# Unedited Ai-translation 'the roots of my actions' book 3

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 3


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___Part 34.

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...............2002 ---------------------------------------------------

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Part 34 Text 1. Bags, test tubes, tantrums over gifts, last cartoons, the aesthetic of snow-covered hamlets, sledding at Frunze, the start of Forrest Gump.

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The bag wasn"t exactly what I wanted. Yes, it was long, everything seemed right. A Reebok, black-and-blue. But when empty, it wouldn"t hold its shape: if you picked it up by the horizontal strap, it sagged. Natasha"s bag at Frunze had longitudinal pockets, and I could see that thanks to those, their zippers and seams, it would hold its shape even when empty. I needed that sturdy horizontality. Still, I was happy and carried it everywhere during the holidays, rummaged through it myself, put it by the bed at night, and threw one thing or another in it.

Inside, though, the bag had a medical theme.

From what I remember, along with the usual test tubes, first, there was a box with laboratory scales with weights. You know, the ones that balance like a seesaw: you put what you want to weigh in one pan, and with tweezers, you add weights to the other pan until it balances. Second, there was a drip set. "Infusion system" it"s called. Seriously-big needles and a wheel to pinch the plastic tube. My parents, I guess, figured I wouldn"t figure out how to use it, and they were just giving me the pleasure of having the thing itself, so they didn"t hesitate to gift me this nonsense. I took it all to my room and, while it was New Year"s Eve, decided to make a cigarette. I"d never held a cigarette before and only roughly imagined the mechanism. I grabbed some kind of cap, stuffed something in, shoved foam from the mouthpiece end, and lit it from the other side. I even managed a puff and blew out smoke. But it immediately went out and stank-end of the crafting, and, really, of the whole lab thing. Later someone gave me a stethoscope (the kind therapists use in the clinic), and at Frunze, separately from my mother, there was a big, expensive chemistry encyclopedia. Of course, I understood nothing, and I felt sorry for my mom"s wallet. My grandfather leafed through it. My grandfathers also had a chopping knife for the jungle, at my request. It was a huge, rusting meat cleaver, most likely.

Letter to Santa:

-------insert start-------

Dear Santa!!

Please tell me: what do I need these cords and needles for? It"s not hard to poke your arm with them! And especially, why do I need so many of these red and white things with some weird little clips? Write me the answer right here.

But I really liked the test tubes and the little dish.

-------insert end-------

And there"s another note preserved (apparently by my mom), phrased as if a previous one existed. Compared to the note I wrote above, the handwriting is worse, there"s a basic childish error, and most importantly, if it"s about needles and clips, it"s odd-because I never thought I was supposed to actually use them, I just took the gift as a joke, not something to use. Here, I ask how to use this "junk." Still, I couldn"t remember any New Year gift in other years that matched this note"s logic. The careless spelling and logical oddness can be blamed on the degree of tantrum behind it. So I decided to include it this year.

-------insert start-------

And in general, I tore up your junk because you didn"t even write how to use it. Quickly, give me something else instead of this junk!

-------insert end-------

I wrote this on a scrap of paper, clearly torn off in a fit from whatever sheet was at hand.

This is about my eternal tantrums and ripping apart gifts, which I"d mentioned separately before. There will definitely be more cases ahead.

But back to New Year.

On New Year"s Eve, I inventoried my books, which had piled up a lot. Since early childhood, I had a stamp with a snake on it, and I went and stamped it on every pre-title page of my books. I also stamped it on The Collector.

In the morning, for the almost-grown Murka, we made a gift-a couple of dried fish-just for her. We also set up a little surprise. While she was away, we hung them somewhere, and when she came back, she sniffed them out. It was unusual for her-unlike normal, we didn"t block her path and let her snatch them. I even petted her encouragingly. Then we stripped the dried fish and fed it to her-finally, straight up eggs and meat.

From my father, I got a cassette of the cartoon Godzilla. Apparently, there was such a series. The cassette had several episodes. Godzilla was American, and all the familiar characters from the movie were there. The three of us sat in the living room at the coffee table; my parents were talking about something, and I watched. For me, it was more of a farewell. It was clear that this was the last childhood New Year with cartoons.

The cassette was recorded from cable TV because it had the Fox Kids logo-a channel my Aunt Larisa had. Although late, I got an instant dopamine hit from that channel, from that phrase Fox Kids. Childhood, Aunt Larisa, holidays-boom.

There was also a third book in the series about Uncle Fyodor. Probably from my father, or maybe even BabValya, because that summer, when I read it, my mother would say enough of this kindergarten reading.

I haven"t mentioned, but after the trip to the village and under the influence of advertising for the Ukrainian-Russian musical Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka, the night before New Year, I formed an aesthetic of a "village New Year." There had to be midnight, little huts buried in snowdrifts, some prankster devil, some horilka, people running out of the bathhouse and jumping into snow... And in the huts, windows lit, inside-chaos of various kinds, all in that spirit... After New Year, this aesthetic faded.

I call such rows of associations "aesthetics" because I just don"t know what else to call them. Perhaps "associative chains" would be more correct. But all the associations and things from such a chain always formed one artistic picture in my head. Each chain could be drawn or given some plot and visualised in action, as I just visualised the last one.

There was probably a trip to see Larisa and two-year-old Anya. Maybe a visit to some event, as I said before. Maybe again to the Operetta Theatre in Engels. The thing is, since my mother had already divorced my father, I was entitled to "child social assistance," regulated by an institution called Family, which my mom occasionally visited. They issued free tickets for some children"s things.

At Frunze-sledding again. I no longer used sleds; I almost always had some pad under me, or I invented a board and tried sliding on it-on my feet.

There were few Anya and Alyona. Mostly, we slid down with Alina, to the house of that grumpy old woman named Ilyina. The view of Saratov from Frunze also became smaller and smaller-at the intersection of Persidsky and Moscow streets, a ten-storey residential building was being built, and on the embankment where the Ferris wheel was-several "candles" were being built. Everything faded into the past. Grandfather, it seems, went ice-fishing with winter gear. But he wasn"t a winter fan, and I only remember it once in my life.

With Alina, sometimes we no longer so much slid but, having reached that old woman"s house, climbed on two stumps from felled trees and chatted. Once, that boy Seryozha came there again. I don"t remember how, but I fought with him again. I only remember he pinned me down and leaned over me, close. The unfamiliar feeling of someone else"s face very close to yours. I didn"t cry then, and he left. Before Alina, I didn"t feel shame-she was half a person, and thus half a girl. And yet, for the sake of the girls...

And I never saw that Seryozha again.

Near the end of the Frunze days, one evening I stood with Anya at the top, by the well near our house, and there was a fireworks display over the city centre. We talked about gifts under the tree and belief in Santa, which I hardly had anymore, and she, three years older than me, confirmed it was all someone close, when we left the house.

During those holidays, on Lev Kassil Street, some channel showed Forrest Gump. The three of us watched. Suddenly, it became my favourite film.

My mother laughed at the scene where Forrest was on the swings while groaning cries came from the bedroom. I didn"t understand what was happening there.

In the very last days, on the Old New Year, under the tree appeared the last bag of gifts, with the Disney film Dinosaur. I couldn"t figure out how they made it. At that time, there was some Shrek, which didn"t interest me, and other early 3D films-but they all looked primitively made; the graphics were obviously computer-generated. Dinosaur, though, was incredible, and even twenty years later I know nothing that looked so realistic.

Both Forrest Gump and Dinosaur carried the theme of romantic love.

.:::.

Part 34 Text 2. Guzhviev main stuff, theatrical timidity, Guzhik intimidated by older girls, ice-skating again, aunties like powder kegs, Seryozha Varanov"s mother borrowing money.

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From the second half of the school year, Guzhik and I began to separate ourselves from the other boys.

Guzhik-the shy boy in the children"s cassette at the board, standing next to little Makarov looking at the camera. At first, I just knew him and that he went with his grandmother, lived somewhere near the square, five minutes by trolley to the gymnasium. Like on the cassette, he behaved that way in front of teachers and others, but when we were alone, as I said, he "let loose."

Our tag games started with someone touching the other and saying, "You"re it," and running away; the one touched had to chase. There were crowds in staircases and corridors; you had to weave through people and not lose sight of the runner. Many nooks to hide in, or ways to escape to another floor from the first staircase. If the chaser noticed, you"d be tagged. I don"t recall collisions or falls, but I remember Guzhviev"s tendency for theatrical falls. Here we need to pause on his personality, because I later adopted these mannerisms-they fit me, and became part of me.

His mother was Jewish, younger than mine, also pretty, a doctor. She was calm and ordinary, though no one knew what home was like. His grandmother on his father"s side seemed like a former teacher. His father, younger than mine, was slightly Kazakh-so I remember my mother saying. When we all knew each other, I realized I didn"t see anything Kazakh or Asian in them. Probably my mother meant "Tatar," but I somehow thought it meant Kazakh. He was cheerful, kind, like my father. He seemed like a small entrepreneur. Guzhik went to music school for balalaika and wore old-fashioned clothes, like the cap I mentioned. No car. They all lived in a communal flat at 14 Kiselev Street, much poorer than my family. That"s all I learned about him.

Regarding his personality and manners... They flowed naturally from all these facts. He was decent, modest, lively, humorous. Could talk to strangers-even adults-on equal footing. But most of the time, he huddled, frowned, and breathed heavily. His mannerisms were like a constant exhaustion-not from fatigue, more like a neurosis. Hands on backpack straps. Suddenly, he could touch me saying "you"re it" and dart down the corridor. Often, if he got carried away or fell, he behaved too theatrically, like a clown. Then he"d get up, no attempt to retaliate, not aggressive, unlike boyish logic when shamed-as I, the jealous, insecure competitor, would have. Not like Elchin, who wouldn"t have fallen at all.

He had strongly attached earlobes, grey eyes, drooping eyelids. Slightly shorter than me but sturdier. Nails cut deep, flesh protruding.

At that time, during breaks, he had a thing with a couple of older girls, especially one, possibly blonde or dyed. They were 10th-11th grade and seen as grown-ups. He"d run from them in the corridor; they teased and had fun. I didn"t know the backstory, but I joined his fleeing-even without him, seeing the girl, I"d bolt. She played along, pretending to chase. If she caught him, it would have been total bliss. Eventually, she did catch him-grabbed underarms, spun him around. We weighed no more than thirty kilos. After that climax, our fear faded.

One day, the class went to the main Saratov Opera and Ballet Theatre for a performance. I remember feeling lonely, as if my friendship with Guzhik wasn"t yet, and no spying on Ermakova either-so probably in third grade, Guzhik maybe didn"t go. I remember corridors and stairs. Seems the only time in that theatre.

Another day-I don"t remember, mother says-I took the skates to school and tried skating in the yard after classes, the same skates from before first grade, when older hockey boys had mocked me. According to my mother, this episode happened in third grade, because she shone our Niva"s headlights in the yard. I don"t remember the lights, insist the episode was then, and now I was grown into those skates. I never learned to skate properly.

Once, after a parent meeting-common in the gymnasium-I was alone with my mother and Svetlana Gennadievna. She deliberately delayed my mom. I feared she"d tell her something, though nothing happened except chasing Guzhik and sinking into Cs. Everything went fine; at the end, she lightly tousled my hair.

Still, another thing created tension, especially then. All these teachers and doctors treated me carefully. One psychologist, obsessed with maniacs, who later read this biography, said my childhood showed a "maniacal" look. "Eyes glazed," she said. I didn"t become a maniac, but I was already the type to snap explosively, like a powder keg. In childhood, I subconsciously knew these women sensed it. That"s why they were so cautious. None ever scolded me like other boys. This pretence, this cold war, always created tension, especially with friendly gestures.

One evening, Seryozha Varanov"s mother appeared in the hallway on Lev Kassil Street-classmate from first grade, only besides Dinara I remembered. "Varanov," probably a surname I invented. She was tall, short light hair, maybe came with him, I remember him at our house. Blondish-red, plump, reminded me of Garfield from Cool Journal. Her purpose: to borrow money. My mom gave her ten thousand. About five times more now. She came more than once, borrowed more. I don"t remember which visit, but my mother wrote an IOU. Apparently not for the full sum-it became a multi-year story of collecting our money, connected to my main plotlines.

.:::.

Part 34, Text 3. Mortal Kombat at Mom"s... visiting Aunt Lena with Masha... in the winter woods and on the slides... The Great Uncle... the last torture games with Alina.

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At that time, Mom was mostly talking on the phone with Aunt Lena, who had previously worked in Dad"s shop, and by the time I"m describing, she was working as a night guard at School No. 33. She would stay there for a long stretch. We would visit her there late in the evening. The corridors were dark and deserted, and I would run up and down them. I even pinched a sprout of chlorophytum while I was there. She had a phone there, which is why she and my mom would have these marathon calls late at night.

One evening, Mom was sitting in the living room chatting with her on the phone. Knowing she wouldn"t be paying attention to what I was up to, I got bold and put on a video tape of Mortal Kombat. The tape had been mine for almost two years, and Sasha Emelyanova"s mom hadn"t come to get it - I thought I might just keep it. We hadn"t been in touch with the Emelyanovs for a long time anyway. So there I was, watching the episode with the market fight and then the prostitutes. There was a scene where Shiro comes back angry, grabs an Asian woman, throws her on the bed, and calls her a "whore" - maybe even a "wicked whore." I can"t remember the exact dubbing. Mom, who often spoke to Lena about whatever was happening around them during their calls, heard this on the TV and complained to Lena about what I was watching. I"d been watching that tape for two years already - and not just watching.

Lena had a daughter, Masha, a year or two older than me, stocky and blonde. I"ll never be able to remember her face, despite seeing her many times later. I knew Lena"s face well enough. She was cheerful and kind but somewhat simple and emotional - the sort who could get offended, visit a fortune-teller, or fall into drink. Their father wasn"t around.

Mom and I had visited them once before, but I won"t mention it because I barely remember anything, except that it was either autumn or spring, and I had a short-lived obsession with incense sticks - the ones that give off fragrance when lit - sold in new-age or esoteric shops.

Now, the first and most memorable winter visit.

Their private house, as I mentioned before, was god-knows-where - roughly 37 Nekrasova Street. It was a ride away from the city centre along Mayakovskaya Street. A kingdom of private homes: gates, barking dogs, rotting wooden houses with no amenities, gardens, no asphalt, and so on. Basically like Frunze, just with no view of Saratov, so it felt bleak. Their house, as was often the case, was one building for two families, each with half.

Walking into their yard, a huge dog named Djeko would rush at you. You couldn"t see his eyes - just a dirty ball of fur - he lived outside. Right by the house entrance was some contraption like a water column, but not from the mains, just a well. Beyond that, a garden, and at the end, a wooden outhouse - which in my imagination fit the song "Black Darkness of the Hole," even though I took the worms from memories of the Anapa outhouse.

Entering the house, first into the vestibule with a hundred icy shoes on the floor, then into the house itself, there was that characteristic stench found in all old houses I"d been to, except ours in Frunze. It smelled almost sweet from some fried vegetables soaking into everything. Still, it was the smell of life, not rot, and you got used to it.

Inside, several rooms. The kitchen had a rural sink - one where you press up on a dangling spout and water comes from a tank you have to refill constantly. There were buckets everywhere, likely dumped outside. The house was crammed with stuff. One room had cages, maybe for parrots or rats. Then Masha"s tiny room, then to the right, the living room, where gatherings happened.

That day, we set out with the four of us to the forest and the slides. This was further down Nekrasova Street from their house. I had no clue where we were; it would take years before I could orient myself. The Mosto-otrjad forest was surrounded by a river like a moat, and that"s where we headed. Across, a dark forest. At that spot, two rivers ran parallel, so the landscape repeated twice. We reached the first one.

It was like winter Skyrim, but more like Finland. Late January. Around three or four in the afternoon, getting dark soon. We were at the riverbank, with private houses behind, and on the sides, a frozen, snow-covered stream with reeds sticking out, looking like a field. We followed the river to the forest.

Probably my first time in a winter forest, and it looked exactly like the calendar pictures - except for some crows fussing at the treetops - an incredible stillness settled in. Lena and Masha led us deeper.

It turned out to be a mini-forest because soon houses appeared again - now upscale cottages, all with cameras and satellite dishes. Walking among them, I couldn"t choose which I"d want to live in - all looked perfect. Past this mini-posh neighborhood, we reached the main river bordering the forest. The earlier stream was just a swampy branch. Now a steep slope led down, and we slid several times. Down below, on the snow, a guy from these fancy houses sped by on a snowmobile, kicking up a snowstorm.

After sliding, we crossed the river, climbed into the forest, and slid down the riverbank until it got dark. On the way back, in the first mini-forest, it was already dark, but the atmosphere was special and cosy, surrounded by houses.

In Lena and Masha"s stories, there was always mention of an uncle. Later, Mom and I would call him the Great Uncle. From what I gathered, he was cool, lending them new film tapes and giving advice. To be clear, though I"d only meet him a couple of years later, he was about thirty, carried a pistol on his belt, and at home had a massive plasma TV. He was up-to-date with all the latest. Single, he was searching for the perfect woman - probably the main reason he fascinated our moms.

During the holidays and winter weekends, there were slides and snow fun in Frunze too. Ani and Alyona weren"t around at all. Later, Alina and I went along the lower part of Frunze to Persidskaya, where an overturned rusty boat had been lying for a long time. We climbed inside. Something about snowdrops, I can"t remember exactly. Cold, sunny days with a crisp layer of snow. Inside the boat, we tried torture games again. Alina had to undo her coat and hold onto some iron bars above, as if chained. I tried tickling, but she couldn"t take it and twisted away. Her hands needed to be genuinely restrained, but fate didn"t allow it - this was the last torture attempt with Alina.

At home on Lev Kassil... what else... those were months obsessed with vampires. I begged to stay up past midnight to watch a horror film. A very vampire-heavy movie - almost black-and-white, set in a castle, coffins, crosses, pale vampire women... One scene had a woman bitten by a vampire buried, and a vampire old lady came at night to instruct her from underground how to get out: "You must push upward..." I later recounted this scene to Mom.

I kept watering my monster plants and still dreamed of an iguana... The last reptiles I saw, I think, were in Saratov last autumn - at the "Pobeda" cinema by the circus - a travelling exhibition...

.:::.

Part 34, Text 4. Shitty books and lessons at Lev Kassil... dopamine linked to defecation... autism on a blanket... start of gastro issues... Arik shat in his trousers... I envied Korolyov.

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Dad would bring and sort heaps of books, mostly Soviet-era junk. He hoarded them like scrap paper, intending to sell by weight someday. He stored them in our garage on Mayakovskaya. Some scam had duped Mom into the worst, leakiest garage. But it was fine for scrap - it got heavier.

One book he brought was about gemstones - the only one with colour pictures. I picked my favourite: the ruby.

When I was home alone - probably sick, like always, and after the first feverish days, "having a good time" alone (a quote from The Mummy) - I"d dive into books on gemstones, The Collector (I"d read maybe ten percent), and all that anticipated adulthood, which seemed full of promise. On dopamine, as usual, I"d immediately get the urge to shit. Back then, I developed a ritual: at the peak moment of pooping - that second of losing control - I"d make a hand gesture we used to tease Murka, as if to invisible Murka. Probably started with the door open; she approached, I gestured - and it stuck. Sometimes, I added a fancy facial expression or a phrase, like Oleg Tinkov in 2024 saying, "Doubtful, but okay," or Edward Norton"s surprised face in Birdman - like, "nailed it." I"d do these little sketches while sitting on the toilet.

Of course, I was still sitting on the toilet while shitting. If water splashed, I"d wipe with mild disgust - nothing more. I wasn"t squeamish in this sense, though I was in others. Then I flushed, didn"t wash hands, and dashed off - imagining adulthood under ads for inflatable mattresses or titanium knives: call now, get a free second set - anticipating grown-up life.

At that time, trying licking and sniffing my hand, I first noticed saliva smelled sour when dried, especially a couple of hours after eating carbs or just when I hadn"t eaten for a while. Later, when thinking about kissing, it would become a complex and trigger disgust. I"d figure out in adulthood that you just need to drink water more often to rinse away bacteria. Also, we only brushed once a day, before breakfast - pure chaos.

Lying on a blanket where I always cuddled Murka, I"d lift my ass and inhale air through my open asshole, just like in childhood. It gave a feeling of returning to my familiar, my "true self." It satisfied nostalgia for my distant past. Somehow, anal sensations had always been linked to early childhood.

On the medical front, gastro issues began. I constantly complained to Mom - nausea, minor stuff. Soon there were clinic visits and tests. Once, driving to Saratov with Uncle Sergey, they discussed gastro issues, remembered Shurygina (he knew her from teaching with Mom), who also had gastro problems and maybe an ulcer. Uncle Sergey said: "Oh, Shurygina has a whole treasure of ulcers." We drove past the enema factory in Engels - now destroyed, just wasteland.

One day at the gymnasium, Arik, whom I associated with Shrek at the time, shit in his trousers. Probably on the back row. Everyone nearby held their noses; rumours and smells spread. He didn"t care until Svetlana Gennadyevna told him to go to the toilet. With his chubby, phlegmatic smile, he reluctantly went. For me, that scenario would spark a new life of planning my next Halloween, in the film"s spirit, to compensate for the shame. Arik cleaned up and carried on like nothing happened. From graduation, there"s a photo of him hugging the class"s main Intcagram beauty - Dubinina.

Another day, in class, informal atmosphere, Lyosha Korolyov - top student and son of the bossy mom - now a rapper and showman - cracked a joke during discussion with the teacher, like a sharp line from a TV show. The whole class, including the teacher, laughed; I didn"t catch it. I later agonised over what he said. I thought maybe it was "You"re the weakest link, goodbye," but the intonation was different, and the line was longer. I got jealous, thinking I could never say anything so sharp that an adult teacher would laugh. Clearly, all my imagination and wide thinking were confined to nervous thoughts about shit and strict women. Even then, I sensed Korolyov would end up in Moscow, in America, with thousands of followers - and I"d be writing all this.

.:::.

Part 34, Text 5. February 23rd, the band "Vykhod", "Goosebumps" and American horrors, winter trips to Mostootryad, Maslenitsa in the square, the reptile exhibition, the movie American Girl and boyish antics.

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It was already sunny late-February days. Endless games of tag with Guzhik and rides home with Dad in the Niva.

For Defender of the Fatherland Day-which the aunts used to call all the boys, piling on more stress for me since it reminded me of the looming army service-there was some sort of costume event in class again. I barely remember it. Guzhik was dressed as a musketeer or something similar, with a toy sword. There was a semi-informal lesson with everyone in costume. He sat in his row, and I joined the seat next to him, so we were side by side. I grabbed a pen to act as my sword, and we spent the whole lesson fencing. Later, recalling that day, Svetlana Gennadyevna mimicked our fencing in class. Everyone laughed. We were already clearly the class"s two jokers.

Dad had got and installed a car stereo that could play cassettes. That"s how I first heard songs by the band "Vykhod." He"d play them on repeat every day on the way to school. It was Russian rock with catchy pentatonic melodies, vocals a bit downcast, a reggae-esque vibe. It reminded me of Guzhiev. There was one very reggae-style track-"My Brother Isaiah"-and then another called "Don Pedro Gomez". I didn"t understand any of it, nor did I ever care much about that sort of erudite stuff. My favourites were "Roads, the Veins of the Earth", "Hero of Obituaries", and "High from Your Legs". These songs soaked through that time, linking to Guzhik, school rides, and, especially, the last song-with its chorus, an odd single word: "Shala, shala-a-a." I guessed it might hint at the swear word shaláva ("slut"), with the third consonant dropped. Especially since the song was clearly about a woman"s legs. I once asked Dad, and he said, "No." I only knew shaláva was a swear, not what it actually meant.

In his youth, before I was born, Dad had once been to an apartment gig of this band in St. Petersburg, where he had a business trip to develop film from the Saratov film studio. When Silya-the band leader-came to Saratov in "96, Dad missed it. But one of Dad"s friends, some Tolmatsky who lived in Saratov and was a brother of Decl, met Silya at the train. This Tolmatsky was a hippie, didn"t study, didn"t work, and died young. He"d once suggested Dad move to Petersburg and join that crowd, but Dad first studied, then quickly dove into family life-after conceiving me with Mom while drunk.

Homework was done from morning till noon, even on Saturdays, but not too strict. So one morning, I turned on the TV and RNTV. It looked like kids" programming, judging by the Fox Kids logo, but it was a film. It turned out to be a series of kiddie horror called Goosebumps. It was pure America: suburban sprawl, big well-kept houses for every family, oversized toys for kids, everything large-scale, no hint of stinginess, well-fed American faces in grunge-style plaid shirts, endless picnics, and Halloween. A perfect world for anxieties of all kinds.

There was an episode with a psychotic scene inside a pink coffin interior-though maybe it was Freddy Krueger. Someone was trapped in an endless giant coffin, unable to escape, surrounded by soft pink walls. That pink theme became permanently associated in my mind with burials. I had caught the series near its end; by late March, it would finish.

At the end of February, Mom and I went to Mostootryad in the woods. It was frosty and sunny, and from the lake"s shore we could see Saratov. I thought about my classmates, all somewhere there. On the way back, we took trolley number nine to the terminus, where the museum was, as usual. Just stepping off, there was the so-called "dumpling house." I"d never been inside the dumpling place, but there was another entrance to a grocery shop-blue Soviet scales, and we bought 50-kopeck buns with seeds, which I"d later notice made saliva taste especially sour. There was also a novelty section: things like fake knife-stabbing kits-you could strap them on, lie down "dead," and make it look like a knife was sticking out. Morally and ethically questionable. No clerk was behind the counter; it seemed no one wanted to sell it.

Then we headed to the square. I wanted to bring a camera to the reptile exhibition. Meanwhile, Maslenitsa was happening; men tried climbing a greased pole to grab a prize at the top. The pole was iced over-impossible to climb without spiked shoes. I thought: "If you fall from that pole, you could break your neck and be out for life." Mom might have thought the same, but the rest of the crowd seemed oblivious. I thought they were all idiots. Only later, as an adult, did I realise it was even worse-their thrill came from the anticipation of tragedy.

We returned with the camera. I might as well have slipped and broken it, because I ended up recording loads of reptilian crap over earlier footage. I tried to keep track of what I recorded, but there was a mess. There went, for instance, Grandma Klava grumbling and washing dishes that day, and more. Total chaos. I filmed a boring iguana, pythons, and how they swallowed mice. The mice"s tails and limbs stretched and twitched-reminding me of how I used to masturbate by squeezing my legs-and they shamefully pissed and crapped themselves from death.

Around that time, some strange Russian teen film aired. I was used to teen films being about obedient boys, like Yeralash. But this one featured blonde troublemakers drinking, smoking, and chasing girls. One scene showed them peeking on women in a bathhouse-full nudity. Another, the boys stole watermelons from a train car-the cowardly one got run over, then later appeared to the main boy in a vision with a smashed watermelon: "You didn"t deliver." The main boy also saw the ghost of a lost brother throughout. This was reminiscent of The Thief, where the protagonist sees his father. These scenes, starting with Mufasa in the sky in The Lion King, always moved me to tears. By late 2023, I was sorting this in my diary.

Another odd scene: boys in a shed were given cards by a girl, but instead of queens and jacks, the cards had pictures of naked women. The two boys then did something with their hands around their crotches. I had no clue what was happening.

The film was called American Girl, I"ve since verified. Oh, and there was a scene where boys and men inexplicably start brawling en masse. Dad had explained this: some kind of "wall-to-wall" phenomenon from his youth-boys from one district against another. I didn"t understand it; it was again about voluntary pain. I also associated it with leather jackets. At Grandma Valya"s, inside her settee, were two poufs with cloth, including Dad"s old leather jacket. He said I could wear it when I grew up-but obviously, it was old. Soon, as it warmed, Guzhiev started wearing it. For a while, it became my next clothing fetish.

.:::.

Part 34, Text 6. The start of my crush on Katya Ilyina and why I partnered with Guzhik, confessing to Katya in the gym, and the beginning of my inceldom.

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I went to school mostly for the breaks between classes.

I"d always craved companionship-in everything: from childhood drawings of myself with my brother, unfinished stories with a talking lizard friend, to all my favourite films listed in my biography (except Forrest Gump) being about groups.

I imagined myself, Guzhik, and Arik. Of course, in my fantasies, I wanted to be the main, most advanced member, like the protagonists in my films. I was Jack Dawson, Guzhik was Fabrizio, and so on... Naturally, "and so on" was implied. Every main character had a love interest.

In partnership with Guzhik, I was the instigator. That"s partly why I latched onto him-he was easy to lead. I would plan, explain, and only then would we execute. If he initiated something-rarely-he just did it, and I observed, joined, and expanded the theme. That pleased me too. What I loved about teaming up with him was that it made me exponentially bolder-or at least I felt so then. If I"d looked deeper, I"d see it was less courage, more the chance to share the blame if things went wrong. That"s why I roped Guzhik into Katya Ilyina almost immediately after noticing her. I could have kept it secret, like I did with previous crushes, but I figured better to have a competitor-he would pick up the thread as a rival anyway, because all our companionship was rooted in rivalry and teasing (not friendship). If Katya liked either of us, she"d figure out who was genuinely interested.

At that time, Katya Ilyina was friends with Lena Dubinina. Lena Dubinina-big Disney-style eyes, a touch of Björk. As an adult, from eighteen, she had photos with a boyfriend, trips to Paris, a Mercedes, a chain of coffee shops in Saratov and even Moscow. Some YouTube video shows her claiming she did everything herself, without men"s help-though of course, they helped.

Katya... she appears on a childhood tape from second grade and in a photo with Ermakova, Berezina, and me with my back turned. Brown eyes, hair closer to light brown. She was lively, unlike Masha or the Berezinas, chewing gum, whispering giggles with Dubinina, even capable of a physical retort. She did PE, wore earrings. Half of her was already "about sex," though I didn"t realise that then. Half about friendship. Her liveliness made her not a shy private crush but someone visible in the group-like in Jurassic Park 2, Godzilla, The Mummy, and other ensemble stories. So I didn"t feel jealous; someone like her would only ever be with the main, best kid-and I knew who that was between me and Guzhik. Around fifteen, she was already messaging online, with a boyfriend from a far district called Myasokombinat-no Mercedes, no Paris.

It was near my birthday. Guzhik and I waited for the right moment to show Katya our interest. I"d explained that sometimes PE was in a tiny gym in the basement, down a third old staircase. With rubber flooring and mirrors, it looked more like a workout room. That"s where it happened.

I don"t remember details. Everyone was playful; we were the class clowns. We probably did air kisses while she looked our way. She whispered to Lena and others. Soon, the whole class noticed our confessions. The lesson and exercises didn"t matter. I felt we were two crazed love-struck idiots, allowed only to send kisses endlessly. I was in ecstasy and euphoria. For the first time, I felt I could reach my dream. It seemed we might finally connect, and I could look into the eyes of a desired girl-an equal, not a dim Alina or genius Anya, older than me.

That day felt the best of my life. For several days after, Guzhik and I sent her kisses every time she glanced at us. In class, I"d watch Guzhik behind his desk, he"d theatrically send another, competitively glancing at me. His fingers bent backwards-he was one of the "benders." My fingers and elbows never bent that way-everything was stiff as sticks. Soon, all classmates, teachers, and my parents knew about our... whatever.

Of course, she responded with absolute rejection. With kids like Erokin, Korolyov, Boldyrev, and Elchin around, for Katya"s group of A-grade girls, we were just annoying idiots. We were deep in the second tier of boys, maybe third. Between us and the first tier were calmer kids-Arik, Makarov, Kryuchkov. Only twitchy Evstifeev was worse. But even that was just perception-and maybe only mine. Guzhik might not have seen these tiers at all. I judged by sensitivity and vulnerability. Had I known, I"d see I wasn"t in the second or third tier-probably thirtieth out of the class. Totally outside.

Also, we were a couple of years too young for serious crushes. Inter-gender groups didn"t exist yet. But we weren"t backing off-we were just getting started.

.:.

___Part 35.

.::.

________________I"m 9 years old.

.:::.

Part 35 Text 1. The Bloody Tape from Guzhik,,, first computer game,,, my family"s greetings,,, unrequited crush on Katya,,, at Baba Valya"s there"s Baba Lena,,, Aunt Lyusya"s Valera with Faberlic.

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Someone in my class had already turned ten, and I was only nine. During a break, Guzhvy approached me in his usual manner - with little gestures, half-heartedly - and handed me a cassette. He didn"t say a word, just waved, like, "Do whatever you want with it," and left. This was clearly his parents" idea. Later, when my mother and I were walking on the corner of Chernyshevsky and Sokolova and went into a little shop, there was a section with cassettes, apparently managed by his father.

The cassette, judging by the cover, was some mid-budget vampire horror called Subspecies - The Stone of Blood, and at home I didn"t rush to watch it - after the Mr. Horror films, I already knew how many non-child-friendly scenes such horror movies contained.

Apparently, for my birthday that year, my father - who had always dreamed of a yacht and a life of travel, reading Jules Verne (books in colourful covers but unbearably boring content for me) - bought me my first-ever computer game: Virtual Skipper, yacht racing. It didn"t run on our computer, though I didn"t understand why. Everything froze, textures didn"t load, the picture moved at one frame per second. I spent ages trying to get used to it. Only a year later would I realise it was because we had a first-generation Pentium, and games required Pentium 3 or 4. I didn"t yet know that computers always became outdated, and I already thought it was me not knowing how to use it. That was the start of my conflict with computers, which, three years later, would feed into a more general depression.

Also, apparently for my birthday, my father was again with the Ivanov camera, and we arranged all my toy reptiles on two stools, put them on my bed, and photographed them with me in the middle. A keepsake of my childhood.

As for Guzhik"s cassette, I wasn"t wrong. When I eventually watched it alone at home, it was clearly the most brutal horror I had ever seen. Blood fountains everywhere, the main vampire constantly dripping blood from his mouth. Coffins, creepy castles. A beautiful dark-haired girl tried to escape him, already partly turning herself, running barefoot through the night city; and when fully transformed - all in a silent noir style - she went to a rock club, seduced a rocker, and once alone, bit his neck and drank. I didn"t know the film was part of a mini-series and that perhaps the heroine would survive in the next episode. So when, at the end, there was a scene where she stayed in an underground crypt to wait out the day, and an ugly witch leapt from behind and dragged her inside - for me, it was a super-hard ending.

The fate of that cassette was such that I could never watch it fully: I was almost never home alone, and closer to summer, I dared to watch it with my mother in the flat - she came into the living room before I could turn it off, and the bloody scene with the heroine and a metalhead was playing. Mom said, "What is this? Turn it off, now," and made me go and throw the cassette down the trash chute.

A surviving draft of a greeting for International Women"s Day:

-------begin insert-------

Mom, Murka - congratulations, I wish happiness and joy! For Murka, all sorts of cats - for Mom, good men. I, Nikita, congratulate you on 8 March. From Nikita.

-------end insert-------

I still wrote "nikita" in lowercase.

There"s also a greeting for my grandpa - either for 23 February or his birthday, on Cosmonautics Day:

-------begin insert-------

Grandpa, grandpa, congratulations

To grandpa, grandpa I wish:

Never to frown your brow,

Float always, never sink the bobber,

Fill the car with beer

Always catch perch

-------end insert-------

I was completely absorbed in the story with Katya. Guzh and I started trailing her around the gymnasium, competing when we came into her line of sight, trying to sit closer to her. I don"t remember all the activities exactly. Notes... yes, we probably threw childish notes to her. We exchanged notes endlessly. She didn"t throw anything back or say anything. She saw us as fools.

For Women"s Day, in my usual flower shops, I wanted to buy and give her an orchid. The price wasn"t child-friendly, and although I might have had enough savings, I decided not to. Everything was like in The Collector again, though I was no longer a phantom...

I brought Masha Ermakova her notebook that I had stolen in the previous class, inspired by Titanic and symbolic-object plots like the Heart of the Ocean. I silently handed it over during break and left. She asked, "Why do I need this?"

On that day, I was on Frunze, watching Weakest Link. That episode had Boyarsky, Zhirinovsky, Marmeladze, and others. I had already noticed Zhirinovsky and he was my favourite politician. He shone here too, though he got kicked off as the weakest link. At the end, everyone got a chance to speak, and I remember him handing out something to everyone - check this part. I felt a kinship with Zhirinovsky. Everyone thought he was a clown, yet he seemed right and stood above everyone, at least above the Boyarskys and the like. Or rather, deeper. The deeper - the higher.

Baba Valya had a visit too. Another Class Journal. Her acquaintance Baba Lena - a kindly little old woman I perceived in the spirit of Aunt Lyusya, like an informal friend - started coming around. She worked as a nurse or orderly, lived in a Khrushchyovka near the one that had been destroyed in my very early childhood, and had marginal, alcoholic children. She will appear a couple more times in my biography.

At Aunt Lyusya"s, I was also, with my mother. She was a tiny old lady, mother of Valera, my mother"s red-haired cousin. In Engels, in the "Melioration" district, further than Baba Klava, also in a Khrushchyovka. Around that time we visited her, give or take a few months. On the main room"s wall unit with dishes, there was still the gypsy figurine I had feared as a child - like gypsies might snatch me from my mother. Then Valera came with other people and started a presentation of cosmetic products. Faberlic, Oriflame, and similar pyramid schemes. Valera, demonstrating some ointment, applied it to me and tried to convince the others of its effect. He might have already been on early retirement, because he was a military man. From his first wives, he had two sons - Pasha and older Dima, who, by my calculations, would go to the army the following autumn. And he fussed for them, juggling money-making and all that.

But at the time, I don"t remember any sadism - I mean tormenting Murka or doing leg-squeeze sessions until I nearly passed out. All that started later, when I spent more time alone. This class was in the afternoon shift - I wasn"t home alone. Schoolwork had all these damn tests, where I"d waste my efforts on my usual compulsions instead of doing the work, and I got C"s, and a few D"s, but overall, I don"t remember stress in those months. And mom could rarely punish while dad was around. But most importantly, those months were peak dopamine time - every trip to school was filled with anticipation of new episodes with Katya.

.:::.

Part 35 Text 2. Katya spat,,, saliva,,, about my squeamishness,,, misused words in our family,,, in the schoolyard with Katya and Dubinina,,, sexophobia.

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One day stands out when Guzhvy and I annoyed her so much that she spat on us. This was deep into spring, on a sunny break. She was chewing peanuts and drinking mineral water. We were on her tail with Dubinina, following them up the central old staircase to our third floor. They had already turned the corner, so we pushed harder to catch up, but as soon as we stepped onto the floor, Katya popped out from around the corner and blew water from her mouth at us. Most of it hit me. I was in a hoodie with tiny peanut crumbs. Guzhvy got some too, and he touched the spots, pretending he enjoyed it. I did the same, but I wouldn"t say I actually enjoyed it. And it wasn"t her treatment of us - at that stage, that was trivial. It was that I was squeamish - neurotically - already in my nature. While others thought about what to say orally, I thought about the mouth and saliva. How could I not think and stress? Was I planning to blow kisses my whole life? (I was still blissfully scheming.)

Chronologically, I now realise I missed one incident. Back when my father drove me to gymnasium in second grade, with those hellish six-a.m. wake-ups and walks through frosty darkness to the bus stop, one morning in our stinking urine-filled elevator, he was chewing gum for a few minutes as we left the flat. I asked if he had any for me. He silently gave me some from his mouth. And he watched if I could handle it. I did. He watched because, from early childhood, I was squeamish about saliva. Couldn"t drink from the same bottle as my parents or the same glass. When sharing a glass, I would tilt and touch only the rim where no one else had been. When someone tried to kiss me on the cheek - especially Baba Valya and Dad - I always resisted.

By the way, our family, probably like many, misused words a lot. For instance, we called mugs "goblets." Mom loved the word "psychosis," but she meant something else - neurosis. Picking fingers - psychosis; worrying - psychosis. Only by age 27 did I eradicate this word from my vocabulary. How often she said it in conversations, maybe even with teachers or doctors - and how irrevocably it messed us up for anyone who heard it and didn"t know the real meaning!

Anyway, we followed Katya everywhere except, of course, the girls" toilet. Her grandmother brought her to and from gymnasium. The weather warmed, and instead of a hat, she wore furry earmuffs - a headpiece I saw for the first time. She didn"t talk to us or respond, and we had no way to vary our approaches. We became like mosquitoes, too shy to land on the victim - you get used to them and stop noticing.

But just before spring break at the end of March, there was a very happy day. After classes, it was already light outside. Perhaps our last lesson was cancelled, and everyone could leave. Katya walked with Lena along the paved paths between lawns behind the fence, while Guzhvy and I hid behind trees, trying to sneak closer unnoticed. Then, to mix things up, they also began hiding and creeping closer, forcing us to retreat. This was the closest we ever got during all nine months of our crush. I constantly replayed those hiding-behind-trees memories in fantasies, imagining we couldn"t escape, and that I"d be face to face with Katya.

Now it"s clear I was sexophobic. I wonder what it was for Guzhvy. He also ran from her. And next year, I"ll tell how he ran from other girls. Many boys that age - except again for certain Elchins, who wouldn"t engage in childish flirting - would have reacted the same. Roughly speaking, it was boys" fear of girls, depicted widely in literature, art, and real-life childhood stories. But where did that fear come from in other males? Surely not sexophobia. I read nowhere a story like mine, no account of medical psycho-traumas in the sexual sphere. Everywhere, it"s about some authoritarian mother, a tyrannical adult woman, transposed onto their perception of peers. But in my case, it was her stomach, her uninhibited manner, and how much harder it made it for me to tell my parents about my interest. She took them - and my childhood - away. And she will become even more about sex by the next school year, after summer, when the first sexual knowledge forms.

.:::.

Part 35, Text 3. A Living Corner in the Small Room - We Bought a Squirrel Named Zosya - Freakishness with an Unzipped Fly.

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Summer was approaching - and with it, the whole animal theme again. Luckily, this would be the last summer of living with animals, but also the most intense.

I already had a lot of plants, and I was planning to get lizards and a grass snake for the summer. In the end, on Lev Kassil Street, while keeping my bedroom in the middle room, I managed to haggle for an entire small room for myself as well. The big parental bed was moved back to the living room. Finally, everything was exactly as I wanted - a whole room for a home zoo. I think the computer stayed there on its little wheeled desk, along with some bookshelves and the office desk where Mom apparently no longer drew much - and in general, she was drawing far less than in early childhood. There was also a sewing machine, never used, which I used only to jump from onto the big bed when I was smaller.

I moved all the flowers - what I called "plants" - into that small room, arranged the cobblestones from the dam, and placed a forked cherry branch in the corner.

