds, tulips, monuments to soldiers, grey, lifeless memorials to some war. For me, Riga is this. And I don"t want it. I want life.

Later, before bed, we read Buratino and Leopold the Cat, and many times we"ve tried to read further, but never get past the first pages of Karik and Valik - a fat book that forever reminds me of Valik who once wet my bed - about tiny people among insects. Similar to Thumbelina. Mum reads it from some book. That"s where I learned about moles. Thumbelina is somehow linked to The Snow Queen. I don"t know the plot of The Snow Queen, but I saw her on TV - the scariest human image I"ve ever seen; better not to think about her before bed.

Father has been gone for a long time.

Mum"s old acquaintance from her boring paperwork and plans, Uncle Seryozha, has taken to visiting. And that"s good. At least someone"s with Mum - then she won"t be doing laundry, cooking vermicelli, forcing me to eat, or bothering me except to give or entertain me. With Uncle Seryozha, I can play freely in my room, confident that if Mum comes in, it won"t be to order me to eat, but to say, "Come eat with us?" Not a dull: "Enough TV, tidy up," but encouraging: "A fairy tale has started on TV, go watch." That"s Uncle Seryozha. Not even Dad did that.

He usually comes at lunchtime. The Kassil-style doorbell rings, Mum opens, the hallway fuss begins, and I"m in another room. They start talking boringly in the kitchen, and I finally feel carefree, playful on the floor by the piano and my favourite wall unit - full of treasures that inspire me to act.

When I enter the kitchen, Mum asks, "Say hi?" and I say, "Hello."

Uncle Seryozha eats first: "Ah, hot," "Tasty soup," "Thanks." He wipes his moustache, sits in the mustard armchair, checks his watch, hurries a bit. He prefers fiddling with papers and drawings to chatting. Mum clears the table; they go on with their dull business. She tells me, "Go play, I"ll call you for tea," but I don"t need to be told - it"s unbearably boring. Adult life is associated with all this boring misery.

I hate that prospect. Yes, I like that Uncle Seryozha has nice shoes and a watch, that he sits confidently while Mum fawns. But I don"t want it. I want, like my father, to play guitar, go to the beach, paint, stroll along the embankment on weekdays and eat ice cream. This uncle is always busy, summer and winter. I don"t need that kind of adulthood.

With Uncle Seryozha"s visits - the second man after Dad - I can compare, imagine, and choose who I want to be. Between the two, I want to be like Dad, or even freer - because Dad sat outside by his books, rooted in place, unable to leave. I won"t waste myself on such nonsense. I"ll always be carefree in my room, free, with my own domestic lion or some kind of personal zoo, or something of that sort.

.:::.

___Part 12.

.:::.

Part 12, Text 1. Grandma Klava"s birthday... cage of infantility... bodily sensations... illness again... Uncle Seryozha brings a TV.

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Recently, Grandma Klava had her birthday on Frunze Street. Mum and I went, and besides Grandma and Grandpa, all the Frunze relatives were there except Aunt Lucy: Mum"s cousin Valera, his wife, and their sons Dima and Pasha. By age, the last two aren"t really kids, but not quite young men. To me, they"re all adults, so I have no interest in interacting with them - barely even in noticing their faces. I have minimal interest in adults. Uncle Seryozha with his drawings is dull, yes, but he still has emotional swings, minor issues - a slight rise in voice when Mum doesn"t understand him. These others? Nothing but salads, champagne, endless table chatter and laughter.

So, many plates of salad, vodka, and Olivier, late into the evening, while I rummage aside in the wall unit with dishes and few books, flipping through that mega-boring Grandma Klava book with illustrations of a crane. I still practise saying "crane" to train the R. Like with the lions, I remain obsessed with cranes, and passing the clay factory or some school on the way to Saratov, I always watch the huge rusty industrial crane on four supports - brown, looming like a monster.

The next morning, between the dining table and the glass-door wall unit, I gather and arrange all the chairs in the house. Most I place directly opposite each other so the backs form enclosures, with other chairs" backs against the open ends - it ends up like a cage for a lion. And that lion is me. I climb in, sitting triumphantly, protected, cosy. When I climb out, I play again with the triple mirror between two windows, making it a "U" and squeezing inside to watch endless versions of myself on the sides.

Especially when alone, I constantly play in the living room. Penis rises, hairs on my arm react to cold - I explore my body. New sensations still appear. For example, a muscle might cramp. It always makes me panic. Everything is shit - vomiting, cramps, needing to pee. Penis rising is also pain, tension - impossible to focus mentally. Or shivers - unpleasant too. I can"t recall a single purely pleasant sensation. Correction: not the initial sensation. There"s "pleasant" only after enduring something bad: passing a painful stool, sneezing a tormenting sneeze, warming freezing shivers, or burping. But these aren"t primary sensations - they"re rewards for enduring the unpleasant. You must survive hell to reach them.

Illness again. The first days are hell: impossible to swallow, shivering, endless sleep. It"s so bad that even missing daytime sleep - "skipping something," "spending hours napping like a child" - loses all significance in the hell of early illness, especially the first couple of days.

Evening: raspberry tea. Disorientation - wrong morning, wrong day, wrong night, how many days have passed. Bitter crushed paracetamol, sending shivers.

One day we wait for the doctor. Kassil-style doorbell. Smell of a stranger from outside, dirty footprints from bare feet on linoleum. Spoon to tongue. "Lift your shirt." Stethoscope. "Breathe deeply." Boring paperwork. Doctor insists on bed rest. Bitter paracetamol again, and bedtime: Buratino, Leopold the Cat.

A bit better - foot baths. Mum brings a basin of boiling water - dull beige-grey, colour of existence. Then mustard - in the same old, dull box. She sprinkles it in water, stirs, and I lower my feet, as early as possible before it cools. Sometimes she pours in more hot water; the air smells of wet mustard and steamy feet.

Without Mum"s chatter and constant entertainment, without distant sisters in memory and hopes of endless future adventures, I don"t know how I"d endure it. All this - illnesses, apartment life, playing with buttons, food, shit, Uncle Seryozha and his boredom, not to mention Kassil-style stress - only bearable for what lies ahead. And for that "what," I always, instinctively, find hope.

I barely watch TV, but why bother? Everything is boring and grey. Still, the TV runs in the background while I amuse myself in the living room.

I"m recovering. Tumbling in the living room, and suddenly something more interesting comes on TV. It fits my digging in the wall unit, in the trinkets and boxes, in my attempts to find something intriguing in books on the shelves. Some sort of lizard-people in underground tunnels, showing cross-sections of the earth, all levels and passages, with characters moving around. A whole city, a whole life underground. I want to go there, create my own exciting life, dens, tunnels, treasures. On the way to the treasures - obstacles, adventures. How else? Just run around the room or rummage the bookcase forever? I still don"t know what that show or movie was.

Another day, playing in the living room, movement at the door: Mum and Uncle Seryozha arrive. "Hello," I say. He carries a large box - a new TV. The scent of unboxing, polystyrene, cardboard, cold, and finally the TV itself. The TV is big and fat, like the old one, even a bit bigger, but now colour. Finally, a proper TV at home - amazing.

.:::.

Part 12, Text 2. On Frunze... shovel... idyll... hill of the daring... morning on Frunze.

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Winter is starting now, everything is covered in snow, and I"m already too heavy for Mom to lift me like she used to and hold me by the windowsill for long. So I climb onto a chair and watch. All of Lev Kassil is under snow, pigeons flying and perching on the railing of the house opposite. All of this under a grey sky, from which those white flakes just keep falling. The TV is on all day to my right, and Mom keeps drawing endlessly; someone calls her now and then, and when they do, I feel safest. And then she"s always off somewhere with her papers.

Movies run on TV all day - I understand nothing of them, but there"s often shooting, and then the people being shot fall backward, hands flung up. I can"t stop noticing this. It often happens in films set in warm countries, with characters wearing very little, and when they fall like that with arms thrown back, they"re striking that defenseless, ticklish pose - sometimes even showing bare armpits - and that catches my attention and affects my penis. Naturally, it tries to rise, and if it weren"t for my underwear, it would.

But I always press it down and try to keep it flat, because Mom mustn"t see. Unacceptable. Like I said: parents and thoughts of tickling just don"t mix. Tickling is for strangers, unknown people, dangerous people. Parents - they"re super-close. So I even change the channel if Mom comes into the living room and there"s a movie where people lie with hands up. Or if such a scene happens while Mom is in the room, I act uninterested and immediately start doing something childish or ask a childish, unrelated question.

Also, when a gun is aimed at someone in a movie, that person raises their hands, defenseless against tickling, and my penis reacts the same way against the underwear. Funny that the word "trousers" refers both to those who run away and to what my penis struggles with - only the stress is on a different syllable.

I"m hardly sledded around anymore - too heavy. From the snow of early winter on Frunze, I make snowmen in the yard and by the house. The adults always stand nearby, and Grandpa is already clearing the path to the house with his big flat snow shovel. He even made me a mini-shovel for this winter, and I - approved by adults and, in my imagination, by Leopold the Cat, Moydodyr, and other figures teaching diligence - join in. But mostly for fun, not to help. I like how the shovel sinks into a snowdrift and, when you throw it, the snow slides off into a pile. Watching that pile grow. It"s a sort of accumulation: I don"t clear snow to clear it, but to make the pile taller. I must pile as much snow as possible. If there are small piles nearby and one big one, I move the small ones into the big one, making it even taller, and I"m pleased. Leave them as they are - I"m displeased.

Nearby on Frunze, at the mouth of Telegrafnaya Street, there"s a hill, and we go there with Grandpa and Mom. Mom tells me she used to sled here as a child, all along Frunze, and that there were lots of children.

Where we arrive now, there are lots of children - I see such a scene for the first time. Total chaos. It"s like a winter beach. Exactly like those pictures in children"s books about winter chaos, with heaps of children skating. Mostly boys - their scarves flutter in the wind just like in the picture, and they scream like those tanned boys in summer on the pier or beach. They have that rough, vibrating boyish voice. I don"t have that in my throat. I"ve long noticed I"m different from other boys in that.

The hill itself - an icy, very steep, dangerous slope. Sledding there is madness: the sled spins, accelerates to insane speed, and when it spins, you"ll likely crash or flip, and it"ll hurt a lot. So people only ride sitting on cardboard. Naturally, I don"t ride - I just watch. It"s for big kids.

So, how is it supposed to be? Me, running into the middle of all these strangers, playing? Everyone"s a stranger, everything"s strange, everything"s dangerous. Not fun. Fear. I don"t understand how all these kids find fun in sledding. No adults. Kids on their own. For me, fun is only possible with adults present. I don"t understand these kids. Like that boy screaming - what is that? His mom is somewhere three streets away and can"t help him at all if something happens. He"s on his own. How can he be carefree like that? Alone, without parents, I wouldn"t even think of sledding, let alone acting happy. Maybe his laughing and screaming isn"t happiness? Probably. Something"s wrong with this hill, with all these kids.

Morning on Frunze - egg, buckwheat, sausage, and I sit in the kitchen by the window. Grandpa sits by the stove, which heats the house more than the radiator on Lev Kassil, and I"ve brought and positioned a second chair next to me, so I"m caged again: left, the back of the chair; behind me, the stove; ahead, the table; right, the window, iced over, and beyond it - our yard, shed, dazzling snow, and bullfinches. I imagine the bullfinches myself - often in winter illustrations and therefore associated with winter for me.

So, curled up, sitting, isolated on all sides, as I once played "in the lion"s cage." Only Marsik, smelling of frost and fish, can jump under the table at me - that"s it. Behind, Grandma puts food - only the best. She bothers me sometimes at lunch: "Nikita, finish your strength." But now it"s fine. Grandpa sits to my left - silent, undemanding, could eat soup three times a day and never leave "strength." Mom"s in the living room, drawing, or she"s gone to some neighbours in felt boots and a wool jacket to discuss boring plans she sketches for everyone. And there will be a Winnie-the-Pooh sweet with tea. That"s happiness. Not the hill, not screaming boys, not any "boo-boo."

Outside, on Frunze, there"s a girl named Alina, older, as I said, but I never talk to her one-on-one. I"m always with Grandpa or Mom.

I"m with snowdrifts, shovel, frozen puddles, and Marsik hopping on the sparkling snow after sunbeams. I wear two socks - thin and woollen, valenki. Three if you count tights - trousers, plus the underwear taming my cobra. T-shirt, two jumpers, coat, scarf, aviator-style hat - suede outside, real fur inside, itching the forehead but blissfully forgiven when scratched. Mittens too - not tied through sleeves like some kids.

.:::.

Part 12, Text 3. Back to Lev Kassil for New Year... pre-New Year days... buying a tree... first flights of Father Frost.

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We return to the centre with Mom. The air already smells like New Year - firs. On corners of major intersections, there are sometimes rows of trees for sale. Mostly tall, taller than an adult. Children and women choose, but usually a man carries. All men wear grey clothes; older men and grandpas mostly wear fur hats with tied-up ear flaps. My Grandpa wears one too; my father has a simple knitted one. By the way, adult women also wear fur hats like Grandpa"s - BabKlava, for instance.

Closer to Lenin"s statue and the concert stage, there"s a fair. Lots of meat - they chop pig heads and all that right there. Often sold from car trunks. Sellers in valenki or galoshes. Grey wool scarves on old women. Lots of fish and everything for the central dishes on those big holiday tables. Nuts, seeds, too. This fair isn"t Engels" main fair. Behind Lenin"s monument is the bus terminus, and there"s the main market with similar rows and stalls - that"s usually called the fair here.

At the edges of the square, where vertical wooden boxes used to stand like outdoor toilets when we walked to Grandpa"s, there are now ice blocks, and Mom says skilled hands carve statues of Snow Queens and fairy-tale characters.

Closer to the park entrance, they pile snow and make big hills; further on is the music school, all decorated with garlands. Everywhere garlands, and on the orange administration building, a poster wishing everyone a Happy New Year. And in the centre of the square stands the ultimate Christmas tree, for giants. Metal trunk inside, with holes to stick regular trees - voilà, the giant tree.

From the square, through the bakery on Kommunisticheskaya Street, home on Lev Kassil, along Teatralnaya Street with frozen rinks in puddles, we speed along. Sometimes Mom holds my hand, sometimes I fall, but wrapped in coats, nothing happens.

At the first big theatre along the way, a "New Year programme," Mom says. Posters. I have no idea what any of it is. We"ve been through it. All for older kids anyway.

At home, no pre-cleaning dread. New Year"s magic has taken hold. No washing up, no vermicelli soups, no overflowing bins.

As if surviving BabValya"s stressful autumn at Lev Kassil, full of vermicelli, buckets, and laundry, now Dad comes with heavy bags of her food. Smell of plastic from frost, inside - something spicy and finally edible.

Happy chaos begins. People come to greet us, connected to Mom"s drawing work, now about food rather than papers. Strange acquaintances of Dad - smoking, unshaven, greasy-haired, saying odd things. They all come, bringing gifts, keeping us busy.

Sometimes guests overlap: one sits in the mustard armchair, ding-dong, another enters, the first says, "Oh, I"ll go," but we say, "Stay a bit," and he protests, "No, I"ll go," and in the hallway everyone meets, while I dart underfoot with a toy, squeaking from self-tickling and self-amusement.

Dad and I go for a tree to the "Melodia" shop at Lev Kassil and Gorky. I circle the trees several times, narrow down options. Dad chooses one he can install, we take it.

Snowy Lev Kassil, people preparing for New Year in their own ways, overall - all similar. Somehow we get into the lift, carry it home.

"Wash hands," "Eat!" No stress - herring under a fur coat and super-tasty food. After, Dad has beer from a faceted mug, I have tangerines, and in the evening we set up the tree by the balcony, like last year.

Next morning I start hanging tinsel. A big box of decorations comes down from a cupboard - balls, ornaments, all smelling of New Year. I decorate half the day, as far as I can reach. Mom is partly here, partly in the kitchen. She decorates top branches and fixes a Moscow-like star.

Among the decorations, a garland plays monophonic tunes with a squeaky electronic tone - no accompaniment. One melody I like most - it immerses me in the Lev Kassil New Year atmosphere. Even major-key tunes feel sad, as one would expect, but this one stands out with a seemingly discordant yet "innocent" childlike note implying accompaniment.

Under the tree, a plastic Father Frost; around the tree stand, cotton like snow.

Dad isn"t home yet, roaming outside, bringing beer, food, potatoes. Mom in the kitchen, calls and things bubbling on the stove, dashes back and forth.

I sit with her in the mustard armchair. Dad returns, undresses, comes to the kitchen: "Saw Father Frost," he says. Flying on his sleigh - that"s it. He tried to chase and ask when he"d visit, but he just shouted, "No time, wait for me at New Year," and vanished in the snowstorm. Dad says he was going our way, maybe he"ll come early. I leap up.

I run into the living room, look everywhere. Not in Father Frost, not under the tree. Parents reach the room, Dad says, "Maybe he just flew past the window, opened it, and threw it past the tree in a rush?" I can"t imagine opening the window without peeling off the tape, but Father Frost is a wizard - anything can happen. I search the room and spot a bag above the parents, on a shelf with books. I point excitedly: "There!" Mom sighs in surprise. Dad: "Hey! Look where he tossed it!" - pulls it down. Smells like frost, chocolate, toys inside.

But it"s not even December 31 yet. The last pre-New Year days go by like this. Father Frost passes a couple more times, dropping small gifts. In the evenings, someone outside - maybe like me, impatient or confused about the dates - starts fireworks.


.:::.

Part 12, Text 4. The Last Day of the Year... Nikulin on TV... Father"s acquaintances arrive: Dima Artoshkin and Lyosha Vasilyev.

.::::.

But eventually, the last day of the year comes, the one I"ve been waiting for. All of this will repeat every year over and over - so let this day come faster than the rest.

On this day, the congregation is especially abundant. Everyone shows up, except for Uncle Seryozha, who, in any case, stopped coming long ago. They come, then leave. Then they leave, and Father goes with them, and after a while, they all come back again. It"s still only lunchtime.

The coffee table in the living room has been wiped clean, the TV and the garland are on, and outside - sun and snow. On TV, all those domestic films are playing, like the one with the song "Island of Misfortune." That film also has this Nikulin, and the same Nikulin appears in other films too. And this Nikulin is kind of strange. At first, his surname caught my attention - similar to mine - but then, mainly, he started to haunt me with some odd mix of impressions. He"s childish and seems entirely good... And usually, people like that are my relatives: Father, Mother, Grandma Valya. Well, Mother has her sharp moments, like when it comes to the vermicelli, but otherwise, they"re all childish, soft, merciful - everything I call good. And now here"s a soft, childish, merciful person - a stranger. And normally, strangers, meaning "dangerous" ones, should be feared. But with this Nikulin, because he"s such a loser in all the plots, there"s no sense of danger.

And somehow you need there to be a chance of a backstab: because of his failures, he"s a bit touchy, and in that touchiness I instinctively see a seed of aggression. That"s the problem with Nikulin.

Speaking of strangers and danger - anyone, even this Nikulin, could very easily become almost a close person if he became acquainted with my parents. Like all those who come to visit us, who generally interact with my parents. For example, Uncle Seryozha - very close. Meaning, I have faith that he wouldn"t let me be harmed. Of course, there has never been a situation where it would be just me with him and he was responsible for me. But if it happened - seeing his closeness with Mother, I would be calm. And that"s even though Uncle Seryozha isn"t childish, but rather silent, like normal adult men, and therefore, if it weren"t for the connection with Mother, he would be a classic stranger and dangerous.

Then there"s Father"s acquaintance, Dima Artoshkin. He"s very childish. Compared to Nikulin, he"s maybe a hundred times more childish. He has no trace of aggression at all. He"s not even really perceived as a person. He"s like a mobile talking torso, and an unintelligible one at that. He always lolls about, cracks up, and the parents say he paints. So he"s more connected to Father, because Father is also into paintings, also paints. By the way, we now have paintings at home - sometimes on this wall, sometimes on that.

Dima always sits in the mustard-coloured armchair, but not because he"s a dominant like Uncle Seryozha; rather, he"s an invalid in the room. He"s shrivelled, like a ruin. He evokes physical weakness. His age is unclear. He always drinks beer.

And then there"s Lyosha Vasilyev. His hair is so long it"s tied back in a ponytail. He speaks more clearly, and when he"s in the mustard armchair, it"s something between dominance and frailty. He"s also connected to paintings. Mother treats both of them well, even somewhat indulgently - like they"re juniors or a bit foolish.

Later in the evening - when it"s already dark - one of them gives me a toy gun. The gun fires plastic pellets. It"s basically the same as a real gun - bullets fly. Only, as I"m told, real bullets are metal. I still don"t understand the principle. Well, they fly - and then what? Why do people fall with their hands in the air? It"s all a bit mysterious. You can"t aim at the eyes, by the way. But I like the gun - it"s like a watch, like a cigarette lighter - a masculine object, something that makes you impressively "manly."

I sit on the floor in the middle room, the lights on top and on the side - today we don"t skimp and turn on everything - and I aim, shooting at little figures and toys, while the adults laugh in the living room and pop champagne. From the radiator pipes come knocks from somewhere - in all the apartments there"s a stir, you can hear music and fun from other floors. In the common hallway, where someone is always crouched smoking, you can barely breathe or pass now. Outside people shout, occasionally fireworks go off, but by the time you get to the window to see where it was, it"s over. My parents say we need to wait until midnight, then fireworks will be everywhere.

On TV, Pugachyova is singing, people in tinsel move around the stage, all in a festive mood. On one channel then another, the same film with a childish bespectacled guy and a strict woman comes on, and they too sit at a New Year"s table and talk about something - and the bespectacled guy has exactly the same odd speech as Dima Artoshkin. But the film is so boring that even my parents switch channels. Mother keeps carrying plates from the kitchen down the hall to the living room; she"s endlessly cooking and something is always boiling on the stove.

I"m buzzing with anticipation for Ded Moroz"s presents. I keep running to the table, grabbing something tasty, and running back to shoot. Often Father calls: "Nikit, come, caviar." And I run, and there"s that caviar from dried fish. The adults have beer.

.:::.

Part 12, Text 5. Dinner on the small table... New Year food... Pugachikha... evening walk to the square... return home and presents... calls and greetings.

.::::.

But eventually Lyosha and Dima, like Ded Moroz in a blizzard, vanish into the neighbour"s cigarette smoke, and the door shuts behind them. Then I go to the living room, and the three of us start eating.

There"s chicken, chicken with mushrooms and mashed potatoes, some contribution from Grandma Valya in the form of nicely toasted sandwiches, and black caviar. Mostly they feed it to me, and only sometimes Mother asks to taste some, or even Father. But I know why they ask, and that they"ll take three little grains, so in front of Leopold the cat, keeping watch from the book cover in the darkness of my small room, I share and feel proud of myself.

Pugachyova looks like Grandma Valya - curly hair, curly bangs, and similar face. Whenever I see Pugachyova, I immediately think of Grandma Valya, and vice versa. But Pugachyova - she"s sly, and there"s the same nuance as with Nikulin - so I don"t want her either. And Pugachyova walks on stage in a dress, looking like a ghost. In the ghost films I"ve glimpsed, they"re usually portrayed like Pugachikha - floor-length dresses, wandering crazily at night with arms outstretched.

Some band plays "Earth in the Porthole." The music has an unnatural timbre - like the artificial sound of our garland. An electronic instrument. So the music feels cold - which I dislike. But the garland is fine: it evokes New Year, parents, the feast. That instrument in the song evokes nothing, and nothing is bad.

We eat. I"ve mostly had enough. I need the toilet. It smells of cigarettes - not clear whether Father"s friends smoked here, or the smell comes through cracks from the floor above. Father himself doesn"t smoke in there. Mother carries the main bowl of Olivier from the kitchen to top up.

Then I mostly eat just mandarins. Mother goes back to the kitchen - to put things in the fridge. She comes back, saying: "Oh, what"s this?" My head - like a cat"s head at a rustle. "Where? Where?" Mother points to the chandelier. More little things. I hadn"t noticed. Ded Moroz keeps delighting me, but hides himself. Never mind - as long as there are presents.

All the small stuff is trivial, of course. I mean, chocolate or a small toy - fine. But what thrills me more is the magic of the gifts" appearance. How? From where? Could he really exist?

On TV, relentless hosts unload a year of jokes, songs, and acts - they"ll keep going all evening and night. We won"t lose anything if we break away, so we head outside - to the square to see what"s happening.

We dress. Me - in scarves and heaps of coats anyway, though not as strictly as when we go to visit grandpas for longer. It"s only to the square and back. And we"ve eaten - that keeps us warm. We"ll eat again when we return - plenty more food. Enough for the next festive days, especially potatoes.

We step out, take the lift down, but just outside the building Father says: "Well, damn it," explaining he forgot something inside. Mother says: "You"re something else." Father sheepishly returns to the dark building, and we wait.

The autumn puddle beneath the poplars has frozen - I see people skating from above during the day. While waiting, I run and skate, pretending to glide from tree to tree. In all the nearby buildings, the New Year shines from the windows. Today the whole building glows - so many windows lit, unlike any other day. Grandma Valya is probably having a hard time finding Larisa"s window to signal.

Father returns. We go.

Teatralnaya Street almost deserted - only street lamps. The square isn"t crowded either. When the fair and the grinder under Lenin happen - way more people. Ice blocks really have been turned into fairy-tale characters. Walkers stop, look. But the hill isn"t ready for sledding yet.

A strange feeling - late at night outside in winter. But the main thing now - unpleasant loneliness. Many are out, really out celebrating. But unlike the daytime, when business adults walk near administrative buildings and Mother often greets people, now she greets no one. I especially notice this time difference - formal and informal - and with it, the illusion exposed. All those Mother"s acquaintances she greets, and those Grandma Valya greets at every turn in her neighbourhood - all "formal" acquaintances. Not close.

It seems to me that if Mother were now met by acquaintances she greets and talks to during the day, they would at most nod. And that is what these people truly are to us. Only visible now, in the evening, informally. No close ones among them. We three - me, Mother, and Father. Plus Grandma Klava with Grandad, Grandma Valya with Larisa, maybe Uncle Vanya - these are my close people.

And the main annoyance is that everyone around us is walking, smiling, and we too seem to smile, following the same social norms: pass on the right, politely answer the time if asked, etc. We aren"t wary, assume no trickery. If someone gets hurt, passersby would help. But despite all this - everyone remains strangers. If the choice arises - save your own close one, your Grandma Valya, or someone else"s - strangers save their own. I can"t bear this fake closeness. I don"t need a stranger"s help now, if a minute later, when help is needed for their close one, they abandon me. That helper instantly becomes an enemy. And thus, he"s already an enemy in advance.

Father brings carelessness back: "There goes Ded Moroz!" I turn - too late. Again I didn"t see him.

After looking at ice figures and circling the main tree, we leave the square. Not midnight yet, no fireworks yet, but it"s probably time for him to deliver the gifts, if he isn"t postponing till morning like last time when I couldn"t wait and fell asleep.

Back - along Teatralnaya, then left on Khalturina. Ahead - the nine-story pre-New-Year lurking Lev Kassil against the night sky, brightened by the city lights below.

We enter - the pitch-dark lobby, the lift"s twilight. My parents smile. From the lift - to our floor"s dusk, in the smoky anteroom, then into the apartment. I wash my hands quickly - and into the living room. For some reason the door is closed, though we didn"t close it when leaving, and generally never do.

We turn on the light - and there it is, the haul. Two cloth bags, like two suitcases. Parents sigh: "Wow, he really made it." I rush to the bags - tied somehow - call to my parents. I silently thank Ded Moroz, and even if some gifts are lame, I mustn"t show it, that would be improper. But I"m sure everything is right inside.

And it is. The toys - some almost exact, some exactly what I wanted. I"m euphoric - not just from the toys themselves, but the feeling of getting exactly what I wanted, fully satisfying what was needed. That"s life. Toys, books, clothes, even some trivial stuff. One evening won"t let me process it all, so I just do a quick inventory, focusing on my main gift; I"ll get acquainted with the rest tomorrow.

The second bag is more edible - smells of chocolate candies from the frost. But there are toys here too, and a note. Parents read it: Ded Moroz congratulates me and them, wishes us well, hints he"ll visit again. On the back - a postscript - he says to check somewhere else, saying while climbing through our window in the dark, he dropped something, but couldn"t find it. I run - we search - and there it is, a small packet. I frolic, I rejoice.

Mother again gets up, brings sparklers from the kitchen - from that drawer I"ve raided all year, giving me a poopy thrill. We turn off the lights and light them - the smell of New Year again. Of course, the main New Year smell is the fir and mandarins - and it"s always here.

TV again: now even more singers and tinsel. We eat New Year-style again - sound of beer opening, fizzing in glasses; I have juice, chocolates, nuts, mandarins from the food bag.

For the holiday, we moved the phone from the unusually empty kitchen to the living room, plugging it into the socket in my small room. And now it rings. Father says: "Grandma Valya, probably." But no - it"s not her. It"s Grandma Klava. She congratulates us; I take the phone and congratulate the grandparents, she congratulates me. Then Father dials Grandma Valya with his lean finger. He talks, congratulates, calls her "mom" - which sounds strange from an adult man. He tells me: "Nikit, go talk." I do, and on the other end is that nine-story saga, Larisa even takes the phone and congratulates, then again Grandma Valya. She says we should all come to her during these days. Ded Moroz visited her too, left something, but she didn"t peek because he said it was for Nikit.

Mother sets down her beer, takes the phone, congratulates Grandma Valya too - rare, they hardly ever call. She mentions the visit - and Mother promises we"ll come.

Very late now, but still no fireworks.

I"m lost in thoughts of presents and New Year magic. Only pity - I"m out of energy, want to lie down, but resist and go back to the tree, the toys, imagining how these new toys will interact with the ones I already have. But I have less and less strength, so I"ll lie down briefly on the bed.

.:.

___Part 13.

.::.

________________New Year Before Kindergarten.

.:::.

Part 13 Text 1. Gifts in the Morning... Days at Home... Visiting the Grandads.

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Waking up-already undressed and still in bed-I notice it"s morning and light, and I remember that yesterday was New Year"s. Or rather, it"s New Year"s today, and yesterday I didn"t make it to the fireworks-and that makes me feel a little lousy, like when you sleep through part of the day, miss a chunk of life, and feel weak and inadequate. But at the same time, remembering that last New Year most of the action was in the morning, I hope the lousy feeling will be offset by some kind of surprise this time.

Knowing it"s better to put on all these sweaters right away, otherwise my parents will start nagging (they"ve also woken up, creaking their bed and talking), I get dressed and leave my little room, while my parents-on the right, in the corridor-come out of theirs.

With yesterday"s hawkishness slightly subdued, I wait for them to arrive and point to the foot of the tree-look, it"s back again.

Now there are more "intellectual" gifts. For example, an audio cassette of some fairy tales again and a few books. But there are also toy cars-apparently my parents warned Father Frost that I still can"t read, and all those bookish gifts need to be balanced with toys so I don"t get bored.

One of the books is called Tiger, and it"s an unusual one: its pages are stiff to the point of being unbendable, a few in number, and the whole shape of the book is cut along the outline of a tigress on the cover-with her cubs. My mother and I dive into this book. Father-off to the side, behind us, camera in hand-dramatically commands: "Now, look at the camera!"-and clicks the shutter. I remember Aunt Larisa"s Uncle Vanya-this is his camera. I"ve always found photography boring: there"s no instant result-the photos usually appear months later, since Father has to develop the film. And the main reason: I don"t see the point, since all these moments, New Years, will repeat endlessly.

So it"s just me and Mum with the book. There are the words, large text, and she reads them out, pointing to each one. It starts: "Look at these tigers-they live in the jungle among vines and bamboo thickets..." But I"m more interested in the pictures, and Mum points out the bamboo, the greenery, and a forest unlike ours. She says it"s in countries where there"s no New Year and no snow. I guess that"s Africa.

Ideally-I should be a tiger and live among bamboo thickets, but still have New Year, snow, Father Frost, presents, and this apartment, with everyone I know.

There are also two homemade toys made from pieces of foam-an elephant and a shark. They"re bare foam, stitched with black thread for nostrils and gills; the elephant has a carved trunk and tail, and buttons for eyes, especially on the shark. Father likes the elephant, Mother the shark. They say these toys are from them personally, as a bonus to Father Frost"s gifts. I assume Mum made the shark and Father the elephant. These toys are more for laughs than for playing.

Another way to amuse ourselves is to have Mum look into a bauble on the tree. She does, and inside she looks exactly like a shark-and we all crack up. Mum starts squealing and giggling while Father is just taking the bauble down.

We have another delicious breakfast in the living room at this table, then lunch the same way. I mess around with all the toys, Pugacheva sings, and the same films with Nikulin and Shurik play, plus all those holiday programmes with Christmas trees and tinsel. Father calls us over for dried fish caviar or nuts. The nuts-walnuts-are cracked with a special tool, a dragon-shaped nutcracker. Father puts a nut in the dragon"s mouth, presses the lever, and it cracks. The dragon looks insane-eyes bulging, like the kitschy souvenirs sold on Kirov Avenue. And Father constantly warns me not to put my fingers in the dragon"s mouth. He generally hates it when my fingers get near door cracks and such. I, when adults aren"t looking, deliberately almost stick my finger into these places-teasing myself-it"s one of my peculiar amusements, where, like when a certain body part tingles, it feels like shaking something off-a neurotic itch all over.

By evening we go for a walk again: all the ice figures are set up in the square, a huge tree, lights everywhere. Coming back home to the living room-again, pleasant surprises from the elusive visitor.

The next day is the same: the TV stays on, the garland plays, and Mum and I read Tiger. The toy gun I got before New Year no longer shoots.

By evening we watch slide films, like last year, and from the projector"s small lamp comes the smell of watching slides.

The day after-again the same, Father just goes to get groceries.

Mum and I visit the grandads for a couple of days-the same as last year. The show Smak-New Year episodes, familiar films on TV, and Marsik roams adults" knees. We go sledding again-these kids, all yelling, it feels like a zoo from which you want to escape to civilisation, though you also want to ride. But it"s mostly older boys-some as tall as adults. When one rides and shouts something at a kid below, everyone steps aside and watches, and when he crashes into the kid, they all laugh.

From the hill back to the house-snowmen and drifts you can dive into without injury.

At Frunze Street-also edible gifts and a couple of toys. But most gifts were left at Lev Kassil.

We head back to Lev Kassil, another small Father Frost delivery, and in the evening-a New Year idyll again on the coffee table in the living room, like every festive day.

After dinner-piles of food. Tomorrow we plan to go to Baba Valya"s.

.:::.

Part 13 Text 2. To New Year Baba Valya... to Larisa... to Igor.

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Across the bridge and through Saratov, in the bus, in the trolleybus-where the old grey people look as if there"s no holiday-we arrive together at the ninth floor of a one-room flat.

Baba Valya-maximally herself, with all her hospitable and toastmaster-like mannerisms. I"m ushered into the living room by the mini-tree. There"s volume, we sit briefly, chat, but in the kitchen everything is sizzling and boiling, and we move there: black caviar, everything as it should be.

In a one-room flat there"s no room to spread out, and Larisa is waiting for a visit. We get ready and go to her ninth floor, through all the yards, past the large nine-storey buildings, under pipes wrapped in white insulation, around wells, through muddy puddles, streams, behind trash bins.

Larisa"s visit-chaotic, with small female greetings between her and Mum, like cheek kisses, just as with Baba Valya before. Here too there"s food, Larisa"s modest, unfragrant artificial tree, with matte, solid-coloured balls that feel expensive-very Aunt-Larisa-like. Father Frost came here too and left me gifts. Nearby, on these expensive shelves, dwarf trees don"t grow; in the bathroom everything glimmers like marble; in the corridor, long strips hang-you have to dive under them to go to the bathroom or kitchen.

Nights blur into days: sometimes we stay with one, sometimes the other-Baba Valya comes and goes, Uncle Vanya, or on the sofa, or the TV.

Larisa has the same shared hallway as on Lev Kassil-we take off our shoes there. In the neighboring large three-room flat lives Olga, or Aunt Olya, and her son, Igor, about my age, with an older brother.

Aunt Olya-dyed dark hair, fox-like eyes, considered kind and a good acquaintance of Baba Valya and Larisa, constantly visiting. She and her sons come from another city, Voronezh, so they seem sophisticated.

Aunt Olya invites us, and we move from Larisa"s flat to hers. Baba Valya goes to the kitchen with Olya; I go with Igor to his room. His brother plays hockey outside endlessly.

Igor is advanced, with tons of toys, but though it"s still daytime, his room is dim; the living room we pass through has no lights on. The layout is almost like our Lev Kassil flat-Igor"s room is small. But, as I said, chaos is everywhere, I lose track of time, and it may also be dark because it got dark outside. Unlike Lev Kassil, this flat isn"t cornered, so no corner window, adding to the gloom. Too many big cupboards, sofas, carpets, curtains.

We sit, and there are KamAZ trucks and model cars-everything advanced. But all this sophistication feels dim, with dark rooms. Igor has a spinning disc on the floor; he stands on it, pushes off, spins like a top. I was afraid to try.

I"m afraid of everything; where I"m not afraid, I cry at any minor failure. I run to Baba Valya, and everyone, even Igor, calms me down.

Overall, Igor is okay and friendly-a bit older, toy-savvy, like an instructive older brother. He has an older brother, as I said. He"s my first almost-peer I interact with alone. No discomfort arises, because my parents know his. Interacting with Igor is like Baba Valya interacting with Olya. I keep returning to that thought-it"s reassuring. I"ll do only what parents approve: play with toys in the room, nothing else. And if he suggested going to another room for something else, I wouldn"t go.

And, of course, his name sounds like "play"-I noticed immediately and fixated on that.

After visiting Olya and Igor, we return to Baba Valya, then prepare to go home to her ninth floor. Father and Mum are already there. As I said, everything is mixed up: two days have passed, we spent the previous night with Baba Valya at Larisa"s, Father and Mum at Baba Valya"s.

.:::.

Part 13 Text 3. To Shurygina... The Lion King... The Sad End of the Holidays.

.::::.

Back at Baba Valya"s ninth floor-all together-again cramped. But Mum has a friend living nearby, so we go to visit her.

We step out-through the same familiar smell from the stairwell-but instead of turning onto the noisy avenue, we go straight into some odd yards.

A boiler hums; we pass under a pipe; then come two-storey semi-wooden buildings-not private, several flats each. Entrances-if they can be called that-open, smelling of rotting wood; open windows emit fried potato smells.

We pass several such buildings, dive into the last one before the tram tracks-we even took the tram from here in summer with Baba Valya to the end of the dacha bus.

Wooden steps, dark and musty. Mum"s friend opens the door-ears sticking out, all dark and scary-but not scary as in fear, just not as good-looking as Mum or Aunt Larisa. She"s also sluggish, "like an amoeba," but this sluggishness gives her an air of sophistication. She"s an old friend of Mum"s, connected to drafting projects and boring paperwork-serious, professional. But now the home life is intense: sinks, washing dishes, hallway, clothes, jars of pickles and cucumbers. I don"t think she made them herself. Mum and I eat plenty of them.

This is the sixth house I"ve been in this week-each has its own special smells. Her name is Ira Shurygina.

Ira Shurygina has a son, Sashenka. White hair, younger than me. He speaks with difficulty, very unlike Igor-tense, no room full of toys.

The flat"s layout is odd; it"s unclear where what is, and I start dozing off-so we linger here, confusingly, and end up staying the night.

When I wake, I can"t figure out where I am-everything"s too mixed, leading me to scream and call Mum hysterically, so hard that neither Shurygina nor Mum can console me. Strong dislike of everything foreign, foreign surroundings, worsened by post-sleep disorientation. Mum"s consoling here-like elsewhere-is tinged with frustration, pessimism, some resentment.

At Shurygina"s, aside from Sashenka, there"s a video player for big cassettes. She puts on something for us-a cartoon, The Lion King.

Immediately, the music hits. Everything feels different, another world. The music and melodies are unlike the songs Pugacheva sings. Animals appear like in zoos, colours vivid-such saturation isn"t on TV, even in colour cartoons. This is another level-cassette-only magic.

Mainly-music and lions. Lions talk, emotions appear, everything human-like. I start to understand. Mum and the other Mum watch too, explaining something. I rely on intuition more. The evil lion has evil features-he"s mean. Hyenas-like devils. Simba-the kindest, like me, also a son. This is like me. I become the lion.

A lioness child is Simba"s old friend-wow. Nothing like my sisters in summer... Summer sisters are strangers; you can only silently tickle each other. But these interactions feel close, like with Igor: parents are friends. That"s where it starts.

Then-hyenas, evil lion, Simba"s father fights evil. Later Simba flees in despair, chased by hyenas. Clear: hyenas are outsiders.

Then confusing characters, jungle scenes-I follow roughly by music. First a carefree song, then evil lion, then Simba with a mane like I wanted, melodic song, jungle, lion play and tumbling.

Then fields, wastelands, unclear events. A strange monkey-scary or helpful. At the end, Simba fights the evil lion-Scars flies from fire. Ends with triumphant song, jungle joy. Best thing I"ve seen; I want the video and cassette.

We leave, say goodbye to Shuryginas.

Back to Baba Valya-through rotting houses, icy puddles we skate on-windows smell of frying. In my mind-The Lion King. On Lev Kassil, in Father"s living room wall, bottom drawer-music records, one cover has a sunrise or sunset, valley, bush, with a lion and antelope.

Now I think of nothing else-just sitting with Sashenka, watching The Lion King in Ira Shurygina"s old, musty two-storey flat. Best visit ever: better than Igor with toys and hockey brother, better than Larisa. Cozy: both our Mums there, no awkward Larisa-like proximity. Everything perfect: bed, winter sun on Sashenka, trams outside, rug, TV with vivid, rich Lion King.

Sashenka and the video player, cassette with Lion King. Trams and cassettes. Lion, music, Simba, winter sun, King, freestyle swimming, Igor, play, Ivan, sofa, Africa, tiger, Father Frost, bamboo, TV, remote, rug, toys. I want time to pass fast so something happens-everything else is boring. Main fun: TV-usually dull, digging in cupboards, and toys-but no interaction.

From Baba Valya"s-back home with Mum, straight to the Old New Year at the grandads. At grandads-tangerines, chocolates, bananas. We move between grandads and Lev Kassil again, where Father says Chinese New Year will be in two weeks, and Father Frost may drop something.

He does, but very little, since all"s over: the Engel"s Square tree is dismantled, everything ends, and it makes me want to cry. This explains why New Year melodies feel sad-even in the first days of the holidays. Short-lived joys.

We take down the tree. It no longer smells. When Father carries it out, needles fall across the corridor, a few cones too-I keep them as memory, and want to cry.

Everything becomes grey and boring. We eat buttered cheese sandwiches and sausages, and cabbage soup at noon.

Salvation, as said, lies in toys, the cupboard, and the TV-mostly the TV. It holds a small hope of finding something interesting. Usually cartoons are fairy tales-Pushkin always on. They showed The Fisherman and the Fish-one of the first tales I heard with Kolobok. Later came Mowgli, Leopold, and others.

Damn, I want it like The Lion King, like summer with Baba Valya. Both had a savanna-like feel, though I don"t know exactly what that is. But roughly-sunset, red sun, lions running along a sandy ridge, heat, crimson sky, evening. That"s how it was in The Lion King and in Baba Valya"s zoo walks.

.:::.

Part 13, Text 4. Just winter,,, sick again,,, Morozko.

.::::.

Now it"s just winter. No Grandfather Frosts.

And here I am sick again. In a matter of hours my throat was shredded, and soon enough there"s a fever and hellish shivering under the blankets, in sweaters - again twenty-five. Or rather - thirty-eight. Whenever I"m sick, these numbers constantly echo - "thirty-seven point seven," "thirty-eight," "thirty-eight point five." Mom reads them from the armpit thermometer, turning it around. I don"t bother with that - my job is to lie there and be sick. When it"s "thirty-eight point five," and especially "thirty-nine," Mom is already pacing and calling someone.

By morning - the doctor. Our familiar one, with those attached earlobes. She listens with a stethoscope, presses my tongue with a spoon, looks at something. Bed rest, bitter paracetamol, sour citramon. Tea with raspberry jam. Same old, same old. Dad isn"t here. Uncle Seryozha, though, sometimes shows up again.

Midday. I"m lying in my small room. The sun has moved to the courtyard side - over there, at Mom"s window, on the kitchen, where she"s sizzling something in a pan. I imagine old Russian sledges pulled by three horses, like in the fairy tales. Women in painted scarves, men in loosely worn fur hats, all in coats, riding across a sunlit snowy field - who knows where they"re headed, but they"re enjoying life, somewhere in Russia where "Moscow speaks" and the radio is "Mayak." And I, shivering, watch the toy trains on my wallpaper and imagine them travelling too. While I"m sick, Mom will feed me proper food, no vermicelli or scraps, no floor cleaning.

At Aunt Larisa"s I saw a show about travellers who roasted giant spiders over a fire. They said they crunch like chips. After that, despite the illustration of a sore throat in Mom"s Mother and Child book, I got it in my head that a sore throat is something baked, dry, hardened: a crust forming on the first day, then like plaster it breaks off, is swallowed, and is crunchy and nourishing, like those roasted spiders or baked fish roe at BabKlava"s.

After about three days, the throat eases, and then comes the sensation of that dried "roe" on the throat, which I already know will soon fall inward, and that"s how I"ll swallow it. By the end of the week - soaking feet.

One day, feeling a bit better, I come to the kitchen after lunch - onto the mustard armchair. Its springy seat fits my ass just right, and I stretch my legs onto a chair, like Dad did, when he used to sit here poking his teeth with matches, building little huts out of used matchsticks on the table.

Now I"m sitting there - and we have a working TV in the kitchen. Small, black-and-white, almost nothing on but a couple of channels. It picks up signal with its double-antler antenna, and it sits between the stove and the window - on a small chest of drawers. Once I recover, I"ll continue digging through those drawers: the lower ones, besides the dragon nutcracker, sparklers, and iron, hide heaps of unexplored stuff, to the point of obsession.