During the holidays, Mom and I went to the thawing forest near Mostootryad. I brought back literally rot. We went again to that swamp where I once descended during one of our picnics, the footage from which is on tape, and this time I scooped up some moss from the shore and lugged it home. I planned to hang it on the forked branch so it would look tropical. But a few hours later, something in the moss started moving - either a slug or some kind of worm. I felt disgusted and threw it away immediately.

Then Mom and I drove our "Niva" to the Engels collective farm market. At that time, the far end had mostly pigs, while closer under a canopy there were fish, rats, and other small animals. We walked along the stalls - and suddenly, there was a squirrel.

The seller was a guy maybe thirty-five, though probably younger, because even twenty-five-year-olds seemed like men in childhood. Dark-haired, long-haired. Exactly what I wanted. Honestly, I think I wanted the squirrel more because of how cool the guy was. Everyone else had hamsters and parrots, but he with the squirrel was the centre of attention - plus he had perfect hair length and colour. There were no squirrels anywhere near our area except in the city park.

Basically, I just wanted to be cool. Same as with reptiles, same as with most of my hobbies in life, not just in childhood. Twenty percent at most was genuine interest or some aesthetic attraction; the rest was complexes and the desire to stand out.

He left the market for the deal, and we drove his "Niva" to his place, where he had a large cage for the squirrel. As I recall, the price was about that of a racing bike.

His house was in the private sector, near the entrance to the forest at Mostootryad. Not a standalone house, but a barrack with several flats. We went into the apartment - dark everywhere, no lights working, small rooms, and one entirely filled with animals. He had a terrarium and showed me his big cockroaches. I didn"t get cockroaches, but I was generally impressed by the guy. He was like long-haired men with cool big video cameras - or, basically, just like long-haired men. Or like that certain artist nearby the Volga, collecting picturesque driftwood in his yard. Or like the Great Uncle at Lena and Masha"s. I wanted to be like them. I saw no other chances to stand out among the boys and attract girls" attention. I didn"t notice trivial things as a child - like the fact he lived with cockroaches, not family, or that he didn"t have a car.

We loaded the cage and drove off. I think we gave him a lift back to the city centre. Before leaving, he told me to wash my hands before handling the squirrel. He had everything sensible and well thought out. His interest was genuine, one hundred percent.

We placed the cage in my middle room. On the outside, a birdhouse was attached - she would go in and out of it. We named the squirrel Zosya. We didn"t dare let her out of the cage - no idea how to even hold her. I was too scared to handle her boldly like the squirrel guy: she was too quick, with sharp claws. Blink and she could be in your eyes.

All day we basically sat near the cage, feeding her. Murka was also allowed near, shaking her head back and forth. At one point, Mom put her finger too deep - and Zosya bit her. Mom always reacted instantly, squeezing the blood out when she cut herself. Same this time - a few drops on the floor. And I had to mop the floors that day anyway, so I did it. That was the first day with Zosya.

At school, despite that promising day when the girls played along, nothing particularly encouraging happened afterward. I wished there had been more teasing - but no.

It was starting to get on my nerves. I already had all those proto-sex-phobic problems, issues of "being taken from Mom," "strangers," complexes, and even physical disgust - now the problem of total inability to connect began to appear, making it impossible to work through the earlier ones.

In this class, an English teacher came and taught in our classroom. Svetlana Gennadievna sat at the back desk, checking our notebooks. Over the years, we had two or three English teachers, all young, probably around twenty-five or younger. They weren"t slim, so I didn"t fall for them, but their youth always made them the nicest and least strict teachers.

One sunny English lesson, I went to the board to answer something, and the teacher called me close - she was going to whisper something in my ear: "Go out of the classroom and zip your fly."

But I was in despair, so subconsciously I thought: "Screw it, nothing works anyway" - and zipped it right there, in full view of everyone. The whole class laughed, especially Guzhvy, a malicious rival who, when I messed up, would always go "Aaaa" and laugh theatrically. I laughed too - the same mechanism I described earlier in the beach episode.

It was the first incident I remember of my freakishness, which developed alongside sexual despair.

.:::.

Part 35, Text 4. Dubonosov and Slava Stallone - Stalking Katya with Guzh - Lena and Masha Visiting - Church Trips with the Class.

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For some time, after certain incidents - almost fights involving Erokin and someone - it became clear that the boys in parallel 5B were bold and aggressive. Totally unlike our class. Among them were some Dubonosov and Slava. The first was big, dumb, slow, and rough; the second small, sharp, cheeky, with dark, tough hair, and facial features like Sylvester Stallone (I only knew him from the arm-wrestler film, but I would see other films later). His classmates called him Slavik and respected him.

Guzhvy and I had common problems with Dubonosov - he looked for someone to pick on, and especially noticed us. Sometimes we ran from him in corridors, even though he didn"t chase, just walked on, cool, enjoying that we fled.

Once, before PE, we entered the locker room, and 5B was still inside. A conflict broke out, and the second one - Slava - jumped at me.

In most of my fights, and those I observed, bold aggressors used a side grab around the neck. Same with that bastard Seryozha on Frunze, same with the boy after the Philharmonic. This move always paralyzed me; I"d end up on the ground or bent shamefully.

Same with Slava. He immediately threw me down and held me, and I could even smell his sweat. Later we broke apart; I don"t remember crying, probably not. But it was super humiliating. Even if Katya didn"t see, I felt she would understand from my dishevelled, flustered look. All the girls would understand.

It was, in fact, my first fight at school and a humiliating knockout. The gymnasium stopped being just gentle.

I now realise I remember very few key moments for the rest of April and the school part of May. Endless chases and stalking Katya in corridors. The main event in April - Guzh and I started following her after school. Guzh, by then, rode a few stops to school alone, so he was free. I was picked up, but I arranged for pickups later.

Katya was picked up by her short-haired grandmother. They either took the same route as Ermakova - down Volskaya Street - or a block around via Gorky Street. We started small - following them to Volskaya, then one block further. Katya knew we were behind and looked back a few times - pure ecstasy, knowing she thought of us. But we got scared and ran. Once we ran into the yard of Volskaya 20, where people waited. We didn"t dare follow further at first. Eventually, we just lost them.

At home, I ran around with the video camera, filming Zosya. Still obsessed with Katya, I rewatched the gymnasium initiation tape from a year and a half prior, where the attention was now on her, not Masha. I even took the camera to Frunze, sat on the main couch - where we played fool with Grandma and Grandpa - and let Grandma peek through the viewfinder, showing who was Katya and who was Masha. She said about Masha: "Oh, how pretty," and about Katya: "Hmm, some brainy type." Katya had a bow in her hair.

Later, close to May, when Katya and her grandmother took the second route via Gorky, Guzh and I followed to the end. At the corner of Michurin and Gorky was a Polytech branch, where young people stood - we blended in easily. Further down, another college. I might be mistaken, but it seemed Arik occasionally visited a cafeteria there - maybe a parent worked there. He was reliable and sometimes joined our missions; later we would involve him in stalking her home. But for now, it was just Guzh and me. They kept moving down, while we ran from pole to pole, afraid to lose sight. They turned onto Bakhmetyevskaya, then a small street, then down again. At a five-storey building - Beloglinskaya 15 - they went into a small grocery. I don"t remember that I yet understood as a stalker that when a target enters a store, it only seems you"ve lost them - but sooner or later, they always come out. I probably realised this for the first time then. It was our first real stakeout. Eventually, they exited, crossed a yard, entered the first entrance of Volskaya 8/3. We sat by the neighbouring entrance - waiting for who knows what. For me, it was companionship with Guzh, a connection to Katya in some form - socialisation, plus adrenaline of being far from school, in an unfamiliar place, doing something everyone opposed. Not even "Yeralash" had this.

One day I asked Guzh: "What do you want to do with her?" Lying in bed, fantasising about Katya, I imagined her dressed, in her sparkly girl trousers she often wore. Just as a friend. But asking Guzh, I had film-bedroom scenarios in mind. I already felt that infatuation somehow demanded the same, though I didn"t understand the meaning yet. He answered he"d like to lie with her (though he didn"t say "naked").

In April, Lena and Masha visited. We gathered around Zosya"s cage, and they were sure they could handle her if released. Locking the room from Murka - unsure if she would befriend Zosya - we dared to let her out. They just held out a hand, and Zosya ran onto their shoulders, climbed on them, and they laughed. I would have been terrified for my eyes. They handled her like lifelong squirrel experts. Later, Mom said their surname might actually be Belkin. They placed her on the little ladder of my pull-up bar; she climbed and jumped back to them, and they had fun again. I was as usual.

On 5 May, Orthodox Easter, and apparently on the same or nearby day, the gymnasium held a religious outing - we were bused to various churches. We boarded across Michurin, where cars always stood. No one thought about churches; everyone thought of Katya, sitting a few seats ahead, while Guzh and I sat at the back to watch.

We were thoroughly managed on that church tour. I remember visiting Museum Square, and the big cathedral on Sokolova, where we were apparently taken into some annex in the yard. It was cloudy then, I think. I don"t recall if all girls had to wear headscarves - I think Svetlana Gennadievna was there. Later, we were dropped in the city square, squeezed into a tiny church on Radishchev Street. After that, we walked to the church near Lipki. Then we all walked back toward the gymnasium via Radishchev, Sovetskaya, and Gorky. By then it was sunny; flies warmed on the window sills of 14/12 Gorky Street. I, catching Katya in my view, skillfully caught one - the only way I could try to impress her. I even consider calling this part of the memoir "The Fly Catcher."

No lessons were held that day. It seemed no one needed them; summer was approaching. On such days without classes, I was maximally social, maximally free of anger. Malice and antisociality came on days full of lousy tests, maths, cold - while all the other kids, even difficult ones like Guzh and Evstifeev, acted normal. That"s when the perception described in the early corporal punishment episodes kicked in and developed.

Later, a similar bus outing was held for Victory Day. We were taken to Victory Park. I remember walking among the tanks, visiting the "Cranes" platform, then the observation decks. I don"t remember anything else. That was the last time I was there.

.:::.

Part 35, Text 5. Selling tulips,,, phobia of blood pressure and aorta,,, my class essay,,, stalking,,, correcting mistakes with a needle,,, school yearbook as a keepsake,,, pestering Katya,,, a trip to Gorky Park with the class.

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I might be a year late with this memory - about selling tulips, as well as another one, in the summer, from the same series - but let"s place it this year. It was, generally, on the eve of May 9th. Mom and I were at Frunze, and there, in the garden under the pear tree, next to the fence with the Gavels, the tulips were already blooming. And they suggested I try selling them. The older men in the family used to sell their surplus at mini-markets - I had mentioned that.

So with the tulips, on the morning of May 9th, I went alone from Lev Kassil Street to Gorky Street, and there, in front of the "101st" store - where in summer we bought beer and ice cream - I set up next to the old ladies. They were always sitting there, selling sunflower seeds, dried fish, and flowers. I sold my flowers very quickly. I had a few pink piggy coins in my collection, and already it made sense to swap them with Mom for paper money.

By the end of spring 2002, it was probably over a hundred or even a hundred and fifty rubles. A fast bicycle cost about a thousand, and a ride to Saratov - somewhere around three and a half rubles.

I had been to Frunze more often by then - I was itching to get to the dacha, couldn"t wait for everything to bloom, and for the little pests to come out.

On Channel One, Russian Roulette started - a triple-intense show, with the off-putting Pelsh, and the sudden fall of unlucky contestants into the black hole right where they stood, and, as they anticipated it, a sadistic display of their rising pulse.

Like drawing blood from a vein, I couldn"t stand topics about pulse, heartbeat, blood pressure, and limb constriction. Grandma Klava had a blood pressure machine - a cuff that inflated with a hissing sound like Guzhiev when he started his malicious laughter. Occasionally, they measured mine too, and I couldn"t bear it when it squeezed, but even worse - when it deflated, and I felt my pulse. It reminded me, and still reminds me, of the fragility of human anatomy - of death.

I"ll also remind you that at the time, I still thought there was a bone or some muscle in a stiff penis.

Once, I finally asked my father why adults stretch and put their legs up on something. He explained: "Blood that"s pooled in the legs during the day spreads out - and it feels good immediately." The thought of this anatomy made me want to strangle myself, and ever since, it"s been hard to watch people stretch their legs. By the way, "strangle myself" for me was a figurative expression, describing some comical self-crushing. I didn"t yet know it referred to hanging. And about hanging - I didn"t know then that people die from blood being cut off. I thought it was from the inability to breathe, which was a bit more bearable for me than manipulations with blood.

Once, in the Lev Kassil kitchen, when I was shirtless, my father stopped me and looked at my chest. The skin there was pulsing. And he said to Mom: "Look - the heart." Hell itself.

After the May holidays, the homework was an essay roughly on the topic: "What you want to do in the summer, describe an ideal day." I finally went all out. It included Zosya, and everything. As a result, Svetlana Gennadyevna decided to give me a moment of glory. She handed back the checked notebooks to everyone else and said: "I"d like to read one to you, written by Nikita." I probably turned bright red while she read. I didn"t expect the classmates to hear it. She rushed. In that story were not only ideal events, but also how I wanted to be ideally myself. And here"s the catch. I still couldn"t compete with Yerokin, Korolyov, and the straight-A Boldyrev. I wasn"t yet like that squirrel, like the cool guys. I needed to stand firmly on the ground before contending with the titans of the earth. And, being read aloud to the whole class, these wet fantasies of the ideal me, which the teacher apparently mistook for reality, this essay - a proper essay - sounded like cheap showing-off, for which I would now have to answer.

I don"t remember how it happened - my parents drove me to the gymnasium, but apparently, one time I got as far as the square, and then went by myself. Guzhik was reluctant to let anyone into his extracurricular space; we wouldn"t even exchange phone numbers for the coming summer. And I wanted to know everything about everyone, and when shyness wouldn"t allow me to impose myself, I became a damn stalker. I needed to know where he lived. I arrived early, walked along Kiselev Street, and stood on the sidewalk, visible in both directions, so I would surely notice which door or gate he would come out of. Everywhere there were the stinking SEF houses. On the other side of the street was Saratov Ritual - the main funeral agency. All those buses arrived there. I stood and thought: "Damn, someone lives here." A bit further, there was another agency, and farther - a third. The city"s funeral street.

Soon he came out and walked toward the trolleybus. I was further from where he came out, so he didn"t see me. I caught up, and we - I don"t remember exactly - either walked together or he rode the trolleybus while I walked to save money.

Later that spring, we had a planned meeting at his house again, and then we walked together. First, he had forgotten something at his home and came back, and I, naïve, wanted to go into the building with him, but he said to wait there. I asked why, and he said: "Well, there"s the communal area, all sorts of pipes..."

That month, there was some incident with an explosion on Kirov Avenue - someone died. Mom said it was at the corner of Gorky and Kirov, where her favourite shoe store was (and hated by me for boredom), and I kept remembering it when passing by. I often call such memories "memento mori."

The social spying on Katya - that was the main thing I thought about all that time, and I endlessly hummed songs by the band Vykhod.

In the spring, I no longer remember visits to the garage, as I described in winter. I think I would park and unpark near the building, and my father handled the car himself, or maybe they became bold and left it by the entrance.

Once I noticed Mom, still occasionally drafting something, take a needle and delicately scrape a mistake on paper. I tried this technique to correct errors in notebooks, and Mom didn"t mind. I even carried the needle to class, and tried to correct something in Arik"s notebook. But somehow the teacher discovered it, and I stopped.

I tried in every way to be noticed by Katya, and there was a chance to do it during birthday congratulations. As I said, the birthday child was brought to the board, and anyone could stand and give a wish. It was Irina Yurina"s birthday, and the day before I had heard somewhere that "Law Institute" is for the coolest. Plus it tied to her surname. Not knowing the meaning of "legal," I wished her, when she grows up, to enter such an institute. Svetlana Gennadyevna said: "Good, we need lawyers too."

Time to finish describing that school year - I"m fucking exhausted, hell, I"m sitting here writing this in hell.

Third grade was the last grade of primary school, where all classes were taught by one teacher. The last class with Svetlana Gennadyevna and her retro hairstyle.

Each of us got an album with a photo on each page, and for a week we exchanged them so everyone could sign under their own photo wishes or messages to the recipient. In Katya"s album, of course, I wrote a lot - all in tiny handwriting to fit more. I think I even added lizards - basically went all out. The whole class already knew I was a reptilophile; this fully spread after my essay reading.

I wrote a lot to Guzhiev too, and he did the same for me. "Did" would become real after 2005.

In the last days of May, we had a planned class outing to a café. I remember there were talks it would be a semi-open café opposite the conservatory, but at the last moment it changed to the café in Gorky Park.

We were brought by bus. Parents came too, either in another bus or on their own.

We all entered the park from Rakhov Street. Past all the swan ponds and squirrel oaks, onto the peninsula where the café "Veterok" is now on the map. There was a platform with tables under the trees. It was an already perfect sunny day, like summer - willows dipping into the water, ducks, people in boats. There were shashliks or something like that. I ran around endlessly with the boys playing tag. That"s basically all I remember. Until evening, and I didn"t want it to end. It was exactly what was needed - no lessons, school, or even churches, just games with classmates, no conflicts, parents nearby, shashlik, and favourite girls. And the café didn"t feel like a farewell. We all left as if still in mid-tag. I left just waiting for summer, to sneak up to Guzhik on September 1st and touch him saying: "You"re Vada."

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___Part 36.

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________________Third grade done. Summer.

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Part 36, Text 1. Things worse in school and analyzing why,,, English tutor,,, spending more time on Petrovskaya Street.

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By the end of third grade, in the subjects we studied, it was no longer enough just to memorise - like before, multiplication tables, English vocabulary, simple rules - we also had to understand. I didn"t understand shit. Explanations, rehashing - nothing worked on me. And, of course, I blamed myself. Thought I was stupid, slow-witted. I would think that for many years - in this I really was stupid; it was one of the main mistakes of my life. In the future, I would master a few complex topics - English grammar, musical structure. I mastered them because I needed them. Back then, as a child, there was simply no one who explained things to me. That I"m a person living off the current, not "with everyone," but separately, and purposeful. For whom learning a fundamental subject always starts from the immediate need to know it for practical application - it couldn"t be otherwise. I wasn"t stupid - education was stupid. Or rather, deliberately not designed to teach everyone. It was a sieve, to sift out a certain part of people - the ones drifting along, for whom everything would work out by itself. There would be enough of them to make up the intellectual part of the population useful to the state. If everyone understood and learned for gold medals - who would then sweep the streets and go to the army? And those who didn"t fit anywhere, the state would solve cheaply with cabbage-based meals.

My practical application of fundamental knowledge in the future could not be a motivation for studying. "I want to move to America, so I need to learn English," "I want to compose music, so I need to understand its structure" - all meaningless. My development in subjects always came from small incidents of concrete tasks arising, pressing needs, or interest. None of this was in school. And no one explained what was happening, what I was drawn into. Parents, as well as teachers who genuinely wanted to teach - regardless of the goals of the education system they worked in - all tried, and there"s nothing to blame them for. All their efforts were wasted.

So, in the last grade I lagged in English, and from the start of summer, maybe even May, Mom arranged for a tutor - not far from home. She was an adult woman, a teacher of English back when Mom was a child, in school. Neither Mom nor Dad - no one in the family knew any foreign languages. Dad claimed to know Ukrainian. He even once told me that "chair" in Ukrainian is "serchalnik." I laughed at the similarity to "to shit." I googled now - I see no "serchalnik" results. Maybe he made it up. He was a lover of entertaining.

The first time we went to this tutor, Mom came with me. It was on Telman Street, house five. We got there via a small paved path outside Telman 3A, connecting Zelyony Lane and Telman Street. This path would become very popular with me later. It was apparently after rain - so I suspect it may have been May - there were puddles, mud, manholes, all sorts of crap. Everywhere was a total mess - in all those damn Engels yards.

The tutor"s apartment was exactly like ours. Same panel building, same corner three-room flat.

Mom gave me a bunch of house keys for these trips. I went a few times. We sat in her living room - morning sun shining in exactly like on Lev Kassil, when I freaked out playing "Gaudeamus." At times, I wanted to freak out the same way with this English - because I didn"t understand shit. I think I almost cried once because of it. I would only finally understand this fucking language at twenty-two. Back then, it was futile year after year - only self-esteem covered in wounds.

And the last thing related to those lessons - returning home once. Where the asphalt path meets Zelyony Lane, there"s a manhole. It"s full of shit - some collector. It was always overflowing and leaking, you had to jump over the mud. This time, it seemed dry. I risked it - stepped on it - and ankle-deep, boot and all, I sank into filth. That"s what I remember. Not English.

On the way from the tutor, from Zelyony Lane to Petrovskaya Street, if you turn right past the Khrushchyovka, you basically reach our yard. If left, there was my second kindergarten. Opposite that kindergarten, across Petrovskaya, was the entrance to the so-called "wholesale store." This "wholesale" - one of the places Mom couldn"t live without. Even though called "wholesale," you could buy retail. It looked like an inner courtyard, with buildings and store doors in a circle. At the very start was herring. Now Mom bought herring from barrels there, since the Lev Kassil market was long gone.

Mom"s trips to the "wholesale" and my trips to the tutor marked the beginning of this area: we rarely came here before, but soon we would come here all the time. Petrovskaya Street was one-way - cars sped from Saratov, and it became our main route home by car: from the beach, along Petrovskaya, and then into the yard.

Now - purely summer events.

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Part 36, Text 2. Kenwood, the shameful subject and dopamine, Grebenshchikov"s Terrarium, the complex issue of perfect music.

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Since the whole last school year had been mostly spent with just my dad, my mum, and me, Uncle Seryozha was a rare presence. But when he appeared, it was memorable. As I mentioned, he gave me that cap that was too big for me. He might have driven us and Mum somewhere with a dracaena from Saratov. And the last time he really went all out - he gave Mum a Kenwood music centre. That was the brand. Most likely he gave it in the spring, because my summer memories from that year start with the Kenwood. It was blue and sleek - nothing like those huge two-cassette music centres I"d seen in appliance stores (though I liked those better, because they seemed to have so much in them). This one was for a single cassette. It had a radio and a CD drive. We put it on the bookcase, by the window that the corridor ran past. And Uncle Seryozha also gave us some discs right away. For a while, I was glued to that music centre. I loved the discs - how beautiful they were, how they shone from the other side. They reminded me of the beginnings of computers two years earlier, and the anticipation of all sorts of interesting things. Back then, two years ago, besides the computer - which I hadn"t even mentioned - there was also a disc with a program called "ArchiCAD," which Mum was supposed to work with, but she hadn"t learned anything more complicated than how to turn on the computer and open it. Those discs instantly triggered a rush of dopamine and a sense of anticipation - I"d immediately run off to scribble.

By that time, I"d realised that I absolutely loved to poop. Specifically, dry, neatly formed poop, not some hot, liquid mess. When it was dry - it immediately felt like childhood, and a prelude to all sorts of fun and possibilities. On one hand, interesting things pushed me to go; as I"ve noted many times before in my life story. On the other hand, the act itself triggered anticipation and a sense of confidence. Confidence that interesting things existed (in the cupboard, on the disc, etc.), or confidence in the success of some scheme. The best decisions I made were in the moments of finishing a poop. Some connection between the shame nerve and the dopaminergic system. When I was alone, after putting aside the main "larva" and performing my previously described rituals, I felt so good that I"d go from the toilet to the mirror between it and the bathroom and dance, wiggling my penis.

Now, back to the discs. They were music discs. There was the band Sekret. Of course, I marked the song "My Love Lives on the Fifth Floor," as well as the pentatonic "Domoy." There was another disc too... and an acoustic flamenco guitarist, Armik. We"ll get back to him later. ...That was Uncle Seryozha, in short. He didn"t listen to some "Scooter Hits Remixes." And the main disc - initially, of course, because of the name - was this one: Terrarium - "Pentagonal Sin."

Dad loved and knew this kind of music. He said some guy named Grebenshchikov was singing on it. But there were other singers too. One voice was the one often heard on the radio - the bleating Splean.

Musically, all the tracks on this disc were perfect and brilliant. But if I want this biography to at least partially have a nod to scientific principles, I must note that without a controlled study (specifically on me at that age, with certain criteria for perfection and brilliance, whose genesis was also chronologically analysed and cleared of the possibility of prior influence, only parallel to the first perception), I cannot claim that this music was so perfectly ideal for me (even by my own standards of perfection) that it wasn"t just the "first music heard" phenomenon, suspicions of which I already expressed earlier in my biography when writing about music from my favourite films. In other words, the phenomenon that the first music you hear - its composition - seems ideal for life. Personally, I am one hundred percent sure that this music - Terrarium and the music from my films - just happened to hit the sweet spot for my tastes, that I was really lucky to hear it first. For example, the Sekret disc - I didn"t find anything catchy on it besides those two songs. And the endless music on the radio and TV passed by my ears as empty noise. And there are countless similar examples in the future. But I repeat: to make my claims of luck credible, studies and experiments would be needed...

Anyway, music is a very important subject. In adulthood, I lost my last chances at socialisation due to differences in taste when people didn"t see the perfection in what I passionately valued. And I usually just hated what others valued - it was so far from my compositional ideals. I will return to this topic.

This disc became the soundtrack of that summer. Even Murka couldn"t stay indifferent. She had grown up, and her adult instincts kicked in. She began coming to the songs on the disc, seemingly searching for someone, meowing. There were often those slide guitar notes. I still had my child"s high voice, and I could squeak really high. It"s on the videocassette. We developed this little game: I"d go to the other end of the apartment, start meowing like that - and she"d run to me across the whole apartment, or, if the door was closed, she"d scratch there and drive herself crazy.

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Part 36, Text 3. Lizards in the small room, idylls and sadomasochism with Murka.

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And now the door to the small room was always closed and blocked with a rag - on my first trips to the dacha, I brought the lizards. They lived in a tank on the windowsill. One green lizard was pregnant; you could feel the eggs in her belly.

Previously, the tank had contained soil all year from last summer, and some object lay in it, like a date pit. Maybe even in winter, out of curiosity, I crushed it, and there was slime inside. It was clearly something biological. I remembered that a caterpillar went missing from this tank last summer. I figured it was a cocoon. And where was the use of fundamental knowledge? By that time, I"d probably already spent a third of my life studying theory - from schoolwork to poring over encyclopedias - and it was all absolutely useless. I still crushed cocoons - either I didn"t recognize them or had forgotten about them.

The balcony was always open, and Murka loved going there. Somehow she figured out the fire escape. She had to jump onto the wooden balcony railing, then right along a narrow edge to the metal staircase, and then jump down onto the rusty floor where we couldn"t reach her. She could only be seen if you leaned far out from the balcony. And the staircase, and Murka lying there, could be seen from the middle room. It was insane - she could fall while crossing, and who knows why we allowed it.

Mum constantly cuddled her, calling her Mura-mu. Dad started calling her Rimma, and he would grab her by both front and both back legs, moving them to imitate her hopping, adding the sound "tugduk-tugduk." She hated all this - she was already grown and dignified. She only liked playing when she wanted. And we always had these cruel games - cruel to us and the furniture. She scratched the chairs, scratched our hands. My arms were all long scratches. But these were games. There are three episodes on tape. In one, she"s on the mustard-coloured chair with another cat (I won"t mention that cat - I don"t remember where she came from; she stayed a week, and Murka constantly hung out and played with her). In the video on the mustard chair, I show her the finger - illustrating my attitude toward her... So, without harsh abuse, just like the previous year - scaring her, tossing her a little, running at her as if to grab her. And I would have grabbed her, but not hit her. Just frightened her, and in the end hugged her. The main point of the scaring and games, though inspired by sadomasochism, was to build her trust in me. I was provoked to scare her by the mere fact that she feared me - I couldn"t accept that, and I was too lonely and fatherly toward her to see her just as a cat and not a personality.

We also let Zosya out of her cage a few times and introduced her to Murka. In my middle room, near the door, there was a stack of those six square cushions I"d played on in the hall at age four. When Murka and Zosya met, they started chasing each other around the room. Zosya even made a sound: "pvvv." She was probably scared, even though Murka wouldn"t attack, because she was scared herself. They climbed my pull-up bar, Zosya jumped onto the cushions, Murka after her, and they ran along the edge like on a tree trunk. Murka used her claws just like Zosya. Watching this was a whole attraction. Soon, they stopped being aggressive and got used to each other. But Murka quickly tired, and in the end lay on the cushions while Zosya kept running around as if nothing happened. We and Mum often imitated the "pvvv" sound. Its intonation reminded us of the disgust sound "ew."

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Part 36, Text 4. Celtic melodies and pentatonics - to the mushroom forest in the "Niva" - the cigarette obsession and first smoke.

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Apart from going to the gymnasium in the "Niva", we barely went anywhere - we ate too much. But that summer we decided to go out a bit, the three of us, somewhere not far, around grandma Klava"s dacha. Again, the long preparations with my mum, while Dad, as always, waited and played guitar and piano. Among other things, he played one song on guitar my whole childhood: "Who"s to Blame That You"re Tired". Primitive pentatonics, but it stuck with me for life and unconsciously inspired my own song "Everything"s Shit" ("Gokraf" in abbreviated form). He also played an English folk tune, "An Quiet Grave", all my childhood. He had a Richie Blackmore cassette. At the time, he thought it was Richie Blackmore, but in reality, it was Greg Joy"s album Celtic Secrets, marketed in Russia in the 1990s as Blackmore. Only in 2008, long after I"d gotten into this music myself, did I find out. Back then I knew none of these names - no Richie Blackmore, no Celtic music, no idea what "Celtic" meant, and I"d never even heard the cassette in full. I only knew that melody, and only its first half, which Dad would pluck amateurishly, and it was boring. Yet even that, with the summer evening atmosphere, him playing guitar in the hall, the sun setting and shining on our absurd painting of a maiden in a garden above the piano, created a mental association for "Celtic" for me. Later, Celtic music would evoke summer evenings and green gardens - just like Mortal Kombat had done two years earlier.

But the main soundtrack for all our little adventures and the bustle around Lev Kassil was, of course, the Terrarium disc, or just "Grebenshchikov" as we called it. It played every day, and whenever it did, all other music faded. In every track there were deviations from diatonics - that"s why it felt so distinct from the rest and stuck in memory. And if there was pentatonics, it only had the most stylish phrasing. That was the recipe for perfect compositions.

We drove past the turn to my grandfather"s dacha, then the road crossed the Saratovka river, and there was a right-hand turn - that"s where we went. A winding forest road began. We stopped, got out - I remember spruces growing, and under them, mushrooms in the grass. We went further and reached the riverbank. Back then, no internet or maps, and it was super-dopamine to just be there: I imagined that this river ran into swamps, full of snakes, critters, and adrenaline. I realised that the little creek feeding the dacha ravine was a branch of this bigger river, which ran behind the Chaika camp, through a dense forest I"d seen from the other side. And it really was like that. I was buzzing: if not the Amazon, then this river - I could get through it alone, with my sports bag, magnifying glass, all my survival gear - and emerge like a hero.

There was a high bank, we went down to the water, and I immediately saw a snake - but didn"t catch it. We just wandered, I fished a bit with bread, and decided I"d come with my grandfather next time for proper fishing. Then we went further into a nearby spruce grove - mushrooms again - and decided I needed to come with my mushroom guidebook. Soon, we went back specifically for mushrooms, picked some, and fried them at home for the first time. I"d never eaten mushrooms as a kid - it wasn"t our thing, nobody cared. We didn"t take risks, just obvious champignons and chanterelles. I came to love mushrooms, especially pickled milk mushrooms, which I tried for the first time - someone had given us a jar. Only, mushrooms didn"t digest for me - they came out unchanged, and I realised they were useless food - no survival in the forest on these.

That summer, mushrooms were a theme, and there would be more trips to that river spot.

Evenings, the three of us went for walks in the park or along the embankment. Still too cold to swim - early June. At a kiosk behind the main stand in the square, Dad and Mum bought beer in those brown glass bottles, and I"d already been counting the money in my piggy bank. I was constantly scrounging for coins, and I also got interested in cigarettes. I saw them sold one by one in kiosks. I noticed the filters were white when unlit. I needed them badly - for me, they were grown-up dopamine.

I was already wandering outside alone for grasshoppers, and one day I found an unlit cigarette on the street, kept it at home. It felt like a huge crime; I"d have been spanked hard. Then I got so obsessed with cigarettes that Dad decided to buy one so I could smoke it at home - "for development". The three of us sat in the evening: he in the mustard armchair, I on a chair at the table, and we began. I shivered all over. I don"t remember feeling dizzy - probably just a few puffs, the rest Dad smoked. Mum didn"t like it - she hated any kind of stink, especially cigarette smoke.

The next day she had some errands in a village far along the highway from Engels, towards Uzmor"ye, past the railway bridge. I went with her in the "Niva". Not that wild, but still a village. Some house, some woman, and while Mum handled plans with her, I went exploring nearby hills and groves.

I brought that cigarette and matches. Sun was out but it was cold, so I hid on a ravine slope and lit it. I thought it"d warm me up - it didn"t. I don"t remember feeling much lightheaded. Probably left it half-smoked - I feared any loss of control over my body. After smoking, I chewed some grass.

Nearby was a low Volga shore - vast, dark blue under a clear sky, maybe six kilometres wide. The woman Mum was meeting gave us a pan or something, and we left.

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Part 36, Text 5. Childhood in front of the TV - overflowing dopamine with nowhere to direct it - erotic fantasies - Uncle Seryozha"s films and trips.

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I basically didn"t go to the playground that June, just like the previous summer. I stayed home - with the lizards and in front of the TV. That is, when I wasn"t at Frunze or at the dachas with the grandfathers. Too often there was no need to go to the dacha anyway - the lizards were at home.

One morning I went to the park with a jar for grasshoppers. Overcast day. In the middle of the square I met Anya and Alyona - they were coming from music school. We talked briefly. Of course, I showed I wasn"t idle, but compared to their violins and notes, it was nothing: anyone could catch lizards and then go hunting grasshoppers in the park.

I could go outside as much as I wanted, but I had no desire. My dream of having an iguana was fading. After The Last Hero, I was more interested in survival - the adrenaline of being in the forest among critters. Our forest alone was enough. The Amazon and English were forgotten. A fast bike was cool, but not enough to motivate me to save money. That"s why I wasn"t really collecting bottles yet - no purpose, no meaning. I lay by the TV.

Around that time, I saw the comedy Rat Race. My favourite genre - like Italians in Russia, The Mummy, etc. Many characters, different groups, everyone had a goal and enthusiasm to chase it. That"s life - that"s what I dreamed of.

I imagined myself with Guzhik and Arik, plotting some plan or scheme. Naturally, I pooped immediately. But I could never figure out what the scheme would be.

Rat Race had a beautiful actress, tons of funny scenes. I loved comedies where the humour wasn"t in stupid chatter I didn"t understand, but in situations. One crazy scene - Italians chasing a fire truck, climbing from a ladder onto the roof of the car carrying the heroine, who doesn"t mind - leads to another, crazier scene: the truck later, driverless, crashes through a house and drags a naked woman in a bath on the stairs. How do you even come up with that?

I dreamed of inventing such scenarios myself, creating plots. But I couldn"t. Every day I woke up hoping something would come to me. But there was nowhere for it to start. Lizards and TV. Lizards and TV. Dopamine overflowing, with nothing to channel it into - a kind of dopamine depression.

Also in Rat Race, an actor had drowned in An American Werewolf in Paris, which I also watched around then. The most memorable scene was the hero lying down, and if I recall, groping a local actress"s breasts. Then he opens his eyes - and there"s a jump scare with her terrifying mother in the mirror, and he leaps out the window.

I wanted to be in bed with a girl too, imagining in my mind the pose where she, more experienced and bold, sits on me. It didn"t twist me - I still didn"t know more. Ideas of tickling and torment faded. Erotic fantasies with movie bedroom scenes became normalised.

Meanwhile, Dad went to his store, and Uncle Seryozha started dropping by during the day again. On Mum"s birthday he gave a cassette of Chocolat with Johnny Depp. I"d also seen Sleepy Hollow with him - weird film, but the scene where he opened a dead woman"s body and blood spurted, then he learned she was pregnant, stuck with me.

Uncle Seryozha moved to the kitchen, then to the mustard armchair. Soup poured in, he commented: "Good soup", "Hot", and when Mum offered more, he said: "No, thanks. Heartburn." I didn"t know what heartburn was, though I had it sometimes. Mum and I jokingly called it "assburn" instead.

I don"t recall if I explained why the chair was mustard-coloured. Its foam crumbled onto the parquet; Murka often sat under it, hiding from heat or my teasing, getting all dirty. She had started jumping from the washing machine onto the useless hood above the stove and lying there, tail hanging, watching the kitchen.

Once, as Uncle Seryozha passed the mustard chair with his back to the stove, she swiped at his bald head with her paw, caught a claw, and maybe even lifted a tuft of his grey hairs (probably dust). He sulked, and Mum laughed about it for life.

He already had a new car - some "soapbox" Dad called them, like a Russian Zhiguli "ten". Streamlined Japanese styling. More of these cars appeared. Dad couldn"t stand them - nostalgic for retro - and I hated old clunkers too. I wanted BMW elegance or aggressive Ferrari sportiness.

In this car, after the "Niva", like on a go-kart, Uncle Seryozha took us to the "Blue Lake". I probably mentioned this lake last summer, but most likely it started then. Again, towards the grandfathers" dacha, then along the highway to a junction, then a turn to the New Bridge, and just before the bridge, on the right behind the guardrail - there was the lake.

There was a beach and many cars; the water was warm, everyone was swimming. The lake was large and oval - a flooded sand quarry, excavator at the bottom. Very deep. You could run, jump, and dive. The water looked muddy-blue for some reason - hence the name.

Plastic 1.5-2 litre bottles had only become common in the last three years. If I"d flattened and slid on them in winter, that summer I took two under each arm and swam, conserving energy, and not fearing drowning.

We loved the lake and decided to come back. On the highway, wind hit my face through the window at speed - hard to breathe.

.:::.

Part 36 Text 6. Oddball Sanya Krylov - cycling with Dad and the lads, to the market, allergy centre, funeral in the stairwell.

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That summer at home, I seemed to be reading Urfin Jus, a book my dad loved and recommended - especially since it was on the summer reading list. I understood it enough to get through it, but I really hated reading - especially stuff with no romance.

What I really wanted was The Collector, but it was complicated, and when Miranda"s diary started, it was completely incomprehensible.

Because all sorts of oddballs came into Dad"s shop, he accumulated equally odd acquaintances - and at some point, Sanya Krylov appeared. He was thirty-four, Dad"s peer, but seemed much younger because he was a bit of a weirdo.

In the future, when I learn the approximate meaning of the word "eunuch," Krylov will be the first person I think of. High voice, somewhat effeminate mannerisms - though he had a normal male appearance, dark hair. He was gay - I"d find that out a couple of years later. Physically solid, good-natured, and reliable. Later, I"d hear he sang in the choir at the Engels opera theatre in falsetto. But his favourite pastime was what Dad called "charming grandmothers." He"d worm his way into their trust, visit them, and they"d give him various things. Dad said he didn"t know anything about them - he just took everything. Some valuable items Krylov gave Dad free of charge. Even books Dad collected as scrap came from Krylov.

Over the following years, I"d see him often when visiting Dad at work. He"d remain part of my biography through to adolescence.

That summer, Dad, acting as the driver of the Niva - not his own - looked like a real head of the household, more self-assured, and visited Frunze more than usual. We"d wheel out that big black bike from the garage, the one Mum bought me before the Cross, and rode it together along the embankment and around Engels. That black bike constantly broke down, and once, properly, Dad said: "Just don"t tell Mum, but this bike"s crap."

Once, I was on the square riding alone and met a kid from first grade, also on a bike, and someone else with him. We rode together for half an hour and almost reached Frunze along Persidskaya. We parted ways there and never saw each other again. This is one of only about ten times I hung out on the street with kids outside my two main friends - Artyom and Kozlov (they come later).

Once, Mum, Dad, and I went to our "kolkhoz market." Along the way, as I"ve said before, along Saratovskaya street, number one, on either side of the pavement were junk sellers. I was itching for adventure and spotted a book called Treasures of Russia. We bought it for a few kopecks. I kept putting off reading it - no pictures. It just sat on the shelf as another throwaway book.

At the market, near the main corner entrance by the kiosk selling pies and goulash, I thought I saw Katya Ilyina. Even though it was unlikely she"d left anything behind in Engels - and half the kids in my class probably never even went to Engels. Still, as we walked the rows, I kept scanning, hoping to spot her.

That summer - most likely that summer - Mum and I went to the Saratov allergy centre for my allergies. It was not far from Katya"s house. I can"t find the exact location now, but by memory and façade, it should have been Bakhmetyevskaya street, number three. Now it"s a canteen, probably relocated.

The procedure was harmless: they just dripped allergen solutions on your arm and watched for redness - that"s what you were allergic to. I reacted to steppe grasses, local wormwood - basically, they advised I live by the sea.

One evening, someone rang the doorbell. Mum opened, and I came out behind her into the vestibule. Some lady, a neighbour from another floor, said either she or her neighbours had a tragedy: someone had died. They were collecting money.

Then I looked down from the balcony - a vile green UAZ Bukhanka had arrived, and a man was carried out of the stairwell on a stretcher and loaded into it.

A few days later, the main event happened. A crowd gathered - lots of old women and men. The corpse, presumably brought in earlier and returned to the apartment, was now carried out in a coffin. Mum was at home, and I didn"t want to show I was curious, so I mostly watched from my middle room. But I did step onto the balcony or rise a little to see.

The face - like a doll"s. Dark hair, reminiscent of that early childhood image of Kobzon. They placed the coffin on a bench where the old women usually sat near the stinking rubbish inside our building. Soon a PAZ bus arrived with its cursed black stripe, and they carried the coffin in through a special rear hatch. This type of hatch was standard even on regular PAZ buses - as if this model was designed to double as a funeral vehicle.

I couldn"t digest any of it. Without my parents, I probably wouldn"t have cared. It was their presence and their imagined connection to the coffin that made it unbearable. Not just the imagination, but the knowledge that one day this would happen.

How can you live with that knowledge? How can anyone live knowing they"ll die? These were questions with no satisfying answers.

For several days after the funeral, flowers were trampled all over the stairwell and outside. It was disgusting.

.:::.

Part 36 Text 7. Short playground at School 33 - Murka ate the lizards - throwing a knife - at Mostootryad - on Frunze, cut myself with a damn kid.

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The next memory is one I couldn"t date for a long time - this year or the previous one. But almost certainly this one.

There was a strange, pointless little adventure at a playground, similar to the one at the Palace of Pioneers, only now at School 33.