Mom cooks on the right side, sunlight falls low on the left through bare winter poplars, and I sit in the mustard armchair facing the TV, watching some fairy-tale movie. Mom says it"s Morozko. Immediately, New Year vibes. Homemade Christmas decorations - paper snowflakes, and similar city lights - and frosty patterns on windows, especially on Frunze Street. Grandpa at the kitchen table used to say these patterns were drawn by Grandfather Frost, and he dipped pepper in the soup while saying it. I looked at those patterns - the yard invisible behind them - imagining the cotton between the panes as snow.

Watching Morozko, Mom seems to know the story by heart, she doesn"t even need to watch the screen to guide me. An old man with a mushroom cap, Ivanushka, then a scary werewolf with a bear"s head, and then a sweet girl - in fairy-tale terms - Nastenka. And then not-so-sweet - Baba Yaga. Usually, each fairy character has their own tale, but here they"re all in one "super-fairy tale" - Morozko. Seems to have everything. It becomes my favourite film-fairy tale, actually, my favourite film at all. And The Lion King is my favourite cartoon.

While watching Morozko in the mustard armchair, I gnaw on a carrot - and soon something"s wrong with a tooth. It starts hurting, and that"s shit. Again, shit and unpleasant. Another unwelcome discovery. I was sitting comfortably, enjoying the tale, and now bam - a toothache. What kind of life is this? I complain to Mom.

.:::.

Part 13, Text 5. Ticklish,,, rectal and other bodily amusements,,, clinic tests.

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A few days ago, Mom and I went for the first time to the local children"s city dentist because of my sore tooth, right at the corner of Petrovskaya and Mayakovskaya. I already knew it was going to be a nightmare - Mom warned me - but it wasn"t just a nightmare, it was hell, and I cried there - absolute hell. The tooth was pulled. Now, like a lizard"s tail, a new one must grow, permanently. And the first one was strangely called "milk."

Gradually, both the tooth issue and the sickness pass. And again I"m - king of the apartment. In my room, the hall, the kitchen. Mom comes, feeds me, leaves - no stress, great times. I clamber onto the unfolded sofa before the TV, on the blanket. It sparks, just like in the sanatorium, like at BabValya"s and Larisa"s - I constantly remember that. On my knees, leaning my forehead on the blanket, ass raised.

I feel my butt pop, and then there"s a little fart - apparently the butt swallows some air. The popping feels like scraping. And now it all mixes: my fear of unknown body processes, association with medical procedures - loss of control - and conversely - the possibility of controlling something unpleasant, putting this butt-popping in the same category as self-tickling. Also, due to the farting - the funny and shameful association - from lack of bodily control and childhood helplessness, like calling Mom to wipe my bottom. A mix of all things bodily, genital, painful, shameful, tied to infantile stages - now also enriched by summer discoveries - nudity, other people, desired strangers.

As a result, while I"m in this position, popping and farting, thinking about all this - my penis gets hard. If I relax more and control the air carefully, I can blow it out rather than fart it. You feel it warm slightly inside in a second. Breathing with your butt.

Meanwhile, I can"t even imagine what it looks like in there... How wide it opens now, is it a hole or what? Are there turds, and where - before the exit or higher in the gut - or lower, considering my pose. What if you could see a turd when the butt opens? No mirror.

Everything is unclear, imprecise, imperfect. This bodily discomfort feels like neurotic itching - you want to shake it off. I sometimes literally jerk my whole body - it helps. Or I want to push the discomfort to the limit. It feels instinctive. But undressing, taking off socks, exposing the stomach - unpleasant breeze, no release, just immerses me deeper into sticky neurotic filth.

Another annoyance: can"t fart, air gets stuck, stomach bloats - especially left side. Penis just loves unpleasantness - even from bloating, it gets hard.

Another time, playing with farts and pain, standing butt-up, I want to fart, but feel a stab inside, like turd. Go to potty - shit. I was right - turd right there, must be prepared, not surprised if it pricks.

I tell Mom - omitting the penis - she says she knows. She even mimics the popping sound - like the horse-hoof parody, but here it"s air going in and out - she knows.

Alone, thinking of the psychological side, it"s worse than "shame." I see the essence but not the word - violation of rules and norms. Mischief, but genital. Ah, penis hard. Mom might come... Damn. I push it down.

Sometimes on the toilet, when a big painful turd comes out, in the most humiliating moment, my penis jerks, I shiver, whisper "damn," wiggle toes - that"s exactly the word I can"t yet name.

We frequent the clinic again. First, harmless - upstairs, at the therapists" end. The doctor listens, writes boringly.

Then - morning hell: collect turds in a mayo jar, pee in another, off to the clinic in the cold, fasting, and it"s clear where - cursed third floor, where pain and tears always live.

There it is - terror, waiting in line, "Next, please." Mom hands over the chart, leaves. I sit. Doctor writes. I"m trembling. She opens a tiny package, takes my sensitive left-hand ring finger, wets it with cotton - tears streaming, can"t see - then, hell. Legs spasming under the chair while she presses: "Fingers cold from frost, difficult," something about trains. What trains? Now public shame - crying in the hallway. All my summer strategies to hide the penis, act grown-up, all pointless in one office visit.

I walk down the corridor defeated, humiliated - infantile helplessness. Mom offers a "Winnie the Pooh" candy - useless. Not life.

Then - "Fairy tale," still "Winnie the Pooh," eaten in post-crying waves, and homeward through the park. Along the concrete fence of the church, we reach another corner at Grandma"s monument with kids - traffic lights, cars - civilisation returns, and so does my mood. Behind - only pain, clinic, cursed white-coat doctors, and private houses with strangers. Away.

At home - meat broth, chopped boiled meat. Decent. Only... the meat gets stuck between distant teeth, causing tiny pains. Not life.

.:::.

Part 13, Text 6. Outing with Valera,,, Frunze winter,,, Pushkin tales,,, TV shows,,, Chipollino game,,, zoo with Grandpa.

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One day, Valera - Mom"s red-haired brother, a joking, flirtatious man - appears at our apartment. Grandpa and Grandma are at the table. A dull adult holiday. Salads, aspic, wine for adults. Now we"re without Dad, pure Engels-side.

Evening - after sitting together, we all go - all carrying Lev Kassil books - to see the grandparents. Frost, darkness, lanterns. Near the sweaty Grandma with kids monument, we enter a shop with model airplanes in the window. I want one, Grandpa buys a grey fighter jet. Mom says these planes take off from our nearby airfield. Sometimes we see them from the small room at night - tiny lights flying away in the distance.

After the shop, Valera drifts off somewhere - I"m with the plane, and we head to Frunze Street, just the four of us - me, Mom, Grandma, Grandpa. Leaving the Children"s Park onto Pushkin Street, we see big trucks with huge trailers. My folks say it"s the zoo being delivered. Like with BabValya and the lion. But now - dark, freezing February, how can jungle and savannah fauna survive? No animals visible or audible, and deserted.

Grandparents immediately put me to bed on Grandma"s carpeted bed, as usual, adults still sitting.

Morning - same shows: Poka vse doma, Handy Hands with two awkward hosts, morning Smak with Makarevich, Kalambur, and news with the strict, perfect anchor, hair slicked like matryoshka dolls in Lev Kassil.

Daytime - with Mom and grandparents, I walk Frunze in winter style: clearing snow with Grandpa, snowball fights with Mom, sledding down big hills.

At home - Mom and Grandpa read a big blue book, memorised like Morozko. Pushkin, everywhere. Alongside the fisherman and fish, more tales, trickier words and phrases like "Gvidon," "Inda ochi." The latter reminds me of Inga, my peer, whose parents Dad and Mom know at Lev Kassil. Inga also brings to mind Chunga-Changa, a children"s song. Then, access to the embankment, museum, Soldier Monument, sailors, inflatables, striped sailor uniforms, and eventually - Nikulin, the actor with a robot-police face. Everything mingled in my head, linked, confused.

On TV - Lotto: a pot-bellied man draws numbered balls, chaos ensues, but I want the bright balls. I want to puff my cheeks like a frog, feeling full and round. Like Robin Bobin, in Saratov on the way to BabValya. On one stretch, sculpture or statue, Robin Bobin - round young man, sits by a barrel, reminds me of wine, grapes, cafe on Gorky Street in Engels, adult department. Other side - a cannon. All this - approaching the dull gray section of road to BabValya.

But now - Frunze, winter, Pushkin tales. Three girls, Babarikha, barrel, squirrel eating seeds... Saltan, some swan. A hawk tyrannising a swan. Further - illustration of warriors marching against ocean waves. Like Amphibian Man ending in the sea. Everything interconnected. Like Baba Yaga travelling from tale to tale. All motifs, real and fictional - Ivanushka, Pushkin, sayings, omens, going to live in the sea - everywhere - TV, adult conversations - unclear who or what is real, who or what imaginary. For me - it just exists, winter tales, New Year, childhood - state in which penis doesn"t rise and isn"t thought of.

A few days pass - reading tales, winter walks, thinking of rowan, bullfinches, lions, men finishing the "last spoon of strength" in soup - I must too. Grandma often gives black bread, as I like, with sunflower oil and salt.

Now - Grandpa and I set off to see the animals delivered to Children"s Park.

Dressed in my fur coat, suede hat, tights, pants, over those red wool pants and matching sweater. Sweater has blue pockets at shoulders, each with a pocket "above" - as if the designer ignored gravity, thinking nothing would fall.

We walk slowly, hand in hand, along ice-hardened Persidskaya Street. Snowdrifts, fences, dogs barking. Grandpa taciturn - as always - but positive and responsive. We pass the pain clinic on the right, Fairy Tale theatre. I don"t care for Fairy Tale - anticipating the animals. Six months since the last zoo visit.

And now - not dogs barking, but macaques, bison, mammoths, other furry beasts. We move cage to cage. In the distance a tiger, lying, can"t see. More interested in llamas. One llama outside cage, near people - can sit on it, get photo. I sit, photographed. Grandpa behind, llama stinks - just as I wanted: circus smell, weekend with parents in Saratov. Photo printed immediately.

At home - recounting to Mom and Grandma, all laugh at my story of the stinky llama.

Also - often play board game with dice. Large route map, numbers, take turns, move spaces equal to dice roll. Objective - reach finish fastest. Game called Cipollino. Map illustrated with characters: Signor Tomato, gendarmes in police hats, other vegetable characters. Mom knows by heart. Learning numbers - six my favourite, love its evenness. Odd numbers - instantly disliked for imperfection. Some stops move you back or forward - usually minor, few spaces, but three stops can throw you far back, making comeback nearly impossible unless opponent hits same. Would be fun, if real-life consequences weren"t tied.

After game - open blue tale book. Also, heavily illustrated winter birds book. Penguin page - in tuxedo, with cane, glasses, top hat. Adults read all.

Grandma calls for cabbage soup, Grandpa and Mom follow, I need repeated calls - never want to eat.

.:::.

Part 13, Text 7. To Baba Valya... to Igor... Simbir... sprats... threw up.

.::::.

One day, like a far-flinging arrow in some game, I get shot off to Baba Valya again. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are over at Lev Kassil now.

Baba Valya has a toy steamer. It"s called Simbir". Sounds like bullfinch-and also wintery. It"s black and red, plastic, and it toots. You press the funnel, and out comes a ship"s whistle from somewhere. It"s not small-almost knee-high on me. Flat-bottomed so it can stand on the floor, and it"s mine-I can take it home to Engels. I can"t wait for summer to launch it on water.

With Baba Valya, we go back to Larisa. That familiar basement smell in her house makes me think of rats. Up to the ninth floor. Larisa opens the door. The common hallway smell, piles of shoes on the floor-nowhere to step-and right away, neighbour Olga, with her fox-like cartoonish face, swings her door open and invites us in. We decide Baba Valya will come later, but I go straight to Igor.

He leads me to a room like the middle one at our place on Lev Kassil. Dark, just like their smaller room. They have a TV with some kind of box hooked up. Igor switches it on, and the TV lights up with a colourful display: a perfectly geometric field, and tiny figures move across it. He explains it"s a tank game. You shoot targets, and he shows me how, holding some plastic thing and pressing buttons. Then he hands me one, and after a while I timidly get the hang of it, and we play tanks. Now I know what it is-I"ve seen something similar in some delis with bright TVs and a bunch of boys around.

Advanced Igor: a console, heaps of toys. And he has an older brother-always somewhere in the yard playing hockey with older kids. I"ve never seen him. My aunt Larisa also has an older brother-my father-but unlike Igor, her apartment is minimalist. Uncle Vanya isn"t around either-always at work late. Uncle Vanya, Ivan, is quiet, like my grandfather. But you can"t picture him sitting leisurely with a newspaper like Grandpa, let alone doing unpleasant chores, like Grandpa carrying out my potty business. Ivan drives a car-a "Nine." Small, low sedan. Very cool compared to a Moskvich, Zhiguli, or especially a Zaporozhets, which just by name is hilarious. Zaporozhets is considered the worst car-driving one is not life. There"s also the "Oka," a funny little car, too small for grown-ups. My sides hurt just thinking about it now.

I"m getting the hang of cars. My favourite is still the Volga. But after riding in Ivan"s Nine-when he drives Baba Valya and me home-I start liking it more: nimble, like a racing car in movies, unlike the long Volga; young, cool.

Baba Valya no longer has all the festive food, but it"s fine. Now there are sprats-very popular with her, and even Hans eats them. Sprats come in flat tin cans with a pull tab; Baba pulls the lid off, and there lie these little fish with that distinctive sprat taste.

In the evenings we give each other massages-I mostly slack off-yet my penis gets hard, and immediately it"s like summer again, reminding me of the sisters at the beach. Next summer they"ll be back, so I"m calm. I"ve never managed realistic scenarios of closeness with them, so I imagine contact directly-not conversations, since I have no idea what we"d talk about-but the feeling of contact, our emotions. My adults think only they exist for me-me with them and Igor. But no, there are those two invisible girls from the beach no one knows about, more precious to me than any real Igor.

In recent months, I"ve rarely thought of the sisters: new impressions, always cold. During the day-vermicelli periods, New Year periods, sickness, running from one grandma to another-I get exhausted and fall asleep quickly under a warm blanket, thinking only of the latest events. But now, at Baba Valya"s, no festive context, steamed after a bath, massages, almost naked like in summer-the thoughts turn immediately summer-like.

So here we are, Baba Valya and I, on the sofa spread out for sleeping. We were half-lying, massaging each other, but I wanted to sit up and somehow rock back and forth. I thought it was for fun. But now it feels instinctive-my body demanding it for some inexplicable reason, and I feel like I need to move, so I go to tumble on the carpet, move around. Some weird energy. I walk back and forth. The TV is on. Baba Valya talks and reads the newspaper. Hans whining in the kitchen. Ottoman-one, two. Coffee table. I"m at the carpet corner where Simbir" stands. Red plastic, red carpet, patterned... Baba Valya... walking... wall with drawers and glasses... pattern, more pattern... Hans... Baba Valya... sprats... uuUAA...

It"s hell from nowhere-fucking hellish crap, filth. I feel like people in movies who get slapped to sober up. One moment I was in paradise-at Baba Valya"s, massages, carefree, floating on clouds, everything fine. Then-wham-slap from my own body, as if nothing ever happened. Brought back to sober reality, to the hell of the body. The second conscious time I"ve thrown up in life. The sprats-memory triggers instant retching and panicked terror. Sprats-crossed out forever.

.:::.

Part 13, Text 8. To Frunze... to Lev Kassil... baths... pulling the penis... carrying soft toys... visit to a suspicious place.

.::::.

My stay at Baba Valya"s ends, and, like a Cipollino arrow, I"m whisked away with my Simbir" to another part of the map-Lev Kassil. At Lev Kassil, I sail Simbir" in the bath, splashing as usual: scrubbing my feet with a sponge, ticklish, I squeal, and when we drain the water, we watch the whirlpool down the plughole.

I don"t let Mom touch my penis. I do it myself. After that massacre one and a half years ago, it"s a sore topic-even during home idylls. The penis is complicated: some skin outside, something else inside. By the end of the bath, Mom wants me to pull the skin back, expose and wash the something-but I throw fits, often in tears, we sit for ages: me scared, squelching, holding my penis; Mom crouched by the bath, empathising, but not yielding. I try repeatedly-often just moving my hands like pretending to pull-but nothing, and any sensation wracks me like pain.

Even "baths"-as we call bathing in our idyll-are tainted with anxiety. Pee often sprays unpredictably due to this skin. Seat and feet end up wet. When I finish, I just shake it off and run. Fingers smell of stale pee, and I"m tempted to sniff them.

Then we go to the grandparents with Simbir"-which I now carry everywhere. I dock it in a small room on their red carpet; it"ll stay there till summer. In summer, grandparents pull a metal tub from the shed-I always think about it when we read The Fisherman and the Fish. The tub"s metal, not wood. Then I can test Simbir" in it. Now it"s one of the few toys, along with Grandpa"s train, permanently at Frunze. The main plastic vehicle park and rubber zoo are at Lev Kassil.

At Lev Kassil, beyond playable toys, there are many obsolete ones-primitive plastic bus, disproportionate matryoshkas. Just sitting on the shelf. Then two toys from Mom"s childhood-Cheburashka and a plush bear. Never interested in them. Big, old bear. Looking at it evokes the old-era set: coats, dust, cupboards, houses from another time, plus that unbearably long New Year film with three hours at the tree talking.

One morning, it"s time. Dad"s been gone for a while; it"s me and Mom. She walks around the apartment, we"re heading somewhere. Me-bundled in coats and mittens; outside frost, all that bullfinch-and-icicle mess. She tells me to take the bear and Cheburashka-it"s their day. We put them in a bag and go.

We slip across icy pavements, avoiding houses-icicles. Through the statue of Baba and kids, through the Children"s Park. Beggars at the church, but we don"t give them the toys. We somehow pass "Skazka," and importantly-not to the clinic, as I expected-but left along the street before the clinic. One block toward the Volga, then right along a rarely used street, parallel to Persidskaya-Telegrafnaya.

Private houses, barking dogs, ice everywhere. Steam (or smoke?) rises from chimneys. We reach a high two-storey building-some kind of institution. Wooden doors, buzzer-Mom presses. Steps inside, doors in an arch. I have a shitty feeling.

The smell of a big kitchen, clearly not unfamiliar pasta dishes-bad sign. Strong kitchen smell means lots of people, long-term. From voices, watching the adult women in white coats guiding us, I realise it"s a kindergarten.

Like a children"s clinic: walls lined with drawings of animals and story characters, mixing with clanging pots and smells, making me panic more than when such drawings were mingled with medicine smells.

Inside: a big hall, kids everywhere. We take off shoes, enter with the toys, place them near the exit, step back. Seems nobody cares about our toys.

In the corridor, talking to the ladies-they ask me things in the usual silly adult tone to a small kid. Lockers for change of clothes, door to toilet-I recognise the smell from public toilets near Kirov Avenue. Don"t like it: not shit, but constant cleaning smell. Constant cleaning means constant use. Hint: long-term stay.

With Mom and all the attention, I feel privileged compared to those kids. They"re in shitty situations, parents unknown. On the way out, we peek at the hall: our bear"s head detached, sawdust out, girls walking over it, having fun-clearly ripped it off. We leave.

On the way, we discuss the kindergarten, the kids, and decapitation. I think: if the girls are like that, imagine the boys? Mom laughs-not at the bear, at their wildness. I feel superior, more cultured than all those kids; Mom would agree. Even I-the notorious toy-tore-never ruined a toy for fun; mine is always from hysteria, which comes from pain. These girls? Pure delight in destruction. Like Inga. Tomboys. Not like Thumbelina, Nastya, or the beach sisters.

We stop at "Skazka," buy a couple of Winnie-the-Poohs and biscuits. Bears everywhere. Mom talks about how bears hibernate in winter, warm, suck paws. All under snow between tree roots. Bullfinches, woodpeckers, forest like in Morozko.

Through the park, skating on ice, through church entrance, past Baba-and-kids statue, across streets, back to Lev Kassil.


.:.

___Part 14.

.::.

________________The Start of Kindergarten

.:::.

Part 14 Text 1. First Day at Kindergarten... Tantrum at Kindergarten... Stupefaction... a Sense of Dread and a Knot in the Chest... Shame Only Toward Certain People

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"Nikita... Nikit... Son, get up."

I had never in my life wanted to sleep so badly, or to stay lying there and go nowhere. She kept going: "...like all the other children, like all people: the sun is only just rising - and you"re already up..." A caring tone. But I could feel from her words that she was obliged to wake me, as if accountable to someone.

I somehow opened my eyes. The small room was flooded with sunlight. Pink dawn. That meant it was bitterly cold outside. Mom packed my toys into a bag, saying, "We"ll take these with us." To where - who knows. I never asked. We always just went out, and only once there would I see where we were headed.

We ate, which at least meant no blood was involved. We got dressed. She carefully checked everything I wore, especially under the jacket, the inner layers.

And then we went out.

Biting frost, snow, and sunlight. Turning left from Lev Kassil Street, after a large hotel building, there was a tiny house. Inside, it smelled like food, the same as the place where we"d taken the teddy the other day. Words I didn"t understand floated around - the medical-clinic kind: "quarantine," "dispensary," "tuberculosis." Such words always set off alarm bells. The women in white coats were here, too. Mom spoke with them, and we left.

Then we walked the rest of the way like we were headed to the clinic. Mom carried a huge bag with my toys - I mean, really huge - most of what I owned.

And once more, before the clinic, we turned - which was strange again.

Finally, we reached the same building where we"d taken the teddy. We went inside - it smelled like a cafeteria, like food, all that, and the noise of children from the main playroom.

Inside my head, a storm of awful premonitions and feelings brewed from all this inexplicable activity. There was a cloakroom, the command to "undress," mom looking helpless as she stayed in her coat, and the way the women in white coats treated me - no longer with the slight privilege I"d had the day we left the teddy.

They led us to the second floor. Another playroom with windows onto Telegrafnaya Street - also full of children. Mom handed me the bag with my toys, and I was led into the room and seated on a chair. Mom stayed in the corridor, glancing at me from time to time, then went somewhere with someone. My tears ran from the premonition of something awful.

A little time passed, and then the awful part hit: mom didn"t come back. That"s when I started screaming.

I was completely screwed. I couldn"t see a thing of what was happening. In my tantrum, I seemed to have slid off the chair or bent over, resting my torso on my knees. Someone either patted me on the shoulder or said something. It was like diving underwater - everything blurred. Only silhouettes of white coats, children, carpet, and my legs remained. A whirlpool of memories of home, New Years, and other past times, each of which...

I hadn"t moved from the chair all morning. Just raising my head to see the children, to glimpse a childlike picture on the wall, or anything associated with this place - and I"d start crying all over again. Inhaling and thinking about the smell made me cry. Thinking of this place made me cry. Looking at the bag in my hand and recalling my games with these toys on Lev Kassil Street made me curl up and sob. I couldn"t stop myself: the crying was as instinctive and inevitable as vomiting. My face was coated in a crust of dried snot. My sleeves soaked.

The other children went to eat. I stayed put. Someone said something to me - and I cried.

The children left the room, but I remained on the chair. To my left, a window with cars and the street. To my right, sunlight from another window.

The rest of the day - the worst of my life, a hundred times worse than the day of the penis incident - didn"t even register in memory.