The path to it went past that wholesale area on Petrovskaya, by the route to the English tutor. From the L"va Kassil" building, we went right along the blocks, past the boiler house, then after the garages turned left under the clotheslines. Between Khrushchyovkas onto Petrovskaya. Across from the kindergarten, through the wholesale area. After that, opposite Kozlov"s building, we turned left into another Khrushchyovka yard. Pipes, boiler house - very 90s. Garages and a sense of who-knows-what in the alleys - rumour had it drug addicts. Then onto Telman street, leading to a recreational area in front of the school, with a monument Dad called "Pushkin"s brother," and the entrance to School 33.

School 33 layout: enter the main hall - central stairs to the second and third floors, with corridors branching to four wings, each ending in a triangular hall with classroom doors.

Our group of children was based in a classroom in one wing. Plants in pots were everywhere in the corridors - more interesting to me than anything else.

I joined midway through the playground term, maybe near its end - late June - and I didn"t fit in at all. I knew no one. The instructors, again like my first school excursion before first grade, were "non-Russian," some Armenian women. They probably taught regular classes in other seasons. Their manners were village-like, brash, and Engels-style. Not in vain was all the praise for Saratov and my gymnasium compared to Engels and School 33. I treated both adults and kids there like crap.

We never stayed inside - each day we were taken outdoors, walked somewhere in a formation, crossing streets while cars waited patiently. I don"t remember how many times I went - just a few days. Mostly, we went to the yard behind the gates belonging to the children"s cinema Udarik, which I mentioned last summer, full of greenery, where two "jackals" hassled me.

We went inside Udarik. It was still functioning, showing children"s films. Smaller than the cinema for Star Wars, and the films were Soviet kids" films - boring. I sat at the back row.

I didn"t interact with anyone, but a little brat with a rotten attitude sat next to me, then for no reason shook sand from his shoe onto me, saying, "Thanks, trashcan." I later retaliated physically, somehow.

Another memory - not sure whether from the first or this second playground, so I"ll include it here: a trip to the Engels printing house. At Pushkin and Revolyutsionnaya, the route my mum and I sometimes took to Frunze, passing through the L"va Kassil" yards and the children"s hospital. Pushkin street was a mud pit then, with a nearby industrial building - a flour mill.

Inside the printing house: massive presses, green walls, iron stairs, workshop atmosphere, and at the end, someone asked if we wanted to work there. Obvious answer.

That ends the memory of this second playground - just a few days, no longer.

A pregnant lizard laid several eggs - and I didn"t know what to do next. Despite years of reading, I knew nothing. Only now do I realise they live several years. Back then, I thought they lasted a single season. Winter brought −25?C freezes. I couldn"t believe these lizards could survive.

I didn"t trust the books - I skimmed the text and interpreted everything my own way. I also knew nothing about sex or reproductive biology - I had no idea how eggs worked. So the eggs just sat in the tank, and by summer"s end, I probably threw them away, thinking nothing would hatch.

I blocked the cursed door against Murka with a rag and covered the tank with a cut piece of Plexiglas for air.

Still, some incident happened with the door and Murka - and all the lizards disappeared. That"s probably when I hit Murka for the first time. Hysteria.

There were my childhood bookshelves in the small room. I hoped some lizards hid beneath them. They could be anywhere because of the gap under the door. Soon, I caught a tailless lizard in the small room - it really had been under that wall. Later, the stench of decay appeared - another lizard had died.

I don"t remember the exact details, but something else happened - when I moved things to find them, I crushed either a live or dead lizard. Total mess. I took the tailless lizard to the dacha and released it. The L"va Kassil" apartment was reptile-free for now.

At Frunze, there was a small kitchen knife, and I got obsessed with throwing it at the wooden fence from the street. Thought I might look cool, like in movies. Started holding it by the handle, then realised it was better by the blade. Didn"t work. If it flipped over more than 180 degrees, it was a gamble. Throwing became a compulsive game: if it stuck, throw again; if it didn"t, throw again. The fence got scuffed, making noise, and BabKlava soon forbade it.

At L"va Kassil", we had a standard Soviet knife set with white plastic handles. Two small knives: one for dirty work - like plugging windows (which we never did again), and another Mum used for peeling potatoes, already too dull to cut anything but butter. These little knives weren"t suitable for throwing.

Once, at a fair, I convinced Mum to buy a knife with a wooden handle. I carried it everywhere. Several times I threw it into my punching bag - which I hadn"t really used except in early childhood. I felt a bit sadistic - didn"t want to damage Mum"s gift, but couldn"t resist. Later, I probably masturbated on the pull-up bar to calm myself. Every sadistic incident triggered arousal between my legs.

The next day, Mum and I went to the Mostootryad forest with that knife. On the lake, people paddled kayaks - local sports school. We reached the far end. Goats grazed near private houses by the Volga, and from the high bank I, as always, looked toward Saratov and thought of Katya and the others.

Then we went deeper into the forest - toward our swamp. On the way, a massive tree trunk. I stepped twenty metres back, threw the knife - stuck on the first try. I was amazed, but never repeated it. That first throw later became forever associated in my mind with Metallica, though I hadn"t heard of them yet.

Later, maybe the same day after the forest, we returned to Frunze. Some random kid, again a non-Russian, hung around our bench. With him were Anya or Alina.

I was obsessed with the knife and begged BabKlava for another chance to throw at the fence. I didn"t throw long before the kid wanted to try. I didn"t want to waste my limited throwing chance, so I refused.

He waited until I stepped back, the knife fell off the fence, and he lunged for it. We both grabbed it and struggled. I cut myself, cried, and ran inside to rinse under the tap. The kid, of course, was throwing my knife around until Mum came out and took it.

.:::.

Part 36, Text 8. Frunze family matters,,, started reading King Arthur,,, bicycle accident with idiots,,, going to the clinic with Anya,,, imposed a book on Anya,,, the end of Anya and Alyona.

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I started spending more time at Frunze. Grandpa had become completely silent. He used to lie on his couch all day even before, but now it was total. They talked about some "SKHI"-that was the name of a neighbourhood with private houses along the Volga, near the turn from the highway to the dacha. There was some lady there, and BabKlava, as I understood, hated her. That is, she was one of grandpa"s old mistresses from his working days. At the same time, as if sensing some brewing trouble, my mother"s brother Valera started hanging around Frunze.

A little background-our house on Frunze was built when both families lived here: BabKlava with grandpa, and BabKlava"s brother Grisha, whose wife was Aunt Lyusya, and their son-this Valera. Later, Grisha died, and Aunt Lyusya moved to an apartment in the Khrushchyovka on Melioration with Valera, and BabKlava gave Valera money as compensation so he wouldn"t have claims on the house. But, as I remembered from the history I was starting to forget, the money lost its value during the collapse of the SSSR, and he wanted to grab something here again, which created tension between him and my mother. I didn"t know or understand all these motives at the time, but I noticed the tension in little signs. And Valera himself was suspicious: playful and courteous, but like a trader-always looking for profit.

I started sitting in the armchair-a sort of mustard-coloured one, but in good condition-used for guests like Valera. It stood near the bookshelf. That"s where I finally picked up King Arthur.

It was the classic Arthurian legend-a children"s version. I hated reading, hated plodding through text-it was difficult and boring. But my father"s voice echoed in my head, insisting on reading books, plus the stereotype hammered in by him and other adults that girls like smart boys who read. I tried to get interested, telling myself it was fascinating. I carried the book from morning to night. I read it only thanks to the pictures-at least some clue about the story. The illustrations were good, by a Russian artist, with correct proportions, as I liked. Most of all, I loved the cover: Arthur on a white horse, black Gothic-style lettering, a castle in the background in purple and violet hues at sunset. Everything evoked childhood, those sunsets at Frunze, the beginnings of my days, the first time I saw this book. And, of course, Hercules, Xena, and Conan, whom I had watched here at Frunze. For me, the connections and associations with the past mattered most. Grails and Lancelots? Not a chance.

Those days were also clinic days. Not frequent, not tests-just procedures I"d mentioned before-breathing over something, lying under electric suction cups. Once, I rode my bike alone from Frunze to the clinic-apparently to meet my mother for a procedure. She went home, I rode back to Frunze. On Persidskaya, near the first hill, two boys were ahead of me on bikes: one normal, the other sitting on the frame. They were like those two on Frunze-one cheeky little idiot and one cowardly dummy. As I approached, going fast, the older one-driving-was near house number eighty, looked back, and seeing I would pass him, intentionally swerved across the road to block me. Four metres away, he rang his bell-this bullshit: he thought he had the right of way and the world must adjust. I didn"t regret ripping my knees and palms on the asphalt. That idiot got a good hit from the handlebars in the chest, and the little one was also down. I didn"t cry; I felt fine. Back at Frunze, I patched myself up and we did something with the girls.

Another day, we had to go to the clinic again-later, when few people were there, only some procedure rooms operating. I was sent from Frunze with Anya Gavela. We walked along Persidskaya, chatting. She was about twelve. Across two streets with traffic, we even held hands. For me, a perfect moment-finally alone with her, acting grown-up. That day she sat waiting for electric suction cups in the corridor on wooden chairs. On the way back, we went to the "Lilya" shop for candy or gum. About an hour and a half of happiness.

King Arthur went down slowly-I remembered almost nothing except one scene of a knight, severely wounded, falling, then rising, his wounds reopening, and falling again. I thought of my mother"s C-section, all that surgical horror, my phobias. It was evening, I trudged reading from the hall to the middle room and back-past the fridge, past the protruding metal that once cut my leg.

But King Arthur left an imprint: it concluded and cemented my associative chain-Hercules, Xena, Conan, swords, castles, sunsets, distant mountains. For four years, all this would hibernate, only to awaken later, reconnecting with core values.

Towards the end, a gray sky joined these associations. One day was dry, but with gray pre-rain skies. July, but it felt like autumn, like Skyrim. I sat on the bench outside, all the girls around doing their things-things that no longer interested me. I scanned the chapter on the Lady of the Lake. I realised it was all a land often cloudy like this. Then Anya, as once before, asked: "What are you reading? Let me see." I was sitting there with the book for her to see. She looked, nodded, and handed it back.

This was my last memory of Anya Gavela, Anya from Frunze-our story lasting from our first meeting under their cherry tree when I was four, five years in total. She shaped my taste for dark-haired, English-speaking, physically active, humanities-minded girls. Years later, my mother said she had a boyfriend and had become ugly-faced. Mom generally didn"t like their type. Anya, as I remembered (I never saw her again), was like Hector from Troy, curly-haired. I liked her.

Alyona, her younger sister by a couple of years, also ends her story this summer. When I was twenty-eight, endlessly scrolling girls on VK, I often saw an Alyona who seemed like that same Alyona from Frunze, just a different surname. She was really beautiful, from the Saratov crowd, going to Inctagram bars. I messaged her a few times, no reply, blocked me. I might have been mistaken.

I never found Anya either. I never knew the correct spelling of their surname. Father joked-called them Gastello.

.:::.

___Part 37.

.:::.

Part 37, Text 1. Erotic novels,,, caught a snake at home,,, like Rambo,,, a zoo in the house,,, mother arguing with father and breaking dishes,,, the snake slithered away and died.

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During the days I read Arthur, someone brought a soft book in a pink cover to Frunze. Such books were everywhere, sold even in kiosks. Father didn"t consider them literature, though they were for adults: picture on the cover only, text inside. Covers always promised romance. Around that time, I heard the word "erotica." The book was on the dresser; Grandpa picked it up and read it in one day, lying on the couch-right before my eyes. I was stunned-how could someone finish a whole book so fast? I could waste a day on ten pages. Later, my mother laughed at me-grandpa reading erotica. I didn"t get the joke yet. Only that these books were aimed at women.

Then Grandpa and I went fishing, including the place we went with Mom and Dad. It was overcast; in the distance, in the reeds, there were birds. Grandpa talked about hunting and lures-those rubber ducks sold at the "Hunting and Fishing" store in central Engels, near school 33, Gorky street 47. Back then, Mom and I visited sometimes-there were knives, binoculars, huge backpacks-everything I dreamed of, all expensive. There was also a separate hall with guns, but we didn"t enter.

As the heat returned, Mom, Grandpa, and I went to the dacha. Like last summer, I endlessly wandered the ravine and streams, nostalgic, remembering school, humming Carry Me, River. I didn"t catch lizards anymore. Soon, I caught a snake. I brought it to Lev Kassil.

I didn"t put the snake in a tank, just blocked the door gap with rags, letting it roam freely among monster plants and other stuff. I filled a plastic basin with water and grass so it could swim. That basin, I think, still stands here-I wash in it now. The first days were fine-it was real exoticism. I hardly paid attention to the squirrel Zosa, only fed her.

Mom and I kept going to procedures. Eventually, the last one came, and our local nurse went on vacation. Leaving the clinic, we walked with her towards the church in the kids" park, said goodbye. Mom was friendly with her. The whole theme was preparing the medical record for the army.

The Yemelyanovs finished their house at Persidskaya 43, moved in. It was along our route to Frunze; a few times Mom went to their yard on land-document business, I waited. Sasha had a fast bike with rear suspension, riding along dull Persidskaya. He immediately joined the local kids" crowd-I saw. I didn"t even greet him anymore. Once, he checked his cassettes; Mom asked for a tape Aunt Vera had given me-I gave it. That ended Mortal Kombat; I wouldn"t see that show for twenty years until writing my autobiography.

Then I went to the dacha, imagining extreme expeditions: creating routes, climbing trees, jumping streams, wetting boots intentionally, etc. Once, in the ravine, where trees grew, I saw a huge snake. Some "dad snake." It slid from the bank into the water, carried by the current to the other side. I jumped a stream and caught it-about one and a half metres, heavy, old and grey-it couldn"t coil around my arm like young snakes. I brought it to show Grandpa and Mom. Of course, no need to take it home, so I released it.

That summer, I went far up the river, near the forest beyond the Chayka camp. The river ran out from it. If you went further, the atmosphere felt like Rambo, which I"d recently watched-except no ferns.

Once at the dacha, I pooped-like always under the pear tree. Later, I returned, looked at it; thought a branch fell on it, but it moved-a bug I"d never seen, a stick insect. I didn"t even care; it was gross. I left. In a small flowerbed by the garage at Frunze, I saw and caught a praying mantis-for the second time in my life.

Mom and I shuttled between Frunze and Lev Kassil-there was no place to wash at Frunze. I didn"t care about hygiene-dirt under nails, muddy feet, soil all over the floor from my mini-zoo, running barefoot, didn"t think when going to bed. Yet my ass never itched, no mention of pinworms at the clinic. Maybe in those active happy months, I didn"t pick or bite my cuticles.

Evenings, the three of us went to the embankment-walk and swim on the concrete slope. I carried a bag, collected empty beer bottles, stored in the vestibule. Dad added the ones he drank with Mom.

One day, they argued in the kitchen. They often raised voices-Dad liked it. Not cruelly-he lectured her on "kulugurskost," she scolded him. This time, it was about clear glasses for juice. Something like when Dad once broke a toilet or threw away a spoon with food scraps. I came into the kitchen; Mom was clearly tense, to vent she calmly threw Dad"s faceted beer mug on the tiles. He"d drunk from it all my childhood. He looked unsure how to react. Later, all calm.

Likely, after that mug, he left for a week or two-he often left for days, usually to BabValya.

The snake at first I brought a frog, but it wouldn"t eat. Now, ten days or more later, I caught another at the dacha. Grandpa drove us to Lev Kassil in the evening. I tossed it in the basin. I thought nothing would happen-but it lunged, the frog slid smoothly underwater into it. I shouted to Mom, but she was in the bath.

Then something happened with the cursed rag under the door-the snake disappeared from the room. There was a gap near the bookshelf-like a burrow-I thought it went there. I shone a light, nothing. Murka couldn"t eat it. It could be anywhere. After a few days, it hadn"t reappeared. We assumed it crawled into the stairwell, fell from the balcony, or whatever. A week later, Mom smelled gas, called the gas workers immediately.

A guy came. I sat nearby in the mustard armchair. To reach the stove, easiest to move the dresser with drawers. By then, the fly under the dresser made it obvious-there it lay. They moved the dresser-there it was. I bagged it, carried it to the trash. No maggots yet.

.:::.

Part 37, Text 2. Frequent AuntKatya,,, UncleSeryozha,,, Artyom from kindergarten mostly,,, trips to the beach with the Nespeshny family.

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At the dacha I was already starting to get bored - I was fed up with this ravine and the lizards. The apricots were just starting, and I climbed that tree on our plot to pick them. I even tried chewing some sap... Taste of childhood. Down below, at the edge of the triangular corner of our plot, where the potatoes grew and Colorado beetles hung out, there was a flat patch of just dry earth. I started messing around there, doing cartwheels - the only acrobatics move I could manage. Falling didn"t hurt - even softer than sand. The earth was dry, warmed by the sun.

I couldn"t endure this shame anymore; I went mad, ran up, and did a forward flip, just like Yerokin. I made it - landed on both feet. I shouted to myself: "I am Yerokin!" and started cheering. I called Grandma to show her, and did it again. I ran around the garden, all excited, doing this flip over and over.

By August, a bunch of characters started piling in. Father was back with us again. Valera and his sons were dropping by Frunze regularly. The Nespeshny family came to Lev Kassil. And in conversations with Mom, Uncle Seryozha"s secretary from my early childhood appeared - Aunt Katya. During the day, Uncle Seryozha himself would drop by.

I understood that Father and Uncle Seryozha were incompatible people; they had never met. Uncle Seryozha came during the day when Father was away. I had already built a child"s idea of Mom"s connection with Uncle Seryozha before me. I was already pondering things like "who really loves whom," "jealousy," "infidelity."

But once, after Uncle Seryozha had sat in our kitchen, ready to leave, Father came from the other side of the elevator. I think they just said "Hello" to each other - and Uncle Seryozha left. Later we went with him to the Blue Lake or somewhere, and Mom discussed it with him. She said: "So what, you just saw each other." Uncle Seryozha pouted, the way he knew how. His mustache like a walrus"s.

At home with Father and Mom, I brought it up too, asking him: "You saw Uncle Seryozha, right?" He said: "Yeah, I saw that turkey." They never met face-to-face again in their lives.

That summer, walking with Mom along the dam, we ran into my old kindergarten buddy - Artyom Ovod - and his mother, Aunt Tanya. Artyom was still a full head shorter than me. That was a sore spot for him. Mom later told me they tried some growth hormones - basically, a struggle, like my battles with allergies and genital aches.

Artyom had dark hair like my grandfather, freckles, and grey eyes. His father, it seemed, came from some settlement. There was something about a guitar - Artyom was almost trying to learn classical guitar. At that time, at home on Kenwood, we still played Armik. But later, I don"t recall any more connection between Artyom and guitars.

His mother worked as a cleaner at the tenth school on Telegrafnaya - the same school my mother attended as a child. They might have even known each other from school - Mom and Aunt Tanya. Aunt Tanya didn"t smoke, didn"t drink, and wasn"t mean - Mom never had conflicts with her, though they weren"t especially close. With Aunt Lena, Mom got along closer - helped her out sometimes - but later they even fell out and didn"t greet each other. Lena was emotional, Tanya was calmer. Artyom also studied at the tenth school.

Artyom lived with his mother and grandfather - his mother"s father - in half a house (like Aunt Lena with Masha), between the tenth school and the dam - around 99 Dubovskaya Street. Outdoor toilet, a mean dog in a kennel they kept when we started visiting that summer. Grandpa drank - that"s when I first heard the word "samogon." Three rooms for everyone. Artyom probably slept in the main room, the living room, while the dining table was in the hallway.

I don"t want to mess up the memory - probably that very summer, on our first visit, Aunt Tanya, bragging, told us Artyom caught a duck in the tenth school yard, and they ate it. The school yard ended in a swamp, with stagnant water, and on the other side were garden plots of houses facing Persidskaya. So that duck probably came from those yards. Also, Aunt Tanya was the type who plucked chickens - I once saw feathers and even blood on their porch. She was capable of that kind of thing.

Artyom wanted to be even more capable than his mother - he had that instinct of a provider-son. Like the boy in Pushkin"s tale about Tsar Guidon. He wasn"t a "mama"s boy" glued to the TV. He didn"t even have a console or computer. They were really poor, but he didn"t care much. He"d rather catch ducks, fish, or hang with kids from his streets. He even hung out with Anton Kosarev from my first kindergarten, who lived across the tenth school. I"ll never see Kosarev again, and he won"t appear in my biography. Only in adulthood will Mom, knowing his mother (for some land paperwork), mention him in passing.

Artyom was more experienced than me in many things. But I never envied him - the things he excelled in didn"t matter to me, and as for being a "mama"s boy," I didn"t feel that with buddies everywhere. Most importantly, he was never cruel or jealous himself. Always full of jokes and positive energy. Alongside Nikita Kozlov later, he was the only one I could call a friend - my main living companion during all twelve years of active social life. He was a year older than me.

We started meeting for swims - not in the centre, but near their home, where Rabochaya Street ended in the dam, with no big boulders, easy to enter the water without breaking your legs. We swam, the four of us, but usually the mothers sat while Artyom and I were in the water.

Once, for some reason, the four of us went to our place on Frunze. Near our house, I showed Artyom Alina sitting by her home below - I had told him about her, that she was behind. He gave her the middle finger, thinking she wouldn"t understand. I said not to. He was bolder than me.

That summer - that"s probably all about Artyom. I don"t remember them visiting our apartment, though they probably did - we showed everyone Zosya.

The Nespeshny family definitely visited. I remember being bored with Zosya. I no longer got jealous of her with guests. If before I couldn"t be absent when guests were with my pet, now I could easily go to the living room or small room - guests could play with the squirrel as much as they liked. Same with Murka - she"d "grown up," so anyone could pet her.

With the Nespeshny family, we went to the beach. By now, I was really scaring Lida. The sadistic side of it was deep down; on the surface it was rough fun - by scaring her, I imagined being with boys, playing together in a gang way, which united us. Lida was beautiful, like a young singer Sandra - same Cheburashka-like eyes. If she didn"t have her infantile delay, I"d have had sexual interest in her.

.:::.

Part 37, Text 3. To the dacha in the Niva,,, selling apricots,,, grandfather disappears,,, Penza folks on Frunze,,, Johnny Depp, fatherly values, and hatred of Engels fairground lowlifes.

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From this part of summer, I remember repeated trips to the dacha - no longer in Grandpa"s car with him, but in the Niva - sometimes without him. This was when his absences began; he didn"t even stay overnight on Frunze anymore.

Once, as he left again, I walked out with him. He wore his wide-brimmed hat and Grandpa"s lilac jacket. I asked where he was headed, and he waved toward his agricultural department. At first, he went on foot, and in autumn would take the car too. About his aunt, I thought she was just a cunning woman who somehow lured the gentle grandpa. I didn"t imagine any romance. With a sixty-year-old limping grandpa - no romantic images formed in my mind at all.

At the dacha, our Niva was parked where Grandpa always left the car - between the pear tree and the mouse-house with a well "to America." In the second half of summer, acting as driver, carrying heavy buckets, and suffering through all this dacha business, Father came to the dacha more than once. But Grandpa still spent half the time on Frunze.

By late July, the apricots were all ripe. We had no tree on Frunze, but neighbours did - across the block, with a house facing noisy Poligraficheskaya, power lines, the cancer hospital, and the morgue. Their tree hung over Grandpa"s workshop (which he didn"t enter anymore), and all my childhood I"d climb the pile of manure by the outhouse, sit there, eating apricots, looking west, daydreaming about the future - then poop. The groove in the apricots looked very much like a little girl"s genitals from my childhood encyclopedia.

Selling apricots - along with tulips on May 9 - is a memory that might be from the year before. But for certainty, let"s keep it here... I filled a whole bucket, took some extra from the dacha, and went to Telegrafnaya, where, near the tenth school, old ladies sold produce from their gardens. I approached them. They all immediately said: "Well done," "How grown-up." I stayed longer with the apricots than with tulips. In the end, I thought no one would buy, but someone bought everything again.

There was some extended family connected both to Grandma Klava and Aunt Lyusa, and maybe even Grandpa, who now disappeared. A family from Penza. Mom occasionally told stories of visiting them before I was born - their forest trips, mushroom collecting, their apartments in unusual houses with wooden floors and garbage chutes through the kitchen. Father hated all that - he should have been in Saigon, filming a movie, or sailing like Fyodor Konyukhov. He now had words like: "Penzaki," "Penzastvo," "Mordva" - almost synonyms for what he called "kuluguras" and "kulugurstvo." For me, outsiders always seemed from another world - I couldn"t imagine Penza or other cities, only Anapa where I"d been.

In early August, they arrived by car. About four people - Father, a son around eighteen, and probably a couple of aunts, or an aunt plus another son. I probably saw them twice in my life, first in summer "98 - when I, being an idiot, hit the wall of the house with a stick like a horn, and we had a feast in the yard until night.

The Penza folks had no Volga car; visiting us was like going on holiday - they planned to swim. We all spent the night on Frunze. They slept on the floor in the living room on blankets, Mom in the small room, and I with Grandma Klava in the middle room, as usual. It was hot, rooms packed, someone always going to pee. Next day Valera came, Father in the Niva, and we all went - in two cars - to our dacha. Grandpa was absent. Our car parked as usual, theirs further down, at the end of the narrow dacha driveway.

Later, we returned to Frunze and, either that day or the next evening, we went - again in two cars - to Blue Lake. It was overcast, summer rain; the men tossed me, the smallest, into the water, someone took photos, one captured me mid-air. It was August 2.

The next day, at the end of their visit, the Penza folks and Valera came to Lev Kassil - closer to evening. Then they left. A year or two later - I"ll mention this now - their grown-up son of conscription age, after a medical exam, ended up on the operating table for a urology procedure - something went wrong with an artery, and he died. This coincided with the time I"d form other anatomical-surgical ideas, all repeatedly tied to genitals. All this got lodged in my mind and influenced me.

Then came more days with the Nespeshny family, trips to the concrete slope, swimming, and collecting bottles along the way.

I got obsessed with rewatching the film Chocolat over and over. On one hand - dull setting: for me, old Europe (and I didn"t even know it was Europe) was just as dreary as our post-Soviet Khrushchyovka landscapes and old wooden houses. It evoked post-war times, before plastic bags and toothpaste, the vibe of The Thief, and other grey crap. Also, religious nonsense in the film.

On the other hand, the plot was original, with many characters, which I loved. My favourite with Mom was the Count. Also - Serge: how he grimaced in church when he couldn"t answer correctly. Comical loser characters, from Giuseppe in The Italians, Pierre Richard, grumpy Louis de Funès - always appealed to us, especially me.

During that summer"s repeated viewings, I focused on the opposite - super-macho Johnny Depp. Dark, long-haired, sunglasses, leather jacket, played guitar, supremely confident and calm. He was captain of river gypsies on boats. The main heroines fell for him immediately.

A couple of days before, we"d been listening to music in the apartment - especially Armik"s flamenco - and Father delivered many speeches about the "power" of being a guitarist, a free artist, a traveller... Wearing real men"s clothes, like that jacket... Calm, intelligent, living by some high prosocial ideal... All these traits mirrored what surrounded us in Engels, especially on evening walks along the embankment. Everywhere was trashy - men selling fake Chinese junk by day at the fair, by night with growing youth, drinking by the Volga with sagging bellies, hairy legs, flip-flops. And if these lowlifes sang karaoke in cafes - all that.

Once, Father returned home from his proper work, and I showed him the scene with Johnny Depp playing guitar - he pointed: "That"s it! That"s what I"m talking about!" That scene and others built my stereotype of what attracts women, and what to aim for. But I hadn"t touched the guitar in real life yet, though one always leaned against our large Amphiton speakers in the living room.

The film also had a perfect soundtrack - magical flute melodies with strings. This shaped my tastes more than guitars ever could. That music was the main reason I kept rewatching it, though I didn"t fully understand it then.

And there was also the neurotic boy with a neurotic mother, whose nose bled, who drew death, and other traits similar to mine.

.:::.

Part 37, Text 4. Ghosts of the Night and vampire stories, with BabValya to the silent sister Anya, at the dacha Aunt Marina and Alina, visiting some Aunt Sveta relative.

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I can"t recall specific trips to BabValya"s that summer. They obviously happened, but one moment sticks in my memory, just before a trip. It was late afternoon. The sun blazed down. My mother and I were crossing the square from the fair to hand me over to my father, with whom I would travel to Saratov. At the start of the square, near the fair, by the Lenin statue, the stallholders were selling somewhat decent things, and someone had inexpensive books - among them was a black book, Ghosts of the Night. It was a collection of scary myths - starting with Beowulf on the first page and ending with exotic Japanese tales. Each page, or sometimes a full spread, had an illustration - a classical painting depicting the story. It was the perfect book, and we bought it immediately.

Hating to read, I still struggled to get through the text. I got confused by the names. In Beowulf, for example, I couldn"t remember whether "Beowulf" was the monster or the hero who defeated it. More precisely, it wasn"t really hatred of reading - it was that lack of visualization problem I mentioned in the aquarium doll episode. I mean, there were illustrations, but no labels telling who was who. So even if I understood from the text, I still took it for life - until adulthood when I reread it - that Beowulf was the monster. It had the word "wulf" in it. Often, I didn"t care much for theory - my knowledge came either from practical experience or my own associations.

Another story was about a vampire woman, with a painting of her bare foot. I got insanely aroused, and the text described how, as she wandered, something "jingled on her ankles." I didn"t know what ankles were, but I figured it was somewhere on the legs - and it tormented me that so much attention was paid to it in an erotic sense. By then, I was starting to grasp the idea of "eroticism." And yet, for me personally, legs were associated with torture, and torture - with being taken from my parents, and all that... It wasn"t a book, it was torment. It didn"t interest me; it tormented me. It felt like the compilers - or rather, the original myth-makers - knew about such phobias and deliberately frayed the nerves. I would masturbate, and they - even more. Half-naked vampires, all kinds of seductresses. Everywhere - in the book, on TV, in the park at night. Women everywhere (at least, I perceived them as women) in short skirts, with bare stomachs and feet without socks. I always wore socks outdoors. My whole family wore socks, and I felt we shared this: a sense of vulnerability without socks. Vulnerability to torture, if you asked me. Like an exposed stomach. My mother never had an exposed stomach either. Actually, of course, my parents wore socks because their nails were damaged by fungus (or vitamin deficiency). Most likely, that was why my father hated men barefoot in sandals - he envied them for healthy feet, while his nails and skin were always problematic. Mother said he"d infected her with fungus. I think it might have been vitamin deficiency, at least for my mother, but I believed the fungus story then, and so I avoided their towels and never touched them.

Other myths in Ghosts of the Night... There were seductresses. A princess-werewolf whose paw was cut off at night, and in the morning she had no hand. The Japanese one was about geishas - I learned the word "geisha" for the first time - thrown into a pit with snakes and bees, a painting showing them in that pit, all in vermin. It was insane. My entire childhood, I wore cotton but tight-fitting swim shorts, and my penis turned into a damn downward banana.

With BabValya, we visited Larisa; there was Anya - already recognising me and running around the flat. But she didn"t speak a word, not even "mama." I, perhaps not knowing she only stayed silent with guests, gradually started to mimic her, making faces to scare her - she wouldn"t tell. At the core, of course, it was sadism, but it was like with Murka. Anya was distrustful; you couldn"t negotiate with her. She clearly understood what you said, but after a moment she"d run away, taking all her trust with her. I couldn"t stand that.

At BabValya"s dacha, just like my early childhood, various women like Tai and Zinaida came from afar, now showing connections with neighbours. Across the alley lived Marina - around thirty-six, with a young daughter almost grown up, whom I didn"t remember. Probably there was also an older woman - Marina"s mother - and BabValya mainly socialised with her, as Marina seemed younger, like an informal acquaintance. Marina had red-dyed hair and was a doctor. She will appear in my story years later.

Everyone visited us, and Ivan with Larisa and Anya came by car. My father was there too, and we made chicken kebabs. I don"t remember any real kebabs in our family; real ones from meat came only from Uncle Sergey via my mother, occasionally. A few times in life, my mother visited BabValya"s dacha - probably that summer too.

Mostly, it was just BabValya and me, staying for two to three nights at a time. She had a black boombox with rounded edges, which she brought to the dacha, so the radio was always on - artists of the time like Zemfira. Of our performers, I always singled out the band Splean.

Out of habit, I continued catching lizards, but I was now more into throwing knives at a board. I succeeded - or rather, got lucky - much more often. And there was an audience: on the neighbouring plot, separated by a simple chain-link fence, lived a girl my age, Alina - again. BabValya knew them, and soon Alina started visiting me. We threw knives together. Dark-haired, possibly curly, slightly tomboyish, liked active games like football. I got along well with her and looked forward to her visits. I didn"t visit her. We also planned to swim in a cube-shaped metal water tank, common on many dachas, but didn"t get to it. When she was outside and could see me, I flaunted my knife skills and helped BabValya in the garden. Otherwise, I hated helping - never offered to help on either dacha except for berry picking, which was calming and had elements of thrill and accumulation. Digging, carrying water - unbearable. Only for girls, really.

We also visited the district where BabValya originally lived with her father and Larisa - their ancestral home, beyond the Saratov station, towards the Pervaya Dachnaya district, where private houses curve around a hill. There lived Aunt Sveta, a relative on BabValya"s side, with the same surname. As a child, I"d cry near her, according to my mother. Aunt Sveta had a boyfriend in her youth (later shot), living in the same house. Visiting her meant sitting with BabValya while Sveta was away.

At the time, BabValya picked up various odd jobs through word-of-mouth - mainly cleaning or organising family events. Sometimes, during visits, she said she needed to help someone somewhere. My mother later explained BabValya tried to curry favour with old ladies, hoping for an inheritance. But no one ever left her anything. She was always sad, later often lamenting the good she"d done for others with nothing in return. My mother said she even washed dead bodies, preparing them for funerals.


.:.

___Part 38.

.:::.

Part 38, Text 1. Southbound trip with Aunt Katya, books and early adulthood on the way, "uncomfortable topics with mom" - psychology behind it, simplicity and accessibility of what I needed, on the rocky beach.

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And so, two main events remain in August. The first - a trip to the sea, during which I learned about sex.

I don"t remember how it began, but my mother teamed up with Aunt Katya, Uncle Sergey"s secretary, and we set off - the three of us. Aunt Katya seemed grown-up; I probably even addressed her formally. But she was about twenty-six, maybe younger.

Like my previous southern trip, it likely started late in the evening. Father drove us to the station, we met Aunt Katya, boarded the train, and left. I no longer cried that father was staying behind.

I took my horizontal bag, packed everything in it - a book about Uncle Fyodor, given at New Year, and miscellaneous items. Aunt Katya also had a book - nearly the kind my father despised, not a novel but a detective. Some Donzova. Small paperbacks like those were everywhere, especially at kiosks and stations - bought for travel. Aunt Katya was slim, with short light hair, glasses, modest, quieter than my mother. Mother initiated this trip.

The journey took two nights again. We travelled in a platzkart carriage, but in a compartment. At night, I fell from the top bunk onto the table, hitting my shin, but strangely, no pain, tears, or shame. I slept on.

Next day, I stuck my head out the window while standing on the table, gasping from the wind, just like in Uncle Sergey"s car.

Vendors selling pies, dried fish, and instant noodles - "Anakom" - moved through the train. Like all childhood vermicelli, I couldn"t even watch someone eat it. But that day, it was just memories of childhood noodles; on the return, other feelings would mix in.

People had radios, playing hits from the passed "90s and new ones. "Take me away, a hundred seas... Kiss me everywhere..."

Aunt Katya didn"t finish her book and handed it to me. I began reading... Someone killed someone, in some village. Suddenly, in the dialogue, the word "uyobysh" appeared.

At school, classmates still rarely swore - words like "fucking" or "bitch" were very rare, only in extreme emotional moments, and in our class, almost nonexistent. I didn"t expect to see a swear word in a shop-bought book, and I showed it to Aunt Katya. She didn"t believe me at first, then shrugged - "Well, apparently so."

Later, we had a conversation in the train - she explained how to do something, ending with "...and you enjoy it." I already knew the word. Like the ordinary word "pleasure," it was a topic I avoided with my mother - especially with her, and with others, out of paranoia that she might find out.

This is one of the central themes of my biography. My taboo around discussing pleasure with my mother falls under "UCTM" - "uncomfortable topics with mom." This includes death, pain, and soon, girls and sex - a "Yamami dead-end."

The taboo is explained in my diary on 21-22 March: Mother was unhappy, depressed after her abnormal childhood with a sadistic mother, had no personal life, lived through me, and never demonstrated her own pleasures. So it made no sense to show or experience pleasure myself. With her, this theme had no connection, so when such topics appeared on TV or Aunt Katya mentioned them, I pretended not to be interested.

We arrived in Anapa, this time in the city centre, down Astrakhanskaya Street - straight to the park entrance and then the shore with restaurants. The street ran parallel to the rocky shore. We passed a few ordinary private houses like last time, where owners rented rooms. I can"t imagine how people like my mother organised all this - no internet, no websites. Total improvisation.

We ate ice cream on green streets, under a mimosa tree - its leaf curled as expected. I knew that already.

Later, on Turgeneva Street, near Astrakhanskaya, we checked into a private house, a separate room on the dark side, with three beds. Shower and toilet were in the house. We unpacked and went straight to the sea.

We went to the rocky shore, where I hadn"t been. Passing an old cemetery on the south side, we reached a high bank, like a cliff. I immediately went to some bushes and spotted a tiny praying mantis. Seconds later - lizards. Unlike in Engels, the wildlife was close, accessible, elementary - everything I needed for a youth rich in social and sexual experiences, parties, first secret loves - close and elementary for others, unlike me, sitting now, typing it all, like in a prison.

In Engels, except for dachas and wild spots, there was nothing - no mantises, no lizards. Here, in the south, even in the city - a slight deviation, and everything.

Life was lively, human. Swimming on the rocks was torture; we mostly sat on the shore, adjusting to the south. To the left, along the coast, a hill; mother said there was some dolphinarium. Dolphins should have swum in the sea too, but we never saw them close. At the cliff base, lizards ran vertically. They were different - silver and faster than ours. Water trickled down the cliff like a small stream, but mother warned against urinating there: the cemetery was above.

Then we went home for a break before the evening programme.

.:::.

Part 38, Text 2. Evening life in Anapa - park, cafés, an adult magazine, learning about sex, dopamine fantasies about sex, but not fully, trivial episodes of the south.

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Evenings in Anapa were like in Engels, only - maybe because the place was unfamiliar - several times bigger and more civilized. We went out for walks along Astrakhanskaya Street and then down the slanted alley to the sea. There were tons of cafés, music everywhere. Crowds of people - easy to get lost, and of course, no phones.

We mostly ate at home - it seemed you could cook there - but a few times we went out to a café or restaurant in the evening. In the park, there was some building at 22 Naberezhnaya Street, and just a little further from the sea, there was a café under a canopy. It was civilized - not plastic tables and chairs.

I"d been to cafés about ten times in my life, and it"s a special feeling to sit there like a lord, while the waiter brings your dishes and fusses over you. All around were bursts of music, laughter, and the sounds of attractions, while people passed by on the side. There"s a photo of me and my mum at a table there, taken by Aunt Katya. Mum"s face looks like she urgently needed the toilet - we laughed about it at home later. Cameras were film ones, needing development in a studio to get prints.

A little further along the promenade, toward the sandy beach, was an open-air waterpark, and every other day we went to watch people slide down the long slides, screaming. We never actually went in ourselves.

The next morning, we had breakfast at a café at 1 Astrakhanskaya - fries with ketchup.

Fuck, how I wanted to drop all this writing and just finish it. I fucking wanted, goddamn it, to be young and in bed with a girl my age. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears. No release. My goddamn autobiographical suffering. I don"t even know who else would endure such torment just to finish some fucking story. I wrote, teeth clenched.

Later, we went to the sandy beach, stretching for kilometres from the park.

In the first few days, I decided that before leaving I would catch some lizards in a bucket to take home. After that, I don"t remember obsessing over dunes with a naturalist"s zeal. I had no real interest in reptiles anymore - only a hunter"s instinct, like cats chasing anything living. Even that faded. I spent more time on the human part of the beach. And kiss me everywhere, I was already eighteen...

I don"t remember where that magazine came from... There was an unspoken understanding that Aunt Katya was almost on the lookout for a man, maybe one purpose of her trip: to meet someone. More on that later.

The magazine seemed like it might have been hers, but it was too explicit for a shy mouse like her. Most likely, I just found it on a bench in the park. The day before, I"d started reading my book Uncle Fyodor"s Beloved Girl, and Mum told me to stop with that. Well, here"s a replacement - an adult magazine.

It had no explicit photos. I don"t think even breasts were shown - otherwise, Mum, who reacted with puritanical outrage even when I went to a rock concert with a striptease at fifteen, wouldn"t have let me read it. I devoured it. Some days, I even took it to the beach. Everything fascinated me. I started bombarding Mum, and even Aunt Katya, with questions... I suddenly learned that female genitalia isn"t just for peeing, but also connects to a male penis. Apparently, partners sometimes fully undress for this - something films never showed. And the phrase "suck it off" made sense now. I"d always thought it was just crude, an offer no one would ever take - now I learned they do it, and even with desire.

There were some deviations too. Clubs in New York where girls were whipped for money - though with thin leather whips. A "reader questions" section claimed a female reader asked, "I enjoy it when my partner inserts a finger, two is amazing. Is that normal?" The answer: yes. There was a story from a woman about a trip to the sea with her lover, saying she milked him several times a day - even in the sea. There was mention of how she liked the hair on her lover"s penis. And much more I"ve since forgotten. I was blown away.

Some clarifications: First, I didn"t understand a penis was supposed to enter. Second, I didn"t know what orgasm was. Third, I didn"t know the mechanism of sexual stimulation - like exposing the glans. Had I known, I would have freaked out, because I"d feared it. Fourth, I still thought babies came out of the anus. I"ll report more about these discoveries separately... if I can keep writing in this hell. Twenty-three years passed - nothing changed. People were conceived, born, fucked, had kids - even died - and I still read these types of magazines online with the same questions as back then.

A few days after arriving, my ear became severely inflamed - the result of leaning out of the train window. I think we even went to a local clinic, and I walked around like a cripple with my head bandaged. But I recovered quickly.

We went to the rocks again. And back to that café, like lords.

The attractions ran until late at night, maybe longer. We went to watch one not found in Engels or Saratov - called something like "Catapult" or "Kamikaze." People were strapped to elastic cords, pulled like a slingshot, then released, screaming into the sky.

During the day, we went to the city quay corner, descended to the water. There were crabs. On the promenade, an artist drew caricatures - the first time I heard the word.

One evening, we were so familiar with the park that I wandered alone while Mum and Aunt Katya sat in the café. I loved these moments - walking through the evening park alone, among all the adults, couples, and youth. My dopamine spiked with the unconscious hope that something might happen - I might meet someone, get what I dreamed of, maybe even get close to things I constantly thought about. Just like the hope of coming up with a story or plot. Nothing ever came of it, and no acquaintances ever happened - a compulsive dopamine illusion. But it kept me going. Even now, knowing it was all a dopamine trick, I still indulge it.

We were in Anapa for about two weeks, as before. In the second week, Mum and I prepared to leave. I caught a few local lizards, maybe a praying mantis. We saw and finally bought a potted palm, with real stiff leaves and even a short trunk - I loved its exotic look.

Mum bought local private wine, a few bottles, and some bottles of seawater - or maybe that was from past trips. We couldn"t have carried everything otherwise; we had no trolleys or wheeled suitcases. Mum and Grandma Klava had no such culture; they carried everything by hand and suffered.

Later, Mum and I took a minibus further along the main long street parallel to the main beach. We reached a place where a river flowed into the sea, shallow near the beach. We walked upriver through reeds and saw a grass snake.

Towards the end, we walked the quiet streets near where we lived and came to a big hotel with an inner courtyard, balconies, and all that. Mum and I separated from Aunt Katya - went into a hardware store, probably for a bucket for the lizards. Mum liked a broom, so we bought it. While we shopped, Aunt Katya socialised with someone. When we left, she glanced around, and Mum told her, "Go." I think she did. This was tied to her wish to meet someone.

.:::.

Part 38, Text 3. Back on the train - anakom and maggots, new wallpaper in the middle room, Murka asks for a cat, my sexophobia and resulting misogyny, taking Murka to Frunze, the end of the lizards.

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And that was it. We headed home, again by train. The palm, broom, wine, and buckets with lizards - we carried them in parts at the station.

On the train, Mum and I had side berths in the sleeper. Mine was upper. I climbed up once, grabbed the mattress, and fell backwards, hitting my head on the step to the next compartment. Not badly, but Mum remembered it at doctors" appointments and at home. Later, when a bump on my skull protruded in adolescence, she kept wanting to touch it - I refused. First, I hated any anatomical probing, even tiny details like bumps, eyes, or the tip of the penis. Later, I turned it into a game, pretending, "Something seems to be growing," so she"d try and fail to touch it.

The last topic - anakom. It was eaten near our compartment, and this time I felt nauseous - the smell hit me. As I discovered in my diary on 29 June 2001, it was almost certainly the smell of maggots thriving in someone"s rotting food. Very similar to real anakom, but the actual anakom wouldn"t have made me nauseous. Later, when I rediscovered that pasta, no nausea occurred. Back then, it came from a bag of maggots. I kept reading the adult magazine all the way.

We arrived in Saratov by evening. Dad met us in the Niva, we loaded everything, and dropped Aunt Katya near the station in her Khrushchyovka near Stepan Razin Street, close to the children"s park. She appears again in my story next year.

Late that night, we unloaded at home. Wine and seawater went behind the mustard chair - our usual storage. In the middle room, Dad and Grandma Valya put up new wallpaper while we were away. The torn one with Masha Ermakova"s graffiti was gone. It looked neat, but I thought I could live with the torn one. In the cage, Zosya went wild. I placed the lizards, the palm, the adult magazine - that was it.

Next day, normal life resumed with Lev Kassil"s books. I wouldn"t leave Engels or Saratov until adolescence.

Coincidentally, my learning about sex coincided with Murka"s. Especially under Grebenshchikov - she"d lift her ass, shift around, roll on the floor, covered in dust, slime leaking - anyone who saw it knows. Mum bought her a drug called "Antisex," but it didn"t help. I teased her, pinched near her tail. She"d endure a few seconds, then scream and run to roll under the chair where Dad sat drinking wine in the evenings. He said Murka wanted a cat to nuzzle her behind.

These teases were already misogyny born from sexophobia. Even though earlier in the park I wrote about hoping to get closer to sexual experiences... that was only approach. I couldn"t actually do anything. I had an absolute phobic block against exposing my penis or letting anyone touch it. And I didn"t even know about orgasm or arousal yet. The penis, in sex, was supposed to get hard - like mine always did. I didn"t know masturbation, or how far you go mentally with it - to the same state I reached pressing my legs. I would never have done that near another person. This was about losing control, like sleeping near strangers - absolutely impossible. But I didn"t know that yet. I was half-sexophobic - just about contact with another body. And aggressive too - because I was a coward, and others, even women, weren"t. Girls walk around in crop tops, short skirts - all that is readiness for sex. They talk about milking men"s semen. Cats want cats to nuzzle their behinds. But cats are already naked... Watching Murka, my phobias and cowardice intensified, and I tormented her. And yes, it was sadistic, though I didn"t want to hurt her.

This was the second half of August. Mum and I took Murka across the promenade to Grandma Klava. Near the Stella and Eternal Flame, we let her run on the lawns. She climbed a tall mulberry tree - we barely got her down. Then we went to swim at Artyom"s spot. We carried Murka into the water - she swam to shore. It was wild stress - heart pounding, shaking from cold or fear, fur sticking wet, smelling stale.

In Frunze - again, like the balcony story - we let her roam freely, though near our courtyard was Mukhtar and the Petrov"s yard, where she could have easily escaped. Once she did. Mum and I stood near a rubbish area and called her - she was lying in the dry grass. I climbed the fence to get her, but she ran to our gate herself. Later, she learned to return reliably. By that door-mesh, like Barzik, she"d sit and wait to be let in.

Late evenings, like earlier that summer, were Frunze idyll - adults inside, I played outside until midnight: doing flips, challenging the dark, hanging something on the line and trying to hit it like Jackie Chan. This was close to 20 August.

At Lev Kassil, my "living corner" room became depressing. Except mornings, there was never sun. My plants rotted. Wooden shelves reminded me of dead lizards, crushed dolls, and the mantis I slammed against the wall. Everything symbolized decay.

By late August, something disgusting happened: tiny red mites appeared on the lizards, especially their faces. I read they are parasites that attack reptiles. I was utterly disgusted and took the Anapa lizards to the dacha, releasing them - probably with the eggs. These were the last lizards at Lev Kassil, except a couple that weren"t for me. I would soon throw away the rocks and sticks too.

***

.:::.

Part 38, Text 4. Hospital alone - idiots and bastards - humiliation by a Kazakh "shaman" - strange need to attend a different school.

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I had my usual August allergy, though I don"t remember anything serious enough for hospitalisation. It was more of a check-up; my medical record lists it under pollinosis. From the twentieth to the twenty-sixth of August. Back to the children"s city hospital near my home, where I had stayed as a toddler with my mother. This time, though, I was admitted without her.

The hospital has two buildings. I was in the one closest to my home, in a room on some upper floor with a window facing the end of the next long building. I arrived during the day. Three other boys were there. A couple of smaller, more timid ones, younger than me, and a third - a Kazakh my age from some village. I don"t like Kazakhs or Japanese - all these very Asian flat faces, on which I"ve never seen - or maybe just never met - emotions and manners understandable to a Russian. They feel utterly alien. Maybe even Black people don"t seem so alien. Black people were, by the way, extremely rare here; I"d only ever seen a couple in central Saratov.

So, three boys. One against three. I could already feel a conflict brewing - I knew all this. One of the smaller, timid boys was still cheeky. And when there are two thugs, the bullying almost certainly starts - I know this from experience.

I sit on my bed. I"m not planning to interact with these idiots at all. In the last few days, the song "I"m Blue" has been spinning in my head again, and here I am - without tears or the panic of my first day at kindergarten, but still frozen - clinging only to thoughts of home, humming something familiar, and fooling myself into thinking my mother might still be somewhere in the building, on the ground floor, even though hours have passed and she has probably left.

Walking into the shared corridor: rooms on the left, treatment rooms on the right, and the toilet just around the corner. The best thing is to go to the toilet along this corridor; in the far window, lit by the evening sun, I can almost see my house. Were it not for the proximity to home, I would be crying now. The worst part is returning from the toilet to the room and sitting on the bed, stuck there, hour after hour, day after day. Like a prison.

My bed is by the window, and the boys keep coming over, trying to drag me into their stupid boyish conversations, just thinking about which - or even hearing their voices - triggers that kindergarten panic. The more unfamiliar and unnecessary something is, the stronger the panic at being unable to return home.

When a doctor enters and speaks to me, I feel both dread of a procedure and hope that maybe my mother has come. But no - dinner, pills. Partly food from home - and I immediately think of my mother, nearly in tears.

Evening approaches. The corridors are quieter, the staff has changed. Those who interacted with my mother have gone, replaced by new ones who see me like any other boy.

Again, the least cheeky of the three boys comes over, though still bolder than me, and starts talking. He points to a window in the opposite building and says that when it gets dark, if the light is on, nurses will be changing clothes - naked.

Night worsens everything. During the day, there had been subconscious hope that my mother might appear, but now - definitely nothing. Lights on in corridors and rooms. Some bedtime preparations, some nonsense. I want to be home. And then the lights in the rooms go out, most corridor lights too. The glass door to our room is partially closed. Alone with these fucking boys, these alien bastards. First night in life without parents.

Then the roughhousing and boyish topics start. They"re no longer in their beds, gathering somewhere, making noise. Under their voices - impossible to sleep. They go to the window to watch the other window. Judging by their comments, there really are nurses with bare breasts. I pretend to sleep; they leave me alone. I fall asleep, then wake as they sit on my bed, going through my things. I ask them to stop. The bullying begins. Mockery. They"ve figured out I hate them, that I"m this quiet kid who thinks he"s better. I try to take my things back - they take them away. The little Kazakh is their leader. I"m utterly helpless.

There"s an adult in a coat in the corridor, passing by the rooms now and then, which quiets them temporarily. But even complaining would only get my things back - alone with the boys, I"d get it from the Kazakh. So I lie humiliated, turned to the wall. Tears already. Remembering Mum, Murka. None of it exists here - I"m in a different reality. And this will go on for two years.

They hear me sniffle. I, crying, go to the toilet. Disgusting hospital white light, dim too. No nurse. Anything could happen. I prolong my toilet break, just standing there, flushing. Then standing near the toilet. But I have to go back. When an adult walks by, they"ll push me back and probably scold me for not being asleep. Adults can"t know the hell inside the room, the humiliation; they wouldn"t believe the boys are bastards. When the boys hear footsteps, they immediately lie in bed, pretending to sleep. I can do nothing and must somehow sleep. I panic at the thought I can"t stay awake: no night in my life has ever passed without me collapsing asleep. Damn childish body, fuck.

Back in bed, humiliated, mocked. The Kazakh tells the others he"ll make me piss myself. Nothing yet. Quiet. I try not to sleep, but I do. Thoughts of home, the gymnasium, the boys, their voices, water. Then a childish sensation: warmth in my underwear, relief. Eyes open - I"ve pissed myself. The boys are at the bedside; the Kazakh pours water from one glass to another. Mega-shame. I seek a nurse. Heart racing, face swollen from crying. Totally destroyed. Humiliated beyond belief. Everything mixed: breasts, cocks, Asians, bodily loss of control, separation from Mum, hospital, procedures, urine. The nurse starts changing my clothes, carries a sheet. All visible to other rooms. Shame. How to live after this?

Morning. Sun in the room. Tests: urine, blood. The boys keep mocking. Reunion with Mum. I complain, cry. When she leaves, a doctor enters, telling them to stop. The Kazakh abruptly changes tone, as if to say, "I don"t know why you"re mad at him," and tells the others, "I"ll be friends with him," shaking my hand. The others follow his mood. He really does start being friendly; we even play, as if last night never happened. The next night - nothing. The following nights - nothing. They stop bothering me. But each night, pretending to sleep, I lie frozen, occasionally weeping quietly. They probably hear but no longer care; they don"t even go to look at the nurses. When their chatter prevents sleep, I go alone to that window - yes, the nurses are there - and tears flow even more, homesick and missing Mum. I still try to linger in the corridor near home as long as possible, day and night.

I don"t recall why - Mum never went deep into the details anyway - but this school year, fifth grade, I was supposed to start at Engels" thirty-third school.

Most likely, as I understood at the time, I had been kept in the gymnasium thanks to bribes passed by Uncle Seryozha through some employee of the Engels city administration, and by this year Mum hadn"t managed to arrange it.

Still, obsessed with Katya Ilyina, unlikely to handle a full transition, and with the thirty-third school feeling like a sewer - Mum, I guess, reassured me, and returning to the gymnasium was just a matter of time.

.:.

___Part 39.

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________________ Autumn 2002. Fifth grade.

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Part 39, Text 1. A few days at thirty-third school - music school for guitar - practicing at home.

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Our generation skipped fourth grade - so now it was straight to fifth.

I basically didn"t understand why I was at school - especially here. But I had to go, that"s how the system worked, and although I didn"t know what the consequences would be, it was clear that Mum, even if she wanted, couldn"t not take me to school.

I remember almost nothing of those few days at the thirty-third, except that I was in a kind of daze, not talking to anyone except one boy - a mix of proper nerd and a plodding, phlegmatic, thick-boned type no one took seriously. He wore an old man"s short-sleeved shirt with a pocket and had the most pathetic results in PE. I talked to him because no one else did. Typical behaviour of helpless empaths: when we can"t save ourselves, we try to save others, often those who don"t need it. This boy was exactly that.

Those few days were unusual also because Mum enrolled me in Engels" music school for guitar. I had a proper Engels life and, given the proximity of the schools, an independent one. Morning - I went to the cursed thirty-third to meet this old-boy type, afternoon - back home, then off alone to music school.

Including later gymnasium days, I went to music school maybe six times. It started with the past summer being fairly musical - Grebenshchikov"s "Terrarium," other albums, flamenco guitarist Armik - and, like my father, I was fascinated by Johnny Depp with a guitar (though for me, not the guitar, but his appeal to women, his looks). Mum must have wanted to try it.

It was tricky: starting classical music (only classical was taught) at nine was slightly late, as with many other skills if aiming seriously. I had always imagined myself a professional from childhood, like with drawing or terrarium-building. I knew those who become outstanding usually start at three to six. At six, I was only into leg-squeezing; only now did I systematically start a skill.

The music school had three floors: a spacious ground-floor hall with staff and waiting parents, red carpet runners along corridors, and a basement - which I"d only learn about in adulthood. My teacher, a woman resembling the strict maths teacher appearing that year at the gymnasium, in a grey jacket and puritan grey skirt, started me on a simple exercise-melody on mostly open first strings. It required precise wrist positioning, all that academic rigour. We discussed buying a classical guitar; she advised on options.

At home, evenings, on my father"s old yard guitar - with a wide neck and worn nylon strings - I practised the exercise. Sitting on a chair by the stove, my father in the mustard armchair, giving tips while picking his nose. Suddenly, moving my fingers on the frets, I pressed something soft - my father"s goat. The guitar smelled of his armpit; he never used creams, only sprayed cologne. He was and remains like the protagonist of "Dallas Buyers Club," terrified of being gay. Yet he never acted macho - at work he endlessly talked about Krylov, the eunuch and ladies" charmer.

In those evenings, still from summer, sitting in the mustard chair, starting to understand adult humour and sexual innuendo, I became engrossed in reading jokes in free newspapers with TV listings. One joke had the phrase "without complexes." From then, I started using "complexed" in my thoughts - that"s how I described myself.

***

.:::.

Part 39, Text 2. Returning to Gymnasium - Arkadakskaya Valentina Yuryevna - new classmates - Ilya Zemskov - resuming stalking Katya - me and musical instruments.

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Something had happened behind the scenes, and I, with the feeling of waking from anaesthesia and returning home, went to the gymnasium.

Everything had changed with fifth grade - different teachers now ran the lessons, and we had to move from class to class like older students, checking the schedule on the wall on the first floor, where the cloakroom was.

The first lesson I arrived at was also on the first floor - it had already started, I was slightly late and went in, shaking hands on the way with those I was close to, except for Guzhik. We didn"t shake hands with him. I immediately noticed some new boy.

Instead of Svetlana Gennadyevna, the class teacher was now Arkadakskaya Valentina Yuryevna, and she taught only Russian and literature. She had graduated university in "97, so she was about twenty-seven at the time. Tall, long-limbed, light eyes, light brown hair, short haircut, reminding me of Ivanushka from Morozko. When I told my father her surname, he understood that she was the daughter of his university lecturer. Later, she learned about this small coincidence, and I thought it might help me win her favour. Still, it wasn"t worth hoping too much: she was hot-tempered, hysterical - it was obvious immediately. It was easy to imagine her throwing a scene, smashing dishes. In this regard, she was far more overt than, say, my mother, whom no outsider could imagine having a tantrum. There would be no grading favours from her: in my fifth-grade diary, preserved for Russian and literature, there were even some twos, and most importantly, many notes saying "not prepared for class," which was odd, considering the fierce kitchen dynamics at home.

The math teacher was Olga Viktorovna. A classic math teacher: about forty-five, dark-haired, hair parted in the middle, slicked back into a ponytail, dressed in strict grey clothing, walking around the classroom with a pointer, speaking in strict academic tones. She gave us twos generously, but she was strictly professional, not mean - in informal chats or even in class, she could joke. She emphasised the second syllable in my surname.

The C-grade classmates Belyakov and Kryuchkov were gone. Sonya Morzherina was definitely there, playing the violin. And in this class - maybe mid-year - Elizaveta Kostina appeared. She was a slender, fair-haired girl, with a bit of an overdose of Nicole Kidman-style beauty. Like, instead of candy, it was just sugar, and burnt at that. Exaggerated beauty features. In adulthood, she became a normal pretty girl, and judging by social media, in youth she became friends with that first beauty, Dubinina, who got broader with age.

But the main one for me was the new boy I immediately noticed - Ilya Zemskov. His facial features and type were a mix of the actor who played Cal in Titanic and contemporary gymnast champion Nikita Nagorny. Aggressive, angry-looking features. I don"t perceive Nagorny as aggressive after Ilya - it was Ilya, from the first moment, who seemed aggressive, probably due to his resemblance to Cal and some other faces from TV and life.

Our main class - Russian and literature lessons - was in a new wing, probably on the third floor, and it matched the tense atmosphere set by Valentina Yuryevna - facing the main courtyard with lawns, without sunlight.

Fifth grade generally comes back to me as gloomy. The day I returned was still overcast, as I remember. But in the following days, the sun returned, and the first weeks of this class were very positive. Father drove me in the Niva again, with Pedro Gomz and Brat Isay playing. On days we weren"t in the car, Mom and I would stop by a music store near the conservatory and stare at classical guitars along the way.

Sneaking up to Guzhik with "you"re a vada," as I had planned, wasn"t possible due to my return circumstances - and by then I knew I wouldn"t: in our half-friendly relationship, it would have been inappropriate.

We resumed stalking Katya in the first days. Everything followed the same routine as I described in spring - following her with her grandmother home, then waiting for something. We annoyed her a lot.

I couldn"t establish whether it was at the start or end of the previous grade that we had roped in Arik, because it was before lessons, not after, and I didn"t remember the morning atmosphere well. Most likely, it was in this grade - September was warm, and the morning felt like midday.

We agreed to meet as a trio, walked to her house, hiding behind a small Khrushchyovka - Beloglinskaya 15A. Ahead was a nine-storey building, and I envied whoever lived here, in central Saratov, not in damn Engels. Then Katya came out with her grandmother - my hunting dopamine surged; of the three of us, I was the most obsessed with what we were doing, even though it was just following them. They went along Volskaya, and Guzhik and I tried to lag slightly, so she wouldn"t notice. We ran pole to pole again.

At some point, we fell far behind, and our backpacks, now like weights, annoyed us - the road was steep - so we hung them on reliable Arik. The two of us caught up to Katya at the right distance, waving to Arik not to lag - he was already far below.

The start of this class is associated with the renovations in the corridors of the new wing, with only one window - facing the yard with the staircase - and the sense of camaraderie. The feeling that once the damn lessons were over, we"d go out to the even hotter yard - and something interesting involving the girls, Katya, would happen. The excitement and illusions in those days were so strong that her real attitude toward us didn"t matter.

There were tag games like in the previous class, but less frequent.

At some point, kids stopped sucking their thumbs.

As for music... Maybe because that room also housed a department we often used, we"d been visiting that music store in the conservatory building from our earliest trips to Saratov, along with the music sections in the Elektronika store on Chapaeva and Moskovskaya, where in first grade we bought a pterodactyl, and a mini music section at the same electronics store on Lev Kassil - it was the main place I saw instruments and similar goods. Stage speakers covered in black felt, shiny drums, chrome details on guitars - all lit from below with stage lights - still created that special, childhood-impressing atmosphere. But it impressed me in a childish way, purely visually - like the guitars interested me only as part of Johnny Depp"s image. Essentially, the musician"s equipment reminded me of Agutin, his Hop Hey Lala-Ley, or flamenco artist Armik - wavy-haired, funny, phlegmatic men, nothing like my family"s circle. Songs my father played on guitar also belonged to this "phlegmatic" category - even Who"s to Blame That You"re Tired, for instance... Some blues note, an elderly jazz chromaticism... Songs from Grebenshchikov"s album or the band Vykhod were closer to me. But even there, what felt "mine," especially at first, was more about unique, intricate melodies and stickiness in memory. (My benchmarks: the main song from Bremen Town Musicians, Vanessa Mae"s Contradanza, and Mozart"s Turkish March.) All of this was "mine," yes, but it wasn"t what I was mainly about... I was about the sad music from The Lion King, Titanic, Splin"s No Way Out, and Bi-2"s My Rock "n" Roll - often played on the radio, catching my ear. And because of those early associations with the "la-la-hey" stuff and not knowing how my favourite music was created or performed live, I didn"t associate musical instruments in these stores with it. From the conservatory windows, once we saw Sonya Morzherina with a violin - I heard nothing close to what I felt was close. I played in music class, and according to the notation book, I would have continued playing nonsense. Heavy electric guitar sound - I rarely heard it, maybe in Splin or on Saratov TV in Avtodrom about car sales, with a riff from the start of Money for Nothing by Dire Straits (I didn"t know any titles), or in music intros to Buffy, Mortal Kombat, and Spider-Man - and such sound did attract me, but I didn"t know it was played on a guitar. I knew practically nothing. Without the internet, life was entirely different.

In short - no luck: I didn"t find what I wanted in the guitar, so I quit music school.

.:::.

Part 39, Text 3. German and how nobody spoke any foreign language - hot-blooded chase - meeting the Guzhviys at the beach.

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From this grade, there was an additional language choice - German or French. Father said, "Take French... though I don"t know it either," as if he knew some other foreign language. I didn"t want either - not because they were uninteresting, but because I realised it would be a waste of time. Even two or three English lessons a week gave me nothing; what could one or two more lessons of another language do? Only provide a basic idea, maybe.

I not only thought learning foreign languages was pointless for me, I saw that others made no progress either. Sure, top students could compose words correctly and answer the teacher"s questions, but I couldn"t picture them speaking. Most importantly, I couldn"t picture the teacher speaking. No English teacher in my childhood ever spoke English. Of course, they had no one to speak to in class except us, and with us - only the most primitive. But the fact that they didn"t speak led me to believe - and by the end of school, I still thought - that English teachers, all these tutors, simply knew grammar and word translations, teaching only that. I never saw a Russian person speak English until I was twenty-one. So in childhood, I had no idea how to actually speak. I assumed we were just shown the structure of the language, and maybe if we went abroad, something would happen with speaking. If I had once seen a Russian explaining themselves to a foreigner, I would have been amazed, and everything could have been different. Though maybe only towards greater complexes. I wouldn"t understand them better - I can"t learn a subject without personal practical need, especially competing with other boys for girls" attention, which school was for me. Not seeing speaking made me blissful. Hence, I had zero enthusiasm for learning that damn English.

Choosing an additional language was simple - Guzhik and I just found out where Katya went and went the same way - German. I hated it. Its only pleasant association was my cozy winter Frunze under Komissar Rex, otherwise it was just grey, like our home dictionary, with fascists and their helmets. Lessons were extremely boring. I remember when we learned the word schwarz, Yerokin thought of Schwarzenegger. I also thought it spelled Schwarzeneg. Ermakova and Dubinina, by the way, took French.

No mythology or choreography anymore. History appeared. Soon we studied human castes, and I understood it well - even got an A in my diary, unlike the latter half of the year and following grades, when feudal systems and confusing shit started, and I stopped paying attention altogether.

Music was now in a separate class, on the first floor, opposite the cafeteria. We sang a song strongly associated in my mind with school, desks, and academic strictness - Hot-Blooded Chase. A cool melody, if abstracted from the school and Soviet associations the song carried for me. Actually, I already liked it because it reminded me of something past. On the words "and there is no rest for us", on "rest", the chord change mirrored Morozko"s music. Don"t precede this song with Morozko - otherwise I might feel nothing special.

In early September, on the first or second weekend, Mom and I went to Mostootryad, into the forest. Sunny but cool, in a sweater. No more lizards, but I still took a jar for insects, caught someone, and collected some cones for Zosa.

Returning via the dam, we reached the beach. Nobody was there except a group at the far end - it was the Guzhviys. We waved, went down, and naturally joined them. There was Guzhvi, his mother, father, and grandmother. Guzhvi never told me at school that they came to Engels beach - apparently they were regulars, even in autumn - the only people on the whole beach.

Mom chatted with them. I could tell she had little in common - it was always about getting me to socialise. The weather was warm enough to strip to our underwear; Guzhik and I ran in the sand, playing. We waded knee-deep and splashed.

Some people arrived later, including an adult guy. He ran and dived. Seeing him, we followed. Guzhik - as I said, he could easily talk to strangers - shouted at him: "Don"t slow down - Snickers it!" The guy laughed. I didn"t get it. I knew it was from a Snickers ad, but I didn"t get why it was funny.

Then Guzh and I walked along the shore. The central part of the beach was deserted, a fenced-off paid section reaching into the water, but we somehow bypassed it.

We reached the other end of the beach, where I used to come with my parents, where the little sisters were, where it all began. There was a rather tall - three-storey - structure like a tower, from which a large inflatable slide was lowered in summer. The tower had levels, and there was no ladder to the first; we climbed using the pipes like ropes. The floor was wooden.

We sat there, chatted about Katya, with the bridge and Saratov in the distance. Finally, it was what I dreamed of - no lessons, no worries, no ten-minute school break limits. It felt like there would be tons of this in the future - that"s why we live.

The first floor of the tower was over two metres high; we planned to jump. I knew I would jump, so I didn"t compete, letting him go first. He landed like a sack, rolled onto his side. A drama queen, true to form.

I regretted we found out about the Guzhviys at the beach so late. It was the first and last meeting at the beach that year.

.:::.

Part 39 text 4. Biology and the stupidity of schooling,,, sexual obsession,,, nearly stabbed myself with a knife,,, Sergei Bodrov Jr. avalanche,,, into the forest for mushrooms and we poisoned the squirrel Zosya.

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In this class we started biology, and, as should already be clear, I showed almost no interest in it. What interested me was aesthetics - the shapes, the lush colouring of green iguanas, palms, ferns - as well as the emotions and the adrenaline of surviving in the tropics and in nature. But I had absolutely no interest in the biological genesis of any of it, nor in how this nature actually exists. And again - there"s that whole topic of the stupidity of education. I remember how the lessons went. No one tells you why, what for you"re about to learn something. You"re just supposed to open the book - and learn it for some reason. First molecules, then cells. Just fucking hell. Absolutely a dead end, at least with me. The only way I could have been educated was through reductionism. You"d have to wait until I developed a genuine interest in something several levels above molecules - at the level of everyday human life. And then I would have come to the teacher with that question - and he would have led me down the levels: from sociology into psychology, from psychology into psychiatry, from psychiatry into biology, and so on. But education was arranged in exactly the opposite way.

And now I did have an interest - and not just sincere, but all‑consuming. One day I even dragged that magazine to school and showed it to someone. During some break before maths, which was in the farthest old section on the second floor, on the sunny side.

There were days when we boys - and not just with Guzhik, actually with him less than others, because he didn"t show much interest in the topic - were massively enlightening one another about sex. It felt like everyone had learned about it over the past summer. As if we were all now showing off who knew more about it.

Swear words became more frequent, only now they weren"t just swearing - they were already concrete, understood things. And through all of this it was obvious that out of all the boys in the class I was the most obsessed with the subject.

In discussions about sex, when I, for instance, showed someone that magazine, Korolyov would just laugh, the way he still laughs now on YouTube - I mean, good‑naturedly. He"d laugh and move on. The straight‑A student Boldyrev would simply comment calmly: "Well, tits are tits, cunt is cunt. What"s the big deal?" Their reactions didn"t satisfy me, and I kept carrying my obsession from one classmate to another.

It turned out Arik knew the most. It was he who said during a break in the English classroom that if you put your dick into a cunt, the woman gets pregnant. That"s how children are made, and it turned out my father had been talking nonsense about Murka and rubbing against her backside. And Arik, I think, also told me about condoms and what they were. I walked around stunned. What discoveries. I sat there looking at this young English teacher and trying to process that apparently in this world it"s possible for something like that to happen - that she would be naked, and a man would be naked, and the man would stick his cock into her. Fucking hell.

At home I asked my parents: "What if you piss into a cunt?" I still hadn"t understood that the dick has to get hard - otherwise I wouldn"t have asked, since I knew you can"t piss with it standing up. Mum said: "Well, you just have to go to the toilet first." Fucking hell. What a mess.

Mum kept taking me out for walks - sometimes into the forest, sometimes just down to the embankment. Apart from school I had nothing to do, no acquaintances. At home I spent all my time, except for homework, in front of the TV.

One time I took that knife of mine that I used to throw in the summer, and we left the house and went somewhere as usual along Khalturina Street. I started throwing it at the first trees we passed. I lagged behind and Mum walked on ahead. And after throwing it for a while I ran to catch up with her. She had turned around and was standing there waiting. And I tripped and fell with the knife in my hand. I didn"t cut myself and didn"t smash myself up, but when I reached Mum she took it from me and a couple of houses later along our route she threw it over a wooden fence into the yard of the house at Khalturina thirty‑seven. Later we came back there several times and I looked through the gaps - maybe it was still lying there. We never got it back.

On the twentieth of September the news on TV started talking about Bodrov, about an avalanche - the searches had begun. I couldn"t imagine what that meant - could it really be kilometres of ice as thick as a multi‑storey building? I sat on the bed in the living room in front of the television.

And on Sunday, the twenty‑second, the three of us - and we took Murka along as well - drove in the Niva, like in summer, to that place beyond Grandfather"s dacha where there"s the river, and mushrooms. At first we got out before reaching the place itself, and saw a dead grass snake on the slope. All of this already under an autumn sky, and it was strange that grass snakes would still be crawling around. Then we stopped at our usual spot on the bare slope and opened the car doors. We let Murka walk around nearby. I went down to the water, maybe fished - it was something like a picnic, as usual. And suddenly Murka disappeared. She wasn"t in the car, not under the car. There were no trees or bushes near the car, only down below by the water, and we went down searching and calling her for about fifteen minutes. We already thought - that"s it, fuck. And then I bent even lower under the car and saw that she wasn"t on the ground but sitting on some metal bar under the bottom of the car.

Before leaving we went into a spruce forest and picked mushrooms there.

We thought they were champignons. They might actually have been champignons. Because later I saw that something was wrong with Zosya"s teeth, as if there had already been some illness. We gave her a bit of those mushrooms anyway. And a couple of hours later she began behaving strangely, couldn"t find a place for herself, and then climbed into her little birdhouse. It could be opened from above. I opened it and she was already lying there, oddly on her side. I was filming it on the video camera - there"s a recording. I touched her, lifted her up while she was still alive, but she was barely breathing already, and there were those crumbling teeth of hers. Then I understood everything and burst into tears. I kept lamenting that in the last few months I had hardly given her any attention. I should have given her to someone long ago. Now I"d ruined an entire mammal. We threw away the mushrooms we had already fried and were about to eat. It was already late evening, I kept crying, and Father put her in a bag and left. Later he said he had buried her "in the naval way". I figured he had thrown her into the Volga. Well, he probably made it up to distract me.

Bodrov wasn"t saved either. The channels started showing films with him. There was a trailer for some film where he smeared himself with fat and then swam across a sea. And I still hadn"t seen Brother, only heard about it, and it was something very lad‑ish.

Murka started getting fat - pregnant.

.:::.

Part 39 text 5. Fight with Zemskov,,, gloom and I see no point in studying.

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So one day we had a lesson in a classroom in the new section facing the small inner courtyard. It was an overcast day, the lights were on in the classroom. The teacher had gone somewhere, and for a while there was the usual racket of everyone talking with everyone else. My desk was the very last one in the row by the window, but I had gone up to the first desk and was fooling around with Katya Ilyina and her neighbour who sat there. I had already become tolerable to Katya and her circle, and at least I could fool around with them. I mean, none of them took me seriously and they didn"t even look me in the eye, but they listened to the nonsense I talked and sometimes giggled. Katya sat half‑turned backwards, and I stood leaning on the second desk, where that newcomer Zemskov was sitting. I was also brave because he was new and I had been here since the very beginning - an old‑timer. Meaning there was also an element of me wanting to show off to him that I could easily talk to girls here.

But in those first days he must have already counted up my fool‑of‑the‑village reputation, and with those traits of his - a bit like Kel and Nikita Nagorny - he was generally a hooligan type. So he picked up a textbook and started smacking me on the head with it again and again. We hadn"t even spoken once before that. I kept talking to Katya with a stupid grin, pretending I didn"t care. Probably someone like Elchin, in my place, after the very first hit - if anyone would even dare smack him like that in the first place - would have said to the bully: "What the hell are you doing?" And the way he would have said it, the bully would almost certainly have stopped, and if by ignorance he had continued - he would immediately have got the shit beaten out of him. But Elchin had no doubts that he would be needed by someone as a man in the future. And I fell into my demonstrative self‑flagellation test - out of resentment that I was unnecessary to anyone, both now and, as it already seemed to me, in the future. Would Katya protest that someone was doing bullshit to me? Or did she not care about me, just as I thought?

Zemskov, also cheerful - only sincerely cheerful, with the joy of a moron having fun smashing up some object he"s found lying around ownerless - had already landed about fifteen hits on me. If Katya had told him, "Hey, what are you doing?", I too would calmly have turned to him and said, "That"s enough." But as I expected, she didn"t care, and probably even found it funny. So I turned and smashed him in the eye with all my strength. Katya and her neighbour stopped giggling, Zemskov held his eye, and I walked away with a proud stride. The teacher came back at once and the lesson began.

During the lesson Zemskov kept turning around and looking at me the way a killer looks at a victim - at someone who is about to become a corpse anyway - that is, already without any emotion. When the bell rang for the break, the teacher left and we were packing up, he started walking toward me between the desks. Until the very last fraction of a second I underestimated his obvious intention to settle things with me. After all, he had started it, and had kept viciously smacking me with the textbook while I wasn"t resisting. But apparently he believed he was right from beginning to end, because gathering all his strength he began beating me, now with his fists. I instantly ended up on the floor. It didn"t last long: seeing that I wouldn"t be able to do anything anymore from the pain, he soon satisfied himself and walked away.

After that I cried there terribly and unbelievably shamefully. It was the first truly brutal fight in our class, it was straight‑up a fight to destroy someone, and I was the one destroyed. And no one in the gymnasium had probably cried as hard as I did. Like a kid on his first day in kindergarten. Because of the way I was crying there, there was a commotion - they might have taken me to the medical room, I don"t even remember. The matter reached the headmistress, and in the evening they told Mum.

We were walking down the street and she was in a nervous panic. She kept repeating: "It will all resolve itself." She meant that this might become the final straw in the difficulty of keeping me in the gymnasium - they might decide to expel me, and her torment of paying for me, whatever way she was paying through Uncle Seryozha, would finally fall away by itself. She wanted that to happen at last, because every year I was becoming harder to deal with, but she couldn"t give up herself, couldn"t simply let me go and let whatever happened to me happen. Over time she would increasingly move into this tendency of pushing herself and situations to the brink, just so that an overload, a breakdown would occur, and the pain would dissolve by itself in the death of everything all at once. By people"s accounts this trait had always been part of her character; it was just that before there had almost been no reasons for it to surface.

The next day, in the middle of some lesson, Zemskov and I were called to the headmistress. We answered some questions, even acted out a little scene as if we had made peace, and were sent back to class. We walked silently down the empty corridor on the first floor toward the third staircase.

For Zemskov that fight had been enough, and there was no longer any need for aggression - he had forever established himself as someone you"d better not mess with. He wasn"t a top student, and soon he started hanging out with everyone - both the first‑tier kids and, later, with me, Guzhik and Arik. I ended up talking with him like with an ordinary companion. And with time I stopped thinking about that fight and only remembered it when I looked at Zemskov or thought about him.

That was the beginning of a gloomy school year in every respect - above all in the studying itself. The lessons became difficult, cluttered with all sorts of bullshit. For instance, besides the standard Russian textbook they introduced another small one called a "manual", and the tasks in it were harder. My grades were mostly threes.

Plus there was the morning shift, Father was somewhere until evening - he only drove me there, and Mum picked me up. So again there was that weight on my chest about returning home. Again the two of us alone there until evening, again those grey three‑o"clock afternoons, the swaying crumbling poplars on the other side of the window and the viburnum rowans on this side. A couple more episodes remain in memory, I"ll get to them later. We, by the way, called homework "lessons", and Mum would playfully shorten it even further - "lessies", the irony being what a nightmare hid behind that word. After school you"ve had lunch, finished your tea... You sit in the living room... A crushing oppressive weight of anticipation... And then it comes, from the kitchen: "Lessies!" And you go to the kitchen with a smile, and half an hour later your whole face is soaked with tears.

I absolutely saw no point in school, education, profession or work - in a world where private property exists. I already consciously understood that I was simply wasting time; I didn"t need this school at all. That school is just a mechanism of a system which uses people, imposing on them values and life meanings that the system itself needs first of all.

For life in this world - for survival - what I need isn"t education but surplus property of my own, something that only has to be formed once. And to form it, judging by multiple factors already, including those I spoke about exactly a year ago, I saw that you don"t need to study for twenty years.

All this thinking had always been with me. From the very beginning of the biography, what did I dream about? Simply to have everything I need right away - and that"s it. Not to work. And the fact that I sold tulips and returned bottles wasn"t about work - it was about accumulating surplus. My relationship with my parents was such that I couldn"t imagine them ever stopping supporting me and leaving me to survive on my own. So any earning was automatically about accumulating surplus.

And not only because of that, of course. However you look at it, common sense suggested that you should accumulate - and then live carefree, doing what you love. I couldn"t see how the hobbies I had already had could ever be work. There were many factors that strengthened this thinking in me, and I grew to hate education and the system. Even the mere threat of the army if I studied badly immediately made the system an enemy.

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___Part 40.

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Part 40 text 1. Visiting Grandma Klava,,, that damn "You in the Army" song,,, Nagiev"s debut,,, Grandpa barely around,,, gloomy Saint Petersburg,,, woodwork lessons.

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Mom and I occasionally went to see Grandma Klava, and on one of the better channels they sometimes played this song. Judging by the video, it"s about the army, but all I hear are the words: "You in the amina." That song plunges me into depression. A song that destroys every childhood expectation of a decent life when I grow up - from living in a villa like in Santa Barbara, with palm trees and sun everywhere, to hanging out with the Guzhiks and doing favourite activities without a care in the world. Instead, I"m supposed to wrap my legs in puttees and live in a green barracks for two years with village morons like that Kazakh-shaman from the hospital in August. Meanwhile, Boldyrev, Erokin, and maybe even Zemskov are out there, in the centre of attention of girls who have no problem being naked around them, and might actually go live or study abroad. I cried through my entire childhood in clinics. Childhood was tension with Mom over vermicelli soups on L"va Kassilya street. I was never interesting to a single girl. All my pets died. And after all this miserable shit - and as if it"s my fault that I hate school, that I"m smart and see the system"s bastardry, by whose mechanisms I ended up here - I"m still supposed to go into a shitty grey-green prison for two years?

On another channel - TNT - a strange show called Windows started. Something my father would have switched off immediately. Trash being taken out of houses, family disputes aired. Married people and their lovers could sit on two couches opposite each other, and sometimes conflicts erupted live in the studio, leading men to rush in and break things up. I was drawn to the host - Dmitry Nagiev. Perfect looks, perfect hair length and style, forehead, glasses. Always in an open jacket. This is exactly how one should look if living a Santa Barbara life.

Grandpa - unclear: either he"d moved out or would just drop by occasionally. His stuff filled the garage. Grandma Klava seemed indifferent to his comings and goings - I never saw her ask him to stay. But she became more depressive; she"d drift easily into that crying I mentioned when she and Mom had disagreements while we were there.

During this time, I stayed with Grandma Klava for some weekends, doing those damn lessons at the table in the hall - and at some point she gave me a hard spanking, and then when Grandpa came home later, seeing me already crying and hopeless at the homework, and her going at me again with the belt, he intervened and took it from her.

Our class was taken to the Officers" House near Lipki, and in a dark hall there was a hologram exhibit - three-dimensional figures seemingly floating in air through some lighting trick. On a very rainy day, we all walked back to the gym through Lipki.

I always thought this was in Valentina Yuryevna"s nervous class, but most likely it was first grade - instead of some lesson we watched the Disney film Lady and the Tramp. Just grey, depressive days, remembered from fifth grade.

Another time - definitely in Valentina Yuryevna"s class - we watched a film about Lomonosov. That"s when I first began to imagine what Saint Petersburg was like - this northern city in our country. I slowly realized that Italians in Russia, a film I had watched as a child, was set there; in the film, it was called Leningrad. I had thought it was somewhere in the south, since they dived into the river there. The world map on my wall was only for the Western Hemisphere.

And thinking about this cold, vile "northern Venice," I didn"t want to think at all. It was already cold and gloomy. In this class, there would be a lot about northern discomfort, old buildings, separation from parents. Then came that "You in the amina" song, soon "Black Chicken," Harry Potter - in short, hellish class. I obsessively jerked off over various exams again.

Woodwork lessons now took place in a semi-basement floor, the same one where I"d confessed love to Katya in the gym. At the end of the corridor was a classroom with rough wooden benches, small windows high on the side wall to the backyard, and constant light. Smelled of wood and shavings - we only worked with wood. The lesson was taught by an older man in a blue apron and beret. Despite his decorous appearance, he wasn"t strict, and amused Guzhik and me just by being himself. But he wasn"t dumb. Woodwork was a relief from the terror of maths and Russian lessons.

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Part 40 text 2. End of terrarium obsession,,, end of the Niva,,, minor events,,, TV series Two Fates,,, Murka gives birth,,, Kamasutra and shame.