By the second or third day, I no longer broke down in full tantrums like the first day, and I stopped lugging the huge bag of toys. But I still sat on the same chair and cried. The sound of occasional cars outside the left window reminded me of freedom. Every memory of entering here with mom, every thought that she might be outside the window - especially on the second day - immediately made me burst into tears. I constantly stared toward the entrance - maybe mom would appear. But she wasn"t there.

It"s hard even to name the feeling of being in this place. A sense of dread. Kindergarten dread and nausea. All the children playing ahead on the carpet, the smells, the primitive toys... Just recalling mom and home made me cry instantly. It was about her. No matter how much she smiled or tried to comfort me - I could see it was a mask, that she didn"t want me here.

Pity for mom, and for my other loved ones: I knew each of them would be better off if I were home, if we were all home, enjoying New Year, or a weekend, or another idyll. Not here, not with these strangers. Here, entirely strangers, a whole mass of them. A whole system, with different categories: children, caregivers, other parents.

By lunch, the children moved to the far side of the room to sit at tables - where they were served meals. The smell of the cafeteria, of all the borschts and porridges, became, from day one, a sensory association with kindergarten dread.

Overall, the "dread" was a mix of pity for my parents - especially mom - memories of freedom and home, the sense of injustice of these circumstances forcing my adults to bring me here, and everything I perceived with my senses: smells, voices of children, the sights.

I didn"t eat anything. Mom picked me up after the local lunch.

At home, though the kindergarten was mostly displaced from my mind by some instinctive anti-stress mechanism, if I remembered it at all, it made me feel bad. My mental state became such that toys and play lost all value. I felt as if I"d grown up. My only value was being at home with my parents. With them, I could sit anywhere, for my whole life. And this made me not take the kindergarten children seriously - I didn"t perceive them as capable.

I had a serious, grown-up focus - the desire to be with my family, thoughts about people. And the children in kindergarten - they screamed, they played, they were busy with toys. Just unconscious organisms. And because some looked older than me, I felt not so much older than them, but somehow "above" them.

Every time I went to kindergarten, exactly the same: turning in from the cold, entering the gates, stepping inside, inhaling that pervasive cafeteria smell - my chest would tighten painfully, knees would shake, and if I tried to speak to anyone, I"d probably stutter.

Many days passed, and I never stood up from the chair where I"d sat the first day. I didn"t go to the toilet, didn"t move at all. I felt utterly alone, and the more people around, the lonelier I felt.

Life had changed. Before, I grew up riding my bike, the beach, self-tickling, carefree New Years. At most, vermicelli and small quarrels with mom - minor, tolerable. But this... I could not endure. Every day, the same feeling. Just inhaling the smell, seeing the pictures on the walls, all the mushrooms, seeing and hearing the children - my chest would tighten instantly.

As I said, I didn"t feel ashamed of the other children - I was not embarrassed even though I sat there crying before them every day. They had no mind. If they didn"t cry, if they didn"t want to go home, if they were content... they were simply idiots, just organisms. Nothing to be ashamed of. Let them sit there with their cars and blocks. Damn, I look at them again - tears. Better to look at the radiator under the window. How I wished this hell would end, how I longed to go home.

I also didn"t feel ashamed of the caregivers. They were all older than my parents. I felt shame for my own immaturity, and crying mostly only in front of those who had some advantage over me in control over body and life. Adults, roughly my parents" age or younger - like Uncle Ivan and Aunt Larisa. And my grandfathers, for instance - old, don"t ride bikes, don"t swim - no large team over their bodies and lives. These caregivers - to me, like the subhuman children, I could care less about.

.:::.

Part 14 Text 2. Everyone Says How Grown-Up I Am... Books About Animals... Bug in Yana"s Plate... Nap Time and Milk Instead of Blood

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At home, I had a birthday, and all sorts of relatives came, telling me, "How big and grown-up you are." If only they knew how I now experienced this stage of life. The humiliating, infantilising state kindergarten had put me in. No one knew the full depth of my sense of defeat and helplessness.

In the evening, my parents" acquaintances came - the family of that girl Inga. I hardly knew her; she was like the children in kindergarten. Too active, a bit selfish. She only cared about having fun. Her father had a video camera and brought, with a delay, a videocassette of their wedding for my parents. I saw cassettes with films - like the one with the "Lion King" at the Shurygins" - in picture-covered cases. But this wedding cassette, in its rough cardboard case, became the first one for a future VCR at home, yet gave me no dopamine or urge to watch.

Inga"s father filmed me on his camera. After New Year, mom and I read and learned that book about tigers. I memorised it more than actually learning to read. "Look at these tigers. They live in bamboo thickets" - I read these pages aloud before the camera. Everyone clapped, told me I was good.

Currently, the Lev Kassil and even more the Frunze area dominates - because the kindergarten is near Frunze Street. Since last year, I have a "Chukovsky" book - rhymed fairy tales. Mom reads it to me, and I constantly examine the pictures. Mostly creepy stuff: Moydodyr, Tarakanische, Fly-Tsokotukha, a shark. Aibolit, Limpopo. We read it over and over - at home, or I take it to my grandparents" to wander around with it.

At my grandparents", a blue book about animals appeared. I began studying it too. Adults read, and I endlessly looked at the pictures. Realistically drawn animals, in proper proportions. I saw how hyenas, eagles, and sharks really looked - not just cartoon versions. There was also a creature called a "Tasmanian devil," with open fanged jaws in the illustration. I saw bats; mom remembered Shurygina - once a bat had landed and tangled in her dark hair, she cried, and mom removed it. Bats drink blood, too, it seemed.

But I"m especially fascinated by the underwater world. Sea, for me, has long been terrifying - the edge of the water unseen, its depth. Adults say it"s as deep as from here to Saratov. I don"t even want to think about it - it"s that scary. Sharks, whales, submarines, like in grandpa"s magazines next to cigarettes; grandpa inspects his nose hairs in a small mirror in the morning. Small room, sun streaming.

All sorts of strange things live in the sea, even on the bottom - octopuses, starfish. There"s also a fish with a built-in light to illuminate its path. Sperm whales - as adults say, and as the books show - are the size of a large ship.

My phobic fascination with the underwater deep is often intensified by TV shows with Cousteau - an adult man who dives with a mask and sometimes under icebergs. The camera films him, and he must fear sharks, while viewers worry for him. In the underwater world, inexplicable things pile up: distance, depth, how a human can dive in icy water without freezing, and above all: what if a shark attacks, what if lost under an iceberg?

Sometimes mom meets an acquaintance, Semenova, who has a daughter, Yana, older than me. I hadn"t spoken with her. They were at my birthday. They told a story: once, in Yana"s kindergarten group, plates with lunch were set, and in her plate was either a cockroach or a bug. Everyone laughed - including mom. I pretended to laugh. I didn"t feel amusement at all - for me, it was another reminder of the kindergarten nightmare, of sitting frozen aside while others ate, wishing it would end and mom would come.

Meanwhile, the kindergarten day became longer for me - mom needed more time for her things. Previously, she"d pick me up after lunch, and all children went to nap in a dedicated bedroom. Now I go there with them.

For me, not much changes - now it"s just a horizontal stupor. From day one, nap time was a test of patience: two hours lying, pretending to sleep.

My bed - in the centre of the room, among the others. Wherever I looked, tattletales. I had to stay in an anabiotic state. Caregivers sometimes checked to make sure everyone was asleep. One always sat in this room, on duty.

I cried at kindergarten in the mornings, during the first hours - total chaos: saying goodbye to mom, entering the hall where everyone yells - I cried even recalling it. But lying here after lunch, with sunlight shining from the yard side, I felt better - home was soon. I could even distract myself with memories and thoughts. Sometimes not about home, but leisure, past summer, the beach. And even now - bodily. Peeking through my lashes at the room, I often saw the caregivers and other women in white coats quietly entering to whisper with the one on duty, sitting right on the edge of someone"s nearby bed. These women were mostly fat, with thick asses, like meat counters in grocery stores with blue scales.

Soon, I developed a fantasy. I imagined milk flowing out of the children, from the girls the women might sit on, from ears, mouths, eyes. I knew fingers contain blood. But what"s inside the torso? Surely milk too. I knew intestines, and pictured them like the spiny balls in my animal book, floating in milk.

I constantly thought about all this while lying there. It seemed even frogs, if crushed, would squirt out white milky fluid.

I also thought about shit. Where does it come from in people? Would shit flow out if a person were crushed? Overall, the entire second floor of the kindergarten became associated in my mind with milk, shit, and the feeling of motherlessness in the chest. And if I imagined a girl in place of someone being crushed - my penis would get hard. Now even here.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 3. Transferred to the first floor in kindergarten... Kosarev and the first clash... me - the crying outsider.

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Time passes, and after being on the second floor, they move me down in the kindergarten - to the hall where they tore apart the teddy bear. Most of the kids in this group are clearly a bit older than me.

This is where proper kindergarten begins for me: full days, every day. And if on the second floor I had a privileged position when it came to lunch - I could skip it - here I"m like everyone else. But let"s go in order.

The hall here is sunny, bigger, and it has what they call a "living corner" - a collection of potted plants with an aquarium among them. I cry because of this aquarium. Its mere presence sets the kindergarten apart from home, and all I want is to go home.

I don"t interact with the other kids - all these idiots. Their manners are dumb and rude. No one is sad. Everyone yells. They don"t sense aesthetics and can"t tell quality toys apart. They don"t care that the toys here are absolute primitive compared to what"s sold in "Detsky Mir" and what I have at home. Cars with side mirrors. Brightly coloured materials, everything new, not rough relics of the past. It"s like these kids have never been to "Detsky Mir." But I think they have - they"re just idiots. I"ve already figured out people. Some are thoughtful, perceptive, sad. Like me. There are only a few of those. Or rather, I haven"t even met any yet. And then there"s this main screaming mass. I want nothing to do with them; I want to go home as fast as possible. Until then - I keep to myself.

One of these rough, uncultured idiots is a boy named Anton Kosarev. He has particularly idiotic manners and lives in a wooden private house - a block away, on Telegrafnaya Street, opposite the school where my mother went as a child. I saw him walking there with his mother when I went to Frunze with my grandma after kindergarten.

These are only my first days on the first floor. I"ve started blending in and am no longer the newcomer everyone notices. But then something happens - a situation in the corridor where I"m in the right, and this Anton won"t let me pass. He shoves me in his own Kosarev-style way - that fucking bastard. He weighs as if a log were rolling onto me - and naturally, I fall and cry - the way I know how to cry.

It"s the first time I"ve cried because of confrontation with someone else. And the first time I"ve felt physical violence from another person. All the teachers console me, and in the evening they tell my mother. She feels sorry for me, and later my grandparents do too. Everyone calls Kosarev an idiot, and me a diligent, good boy.

Because it was the worst behaviour I"d seen, I mentally record Anton Kosarev as the standard of an evil person. He wore a striped T-shirt with thick stripes - much thicker than a sailor shirt - and now his name is linked in my mind to that shirt and his bastardishness.

Kosarev distracted me from the stress of kindergarten for a short while, but after a few days I start retreating back to my old, autistic habit of sitting apart from everyone, quietly crying from homesickness. Kosarev, meanwhile, seems as if nothing ever happened. I think he really doesn"t remember, because he didn"t think about it - he forgot immediately. Fucking idiot.

After conflicts, teachers usually tell the reconciling kids to perform a special gesture: link pinkies and shake hands while saying: "Make peace, make peace, and don"t fight again. If you fight - I"ll bite!" I never did this with Kosarev, and I can"t even imagine doing it - it seems like it could snap a pinky.

I haven"t seen anyone else cry in this kindergarten, except me. Not on the second floor in the first days, nor down here. If anyone does cry, it would be an event. I try to hide my tears to avoid attention. I usually go to the window, pretending to warm myself by the radiator, while standing there calculating which way is Lev Kassil Street and which way is Frunze - and I cry.

The teachers - me, the well-behaved, quiet Pierrot - pamper and pity me. Thanks to Kosarev, I instantly gain the status of the bullied, weak boy, deserving indulgence and care. Those who misbehave, the teachers threaten with some "nursery" - and they immediately quiet down.

My idea of "nursery": lying in a cradle like I had, being force-fed milk - maybe from a bottle - that would make me sick. For me, going to the nursery is like going somewhere I don"t even know how to name... some place on the edge, or beyond it.

Food - soon it will come. The smell already wafts from the kitchen; it"s approaching. And with it, each minute, a tighter knot forms in my chest - stress, fear, longing for a miracle - for my mother to come and take me home. Thinking of her voice in the hallway, calling me: "Nikit, your mother"s here" - and tears immediately flow.

It"s still only late morning, and now they start dressing us for outdoor play. I notice scarves, sweaters, mittens - all knitted. The other kids" things all have unfamiliar patterns, the kind no one in my family has. Many mittens are tied with strings through the sleeves - my family never did that for me, never even considered it. I fixate on all these observations. It"s part of why I cry and feel melancholy, while others don"t. Or why I"m the only one so different. Everywhere I notice differences, and with them - the theme of "strangers."

By the way, I"m brought to kindergarten later than the others. When we arrive, the kids are already playing, and most importantly, they"ve already had breakfast.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 4. Out to the yard... the tightening knot in the chest... Artyom... lunch nightmare... forming hatred for the system.

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Now we go out to the yard. We pass under an archway. Above us is, apparently, the first hall I attended at the start. We enter the yard: first an asphalt area, visible from our classroom windows, then several playgrounds. The kindergarten has several groups on two floors - and so there are several playgrounds. We go to the one closest to our windows.

There"s a simple carousel - the kind you sit in while others push, then they jump in and spin for a while by inertia. Some ladders, standard swings, and just a veranda.

The veranda feels distinctly Old Russian. Something out of "Morozko," Pushkin"s fairy tales from the big blue book at Frunze, the idea of a "Teremok." Always with patterned railings, painted blue or green, paint peeling, everything old, wooden. Standing there, you think of Baba Yaga, the Firebird, and different Ivans.

So here I stand, leaning on the railing with my elbow. I never join the energetic group of boys or play on the swings. I wander, stomp through already-melting snow, watch the streams of water - basically, I occupy myself with nonsense. It"s about as boring as being at Lev Kassil Street before the colour TV, only now with a constant tightening knot in my chest, in my solar plexus. I"d much rather sit at home playing with buttons. And now that there"s a colour TV at home, I remember home as paradise compared to all this. Plus, there"s still that unexplored bookcase at home - surely full of things I haven"t seen, tempting me to dig further.

Here in kindergarten, I never shit - only pee, after outdoor play or lunch, around snack time. My bowels just don"t cooperate here.

It"s lunchtime, and they line everyone up.

There"s a boy in my group named Artyom. Dark-haired, slightly freckled, a head shorter than me. Standing here now, it"s especially noticeable. His small stature is already a problem, so no one mentions it - it"s considered rude. Saying he"s short would hurt him, like if some Uncle Vanya saw me crying. But me being forced into this kindergarten, kept here to cry without my mother or home, forced to show the weakness of my psyche to everyone - that"s allowed. Bastards.

We return to the building. To the toilet - pee after the cold outside, wash hands. All the kids look cheerful, laughing. And me - the knot in my chest tightens. I don"t know if I"ll make it this time, or if it"ll be like the nursery.

As always, while we were outside, the tables that had been along the walls in our playroom were moved to the centre, joined into two long ones, with chairs around for the group. We wait to be served soup.

Nope, didn"t make it: the smell of pasta hits me. I try to distract myself, recall Frunze New Year celebrations, with "Smak," Makarevich, and "Ochumelye Ruchki." Doesn"t work. Unknown voices, strangers. The clatter of ladles on pots - again, like at the clinic, some inscription smeared as if in blood. Nauseating smell. I"m constantly stressed.

Called to the table. I start breathing more through my mouth than my nose. We sit. In my bowl - almost nothing but liquid and pasta. I look around. The strangest thing: everyone starts eating it. What kind of home training makes you eat this? Even ignoring its repulsiveness, it"s clearly empty slop. Why not potatoes and meat? Why no tasty food? But these are secondary thoughts. Primary - the fear of being forced to eat it. I"m in pure anxiety hell: what if the white lady forces me to eat - I"m fucked. Secondarily - humiliation, loss of self-esteem. Even girls eat this vomit and aren"t sick, and I - a weakling.

I just bite bread and breathe through my mouth. The smell of water-soaked fatty pasta is almost sweet. Seems like there"s milk in the soup, too. The main thing - pretend to eat, make a pasta mess in the bowl, so it looks like I"ve eaten something, then sit satisfied when they bring the second course and take away the soup. This is the scariest, crucial moment. Every time - a hellish, tightening, sucking fear in my chest, physically painful. What if it"s like Lev Kassil Street on Police Robot day? With Mom I could manage - I know she"d spare me. I"ve explained: during our arguments, her yelling scared me more for her than myself. But here - strangers. Alien women, grandmas, I"m nothing to them. All with village, "private-sector" manners. The same as these teachers and cooks - they lead cows in the evenings on Frunze. They don"t bother with ceremony. And these are the very teachers from my first days - when I wouldn"t stop crying and had just been shoved by Kosarev - who remembered I"m sensitive and shouldn"t be treated too harshly.

A lady takes the cursed bowl away without a word. The second course - semi-edible - I can eat a little stew - braised cabbage.

On days with different staff, the knot is tighter. For them, I"m like everyone else - if they hassle me, that"s it. That"s why I sometimes deliberately act careless, let teachers see me crying, cultivate their pity.

I remembered: the sucking, tightening knot in my chest is like when Mom and I go on the park ride boats and you slide down. The saying "sucks under the pit of the stomach" should mean this feeling, but strangely: people know the feeling but no one seems ever as anxious as me. In my life, the feeling happens so often I just associate myself with it, and I think it shows from the outside: a crying, fair-haired boy with agonising fear in his solar plexus, like the kid in the cartoon about Carlson. And for adults - even those who know the expression - I"ve never seen anyone feel it like me.

Every day, every lunch. Torture. I want to go home, to escape all this. I don"t know who"s to blame. Mom? She feels the same as when she takes me to the clinic - worried, sympathetic, tries to comfort me, but powerless. In the pasta incident, it was her initiative. But in all these forced situations, I sense she"s compelled. Something makes all this happen.

But with the clinic and medical tests, I can see that my own body is the source of the misery, while the clinic promises relief - twisted, but effective. Trips to kindergarten aren"t related to my body. I intuitively sense invisible reasons, stemming from life itself, force her to bring me to this hell. But I couldn"t see this from the start. Undefined stressors quickly take human form. I projected them onto people - very early, long before my first day at kindergarten. Probably started with painful interventions by doctors - strangers - on my body when I couldn"t understand what was happening. I didn"t know it hurt to heal me. And now, with my grown misanthropy, even understanding the deeper reason behind kindergarten visits, I still can"t stop hating strangers - especially those tied to the system, its social institutions and workers.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 5. Daytime "nap" without sleep... hatred of damn strangers... snack and waiting for parents.

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After finishing the second course, we have tea with a sweet bun. Then we go wash our hands, pee again if we need to, and just like on the second floor, we don"t stay in the playroom as we"d like - the lesser of all evils - but move from it into another room - the one with the beds.

Here we go again - they want to drag me down into humiliating childhood. At this post-lunch hour - my favourite, the most dopamine-heavy time of day - when I would, at home, be anticipating the approaching summer, rubbing my belly to provoke ticklish pleasure, while full-grown adults could be doing their own business, living their lives... here I"m supposed, apparently, to strip down to my undershirt and briefs, lie down, and sleep. To flail humiliatingly, powerless over my own body, like a crying little doll pacified with a dummy until it sleeps. Eyes closed humiliatingly, defenseless, incapacitated. Then waking up later in that diminished, humiliating state of post-nap disorientation.

They always seem intent on taking control from me. These institutions - the clinic and the kindergarten - have already come to embody that intent for me. And I automatically attribute this intent to people, the ones in whom the vague difficulties of life are personified. And it"s always strangers.

Take my close ones: Baba Valya - she never restricts me, father neither, Grandma Klava... well, she might limit how many sweets I can eat, but that"s mostly to save some for later. And mother... take the vermicelli again: did she ever limit me there? There was no other food, and as a mother, she wanted me to eat - I can understand that. As for sending me to sleep - that was closer to night, when I"d sleep anyway. We never had daytime naps at home. There were incidents like the Johnson"s Baby shampoo - temporarily forbidden so I"d feel remorse for being fussy. But temporary, for teaching purposes - then returned. Others like that existed.

Meanwhile, these bastards here - strangers - actually restrict and force me to do things I don"t want to, with no educational purpose. By "freedom" I mean, roughly, that I must stay in this playroom with other kids and cannot even go to the corridor with the cloakroom. Restricted? Definitely. With Mum, I could ask and leave, not just to the corridor, but we could go out. Here, I"m a prisoner.

Even this: I go to kindergarten because I go willingly. Mum doesn"t make me. She just says we"re going, and we go. On the first morning, she didn"t force me - she just said it, and I did. How else could it be? No other way. She"s Mum. Doing what she says is like doing what I myself decide to do. It"s always been like that. That"s all I know. That"s why I cry when she makes me eat vermicelli I can"t manage - because subconsciously, I feel I chose to eat it myself. As if Mum knows better than I do what I can handle, what I decide. I feel that subconsciously. Towards strangers, I both consciously and subconsciously know that they know nothing about me.

Damn strangers - so many of them arrived with kindergarten, meddling in my life. In our family"s life. Before kindergarten, strangers hardly existed. Uncle Seryozha, father"s acquaintances at New Year, half-stranger Uncle Vanya, some Shurygina - all still close people. These teachers, Mum doesn"t even know all their names. Not to mention the kids. I barely think of them, except pests like Kosarev. Look at them - already asleep. Idiots.

In short: no, I will not lose consciousness or control over myself. Just like on the second floor, I didn"t sleep, and I never will here.

The ladies leave - only one remains on a chair at the entrance - and the two-hour ordeal of pretending begins. I have ways to pass the torment, but I"ll describe them later.

When it finally ends, the ladies pass between the beds, wake everyone by the shoulder, and I simulate waking and yawning. I love this moment: the worst of the day"s suffering at kindergarten is over. Even now, on the first-floor group, it"s still not over completely.

Now a snack. Something light. Sometimes disgusting, usually the classic - boiled milk. Lucky for us, lunch had tea. Usually, the kindergarten diet includes plenty of milk: for snacks, milk porridge, sometimes even soup. So often, instead of tea at lunch, they serve this foamy milk. Even Mum, in our talks about milk, made a gagging sound. I sit there holding my nose, panicking that I"ll vomit in front of everyone, lose control, grimace uncontrollably. If I vomit, everyone sees what"s inside me - it feels like shitting yourself in public. Understand? Vomiting feels like public shame. Not something that builds resilience, like tears - purely physiological, shameful in front of anyone.

But snack isn"t strict - the teachers don"t care if anyone refuses it.

Next - the last part of the day: games on the carpet in the main room. For all the other living beings, that is. I sit, watching evening approach on the clock and outside. There"s no more tension now - it"s the best. Soon it will be over.

Someone is picked up. A bell rings, the teacher opens the door in the building"s arch, calls someone, and that child drops their toy where they stand and runs to the door...