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Out of habit and for lack of other interests, Mom and I would visit pet shops after school. One was on the way from the square to the gymnasium - at 27 Gorky Street, at the intersection with Kirov. Once we went in and there was an iguana. A full-grown one, sold with a terrarium, priced at forty thousand rubles. Forty thousand could buy a domestic car. It felt like a joke. We went a few times just to look. Later, a young iguana appeared, already at a more reasonable price.

At home, Mom and I constantly argued - I did something wrong, she"d stop speaking to me, and I"d stand by the kitchen doorway where she cooked, repeating over and over: "Forgive me, Mom, please? Forgive me. I won"t do it again. Forgive me, huh? Mom, please. Mom, oh Mom..." - for hours, until she let it go. Over time, "Mom" shortened to "Ma," and after a couple of years, permanently to "Me," spoken short, like a hiccup, which idiots watching my videos online perceived as perversion or a symptom of some disorder. This was rooted in our shared self-irony about these scenes. Eventually, I got so obsessed with this "ma"-chanting that Mom, playing along with her non-response for so long, would start laughing, and I"d join in triumphantly: "Aha! Yes!" - we reconciled, back to mother-son idyll.

One day, standing there whining and unable to get her to relent, and though the iguana purchase wasn"t seriously considered yet, she said: "No iguana." Meaning she was seriously considering buying one and probably would, just using this trick so I"d repent, and she"d return what she cancelled as a reward. At that moment, I thought: "I don"t even need this iguana." That was the end of my terrarium obsession.

The Niva was ending. I went to the garage in summer, saw stacks of junk, and didn"t go back. Dad took it from home - either drove from the garage or it was just left below. Now they decided to sell it. Mom started saving money. The Niva cost about seventy thousand. She had a little more saved. They could get something for the garage too. Minimum prices for a studio in SZhF apartments in Saratov - enough for my registration near the gymnasium - were at least two hundred thousand, though tiny and run-down. Our three-room in Engels was five hundred thousand, a normal one-room in Saratov - three hundred fifty to four hundred thousand.

In October there was a nationwide census. A neighbour, possibly the same one who came in summer about funeral collections, maybe the local chairwoman, came to our apartment, sat at the kitchen table, asked Mom questions, and recorded answers. She asked our nationality; Mom said: "Russian."

Aunt Lena, with her daughter Masha, worked nights at school 33. Mom and I went there in the evenings, entered the gym, I ran and swung on the hanging rope, laid mats, and did Erokin"s flips. Potted plants no longer interested me.

On October 14, Two Fates began on Channel One. Because I associated myself with the character Mark - called unseriously "Marik" - the show felt like an entire era to me, though it ran only twenty episodes until November 5. My first adult series. Complicated family intrigue - I already understood it properly. Early "90s, Moscow. Half the characters were EMGU officers, with fancy apartments. Bedroom scenes... mostly oldsters cuddling and chatting, but a few with young main characters - full-on, tits, and beautiful actresses.

The main heroine - a mix of modest Masha Ermakova and bold Katya Ilyina - had Mark attached to her from about the fifth episode. He was glasses-wearing, dark-haired, unwanted by anyone. Yet even he was way cooler than me - a pianist, Muscovite, decent. And she didn"t care. She hoped for some young man from the army, missing in Afghanistan, or something like that. Several events happened in October; I"ll pause here to keep the chronology.

We had a box with soft bedding ready in the hallway, and around mid-October, Murka jumped into my bed early morning and woke me. She curled up, lifting her back leg. I immediately moved her gently into the box. Mom came, and we sat by her while she gave birth. Three kittens came out - two black, one grey. Mom supported her the whole time, as did I, but she seemed in deep thought. In the first moments after the kittens emerged, she said something about a bucket of water, about drowning the kittens. Dad was there and got upset. Mom stopped herself, clarifying she meant it"s just a practice. She viewed everything practically, but any problem, especially domestic, threw her into neurotic panic. In this case - now four cats, I"d get attached and not give them away, would have tantrums, and who"d take them? I had to study. Where would we feed them? The whole apartment would be covered in hair. Total neurosis. We set up a lamp for warmth; I went to school.

One evening, while parents ate, I was on the big bed in the living room, watching Two Fates. One scene: a rich guy, living in a Stalin-era building, invited the main young heroine to his apartment and, to seduce her, gave her a Kamasutra book to leaf through. I had seen such books in stores and, with recent knowledge, already understood the content. I deliberately giggled louder to show parents I grasped adult themes. Mom shouted from the kitchen: "What"s that book?" I said: "Kamastura." She corrected: "Kamasutra." I already looked grown-up - and instantly, that was humiliating.

The heroine in the scene, flipping the book, looked at the waiting seducer and began undressing erotically, fitting her character strangely. Then the seducer snapped out of it - it was his fantasy. She resisted and left. I suffered doubly: from my sex-phobic cowardice, and from the fact that in this world, you still have to engage with what you fear.

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Part 40, Text 3. Nord-Ost... taking the kittens to Sennaya... last stakeouts on Katya... they seat me next to Katya and gloom... Marik killed himself... fantasy paintings... computer and backwards parents.

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On the twenty-third of October, the news reports about Nord-Ost started. Those terrorists again - black volunteers of death, the kind you could face in Chechnya if you got bad grades.

It went on for a few days; everyone watched, and I did too, every morning, right up until leaving for school.

When they killed a bunch of hostages and it was all over, our class had a minute of silence. Only Valentina Yuryevna fidgeted and broke it fifteen seconds in. After that, something stricter kicked in regarding adults entering school buildings.

On the twenty-fifth of October - a video of kittens on a blanket on the bed in the living room. They were already walking on their paws, and when they slept, they flopped onto their backs in funny positions. I really only babysat them.

And then one morning, probably a day off, Mom said: "That"s it, we"re taking them away." We went to Saratov, to the Sennaya Market. A shitty gray day, gray pre-November. Old ladies were standing there, giving away or selling cats. We approached one. She looked at ours and took them. Well, meaning she took them to sell or give away. We gave her money. We basically bought our way out of kitten duty.

Then we went to Grandma Klava and told her we"d handed them over for money, and she said, "Wow. Good. And how much?" Mom and I said simultaneously that it was us who paid, not them. I wanted to burst into tears.

I don"t remember how Murka reacted. She seemed to be looking for them, because in the future, whenever Murka anxiously meowed like she was searching for something, Mom had developed the habit of asking: "Where are they? How many are there?" And Murka kept meowing. Mom"s words might have sounded mocking, but she meant something completely different - comfort and support for Murka.

Marik, the one I was rooting for, managed to marry the heroine he wanted. It reminded me of The Collector. She didn"t want him at all. He started growing a moustache, dressing all in black, leather jacket, dark glasses. In principle, he looked cool, but it was all just a sublimation of the darkness in his soul. And that soldier she"d been waiting for also showed up.

Around those days - it was already really cold, but not pitch-dark in the morning yet - Guzhik and I, first after school and then a couple of mornings before school, stalked Katya: her route with her grandmother between the gymnasium and home. Again they stopped by a shop - now in the Volskaya building, 21/27. And when we staked her out in the morning, we met near it; I warmed myself there. In short, it was total crap. A hopeless, desperate stakeout, freezing our asses off.

I was still sitting in the row by the window, Katya in the middle, and Guzhik in the third, farthest row. At the very end of the term, in the very last lesson before the holidays (it was with Valentina Yuryevna in the classroom next to ours), she started rearranging everyone. She decided on the fly. She moved Katya to the first desk by the exit, with no one else next to her yet. Then she moved others around. Then she sent Guzhik to my row. There was suspense - who would be the lucky one to sit by Katya? The teacher moved her finger across us like chess pieces. And then, stopping on me, she said: "You - go sit with Katya."

It was a triumph. I walked over, looking at Guzhik, now stuck in the farthest corner from us, and he really looked miserable, which was cruel.

By the end of the lesson, all three of us were miserable. I sat by the door, and Katya spent the rest of the class looking away from me. Later, as we left, I heard her tell someone: "I always hated him."

Marik couldn"t take it and slit his wrists in the bathroom - a brutal scene. A couple of episodes later, the show ended.

That year, the computer desk was in the small room, and Dad brought a disc of fantasy paintings. It came with a viewing program called A.C.D. I would sit and stare at them for hours. There were Hobbit-inspired paintings, though I didn"t know it, and Dad, who would come to the monitor and look too, didn"t explain. We had a copy of The Hobbit in a dull grey cover, so I never opened it or cared. But the pictures were cool - maybe they would have hooked me on the book afterwards. Most importantly, the disc had paintings by an artist Dad pronounced as "Boris Vallejo," showing muscle-bound heroes like Conan and various Xena-style warriors. Conan himself was there, as I understood. Always epic backgrounds - cliffs, dragons. It was a special atmosphere, tied to Dad"s paintings and the feelings I had while looking at them. I wanted to get into those worlds, but it was unclear how - only by looking at the paintings. After a few days, I got bored.

Other than that disc, the Virtual Skipper before, and that Kirill and Mefody encyclopedia, I never turned on the computer - no reason. Except for Dad once a year, no discs ever appeared, and I never asked. Reasons varied. From the Virtual Skipper, I realized either our computer couldn"t handle anything or I didn"t know how, so there was no point even looking at the video game sections in stores popping up everywhere. You needed a modern computer, but I didn"t even know how much they cost - never been to a computer store. And the main reason: I had no idea what modern games even were. Skipper ran like a slideshow, not a game. Something close to 3D - perspective stayed fixed - the only one I ever saw was a football game in early second grade at someone"s house. Nothing else. I never visited anyone.

This is one of the main narratives of my life. A person - at least me - has to see a subject in reality, in practice, for it to register in their head. I"ve said this before. Without themes in my head, I had nothing to develop on. Wasted years on fucking lizards. I could have gotten obsessed with something a hundred times over - even a program like Guitar Pro. I don"t blame my parents - they were stuck in the eighties. How would they know about Guitar Pro? Some did, and their kids developed from early on. All my parents" stories were about collecting stamps and going to pioneer camps. If I brought it up now with Mom, she"d be offended and say: "You were just like that, didn"t want anything, never needed anything as a kid, vegetable" - she always said that to me as an adult. She wasn"t in my head. No one was. A few attempts in my childhood to get me interested, and when nothing worked, they called me sick and just didn"t give a fuck by the end of my childhood, all that shit. Naturally, not knowing how a human works - everything I"m explaining here - you"d just call me schizophrenic. Whatever... what happened, happened.

Once, the three of us were talking at home, and Dad jokingly said that my parents were watching me through the computer monitor when they weren"t home, like a camera. I knew it was a joke, but I still had the obsession, and one morning, alone in the apartment, I went over, flipped the monitor the middle finger, took off my underwear, and fiddled with myself.

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Part 40, Text 4. Oil Heater... continuing clinic visits... The Black Hen.

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How to heat a corner panel apartment with barely warm radiators, so my dead little dick wouldn"t hurt, and without going broke - that was Mom"s worry, not some Guitar Pro bullshit. That"s why I say I don"t blame her. Now there"s plenty of money, life"s better, no heating problems. Back then, it was survival mode, especially for a panicky mom with her nerve-bitten finger.

From the living corner, only the monstera and potted palms remained, and we moved them from the small room to the living room, putting the big bed in the small room. Computer - in my middle room. Carpet back in the living room. Mom bought an oil heater. The size of a big radiator. I"d lie on the carpet, shoving my legs between its sections, and you could turn on the fan heater too - amazing. I"d curl up like a cat by it, watching TV, trying to soothe the sting in my dick, pressing against it or under the fan.

It guzzled electricity like crazy, so once a crafty guy came, went into the small room, twisted some wires, attached a plug on one end, plugged it in, and wrapped the other end around the radiator. Mom asked, "It won"t kill anyone, right?" He said no. Now the electricity meter didn"t register usage. I was strictly forbidden to tell anyone. Like the rule about not talking about Mom with Uncle Seryozha.

Uncle Seryozha, by the way, was no longer the chief architect of Engels; he"d been ousted. I don"t remember the exact year - maybe third grade - there was a scene where he was in our kitchen, I was in the mustard-yellow armchair, and Mom turned to me seriously: "Look, Uncle Seryozha won"t be able to help us like before," and something else, probably about studying hard to stay in the gymnasium. But the main message was money - I shouldn"t count on much. "As if we ever lived in luxury," I thought.

On the tenth, holidays ended - and November school hell resumed. Now we took the bus with Dad and always walked toward the thirty-third school - through the wholesale market and courtyards - to the stop at the lyceum or "eleventh school," as it"s also called. All 284 bus routes now started deep in Engels, and to even squeeze in, better and closer to catch it here. Free seats? Never. Half an hour stuck in a crush of gray people - becoming one of them, which I do, if I want to avoid the army.

I barely mention it, but back then, my medical record was stuffed with papers. Every curb at the clinic and every hole in the linoleum on its floors was memorized. My head hurt; they diagnosed all kinds of asthenia, though anyone"s head would hurt sitting through five lessons in a fucking school, plus two hours commuting, plus the stress of lessons, shitty grades - and fights with Mom over them. Backpack was a ton. My cervical vertebra ached. My dick would cramp constantly. I was thinking about sex all the time, and the cramps were linked to that, not the urethritis the doctors claimed. Some gastro symptoms too, though I only remember nausea. Mostly Mom hypochondriac-ed me - to bulk up the record. But the climax of the gastro saga, the swallowing-the-gut stuff I promised before, I checked the papers - was early 2004. Until then, just constant ultrasounds. Mom and I sat in a dark room, a kind lady moved crap over my wet stomach while staring at an ancient semi-computer. Endless finger pricks, scrapings. Once or twice - after the first time in first grade - there was blood from a vein, and I writhed in pain like the first time.

On the way to the clinic - at the gates of the church in the Children"s Park, where beggars always stood - some dim young beggar noticed Mom. As we passed, he said something like "I love you" to her. We nicknamed him that phrase. For years he"d stand there, recognizing Mom, saying something to her.

At that time, in literature class, we were reading the long story The Black Hen. Again, there"s Petersburg and frozen Lomonosov vibes, and fittingly bleak and harsh throughout. I read it at Frunze on some weekend or maybe still from the holidays - at first grudgingly, then, because of my own depressive mood at the time, got hooked. The boy lived in a boarding school without parents - my worst nightmare. He was shy and quiet, like me. He saved a magical hen. It gave him superpowers in school. With that power, he finally got bold, did something - and was punished harshly. Around that time, I watched the film based on the story, and he even seemed to cry from his blue eyes. Then he lost everything he"d gained, including the hen and her underground kingdom. It was straight up about me. Any bastards, like that Kazakh shaman, or this fucking Seryozha at Frunze, or bitch Zemskov - they"d never save a hen, and they were always brazen assholes. But no one ever punished them. Like when I dared to bring cards to school - they were instantly confiscated. Or when I threw an eraser at Arik - he hit me. Or when I mugged around with Alina - and got hung upside down instantly. Instant karma, as they say. In the future, I"d have more situations like this. Over time, I developed a feeling that this was my fate - when I dare to be bold, I get slammed immediately, as fast or excessively as those who are always bold never get.

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Part 40, Text 5. Crazy Guzhik across the street, not tidying my room, argument with Mom over toys, Mom in "stranger mode," rummaging through the trash.

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My beloved deskmate never spoke to me and didn"t even glance my way, even though I wasn"t pestering her. So what if I stalked her a bit, followed her around. I wasn"t a maniac - more like a bodyguard fending off maniacs.

Guzhik wore a green pom-pom hat and sometimes crossed paths with my father, who would climb aboard his trolleybus while we walked past it, saving money as usual. One time we were crossing from the trolley terminus along Gorky Street. There was a crosswalk, but it was still dangerous - cars were streaming toward Moskovskaya. Coming from his own Kiseleva Street, Guzhik appeared. He was usually jumpy and unpredictable. And just then - something clicked in his head - and the boy, who had been walking calmly, suddenly bolted across the street in that pom-pom hat. Cars were coming fast. My father caught him with a free hand. "Where are you going?" he asked. Guzhik snapped out of it and then crossed safely.

From then on, Dad and I always went via that stop rather than the conservatory - especially since there was a kiosk there where I could watch coins. And along Radishchev Square stood an old building; Dad told me it had been his philology department, and that a teacher there had been Valentina Yuryevna"s father.

Late November.

I still had all my toys - rubber snakes, little animals - shoved in a drawer in my wardrobe in my middle room. But whenever I dug something out, I constantly threw the toys onto the floor. I never tidied up. From day one, my parents tried to teach me to make the bed, fold clothes neatly, but I never did - I hated it. I never helped around the house unless Mom, in a tone implying some kind of punishment, forced me. I hated doing anything. I just saw no point. If important guests came - say, a girl - sure, I would clean, scrub the floors, all that. But for anyone else, let alone myself - I couldn"t care less. Let the wardrobe lie on its side in the middle of the room and you have to step over it, let there be dirt on the floor - I"d adapt. I lived in that room, that was enough. I didn"t need a clear floor for any activity. Dirt was convenient for putting on slippers. If a free floor had been necessary, and insects had infested it like the ticks in the terrarium, then I"d have cleaned everything. That"s how I thought back then.

Now, of course, I know better: it"s pointless to clean even for some beloved person. If she can"t handle disorder, I can"t be with her. There"s no need for order in an apartment when you just live in it, as I said. Rules of tidiness are imposed by tradition, by civilisation. But what a person actually needs is to prevent insects from breeding. Now I avoid people guided by social norms rather than individual needs. Back then, I was still half-stupid.

Besides my wardrobe, the room also had Mom"s wardrobe, which held her belts, so she was always in my room. One morning, Dad was out, we were getting ready for school, and Mom got fed up with the toys underfoot. She switched into "stranger mode" - finally, the best description I had for her state during all our arguments, chores, and fights - started barking orders: gather up all these toys and take them to the trash. We opened the apartment door, I scooped the toys in my hands and made multiple trips to drop them down the chute between the sixth and seventh floors. I was in tears - mostly because of Mom"s "stranger mode" (whenever she triggered it, tears poured instantly), not just because I had to hurl all these little creatures tied to my past into the black void. But I still felt sorry for the toys.

After clearing the room and the drawer, we were already late for school. Mom had calmed slightly. We decided a few toys could stay. I put on my gray rubber boots (the same ones that got stuck in the mud back in first grade), went to the stairwell, opened the door, and, gasping, reached into the foul trash to retrieve some of my snakes while garbage tumbled from the chute above. We didn"t go to school that day, probably because I ended up washing myself afterward. I don"t remember putting the toys back in the room; I think we just threw them away. With them, my early childhood finally stayed behind me.

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___Part 41.

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Part 41, Text 1. How I started gymnastics and why, first training, Mom"s depression over taking me there.

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Gymnastics... After "97, when Mom and I went for my trial, that small, grey-haired Oleg Nikolaevich - gymnastics coach at the Engels sports school - rejected me, I didn"t think about it again, except maybe when I did forward rolls like Yerokin or bent back into a bridge from standing. Back then, it was stressful and anxiety-ridden - it meant being alone without Mom, surrounded by boys, many stronger than me, and I already had complexes about my lack of physical skill. And mostly, it was the regimen. It was like a small total institution, a mini-prison, a mini-army. Kindergarten, first grade, playgrounds, hospitals - stress everywhere except the gym. In the gym, at least, there were kind ladies like Svetlana Gennadyevna and some preexisting connections - classmates I had met before or through Mom"s network - so it felt like home rather than a total institution.

But a boys" gymnastics club, where I had no connections (even Mom hadn"t attended there as a child) - that was pure hell. So when Mom brought up gymnastics again, that we were going back, I went hysterical.

It was during the days when Dad didn"t live with us in the afternoons, around three, and we headed to the Engels stadium sports school. I probably cried and panicked while getting ready, but there was nothing to be done - Mom wouldn"t relent. We took the minibus from the fair along the heavily trafficked Ploshchad Svobody, stopping by the house where Dasha Serebryakova lived. We rode in silence; I was a slave, panicking as we entered the sports school, checked our things in the locker, and climbed the stairs - the path I remembered from that childhood visit. The closer we got to the gym entrance, the worse the panic. The smell of foam and rubber grew stronger. Then the locker room. The boys training were already in the hall. I changed into shorts - maybe my short red satin ones, which I"d wear most of the time - and a T-shirt.

Oleg Nikolaevich - small, aging, a bit like Chikatilo but without glasses - stood by the mirror along the wall under the spectator balcony, where Mom now sat, watching. Facing Oleg on the large blue mat for floor exercises were four boys - all the gymnastics students (though there were probably others in the morning session, I never knew). They were doing simple warm-ups. I tried to follow as best I could while mostly staring at Mom. On the balcony was another parent. Sunlight poured in from the large afternoon windows, and the coach"s voice echoed grandly through the hall.

Later, when the boys moved to another part of the gym, Oleg Nikolaevich told the oldest boy there - more a young man than a boy, named Slava - to show me leg swings on the wooden gymnastics ladder along the wall. Unlike the others, I needed them for flexibility, to eventually do a split. Slava silently demonstrated and left, and I stood under Mom, swinging my long legs. I quickly realized Slava was way ahead of the other boys, most younger than me, and trained separately.

For the rest of the session, moving between apparatuses with the others, I did beginner stuff. From the strength training, I could climb the rope - the gym valued climbing it without using legs, which I could partially do. I kept watching Slava - he was doing things I thought only Jackie Chan could do, and staged at that. Near the end, the gym lights turned on, just like in childhood evenings, and the heater hummed, adding to the intense gym atmosphere, almost industrial.

Afterward, we all changed. Mom spoke with the coach. We agreed I"d come alone for future sessions, and we left in silence. Outside it was dark, cold, freezing. We walked along Revolyutsionnaya past Semyonova, Mom"s friend from early childhood. Empty street of private houses. A gloomy late-November return to L"va Kassilya under the streetlights. My protest hysteria lingered, transformed into the defeated resentment of being forced into gymnastics. We hadn"t spoken since lunch, she walked ten metres ahead. Such walks on L"va Kassilya were routine.

Considering how she often says: "Everyone told me - send him to the boarding school," and other stories of advice she received regarding me, I always felt that trips to clubs, playgrounds, buying me things, were largely influenced by her listening to advice. Specifically about the boarding school - though she says "everyone," it was Uncle Seryozha (probably a couple of years after this period). Mostly, advice came from doctors at clinics. I felt this forced first gymnastics session was due to someone"s advice.

Her mood was like when she once bought me a Ken doll in early childhood. She"d get carried away. Later, after we processed my disability status in youth, and other times, she"d react similarly. The event went against the direction she wanted for me - she preferred me studying, getting gold medals, having a proper family. But academics didn"t "work out," and in my free time, I was a total couch potato. Someone, or the stereotype of proper boyhood, convinced her I needed to be taken to this useless but "boys" thing."

It felt like Mom took me to the first session for peace of mind, expecting me to refuse. By the second session, she was completely non-insistent - I could have stayed home if I wanted.

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Part 41 Text 2. Became obsessed with gymnastics... detailed description of the training trip... minibus stress... gym description... the boys training there.

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But everything turned out far worse than she expected. Because starting from the second session, having overcome the main barrier-the fear of going to this strange boys" place-the barrier of the first time-I became obsessed with gymnastics. I wasn"t thinking about school or studying at all. Finally, I had something I could throw all my dopamine into. And it got even worse. Already in some of the first sessions, Oleg Nikolaevich, discussing me-can"t remember with whom-said that, with my long-limbed, skinny frame, I should have been doing volleyball, not this. On top of that, I was almost ten, and in sports gymnastics, the coaches-all perfectionists in this sport-insist you start almost at birth. Compared to guitar, where at least I had some ear, my starting point in gymnastics was abysmal. But I didn"t even want to hear about volleyball. Since childhood, I had watched fight movies, all those Mortal Kombats with flips and acrobatics. I would have been doing this since I was four, if someone had taken me then, and if I had passed the "first-time barrier." And now, bubbling with enthusiasm like never before in my life, I decided I would prove to everyone that I could catch up and become a sports master, a champion.

All of this, in a reactive-depressive personality like mine, could naturally lead to nothing but tragedy. Mom wanted to do the right thing-or maybe even the best-but she made mistake after mistake. Her efforts are so tragic that I have to write this biography almost like a manual for raising children with the same psychotype-so that at least something comes of what she did.

Now I"ll go into the training in detail, from the very beginning.

We came home from the gymnasium. One or one-thirty. Exhausted-I could have just lain under the heater in front of the TV. But that was the past. Now, three times a week, I had a different life. I eat Mom"s cabbage soup, quickly get dressed. Shorts under my pants-two layers. The constant stress of being late, the perpetual anxiety, the pressure in the solar plexus (this would soon become one of "my" sensations-if I needed to identify my life by feelings, I could instantly recognise it by this). I leave the house with nothing-just my gym shoes, enough to get from the wardrobe to the hall.

Along Lva Kassilya Street to the minibus stop, which isn"t really a stop, just somewhere it might pause. Wet snow had started falling, everywhere slush and filth. I stand for about seven minutes, away from the road, so I don"t get splashed. A white minibus, a standard "Gazelle" that had appeared everywhere a couple of years ago, comes along. Stress clenches my chest again-I have to time it perfectly and raise my hand any second now. What if it doesn"t stop? Embarrassment to tears. And if it does stop, everyone will watch me struggle, awkwardly trying to get the door open, twisting my body to close it. Miscalculate and you hit it too hard-the driver scolds. Or fail to close it properly-still scolded. All of this in front of calmly seated strangers.

This stress would never go away, because strangers are always new. The minibus is covered in splashes, I manage to slide the door aside. I climb in, close it, all my fingers filthy. Inside, the ceiling is low-I can barely stand straight. Nearby seats occupied, two options: squeeze to a free seat and ask people to hand over my change, or pay right away. I choose the latter. The minibus turns. No handles-risk falling onto people. I press my head to the ceiling, like a hanged man. "Take it," I hold out my coins. Sometimes the driver doesn"t hear, and I stand there like an idiot, humiliated in front of everyone. Must repeat. He finally takes the coins without looking, over his shoulder.

Then I scramble to a free seat. The minibus turns onto Petrovskaya, then Mayakovskaya. It sways me side to side. I cling to seats and everything around me. A ruble on the muddy floor-I grab it. Sit. Ride along Mayakovskaya past "Ritual." For now, all is calm, I can even hum quietly. Then along Telmana, also manageable. About eight minutes. But then up the hill to Polygraphicheskaya. Pressure builds-time to get off. The dread grows: "What if I miss the stop, what if he doesn"t hear me?" If someone else is also getting off and shouts for the driver to stop at the stadium-it"s heaven. But no one does; they all go further, to the cemetery. I finally decide: "Stop at the stadium."

I wonder-did he hear? Lucky-it brakes. I squeeze through, climb out. Risk bumping my head on the doorway-everyone sees my shame. Then stress of closing the door again-either yank it hard to shut (else the driver yells), or gently (but not too gently) so he won"t remember me as a bad closer. All this after a day at the gymnasium. From the hill, Saratov is visible on the far horizon.

Minibus stress done...

I walk through the wet muddy mess along the rest of Revolyutsionnaya Street, which ends at the stadium fence. I slip onto the territory straight to the sports school. Inside... On the right, first floor-table tennis behind glass, plus a small sports shop. Changing rooms... Receptionists watching TV... I think how carefree it would be to just lie at home on the floor, not worrying about a damn thing... Down the corridor to the stairs... Door to the trampoline, mats, foam pits... The stairs climb several flights to the next level due to ceiling height... Here"s the entrance to my hall, the changing room... I undress, step into the hall.

Entering the hall, you immediately cross the acrobatics track. About seventeen metres long, two and a half wide, slightly curved. Looking at it from either end, it"s spring-loaded, with boards on top, and soft felt above that. Not as springy as a trampoline or springboard, but still bouncy. On the right, closer to the outer wall-a low bar. At the other end, a rope hangs from the ceiling. I was already using it in my first sessions.

Next, after the low bar, stands the pommel horse-with two handles. Everything here is old, Soviet, except the main rubber mat I mentioned. That mat isn"t a real gymnastics mat-real ones are spring-loaded like the acro track: felt, boards, springs. This one doesn"t spring. A large mat, two by three metres, half a metre thick, sits in front-called the "cube." Regular mats are like thick foam mattresses. Gymnastic rings hang beside the cube.

Along the hall, under the balcony, along the gym ladder and mirrors, runs the run-up track for vaulting into the foam pit. This apparatus, also called the "horse," slightly flexible, is embedded in the foam pit. From it, you push off with your hands and flip into the pit. To jump onto this horse, and for learning flips from a run, there are springboards with felt on top. Some are stiff, some soft, giving way under light weight.

Along the hall"s upper edge runs a balcony; sometimes people pass to other parts of the school. Beyond the main mat, near the outer wall, is the door from which the coach always emerges. Along the far wall runs a foam pit. Above it, at about three and a half metres, is the main high bar. At the pit"s edge, on a small platform, are the parallel bars-adjustable, right by the foam pit for jumping into it.

Mostly, Slava does the advanced jumps. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered-a classic mesomorph, same height as me, though three years older. His level: solid first sports rank or even higher. Gymnastics has a rank system. Most basic: three youth ranks. Then three sports ranks: third (lowest), second, and first-as Slava. Then candidate master, then master of sport.

Next most capable boy: Vitya. About a year younger, small, maybe thinner than me, but fine in strength-to-weight proportions.

Another: Andrei. Seven or eight, seemingly new, but performs everything easily. The coach likes him despite his unruly behaviour. Small, short, curly-haired, hair falling onto forehead like Frankenstein"s monster. Very strong, already doing splits with legs together.

And finally, Vitalik. I can never recall who"s Vityok or Vitalik-they seem like variants of the same name. Vitalik is almost like me: blond, blue or grey eyes, never laughs, always anxious. His father monitors every session from the balcony-looks nothing like his son, dark-haired, hooked nose, like the protagonist in Jurassic Park II. Vitalik is even more timid than me. Thanks to him, I quickly gained confidence here.

Mostly, though, it was easy-few boys in the hall. At four years old, maybe ten to twelve boys would attend; with that many, it could"ve been a totalitarian institution, hazing, etc. Here, we were like a circle of friends. Occasionally, weaker or inconsistent boys would join, but the regulars were just four of us-plus Slava, mostly training separately, interacting with Vitya occasionally.

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Part 41, Text 3. Exercise descriptions - floor routines, horizontal bar, parallel bars, rings, pommel horse - dopamine from training and hopes for girls" attention - from the sports school back to Frunze.

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Now, about the disciplines and exercises, or rather the elements... My favourite discipline was the floor exercises, the acrobatics - that"s where it all started for me. Especially since it has practical applications outside the gym: once I"m strong and winning fights against scumbags, I can make it look dramatic, like in the action films. And, of course, just to impress girls. After all, that"s what it"s all about.

The splits... There are side splits, and the one with one leg forward, the other back. Everyone does them here, even Vitalik - the only thing he currently beats me at.

Handstands... I fall immediately. Andrey can hold them for a while but sometimes falls straight away. Vitya controls it and can stand as long as he wants. Vitalik falls like me. Slava can even do one-handed handstands. For those who can already hold handstands, the coach constantly reminds us to suck in the stomach.

Cartwheels - that"s kindergartener level, everyone can do it. But it"s not that simple. Whatever you do in this gym, Oleg Nikolayevich always stresses keeping the legs straight. Any sloppy move immediately loses points in competition. By the way, the maximum score is ten, but no one even gets it at the Olympics.

Forward flips like Yerokin - this element is practiced here. You run, jump, transition onto your hands, push off, and flip onto your feet. The landing on straight legs is critical. Naturally, like Yerokin, I land in a squat - disgraceful, the coach won"t accept it.

Next, I learned the round-off almost immediately - I hear it as "rond-up". This is also from a run, a mix of a forward flip and a cartwheel, landing on the back. It"s a setup for a backward flip with momentum.

And now - the king, the damn back handspring. You can do it after a round-off, or in a series, or a single one followed by a back salto. Or from a standing position. It"s a backward jump onto hands and back to feet. A fundamental acrobatic move. I suspected I"d have problems with it - scared my hands wouldn"t hold on landing and I"d break my neck. Vitalik, Andrey, and I started preparing for it - we just jump backward onto the "cube" mat stack with arms raised. The nerve-wracking inevitability of eventually doing it properly is the main reason I"m hyped for each training. Vitalik can already do it solo on the floor, and Slava does six in a row - one of the first things I saw him do on the first training, and I was impressed.

Backwards somersaults. I saw Slava do them after a handspring on the rubber mat, landing upright. I was blown away; I had never seen it live, I thought in films they did it with trampolines. After a few trainings, I realised double and even triple backflips were possible - on a regular gymnastics mat! Backflips can also be done from a standing position - Slava does those too - and I"m stunned. Vitya does it from the cube. Oleg Nikolayevich told a story about someone attempting a double backflip on a springboard and landing on their head, breaking their neck. You can also do backflips after a round-off.

Forward flips - this is the one I prefer. Safe, and I can already do it with everyone from a run-off the springboard onto the cube. But we all land in a squat; only Vitya can land with slightly bent legs. Slava lands upright, even without springboards.

There"s also a semi-choreographic element - the "pirouette" or "screw." Jump with hands overhead and rotate in the air. We all do 360 degrees; Slava spins twice that.

Now the horizontal bar. The first strength element - a lift with a flip. Requires a strong core: pull up, throw your legs over, flip, and end in a handstand on the bar. I"m working hard on my abs at home for this.

Then there"s the "strength exit." More of a backyard trick, though Slava uses it to get to the handstand. He"s so strong it"s easier for him than the flip lift. The strength exit - just pull up and climb onto the bar. Kids do it one arm at a time; Slava can do it with both as if someone"s pushing him from below.

There"s also the press lift - lift into a handstand not via a flip, but swinging on the bar, lifting legs over and back, trying to bring your pelvis to the bar, projecting upward with momentum. Slava and Vitya already know it; we"re learning.

The trainers - special fabric rings, roughly the diameter of underwear bands. One per hand. You loop them over the bar, put your wrists in, twist to secure, then grab the bar. They prevent falls - like handcuffs. Too large and you might fly off, too small and you can"t climb.

Wrist straps - I don"t know their use yet. Sizing and habit, used by Slava and Vitya. Just regular rubberised bands.

Hand grips - half-gloves for two fingers to prevent blisters on the bar. Only Slava uses them for spins. Chalk - white powder - used for grip. I don"t get it fully, but I rub it on my hands too if I see it.

And the bar spins - "Sun" in the lingo. Rings help train spins. Slava spins them, and even without rings over the pit. Once I joined gymnastics and mentioned it to my visiting father, he said people did these in his youth. Slava and Vitya spin on rings too; the rest of us just watch enviously.

Backflip from the bar into the pit... Slava can do double, with coach spotting. Coach pushes the mat on the bar to prevent Slava from hitting it with his legs. Everything works fine.

Don"t think I"ll write a whole book on gymnastics. Once I explain the flips in detail - the "tucked" position called a bomb in folk terms - there"s also the straight-body variant called "blanche." Slava does this from the bar, needing more distance to avoid injury, and adds pirouettes in midair.

Parallel bars... On them, in a hand support, we swing the torso. Legs must go high, straight, toes pointed - like ballerinas, or like when I torture myself with leg compression. Always point toes in the air.

Side dismounts from the bars - swinging high forward or backward. The coach constantly corrects me - I wouldn"t dare alone, scared of hitting shins or landing wrong. Gymnastics requires landing slightly crouched with arms raised; otherwise it"s barbaric.

Dismounts can be flips. Slava uses the coach for the pit. Advanced kids do handstand dismounts, falling forward but landing next to the bars - face turned - Slava and Vitya. Vitya with coach spotting.

You can also sit on the bars, legs sideways, hands between knees, lift to a handstand - strength element, angle plus split stretch. Or just hold a regular angle. I can hold a few seconds, trembling and barely breathing, like when torturing my penis. Slava and future Slava - Andrey - can hold longer and even talk.

Slava, Vitya, and sometimes Andrey on mini floor bars do "spichag" - intense strength element: from angle position, lift the hips and end in a handstand. On main bars, only Slava and Vitya (coach spotting). And short-legged Andrey and Vitya can do spichag from the floor. I can"t yet imagine doing it, but somehow I will - to one day shake hands with Alexei Nemov, now my idol.

Three remaining apparatuses. First - vault with run-up. The pommel horse is high; we just jump over or tumble into the pit. Slava does proper elements - pushing off hands, almost a one-and-a-half flip into the pit.

Rings - very strength-intensive. I can"t imagine ever doing the cross. Even Slava can barely hold it. He can do spichag and handstands. We practice swings and simple dismounts. Vitya does a half-flip dismount. Simple, I"ll manage soon - mainly avoid hitting shins. Strength element - strength lift on rings, pull up into support. Requires deep grip, dry hands, chalk. I need stronger arms and shoulders.

Finally - the pommel horse, horizontal with two handles. Slava spins like a breakdancer. Vitya can do a couple. We swing legs and perform leg-over maneuvers - lift one arm, swing the leg, grab the handle. Slava spins not just on handles but along the edge of the horse. I can"t yet comprehend how to do it, how to enter the circular motion. Slava hops on it, and I still don"t understand.

The goal of all training is to prepare a competition routine. Stand precisely at the apparatus, raise a hand to signal the start, perform the sequence, finish or dismount correctly, and wait for the judges" score.

That"s basically it. Training lasts a couple of hours, then karatekas or wrestlers come in - many of them - the rubber mat is for them.

Sometimes, Vitya and Slava may climb the balcony and jump into the pit at the end. Training ends, coach leaves, we dress, go downstairs. Darkness outside. I head to baba Klava.

With almost every session, I make progress. Despite the ongoing stress - travel, minibus, entering the sports school - after training, I feel proud. I finally have a physical edge over the other boys. I can already do things probably beyond Yerokin, let alone the f***ing Zemskov. Soon I"ll do more - it"ll be awesome. And when I feel awesome, it will show externally, and girls will notice.

When I become a candidate for master of sport, wear grips, perform a dismount flip from the bar, all those Kati Ilyiny will apologise, want to talk, sit next to me... And if I become a full master of sport, compete nationally and globally - life will be divine.

Finally, I have something to work on, something I can excel at, given my enthusiasm. All free time now is push-ups, core work, etc. Unlike school, I"m motivated because these skills and mastery are immediately practical.

Mom is usually already at baba Klava"s, and after a short visit, we walk to Poligraficheskaya and Persidskaya, near the cancer hospital, stand in the cold for 15-20 minutes, and wait for the minibus back to the city centre, to our stop at Lva Kassilya.


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Part 41, Text 4. Adopting the image of a battered cripple at school... starting to crack joints... anatomical phobias... mocking Murka out of insecurity over gymnastics progress.

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I mentioned that I"d picked up some of Guzhik"s mannerisms. That started after the first trainings, when my muscles hurt from unfamiliar strain. At home, and especially at school, I began hunching, sighing wearily, grimacing, walking sluggishly, like a cripple, while still holding my arms slightly out from my body, like a broad-shouldered athlete. It probably looked like I was gaining muscles, but that it was an unwelcome side effect of gymnastics. A couple of times, I did a forward roll and tried standing on my hands in the school corridors, in front of the girls-showing off that I was now a gymnast. And I wanted to look worn out, so they"d understand that I was pushing myself through intense physical effort at training.

But that was just the surface meaning. The deeper reason for behaving this way was that I wanted to finally feel strong and victorious physically, yet realistically, not in some Jackie Chan fantasy, I knew that if another fight happened, I"d get beaten, break down in tears, and be humiliated. That would feel like the end of life, because it would happen despite having tried everything-even doing sports. So it was better for me to act like a feeble cripple, as weak as possible, staying away from situations that would show that no matter how athletic I became, I-my psychotype-was still a neurotic crybaby, only now starting to pull off various flips.

Guzhik and I stayed jumpy-just as we had since the end of last grade-avoiding Dubonosov from that very boyish parallel class (and secretly, in shame, also Slava Stallone from there. Don"t get confused: now there were two Slavas).

I noticed that the older Slava-or one of the other boys in my gymnastics class-would tilt his head to the shoulder, and his neck would crack. I tried it at home, pulling my head, and it cracked too. Then I started cracking my spine while sitting on a chair. I twisted my neck with my hands until it cracked. This was especially after returning from school before training. Eventually, I even started cracking my fingers. I"d bend them toward my palm, crack at the base, then wiggle the mid-segments, and finally the last phalanges. I had never done it before, once I tried it and freaked out because it felt like a finger might pop out of its joint-it kind of did once: a small hollow formed at the joint, like a vacuum pulled the skin in, and when I released, it hurt for twenty minutes. I had a rough mental picture of the anatomy and how harmful it was to my body, and it twisted me in agony-like when giving blood. I couldn"t watch others crack their joints either, especially when bending in the "wrong" direction. Even bending toward the palm, especially the index, felt like the bone slipped too far, and it hurt; I twisted in agony.

I couldn"t bear the thought of veins bulging in the neck during a handstand, couldn"t watch others with bulging veins. It tortured me-at least when no one was watching. In public, of course, I restrained myself.

Later, in various flips and backward landings, I feared landing on my fingers and breaking them. I worried about banging my shins on everything. On the acrobatic runway, on the bars-which were often slippery-we started learning the swing to handstand, and the straps were often too big for my "matchstick" wrists (I was embarrassed to say). I was in constant stress, worried I"d fly off, break my neck, and end up immobile for ninety-one years. When the bars were dry, I feared tearing the skin on my thumbs, which would hurt like hell, and then I couldn"t do anything. But calluses formed anyway and would eventually tear, and I walked around plastered constantly-but I liked girls noticing them; that was the same surface-level logic behind my crippled act.

My constant injuries weren"t just scraped calluses. My arms up to the elbows were covered in long scratches from Murka. That year brought everything: sexophobia, feeling useless to a girl, a shameful end to my interest in animals, and now extra stress from gymnastics. That sense of dignity after training was largely offset by stress over my late start, the fact no world champion began at nine, the neurosis of doubting whether I could be exceptional. Sometimes I"d think, "I"m too late, I"ll never be a gymnast," and sit down, torturing myself with leg squeezes repeatedly.

Often, instead of squeezing my legs, I vented my despair on Murka. She now even symbolised sex, my sexophobia. I envied her for having slept with someone and given birth without fear. That"s when my sadistic chases began in the apartment when I was alone with her. She hissed and screamed, and that only drew me deeper into a viscous, almost liquid sadism-down to sucking between her legs. Not sparing my hands, even ignoring the risk of her opening a vein, I tried pulling her out from under chairs where she hid. She scratched me with her claws. It seemed the more she allowed herself to scratch me, the more afraid she became-like she understood the vicious cycle, and that due to my size, I"d still win-but her animal self-defence instinct wouldn"t let her stop. The sadder she seemed, the stronger my sadism.

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Part 41, Text 5. Mom starts going to the gym at the sports school... Ostorozhno Modern 2... Dad also joins-triple sporting idyll... going with mom and she quits... obsession with slicked-back hair... Christmas wishes.

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Sometimes during training-which, like all the boys, I now call "the trénka"-from the door at the far end of the hall where Oleg Nikolaevich exits, a younger woman with red-dyed curly hair comes out-equally lean and sinewy as him. Sometimes she pauses on the balcony and talks with him from there. That"s his wife, and behind that door is the gym. She"s a trainer. Occasionally, when our coach isn"t in the hall, adult men come out, climb the bars, and jump into the foam pit.

Once, Mom met me after a trénka at the sports school and spoke with Oleg Nikolaevich"s wife, who lured her into signing up for the gym. Mom had never done any exercise in her life-it was as unusual as when she drove a car. Now she goes on the same days I have gymnastics. Her sessions-apparently women"s training times-start slightly later than my trénka, so I often finish and go to Baba Klava while Mom is still there, making it look like she"s really taken to it.

After Mom returned, before we left home, I watched a new series on STS-Ostorozhno Modern 2. At first, it seemed silly. But Dmitry Nagiev from the program Okna starred-perfect guy, playing all roles with another man, Sergey Rost. I watched for Nagiev. One episode, "Angel and Demon," hooked me-I began looking forward to it every time.

Dad, fully back in December, also caught the sports bug. He now jogs in place in the morning before our trip to school. Mom and I have breakfast while his stomping and heavy breathing come from the gym, and he ends up soaked. Mom rolls her eyes.

This triple sporting idyll continued: morning-jumping Dad, walk to the bus near the 11th school, trip to gymnasium, five grueling lessons, then back with Mom (or sometimes Uncle Sergey), all building anticipation for gymnastics if it"s a training day. Then quick lunch, messy Engels fare, bus stress, long-awaited training, progress, trip to Frunza, waiting for Mom, while she and Baba Klava argue over jam jars, and I laugh at Nagiev"s transformations. Somehow, we even managed homework.

Their quarrels at Frunza usually revolved around Baba Klava insisting Mom take more jam or potatoes from the cellar, Mom refusing, Baba Klava crying that "my daughter treats me poorly." This scene had a long-standing rhythm.

Once, I went to Mom"s training. A fully Soviet-style gym: low ceilings like a submarine, all old, green walls, smelled of rubber. Some ladies lifted weights. I enjoyed seeing Oleg Nikolaevich and his behind-the-scenes world. His wife pressured Mom for exercises, but Mom said she couldn"t-they were too hard. Later, Mom spoke of her heart-her defect and arrhythmia. She left training, met a trainer, told her about it. The trainer left disappointed. End of Mom"s gym saga.

From the first days of gymnastics, I trained at home. Mainly strength exercises, but some acrobatics too: I did the Erokin roll on cushions from chairs, running a few steps from my bed. I also tried handstands against the wall, not touching it. Didn"t succeed yet. I"ll describe home acrobatics and workouts later-extensively.

I nearly stopped watching Last Hero 2. The tropics became unsuitable-no equipment, uneven surfaces, springs.

At some point, during visits to Frunza when Grandpa was barely there but there were many spray cans, shaving foams, and hair lacquers gifted to him before, I got hold of one lacquer. In line with my obsession with Nagiev, Marik (when he got moody), Johnny Depp, and other men with slicked-back hair, I started slicking my own hair back. I even slept in an old T-shirt over my head to keep the style. I carefully put on and removed a hat, to preserve the slicked-back look. Overcoming my embarrassment-after the fight with Zemskov everyone knew I was a cheap-showoff crybaby-I suddenly paraded this stylish hairdo, apparently starting after New Year, and planned to wear it to school. Nobody commented. But the style still fell by mid-lessons, especially during gymnastics. Every break, I went to the toilet to wet and reslick stray locks. This theme would likely continue all winter. I still remember the smell of lacquer.

These were the last school days of the year. Around this time, our class went to some highly praised Saratov water park. I didn"t go-Mom and I were saving. That Guzhik and Katya Ilyina went didn"t bother me much. No prospects with her yet until I became some sort of champion, and Guzhik didn"t matter to her anyway. But I asked Guzhik about her on the first day after their trip-what swimsuit she wore. He said one-piece, with a belly-button cutout. I knew those, so now I understood it all-it was about sex.

Note to Santa:

-------start insert-------

Dear Santa,

Please steal from the store the book First Aid Before Doctors Arrive, a map of Saratov and Engels, and if possible, a dumbbell (small, 3kg, better 2kg), fins, and gunpowder.

-------end insert-------

I somehow needed gunpowder... As for the book-I was starting to get interested in anatomy.

New Year was going to be the usual three-person Lev Kassil-style: tree, presents. Only we skipped the traditional walk to the square, staying on the playground in front of Serebryakova"s building, waiting a bit in the cold. Adults talked; I watched our apartment windows-someone turned on the lights. When we returned, no one was there.


.:.

___Part 42.

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...............2003 ---------------------------------------------------

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Part 42 Text 1. Father in hospital with jaw... my obsession with sports grows... Mosto Squad... skiing hysteria... visiting father in hospital... bought boots and headed to Frunze.

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There were no more books on reptiles. Everything was about sports now - though not much; I didn"t need much. Among other things, there were two red 1.5-kilogram dumbbells, coated in grippy rubber. A few gymnastics books too, but Soviet - whatever my father had salvaged from recycling.

One morning, I went into their small room. He was still asleep, Mom was getting up, and I noticed - his testicles had fallen out of his shorts. Mom and I laughed, and as he woke, he covered himself with the blanket.

A couple of days after New Year, he suddenly left very early, almost like an ambulance, while I was still asleep. Mom said he had a tooth problem.

In 2020 he told me what had actually happened, and asked me not to tell Mom. It began the night before New Year: he had gone to some bar with someone, and there was a girl in their company. He insisted I not tell Mom - probably because of that girl, though it was mainly about the incident itself. They were sitting there, and some non-Russian guy at the next table started bothering another, unknown girl. My father, acting like d"Artagnan, negotiated with the guy to step outside. There, the guy punched him in the jaw, knocking out some lower teeth. He said it felt like being hit with a rail. Before New Year, he quickly got the knocked-out teeth reinserted on some pins. But an infection developed in the jaw, and that"s how, in the first days of the year, he ended up in Saratov Hospital No. 9 - on Bolshaya Gornaya, not far from the bridge entrance to Saratov.

A couple of days later, after he"d recovered somewhat from the operation, Mom and I went to visit him. Of course, BabValya went too.

My interest in other sports grew, but, as with past obsessions, I was selective. Just as I preferred juicy tropical ferns over dry cacti, I preferred football with lots of green over coffee-coloured, Black basketball. Just as I preferred rewatching Home Alone - childish but good - over some dumb, ugly Pokémon cartoon, I preferred track-and-field disciplines - poles and jumps (skills useful for prison escapes) - over silly, useless artistic gymnastics, figure skating, or dance. In combat sports, I favoured Wushu - partly for the word"s similarity to "уха" (my favourite soup) and because, unlike Karate, it allowed the use of legs. I loved anything that was practical in life or at least associated with something familiar - in colour, sound, or even just letters in the sport"s name.

So Mom and I went to the winter forest at Mosto Squad. It was busy - lots of skiers. There was a ski rental, so we tried it. I, of course, couldn"t manage - I couldn"t grasp the technique of skating strides with my legs - so I just stood on two skis and pushed with the poles. But we had a good ride across the frozen lake and down the banks.

Soon after, Mom bought me skis. Blue, without bindings. The bindings had to be attached to the boots manually. Instructions were included: drill holes, screw in the screws. Grandpa was at Frunze at the time, but I couldn"t wait, and I wanted to do it myself, not ask anyone - like a little man. But I didn"t have a drill, so I tried to make the hole with a screwdriver. After some poking, I realised I"d messed up: the hole was bigger than the screw, and it wouldn"t hold. I blew up. I wanted to destroy those skis. I threw them, threw everything, cried, and sulked. Mom put the skis away in the antechamber. It didn"t work. Gradually, after desperately pleasuring myself from the frustration of losing a whole gift that Mom had spent so much on, I calmed down and forgot about the skis. But my self-esteem took another hit: whatever I touched, I ruined.

No matter how many wool socks I wore, my feet were always freezing, and before New Year, Mom and I had already spent ages trying to find the right shoes. Back then, I had an obsession with a specific kind of boot with a fastener, like Guzhik wore. Again, the same thing: whatever he wore, I wanted too. A tradition had formed. And my relationship with Guzhik - shaped by childhood complexes and habits - meant I couldn"t just ask him where he got them. We hardly ever spoke outside school. Even if he never mentioned his beach trips, I didn"t resent him - I didn"t tell him about mine either. There simply wasn"t time for friendship in school: just a few breaks, forty minutes of informal time, half for personal needs. Close relationships couldn"t form in those conditions. So Mom and I went store to store looking for his boots ourselves. Only one store near the bus stop to Engels, on Radishcheva and Moskovskaya, had anything - but Guzhik"s boots were too small.

We visited Dad, then went to finally get some boots for me. We brought him a banana, juice, and other things. It felt strange - usually it was me being taken care of. We went to his floor: a long corridor overlooking the bridge, rooms on either side. He came out with a jaw bandage. He would later tell me, laughing, that a drunk surgeon did his operation after the holidays. We stayed briefly, then went on.

We bought standard boots - natural leather and real fur. Another expensive purchase, and we hoped this would finally solve the agony of my freezing feet.

From there, we went to Frunze. We got off at the first school, at the start of Poligraficheskaya, and walked along the frosty street. Deep afternoon now. The whole day was sunny, frosty, with Saratov in the distance. There was movement, life. Dad in hospital - BabValya visiting him. On Lev Kassil Street - a desperate ski frenzy. Chaos around me. Comfortably cared for by Mom, gifted dumbbells and boots. Nearby - the stadium and sports school, where I was chasing the attention of girls. Soon we"d reach the grandparents, where more was happening. Life"s dynamics were palpable. I note this because those impressions contrasted sharply with the years when nothing happened.

At Frunze, after taking off my boots, we checked my feet - icy as always. Mom was upset. The fur in these boots would soon flatten; later, we"d buy cheap, ugly boots I hated, but their synthetic fur kept my feet far warmer.

.:::.

Part 42 Text 2. The Emelyanovs visit Frunze... Grandpa fixes skis... Father burns manuscripts... viburnum and rowans with Mom... punishments and homework into the night... Lev Kassil-style... signaling off.

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We stayed at the grandparents" for a while. Grandpa was there. I spoke a little with Alina, but that was almost everything. Anya and Alyona - it was all as I said. I did push-ups and other strength exercises at home, and wherever I was, I trained my handstand. This was the beginning of the "throwing knives" saga: no matter how much I practiced, I couldn"t hold still - I would always fall back. Only, if there was enough space, I"d roll and land on my feet; if space was tight, like at Grandma"s, in the spot where Marsik once vomited, I"d have to flip in place. Later, I often suffered because my head hurt, and the jolts from the roll on hard floors were severe.

One evening, amidst all the snowy, blizzardy holiday days, someone knocked at the gate. It was the Emelyanovs - Sasha, Aunt Vera, and Dad. Aunt Vera wore the strangest fur outfit: huge fur hat and boots with dangling scraps of fur - I"d never seen anything like it. They looked like "barbarians" or "Vikings," which I remembered from Umnitsy i Umniki in early childhood.

They stayed about an hour and a half. Sasha could also do a handstand for a few seconds, but so awkwardly that it was useless in gymnastics. This was my last contact with that Sasha, a companion from my second kindergarten. I would see him occasionally, passing by on Persidskaya.

Resourceful Grandpa apparently cheered me on, and the next day I went alone to Lev Kassil to drop off skis for repair. I fed Murka at home and returned to Frunze. Grandpa somehow fixed the skis, and they were functional. The ski boots looked like the ones we had just bought, but without fur. I went towards the adult hill at the mouth of Telegrafnaya Street and tried skiing down the slope. Grandpa checked on me. Something wasn"t working, and two idiot boys came and started mocking me, standing on the skis to block my path. Easier to step out and walk away.

For a while after the hospital, Dad didn"t live with us. Later he told me that, as I understood, after the incident that year he was rethinking his views, and nearly destroyed two or three novels he had written by then. He also wrote a lot. He had a typewriter in his studio/shop for artists" materials - I"d tried typing on it as a child. The shop, called Estamp, later relocated him to a smaller office in the Engels library. He switched to making frames (taking orders and buying materials in Saratov) and simple stretcher frames, using a special machine where one could chop off fingers - he showed me. Sometimes he gave money for food when living with us, and could buy me a cheap gift for holidays. But often it was easier without him, when he lived with BabValya, who, when I rarely visited her, called it "kicking him like a ball." Mom has another version: he went away on his own, especially weekends, returning "when his penis gets hard" - as she would tell it later. All reasons combined, clearly. And he was penniless - a simple fact.

School became unusually hard, and my grades slipped. But throughout my gymnastics saga, Mom never forbade me from training for misbehaviour or bad marks. Training had untouchable status; I went even with harsh failures.

Other days were filled with viburnum and rowan trees. Everything as usual - in the kitchen, right after lunch until evening, or evening until sleep. My face glued with drying tears, sighing. Murka squinting nearby under the lamp, sometimes startled when Mom yelled at me. I"d write some nonsense in Russian, long texts, Mom would periodically check, silently tear pages, and I had to rewrite everything, making new mistakes - until sleep. Once, mocking, she hummed a TV tune while tearing pages. When Aunt Lena called, they spoke, and Mom sat in the mustard armchair while I, back to the TV, tried to masturbate by squeezing my legs - but Mom practically watched me, so I didn"t climax, sinking deeper into sucking genital neurosis.

The torment with fatty noodle soups was over - Mom stopped making what I couldn"t eat. But once there was a plate incident of another kind. Mom and I were in a serious kitchen standoff - I had provoked her somehow. I sat at the table while she was behind me, ready to smash something. She almost dropped a plate with flounder - a flat fish newly in our diet. I panicked, something began - I don"t remember what. These were very harsh days. Later, those trembling hands became a phrase we laughed about - "these hands," and I always mimicked them. We slept together then.

She kept involving me in chores. I washed dishes with tears, washed my socks standing over the tub. Once she supervised, showing how to move long items like sleeves and pants, but couldn"t explain properly, saying: "Like this." Despite the chaos, I laughed, and she laughed too - stepping out of "stranger mode." This phrase became another shared memory-joke from our idyllic times.

I cried at all moments of her "stranger mode," which she activated because otherwise I"d do nothing. All reasons I explained before. That mode - before I encountered worse in mental hospitals later - was the worst feeling in my life. When I say things like LevKassil-style, that"s exactly about those states and our atmosphere. Father absent, winter cold, kitchen, TV off, tubs soaking clothes in the bathroom.

Living just the two of us, we developed countless private rituals. Once on the bus home from school - Radishcheva to Moskovskaya - I sat in the front seat, she stood. She thought I was saying something, leaned over. I waved dismissively. She mimicked my wave. I returned it differently. A minute later, I waved not with my hand, but finger or leg. Since then, this became a thing: when she looked at me, I"d make some small movement.

.:::.

Part 42, Text 3. Mom tries to get me into swimming lessons... sports books and realising I"m an ectomorph... visiting Lena and Masha and Harry Potter... secret rooms... class trip to the clinic.

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In gymnastics, we were still flipping backwards onto the mats, preparing for a back handspring, but increasingly we were doing the full imitation on the coach"s arms. Vitalik, as always, was hopeless-he was terrified of flipping backward-while Andrei was, on the contrary, better than me. Sometimes I"d veer sideways and hit the coach in the head with my knees.

After training, I constantly, in my theatrical manner (as I mentioned at the start of first grade), would recount my "progress" to Mom with lines like, "Guess what I did today," though she couldn"t have cared less by now and only feigned interest out of obligation.

But once, since I was showing interest in other sports too, she made another attempt to get me into a competitive swimming section at Engel"s First School, the one on the hill at the corner of Poligraficheskaya and Telmana. It had a proper pool with an entrance closer to Granny Klava. We went there in the evening, waited forever in the hallway and outside, and I got that same panic of being without Mom. But it all ended up fine-we never actually went inside. I could already smell the chlorine, but I never saw the water. Perhaps her attempt to place me there was her hope of diverting me from some pointless gymnastics, which, on top of that, wasn"t social-only a handful of boys trained there.

Whatever I got into, I always had a tendency to collect books on the subject, so naturally, we frequented the main Saratov bookstore at Volskaya and Kirova. Everything was expensive, but I found a cheap little book on a related interest-bodybuilding. Time and again, I obsessed over things I was utterly unsuited for. From that book, I learned a bit about muscle anatomy and how to train them, but the main page was about body types: ectomorph, mesomorph, and endomorph. It said that ectomorphs, which I clearly was, were the least suitable for bodybuilding. But there were still photos of ectomorph bodybuilders, so I didn"t lose hope. I trained endlessly with my dumbbells and slicked my hair back, trying to look cool. It wouldn"t hold without hairspray, though, and hairspray had to be rationed.

Back then, bookstores were flooded with Harry Potter. In big shops, it took up an entire shelf; in small ones, a whole corner. I constantly stared at it in the book section whenever we went into the Engel"s store at Lev Kassil and Gorky while Mom shopped for groceries. It was said to be written by a simple housewife, though Dad didn"t believe it. I was drawn to the covers, but lots of kids were reading it, and even our teacher mentioned it-so I had to see what it was about too.

One time, Mom and I visited Aunt Lena and Masha-a repeat of our first visit-and they had The Chamber of Secrets. After retracing, just like a year ago, the frozen river, the mini-forest, the gated elite neighbourhood with cameras, and the playground, we returned to their place, and I sank into their armchair to read it. It was a super-cozy evening: I sat in layers of sweaters and warm socks by the radiator, reading Harry Potter, while three women (including Masha) bustled around me, fussing, and there was no rush anywhere-we were staying the night. That"s exactly how I loved it. Masha lent me the book for a while.

In the morning, Mom and I took a special route-through the Engel"s railway station, along the street leading to the bridge, but not all the way to Trudovaya Street, turning off earlier onto a street we"d never walked before. Only private houses. It was a weekend: quiet, snowdrifts, almost no one on the streets, only the occasional dog barking behind fences as we passed.

Harry Potter, as usual, was an orphan. By then, I"d noticed a pattern: the characters destined for the most adventures usually lost their parents first. I sat in my middle room reading. At the gymnasium in those days, Guzhik and I still ran around-chasing Katya, fleeing someone, or each other-and there, on the old middle staircase, was an open descent to the basement. We"d run down to hide-dead end, all piled with construction debris, dark, with a closed, unused door to who-knows-where. On my Harry Potter kicks, I got a massive dopamine hit thinking of that door as an entrance to some secret room, and at home, I"d go off to piss. Once, when I went down there at school, light seeped through the crack of that door, and inside some basement gym-one of those you entered from the basement of the third staircase-the older kids were training with dumbbells. I started going there just for my sporty curiosity.

As for Harry Potter-I wasn"t really interested in the story. No girl crushes, no depression. I read for the reasons I"d already mentioned, and also to brag about finishing a thick book. That was how I approached nearly all fiction. In a week, I managed about a quarter of The Chamber of Secrets and couldn"t finish it.

Once, our class was taken to the clinic for check-ups. We walked-Michurina to Volskaya, down to Beloglinskaya, then right, probably where Masha Ermakova lived, and soon, at the corner with Chapaeva-the children"s clinic. I kept thinking about how this was probably where my classmates went to get pricked and have their blood sucked. But that visit was painless. We were there a couple of hours. In one office, all the boys in our class sat in t-shirts, chatting about blood types. I said mine was third negative, as far as I knew. I still don"t know for sure, but probably true. Elchin-the winner and leader-said he was type one, and when asked "Positive?" he just nodded silently, eyes closed.

.:::.

Part 42, Text 4. Forgetting about Saratov... drawn to the sports school and Soviet nostalgia... gymnastics books... exercises at home... death for sex... obsession... visiting the Kiskins.

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I was losing interest in all things Saratov-the haunts of Ermakova, the Lipki, the conservatory, the chestnuts, the old autumn streets. My thoughts relocated to areas around the Engel"s stadium. I noticed that Slava, who, as I understood, had a brother in another sport at the same sports school, would exit the stadium gates on Nesterova and turn right with him-toward the Melioratsiya or Lyotka districts. Old Khrushchev and nine-storey panel districts in muddy wastelands, grey and boring, which I had once absolutely hated. Andrei the hooligan, leaving the sports school, also turned right, crossing the stadium diagonally with someone toward the far part of the grounds where Mom and I went in my early childhood, where some girl Dasha and I had snuck under a blanket. Oleg Nikolaevich himself came and went from the "Living and the Dead" district-that"s the one along Poligraficheskaya toward the first school. He walked along the fence inside the stadium grounds. At the end of that path were the ruins of some Soviet building.

The whole stadium felt super-Soviet. In my imagination, it came alive with all sorts of sporting-Soviet scenes, drawn from the Soviet sports books Dad gave me. The abandoned, overgrown, decayed stadium grounds blossomed with crowds-competing athletes and spectators. There was Mom, recalling her childhood gymnastics, the bars, the women"s balance beam and the vaults she had been too scared to jump off, while Semenova had stayed. Pioneers, whistles, Soviet music. The stadium stands packed with spectators. Runners along the paths, shot puts in the centre. Then everyone returned home to Khrushchev-era flats-like Aunt Lyusya"s, with carpets on the walls, pickles on shelves, and balconies cluttered with skis and sleds. Everything was moving toward a goal-Olympic Games ahead, with Titov, Tkachyov, Andrianov, Korbut. That was what I wanted now. Not September chestnuts, not the Marquise, not Gaudeamus igitur.

At the gymnasium, I discovered the library. It was on the second floor in a new wing, down a dark corridor near the principal"s office. I, by the way, would visit that office once-in the next school year. The library felt like a classroom. A woman-or two-sat at a desk; in front of them, rows of tables; along the sides, shelves with books, already modern, not Soviet. My library obsession would peak a bit later-I"ll get to that. From those books, I learned the names of all the past gymnastics champions. The library had dim light, uncomfortable. That period sticks in my mind with that dim light, cold, failing grades, spankings, and the growing awareness that girls found me uninteresting.

I worked on my muscles, and in PE I talked about it with the maths whizz, Boldyrev. He wore glasses but wasn"t scrawny. About his muscles, he said, "Oh, they"ve shrivelled long ago," implying he"d trained before. I personally only spoke with him a few times.

My hair-slicking obsession, along with the hairspray, was coming to an end. Eventually, one classmate commented-none other than Zemskov: "Nekit"s quite the dandy." I envied him for knowing that word while I didn"t. I always had that envious observation-how I didn"t know words or things others had long known, or how others knew things I had just learned.

At home, I kept tormenting Murka when alone with her: chasing her, scaring her, making her hiss and roar at me-which only turned me on more. Once she scratched me badly, and I got furious, swinging my hand at her in retaliation-but she outpaced me again and scratched even harder, right on the pads of my fingers. I was covered in blood.

Evenings, endlessly doing sit-ups and push-ups on the mat, I watched episodes of some series-entirely on the theme I was obsessed with. Plot, as I understood: a group survives a plane crash in the Amazon, now surviving in the tropics. Someone captured by natives, someone eaten. Someone eaten by piranhas. There was also a scene where a guy waded across a river with a rifle, and a small snake on a branch near his face quickly bit his cheek. He didn"t even realize it-touched his cheek and fell, apparently dead.

At that time, I also watched, maybe again, Snake Island. Another scene showed a man"s final moments as dozens of snakes attacked and bit him. But the main thing I was focused on was the "death for sex" element, as I saw it. In it, a man lay in bed, and a woman came to seduce him. He didn"t respond, but the sheet over his cock lifted. There was a snake. That"s when I finally realised that for sex, the cock has to rise.

One afternoon, Mom and I drove somewhere in Saratov in the late afternoon with Uncle Seryozha. Mom, as usual, rode up front with him, and I sat in the back. As often happened-because for her in the car I was more important-we talked. In that moment, I went into a frenzy of questions about sex. I found it particularly funny, given Uncle Seryozha was right there. I asked, "So if a man"s cock rises, does a woman"s pussy open?" I don"t remember her answer. We drove over a bridge with a beach in the middle of the Volga.

Later, Mom was invited to the Kiskins"-her former colleagues from Engel"s architecture work. They had previously lived in central Engel"s near us, but, like normal people in our town, they were building a cottage, now almost finished. I remember no one except the pleasant dark-haired wife. They had children who seemed older than me, but after checking, they were younger. Someone drove us there and back; it was evening, already dark. Their cottage was in the Uchhoz district-just before the turn to Granny Klava"s dacha, the next district after where Grandpa went. While recalling and investigating, odd details emerged. Mom later called the district we visited "Wheel of Fortune," and that"s what our family called it. But I checked the map-it turned out "Wheel of Fortune" is actually another Engel"s district, not this one-but this district, with elite cottages and cameras, is the one through which we walked to the playground with Aunt Lena and Masha. It turns out there had been a lifelong mistake-an amusing coincidence.

Their cottage was unfinished, some halls of bare blocks (I probably sound like a normal person baffled by lack of finishing)... Soon I was led to a room with a computer, and games were turned on. For the first time, I saw properly working 3D graphics. There was a motorcycle racing game where you could jump on ramps. They showed me the controls and left. I played for an hour and a half, hoping no one would return. Then they showed another side-scrolling game, running through sewers as some ridiculous monster. I now know it was Oddworld. I wanted the motorcycles more. At the end, when all the adults entered, a top-down "strategy" game appeared on the computer. I don"t know strategy games, but it was probably Civilization. While the adults stood there, they chatted as if even Kiskin himself had played.

And then we left.

.:::.

Part 42, Text 5. Falling ill... visiting BabValya and Aunt Larisa and her neurotic streak... Oleg Nikolayevich didn"t let me compete.

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It was already February, long past... One time, probably on a Saturday, there were only a few lessons-math in the classroom at the far end, no sun outside, the lights on-and that day BabValya came to pick me up. I started coming down with something. I don"t remember exactly what happened after that, though I don"t think I actually got sick while I was there. Usually I couldn"t get sick at her place, because to be officially excused from school you needed a doctor from the children"s clinic to come to the house-and that only happened at your registered address. But maybe it lined up with the off-school days around February 23rd, because I really was at BabValya"s then. Father had come back to us by that time. And whenever he was around, especially on weekends, I tended to spend time at BabValya"s.

So we went to visit Larisa with Anya. I won"t mention Ivan, because he only got back late in the evening-they said he was busy. By then, I was pedalling the exercise bike until my legs shook. Anya didn"t say much. I messed with her, teased her, played little hooligan tricks-but always carefully, because strict Aunt Larisa was there. Larisa was kind to me, but it was the same staged kind of kindness my mother showed to other children-too rehearsed. That politeness betrayed fragility, a deep neurotic streak, and with that came outbursts beyond reason. You see, there are mothers, in my observation, who scold and punish. But their scolding feels controlled, teacher-like. Larisa and my mother-I knew this about my mother for sure-felt capable of completely unhinged eruptions, going far beyond ordinary practical discipline.

Those were the days when Splin"s song "People Make New People at Night" was playing everywhere.

As for that illness, it was the first time I had to skip several training sessions, and I was bitterly frustrated by my weakness. When I got back to the gym, I found out that school sports competitions were coming up soon-they happened periodically. "Finally," I thought. But during warm-ups, when Oleg Nikolayevich asked where I"d been, and I told him I"d been sick, he said I wouldn"t be allowed to compete. He said it gently, as if he knew I"d be devastated. I nodded, pretending everything was fine. But inside, I was in hell. Why the hell should missing just three training sessions make me incapable?

By then we were deep into practising back handsprings onto the coach"s hands. I was barely holding myself together but could already do a kip on the bar. Dismounts from the parallel bars-still with the coach"s help. At the end of one session, the coach let us go up to the balcony and jump into the foam pit. I had wanted to do that for ages, and I wasn"t afraid.

I went to watch the competitions from the balcony with my mother. The competitors were basically Vitya, Andrey, and Vitalik-competing mostly against themselves, because everyone was at a different level. The first did two back handsprings in a row, the second just cartwheels and splits, and the third, with only a nod from his father on the balcony, tumbled around like in kindergarten. My chance to compete against the mesomorphic Andrey was gone, though I still couldn"t do a full split and would have lost to him in strength anyway. But I still had some chance thanks to my diligence and strict adherence to sports etiquette-unlike the hooligan Andrey.

.:.

___Part 43.

.::.

________________I"m 10 years old.

.:::.

Part 43, Text 1. Found out about GTA... sex‑phobic envy of my parents under the piano... Father hits his head on a pipe... started getting to the gymnasium on my own... sitting with BabLena all worked‑up, like with a girlfriend... saw erotic films at BabValya"s... going to theatres for sex on the sofas.

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For my birthday, BabValya, Larisa and Anya came over to our place on Lev Kassil Street, arriving with Ivan. More hugging with adults, and I felt squeamish when they kissed me. Larisa gave me a T‑shirt with the word "Nevada" on it - I put it on straight away. They brought a cake, and I blew out my ten candles - there"s a photograph. Maybe BabKlava and Granddad came too; it was probably the only time they ever saw Anya, and also the only time Anya was ever at Lev Kassil. Afterwards Father also photographed me with Murka in the middle room by the map.

Computer games were everywhere in the shops - the era had arrived. In many shops you could buy a disc and later exchange it for another one by paying extra. Father bought me a compilation disc of car‑themed games: some Crazy Taxi, something else, and GTA 3. That"s how I first learned about GTA. The description on the back said that in the virtual world you could do anything - not just drive a car, but also get out and run around as a little character. I was dying to play it, but of course none of the games would run. The disc just ended up lying there together with the receipt. Maybe one day it could be exchanged. Father had bought it in a shop in Engels on the corner of Gorky and Telman, right next door to a hunting store. It was a typical non‑food shop that sold a bit of everything. You walked in - games immediately on the left, then electronics, batteries and various radios; then along a circular corridor there were stalls with bags, clothes, audio cassettes, more electronics and radios - and eventually you looped back to the entrance. I started dropping in there from time to time just to look at the computer‑game discs.

Apparently so that I"d have more space for a run‑up before the acrobatic jumps I had begun practising full‑on in the room using armchair cushions, we swapped the beds between the rooms: my bed was moved into the small room, and the larger one into the middle room, like in early childhood. There it ended up pressed against the pull‑up‑bar pipe, to which a punching bag was tied so it wouldn"t get in the way. I stayed in the small room - only now I was on my own bed and alone.

One evening - a weekend or a holiday, maybe the eighth of March - Father and Mother were lying in bed in the middle room. When they lay like that in their room, Mother sometimes suddenly squealed with laughter, as if he were tickling her. By that time, because of my obsession, I was constantly listening, but I had never heard anything except their chatter, laughter, or those squeals. That evening she might have squealed again, or maybe something else playful happened, but I suspected something vaguely sexual. Inside me was a mixture of my sex‑phobic envy, a lingering disbelief that sex even existed, and plain hooliganism. I went in, laughing mischievously, and tried to lift the blanket to look. But they wouldn"t let me. So I left.

A minute later there were sounds again, and then I opened the piano and loudly played the threatening first eight notes of Beethoven"s Fifth Symphony. I knew the melody from television and had worked it out on the piano the day before. Together with Gaudeamus, those are literally the only moments from my entire childhood when I remember figuring something out on the piano.

Around that time there was a funny moment with Father. One morning we went out for school and headed to the stop by School No. 11. We passed the boiler house in front of our building and then the garages, and turned onto the slanted path across the playground where there was also a pull‑up bar. I had started doing pull‑ups on it every time we passed; once I even slipped off it because my mittens were wet and fell on my back into the snow - it didn"t hurt.

And there, right by the path we were walking along, stood some old posts that had once held clotheslines, and Father smacked his head on one of them. He said, "What the hell is this crap? I"ll saw it off." Later I told Mum, and we kept remembering it and cracking up about how he"d snapped like that. It was the same kind of situation as another one - I don"t remember exactly when - when our bathtub drain got clogged, and Father crawled underneath, unscrewed it, and a wet clump of hair fell out. He lay there for a while, apparently while someone looked for a bag to pick it up with, and Father said, "So who"s going to clean up this bloody tangle?" But everyone knew it would be him. Basically it was just another example of how he always ended up getting stuck with things. And we - especially Mum - always found it funny when the man was the one who got stuck with it.

From around those weeks on, I started travelling to Saratov on my own. Father would only walk me as far as the bus stop. We"d wait for the bus coming along Telman Street, and I would squeeze inside by myself. Usually there was no way to wave goodbye to him. I didn"t pay much attention to it, but the buses in the morning were a complete fucking crush. You didn"t even need to hold on, and you couldn"t see where you were going; you could practically suffocate unless you bent your arms at the elbows just to wedge a bit of space against the backsides pressing in on you.

In that state - sometimes with morning traffic jams as well - the bus went along the same route I had described back in second grade and took about thirty minutes before people started getting off along Moskovskaya Street. Then I would get off at Radishchev, walk diagonally across the square, and go on foot along Gorky Street to the gymnasium.

My parents always picked me up to take me home - mostly Mum, and sometimes, as before, Uncle Seryozha.

Once, BabValya had gone off somewhere for the whole day, and I was left with her old playful friend - Baba Lena. Outside, it was super-grey, but inside, we had a super-cozy hangout in the living room by the TV, and she felt like a friend to me. I was fooling around with near-sexual jokes - hugging and pretending to fuck the ottoman, that sort of thing. We played cards, a game of Durak, and she skillfully beat me. Later, when I was flipping through a book about card games and tricks, she showed me a trick where the spectator chooses a card, the magician shuffles the deck only three times, shows a few cards asking if the chosen one is there, and suddenly the card is guaranteed to appear at a specific position. It was apparently some kind of mathematical law. I memorised the trick but never really understood how it worked.

Then Baba Lena fell asleep in the armchair, and I, practising my handstands on the carpet scattered with cards, was watching some film. I still haven"t identified what it was. There were scenes where savages in a forest were sacrificing virgins to a huge carnivorous plant, apparently pushing them off a springboard, like in that scene in Star Wars in a desert, over a big pit. That"s when I first heard the word "virgins," though I didn"t understand what it meant.

BabValya had always had Hans - that hairy, grumpy cat who had never seen other cats and only loved BabValya. I think he still dragged around his shaggy, torn cloth around the apartment, which he would fuck - apparently that was his thing for the rest of his life.

Also, when I stayed at BabValya"s late into the night flipping through TV channels, I caught a fragment of an erotic film. They started on REN TV around midnight. In what I saw, there weren"t any close-up genital shots yet, but there were dark rooms with sofas and lots of people engaging in intimate acts in full view of each other. This gave me the impression that in real life, adults could do that even in the corridors of theatres. Because in the Saratov TYuZ and that big opera theatre, there were many such dark corridors, and TYuZ even had sofas.

And then, once at dinner at our place on Lev Kassil Street, the three of us were talking, and Father, as always, recommended I get into literature, theatre, and all things cultural. Being preoccupied, I added a comment that some people go to such places to fuck on the sofas. I said it outright. He agreed: "Some do, yes." I was surprised. I had hoped that those films were all staged. And I certainly wasn"t going to believe that article in a magazine about New York clubs where you could whip girls until I saw it for myself. I wasn"t even going to believe in sex among married couples until I heard or at least saw it. I had heard no sounds that could reliably prove my parents were having sex. But that"s just how I framed it to myself - that I didn"t believe in sex. It wasn"t disbelief exactly, but a wish for sex to be fictional - because I was afraid of it and desired it, yet, given my honest understanding of the permanence of my neuroses, which meant I would never get any attention from girls as a man, I could never actually have it.

.:::.

Part 41, Text 2. The impossibility of getting close to strangers after having hyper-close parents... about how I fell in love - like a parent... alone at home during the day... death in childhood and the whole morass of associations... the film The Good Son.

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But it wasn"t just complexes and the doom of sexual unattractiveness that ruined sex for me. In my early life, especially the summer of "96, I was deeply focused on our special family dynamics - ultra-close, super-friendly, the three of us tightly intertwined. From school onwards, I mentioned this less, mostly noticing just my idylls with my mother. Though I did reference the triple idylls - like that New Year when Kirill and Methodius were there - I just forget it myself now. Still, it"s worth reminding. All that super-friendliness, the "96-style, was always there. Mostly created by my father. Whenever he came home - not only after long absences, even just arriving in the evening - his behaviour towards me seemed, from the outside, as if he"d come to a son who had either made him a grandfather, beaten cancer, or achieved some victory in a years-long fight for justice. Ordinary joy, which most fathers would express with a hug, he hyperbolised. He still acts like that when he visits. But it"s not theatrical. If you play along, he stays in that exaggerated delight. If not, he "deflates." I once wrote that he "gave birth to a friend." He had so much thought and topics he couldn"t share with anyone - for others, all that seemed eccentric. I, accustomed to him and unable to be without him like a child, naturally shared all his obsessions. There were a ton of words, neologisms. He called me strange names like Ben, Eximbator. I called him Papandrik, Papandor - and it made us both laugh. (Psychiatrists and gaslighters would love this, counting it as a symptom of psychotic disorder.)

With my mother, there were my idylls with her; the three of us had common idylls and topics; all the traditional family word games and other beach-time rituals, some seven years old by now, and newer ones too - from when it was the four of us with Murka-Rimma-Muramu. Constantly new ones emerging. All of it created a special super-friendly, super-tight atmosphere at home. Similar relationships existed with Granny Valya, and slightly less so with Granny Klava. Grandpa isn"t included; he was silent all his life.

And so, I didn"t see any possibility of this with strangers. The level of intimacy I fantasised about with Masha Ermakova, or hoping for some response from Anya on Frunze when she picked up my book or touched me with a blade of grass in early childhood, required that same "other" type of closeness, with different habits and traditions. With my parents, I could leave the room messy, be filthy, cry, whine - behave any way I wanted, just be myself - and they"d keep loving me. Strangers, even the indulgent ones like Anya, would, sooner or later, kick me out - that was obvious. From the start, I saw what adulthood would bring: a stranger, sizing you up for a close relationship, wants your social conformity, proper behaviour, a tidy room, intact underwear. Anything - except you.

Only I could love a stranger like a parent - physically, for the body itself, detached from rooms and underwear. I could fall in love, take that moment as a starting point, and love forever from there. I had one condition, both at the beginning and for continuing love: that the body in me needed me. Then, like a parental instinct, my kinship instinct would kick in. If someone truly needed me, it wouldn"t matter if my room was tidy or my underwear was full of holes. Where they pick over underwear, where they pick at all - no intimacy I sought could exist.

Some advanced armchair specialists concluded I was searching not for a sexual partner, but for a parent. Thinking that way, I was really looking for a child - while being a parent myself.

Yes, all this is obviously not normal - if it were, humanity would be extinct. But these were the needs and expectations I developed, inspired by my adults and being a hellish neurotic. Plus, only under such closeness did my fantasies resolve my sexophobia. In truth, sex, as I"d later notice, wasn"t as arousing then as it was with "strangers."

The days were already sunny, but snow still lingered. On non-training days, from noon to evening, I stayed home alone, endlessly doing acrobatics and gym exercises, sprawling in front of the TV.

All my childhood was like a Lev Kassil novel - in front of the TV, flicking through our ten channels, chasing dopamine, hoping to hit something interesting. Once, I stumbled on a strange children"s film, overflowing with coffin scenes, in a very American style, with one-story suburban neighbourhoods. In it, a very young Macaulay Culkin character was stung by bees - and died. They even showed him in the coffin, stung. It was unprecedentedly neurotic and humiliating. Until then, I hadn"t thought you could die in childhood. Death became closer, worse. Super-shameful, defeat: everyone who didn"t like me, and those who would not like me if they knew me - billions of people - would go on living, having what I wanted. And I - I was done. Alive, I was nobody, worthless, and now I"d even lost control over myself. Lost everything. Forever, at the very beginning of life. And they would see me naked in a morgue. And maybe, like in that film, a girl would come to my coffin and look at me. She"d imagine how terrible it was for me, how I didn"t want to die in my last moments but still did, what my physiological and neurological states were, how I didn"t care about hunger, penis pain, even the pain of dying: I was engulfed in the terror of inevitable death, convulsing and vomiting in shame. She would imagine all that, while I lay there, stinking, untouchable. Me, who dreamed of being a somersaulting mesomorph, loved by girls. Not a corpse-as-zoo, so young. Fuck, the crushing shame in my solar plexus and genitals... Not just death - stench. And the girl would feel it - with the satisfaction of justice - imagining how I"d sob if I knew I"d died, how I"d shove all my whims and ambitions up my ass, how I"d be willing to live without arms and legs, paralyzed for ninety years, just to wake up and avoid the irreversible. Just to cancel death. But - denied. Done: life taken, turned to dust... Mortal Kombat, Vorpax... Punished by death. For weakness. For the reckless reaction born of that weakness. Weakness I hadn"t chosen, hadn"t shaped, had always been. Power chords screaming on guitar - the music of a cruel world... And the girls watch and perceive my death... They triumph. While I scream - from self-pity, for my mother, from terror, from pain. Naked. Chest, shoulders, neck - red blotches. And neither mother nor Putin - no one could do anything. Nobody solves such things. You"re either lucky or - a spineless worm of a life, ending in brutal humiliation in front of everyone. Done: can"t be born again, can"t be restored. Now utterly non-mesomorph, completely drained of strength and potential, that you could open my mouth and shit in it. Or cut off my penis and feed it to the cats. And all of this - in front of other children, who will go on living, in front of girls. Incredible humiliation. But this - only the humiliation part - the loser"s defeat in an unspoken, implied, life-or-death struggle (because - for sex, satisfaction, strength, survival). And there"s also the other - utterly demoralising - part about death itself (especially in childhood), tied to losing me as a child and my loss of parents - super-stress. Demoralising, and also making death unnaturally taboo - as it desexualises it. Stress not from a life-or-death struggle, which you"d naturally be drawn to, but from family destruction, the ruin of family idyll and protection - pathological stress - something one can"t naturally reach.

And so, I no longer exist. All my parents" efforts wasted, all optimism, all "Eximbators." Father crying in the mustard armchair. Mother lying in bed sobbing. Outside, children still playing - they never knew me. They will grow up, see the sexual organs of the other sex, while I never did. Only my penis was seen - and by then, no one cared about my phimosis.

Mother visits my grave. Cemetery - autumn, empty. At first monthly, then every six months... What if she adjusts, betrays me, and has another? I"ll vanish everywhere.