Every bell - a hope for me. But hope is sweet only the first time. From the second, I remember the first false hope, and if the second fails too, it becomes a depressive spiral. But around the seventh, she comes - Mum, or now, Grandma Klava. Each time feels like the best moment in life.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 6. From Frunze after kindergarten... cottage... church... books... leaving Frunze for Saratov... me acting grown-up.

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At Frunze - evening has fallen, the house empty, Grandfather not yet back from work. Soon he will be, so we decide to wait outside. Baba chats with Fatyushka, I climb the bird cherry and play with sticks and the lingering snow. I"m completely different from kindergarten, where all thoughts revolve around home. Water flows from the yard, the roof - everywhere. Only in galoshes or my rubber boots. Now I"m wearing boots with three thick wool socks inside.

A dog barks at the Petrovs, and from the Persidskaya side, a fur hat from another era appears - Grandfather climbing the hill. Grey trousers, everything grey, grey-purple cloth bag. I shake his hand, he opens the yard. There"s a special window in the fence to slide a long metal pipe along the fence to open the gate. We"re about to enter when Mum arrives.

Anyone coming here walks this path from Persidskaya. Other side: only cows in summer evenings, sometimes a neighbour in a car - the head of a family who once gave Mum and me a ride downtown in winter. Mum, an architect, explains it"s called a "cottage". Ours isn"t - just a house. Cottages are new white brick. Ours - old orange brick, wooden fences, closer to Engel"s wooden terems or huts in my perception. Many private houses in this style. Ours, with brick facing and main floor height, is somewhat solid, but still more like a fairy-tale house. Cottages - Santa Barbara style, modern, flashy.

Dinner - cabbage soup, in the hall. Fatyushka sits by the door. TV on - boring adult news. Then tea, chocolate, animal book. In the triple mirror between windows, I have a section near the colognes by the sofa - my toys and books. The big animal book doesn"t fit, it"s under the TV. Behind TV and curtain, stacks of TV guide papers, and Marsik sneaks there. Even when I pee under the sink, he watches through the window. I"m not ashamed - he doesn"t understand, just bored. I sometimes sit there too, enjoying being unreachable - glass on one side, wardrobe on the other. Inspired by my fantasies of hiding in secret places: upper shelves, birdhouses, treehouses, prams converted into houses. I"ll tell more later.

Later, as Fatyushka leaves, we talk about the church - the big one in the Children"s Park. Once, there was a fuss - my adults or neighbours took me there. First visit. Evening, mixed memories, fell asleep immediately. Church traditions required it. I was bored: crosses, some God, pointless rituals. Life"s fine as it is; no need for extras like kindergarten - rather remove them and increase pleasure: holidays, food.

Later we visited the big church by day - I remember it better. Huge, light from candles, icons, staff in clerical clothes. Even though I love light, I disliked the church: boring, old, physically frail feeling. People - all dull, old, weak. Things I hate: dullness, age, physical frailty. The last two make it harder to control circumstances. Dullness implies lack of control.

By Grandfather"s wall, near the exit, chair like mustard-coloured one in Lev Kassil"s book, small section of books: Grandma"s engineering book, others, and a small blue thick one: "Children"s Bible". The church is tied to that book, though pictures don"t match reality. Mostly I open it for first-page pictures - lion, animals.

I"m mostly absorbed in animals. Can stare at tigers, bats forever. Love their forms: faces, claws, fangs - especially fangs. Something in them: danger, hostility. They"re inherently unfriendly, incapable of friendliness. I feel drawn to anything hostile, dangerous - not just indifferent or snappy, but genuinely threatening. Kosarev? Not like that. He had human malice, human evil - directed at a person. I mean physical danger, bodily. Only animals do that.

We read about snakes; some are "venomous," as Mum explained with "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi." That"s what attracts me: interactive, non-human danger.

A day off - no kindergarten, no tasks - Frunze idyll. Better yet: we plan to go to Saratov - circus, covered market, "Children"s World". I dress first, fiddle in the hall, ready on the porch. Can"t wait. Already learned street names, bus numbers, colloquial stop names.

I leave the porch first, push the gate: "Come on, maybe we"ll catch the 249." Acting grown-up, experienced. Peek through the peephole, turn rusty handle. Special perpendicular circle must rotate sideways. Steps beyond gate - view of Saratov ahead. Hills still grey with white snow veins, though urban areas melted. One to one-and-a-half hours and we"ll be there, and beyond.

Turn left onto Persidskaya, then dangerous Poligraficheskaya, then right to Nesterov intersection. No real stops, just muddy patch, summer grass. Wooden fences smeared with dirt. Ladas, Volgas, Zaporozhets streak by, dusty, plus KamAZ trucks. Grey sky.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 7. From kindergarten to Lev Kassil... father and grandfathers... to Baba Valya... TYUZ... church baptism.

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Another day, Mum must pick me up - I feel like crying. Each time she comes, I sense she knows I didn"t want to be there, suffered all day, she feels sorry, but can"t change it. That makes me feel sorry for her, and fuels my hatred - aimed at circumstances forcing Mum to bring me here, but as they"re unidentifiable, it targets their personifications - misanthropy. Also, instinctive fear - Mum might not come, something could happen, I"d be left in a strange place.

Bell rings, teacher goes - I hope - for me. I feel sorry for Mum to tears, imagine her rushing through cold and darkness. Finally she arrives; I"m called, run to the door. Mum smells of evening outside, and we start getting ready. Dressing and putting shoes on, still in kindergarten, I already forget it.

We go through Telegraph, Children"s Park...

Dark now, home reached, more things begin. Both grandfathers arrive, and father is here too. A scene unfolds - like a movie: everyone on chairs and sofas, Baba says to Dad: "Sash, I wanted to talk to you for a long time." He replies: "Well, let"s," and some dull adult conversation begins, incomprehensible to me.

Father"s arrival means Baba Valya resumes - so I go for the weekend, Friday evening.

"How was the trip?" - "Wash hands and come to the table." Hans, lots of herring, massage.

Next morning, Baba Valya and I go downtown. She says: "Let"s go to the theatre." "Teremok" or something. New, unknown, full of interest, reminds me of Morozko, New Year.

Trolleybus ride, finally we get off at a stop on Chernyshevsky Street, first time for me. Up one block from noisy Chernyshevskaya. Streets steep, corner building unlike a teremok. We go in. Looked around, not starting yet, wander nearby. On corner of this "not-teremok" on small street, water trickling. I step across it back and forth to pass time. Then we enter.

Cloakroom, street shoes but no outerwear, large auditorium, stage, wings, rows of audience chairs - all with special theatre-like materials. A unique atmosphere. Childish and entertaining, like a circus, but without animals, stink, balloons. More magic, mysteries, masks. Connected to puppets too.

We sit. Lights off, stage lit. Front row, behind - hundreds of children and parents in darkness. Scene comes alive - performance begins. Magical music, bells. Fairy-tale plot, partly incomprehensible. Clear it"s a performance, not reality. Intrigues: entrances, backstage, understage, why ceiling doesn"t collapse without central column?

Stage voices - theatrical intonation, unnaturally loud for rear rows. Must sit quietly. Sometimes sneezes - forgivable, even pleasant; reminds me of being more grown-up, confident, like when other kids sleep in kindergarten and I don"t.

Next day, Baba Valya plans another trip. Now earlier - never exited stops I"d been through. Encounter a church, looks new. Inside familiar from Engels visit: scents of candles or something else, staff in black, women in headscarves, icons, high ceiling, light from windows and candles. Brighter than Engels. Many people, special date.

My feelings neutral, not negative. No sense of frailty or age. A procession underway.

Gradually, I get bored - deeply. In main hall, crowd. Some man in black, waving something, moving from visitor to visitor in a kind of trance. I understand it"s staged. Monotonous; I"m bored. Finally he approaches us, gives me a cup of liquid - must drink. Tart, odd taste. Everything unclear, but I"m the centre of attention - fine.

We return home. Trip was for this ceremony. Baba Valya pleased.


.:::.

Part 14, Text 8. The rotten kindergarten... strangers for teachers... on the playground in the yard... Artem the brave... the mothers" alliance... at Frunze by the flowerbed... Alina"s beginning.

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I didn"t stay long with Granny Valya. Just the weekend - then back to Engels.

At home, the sofa had disappeared from the living room. The room felt open now, and there was a carpet lying there - perfect for running, so I ran. In circles, like we do when playing tag around the table in granddad"s room. Evening now - baths, tomorrow - kindergarten, and from that knot of dread rises in my chest. It"s already my own familiar feeling, my "defining-me" sensation.

Dad always says: don"t even bring your fingers near a socket. He says the shock will hit so hard that everything will be very bad, even - as I understand - worse than bad. Today in kindergarten, I think I got a sense of what that feels like, when a teacher - one of those who treat me like just another kid - asked, "And who"s going to eat this?" about my untouched plate of noodles. A sharp physical ache struck my chest. I managed to wriggle out somehow. The rest of the day, with all its stresses, felt blissful compared to that moment.

Another day, those same "not my" teachers line us kids up in the corridor to go outside, and one scolds me for my accidentally unfastened jacket, with such an intonation that you"d think I"m just like all the other little idiots and savages. Tears welled up. That was the cruelest thing I"d heard from strangers yet. If "And who"s going to eat this?" contained no hint of equalising - for example, implying I should eat like everyone else because it"s simply the teacher"s job to feed me, not deliberate cruelty - then in the jacket incident, there was, though possibly unintentional, real conscious equalising.

"My" teacher would"ve said: "Nikita, zip your jacket." But this one didn"t. She said: "Zip the jacket." A strict, frigid Phrygian mode: "kur" - tonic, "toch" - down a fourth, "ku" - same as previous, "zas" - a semitone higher, "tyu" - up a fourth, "gi" - down three tones, "va" - same as previous, "em" - same as previous. The devilish tritone leap from "tyu" to "gi." This interval - constantly in the intonations of strict people. "Nikita." "Ni" - tonic, "ki" - up the diabolical fifth, "ta" - back to tonic. If someone says my name like that, I remember it for weeks.

Outside, back on our playground, I watch the house from the veranda. Every day it"s warmer; the asphalt is already sun-dried everywhere.

Then the teachers start some games, a round dance. In a round dance, you take the hands of two kids on either side, they join with others, and a circle forms; everyone begins walking in a circle, and through the hands you hold, the driving force pulls you sideways - whether you want to or not, you move with everyone. This irresistible pull is like a carousel, mechanical, spinning. Children"s hands differ. Some, usually girls, soft. The chunky boys, surprisingly, also soft. But then there are boys like Artem Ovod - small, wiry, with a firm, strong grip.

I"ve more or less befriended Artem: I saw our mothers talking together. His mother - modest, not like Granny, similar in spirit to mine, perhaps even more modest and less pushy. My mother - with Uncle Sergey, papers, people in the square, important buildings. Artem"s mother - none of that. So I"m fairly confident in her reliability and prudence, and therefore in him. If I hadn"t seen our mothers together, I probably wouldn"t hang out with him.

We don"t really hang out; if I approach anyone to start a conversation, it"s only him. With the rest, I wait for them to initiate, then decide whether to engage. Sometimes, a game of tag, and for brief moments, that knot of needing to get home vanishes, my focus fully on running and coordinating movements. But once the game ends, alone with myself, I think of home again.

Standing by the fence near the exit toward the building"s arch, my whole posture signals to any observant eye that I, as I said, cannot leave this place on my own and never return. Being thus - and this sets him apart - Artem comes up and asks: "Can you just take off?" Then unexpectedly, he opens the gate and - all small but brave - steps outside the playground calmly, a few steps toward the arch. Soon, checking if the teachers noticed, he hurries back. I could never do that - even a few steps. My mother brought me here; so I have to stay.

After nap and snack, they take us out again today, so mothers appear without calls - at the arch. Both appear at once - mine and Artem"s - and that brings us closer again. Artem"s mother - Aunt Tanya - in a usual knitted hat, mine in a blue beret.

Next day, Granny Valya picks me up again.

Now, at Frunze, I spend more time outside than at home, even alone. Just beyond the fence, not in the yard. By the gate grows a bird cherry, as tall as our house, with two long almost vertical branches I can grip like bars to pull myself up. Another big branch at adult head height - last summer, I saw some neighbour boys climb it and leap down boldly.

As I mentioned, by our building"s façade, a bench is fixed into some slabs. In front, a small playground, and along the building by the bird cherry, a flowerbed. A lilac grows there - tall, impenetrable trees with many trunks, and beneath, a thick carpet of fallen leaves. The whole flowerbed is fenced by an old low picket fence. Younger and lighter kids climb it and sit, while those who miss the bench lean on it, facing those seated.

The bench - or "little bench," as we call it - is the centre of everything here, all events around the building. It"s almost a household term. "Missing the bench" means longing not just for the bench, but for sitting here, for Granny Klava bringing something tasty from the house, for cats curling underfoot, and for the silly neighbours who come, like Uncle Tolya Fatyushkin, often staggering as if dizzy.

I look at Saratov - dark hills again, no snowy streaks. Frunze is muddy, only rubber boots and galoshes. From our hill, I see the blue little house from which Alina often emerges. She"s taller and older. So she leads excursions. When it got warmer, on granddad"s day off, by evening sun, Fatyushkin and everyone sat on the bench, Alina came by, and we tried playing - with sticks, mud.

Adults estimated Alina to be about four years older - roughly twice my age. We also bonded through kindergarten. She says she sometimes goes somewhere, though I"ve never seen her with her mother in town; she can"t explain exactly. But she grasps the concept of "going somewhere," so we have things to talk about.

.:::.

Part 14, Text 9. Family gathering for Ivan on Kiselev Street in Saratov... tantrum with a balloon... with granddad at the cemetery.

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It"s late spring, approaching summer.

On some days, the Saratov, Granny Valya theme starts - a fuss, many distant relatives on Dad"s side, or rather Uncle Vanya"s - and I, as always, get confused. I visit Granny Valya far less than Granny Klava, so the people here feel less like relatives, more like family acquaintances. For Mom, without me, they"d all be strangers.

Now we"re all - me, Mom, Dad, Granny Valya, Larisa, Uncle Vanya - on some street in central Saratov, near "Detsky Mir" and the circus, at someone"s birthday. An old residential building, a few apartments. Old yard, all two-storey, shaded, smells of old dwellings - older than Frunze and Granny Klava, truly rotten. But through the decay, a more or less clean apartment, large, high ceilings.

Many strangers, no sense of closeness - nothing like Aunt Larisa"s. I"ve rarely been in strangers" homes, always a special state. Immediate tension, internal restraint. Just sit where they place me. Yet I feel calm: a third of the people are relatives. Even those I meet for the first time - relatives through some long chain.

A woman with dark red hair - I gradually understand - is Uncle Vanya"s mother, and I don"t like her much. A lingering discomfort from early memories, though she"s positive, cheerful, no malice or sadness. I"m always suspicious of those who show no negative emotion.

Her husband is older, closer to my granddad or older, thick eyebrows, but friendly. We sit in a big room, adults at a big table, I mostly on a side sofa. I eat quickly, or not at all, and don"t understand their conversation. They bring me something tasty or things to keep me busy. One is an inflatable balloon, one of those that float up - you must hold it by the ribbon. And I hold it.

Strangely, on TV a woman sings, a banquet like this shown - men with thick eyebrows, kind eyes - the same. She looks like a frog, singing about "The main thing is the weather at home, all else is fuss. There"s me and you, all else can be handled with an umbrella..." Autumn leaves, everyone dances.

For me, just words - I don"t understand meaning. Umbrella? Weather at home? Not even trying. Uninteresting. People in the song old, the singer clumsy, not young. Mayonnaise aftertaste from this song. Unclear if sad or happy. So it - the melody - will now always remind me of long boring banquets, salads, tablecloths, grapes and apples in bowls.

Distracted, I glance back at my hand - no ribbon. Balloon flew up to the high ceiling. Tears well. Adults notice, say something - joking or sympathetic, still smiling. No one grasped what just happened for me. Losing the balloon felt like losing control over my body. Like falling asleep in front of everyone, or wetting myself. Uncle Vanya, businesslike, with his car, like I want. I wanted to seem grown-up. They comfort me, worsening the feeling of helplessness. Only manage to say: "You"re all idiots!" - then I sob like hell. Tears uncontrollable, shameful. Crying from shame. Shame squared.

All dry now, almost summer. We ride with granddad and Mom to the cemetery - the same bus that goes to Granny Klava"s dacha. On Engels outskirts - special stop. We go to lay flowers for some Granny Shura. Once upon a time, somewhere, she existed; now only in the cemetery.

Approaching the main entrance - more colourful, hotter, more sweaty old ladies in scarves. An arch with a bell. Inside, colourful flowers, fences around strange non-geometric quadrilaterals with sloped tops - in the style of soldier monuments, but here a million. Unpleasant, monuments with round portraits of people. Boring, ugly photos, meaningless. Want to go home.

Inside many fences - small tables with benches. One micro-yard called "grave." A city of such graves, easy to get lost. Crowds walk in and out, sit, eat boiled eggs and food. My granny too, with potatoes and onions. Today all sorts of relatives from Mom and granddad - Aunt Lucy, Valera - endless acquaintances.

We pass countless graves, somewhere Granny Shura, but I didn"t notice - watching for movement in bushes, lizards. Because in principle, this is "nature" - normally no people, lots of grass, possible lizards.

Granny says: "German cemetery"... Germans, silent. Fewer visitors, no flowers. Here - wreaths, artificial flowers, black ribbons - all artificial, wanting to escape, wash, forget. Similar in town on poles - wreaths on monuments.

Eventually we leave. Not exactly vile, but utterly dull, old, grey, artificial.

.:::.

___Part 15.

.::.

________________First summer with kindergarten.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 1. With Granny Valya to the dacha overnight... to a collapsed building... by electric train... in Engels, Gorky street, a grocery and games... back to Granny Valya... Uncle Vanya in the "Nine", gifting a KAMAZ.

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Various summer events began. To Granny Valya. With her - to the dacha. Overnight. Quiet dacha night, cold outside. Minimal facilities. But our wagonette cosy by dim light, almost candlelight. On the wall - that old calendar with nature photos. Huge snowy mountains, forests, alpine lakes and waterfalls. Hard to believe such places exist. Yet always - dopamine anticipation, hope - that one day, far in the future, I"ll be there, not just as tourist - on business, or even living there. Such ambitious hopes.

Back in town, walking with Granny Valya along a street off hers, between grey five-storeys. She wants to show a collapsed building. Indeed, from afar, half the house gone, like cut open. Furniture visible in remaining rooms, ladles and old kitchen implements on tiled aprons, walls of rooms now gone. Cause unknown. Where were people, what happened - unsettling.

Another day, ride with Granny Valya by electric train. Stand at some station near her house. A huge train arrives; we climb in, lifted up. Brown faux-leather seats. Hot in carriage. First time on a train. Outside, all unknown, incomprehensible.

Another day, near that station, we visit a market, or "wholesale base" as she calls it. Ordinary small market, dull food stalls. But I always get a "Rondo" or "Tic-Tac" to stave off boredom.

Hans, helicopters at the dacha, Granny Valya"s always tasty food, trips to Aunt Larisa with her cool clean apartment, expensive sofa, colour TV, Granny Valya"s prophylactorium and smell of watering the flowerbeds, wet asphalt - all in a loop.

Sometimes I"m at Frunze, sometimes with Granny Valya. With Granny Valya, better: no restrictions, indulgence of whims, tons of care, no negativity. On Frunze, grandparents argue over cucumbers - verbal, silly, brief, but negative. With Granny Valya - nothing. Only Hans sad, but only if thinking of his isolated apartment fate. Watch him - lying, purring, not complaining.

In Engels, at home intersection of Lva Kassilya and Gorky. "Wine" - as I call the grocery, a 90s-style store with different departments, smells of sausage, blue scales. One department - tables, chairs, relaxed Engels crowd drinking beer and wine, seemingly because of interior with fake grapevines. First floor of a Khrushchyovka.

After winter trips to Aunt Larisa, neighbours, and Igor with his console, I grasp the meaning of another department in this store. Older boys sitting on chairs before TVs, holding familiar gadgets, playing colourful games with characters, not just simple tanks. Super interesting, I"d like to stop and watch, many boy spectators crowd behind. But parents - no time, keep walking. They don"t understand - need to see at friends" apartments first, then it becomes relevant.

Old past-era buses still run. Round headlights, seats facing away from windows, smells of fuel. Grey passengers with cloth bags, plastic evokes festive gifts.

Weekends, I often visit Granny Valya. Back, Uncle Vanya gives lift in his "Nine," as I said. Very low ride. I"ve gotten into quality toy cars. Uncle Vanya gave me a KAMAZ. Toy of "Detsky Mir" level - rubber tyres, mirrors, shiny, detailed. I love proper proportions; can even stand and roll on bus in my room. Will cherish this KAMAZ.

Arrived at Lva Kassilya, Granny Valya and Uncle Vanya join us. Sun shines late into evening. Adults talk; I play with the KAMAZ.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 2. At Kindergarten... about hangnails... connecting with others through the body... with grandma on grey Frunze... a set of little cats... BabValya picks me up from Engels... BabValium... returning with dad and Ivan at the market

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The hated trips to kindergarten continue. There"s that constant anxious feeling in my chest on the way there - and bliss, lightness on the way back. In kindergarten, I don"t speak to anyone; nothing changes. Well, there"s this Artyom. When he comes over, I answer. But I have no reason, no need to approach him first, or anyone else.

Daytime. Torturous time in the main playroom, constantly glancing at the clock hands crawling along, those bastards.

One girl starts crying. She scratched herself or something. There"s a "kind" teacher - older than my parents, the most civil one here, unlike most, who are all rough country types. She sits at the entrance to the nap room like teachers usually do, keeping an eye on the children. The girl goes to her to cry. I hover nearby, watching from the corner of my eye, eavesdropping. I immediately feel better, more socially confident: I"m not the only crybaby, I"m not the only one whose problems bring tears. If everyone cried and fretted like me - that would feel like real unity, not this artificial one, through everyone following the same rules.

The teacher also tries to break the girl of some habit with her fingers. She tells her she once had a "hangnail" too, and it hurt. I don"t know, didn"t get exactly what a "hangnail" is. I look at my scraped-up fingers. Probably she meant that thing where you peel off the dry skin above the nail - leaving a red strip. If that"s it, then I have a hangnail on every finger.

Outside, it"s the same - ring games and some chasing. Mostly, I"m alone, heavy feeling on my chest. I feel more relaxed, more like part of a group, when I go with the boys to pee behind the veranda. There"s a narrow path between the veranda and the kindergarten yard fence. It"s like we"re doing some boyish thing together, something shared. We stand and blow, seeing who goes further. The girls don"t come here; with them, it"s unclear. They"re taken to another part of the yard, farther from us, and we"re told not to look. They squat and pee. I"m decent, so I don"t look. From the corner of my eye, it looks like they"re defecating.

Even the ring games don"t unite, because our boyish peeing is in yellow streams. Ring games are the teachers" initiative. This - this is our bodily need. And the main thing is, it"s uncontrollable. It"s the same thought I had earlier today: shameful, uncontrollable, bodily urges - that"s what truly unites people. Because they equalise everyone. Burps, hiccups, all that. I feel far more socially confident when someone - anyone but me - farts, and everyone mocks them, or hiccups, and everyone sees, laughs - and they can"t stop. All that. You have to be able to control it. Maybe if I could control fear and tears, I wouldn"t feel embarrassed by others" bodily lapses. But I can"t control these two most shameful states, so I desperately compensate by controlling others. I never nap here, never poop.