The film was My Girl, I"ve since identified. From then on, classic suburban America became irrevocably linked in my mind with their gleaming expensive coffins, funerals, and Catholic churches.

Later, I stumbled on another Culkin film - The Good Son. Almost the same tone, and Culkin dies again at the end. But here he"s a sadist. He torments, even tries to kill his sister. I remember that girl Polina. Mostly - it was like me, my worst fear - he"s jealous of his mother for another boy moving in. He falls into such despair that, at the end, he tries to kill her. But he falls off a cliff himself.

It was the first drama I truly understood and watched, without pausing even for my dumbbells. I later told my mother the plot, and that evening, as usual, she went on and on with Aunt Lena on the phone, outraged that I watched films where sons kill mothers. She didn"t get that it wasn"t that simple - and had she watched, I felt she would have sided with him.

.:::.

Part 43, Text 3. On the bed with Murka... sunbeams with girls in the yard... with mother at the Soviet hospital and the operation... more about Murka.

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But sometimes, on those sunny yet still snowy days, alone at home, I"d tear myself away from the TV, even turn it off - and wander from window to window, watching what was happening below. Dogs ran about, the whole of Lev Kassil street was mud-grey, and sometimes a funeral bus passed - and I"d stare, hoping to see a corpse. From the small room"s window and the living room. Then I"d move to the middle room. The bed was flooded with afternoon sun, and there was Murka. She slept, curled into a ball, and I lay down beside her. She opened her furry eyelids, then her "curtains" - as my mother and I called them - slid apart, revealing tiny sun-squint pupils. She yawned. Suddenly, she twisted her head, throat up, where she liked to be scratched, and immediately started purring at me, forgetting how, just two days ago, I had almost hit her. I pressed my face to hers. She was all heated from the sun. When I was near as she yawned - her breath smelled like sour meat. Her lips there were black, like the mouth of a ginger cat on the postcard I once gave my mother, now always on the computer desk.

When I pulled back, she stretched nearly a meter long and yawned, and I began stroking her, pressing against her belly, where her nipples, sucked clean after kittens, were.

I went to the window.

On the playground between the poplars, children played. I didn"t remember or know any of them. At home, we had a loose mirror, forty centimetres square, and I decided to play with sunbeams on them. To hide quickly, I stationed myself at the window"s edge. All my childhood I wanted a laser pointer - I"d seen some boys with them in kiosks. Sitting at a distance, pointing a red dot - nobody could trace it. Incredible feeling. Same with the beam now. I shone it near two girls. They hadn"t noticed... Ten minutes passed, I thought they"d never see it. But then they did. They looked around, couldn"t find it - I turned the mirror away and hid behind the wall (windows on both sides, no chance of spotting me). When they stopped searching, I shone again. They tried to jump on the dot, I led it further and further - they couldn"t catch it. And I moved them. Manipulator. Incredible feeling. Some influence. That"s what I needed.

At the end of March were school holidays. On the 25th, first thing in the morning, my mother and I went to Saratov for hospital business. Whether for Uncle Seryozha or by bus - we ended up in the district where Aunt Katya lived, towards the station, then towards the children"s park and drama theatre - places I"d visited maybe a few times, still confusing Rakhov and Astrakhan streets, both with walking islands in the middle. We arrived at 145 Rabochaya street, passed through somewhere, and were met with the hospital-pharmacy smell, white coats, queues, all related to my mother"s heart. Maybe this was when they fitted or removed the device recording her long-strip ECG. From there, taking a tram, we went further - to a district I hadn"t been in, with the Polytechnic and the huge First Soviet Hospital. Now it was about my penile pains, and I was in hellish stress. Through some checkpoints, we walked the grounds. The whole hospital atmosphere stank; I felt there must be a morgue somewhere. We reached a distant, old, gloomy building full of stress. Inside, we sat in a dim corridor, waiting to be called. Patients walked by - people clearly lying here. We were called, had a terrifying conversation about the possibility of some operation. Just for urethritis, which I already understood I didn"t have; there was something else. I lied with all my might that nothing hurt anymore. This was even before they cut open the boy among the Penza relatives, summer visitors to Frunze. We left into the corridor, waited further, and I nagged my mother endlessly about the operation - impossible. I think I did it like my attempts to reconcile with her: endless repetition: "Mom, there won"t be any operation? Really? Mom, there won"t be an operation, right? Really, yes?" We tried to use the bathroom, couldn"t enter. The floor was uneven; the far wing was ankle-deep in water; inside, beyond a cracked door, it seemed even deeper. Foul, nasty place. I was ecstatic to leave with the decision to delay any operation.

And of course, we had repeated trips to the clinic. All other time - gym exercises at the TV or trips to training. I was constantly alone with Murka. Sometimes sadistic play to the point of my own blood, sometimes lying together, her purring. She often looked out the window from the sill, maybe feeling with me as I did with my mother - hell at times, paradise at others. On the bed, when stretched out on her back, I hugged her, stroked her lower belly. Among the black fur, a patch of white hair, like an intimate trim. Though erotic in sense, I never got aroused - I just wanted her to be human. Everyone feels that way about animals. Humans don"t need them.

She loved climbing up somewhere and sitting; often on the rolled-up green carpet that had been in my middle room, now in the living room corner. Once around then, with mother present in the kitchen, something fell, shaking the floor. Murka was in shock, the carpet in the middle of the room. She must have climbed it and fallen, almost knocking over the TV. We comforted her; her heart was racing.

.:::.

Part 43, Text 4. Neighbour in Zinc.

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The holidays were over, and one afternoon, late in the day after school - Mom was home - suddenly the topic came up. The neighbours closest to us, on the dark side of the building, had lost a son while he was serving in the army in Chechnya. Just to remind you, a big "Momka" lived there, her daughter Natasha - a tiny, chain-smoking teenager of about seventeen, already with kids - and a whole bunch of other people, including this guy. And my mom, remember, had shoved a metal door into the shared vestibule five years earlier to keep their lumpen lifestyle away from our apartment. After that, her relationship with them was tense my entire childhood.

Mom and I went out onto the balcony, and down below there was a refrigerated truck. They"d brought him in a coffin and were already lifting it out. Mom quietly opened our apartment door and listened; I stood in the living room and listened too. For her, the problem was that, with our iron door in place, they might not have been able to bring the coffin in. When we could hear the commotion just behind the iron door, Mom spoke up and offered to open our double iron door, the second part of which also swung open. We didn"t even know how to open it, and first, we had to clear a bunch of junk from the entryway. Mom cracked the main door, and when I came closer, I saw that damn red coffin, held by hands in military uniforms. They didn"t need to open our door - they got it in.

That evening, Dad came home, and the whole atmosphere was soaked in the presence of a corpse nearby. Mom kept approaching the hallway and sniffing. Finally, she said, "It"s hit me." She"s almost as much of a necrophobe as I am, maybe worse. She often recalled the funerals on Frunze Street - at least three: Uncle Valera"s brother Yura (who had also come back from the army dead for unknown reasons), their father Uncle Tolya, and Grandma Klava"s mother, Baba Shura. Mom constantly remembered coffins standing in the house, mouths opening, and other gruesome stories. She couldn"t handle it. She tried to look indifferent, but really, she nearly fainted from all of it. And now, it was happening here.

Later that evening, the neighbours rang our doorbell. By Russian funeral tradition, they needed to make some compote and didn"t have enough stove space. Mom put their pot on ours, and it was cooking there. Then we all went to sleep - I had school the next day. Lying in that tiny room, I thought: there"s a corpse just behind the wall.

The next morning, I was afraid to breathe in the hallway. We had to step out into the vestibule - that would definitely stink. Walking out with Dad, I thought I"d smell it and pass out. I didn"t breathe and didn"t smell anything. But in front of the lift, another surprise awaited me - and you know what kind. I thought it was the entire coffin. It stood under the dim lamp, and while we waited for the lift, Dad and I just stared at it, then at each other in silence.

The funeral happened while I was at school. When I returned, the area around the building and the lobby were littered with trampled flowers again. Dad said that, by military funeral tradition, there was a military band and they even fired into the sky.

.:::.

___Part 44.

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Part 44, Text 1. Trouble with the Flak, Super-coward Vitalik, and the guy who bonked his head,,, various flips and bar exercises.

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Once, while preparing us for flak jumps, Oleg Nikolaevich didn"t put his hands under Andrey without warning, and the little bastard did it himself. We were practising on that big mat called "the cube." I wasn"t scared of the back jump anymore - I"d already done it in the foam pit - now it was time on a harder surface. Finally, the coach didn"t catch me either - and it began. I started landing in a headstand. My arms wouldn"t stay straight, and I fell on my head. Later, when I started practising at home, filming it, and watching it in slow motion, you"d see my arms bending midair. My ordeal with this flak had begun.

Later, Oleg Nikolaevich said about my flak: "It"s like a new element - a jump into a headstand." I was cursed: I couldn"t land on straight arms even once. Without straight arms and a solid push, you couldn"t rebound into a salto - the "kurbet" thing. After such a flak, doing a salto by inertia was impossible. It was useless, costing me half the points in competitions. Basically, it was a nightmare.

Vitalik couldn"t do it either - he was just terrified of jumping backward. He was a supreme coward; it"s even interesting what happened to him later. And damn, I just remembered that, about ten years ago, around 2015, I looked him up. As far as I recall, he had photos with a girl. At least he looked energetic, like everything was fine - not some miserable outsider he logically should"ve become. Fuck... back then, it didn"t hit me as hard as recalling it now, after life"s prime years. That"s the cruelest part - seeing that even bigger losers - like this coward Vitalik, or snotty neurotics like Evstifeev - became normal, satisfied people, as if they"d never been what they were. None of my childhood acquaintances ended up like me. I literally know only a handful of people online whose lives ended together with their childhood - everything else just bed, internet, and hellish dissatisfaction.

Vitalik couldn"t even do the sideways dismount on the bars, which I could do by then. Coaches, and maybe his dad (if that guy on the balcony was his real dad), were annoyed. His dad barked commands at him. But Vitalik just trembled and teared up. Once, when the coach left, his dad lost it and went into the hall, climbed onto our bar podium, and forced poor Vitalik to try the dismount. Somehow, by summer, he finally managed it. Pure hell...

One time, while Oleg Nikolaevich went to the gym, some adult guys came to jump into the foam pit. They asked Slava, who was doing cool stuff, questions; he answered and even showed some bar tricks. For me, Slava was the main idol among real people I"d seen. I watched, jealous that they talked to him, and he was even friendly to them - although these gym guys were nobodies compared to him - they couldn"t do what we, the little ones, could. We didn"t really interact with him, being kids. We were exercising on the bars in turns. Later, when our coach wasn"t there, the adults climbed onto our bars, jumped into the pit, doing clumsy saltos. One pushed too far, did a forward flip, landed, rolled forward on inertia, and bonked his forehead on the concrete wall. I thought he"d die. Oleg Nikolaevich returned, saw what happened, and said: "Lie down a bit."

We also began backflips from the cube onto mats. At first with the coach. I liked backflips, but I preferred forward moves. Given the choice between "round-off - flak - backflip" or "forward roll - forward flip," I"d choose the latter.

On the bars, we did flips - first with grips, then without. Hands in place, swing legs back, then forward on inertia, flip backward, return to starting position. You could also flip forward, landing by inertia. Then there were street-style moves - like hanging upside down on the bar behind your knees, swinging, and dropping to the ground. Timing was crucial - if you missed, you"d fall on your knees, or flip the wrong way, smack your head, and be out for ninety years. Another move - sitting on the bar, flipping backward, landing in the same position. Without grips, you couldn"t do it - if under-rotated, your hands slip, you hit the ground. With grips, danger remained - under-rotate, lose control, risk shoulder dislocation, pinch arteries, lose blood flow. I knew I couldn"t cut circulation. Another move - sitting backward, flip forward, return to sitting. All practised over mats until coaches returned - they hated chalk smearing the bars.

I had to work hard on pull-ups, flak with straight arms, and stretching splits - I still couldn"t do the splits.

Returning from gymnastics, I didn"t even go via Baba"s place - just walked home along Revolutsionnaya Street. Smells of evening fires, spring, dogs barking behind private fences, emptiness. Then - to Lev Kassil via the children"s hospital grounds where I"d been last summer.

.:::.

Part 44, Text 2. With Mom in courtyards, sports post-Soviet style,,, Engels allergy clinic and unknown districts,,, hope to become "master of self",,, at the table with Mom about my psychological weakness.

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The snow melted quickly, and spring came almost dry. Mom and I started wandering through every courtyard with sports grounds, trying to find all sports clubs in the city - besides the sports school, karate, and swimming - there weren"t any. I needed more sport, constantly. I obsessed over mats, weights, bars. Somewhere, Mom found out that near Lëtka, where Slava went after training, there was a sports complex. After one practice, we headed there. The sun hadn"t set; the evening bustle of post-Soviet apartment courtyards, people on the street. Everywhere - broken playgrounds, stinking entrances, panel buildings. Pipes, dirt, worn football field. Perfect. That post-Soviet vibe now perfectly linked to sport. On the map, it"s "Engels Microdistrict One." We walked further; eventually there was a military base or something. We entered a checkpoint; pigs in uniform, a commandant, people unsure what we were doing - like us. Somehow, I ended up on an army sports yard in a fenced courtyard: gym ladders, even trenches for soldiers, bars too wide for me. Soldiers around. Previously, all this would have disgusted me. Now it felt normal, part of my cherished associative chain. I even wanted to join the army - by then, I"d be flipping on the bar, dismounting from bars, everyone would look at me, saying, "Hey man," "What"s up, bro?" etc.

It"s wild to recall - how obsessed I was, how much dopamine I had, so I could love even the things I hated most. Imagine what I could"ve become, following my natural inclinations, rather than the shit that ultimately mangled me.

At the same time, we started going to the Engels allergy centre. On Uncle Seryozha or by bus, often before training, Mom and I went to 24 Stroiteley Avenue - across from the place Grandpa once took me with Alina. The edge of Engels civilisation; beyond - only the "Himvolokno" district, then nothing. This allergy centre, like the one in Saratov, was like a mini clinic. Annoying, not sick people - tests, procedures. I endured it reluctantly - sure nothing would help. We went a couple times a week, sometimes more. Quick visits, then off to the stadium if training day.

When it got warmer, another routine emerged. We crossed Stroiteley Avenue and, deeper into the district courtyards, went to 5 Leningradskaya Street - a panel building with an arch. We entered a yard and climbed to an apartment of a mom"s acquaintance. I don"t remember why; maybe a seamstress Mom had dealings with since my childhood, altering jackets and trousers. Probably something else. Once we spent a couple of hours there. Toys of a kid. I practiced handstands in the main room.

I even remembered another old trip, in someone"s car, to another Engels district - linked to the seamstress, a dark hallway, boring waiting for Mom. Probably before gymnastics, maybe even in the Niva. Memory shows it was aimless time. I became "whole" - purposeful, goal-driven, and "reliable" - only through gymnastics. Before, it was vacuum, hopelessness, despair. No clue how to reach satisfaction. Now, hope - via victory over fears, mastery of my body. By then, it was clear gymnastics wasn"t about competitions with Yerokin et al., but conquering my fears. I needed to become not just a sports master, but master of myself, fear-conqueror. Dreamed that, by mastering gymnastics bravely, I"d stop being a reactive crybaby - and maybe be attractive to girls. But for now, barely visible, I still walked like a cripple, as I described.

There was an episode then. Sitting at the kitchen table with Mom, doing homework, she brought a belt, I was sniffling. She softened, spoke of my sniffling. She asked why I whined like a little kid. I said it was the belt - it hurts. Then she said: "If we walk outside and some thugs bother us, will you run because it hurts?" I don"t recall my answer. I was actually crying for another reason - I"ve told that story.

Memory holds a tiny episode when I hit Mom once. I can"t say if it was that spring or the next autumn. In any case, I recalled it when narrating the following summer - the best explanatory lead-in is there.

.:::.

Part 44 Text 3. Acrobatics at Home in the Gym, Radio Maximum, Bitter End.

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All my hope rested on gymnastics.

I took the six checkered cushions we had from some old sofa - the ones I"d built mazes on when I was three or four, learned to do a standing backbend on, and that Zosya and Murka would chase each other over - and spread them out on the floor, on the gym carpet. I"d put a blanket on top so they wouldn"t slide apart. My springboard for gymnastics - the one I used to bounce off - were the green cushions from our armchairs, the ones Murka used to pedal on (though less and less as she grew up). Four of them. Their foam was firmer.

Until around April, I only did cartwheels, forward rolls, and some running-front-somersaults from the small room. For the front somersaults, I bounced off the two green cushions, and for the landing spot, I layered the remaining eight cushions in two layers and added every other blanket in the apartment. Throughout my home-acrobatics career, I almost never landed a front somersault on my feet. I always landed on my ass, and even on the wobbly two-cushion stack, it was impossible to stay upright, sometimes the cushions even slid forward across the carpet - total chaos. Sometimes, when I was feeling cocky and strong, I"d put down only one layer for the landing. Still, I ended up landing on my hands and knees from the front somersault - even worse than in the gym. And the thin layer made me shake the apartment floor; by spring it was obvious the downstairs neighbours were suffering. Soon they started banging on the radiators. In the single-layer setup, the cushions would sometimes slide under the blanket, and I"d hit the floor heel-first, freezing, waiting for the radiator to thump.

In March-April, after tormenting myself with a flick-flack in the gym, I tried my first flick-flack at home on two layers of cushions - my first attempts were a farewell to life. There were other terrifying moments in home training. For example, when practicing handstands - which I never really learned - falling backwards and twisting to avoid somersaulting could make me hit the corner of the bookcase with the protruding ankle bone. That would have been brutal. I thought I"d snap a vein there. I imagined the edge of the bone digging in, sheer agony. Just imagining it twisted me inside out before it even happened. And there were endless phobias of hitting my temple and dying, and more. And that"s just at home. On the street, in the gym - it was pure hell. Had YouTube existed, and I watched what bar and parkour athletes like Domtomato did, I"d have quit immediately. With my neurosis, I would never attempt the risks they took.

Yet in daring, death-defying moments, I even did a cartwheel-flick-flack from a small run-up - risky, liable to veer sideways onto the piano, and disaster. And the piano could fall and crush me. Or the floor might give way.

Flick-flacks brought severe problems and depression - which I"ll describe later. Backward somersaults were also an issue. From three green cushions, any weakling could manage, and I did too - landing on my feet without touching the floor. Reduce the bridge to two cushions, though, and I almost always landed on all fours. One layer, and I"d punch the foam through to the floor, uselessly shaking the building. Flick-flacks never worked out, but occasional somersaults that did succeed without much energy became a thrill, like throwing a knife at a fence or watching my mum make pancakes.

Meanwhile, another element ran alongside. All these gym sessions from the start were under music on our Kenwood radio. At first, I flicked through stations, but by spring I settled on Radio Maximum. They played modern, trendy, light foreign rock. On the background of a children"s tape, something was always playing - especially that segment from some happy summer day, when I either wasn"t attempting a flick-flack or had managed one correctly and convinced myself I did it right. It was a very American-sounding youth song by Good Charlotte - "The Anthem". It painted my imagination with a youth like in American Pie, or Buffy. College vibes, groups of friends, sitting on lawns, parties, private moments with a girlfriend. That paradise I"d never have. After a successful jump, I"d lie down and picture it all.

But mostly, I jumped badly, and all the other reasons to feel like crap kicked in - and I"d wait for different songs. The main one was by Placebo, "Bitter End". I hardly knew any band names, including this one, and never caught them announced on the radio, so I never learned them properly. It stood out: the heaviest and most depressive, yet the most melodic to my taste. A voice almost like Splean, feline, no masculinity posturing like other rock singers. I wasn"t even sure if it was a man singing. It was exactly how I could be, though I didn"t want to admit it. I felt subconsciously that I"d become this, if nothing worked out. The grinding, distorted major third left me puzzled about what instrument played it.

The song came out in March, and memories of that time - trips to the allergy clinic, training, wandering Soviet-era courtyards with bars, visits to lonely Grandma Klava, school-to-training commutes - are all soaked in it. First heavy-metal song I ever heard and loved. And since it was about failure and a flawed life for me, I was ashamed to show my mum that I waited for it, so I acted as if watching a TV love scene: self-conscious, controlled.

.:::.

Part 44 Text 4. Hating school and waking up early, Arik and Guzhik losing their morning companionship, football obsession, library with books and stifling envy of gymnasts, paper ball, kicking a small bastard in the back, ball throws.

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I hated school; it got in the way of my life. I hated waking up and having to get up - not just at six in the morning, not just in winter, but in general. That feeling of being forced, obliged to do something. From my first conscious trips to the clinic in "95, I hated it, more and more each year. By that year, with so much neurosis already, I don"t know how I would have endured it if I hadn"t pursued now some athletic values - early rising, morning exercises, washing my face with cold water. Also, my mum always woke me, and I had to get up immediately, because she already gave me the maximum sleep she could, and my eternally morning-hard cock never let me lie in, so school was always a struggle: how to get it up and get out of bed.

Guzhik and Arik became secondary companions. They weren"t the bravest, but they weren"t plagued by complexes, and they didn"t aspire to mastery over themselves. I was closer now to Andrei, Vitya, and Slava from gymnastics, even though they seemed to train for other, non-neurotic reasons. It was unclear who was closest to me. Sporty boys - like them. Guzhik and the others - like them. Erokin, Elchin, and that Slava Stallone from the parallel class, plus Zemskov - they were intolerant of losers, brave... But they were already "masters of themselves". I despised cowardice, yet I was a coward myself. I didn"t know anyone like me. Looking ahead, I never met anyone like me in life. Maybe I did, but they were heavily tilted towards harming others from desperation, including their own kind, me included. Such people were always my enemies. For example, the older of those two boys on Frunze - also a coward, never fought me - but an outright mischief-maker. Mostly I met such types later online.

Guzhiev and Arik - even Arik, despite his chubby build - had a strong interest in football. I sensed they knew each other outside school - maybe in summer - and shared interests. I didn"t ask, but it was almost certainly true. They lived a kilometre apart, with the city square nearby where everyone gathered in the evenings, like in Engels, so they would meet and hang out. Eventually, they would become closer, and I would lose connection with them.

But for now, football engaged me - even just for the colours and the flips some players did after scoring. Arik and Guzhik were guides. Mum bought me a big football magazine of the time. Mostly tables of scores, but photos too. There was Zidane, Beckham, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho. Guzhiev and Arik liked the first two; I preferred the latter - for their emotion. Among Russians, I chose Lokomotiv; my favourite player was Sergey Ovchinnikov - for his long hair and Neanderthal-like face, like the then Nagiyev.

A note to mum from those days (she left early, and I went with dad or alone):

-------start of insert-------

mum, pick me up from school at 13:20, I"ll play football. I"ll run where it"s dry.

-------end of insert-------

On the blank edge of the paper - a drawing of a sitting cat. Cats, especially Murka, were the main symbol of our life.

At the time, I was exempt from PE for some reason (though I still went to training). I was glad, because instead of PE I went to the library and sat reading some encyclopedia with pages on gymnastics. Occasionally catching snippets of competitions on TV and reading about them in books, I started envying girls - gymnasts in particular. They seemed younger than male gymnasts but executed all those killer Tkachev releases, bar flips, vaults where you could smash your skull, and even the balance beam, which I couldn"t imagine rolling on, yet they fell on it with their coccyx, collarbones, and ankles - and didn"t even cry. I suffered over crotch and thigh fantasies right there in the library. They looked a couple of years older, yet they could do all this - even at the Olympics.

Sometimes Guzhiev came to the library too, and we would sit, reading the thick football encyclopedia. I didn"t want to learn the rules. There were tons of them, but they never applied to the backyard football our class played on the rear school yard when it warmed up.

On the first floor of the gymnasium, before the unheated dance hall, there was a hall with columns where we had previously slid on the slippery floor. Now with Guzh, Arik, and sometimes Zemskov, we played football with a paper ball. I got bored, crumpled a big wad of paper at home, taped it, made a ball, and brought it to school. My companions didn"t value it much, nor did I. When it started tearing, instead of playing carefully to prolong it over the breaks, Arik stomped it flat.

Then came one PE lesson on the main asphalt square in front of the gymnasium, with two classes simultaneously - ours and a rowdy parallel class. There was that Slava Stallone, whom I wanted to beat but didn"t dare. Boys from both classes started some attacks, but nothing serious could happen - we were in the teacher"s view, not in some closed locker room. They shouted and swung their feet. In their class was a small, thin boy - I call them "twigs" - smaller than me, tiny head, long neck, turtleneck. Hoping his small size would protect him, he launched dirty attacks with his feet, like in martial arts. He kicked me in the side. Due to his weight, it didn"t hurt much, but I"d had enough of being a pushover. Waiting for a moment when his back was to me, I ran and kicked him hard in the back - he fell. I could have shifted a vertebra or worse. I immediately ran into the building and the changing room, half exulting, half fearing my mum"s reaction. If the boy recovered and reported who hit him, Slava would come after me, and I"d end up under his smelly armpit again, probably crying.

Lastly, on the same square, we threw tennis balls long distances. The teacher stood at the school entrance with us, throwing along the building, while classmates threw them back. I, used to throwing stones into the Volga, threw far. The teacher insisted on pushing the ball, but I saw no point - I gripped it with my fingertips, swinging my long, thin arm for maximum range. Then some older students appeared, and one grabbed our ball to show off in front of his crush, throwing it further than I could imagine - into the yard of the neighbouring university. The teacher said, "Go get it," and he returned quickly with it.

.:::.

Part 44, Text 5. Interest in Katya fades,,, but I bring them lizards,,, started looking at apartments with Mom,,, geography of the houses,,, class picnic,,, cursed during football with the dads.

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By then, my passionate interest in my beloved had already faded, because there was no hope. That long, blatant zero interest in me had done its work. I probably didn"t even sit next to her at our desks anymore.

Once, after class, I went with Guzhik as far as the turn from Gorky onto Kiseleva - I think I was meeting Mom there. At that corner, there was an old lady selling flowers - either mimosas or daisies. She said, "Buy some, give them to a girl." We didn"t buy anything - it made no sense to us.

Later, before some weekend - it was already May and hot - Katya and Dubinina, having long realised I was harmless, a mosquito that didn"t bite, and treated me neutrally, like a mosquito or a ghost, suddenly came up and asked me to catch and bring them lizards. Grandpa with his car was long gone, and our "Niva" was gone too, so I went to BabKlava"s dacha with Mom on the bus. This was probably the last time I ever went to her dacha. I caught a lizard for each of the girls and brought them in a cut-off bottle to school. They took them, immediately forgot about me, and left. All through lessons they played with them, holding them in their hands, and at the end of class released them onto the school lawn to die.

The next day, classmate Elena Zakharova latched onto me. She was a tall, strong overgrown girl, a mediocre student with clear developmental delay. She kept asking me to catch one for her too. She hassled me all day but eventually gave up.

Despite all this chaos, I didn"t lose heart. I had the mood of the song "People Make New People at Night", which at first I didn"t really think about, but later understood, and suddenly it felt like it was my theme - I hummed it constantly.

Mom and I went on the second-ever apartment viewing of my life. I mean, an actual viewing related to choosing an apartment. In the future, these apartment viewings would become frequent in this biography and in real life. I didn"t mention the very first one, because I can"t remember exactly when it was - probably earlier, either in some autumn or spring - by the building on Rudchenko Embankment, 13, which at the time was still an unfinished, frozen construction. We didn"t go in, just stood on the embankment, and Mom pointed to a window, saying this could be my room. The view was straight onto the Volga, but on the dark side. I remembered Dinara, who must have lived in the nearby private sector. It was windy, grey, and I didn"t want to live there, despite its potential elitism.

Now, that spring, we went nearby our own home - along Khalturina, to building 23, which had been completed and was being inhabited. It was a large two-room flat, with what"s called a "social finish" - basically just basic linoleum. There was a long corridor, and I stood there evaluating with my eyes - could I do roundoff-backflip-salto here. But the windows again faced north, and Mom hated north-facing windows. And we didn"t have enough money. Mom had 250,000 rubles, and this big flat was probably 450-500. Selling Lev Kassil was required.

In Engels, at that point, these were the new builds worth considering for moving from Lev Kassil. Rudchenko 13 - a white-brick ten-storey - was still unfinished. Then six "elite" monolithic towers, starting from Rudchenko 1 (near the Ferris wheel, the Stele, and the concrete descent to the water) - still just monolithic frames. Then a more than half-built ten-storey brick building on Persidskogo and Moskovskaya, building 30 - past which we always walked to BabKlava. Also, large brick buildings near school 33, under construction. A couple more ten-storey buildings behind school 33, but that was already the outskirts for us - we were so used to the very centre. And then Khalturina 23, which we visited.

I"ll also mention three smaller ones. At the corner of Svobody Square and Petrovskaya - next to Serebryakova"s building, visible from our flat windows - a new building was going up, one we would never have any connection with. Then a small multi-storey building at the intersection of Kommunisticheskaya and Svobody Square, diagonally from the monument to Soviet Babina (as I called her in my early biography), at the entrance to a children"s park. Some rich kids seemed to live there, especially since it bordered the city"s first adult beer restaurant "Zhiguli" on Kommunisticheskaya, where wealthy, clearly influential kids always parked their cars. Not our kind of place at all. And near the building with the Dumpling Place, Lenin Street, 2 - another building was under construction, also one my mom and I would never visit or have any connection with.

Finally, on the site of today"s Green Lane, 13 - very close to our Lev Kassil home, on the other side of Petrovskaya - there was then a swampy wasteland, where that very building 13 would later be built, marking the end of my childhood story.

So, that"s basically all the new buildings - aside from them, there would be no other houses in my childhood biography. In Engels, Mom considered only new buildings. Moreover, in the few already built brick buildings, like Serebryakova"s, prices were high, and if there was a so-called "Euro finish," even more so. We didn"t need Euro finish: Mom could never handle things like lights in suspended ceilings or kitchen hoods - she wanted simple.

The area near the allergy centre felt like a different city. But most of Engels" population lived there, and in summer, evenings, the park was full of people from there.

It was already deep May, the last days of trips to the allergy centre and those walks through who-knows-where. Once, entering the first yard from Stroiteley Avenue, I saw a guy swinging too skillfully on a horizontal bar, looking like Slava from gymnastics. We didn"t stop, and I didn"t figure out if it was him, hoping he"d be there on the way back. But he wasn"t. And that Slava now went to training less and less, and in summer would stop entirely - switching to some other sport, probably team-based. With him, a whole part of my childhood would go, because I probably saw him small that day I came to try out at the gym at age four. But, as with Dinara, there would be one more episode with him.

Now, the last event of fifth-grade school year. Most likely, it was a tradition at the gymnasium - at the end of May, on two buses - one for kids, one for parents - we went on a picnic again. Only now, out of town. We headed northeast, to the new bridge leading to the Blue Lake on the Engels side. I think we even went past the new bridge, and then turned into some ravines overlooking the Volga. We spent some time there. It"s strange, because in my memory, we then drove to a final spot - but even at those first ravines by the shore, it was evening. Maybe these were actually two separate trips. The first, I"m not sure - maybe during the May holidays. The second spot - definitely just before summer, when we were already in T-shirts.

We went to the Engels side and straight to the place with the spruce forest where I collected mushrooms, where we"d gone in the "Niva." A strange coincidence, and I thought maybe Mom planted the idea with the initiators. But we didn"t go just to that forest - nearby was a place with tables, maybe even a tourist base, because soon there was a lot of prepared food. The moms sat in the shade at a long table, the kids wandered a little into the forest. There seemed to be horizontal bars. And further, toward, let"s say, Kazakhstan - after the forest was a fairly large football pitch. Somehow a ball appeared, and we, the boys, played against our fathers (my dad wasn"t there, just Mom with me). Among them was Nastya Berezina"s father - the one from the photo where I"m facing away from three girls. According to Mom, he had done sports gymnastics in the past. I felt especially envious of him. And that"s when it happened - when I kicked the ball away from him with my foot, I muttered: "Bitch, fuck." I wasn"t usually a swearer - even in my later home acrobatics videos, I didn"t curse when falling. It just slipped out uncontrollably - probably because of my envy toward him. He was stocky and built for gymnastics - unlike me.

Later, as we continued playing, I was worried he might do something to me in revenge (though I hadn"t called him names, just swore), or tell Mom. Then, when the game ended and we were still on the field, he passed by me with Guzhvieva"s father and, in a boyish tone, said: "So, how did you call me?" - and they laughed.

Afterward, we ate shashlik at the table, and I kept obsessing over that cursing incident in my head.

Guzhik and I, by the way, exchanged phone numbers before that summer.

.:.

___Part 45.

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________________ Fifth Grade Finished.

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Part 45 Text 1. Songs of Summer 2003... A detailed description of central Engels, the park, the embankment, and near the fair.

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Orbakaite - "Da di dam" and "Perelyotnaya ptitsa"... Diskoteka Avaria - "Disco Superstar". Blestyashchie - "A ya vsyo letala" and "Apelsinovaya pesnya"... Las Ketchup... Mumiy Troll - "Eto po lyubvi"... Lyube - "Davai za zhizn"... Ruki Vverkh - "On tebya tseluet"... Chay Dvoyom - "Synok"... Katya Lel - "Musi-pusi" and "Moy marmeladnyy"... Glukoza - "Nevesta". Agutin - "Aty-baty, my teper soldaty"... Gubin Andrey - "Devushki kak zvezdy"... Yulia Savicheva - "Vysoko"... Marmeladze - "Se la vie"... Mariya Rzhevskaya - "Kogda ya stanu koshkoy"... Verka Serdyuchka - "Ya ne ponyala"... Gazmanov - "Moi yasnye dni"... And aside from Splean, my favourites - Bi-2 and Chicherina - "Moy rock-n-roll".

Also, there was some foreign Beni Benassi - "Satisfaction", which strongly evoked sex, even though I hadn"t seen the video. In fact, I hadn"t seen any of the videos for the other songs and didn"t even know half of the performers" names.

All of these were the songs of summer 2003. I heard them every day, because almost every day that summer I would go outside. Around the park, they played on a loop constantly.

Before moving on to the events of that summer, I"ll probably give a textual tour of the whole area around the Engels park, where I would spend most of that summer and the next.

The main route from our house: exit onto Lva Kassilya Street, cross it, go about 200 metres along Khalturina, then turn right onto Teatralnaya. Here"s a water pump and people with buckets from old private multi-family houses on the right. On the left - the children"s cinema "Udarnik" with its green courtyard, and then, after one building, the Operetta Theatre. After that, on the left, at the corner of Teatralnaya and Kommunisticheskaya - a café. On the right, at the corner, in an old three-storey building, a now-closed grocery store, which, when the era comes, would become a mobile phone shop.

I"ll mention right away: if you go left along Kommunisticheskaya towards Gorky - there, on the corner, in the adjoining building where my mother went in 1999 for drafting and where I first heard the word "blyat", from Gorky Street there"s the entrance to the Eldorado casino. Very grown-up and, so to speak, "more adult" than my parents. Mine only go to shops, work, and with me, never to places like that. And if you go right from Teatralnaya along Kommunisticheskaya - there"s the café "Zhiguli", which I"ve already mentioned. Equally grown-up.

From Teatralnaya, we cross Kommunisticheskaya and go through a short alley under chestnut trees with benches to the city square. On the left, at the corner - a blue kiosk, under which I watch the small change. It"s at the edge of the administration building, on top of which are electronic clocks, also showing the temperature. Ahead - the square, we go through the centre. Far left - a long zone with flowerbeds and benches. Far right - another alley with benches, where some homeless people sleep, small mulberry trees grow, and then the rear entrance to a concrete tribune with portraits of communists, and further in the distance, at the start of the square - the stage, Lenin monument, and behind it - the fair. From where we stand at the kiosk, straight ahead and to the left - the music school. Beyond it to the left - a large abandoned lawn, then a long-frozen construction site, and then the city museum, in front of which is the bus stop to Saratov, and beyond that a building with the "Pelmennaya". From the Pelmennaya - exit to the embankment, past the Kalinin monument, to the "Pristani Smelykh" (Dock of the Brave), as I called it in earlier biography. That exit is usually where we leave the embankment, ending our walk.

Everything begins at the centre of the square, crossing straight from the blue kiosk - here"s the park entrance in the form of a rotunda. On the left - the honour board, in front of which is one of the smoothest new asphalt patches in the area. The square is otherwise all cracked old asphalt. From the end of Teatralnaya to the rotunda runs a narrow trench half a metre wide and deep, mostly covered with iron lids.

I usually dive into the park through this rotunda when alone, because I ride my "Kross" bike, and here it"s immediately fun - a ramp like a springboard, which I"d been using since this spring. The park is slightly below the square, and from the rotunda there are three steps down, with a ramp for strollers and bikes. I ride down, circle the flowerbed, and, picking up speed, jump back onto the rotunda like a ramp, reaching a height that could clear a bottle.

When walking with my parents, we usually enter not through the rotunda, but cross the square diagonally to the right onto the paved promenade, leading between the park on the left and the amusement park on the right - towards the embankment, to the place I always call the Stele and the concrete descent to the water. On this promenade, immediately to the right - ice cream, cotton candy, fizzy drinks, and a claw machine where the toy almost always falls out. I never played it; I"m strictly saving money. I no longer need a concrete goal - I just feel a financial cushion is necessary for life. On the left, a low descent into the park, then three steps up, and the promenade continues a bit higher. There"s also a shooting range (tir) down there.

To the right - the amusement park, now called the Luna Park. Paths and attractions were renovated, new ones added. Where we entered, replacing some old swings, there"s a pool with inflatable animals for toddlers, a kiddie bumper car area, further ahead - "boats" ride, then a high inflatable slide for the little ones. Flowerbeds and benches were refreshed, a small train runs along paths, and several ice cream stands. Near the fair - the house of mirrors (room of laughter), then exit to the fair. There"s also a toilet nearby, but we hardly ever used paid ones. A punching bag stands in the centre, where drunk men showed their strength. The centre has an open café, spinning swings nearby, and the "surprise" ride. Behind the café - rotating shells, and at the far right - the Ferris wheel. On the left, under a canopy, bumper cars and a trampoline. Next to it, the "Kamikaze" ride for two. The classic carousel with animals and mini Ferris wheel remained by the entrance. Between the mini-Ferris wheel and Kamikaze - a new gate, widening the exit to the promenade we entered from.

Further along - a lowbrow open café with men singing karaoke; my father hated it, and I followed his lead, calling it "lowbrow". Below it - the park"s main trash bin.

Along the promenade to the Volga - a police post, occasionally mounted police. Nearby - the elite monolithic residential towers under construction. Between the Luna Park and the fair - cars drive in, as the bakery yard by the park edge became a parking lot. Between the bakery fence and the embankment - wide spaces, lawns, young trees, places where young adults gather in the evenings. Daytime - quiet, with parents and children walking; I ride around the flowerbeds.

Three long steps up take you above the Stele level. Around the Stele - semi-circular alleys, benches, trees, mulberry trees. On the lawn, I do harmless acrobatics - forward rolls, cartwheels. The Stele itself with the eternal flame, and beyond - the concrete descent to the water, still only partially completed this summer.

Turning left along the embankment above the park - on the left, the entrance to the car park passed, then black iron railings. Benches with views of the Volga run continuously. There"s a descent in the centre of the park, six steps, but no bike ramp. Further along - alcoves with benches, adults sitting nearby. After another descent - a private tir. Then a café in a white summer building, with a balcony above the promenade.

Continuing left - more benches, wide descent to the water, left - Monument to the Soldiers (also Stele, but I call it a monument). Steps down to the asphalt area, used in the evenings by cars with music. Diagonal dirt path for biking from the embankment. Below - a volleyball court, then a horizontal bar near a three-storey building with Volga view.

The park is not fenced; exits are everywhere.

The fair - with its accumulating tendency, I would frequent more and more. Outside the entrance - lots of stalls with chebureks, hot dogs, tea, kiosks, a mini-casino, adult game machines. Money place. At the start of the square near Lenin"s monument - a large main stage, wooden floor, held up by crisscrossed metal pipes, climbable underneath, accessible via a wooden ramp from the square - you could even ride a bike onto it.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 2. Back to the playground at the Pioneer Palace... naughty prepubescent flirtation... the past isn"t so much remembered as felt... other girls besides Serebryakova are "promiscuous"... need to get onto the playground... learned that women give birth from the pussy, not the ass.

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For the whole of June, just like the year before last, I went to the playground. Let"s briefly recap what that was. After breakfast at home, around nine to nine-thirty, you"d show up at the Pioneer Palace near home. From there, about forty kids would be led to the back of the Palace, where the playground was. We"d stay there until lunch, then back to the Palace, to the toilets to wash hands, and then to the round café by the Rodina cinema. Lunch there was usually acceptable-some kind of dessert too-and then back to the Palace, or straight back to the playground again, and around four, back to the Palace, where everyone would be picked up for home.

But that was for the little kids. I was already going by myself. This time, I felt no stress at all. Especially since that summer Artem went to the playground too. And Serebryakova was there as well.

Here, unlike at the gymnasium, kids my age were already engaging in cross-gender interaction. It was rough and jokey, but at least it existed. Everyone already knew about sex. There were no hair-pulling games or innocent mischief like in Yeralash. Right away, there were talks about boobs and dicks-not mean-spirited, but there were cursing, middle fingers, and our own hints that we"d fuck them. This would be the first and last stage of informal inter-gender interactions I would witness in life-meaning different boys interacting with different girls.

Surely there was more than just sex. I just thought only about sex, so that"s what stuck in my memory.

I mostly hung out with Artem. I don"t remember the other boys, but of course, we had other companions, and we all played football on the adjacent field.

Here"s an observation before too much time passes. I said Artem was my closest companion throughout childhood, probably the only one I could call a friend back then. I still feel that way. I feel it. Yet, for example, I can hardly recall any of his actual words or actions from that June. And that June was about a quarter-or even a third-of all the days I spent with him, excluding preschool at the very start. The point is, the way we relate to objects and people exists independently of memory, and therefore of conscious logic. But in Artem"s case, I at least remember that I remembered a specific experience with him. There are things, like certain faces, that I feel aversion toward, though I no longer remember the experience that caused it.

This is interesting in the context of behavioural choice. For me, it"s obvious that behaviour is determined by feelings, even when logic is supposedly involved. All decisions are driven by feelings formed around things long gone from conscious memory.