After kindergarten - lately, it"s almost always the grandparents who pick me up. Sometimes mom, sometimes grandma, or even grandpa. Evenings at Frunze are boring, bleak. Grandma and grandpa are tired from a whole day"s work since early morning. Work clearly doesn"t matter to them anymore, just like kindergarten doesn"t matter to me. Everyone has obligations, responsibilities. Why live like that? Dim lamps, hungry Marsik. Super-boring, exhausted conversations over squeaky floors about cabbage soup, potatoes, who will go to the cellar for them. Mom also goes to nearby houses for her papers and plans, can get stuck there for a long time. Evenings are cold, and outside you have to wear a coat, but grandma and grandpa walk around Frunze in padded jackets. They look like bums in them.

So we"re walking from kindergarten with grandma, already on Persidskaya, nearby. Passing a private house at an intersection - not sure which street. Near the bathhouse. The houses here are rickety wooden things. In this house lives some acquaintance of BabKlava. She calls out to us. They discuss something, then the woman comes out and gives me a set of little cats. White figures, "good little kittens" - so good that they even have little bows on their necks. Their heads are disproportionately large and fixed in sitting positions, so not really for play, more for display. We put them on a shelf at home. Mom liked them, like everything cat-related. Their eyes and features resemble the cats in the cartoon and book The Cat House. We have this book by Lev Kassil, mom read it to me. A sad story - some cats" house burned down, there"s also a theme of orphanhood - a concept I still can"t grasp, but it somehow resonates with my first day at kindergarten and evenings there. The cartoon song goes: "Auntie, Auntie Cat, peek out the window" - matching this sad tune, with a melancholy undertone. I perceive that note - a semitone below the tonic - very clearly. The melody itself, or rather the melodic style, evokes these dim, grey evenings near grandma, on streets from the bathhouse to Frunze, with evening fire smells, grandma"s padded jackets, grey wool scarves, benches, potholes, old wooden houses, and painted Russian-style wooden spoons. TV off, silent dinner in tiredness, dessert only dry biscuits, and soon bed - up early again to start all over.

But now real summer arrives, sun all day, no evening chills. Beach season approaching. Feels like a big holiday is coming - even better than the holiday itself. Today"s perfect: no kindergarten, straight from Frunze to BabValya.

Mom and I take the bus along Nesterov to the centre, get off near the Children"s Park, by the monument to Babina with her kids, the stop. Rare event: BabValya came for me straight from Engels, not yet lost on the unfamiliar streets. She stands by the monument, mom hands me off like a relay baton, and heads off on her errands.

It"s hot, busy - a fair nearby. BabValya has "Tic-Tac" candies, and I pour a few from the special plastic box into my hand. Summer flavour, BabValya, a break from worries. Tic-Tacs are given immediately, but we haven"t really greeted properly - she"s scanning for the bus to Saratov leaving the fair, mustn"t miss it. Once we board and sit, then BabValya starts in earnest: stories, a ton of news from civilization, digging surprises out of her pockets.

By the time we arrive, evening falls; everything is as usual - peeling entrance door, the sound of passing prospekt enthusiasts from open windows, and whiny, almost singing Hans, to whom she says: "Hello, darling, missed me? Look, I came with Nikita" - and the rest continues.

A few days of BabValium have passed, and now we return with dad in the morning. From Zavodskoy, we take the trolley along Chernyshevskaya and get off just before Moskovskaya. Immediately, a busy place: the "Peshka" market. Smell of vegetables, stalls everywhere, kiosks with tapes and music, porters with huge carts, grandmas with strawberries - all in the spirit of the era.

We go in for soda, and on exiting, we meet Uncle Ivan. Dad asks: "How"s the business?" Uncle Ivan replies something, then about furniture or cigarettes, some unclear stuff. I realise I"ve mostly seen Uncle Ivan at home; most of the day he"s busy here, the businessman Ivan, involved with trade, kiosks. Civilization, Saratov, sunny, no kindergarten anxiety or boring waiting for mom. If only life could always be like this - adult, busy, but preferably with animals, not markets. After chatting, Ivan heads to his "Nine", we go to the bus to Engels.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 3. To BabKlava"s workplace at the factory... new carpet on Lev Kassil... mole crickets and poisonous stuff on Frunze... grandpas nearing retirement

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Back at BabKlava"s. Kindergarten days - when it"s closed, I go outside - Alina comes, we wander around my house, the front garden. Childhood, chasing games, playing with sticks, stones, and other nonsense.

Today"s thing: I go with BabKlava to her work. Her workplace is deep in Engels, a dusty, industrial, super-boring area with trucks on the roads. Pipes, concrete everywhere. We arrive and enter what"s called a workshop. Long corridors, everything humming, very dull, words like "engineer," "reinforced concrete," and names like "Klavdiya Grigoryevna." Official, outdated, grey. Brutal.

After we pass the main workspace, where men in helmets walk and huge cranes lift boring concrete slabs, we enter an even duller room - nothing but long corridors and offices, with old office furniture, women with papers and abacuses. Abacuses - wooden beads on metal rods, usually with shop cashiers - used for counting.

Now I have to sit in one of these offices for a long, boring time. The women smile, flirt - standard "auntie" treatment. They could indulge me, but there"s nothing to indulge: they want to eat themselves - it shows.

By evening, unbearable, hellish, I want to go home: Frunze, padded jackets, poking at cow dung with a stick with Alina at the front garden - now paradise. But no, I wait, surrounded only by flickering light and green-painted walls.

Finally, as it darkens, we go outside to the local stop. Waiting again... a special bus, maybe... I fall asleep. Workshop keeps humming, as if never off - like on Persidskaya, near the clinic: a workshop that hums at night, lights on. Unusual, but uncomfortable. Workshops, engineering, machinery, cranes, industrial zones - definitely not my thing, even if I was previously fascinated by cranes.

On Lev Kassil, mom bought a new carpet for the living room. Dense, brush-like pile, a few centimetres high - you walk on it like in the air; I, a lightweight child, only sink to the hard floor if I stand on my heels. I tumble and lie in front of the TV. Summer, sun, I watch TV - also summer there, sometimes palms, and there it"s better than here where we live.

Mom busy with plans, shuttles me between home and grandmas. But often, mom is with grandpa too.

Sunny morning on Frunze. I"m in the yard, grandpas absent, mom in the house - suddenly: Marsik vomited. I didn"t see it properly, mom cleaned quickly, but it was on the red carpet in front of the TV in the living room. Now that spot smells fishy or like chips. Not pleasant, so I won"t tumble there anymore. Otherwise, I tumble all over the living room.

We still play chase with mom around the living room table. Chase with grandma, silent grandpa - a favourite pastime, equal to looking at my million reflections in the triple mirror. On TV: Smak, Clever Hands, Anshlagi, Gazmanov, Kirkorov, everything.

With grandpa, our fisherman, we dig for worms in the far right corner of the garden. He uses a rake to lift piles of rotting stuff - there: beetles, worms, white larvae, ants, soldier bugs, and sometimes scary mole crickets. Mole crickets - the nastiest, the only ones I won"t dare touch. Possibly they bite.

About bites - I"m still unsure about "poisonous" stuff. Here on Frunze, nature close, right outside the porch, the topic is frequent. There"s a berry - looks tasty, small, red - called "wolf berry." Adults, especially ever-cautious BabKlava, say don"t eat: "You"ll be poisoned and die."

I don"t fully understand, but I fear them like fire, never pick or taste them. Same with mole crickets: might bite, might be poisonous, might die. I don"t want that. Unknown, but adults" strict warning means serious, scary stuff.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 4. The snake by the front garden... meeting Anya Gavela.

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The days free from kindergarten are in full swing - apparently because there"s someone to stay home with me: Mom has taken on orders and is absorbed in her drawings. Here, on Frunze Street, she works in the passage room, where my bed with Grandma Klava is. There"s a window looking out onto the yard and the pear tree, with an old folding table underneath - that"s where she sits.

I, of course, don"t sit at home; I wander - mostly around the yard, but if Mom goes out onto the porch or bench, I stay near the house. She occasionally washes some apples for us, takes things from the fridge, makes sandwiches. Grandma and Grandpa are either at the dacha or at work. It seems they"re mostly at the dacha these days, actually. There"s this thing called "retirement" - and they"re close to it, as I understand.

It"s noon now, sunny. In the context of my obsession with poison, I"ve lately been fixated on snakes, thinking a lot about them and looking at pictures in my animal book. In real life, I"ve only seen big snakes in the circus from afar - brought into the arena. Those, by the way, weren"t venomous.

I step down from the porch and out into the street. I open the gate - and holy crap: a snake! Dark, almost black, under the shade of bird cherry and lilac, slithering from our three steps past the gate, across the clay area in front of our house, moving quickly toward the far end of the front garden. In a few seconds, it slides into the garden and disappears.

I raise a thrilled, anxious alarm, calling Mom.

Word spreads, different neighbours appear, so does Alina, and even those neighbours we call the "Beavers," who live two houses down Frunze. We all walk around, looking, checking the other side of the garden, where there"s always that narrow concrete slab that gets hot in the sun, where toy soldiers climb and run away if you approach. We walk all around the garden. In vain.

The Beavers aren"t just boring adults or grannies; there are older boys, too. One of them had boldly jumped from a branch of our bird cherry. They don"t interact with Alina or me. Now they"re here too, searching. Suddenly one approaches Alina and me, frighteningly holding a rubber snake with an open mouth, even making hissing sounds, and then they walk off.

In the end, at least for me - who saw a live snake with my own eyes - we are left utterly confused. Either they played a trick with the rubber snake on a string, dragging it across the yard. But I repeat - I saw the real snake moving with my own eyes. Or it was a bizarre coincidence that there was both a live snake and these boys" rubber one.

The thing is, we definitely don"t have any snakes around here - not even lizards, nothing but mole crickets and hedgehogs.

Alina and I stand behind the front garden, looking toward Saratov in the distance. Ahead lies so much unknown, so many mysteries like the one we just experienced. A whole summer stretches ahead, and after it, countless more summers will follow in an endless cycle.

I can always find something to do, of course, but mostly it"s messing around with some trinkets and wandering the yard and the area around the house - nothing really interesting. Our yard on Frunze is tiny. In five, six, or seven seconds, I can run its entire length along the path from the gate to the cellar, and in four seconds - its width.

In the yard, by the small room"s window, there"s an iron ladder - I"ve mentioned it before - leading to the attic. I"m not allowed up there, and there are wasps anyway: their nests are right on the little attic door. The small room and the ladder area mark the left edge of our property. There"s a pile of old rotting boards leaning against the low fence-palissade with our left neighbours, the ones with a white brick cottage. Their surname is Gavela or Gavely, who knows. Their plot is narrower, and closer to our toilet lives a constantly barking, black, nasty, annoying dog, Mukhtar, chained to an empty bowl. Just beyond, behind our toilet, they have a small bathhouse - that"s almost all you can say about them, except that over this pile of rotting boards, a cherry tree leans toward our side. I"m allowed to eat from it from our side. The berries are ripe now and much more edible than our sour cherries, though our cherries do make decent jam.

I"m perched by the cherry tree.

Berries keep disappearing into my stomach, and in the branches and under the leaves, you see new ones constantly - it becomes an obsession to just stand and eat.

Through the branches, I see Anya appearing from their house. She"s their daughter. Older than me, but not by four years like Alina - more like two or three. I haven"t talked to her yet. As if by my wish, she too approaches the cherry tree from their side. Our shared cherry-picking brings us together, and we start talking.

In appearance, Anya, like her whole family, is from a different anthropological type. Alina, on the other hand, looks very much like us - also blue-eyed, blonde. Our Russian type. Associated with everything familiar and simple - simple wooden houses or dull apartments, the smell of dampness, faded surfaces and paints, bland food. The Gavelas are different. Closer to things like their black dog Mukhtar, a mosque, Muslims - all that brown-eyed, foreign, curly-haired, traditional, with big holiday pies, patterned carpets, lacquered wooden staircases, and in their large, solid brick houses, clearly a VCR and colour TV, with a bathhouse in the yard and a car entering through metal gates onto concrete, not over grass like in our yard.

These brick cottages with cars and respectable yards are common around the mosque, with dark-haired families living there. All of this is unfamiliar, not like us, but since we are neighbours and my mother worked on drawings for their house with Anya"s father, Anya doesn"t feel entirely foreign. And there"s no active mosque influence in their family anyway. Dark hair and a prominent nose in the family mainly comes from the father, while Anya and her mother simply have dark hair and manners familiar to us. The Gavelas are somewhere between us and the "black howlers" in the evenings - just not close.

Soon her grandmother appears, large, thick-necked, slow. She has a managerial, disciplinary tone, granting Anya permission to meet me at the front garden. We will play there, talk about things, and can continue until someone calls us home.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 5. Playing "daughters and mothers" with Anya and Alina... mischief with Alina alone... heat... coolness inside the house.

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Anya also has a younger sister, Alyona. She doesn"t go out yet - younger than me, still not allowed to leave the house. The Gavelas are very proper. Especially Anya"s mother: busy, quiet, correct. You don"t approach her with silly questions. I mention this just for context. Normally, I don"t start conversations with adults. And Anya"s mother is the last person I"d talk to first.

Anya has absorbed much from her. I see Anya as a protective older friend, far more experienced than me or Alina, even though Alina is older than us all. With Alina, there"s something off - I"ll elaborate separately. If something goes wrong with me or with Alina, Anya always knows the solution. Being with Anya is easy, easier than with my own parents. She is always proactive.

She initiates a game called "daughters and mothers." It suits her, probably due to her apparent caretaker, older-sister role with Alyona. "Daughters and mothers" isn"t really a game, more like a play we perform for ourselves. We act out a family, making toy food, pretending to be sick, and returning home, ringing invisible doorbells in the air.

The roles are badly assigned: I"m the father, Anya the mother, Alina the daughter. By our ages, it should be the other way around, but Anya decided otherwise. All this happens around the bench by my house, in the front garden - especially the part closer to the Gavelas. Anya and I aren"t allowed to stray far from our houses. Everything happens within this tiny area with our bird cherry, the front garden, and the bench. Only Alina, the "daughter," comes from afar, down the hill. She"s allowed freedom, with less strict supervision than Anya.

Anya"s thick-necked grandmother constantly checks on her, and her mother, Aunt Sveta, watches from the second-floor window with Alyona in her arms. Then, annoyingly for me, she calls Anya home, cutting short our games, leaving Alina and me alone.

When left alone with Alina, relieved from the scrutiny of Anya"s grandmother and mother, the contrast in our manners and behaviour becomes increasingly apparent. Freed from civilisation, we slide into wildness and mischief. Flowers drop from stems, branches bend dangerously, objects and stones fly. Gradually, we start aiming at each other. We don"t go as far as throwing stones yet - just a developing tendency to act out and compete. With Anya, everything is calm and balanced. With Alina, it turns into constant chase, rivalry, and the expectation of pranks. Always on alert.

Here"s the explanation: Alina is delayed. My adults told me. The words "stupid" and "fool" have two meanings: one is an insult, the other a diagnosis. Alina has the diagnosis. So, by the rules of politeness I try to follow, insulting her would be unacceptable. She couldn"t defend herself. I can"t imagine how it is for her. Still, my adults didn"t forbid me outright - possibly because her parents don"t closely supervise her outside. So I"ve called her what she is a few times. She"s not so impaired as to not take offence, and that"s probably how our underlying discord began.

I only called her that with reason - something always precedes it. That"s how all disputes happen - the first cause is never found, only the last.

Returning to our time with Alina... it"s easy to manipulate her. She almost never initiates anything, so I can suggest a new game or topic, and she abandons her current activity to follow mine. But she"s not naïve and can trick me too. She might point behind me: "Look!" I turn, see nothing, and she grabs something from my hands. I always know she won"t do serious harm. She treats my family seriously and respectfully, like I treat the Gavelas. Alina is afraid of Grandma Klava, greets my adults properly. For her, both the Gavelas and we - the Bogomazovs, my grandparents" surname - are of high standing. I don"t even know her surname, but my mother is connected to her father through drawings, so we are all connected here. Mom is in demand in the area with her drafting.

Midday, I"m called home for lunch. Alina and I don"t say goodbye - we"ll meet again later. Inside the house, there"s cabbage soup, radio "Mayak" with a bell chiming around three, the kitchen is stifling from continuous jam-making, and the living room is cool.

From the kitchen to the passage room with the fridge, drafting table, and our bed, there"s a door - always closed, keeping the living room cool. I eat lunch there. After the soup, a tiny chocolate "Russia - Generous Soul" with tea.

***

.:::.

Part 15, Text 6. Distant neighbours on Frunze,,, rolling down the grass with Alina,,, heat,,, being called to see Hercules,,, snake-woman and other genitalia,, and the petrification forever.

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As I mentioned last summer, the surnames of the neighbours beyond Gavel - follow a zoo pattern: Chizhi and Bobry. Beyond Gavel come the Chizhi. Their plot, no bigger than ours, apparently manages to support a small herd of cows and goats. From our yard, you can see a large wooden structure, taller than Gavel"s cottage. I imagine three floors of cows inside. For some reason, I"ve never heard any mooing from there, but the stench definitely reaches us, and on the Frunze hill in front of their house, the head Chizh is always hauling some faded hay or straw.

In summer, a big girl, Katya, comes to visit - sometimes she sits on our bench - and I gather she"s from the Chizhi family. Overall, they"re normal neighbours with simple rural manners, and over the summer my acceptable roaming zone expands to include the area in front of their house and even a bit further - to the Bobry, where the older boys are staying for the summer too.

Now they"ve invented a game - sliding down the grassy slope either on your backside or on some cardboard. Like sliding on snow. Standing closer to the Chizhi, Alina and I watch them from a distance, and when they"ve had their turn and leave, we try it too. I start experimenting - sliding on my backside, on my feet, on a board, trying not to fall, trying to go as far as possible.

After all the rolling - I"m green from the grass, just lying there tumbling, all dirty and scratched, but exhilarated.

But that was from the Bobry"s house. Now we go to try a straw slope down from the Chizhi. It"s unpleasant - Chizh is there and always dumping dirty water - but we find a cleaner straw slide and start there. I keep trying to slide on my feet, on my smooth soles. Mostly, though, we just mess around, competing a little, or simply lying under a tree because of the heat. It"s midday, the height of the blistering Engels summer.

And then I"m called home. Mom and grandma are there. Not for lunch - I approach, and they say there"s some Hercules on TV. Through the hot kitchen, stifling from jam-making, I rush into the cool living room to figure out what this Hercules is about.

Hercules turns out to be a badass guy in a yellow, tattered, sleeveless shirt, with shoulder-length hair. I join halfway through the film, and there"s a tense scene - people have turned to stone, one with a particularly frightening grimace. All hope rests on Hercules to restore them. A woman flirts and touches him.

Hercules goes into a cave - it"s dark and tense. Suddenly, he reaches another woman, and she"s - I don"t even know how to describe it - the kind you wouldn"t mention to your parents: half-naked, with a bare belly. She calls Hercules closer, but from behind, under her long skirt, a tail appears. Hercules doesn"t see it, and that tail is deadly - touch it, and you petrify. She uses it to turn people to stone. Hercules sees it, and she screams - a nonhuman shriek, hysterical and dangerous. It started friendly and nice, now poor Hercules is tumbling to avoid her tail, and she keeps yelling, furious, attacking him. It"s extremely stressful; I"ve never seen anything like it on TV. The tension comes from her being a beautiful woman - her appearance doesn"t hint at this at all. All this happens in a cave - probably smelling of her, everything linked to her tail, lack of clothes, bare stomach, evil magical darkness, hidden spots, secret recesses.

Eventually, her tail knots, and Hercules could"ve taken revenge, but he"s noble - he just approaches to talk. She, a venomous, spiteful woman, untangles the tail and lashes it at his back. He anticipates, dodges, and the tail hits her - and she turns to stone. Immediately, the previously petrified people are restored, including the grimacing statue. But the terrifying part is that she petrifies herself, accidentally, despite wanting to exist, wriggle, and be beautiful - and suddenly she"s stone forever, apparently irreversible. It"s even more neurotically intense than when she turned others to stone. You feel pity for her, yet she"s a malicious witch, and those people were innocent.

It"s unclear how to feel. Thinking about this moment - it makes my penis hard.

I"m very impressed by this movie. I liked Hercules, the scary-attraction tension - you"re on edge - the snake theme, and of course the beautiful woman.

Omitting the arousal-inducing parts, I later tell my mom and grandparents what I saw. They say it"s similar to the story of Medusa Gorgon - also a witch. I imagine her with green eyes, in the half-dark cave - you can"t look at her, or you petrify. Medusa used eyes; the tail is trickier, meaner, and thus more compelling to me.

Then there"s the theme of petrification - independent of femininity. The thought that they don"t get restored - how could that be? Those people had so many plans. Me, for instance: so many plans, whole Saratov ahead, and beyond that, other places, life, somewhere Moscow, adulthood, driving like Uncle Vanya, beach sisters, friends I want to befriend. Suddenly - bam - I"m stone. That doesn"t suit me at all.

Worse: what if my parents turn to stone forever? What then? I"d be stuck without any Hercules, without restoration? Me, Nikita, a pampered little boy, protected constantly - I could lose my parents? It"s despairing. And the snake-woman, bare belly arousing me - she could take my parents. Fucking hell.

I keep thinking about it. I calm myself with the fact that it"s a film - petrification isn"t real. But it feels grounded in reality: wolf berries, poison, "you"ll die," and such. Some real-life kernel is in there.

Otherwise, it"s a good day. Discovering Hercules, the snake theme, a whole summer and many summers ahead, getting chocolates, being called to the TV when something interesting happens - they make life good for me. Hercules is a series; it"s just begun, and I"ll keep watching.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 7. With some Dasha,,, surrounded by women,,, visiting Semyonova with Yana,,, The Lion King and dragons,,, crimson sunsets on Frunze and King Arthur.

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Another scorching day. Living on Frunze, Mom occasionally goes to nearby houses - related to blueprints: she measures with a tape, writes notes - boring. Sometimes she takes me, and I loiter nearby, bored.

Lately, we"ve walked several times from that woman"s place to the area behind the city stadium, cutting diagonally across it - all its sprawling sports grounds. New to me, familiar to Mom.

Another day, we go again. Not a cloud, baking heat, drinking from water fountains along the way, crossing the stadium, and exiting to the neighbourhood of old houses - mostly private, sometimes small flats. A dreary place.

There"s also a dull administrative building, gas-related or something. Mom goes there too, but today she needs to see a private lady, either an acquaintance or a client named Anikeeva. She has a daughter. I"ve seen her once or twice. This time, we enter their home, and Mom leaves us alone in her room with papers.

The girl is Dasha. Following our moms" example, we quickly behave like old friends and soon jump on the bed - straight under the covers. She asks, "Aren"t you scared?" - meaning the dark under the blanket. "No," I say. Moments later, the moms call us, leaving the blanket thing unresolved.

I wasn"t afraid of darkness, but there"s another problem. Dasha is roughly my age. Then there"s Yana - another of Mom"s acquaintances" daughters, older than me. Gather all together - Alina, Anya, Yana, Dasha - thrill-seeking girls, some older, asking "aren"t you scared?" - and the stereotype forms: girls are always more experienced.

Add the moms - everywhere women. Always more experienced, more in control. Kindergarten teachers - women. Clinic doctors - women. From my informal contacts, only Igor and Artyom are male; everyone else - women. Males in my life so far: me, Dad, Uncle Vanya, Grandpa, Uncle Sergey, Igor, Artyom. Females - a whole heap. No peers, nobody younger, nobody less experienced. Someone I"d ask, "Aren"t you scared?" I want that.

I"m fed up always feeling like a baby. I fantasise about older sisters at bedtime - even if slightly older - with them I feel adult: I"m in charge and experienced, they under my care.

Today, Mom and I go to Semyonova - Yana"s mom. Not far from Grandpa"s, across a couple of "adult" streets, on the slope of Revolyutsionnaya Street. Same slope that runs along Frunze. It spans Engels, parallel to Polygraphicheskaya Street, with Saratov visible in the distance.

We go to them in the evening. We"ve been there before. Semyonova is a longtime friend of Mom"s; they went to school together - now just women"s chatter. They stand at the yard entrance, bored, talking, while Yana and I, failing at verbal communication, wander intuitively along the house and through bushes.

The standing-chat drags on, but we don"t want to leave, so the moms lead us inside. They have a fierce dog tied up; Semyonova goes to hold it in the kennel, and Mom and I go into the entryway. The scent of entryways - unforgettable. Not sunny like Granny Klava"s; here it"s dark, damp, mysterious. You expect a hedgehog or frog among galoshes.

We take off shoes, move further in. The Semyonova house is cozier, closer to Yana"s room - there"s even a TV and a video player.

The VCR - like the Shurygins", a coveted device. And the tape they have? The Lion King.

We start watching immediately. My favourite cartoon. Yana and Anya, amusingly similar names, lose interest to me; I"m immersed in The Lion King"s sounds. Sounds are like scents. Blind, I"d still sense the entryway smell and feel there. Likewise, the opening songs instantly transport me into the film or the Shurygin visit after New Year. Visuals alone? Neutral.

Moms watch along, approving.

After The Lion King, another cartoon starts on the same tape - similarly high-quality animation, with a strange plot about dragons and wizards. Everyone flies on dragons. Some planets or realms; epic landscapes - sun, cliffs, sunsets, just like our summer sunsets. The brief segment I watch leaves me with this atmosphere and visuals.

Dragons and flight allow imagination - flying anywhere, performing aerial tricks, atop a perfect creature - reptilian yet bird-like, eagle-like, predatory. Perfect. I want to control such a creature, or ideally be the dragon. At least, I want the VCR and the tapes with The Lion King and dragons.

We walk home, I"m sleepy. Same route back - not Polygraphicheskaya, but the "path to Semyonova" across the block, slightly above their house, seeing into their yard. Yana has a bike - another budding obsession. I want all the accoutrements of other kids, to not lag behind, to feel good, even superior.

About dragons - not done yet. Another evening, Mom and I return home to Frunze. Dad visits, still running his bookstall, occasionally leaving books for us. A blue Bible book in Grandpa"s wall cabinet - from him. Now he brings another, about King Arthur. Mostly boring text, occasional illustrated pages - the first shows a dragon in a giant stone well, angry; also a white dragon in the sky, apparently rivals, both huge - castle-sized.

Castles - stone palaces of a style unique, non-Russian. Everything else is very peculiar, non-Russian, with the same atmosphere as the dragon cartoon sunsets and cliffs.

Outside, a crimson sunset - sun sinking behind Saratov"s hill. It all mixes into one specific mood. Hercules fits here too - everything ancient, stone, cloth, iron; no electronics, people ride horses, semi-naked, furs, women in bras, open stomachs, everyone with swords - essential in that world. Adventure, mystery, caves, dragons, snake-women, witches, magic, pine and fir forests, mountains. Strange names: Arthur, Lancelot, Hercules, Menelaus, Grail, Merlin. Names you"d want to be called. No Klavdiyas or Tamars, no shitty panel apartment blocks.

.:::.

Part 15, Text 8. The stadium area... introductory visit to gymnastics... doing pull-ups on Frunze... at the dacha with grandpa... with mom in the district... and then tanned daredevils at the river.

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Mom and I have been making frequent trips to the stadium area-after all, Semenova is also over that way. So we"re just walking around its huge, block-filling grounds. It has its own atmosphere. Something connected to a recently passed time-the one mom remembers.

There are crumbling fences and stands, overgrown sports courts, the stadium itself deserted-the oval where athletes run on TV. On one side is a big stand with plenty of seats. Everything"s empty now. A few people pass through the grounds to cut across, and in summer small local groups play football, but overall it feels abandoned, forgotten by everyone. Some places still have pipes wrapped in torn white covering, giving the sense of those industrial zones where mom and Grandma Klava used to go for work, all sorts of workshops.

In the past, you can imagine crowds of athletes and spectators under the sun, some motion, music from brass bands. Now-not so much. There are many tree-covered areas you shouldn"t go into, mom says. Near the main gate-the corner closest to Nesterov and Poligraficheskaya-is the only building showing signs of daily life: a sports school.

One day, mom and I go to the sports school on purpose, in the afternoon. Inside, there"s a changing room, tables for table tennis. We walk through corridors smelling of rubber and gym. Through open doors, I see sports mats in a hall.

Up the stairs... some conversations, someone approaches... As always, I don"t ask where we"re going or why. I barely understand the explanations. Early in life, when everything"s new and for the first time, explanations are useless-I"ve already said this.

We go further up and end up on a large balcony above the gym. Below are pull-up bars, mats, a rope, horizontal bars, trampolines, and boys running, jumping, and tumbling in all sorts of ways. We watch it all. Some tumble really impressively; some, my age, are simpler. Either way, I can"t do any of it. I can only do a "birch" pose or a bridge, and I still get an erection. And they"re standing on their hands and everything else. I envy their body control-it"s my thing. But now I cut myself some slack for my age.

After their training ends, we go down and meet the coach-an older, small man, nearly grandpa age-and he tests me. I show him my bridge and other simple moves, then I have to do pull-ups on the bar. Here, I don"t impress-immediately see it in Oleg Nikolaevich"s reaction, and how mom addresses him. They talk adult stuff I don"t get. Then we leave. Mom confirms I didn"t impress him with my strength, maybe we"ll try again later.

Only now does it hit me: if I joined, I"d be there alone among all these boys, without mom? The whole daycare heaviness returns. Like daycare wasn"t enough. I want to stay home where everything and everyone is familiar, not among strangers.

At home on Frunze, because of pull-ups, Grandpa MacGyver builds me a removable bar. A normal metal rod resting on supports attached to the doorframe of the room leading to the hall with fridges. My pull-ups are still weak. I"ve been leaning against that frame for years; the adults mark my height on it over my head.

When the adults sit on the bench-those Fatyushkin-Matyushkin types-I still casually approach the two cherry branches and pull myself up, enjoying quiet praise, especially when I do extra reps beyond the standard. The women always compliment, but I value Grandpa"s approval more. He speaks little and mostly acts. Grandma tells him something, and he gets up and does it silently. Grandma insists I call him "Grandpa." "My Grandpa." Using just "Grandpa" alone feels rough.

Morning-weekend-we all head to the dacha: mom, grandma, grandpa, me. Busy preparations, gathering food and buckets. Grandpa rolls out his scooter, while mom, grandma, and I take the dacha bus from "Mashinno-Dorozhnaya." We leave before grandpa but arrive later. Calling him "Grandpa" makes me feel like a childish suckling, so I call him "Grandpa" in my mind.

At the dacha-same as last summer: house, garden beds, ravine. This time, mom and I explore the ravine-she says there"s a river far away where people swim. Walking along the edge, we actually reach something like a river, but a million times smaller than the Volga. I"m used to seeing a small river as our three-kilometre Volga.

Then mom and I walk along its bank even further-yes, there are again those tanned backs, daring dives, and swims on inflated black inner tubes. Boyish antics. Not for kids or softlings.

By the way, mom mentions there are real snakes here, non-venomous, called "grass snakes." I haven"t seen any yet. I do see frogs constantly croaking, louder toward evening.

Now we go up a road from the river and then left along a clearing between plots to ours. We"re heading "to the district," as we call it. This is a frequent routine-mom and I walking through various "district" routes around blocks for my geographic awareness.

.:::.

___Part 16.

.:::.

Part 16, Text 1. The Lvov-Kassil line... going to the beach... sisters being useless... trip to Saratov"s "Detsky Mir"... Ken... Barbie-scale obsession... nerdy fascination.

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That was the Frunze line-"rural," as I perceive it: Fatyushkins, the bench and hangouts, jam-making, dachas, mud, buckets of strawberries, and in the evenings along Frunze-cows. All of that.

But there"s another line, and with the start of beach season it becomes primary: life at home on Lvov-Kassil Street and every evening with mom and dad-park, dam, and beach.

On the dam, same as last summer: the familiar "river" hum of boats along the Volga, steamships, waves from them, the sun-scorched embankment where many walk barefoot from the beach. Dock of tanned daring boys, eating peanuts and ice cream, dad"s childhood stories, throwing stones into the water, watching old fishermen, the smell of silt and the Volga. And everything else.

And of course, my beloveds are there too, same spot as last year. Unreachable, "so close and yet so far," strangers. But I"m not worried-there are infinitely many summers ahead, anything could still happen. It"s not Hercules, and certainly, you won"t turn to stone forever, probably.

For now, I just fantasise about them in bed before sleep. Someday in kindergarten, I"ll tell what exactly I imagine with them. Because I already fantasise about them in kindergarten, or whenever I lie down or even sit, like on the bus in Saratov. No one knows this.

Then we go to Saratov. The most advanced and opposite to rural Frunze.

In the morning, dad and I leave from Lvov-Kassil. Mom also has errands, left earlier. Sun shining, not a cloud. We head toward the square, drink kvass, pass the amusement park cafe, buy peanuts, and sit on a bench in the park. Mom finds us, and off we go.

In Saratov, we go along Chapaeva, and then the long program: circus, smells, magicians, acrobats, intermission, lions, then the covered market, returning multiple times to the yellow kvass barrels under the scorching sun.

Then back to "Detsky Mir." Of course, they have dolls, including a Barbie section. Barbie is not just a blonde doll but an entire universe of dolls and toys of a certain scale, including Kens, houses for Barbie-people, pets, etc.

City kiosks sell Barbies too, but cheaply: Ken has no real hair, limbs don"t bend, torso is light plastic. In kindergarten, these Barbies lose limbs immediately.

But in Detsky Mir, the torsos are rubbery, heavy, Ken has real hair, everything super-detailed. I want to touch and own all this quality. But can"t-first must buy. What a life...

I walk around and see the Barbie mansion-columns, rooms, even a toilet, all velvet, pink, bright, rich. Not like our damn apartment, our grey building-hate it. If I were the right size, I"d fall into these soft Barbie beds, with sun shining through ornate windows, curtains tied at the sides, all that Santa Barbara mansion wavy luxury, hallways, sofas, marble floors, and in the kids" room, a plain carpet, unlike our Russian patterned ones. And the Barbies even have kids-small, perfectly scaled to Barbie world. Babies sold in the doll section, must be fed. Seems super realistic, but I like the scale, the universe of Barbie dolls. Compact, detailed. The bigger, the more fragile. Better smaller, safer, detailed.

I pick a car for Barbie scale, will adapt everything to their size. Can use grass in a bottle cap as a potted palm. Save wherever I can, maybe convince parents to buy Ken. I want Ken. Barbies are for girls.

In my real life, women seem dominant, but socially they"re stereotypically weaker, cry more, men are more self-controlled. So I want to be a man, and my toys male. Ken I"ll dress, tailor a jacket, style him, scent him with new rubber, shine, velvet, in a sports car with open top.

There"s also a section with animals, same scale. Could collect the wild world of Barbie-scale animals, but that"s too intense-I might need a break, so leave this dopamine-heavy idea for later. And I"m thirsty-let"s go drink kvass.

There"s an unresolved issue with toys. Suppose I have Ken, the mansion, car, the whole set. What do I do with him? He sits but doesn"t move. Needs stories, movement. But I have no plots. Where should he go? What to do? Use the toilet, eat-why?

No real development, no play or release. I"m drawn not to playing, impossible anyway, but to acquiring toys, their aesthetic, static, dehumanized side. How detailed, how proportioned. Build my ideal toy world. Collect components perfectly, but why? Then what? Keep adding expansions endlessly. I"d drown in it.

I"d like stories and meaning for all this, movement, even manually arranging or hanging them on strings. But I don"t know what they"d do. No life in these dolls. I must live it for them, and find my own life, I have none-just a boring Engels childhood. Toys give the illusion of interesting life, and I can"t shake it-and don"t want to.

But I quickly forget these thoughts-full set is far off, must buy the whole store, and I don"t even have the main Ken yet.

Walking down Kirov, we follow tradition and visit the barber at Volskaya intersection. Hair flakes around my nostrils and lips. On the avenue, the man with a monkey for photos. Down Kirov: ice cream, kvass, book stalls, budget café for "Wave" and "Potato" pastries. All along Kirov square tiles-I obsess over not stepping on the edges.

.:::.

Part 16, Text 2. In Saratov on Rakhova Street,,, Saratov-Engels differences,,, associations with academicism.

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I"ve become more resilient; they don"t need to carry me around sleepy anymore, and that"s why we often go to Saratov.

Here"s another trip. After the usual routine-stopping at "Detsky Mir" and even using the pay toilet in its far corner-we don"t go down Kirov Street but cross Chapaeva back toward the Krytyy Market and head up Kirov. Actually, Kirov already ends here, giving way to a tented bazaar in the square behind the Krytyy Market, which smells of cheese and meat wafting from its doors.

Right from there start the street stalls with food and clothes, mixed with souvenir stalls with Buddha figurines, book stands, and toy kiosks. I drift from one toy stall to the next. All under the blazing Saratov sun: hot dogs, ice cream, kvass-everywhere. Here and there, round kiosks with audio cassettes blare music across the square. Sometimes people part on the main avenue, letting a little train with kids-or even a pony with someone my age-pass through. All of it costs money. Balloons for kids are everywhere, but that"s expensive too.

We go through it all-buying nothing except a small ice cream in a cup.

The bazaar and Kirov Street end at an old tall building. On the ground floor is a hardware store. My parents need something, so we go in. Buckets, mops-boring. While my father shops, Mom and I step outside, standing near the entrance, munching on "semechka"-the cheapest bun, washed down with kvass. That"s our level. Sometimes we buy a hot dog for me. Other treats like khachapuri, belyashi, and pre-packaged ice cream? Not for us. And drinking beer on the go like other men? Not my father"s style. Leaving unfinished drinks on the curb? Forget it. We finish everything. And if we need to throw something away, we always look for bins-never litter like many others.

From there, we head into an unknown direction-further from Kirov and the circus. Turning right from the hardware store, we reach stops for various transport, clusters of stalls and mini-shops, again full of hot dogs. Here stop trams, trolleybuses, minibuses. Many sweaty summer folks stand waiting.

Next comes an alley-square, very typical of Saratov. There"s another similar street-alley somewhere. In the middle runs a pedestrian path with benches; on either side-roads with cars.

Across from this alley, on the ground floor of a tall residential building, is a picture shop. We stop and look at paintings behind glass. That"s my father"s scene.

When I get tired, they still pick me up and carry me, but that"s rare now.

As I"ve noticed in various episodes, Saratov is different-nothing like Engels. In Engels, there"s dried fish and the smell of mud, the sound and feel of the beach. Saratov tastes of "Kartoshka" pastry, souvenir stalls on every corner, books, the smell of petrol from cars, the circus near the circus, the fatigue from long walks.

And the sound-here it"s something special. Here it"s the violin, classical music, wigs with curlers, like in advanced fairy tales with kings, dukes, and high ceilings with thrones. The violin plays in specific melodies almost everywhere-cafes, promenades, and bazaars.

One such melody-a mix of modern and classical violin music-is now the most popular and, for me, inseparable from Saratov and these walks. At the other end of Kirov, near the conservatory, you hear live violin from its windows. This violin evokes order, civility, and anti-Engels vibes. The whole centre of Saratov is tied to this correctness, to academicism.

.:::.

Part 16, Text 3. To the church on Museum Square,,, down to the embankment,,, old Saratov,,, all kinds of Bratislavas,,, steamboats.

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Or here"s another trip to Saratov. This time we"re heading to the embankment. We get off at Moskovskaya and Chernyshevskaya and walk down Moskovskaya.

Behind the fences, past important buildings, stands a large church with a green courtyard, lawns, and flowers. For my geographical awareness, we go inside with my parents. Everything is bright from candles, church-like, strange and hard to understand-cozy, maybe, or not. As long as the elderly women in scarves are friendly and polite-it"s cosy. But when my parents start fawning before them-or worse, a priest in a black robe-that"s immediately "no." Are my parents really below anyone? Do they really grovel before anyone in this world? This makes me realise my parents aren"t omnipotent. And that, in turn, makes me feel not fully protected in this world. Better not to dwell on it. I focus on anticipating ice cream. I also recall Pushkin"s tales about Tsar Guidon, and Russian fairy tales in general. All those palace inner halls, where events take place, seem to me like the inside of such a church. Or vice versa. "Svetlitsa," decorations, priests, boyars, brave men, domes, bells, baptisms. Everything merges into one mash I want to call "Rus"."

Immediately after the church, we head down to the Volga-the museum. An important building with columns and heavy wooden doors. Quiet, velvet. Behind glass in showcases-various models; deeper in the halls-animals, some armour. Smells like a museum in a special way. Run by strict old women, but without scarves or bowing. They follow you and get on your nerves. This museum strictness, like the scent, becomes part of the associations I have with Saratov and its violin. The museum has many halls, but we"re not doing a thorough tour now; my parents say we"ll come back separately.

Speaking of models, here"s another Saratov association: the well-known model near Lipki Park, by the conservatory. It"s long, showing the entire Saratov embankment, which we"re walking toward. There are two models: the old embankment, before cars, where fish piled on the shore were worthless, black caviar was abundant, and muddy streets called "vzozy" flowed down to the Volga; and the modern embankment-with piers, steamboats, and nearby buildings we"re approaching now.

The modern model also shows two tallest buildings on either side of the embankment-the Slovakia hotel we"re approaching and the "Grazhdanproekt" building at the other end. This ties in with "Detsky Mir" and its toy houses. The two high buildings, with their square floor divisions, are another solid Saratov association for me.

Certain words also link to Saratov: Slovakia, Bratislava, Sacco and Vanzetti-strange, very foreign, vaguely meaningful, evoking academicism, harpsichords, and dukes. Engels has none of these words. Engels has Mayakovsky, Telman, Lev Kassil, Poligraficheskaya, Telegrafnaya, Gorky, and other clutter. Compare that to "Bratislava." Immediately you think Beethoven or Robin Bobin, old wine barrels, tales of kings in wigs. And where kings, wigs, and cobbled or tiled streets appear-violins play. Those melodies are tied to my most carefree, impression-packed memories of walking in Saratov-from the circus to "Detsky Mir" and from "Detsky Mir" to ice cream. Also trips to BabVala, where nothing needs doing-it"s all done for you. And I adore that.

We head down to the embankment, past the "Slovakia." This "Slovakia," like any hotel, is for adults, for people of a different class altogether, well above those eating kebabs or leaving beer unfinished. This class always drives a Volga, wears light jackets and business clothes. Kebabs, and certainly us... all in shorts and sandals.

The Saratov embankment is made of alleys at different levels, with long stepped descents in places. Like Kirov Avenue, it"s busy, with ice cream stalls, balloons, and kites. But at the lowest level is a pier with huge steamboats-unlike Engels. Engels only has small recreational docks. Here, a multi-deck steamboat stands like a house-"Simbir," white and real. Its whistle drowns out speech. Ropes tie it to the shore on special iron posts. Nearby, men and boys fish, watching this massive vessel; sailors are serious and busy-they"re used to such big ships.

We move on. Another nearly identical steamboat is ahead. I wonder how deep the water is beneath the boats near the shore-though it"s unpleasant to look at. Mud, obviously crayfish, and spitting. Boys stand, spit, throw things in, laughing, teasing the water like a predator in a cage. I never do that.

It"s hot. We get ice cream and retreat to the shade on a bench. In the distance-the Engels side of the Volga; to the left, a busy bridge with cars and trolleybuses; people pass by, half-naked. When a girl with an exposed belly walks past, I can"t help looking.

.:::.

Part 16, Text 4. To the planetarium,,, music about rockets and space,,, to the Saratov museum.

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Another "Saratov day," classic: cloudless, hot, utterly Saratov. Again on the trolley to Moskovskaya and Chernyshevskaya. We get off and walk along Chernyshevskaya toward BabVala. Lately, some song with powerful chords seems to play everywhere, sung by someone with a high, somewhat neutral voice. It reminds me of rockets, names like Gagarin, and both Saratov and the Engels beach. It"s on every radio-on Kirov, on the beach. The melody lodges in your ears, especially considering we"re heading somewhere space-related.

We walk a long while and eventually reach a white building, made of those old post-war tiles cladding BabVala"s sanatorium-or the Engels museum. On the roof, a large black dome always caught my eye passing by. The building is called the "Planetarium." We enter.

Cloakroom. There are kids my age with parents-planetarium visits are educational for children. We enter a hall, chamber-like atmosphere: soft seats; as everyone sits, lights go out, darkness envelops the room. Stars appear on the ceiling as if night falls, and then a whole film starts. It"s about space, planets-huge spheres hanging in order in the cosmos, invisible from Earth. Fascinating. More fascinating than the spheres is the planetarium itself. Not the distant stars or the hosts" narration, but what relates directly to you. We watch the film-were we viewing the entire ceiling or the actual cosmos? Can a planetarium actually simulate night? It was brief but memorable.

We step back into the hot, still pre-noon Saratov and continue toward BabVala, past the planetarium. The powerful chords loop in my head. "Officially," the music is lofty and celestial, but to me it feels earthly, about reachable feelings, things I might someday attain.

We reach another typically Saratov high non-residential building, with geometrically even floor divisions. Nearby, a small grocery store-mineral water, Snickers. Candies like Snickers, Mars, Twix are rare for us and tied to Saratov, sophistication. Of these, I prefer Milky Way-it seems for small kids, while Snickers has boyish advertising, so I choose it more often. We cross Chernyshevskaya and wait at a stop.

The trolley takes us back to Moskovskaya. Now it"s a full museum visit.

Inside, it"s quiet and strict. Velvet everywhere: cloakroom poufs, the fabric covering display cases. Suits of armour, a dried bird, a village model. Most captivating are the animals and models. I want to model the animal world. Toy animals appeal more than humans. People and their lives are boring-especially in this village model, which would be real stinky, rotten houses in mud, old ladies and grumpy old men squelching to the well in galoshes. That"s awful. I want palms, lizards, agility, adventure.

From hall to hall, the custodian follows relentlessly. You don"t need to ask questions; sometimes she approaches and explains what we see.

There are also paintings-"proper" ones, unlike in our apartment, which my father praises. These paintings, like the dried animals, are the best things here. Fossilised specimens, remains of who-knows-what are dull. But a painting with proper proportions and details-even of humans-is perfect. Dried animals themselves are perfect. They are right, and they remain right forever-that"s what matters to me.

In this museum, you can ascend one staircase to the next floor and descend another back to the first. Like in the Engels polyclinic.

After the museum, we head again to the embankment-the summer Saratov embankment.

.:::.

Part 16 Text 5. Kindergarten... me - the last to arrive... Lion King and Pumblic stickers... love-themed gum stickers... sanitary rags... nap time and fantasies with a pram in the sky.

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Kindergarten - or maybe not - I don"t really understand what it depends on. When it exists, I stay with Grandma Klava. In summer, kindergarten is a bit less grim, but that heavy feeling in my chest never really goes away when they take me there in the morning, especially when you go through that little gate, through the door, when the street sounds are replaced by the racket of a bunch of damn strangers, and especially when your loved one leaves and can"t help you at all - like if they serve milky noodles for lunch. You"re on your own. The whole first half of the day until lunch is hellish stress. Then comes the endurance test of nap time. No matter how I try, I never sleep. And then comes the other kind of waiting - waiting for whoever"s picking you up - and they just don"t arrive.

One of the main reasons I feel like some kind of social outcast every morning at kindergarten - "different from everyone," "the only crybaby among a bunch of kids" - is that, as I said, I arrive when everyone else is already there. Everyone"s already playing, everything"s already set up, little groups have formed. I"m supposed to join in, but I don"t. And it"s not certain I would even fit in at the formation stage; joining a group that"s already formed - even less likely, for reasons I"ve explained many times before.

There"s also this feeling: "I"m a parent"s kid," "My parents are the only ones who care," "No one fusses over their kids like mine do." I almost never see the parents of the other kids. Well, I can"t, really - they drop their kids off before me, and by the time they pick them up in the evening, they never make it to the playroom. Only occasionally do I leave at the same time as someone else, and then, seeing the other kid"s parents, I feel like I"ve glimpsed a different side of my peer.

Of course, I see Artyom"s mom often, and as I said, since our moms talk when they meet here, I feel somewhat close to him, unlike the other kids.

Recently I noticed a sticker with Timon and Pumbaa on Artyom"s cubby. When we talked about it, Artyom actually didn"t call him Pumbaa, but "Pumblic." Maybe I was wrong - I"ve only watched the movie a couple of times... Needs checking. By the way, Artyom reminds me of Timon. That playful, childlike type. And Pumbaa is something about silly fat guys. Naturally, I associate myself with Simba, especially the sad one from the middle of the movie, and even more, I"m in love with girls, though immediately with two.

Being obsessed with this movie, I now fixate on that sticker, constantly thinking about it and making sure to look at it as I pass. It"s on the way to the toilet. Ideally, I"d like it to be on my cubby. But Artyom is friendly toward me, so the jealousy isn"t strong. If this sticker were on Kosarev"s cubby - the kid I basically haven"t talked to since that first- days incident - I"d be writhing with envy, or rather indignation: why does this stupid bully get such a sticker, while I, the good kid obsessed with this movie, don"t?

By the way, stickers are a huge deal for us kids. You can buy them separately, but that"s kind of extravagant; more often, you get them as inserts in chewing gum. And gum inserts are a whole other thrill: you never know what you"ll get. Sometimes stickers, sometimes temporary tattoos, more often just pictures. Often there are red hearts, or a cheerful girl and boy with hearts around them - the dullest kind. Supposedly about love, though I love my little sisters too. But my love is completely different - distant, not joyful, more like unease. So I feel nothing in common with those pictures.

My parents didn"t buy me gum for a long time, and even now, rarely. Only Dad and Grandma Valya buy it at kiosks. You can"t swallow it - the scare of "you"ll die" sticks in my head. Other kids, even younger, chew it outside and nothing happens. This is one example of how I"m different from others, and how other parents don"t care much about their kids.

A new thing in kindergarten - on really hot days, there"s an exercise before nap time: all the kids must walk barefoot along a path of wet rags before lying down. Strange, unclear why, wet, and above all - barefoot again, which means tickling again. As a result, lying alone in bed afterwards, thoughts about walking barefoot, about bare feet in general, make my penis rise.

In bed, when we"re all lying down and the kids have settled, when the naughty ones have been scolded, and everyone"s asleep, I - different from everyone - start doing my own thing and fantasising my fantasies.

During nap in that bedroom, only one caregiver stays, sitting at a distance, occasionally checking the beds to make sure everyone sleeps. Once she lifted the edge of my blanket that had fallen to the floor - I felt it.

I lie by the wall, turned away, making a tent of my blanket so no one sees I"m not sleeping at all. Not just hiding from the caregivers, but from the kids too - they might snitch. Damn everyone.

Lying under my little blanket tent, here"s what I do. First, I make little hills from the blanket edges and imagine them as mountains, with characters and events on them. I"m constantly "transforming" things. Any object can become a face. For example, a stain on the wall: the darkest dots are eyes, something nearby - nose and mouth. Need a face in the curtain? Sure. Any creases, folds - eyes, nose, and especially mouth appear. A face forms from anything, always.

This is one way I pass the time. Sometimes I close my eyes, press them with my hands, and see patterns like a kaleidoscope. I imagine travelling through the cosmos I saw in the planetarium.

Or paint peeling from the wall, like a shell. I love peeling off a big piece. The bigger the piece, the greater the satisfaction. When it"s big, I call it Heracles. When a small piece sticks and won"t come off - it annoys me, and I fidget.

And about fantasies - I promised.

Summer day, sunny but partly cloudy. Everything happens above the clouds, so you barely see the ground. I"ve seen scenes like this on TV, usually in cartoons. This is where "God" sits, supposedly. Like the floor is all clouds, cotton-like, with light everywhere, like when I turn on all the lamps in the flat - my own "Lion Kassil" amusement. Walking on these clouds, suddenly, right there, an old man sits on a throne - that"s God. We kids often ask each other, "Do you believe in God?" I haven"t decided yet.

In my fantasy, though, there"s no cloud floor, no God, just normal clouds, sometimes even the ground is visible. And a child"s pram flies through the clouds. Not like a chair-pram I barely remember, but the big covered kind for small children.

I lie in that flying pram. I feel cosy, comfortable, safe. Everything is white, soft, airy. I"m tiny compared to the pram, or the pram is enormous - I can even walk inside it. Like a flying house. And I never fly alone. Always with girls - mostly little sisters, or daughters of my mom"s friends. Sometimes all together. Rarely Alina, she doesn"t quite fit. The group is reasonable, non-toxic, like Anya from Frunze or my little sisters. I imagine my sisters as Anya, only even shyer and more inexperienced. I"m at least equal with them, often more experienced.

We"re always doing something, and I"m the leader of the pram.

Still, I never sleep there either, and we"re not relaxed like with our parents. Friendly, non-toxic, but still strangers. I"ve said - I can"t imagine trust, even in fantasy. That"s why the fantasy triggers something like a ride: lying next to the girls, I close my eyes - my penis rises. I mean, in real life, it rises. Also, it rises when we play physically, tickle, barefoot, or exposing bellies. Lying defenseless with eyes closed next to girls - it rises. Thinking about feet, belly, tickling - rises like bone. Meanwhile, the penis theme connects to my clinic traumas, tears, fear of pain, and other shame. An erect penis is a reminder of vulnerability.

That"s basically lying there and fantasising.

A caregiver makes a round. Stop. Suddenly I feel her hand on my shoulder - she wakes me. Half-asleep, I turn, and she says, "Nikita, your mom"s here."

Best thing ever. All the Heracles and amusements vanish instantly. All those other kids, losers, stay in that confinement, while I, privileged and deservedly - for modesty, sensitivity, and gentleness - get to leave. I don"t need prams in clouds, nor sisters. First thing, first thing - go to Mom. Girls later.

.:::.

Part 16 Text 6. A day in another kindergarten... in my kindergarten, another group... tanned boy with Lion King... crying again... Fatyushkin Lesha... other neighbours from Frunze... sitting on benches.

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One day, something unusual: my kindergarten is closed due to that nasty, unclear word "quarantine," and they take me from Frunze to another kindergarten nearby - not far from the bathhouse. We always pass it on the way to the grandfathers" house along Persidskaya.

I noticed that kindergartens are all different, but this one is really strange - almost like a private house, or a small apartment building. It"s in a yard behind a solid fence, all under trees. Verandas, wooden railings - a dim, semi-forest atmosphere in the yard. Closer to fairy tales.

They took me inside. Everyone was already outside, on the playground. Everyone was strangers. Not even anyone from my group at my kindergarten. That heavy feeling in my chest returned. On a small asphalt patch, kids play hopscotch. How many times at Frunze, with Anya"s guidance, I tried to play - never understood the rules. And now I can"t care about it. Alone, plus the risk of a semolina-lunch disaster. The caregivers here are new. My own kindergarten"s caregivers, through observing me, probably realised I can"t eat milk, so I feel less anxious at lunch than before. Here, these caregivers know nothing about me - who knows how they"ll treat me? Being under control of strangers is the ultimate anxiety-triggering situation. Compared to this, my kindergarten seems like home.

But lunch passed without incident. No milk, no semolina.

Now everyone goes to the toilet before nap, in a tiny room. Beds are arranged tightly to fit extra kids, barely any space to walk. Some are folding cots. I"m picked up earlier, allowed to stay up. I sit where I ate. Some kids are in beds, some still in the toilet.

From the toilet, a caregiver comes - younger than my mom, cheerful - and jokingly says to another kid: "Go check the toilet, Petka"s showing his penis." Strange and new. I can"t imagine my kindergarten"s caregivers joking like that, lowering themselves to the kids" level. Feels unsafe. If the caregivers behave like kids, who"s responsible for me? Kids bear no responsibility. I hope they come soon.

Soon, they do.

We leave, walk to Grandma. Summer, sun. From the Volga, as often happens, or so it seems, there"s the hum of boats and a whiff of algae.

Next day - back to my usual kindergarten.

But even in my kindergarten, there"s temporary redistribution of kids among groups. I"m again on the second floor, not in the dark hall, but the sunny one, directly above the playroom on the first floor. New group, new caregivers. Artyom and familiar kids from the first floor aren"t here.

There"s a boy, older than me, very tanned. Some people, even with blue eyes, tan extremely. This boy is one of them. Because of his tan, he seems physically superior to me, like a moth. But I watched him - he"s not mean, not touchy, doesn"t show off. So I don"t envy him. I"d only envy him if he were cocky.

He wears a T-shirt with the Lion King - Simba"s dad. I keep looking at this boy because of the T-shirt. I"m curious about him; maybe he"s a fan of the Lion King too, like me. Maybe he has the same associations - Shurygin, Sasha, 3 pm, winter sunset in the window...

The Lion King on his shirt is the only thing linking me to home. At home - Mom, who also likes the Lion King.

We all sit on the floor in the playroom, facing caregivers, backs to the windows and afternoon sun. After nap. To the side, an aquarium bubbles and potted plants. I feel so miserable wanting to be home that tears run down my face. I sit beside that boy to be closer to the Lion King, to home. He notices my tears. He seems empathetic, tries to call a caregiver to calm me. But too much noise, the caregiver doesn"t hear. I wipe my face and calm down. The older kids are more composed; with them, I feel ashamed.

Second-floor visits are short, and soon I"m back on the first floor.

Now is the time when I live at Baba"s, as I said. By the way, with my parents I just call Baba Klava "Baba," but Baba Valya I call "Baba Valya." And when I"m alone with Baba Valya - then she"s my Baba too.

Everything on Frunze Street is as usual. But now Alexey Fatyushkin has arrived. He comes here in summer to visit from a city called Novorossiysk. Alexey Fatyushkin is a growing boy, about three years older than me; he"s physically confident, sinewy, and can handle things skillfully if needed. Knows a lot. Well, he behaves decently and calmly. From what I gather, he"s Fatyushkina"s grandson. He also has an older sister, Natasha. Basically, my mother is the one introducing us.

Having been introduced to him by her, I immediately treat him like an old friend and listen to everything he says, and he talks a lot, as I said. But for now, I barely interact with him - I"m too small, uninteresting to him. He"ll stay here for a while, and we"ll meet more. Mom says Novorossiysk is by the sea. I don"t quite picture what "by the sea" means. Not literally on the water, right?

In the next building after the Fatyushkins, almost on Persidskaya Street, lives the Petrov family. They have a two-storey house, though the first floor is half underground, and the house itself is roughly like ours: brick, but with a decrepit façade, definitely not a cottage. They have either two or three sons. Those boys are already grown, more like young men. The father is a working man, called Erik; he"s always out with a bucket to pour the waste on their little hill. They have cows and, I think, maybe even horses. Well, cows for sure.

The mother is also like a cow, one of those pushy women - big boobs, short hair. The kind for whom quiet worker Erik seems like the perfect match.

During the day, we play with Anya and Alina; sometimes Katya comes - that sprawling older girl, either a Bobrov or a Chizha. She has a strange pale, freckled face, though dark-haired. Usually, freckled kids are blond or red-haired.

Occasionally, Alexey comes too, but not for long - he"s still a boy"s boy, and soon leaves with his equally manly father to fish on the Volga until evening.

In the evening - the parade of cows, and soon it starts getting dark, but it"s not the end yet. Already in the darkness, on the bench under our building windows and on extra chairs, as usual, sit all the main characters of the upper part of Frunze. Crickets chirp, a hedgehog crawls somewhere, and many come to watch. Grandpa shines his flashlight. By the way, my adults use that same flashlight to go to that toilet in the far end of the yard.

Anya was called home long ago and has gone. Only her thick-necked grandmother remains. They all have adult conversations, while Alexey, Alina, and I tend the fire, throwing in all the dry grass grandpas collected from the garden. Grandpa supervises the fire.

I also do pull-ups on the bird-cherry tree, and then we all watch from this bench at the upper part of Frunze the sky over central Engels: fireworks occasionally, for one reason or another.

Many days pass like this on Frunze; the kindergarten has mostly faded from my life, and I spend the whole day with Alina and Anya around the front garden. Sometimes evenings are spent indoors instead of on the bench. Then we"re all in the living room with the TV. Fatyushkina on her guest chair, Yakubovich in his usual spot on TV, and me - by the mirror with the colognes. Colognes and shaving stuff - more and more every year.

.:::.

Part 16, text 7. Rubber locust, funfair, funfair with father again, to Baba Valya after fishing, endless sisters, tracking sisters on the dam, my obliging parents.

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The other day, Mom bought me a huge rubber locust toy - realistic, only impossibly big. I treat it as male. I"m everywhere with him now. I take him with me, and we go to Lev Kassil Street, home.

Hot, sunny. Walking. Persidskaya. Everything as usual.

Right behind "Rodina," along Ploshchad Svobody, in the shade of the trees, suddenly: a funfair. That"s what Mom called it. There are some travelling children"s rides, few and paid, and the funfair itself, as I understand, is a little wagon with some theatrical performances inside. We decide to go in - of course.

Pay, enter. There are other people with kids. In the small dark space of the wagon, seats face a tiny stage. Tricks and theatrical sketches begin, as expected. The gloomy atmosphere blocks all light from outside. New characters and magicians appear from behind the audience, moving to the stage between viewers.

And suddenly, when it feels like the end is near, from the back of the wagon comes a real Baba Yaga. I mean, she has a huge hooked nose, wrinkles that no human could have, and - the absolute mind-blower - glowing eyes.

It amazes me immensely and becomes one of the few confirmations that magic, the whole enchanted world, all those fairy-tale characters and Ded Moroz - exist.

At home on Lev Kassil Street - it"s lunch, sunny outside - we go to bathe immediately. At Baba"s I run outside, and there"s practically nowhere to wash. Now, in the apartment, the light is out, so we bathe with the door open. Unusual atmosphere. On the edge of the tub sits my rubber locust.

Rare moment when getting out of the bath isn"t unpleasant: you don"t freeze in such heat.

Soon Dad arrives. Today I"m heading to Baba Valya again. We leave Kassil Street together, but first, we go to the funfair again - I, still impressed, want a repeat. We enter with him this time, and the show repeats almost exactly, and at the end, Baba Yaga appears again - real.

Then we go along the embankment. We took my small fishing rod; no rush to Baba Valya, so we stop to fish. In the distance - Saratov, the edge of the bridge, cars glinting in the sun. Boat motors hum, and the reeds smell from the islands.

We catch a few shiny little fish. Into the bucket - and off to the bus stop.

Arriving in Saratov, this time we take a slightly different route: get off at the first stop on Predmostovaya Square, cross at the top to the other side, past the local traffic post, and go down a cobbled street. By the way, the only cobbled street I"ve seen in Saratov.

Before reaching the start of the promenade where the "Slovakia" hotel is, we turn right earlier - onto some old street with old houses, and soon, through a new passage to me, we reach all the churches, the museum, and the trolleybus terminus we need.

Peanuts, ice cream, kvass - all along the way, our summer tradition, and by Baba Valya"s ninth-floor routine - good food upon arrival and carefree bustle thereafter.

Almost the whole summer passes like this: Frunze - Lev Kassil - Baba Valya. When at Lev Kassil - then beach. This summer, I swim by myself already, with special inflatable devices on both arms - they help me stay afloat.

The sisters on the beach have become usual. They run around, sure, but what"s the point? They"re strangers. I"ll never communicate with them. Simply no connection.

Lately, watching TV and films, I"ve become interested in detective work: track, find out, spy. At least something achievable.

And now a convenient opportunity arises - my girls with their adults are about to leave, and we"re also close to packing. I start nudging my parents.

Dad and Mom surely suspect I"m hurrying for a reason, but I only half-hide it. Many people on the beach; they probably never noticed my glances in the same direction, so they hardly know why I"m rushing. And they won"t get into the weeds of children"s whims - which I use.

Everything works almost perfectly - we climb the dam slightly ahead, and go. At first, barefoot as usual, to brush the sand off before putting shoes on.

I only turn casually; no real need to. Up to the first houses past the tennis court, there"s nowhere else to turn, and I"ll start observing there. Main thing - not to get too far ahead.

Later, near the shashlik café on the poles, glancing back once or twice, I see we"re far ahead, so when I put on my shoes, I deliberately stall.

As soon as the sisters with their group overtake us, I perk up, and we move on. I"m so impressed with my trick, emboldened, that I shout out a phrase I caught from TV somewhere: "My plan worked!"

That"s how we go from the beach to the first houses. Soon, it ends: before Pristan Smelykh, where some fish and swim on the concrete slope - the sisters vanish somewhere. I guess they went to those red five-storeys.

This episode is a vivid illustration of how my parents cater to me, unlike others. They never figured out - how could they? - why I sometimes dawdled, sometimes hurried. Yet they adapted the whole time.

Always the same. I"ve seen other parents and their relationships; I can tell they wouldn"t do this. They put themselves first, raising their kids, not indulging every whim. Mine live fully for me.

And Dad"s jokes continue, his words of our Lev Kassil "triple" idyll - "tarindra-durindra" and others. He keeps giving me new nicknames: Ench, Bichuganets, Korzhemelik, Lari.

.:::.

Part 16, text 8. Father"s stories, with Baba Valya on the square, sharks, saw a corpse in a coffin with Baba Valya, now everything"s clear about this life.

.::::.

Other days are routine again - trips to the beach and carefree bustle. I"m still learning to swim, and Dad continues stories from life, like how he swam somewhere. He says he swam distances, like to the island across the beach. Cool.

He also tells me that in water, if you swim, sooner or later your muscles cramp. He describes the feeling, and I kind of understand. And that you can drown. Bad, though unclear. But it adds to the thrill. The riskier - the cooler. You feel the pain, but still do it. Brave.

But there"s something more. Something I seem to know instinctively, from natural reflexes. Like with shitting, sleeping, and vomiting. When I struggle in water, trying not to sink - the movements come from there, not fear based on knowledge. Dad only now tells about drowning. But I was floundering already two years ago. Damn, I still don"t understand it all.

After another calm summer day at the kindergarten - I"m used to not being forced to eat milk noodles, and summer is generally taken less strictly - another transfer from Dad to Baba Valya.

This time: Dad drives me to the main square in Saratov, where Baba Valya waits, and we first check out some children"s rides that arrived.

Here I am with Baba Valya at the square, "Rondo" in my mouth, heading to the rides. Besides the usual rides, like carousels and all that fuss, there"s something else: sharks. Those from the book Dad read me, like a foam shark toy, and also what Mom looks like when seen in a New Year bauble.

It"s a covered hall with huge aquariums inside. A whole hall of spectators. We sit and watch these human-sized sharks swimming, pink and slightly reddish. Suddenly - splash! - divers jump in. Everyone gasps, anxious and amazed.

What"s going on? What are they afraid of, what risk are they taking? Being bitten? Adults - and the audience is adults, as are the divers - aren"t much afraid of pain.

I"m impressed. By the size of the sharks, and the courage of the divers, even facing the unknown. Yet I feel close to a revelation. Scenes from movies spin in my head: people shot, my sleep perception unlike others, humiliation, instinctive fears - sinking, eating too red a berry, approaching snakes.

Morning at Baba Valya"s. Getting ready to go out. Leave her building into the yard. Next door - a gathering of people, many with flowers, quiet, not festive. Smells of petrol from some old big car.

I"m bored, want to go, but Baba Valya wants to linger. We move slightly closer to the crowd, standing at the back. Minutes later, a crate is brought out - red, rectangular, long, with frills. No lid.

Inside, on white pads, lies a motionless man. In jacket, trousers. Pillow under his head. Adult man with dark curly hair, like the singer on TV - Kobzon. Eyes closed, face - hard to immediately grasp why - like a doll"s.

I recognise the crate - coffin: seen in films, but never knew why, usually looked different. The doll-like face inside immediately gives vague, shitty suspicions. Bright, colourful ceremony - flowers, solemn faces - but the feeling is grim. Someone lost. For some, this is one thing, for others - the opposite.

But looking at the stillness, the closed eyes, and how people carry and place him like a tray - in seconds, I know he"s the loser here. We watch briefly, then leave.

Baba Valya says little, only that this man worked at her job. We go about our business.

Soon, I piece everything together. All puzzle elements: cemeteries, graves, toy soldiers with guns, previously unclear unpleasant verbs - drowning, poisoning - and the instinctive fear of such events, mole crickets, snakes, Baba Yagas.

People around die, then. A whole avalanche of realizations hits. Even murders. Not always old age or illness, like "Kobzon," obviously - one person can kill another. Among strangers. My dislike of strangers was also an innate instinct.

Yeah, that"s the world. A snake bite, drowning, wolf berry - all lost. I too can die, as a child, or now.

Death - the ultimate humiliation of any individual. Immobilized, asleep forever, while others live, having what you wanted, and your parents go mad over the irreversibility of what they had everything for.

And the hardest thought - unlike your own death as a child, this feels more real - hits: parents can die, won"t be in the apartment, and then for me it"s total fuckedness, with who knows what.

Awareness of death magnifies all existing discomforts and adds new ones - one after another. Finiteness becomes the main knowledge, and all further learnings are now considered against it.