This also applies to my expectations and the reality of writing this autobiography. I approached that summer and the next, and other periods, with the idea that I"d relive them, restore everything. I thought I remembered events. But it turned out I only had feelings. Very few concrete events remain in memory. Considering how many mundane household events I remember and how few vivid ones connected to the things that most interested me, it seems that the more intense the events, the more I retain only the feelings they formed, not the events themselves. That summer of 2003 was very intense-every day involved something sexual: a conversation, a joke, a situation. I"m now so immersed in the state and feelings of those days, as if I"m there. Yet I recall very few actual events, and who knows how to convey the sheer mass of it...

Dasha Serebryakova, unlike the others, remained quiet and still didn"t participate in cross-gender things, let alone the naughty stuff.

There was a girl, Ksyusha, around my age. Nothing about her this year, but next year, yes. Shy, cute, all in pink.

There was a very blond, thick-boned girl, mentioned only once later.

Then there was either another Dasha or Natasha. Let"s call her Natasha. Thick light-brown hair, not even shoulder-length. Maybe slightly younger than me. She was very sexual-meaning I perceived her as obsessed. Probably only my perception, since I was obsessed myself. She could discuss sexual things, maybe swear, unlike diligent Serebryakova.

And the last I remember from that summer and the next-Nastya Storchak. I managed to remember her surname. Two years older than me, slightly precocious-so she felt grown-up. Her sad eyes reminded me of the girl in the film Chocolat, though she wasn"t sad at all, and I perceived her as all about sex. On her VK page now, nothing salacious, yet then I thought of her as a nympho, even though she was kind and didn"t swear, just didn"t look like a child and talked about sex. That"s how puritanical I was.

These last two were from Serebryakova"s courtyard, which I always saw from my hall window. Natasha came there, as I recall, from Khalturina 12, and Nastya was local-from Lev Kassil 20, whose windows looked into our small room and hall. They were often on the playground, and Serebryakova came out there too. I watched them with my video camera and theatre binoculars.

I already realised that controlled places like school and the playground were worthless for interacting with girls. For the cross-gender intrigue I craved, I needed a fully informal setting, without adults. I had to get into that courtyard. First, letting go of Katya Ilyina, I became obsessed with Serebryakova-constantly imagining being alone with her before sleep. Even though by a week into June she already knew of my obsession, my fantasy of us sitting on a bench behind the music school, confessing love and kissing, would persist for a year and a half.

Second, I also wanted to be in that courtyard with just Nastya and Natasha-for pure sexual curiosity. So I couldn"t just go. Serebryakova was a legal interest-still innocent, like Yeralash-with her I saw myself as the lead, so I could allow my mother to know of my interest. I let her know almost immediately. But the other two were all about dicks and sex, totally alien, so it was a dead end. I couldn"t let my mother see me with them. I never told her a thing. Even my interest in Serebryakova could only go so far, because I wanted her-and sex too. Romantic desire led there. Yet, as I"d explained before, I couldn"t let my mother know I wanted sex-it was immediately a "no-go" topic. By this time, having learned about sex, I mostly feigned amusement in front of her, pretending it was nonsense I"d never do. I asked fewer questions about sex, and after discovering masturbation, almost none.

By the way, around this time-or late spring, early summer-I finally learned that women give birth from the pussy, not the ass. I visited my father at work, obsessed with this new knowledge, joking: "Imagine if men gave birth"-imagining how a man would push a baby through his urethra. I didn"t yet know women had two holes; I would slowly learn, and only at fourteen learn about the clitoris. My father pretended it was funny too.

He had a noticeable scar under his jaw, which fascinated me as much as when drawing blood or cracking someone"s fingers.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 3. With Artem in Serebryakova"s courtyard... stalking... obsession with the technical floor... sneaked into her courtyard alone.

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Fortunately, there was a pull-up bar in Serebryakova"s yard. So one day after the playground, when I had no training, Artem, some other boys, and I headed toward her courtyard. We went as far as Petrovskaya, parted ways with the others, and went back to that courtyard ourselves. Artem already knew about my obsession with Serebryakova, as she probably did too. We reached the bar and started hanging from it. It wasn"t much a bar-more a swinging remnant of old swings-perfect for swinging back and forth with large amplitude. Perfect for jumping off backward in a half-somersault, legs spread, torso up, hands off. That was my dream-to jump off a bar backward in a somersault. I would never actually do it, not even over a foam pit-too afraid of hitting my shins. This remnant made it possible, because there was nothing to hit. But asphalt below? I"d be dead ninety years. So I never tried, only, like a dumb monkey, raised my ass and swung indecisively as many times as I"d been there. Anyway, swinging there made it look like I was doing exercises, in case my mother saw from the window.

We hung out, waiting for the girls to finish lunch and come out. Soon Nastya and Natasha appeared, Natasha climbing the large hemispherical metal spider web, chatting a bit with us. Mostly they talked among themselves, just nearby. Dasha never came out.

At the very start of Serebryakova obsession, maybe that same day, Artem and I snuck into her building. I needed to know everything-how the lobby looked, smelled, the elevator, the atmosphere. It had a good vibe. Bright lobby. The best I"d been in. Until then, almost only Khrushchyovkas and panel buildings, and the lobby in Khalturina new-build faced north and was dark.

Two years ago, I hinted at the "technical floor" obsession. After a few trips with my mother to new-builds, we discussed it-apartments on the top floors were valued if there was a "technical floor" above, usually heated, so the top apartment wouldn"t freeze or leak like in Khrushchyovkas. You could tell by a tall wall above the top apartment with tiny windows or openings. I now always check for technical floors. In Serebryakova"s building, it existed. I loved watching it through binoculars, if not her window-perfect, like a video camera with a full-size cassette slot, like a high-speed bicycle with a rear suspension, and so on.

Another day, evening around seven or eight, I walked with my mother down Lev Kassil Street from Gorky. She stopped to talk to someone in the middle of the sidewalk. I realised it"d take a while, so I said I"d go to the bars. Since she was busy, she wouldn"t question why I went to that distant yard instead of the nearest one near the pipe Dad bumped into. Worst-case, I could say I was spying on Dasha-my stalking of Ilyina, Ermakova was known to her. The main thing was to prevent her thinking I had sexual intentions.

Going to that yard alone was super risky-the first time I went alone. What if boys were there, we fought, I cried in front of the girls-total disaster. Going into someone else"s yard was a real breach of territoriality-what the hell was I doing there? Locals had every reason to mess with me. And even interacting with the girls, if they were there-I had no idea.

So I went. Everyone was there, including Dasha. I pretended to practice simple jumps and pull-ups. Nothing happened, no one harassed me, and I didn"t talk to anyone. But there was a special new feeling-finally so close to my beloved, without any Guzhiks or Artems, and completely out of adult eyes, since Mom wasn"t home to watch from the window. I didn"t stay long; I went to my mother, still chatting, then returned to the yard-but Dasha was gone.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 4. With my parents to the embankment - couples everywhere and sex life all around... AIDS... I play the infant... stunt all I want, still an incel... horny jokes with the girls.

.::::.

Most evenings - I simply don"t remember specific events, which is why I don"t mention them, but it should be understood - I was in the park and on the embankment. For the most part these were still walks with my parents. It had been a tradition since childhood: we"d buy ice cream on the way, constantly joke around, and on warmer days we"d already try diving in from the concrete slope. Only now I would constantly separate from them and collect bottles. They would sit on the concrete slope or on some bench in the park drinking beer, while I"d wander off with a bag around the area. Bottles stood on kerbs, on the asphalt by the benches. They were deliberately left there for collectors. Mostly they were picked up by half‑vagrants; I"d already started recognising several of them. They even climbed into rubbish bins. I never went that far - not out of shame, but because I thought I might catch something.

During the previous school year, along with condoms, I"d learned about AIDS and all that. I now knew that if I, with my hands often scratched up from Murka and my fingers full of neurotic hangnails, even touched an AIDS condom or a junkie"s syringe - I was fucked.

While I was collecting bottles, my ears were being soaked by the music playing everywhere - those songs listed at the beginning of the summer. And of course I kept glancing at the girls - there were loads of them there.

By evening the bottle‑return point was already closed, so when the mosquitoes began eating my parents alive and my bag - and soon two bags in each hand - were full and impossible to carry, and since I preferred going out without the bicycle so I could carry more, we"d head home. As usual I carried the whole haul there, stacked it in the little entry vestibule, and every few days I"d take several trips to return them on Lev Kassil Street. Sometimes, when I couldn"t carry the whole haul home, I began leaving bottles until the next walk under those grey‑green spruce trees on the lawn near the police station.

It was becoming more and more awkward for me to be in the park with my parents in the evenings, because by nightfall all those romantic scenes would start everywhere - there was nowhere to look away from bare stomachs, and most of the songs were about sex, and by then I could no longer not understand them. I had to chatter non‑stop, hum something of my own, and in every way pretend none of it interested me.

Another day Artem and I went again to that courtyard, around seven in the evening. Maybe we"d sat at my place until evening and he"d eaten with us, or maybe he came over again - even though he lived very far away. But again Dasha was there, and everyone else. Luckily there were never, by the way, any boys in that courtyard. It had rained earlier and the ground was slightly wet. Dasha never looked at me, so I started doing more and more tricks - some fucking dismounts with pirouettes and other cowardly shit you can do on the first try. I did a forward dismount and, landing, immediately did a forward roll on the ground - hands to the ground and flipped over. And then Dasha, the only time she looked at me, said: "Well now your hands are dirty."

Even in photos at twenty‑five she looked alright - and back then even more so. Though she always had that slightly Duremar‑like nose from the Pinocchio film.

I remember almost nothing from the playground itself. One day in the main hall where the karate people trained, we sat on little chairs watching Harry Potter and the Philosopher"s Stone. You could watch or go out and run around the corridors. Artem and I watched a bit and left. There was that atmosphere of freedom, like in summer camps I"d never been to. Constant anticipation of the next thing in the programme - the next trip to lunch, to the playground, whatever - and with it new situations where you might interact with the girls. Everything was for the girls - if they hadn"t been there, I wouldn"t have left the house at all.

There were always situations near the toilet. Endless quasi‑sexual teasing, attempts to peek, to lock someone somewhere, to lock someone together with someone...

And as I said, we played football, and that summer there seemed to be some adult male supervisor. In the daytime the heat built up, and once it was probably stupid to keep playing, so we returned to the Palace all overheated, and I was bright red, drinking straight from the tap and pouring water over my head.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 5. Summer training at the sports school... to the trampoline... I still didn"t notice the artificiality of apparatus... home along Nesterova in dreams... very little Frunze... Alina is over, and Grandpa isn"t there.

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My gymnastics training continued the same as before - a couple of times a week. After the playground I"d stop home briefly, and by three or four I had to be at the stadium. I economised and walked the most direct route - past the children"s hospital and straight along Revolyutsionnaya Street to the stadium. Two kilometres.

Training had a lazy, unhurried summer atmosphere. But we had summer competitions planned, so we were preparing routines on all apparatus. I stretched my splits hard - I needed only the tiniest bit more to press my little dick flat to the floor.

Oleg Nikolaevich, apparently for variety, once took us to the hall on the first floor where the trampolines were and where the girls usually trained - for some reason in rhythmic‑gymnastics outfits. I really wanted to do something on the trampoline, but we only did some tedious drills for a short time and left. I had to wait for the trampoline at the amusement park.

During free practice in our hall I kept trying to do a back handspring - but it was pointless. I could already do a backflip off a block and rotate enough to land on my feet. When I needed to boost my self‑esteem, I went to the tumbling track and did a running front flip, landing higher than a squat - and felt cool.

At that time I never had any perfectionist thoughts about the floor like: What"s the point of jumping on a spring floor? What"s the point of a sport with artificial assisting devices? There"s a sport called acrobatic tumbling where the track is even springier, almost like a trampoline - they do double flips several times, and instead of handsprings just tempo somersaults. Why not do that? Or maybe trampoline instead?

Now I see no point in sports where everything is artificial - all these apparatus that only exist and matter inside gym halls. You could invent such sports endlessly. When I think about it now, it reminds me of prisoners in jail playing cards or backgammon, inventing new games just to pass the time. I don"t want to pass time. I don"t want to live a life that needs passing. And the original goal with which I entered sport - to overcome fears and become master of myself - can be achieved through other activities that are immediately useful in real life.

When the coach wasn"t there, some of us climbed onto the parallel bars and jumped into the foam pit - like those guys before, one of whom had nearly killed himself. When Andrei climbed up, the coach suddenly entered the hall while Andrei was standing there dangerously. The coach scolded him and said:

"Do you know what you"ll have between your legs if you slip? Scrambled eggs."

On the way back from training I usually walked along Nesterova Street - cars drove there, and it felt livelier than the deserted residential Revolyutsionnaya. The reason I chose Nesterova was that I wanted to walk without worrying about anything, fully immersed in myself, thinking only my own thoughts. It was a whole ritual - something I looked forward to after every training session. But why walk along the noisy street then? Because the route along Revolyutsionnaya required crossing Rabochaya Street and then Freedom Square - there were no traffic lights there, only zebra crossings, and cars constantly rushed past. It was a stress like with minibuses. They"re supposed to stop for you at a zebra crossing, but there"s still that oppressive socially anxious feeling: is he stopping or fucking not? I was willing to endure that stress on the way to training, but not during my meditations on the way back. Along Nesterova the whole route had traffic lights - perfect. I walked, dreamed, thought about achievements in the gym, girls, and the future. Only funeral buses passing by pulled me out of that astral state.

Once around that time Artem told a story about how a bus with a black mourning stripe mistakenly pulled up near their building. When he told it, he didn"t seem to have the emotional mishmash about death and funerals that I had.

I hardly visited my grandma then; there was very little of her in that period. I spent all my time in the centre near home, and evenings in the park. Grandpa on Frunze wasn"t there at all. Grandma worked in the garden, and apparently she was still working at the military commissariat like three years earlier - for pennies, just not to sit idle - though it was seasonal and not constant.

Alina was completely and forever over. Four years older than me, she"d started early sexual relationships with a neighbour from her yard, apparently another slow one. I think around 2006 I"ll say "hi" to her a couple of times - and that will be that.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 6. Ran into a girl at the entrance... "Amélie" from Uncle Seryozha... destructive perception of altruism from Amélie... after naughty Natasha... Artem taught me to masturbate... first wank... condoms... a scrap from a porn magazine.

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In mid‑June, around my mum"s birthday, on some overcast day, I was, as usual, walking home from the playground, and at the building where Nastya Storchak lived, I saw her on the balcony facing Lev Kassil Street. She was sitting there on the uncovered balcony with some man - just on chairs, side by side. Probably a relative, maybe her dad. I saw them like that again later.

And when I reached the entrance to our building, there was the sound of running feet inside, and as I opened the door, a girl my age - whom I had started recognising by then, living on some floor in my block - ran into me. I instinctively pressed my hand to her chest. There wasn"t much there yet. I had never touched that area on a girl - it was a completely new sensation. Before that, I had only touched Anya on Frunze at the waist during early dance lessons, maybe Alina"s hand in our rough games, and someone else"s hand at the gymnasium during performances in front of parents...

When she ran into me, she didn"t even notice - she was running from someone or chasing someone. There were loads of kids. She was slim, model‑like in figure, a decent face, dark‑blonde hair, straight and long, grey eyes. Only a bit of what I call "kikimora" - long nose, big eyes. Anyway, I didn"t fall in love with her.

Gifts from Uncle Seryozha to mum on her birthday were already a tradition, and this time he brought a cassette of the film Amélie. Generally, he probably gave her a bit of money too, and the cassettes were more for me.

Amélie became my next major film. There was irony about neuroses, which I understood perfectly, and the whole style of humour in general. And my favourite genre - lots of stories, loads of characters. Mysteries, investigations, letters, stewardesses. All of this would already feel familiar to me when I encountered it later in life, reading Fowles" The Magus, which would become my favourite book.

There was just so much in it - I don"t have time to recount it all in my own style. It was the perfect film for me. Love and fairy tale. The ideal film that made me even more myself.

I utterly criticised the message I perceived in it - that only satisfaction achieved through altruism, not egoism, can be considered happiness - in my 2021 diary, when I myself was entirely devoid of satisfaction or happiness, endlessly pursuing them through that "right" altruistic way.

Artem, as I recall, didn"t love anyone. In fact, no one really did - of all the kids from the playground, I was the only one struck by Cupid.

But we, for variety, went after Natasha. First, we, as always, hung out on the playground in that yard, and that Natasha, again wriggling along the side of the web near where I was hanging on the stub of a swing - her fidgetiness added a sense of lechery to my eyes - I remember she teasingly asked me if I"d already had sex.

Then she went home, maybe with someone, to her building on Khalturina Street. An old nine‑storey block. At least, I remember it being where she lived, and that"s why we went there. But the main point isn"t who lived there, it"s something else.

There was also a playground there with bars over sand. And when our target disappeared into the entrance, we wandered chatting on the bars. Later we went from that yard along Khalturina, and Artem, seemingly tired of my preoccupation and, apparently having realised that I knew nothing about this, told me what masturbation was and how to do it. He always smiled and started speaking quietly on these topics.

We parted ways - he went along Teatralnaya, I went home.

My bed ran along the far wall of my small room, near the window, and by night, lying down, I began. On my back, eyes closed, hands under the blanket - classic style. When I was close, it felt like something flashed in my eyes, like light, and I blinked. First time, impressionable.

I recognised the feeling. Clearly it was what I"d been doing mentally since early childhood, only now instead of self‑flagellation there were images of Serebryakova, other girls, girls in parks and their poses on benches with boys.

Also, around those days, I learned what condoms were - saw for the first time a real one lying on the ground near the girls" yard.

And on one of the same days, on my ritual walk home from training along Nesterova, dreaming of this and that, my gaze landed on a crumpled red page from a glossy magazine on the ground at building twenty‑two. I picked it up - elite, extremely lewd naked women, spreading their pink cunts with their fingers into a diamond shape.

.:::.

Part 45, Text 7. Useless with the "naughty" girls... strangely masturbated with Artem... to the competition... second place... unusual prize‑feeling... Artem broke the gift... backflip in the tenth school yard... cried at home... very personal crying mechanics.

.::::.

All in all, Artem and I went to that girls" yard about ten times. Towards the end of the playground, that is June, when we were all already familiar, except Dasha, because she remained uninterested in me and Artem, we had a moment where the four of us - Dasha, Natasha, Nastya, and me with Artem - sat on the fence near Dasha"s entrance.

Dasha couldn"t be distracted from the Tamagotchi she was staring at those days, only answering but never taking initiative.

The other four of us sat talking about the sexual topics I lusted after. There were shameless discussions about who would fuck whom, about me and my crush on Dasha.

And Nastya, sitting next to me, suddenly quickly touched me between the legs and then jokingly announced I had nothing there, as if I should have a ten‑year‑old"s giant negro penis. That"s the only "lewd" moment with her I remember, though there were plenty of others.

Dasha continued ignoring all our topics. Being the daughter of some respectable teacher, later going to university - unlike other Nastas - she obviously didn"t even perceive people like me or Artem. She doesn"t even have Nastya among her friends now, though they constantly interacted in the yard. According to their VK pages, Nastya will stay in Engels for life, and Serebryakova at twenty‑five was already in Saint Petersburg - some club life, cafés.

And us with Artem? We were sons of single mums, cleaning ladies. My own time for sex wasn"t far off, as it would turn out. Artem didn"t even have a bike - they lived in utter shit, with an alcoholic granddad, and a kitchen in the hall.

In the last days of the playground, after the usual toilet‑adjacent masturbation topics, Artem and I ended up alone in the male toilet. I was already into the masturbation thing, and he, as always smiling at these topics, said: "Let"s jerk a bit," and started. I did too. But he hadn"t even started properly before finishing, without reaching any climax, commenting: "Jerked a bit - enough." I didn"t understand the point then. I never saw his dick and don"t remember us ever masturbating together again.

That was, basically, the end of the playground. But the sense of ending wasn"t there, because we continued to interact, and we could still go to the girls" yard if we wanted, though I don"t remember anything else there with him.

The day of my competition arrived - the culmination of gymnastics that summer - then holidays until autumn. Artem came with me as a spectator, went up to the balcony. Probably a couple of parents besides his dad Vitaly were there. Before the performances we raised our hands, and after Oleg Nikolaevich announced scores - just like real competitions.

I executed my whole routine well. Neither I nor Andrei had done handsprings yet, but I could already do a split - almost on par with him, i.e., third sports category. I stretched my toes and did everything properly, though Andrei naturally excelled in strength exercises. Besides him, there were probably a couple more boys, but I don"t remember.

At the end we stood at attention near the parallel bars, as at an awards ceremony, while Oleg Nikolaevich tallied total points on paper. Soon he began announcing winners. Third was - I don"t remember who. When the coach announced places, everyone clapped. I expected I might place, but even so - it was an impressive feeling. You endure a ceremonial pause - and suddenly your name is called. Everyone claps and looks at you. First was Andrei.

I was super proud. Second in sports gymnastics in a city of 220,000! I even beat Vitya, though his routine was harder. First proper achievement in life. Euphoric - like when I dared to hug a girl at fifteen.

But that wasn"t all. Oleg Nikolaevich suddenly said: "Now - prizes." He took a bag from the bench and handed out something to each of us. I got a child"s binoculars. And this was a whole new level of feeling. Receiving something physical, tangible for your efforts in your favourite activity. Not just audience applause or respect. If girls respected me for my gymnastics achievements and confidence - it would mean nothing. Without physical and material benefit, other people"s good attitude has no real value. But I wasn"t yet so thoughtful to immediately devalue good attention. I"d waste years on silly things.

We said goodbye until autumn. I put on my shoes - I was in short red satin shorts and a white vest, loved looking like a gymnast everywhere, though with my long legs I looked more like a marathon runner - and we headed towards his neighbourhood. We planned to visit his mum at the tenth school.

Somewhere along the way, my binoculars in Artem"s hands broke into two. Of course, they were no sturdier than my theatrical ones at home, but now they had value as a memory of the competition and the new feelings. And such shit. I didn"t show I was upset; it was clearly cheap plastic. But inside I regretted it.

Arriving at the school yard, I calmed down and focused on our play. We climbed the bars - the one with the pipe where I first ejaculated by pressing my legs. Then we went down to the school yard swamp - where Artem caught a duck. In front of the reeds was bare mossy ground, soft and springy. I couldn"t resist and decided to do a forward somersault with a run-up. I ran from Artem, jumped to land on both feet for push-off, but the mossy top layer slid under me, and I smashed my arse into the ground. Arse and hands were covered in dirt.

We went to the school toilet to wash off. The school was empty, only Aunt Tanya clattering somewhere in the distance with the cleaning bucket. In my mum"s school years the toilet was outside, with holes - she said - now it was normal, indoors. I washed up, went to the caretaker"s office where Artem was with his mum, and we recounted everything, including the binoculars.

Then I walked home along Telegrafnaya.

No phones existed then, and all news was reported upon entering the flat. Mum asked: "So?" - and I burst into tears.

It was like because of the binoculars. I cried for a long time, a full-blown fit. Remembering Oleg Nikolaevich, that feeling of reward for your favourite pursuit. But it wasn"t that simple. What did "because of the binoculars" mean? Why recall the coach and those feelings? As I would realise in youth, that sadness people feel after New Year, holidays, or other happy periods isn"t tied to the happiness of the finished period at all. I cry simply when a period ends.

For example, at twenty‑seven, after two months of apartment renovation ended and I said goodbye to two hired, completely unknown men - barely friendly - I cried. After quitting rehearsals with an idiotic group in my youth, I"d listen to one of their songs at night - and suddenly fall into that desperate desire to return to the past with them, to restore everything. After simply meeting people, I"d cry. Just because that day, when the meeting happened, ended. Mostly, of course, I cried after my few encounters with girls. Loads of examples. It happens intensely, to hysteria and despair. The next day - unless it"s a rare case, some meetings requiring a book to process - I"d reconcile, and everything would be fine.

Just remembered an episode from early biography: I saw a kindergarten photo after it ended and suddenly desired that girl Olya. Then it was the same theme. Reactive neurotic psyche.

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___Part 46.

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Part 46 Text 1. Nikita Kozlov main details,,, Kozlov"s mother as Katya Lel,,, Kozlov with his karate,,, summoned Serebryakova with Kozlov,,, other girls.

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At some point, after one of those street encounters, I started seeing Nikita Kozlov intensively again after a long pause - my old companion from the second kindergarten, who, I should remind you, lived quite close by - on Petrovskaya Street, in a brick five-storey building, on the first floor nearest to the kindergarten. He also had a grandmother in another entrance of our long block on Lev Kassil. Our first meetings may have started back in June, but I"m not sure, so I hadn"t really begun to record him until now.

He was taller than me, lankier. A year older - like most of my companions everywhere. His face always reminded me of Buratino, maybe because of his long nose. Grey-green eyes, dark blond. Always tanned - and I have no idea where, because everywhere I knew him to be was indoors, in front of the TV with a strictly rationed "Mortal Kombat" console from his mum, still the old kind, like a "Dendy." I don"t remember which school he attended, but not the thirty-third. As with Guzhiev, I knew almost nothing about his personal life - how he lived - all those things that intrigued me as an observer, trying to understand why some people manage everything effortlessly while others don"t. We mostly focused on our shared hobbies and discussions, not on the rest. We lived, we didn"t analyse.

His mother, working as an engineer or architect - just the usual kind of job, not like my mum, rough and free - looked like a bleached, short-haired Katya Lel, the singer whose songs played in the park. Unlike all the Blestyashchiye and Gluk"oza types, she seemed grown-up and, through her appearance and the lyrical style of her songs like "Musi-Pusi," painted for me this archetype of an adult woman clinging to a successful man, seducing him in every way. By the way, despite my interest in these kinds of women, this particular type didn"t attract me. It wasn"t about youth or what I saw in the park. Different. Coffee, not tea. Chocolate, not strawberries. I wanted youth and adolescence - the kind of girls I saw in the park. Starting that autumn, I"d constantly watch MTV, seeing Julia Savicheva"s "Vysoko" and Avril Lavigne - that was the type of girl I kept thinking about.

Kozlov had a visiting father, whom I, like Artyom"s father, never saw. During that time, he brought whole packs of action movies, full of Eastern martial arts, which Kozlov pursued with enormous enthusiasm.

Mostly, we met at home, usually at his place, sometimes at mine, and occasionally went for short walks nearby. They had a phone. We called each other - I would go over. He was always stretching, doing the splits. Showing off by standing on one leg and hitting an imaginary opponent on the head. Just a little more and he would have balanced something on my head and knocked it off with his foot. The films he loved were full of themes of Eastern discipline and endurance training - like standing in a combat stance on one leg with the other raised to head height. He even had ankle weights for practicing strikes. "Then your legs will be like the wind," he said. Breaking bricks with a punch, all that - those were his obsessions.

He demonstrated some moves on me in slow motion, how to bring an opponent to the ground. I barely held back tears. I thought, "Fuck, I"m sick of crying already." But I couldn"t stop myself. Crying and sulking in moments of defeat, even staged ones, was instinctive for me.

In short, we bonded over sports and training. Although he didn"t know how to ride a bicycle.

He was always cheerful, more than Artyom, and - it seemed to me, thanks to his karate, though really it was just his personality and psyche - often carried himself with the confident mannerisms of El"chin from the gymnasium. Like with Artyom, we never argued, and he was usually the more experienced and initiative-taking one. Initiatives mostly meant coming over to play games. My initiatives were the odd ones. Over that summer, we met about fifteen to twenty times.

Beyond our home hangouts, one of my first "odd" initiatives was visiting Serebryakova"s entrance. He knew her, apparently from the same school in Engels. It was closer to evening. With my companion, I felt braver and rang Dasha"s intercom - I had already figured out her apartment number. At first, a woman answered. I asked her to call Dasha, who came out, and I invited her to the playground. Kozlov also spoke up, and she, without much enthusiasm, agreed. When she hung up, Kozlov said, "Her voice - like a bird."

Even though Kozlov wasn"t about gold medals or Olympiads but karate and console games, I felt him more suited socially for interactions with Serebryakova than Artyom. I had grasped the link between modest behaviour and a modest life. Artyom, living in a modest home without a proper bathroom, behaved modestly, and I subconsciously felt Dasha sensed that too. In this world - as I repeatedly confirmed and fell into depression over - you are chosen for something: your behaviour, your surroundings, even your underwear.

So, she came out, and we sat on the playground. But nothing interesting happened yet. We still needed behaviour, underwear, and a lot more.

Kozlov learned that the blonde, sturdy girl I mentioned went to the playground I frequented. She was from his school, and he was sort of in love with her. "Sort of" - of course, it wasn"t like my feelings. Compared to all of them - Guzhikov to Katya, Kozlov to that blonde, and others later in my life - I was totally fixated and immediately started stalking, trying to find out everything about my crush. With Kozlov, we even once saw his blonde on the street and followed her. But this was my initiative; he didn"t seem to need it, so I didn"t insist.

I didn"t mention this during the Artyom days, but perhaps it was with Kozlov - there was an episode with my stalking of Nastya Storchak. I wanted to see her door and apartment. I couldn"t have done it alone. We went up to her floor, which I already knew, did something, then ran off. Even though this was also a brick building, it was older than Serebryakova"s - the entrance had dim lights and the same cramped, stinking-of-spilled, dried beer elevator atmosphere as ours.

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Part 46 Text 2. Ninja obsession,,, solar masturbation - back to childhood,,, Serebryakova on the beach,,, exhaustion from failed bike tricks,,, desire for a fast bike.

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With Kozlov, I became fascinated by ninjas. I needed nunchaku, shuriken, and my father brought me a book on the subject. Now, if I couldn"t fight face-to-face fairly, I wanted to at least be clever and stealthy, flipping, sneaking up from behind, taking down some evil enemies, eliminating the source of grievances at least that way, feeling control - control over the future - and winning the attention of girls. Since childhood, especially after my mother explicitly said that girls like confident boys, I kept recalling her words endlessly.

Soon, my father made me nunchaku. Kozlov could spin them, do characteristic swings, and you always had to tuck one end under your arm after swinging. The main rule: don"t break the chandelier. My shuriken were just E-shaped car parts. But there was nowhere to throw them, and their trajectory was unpredictable. I filled time however I could. Besides exercises - push-ups, sit-ups, dumbbells, futile attempts to handstand - there was nothing else to do before evening park trips.

The crumpled page with "pussies," found at home, even near my parents" bed, I hid in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe, which once held toys and now held miscellaneous junk. The first days after I started masturbating, I did it only at bedtime. By stereotype, sex and related activities from films were associated with dark evenings, lights off. Now, often alone during the day, I started using the page to masturbate on the sunlit bed in the middle room. That afternoon sunlight scene stayed with me for life. I didn"t expose the glans, didn"t even know it needed doing. Artyom, explaining technique, probably assumed one would expose it like normal, but didn"t mention full exposure. I just moved the skin along the shaft.

Once, my mother and I were on the steps leading to the water at the Soldiers" Monument. I was swimming - one of the few times I did there. Up above, on the embankment, Serebryakova and her mother approached. Maybe she didn"t even see me and walked on towards the Brave Sailors" Pier. I sensed they might be heading to the beach. I quickly explained to my mother that I needed to follow her, dressed, grabbed my bike, and went after them, while my mother went home.

I tailed them. On the beach, they spread out further than the start of the beach, in a crowd, easy to follow. Mostly sunbathing. I lay down on the sand. It was my first time on the beach alone. I could have swum, in principle - no one could steal the bike on the sand. I don"t remember the rest of that day"s tailing of Dasha.

In the evenings, I increasingly went out alone, naturally wanting to stay in the park as long as possible. I rode around the flowerbed behind the honour board, jumping onto the rotunda entrance with a run-up. As dusk fell, fewer children and elderly were around. The peak was when skirts got shorter, girls more tipsy. Groups didn"t fit on benches, many stood or sat on curbs, the park had sparse dim lighting, and after eight o"clock, to avoid colliding in the dark, I rode only on the square by the honour board, with flat asphalt and light. I tried "doing the goat" - pulling the handlebars to ride on the rear wheel. Nothing worked; I wore out my spine endlessly and gave myself a headache with the front wheel hits, sometimes jumping off the pedals to the ground, even falling disgracefully a couple of times. From the darkening park came laughter, not bird-like voices, and I rode, exhausted, angrily checking the clock on the administration building - half past eight, time to go home. This scheduling irritated me so much. I dreamed of staying in the park without time limits, to finally see everything. My imagination replayed scenes in bushes, in darkness, couples fucking against piss-soaked trees. It was pure depravity.

At some point, I became obsessed with a particular model of racing bike, which I saw everywhere. Firstly, it was genuinely fast - I"d never ridden one - and secondly, it had a rear spring suspension. Like the technical floors in buildings I"d mentioned. That bike belonged to Sasha Emelyanov, whom my mother and I occasionally saw on the way to grandma Klava.

One evening, when it was already dark and I had to go home, I was doing tricks on my cross bike, and a boy on that model approached me. Aside from one previous summer incident with a first-grade classmate, no one had ever come up to me like this, talked, or suggested anything. That was the first and last time that summer. There were no kid hangouts, no teen groups. BMX and skateboards hadn"t arrived yet in our region. Ramps to jump off - sheer joy.

He was clearly from a family like Emelyanov"s. Not a poor kid with fifty rubles a week from his father. Kind. He easily suggested swapping bikes to ride. Those were amazing moments. We rode around the square, then to the Stele and back. Riding felt smooth - unlike mine. Like a motorbike, probably. Didn"t want to get off. But it got late, dark; I had to go home. We swapped back, agreed to meet again, and I left. Never saw him again.

I was fired up. I now needed money for a concrete goal.

Fuck, it was just a stupid bike - and suddenly life had meaning. So much dopamine and willingness to immerse myself, so much potential. Only needed to find my thing, something I was predisposed to. But there was nothing, no one to guide me. No meaning in this happy childhood and care. It had always been like this - so many temporary, financial, and dopamine resources wasted. And because of some dead‑end, everything was rendered useless.

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Part 46, Text 3. Schemes with Artyom - going to Artyom"s place and his grandfather - tricks and our unfeasible plans - gym at the tenth school - kefir and bodybuilding - obsession with sports gear and clothes.

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There was a lull with Artyom for a while. He was trickier to deal with - or rather, it wasn"t even clear how to connect, because, as I remember, they didn"t have a phone at home. We either arranged the next meeting on the spot, or, if we parted without a plan, it was hit or miss: either they"d come over - meaning him and his mom - or, very rarely, we"d go to them.

After that day"s competition, they came over and we reunited. He came in from the hallway and handed me a new toy binocular from his mom.

While the moms were in the kitchen, we sat in the living room, brainstorming schemes. I needed actual money - I think it was about three thousand rubles for that bike. I already had the bottle scheme set up, but with it, it would"ve taken me years to save. Bottles still cost, I remembered, twenty to thirty kopecks each.

Besides trivial stuff like fishing and selling fish, I had no other ideas - everything led back to bottles. I practised all sorts of skills: spinning nunchucks, juggling three tennis balls with both hands, and I had a long smooth straight stick from some tree, which was also a kind of weapon in my ninja attempts - I"d spin it around my palm and catch it again, a simple trick. But I could also balance it on my finger. I could even do it on my foot. And I could do a rope trick - tying it in a figure-eight or some loop, then running the end through and pulling it, making the knot unravel into a straight rope. And the card trick, and a couple of others. Artyom had some skills too. We decided we could be magicians - perform somewhere, and people would throw us some cash.

The next day I met him downtown at lunchtime, and we went to his place - he had some book on simple tricks there.

Those days were scorching hot, just like childhood: like going to the beach, like Frunze - music everywhere, ice cream everywhere, and I was buzzing with dopamine, thrilled that something real might happen, that we"d level up from clueless wandering kids to something serious - a bike, money, and maybe even girls noticing us.

We got to his house - only his grandfather was there, drunk as Artyom had warned me, and prone to acting up. He spotted me from his room and started his antics. He decided I had to leave. But Artyom knew how to handle him, blocked him from our part of the house, and motioned for me to hide behind the curtain. Artyom told him I"d left, and the grandfather asked, "Who"s that pale prick?" Soon he calmed down, went to his room, and hit the hay. Later, laughing, Artyom asked if I"d heard what he called me.

We sat on the floor in their living room and started reading about tricks. Among them was a ball-under-the-arm trick - you"d hold a small ball under your arm and then pretend to be dead, letting someone feel your wrist with no pulse. Artyom tried it, but I didn"t even want to hear about it - the thought of blood and pulses made me sick. I"m barely writing this now without cringing.

After our magician stint, we moved on to exercise with Artyom"s equipment. He had an ab roller, and I practised with it. I"d already been wandering endlessly through sports stores for months - just standing there was enough for me. From that day, I started craving and scanning for rollers like that.

Artyom also had a back massager with two protrusions along the spine. He"d lie on it, then reposition it higher. "For even more pleasure," he said. At home, I started rolling my shoulders, and later, during school years, giving myself massages after school and training became a ritual.

Then, maybe the same day (because, I repeat, between 2002 and 2005, we met maybe ninety times at most, including playground days), we went to his mom"s school for work. We sat in a small room with a window, like a sports storage shed, and there were sticks - we held them like swords and pretended to fight. Then we went to the gym - down a staircase, with a rope hanging from the ceiling. He showed me how to run and jump from the top, swinging like Tarzan. I had never done anything like a zipline before.

I also vividly remember some mornings - probably weekends. We met and went to the embankment near the Stele - we were already allowed to swim alone. He said he hadn"t eaten and had been drinking kefir, claiming it was filling. Inspired by bodybuilding books, I spent several days obsessed with "bio-kefir" from grocery stores and self-made high-protein diets.

Walking along the administration with Artyom, we discussed the movie Rambo, and he said the first film"s whole gimmick was the knife. I agreed, though I hadn"t seen any beyond the first.

I wanted more sports gear - long rubber bands my father mentioned, which could be tied to a radiator for endless muscle exercises. He even told me how prisoners in extreme conditions could train by imagining lifting weights and tensing muscles. I endlessly tried handstands until my wrists ached. I wanted wrist wraps - I"d seen Vitya wear them at the gym. Mostly, though, it was for the professional look. I wanted a special gym vest, too, because I wore a plain white undershirt - but professional ones were rubberised. None of this existed, so my mom and I nagged the sports store clerks relentlessly. The main target was the shop on Lenin Square, house twenty - diagonally across from the museum.

I went shopping at the fair with Grandma Klava. The open-air market was a furnace, and we circled endlessly before I could pick anything. I needed lightweight sports shoes for doing tricks on outdoor bars, feeling agile. I had a sort of SSSR sports aesthetic, and we ended up buying simple blue sneakers with white stripes - cheap, which I liked even more. I"d stroke them with my hand around the house - the blue felt like soft suede. They were a size too big, and my parents joked they looked like flippers.

For shirts, I wanted sleeves tight around my biceps, like grown men"s. Couldn"t find any. I needed pants too, narrowing at the ankles, like gymnasts" - special ones, rubberised. The market only had crap, so I settled on blue ones with straps to hook to my heels so they wouldn"t ride up. For the waist, inspired by Soviet gymnast pictures, my parents found straps to secure the pants to my shoulders.

That summer, mesh tank tops were popular - the kind men in sandals wore, which my father hated, calling it "glass." He preferred Clint Eastwood style: natural leather, hats, layers, squinting like a man who understood life ten steps ahead. They bought me a solid, non-mesh shirt - material like sugar or construction sacks. Blue shirt.

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Part 46, Text 4. At Kozlov"s alone - console and masturbation - Kozlov afraid of his father - collecting bottles late - socially awkward situations to neuro-itch - bottle hiding spots - evening park and phobias of night people.

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These were the days when my mom was selling the garage we still had in the underground cooperative on Mayakovskaya since the Niva days, and she sent me there on some errand. I walked along Mayakovskaya near the funeral home, and just short of it, there was a crowd with shuttle bags and a bus - and there was Kozlov, seeing his mom off to the south. He called me over.

I finished my errand and went. His mom had left him money for lemonade and snacks, and we headed to the wholesale store across from his house. Pure thrill - no parents, whole apartment at our disposal, morning just starting, and a whole week like this ahead. We planned to mess around with the console and other stuff. When we got to the living room, he suddenly threw a five-kilo weight onto the carpet. I said, "You"ll punch through the floor." He, with his usual Elchin-like confidence, said, "There"s two meters of concrete," and threw it again.

We spent several days gaming for hours on end on his 2D Mortal Kombat. He had a joystick combo guide for fatalities. I barely cared - after Kiska"s 3D games, it was obvious this was nothing. I liked the freedom, the summer ease. Once we"d had enough, we"d exercise - him with karate moves, me awkwardly with gymnastics. Then we started masturbating. He had grey family briefs - I"d never worn those. I still wore classic kids" cotton briefs, which forced my eternally stiff penis against my balls, curving down. Seeing Kozlov"s, I didn"t get it. Despite his loose briefs, his penis bent upward toward his stomach. He kept bending it back. I even asked him why; he had no explanation. We sat on sofas, masturbating. His was longer, but he was taller and a year older, so whatever.

One evening at my place, sun setting, we were by the TV in the living room - me with nunchucks and juggling. Both my parents were home, in the kitchen. Something had gone wrong, as always then - spoiled soup in our barely freezing Saratov fridge, or whatever - and my father started shouting, like the summer I described before. Reminder: he couldn"t stay calm, he scolded my mom, but it was not a scandal, just his hysterical flare, a performance really, because moments later they were laughing normally. Kozlov didn"t know this and panicked, asking if he should leave. We went to the hallway, he put on his shoes. My father was already normal, and he left. We all chatted. Kozlov said his mom went south, and my father asked where; he said, "Krasnoyarsk." Dad said, "That"s south!" - meaning probably Krasnodar.

Once, a Modern Talking song, "Brother Louis," played, and Kozlov said it was his favourite. Since then, I associate it with him.

From some day, I begged my parents for an extra hour in the evenings - until 9:30, maybe 10. That"s when the bottle-collecting saga entered its professional phase.

Trying to figure out what drove me - dopamine from collecting and saving money, or desire to be among summer beauties. One thing"s certain: if the park was full of old people, I wouldn"t do it. If it were empty, and bottles sprouted like mushrooms, I"d do it, but more for introspection and dreaming about girls. I needed that hunting satisfaction to coincide with my main purpose: girls. Money from bottles meant a cool bike, standing out, attracting female attention. So, girls were the real reason.

I walked to the park with two or more bags. Few competitors - maybe three old folks. Some drank from found bottles. Soon, especially once I got a bike, I"d be the main collector. People might remember the kid on the red bike, bag in hand - that"s how regular I became.

At first, I went on foot. I stopped worrying and would pick up bottles inches from people sitting on benches. A few awkward social moments - being told someone was still drinking from a bottle - left me with a lingering neurotic itch. Sometimes I even had to smack my face to shake it off. Occasionally, someone called me over to take a finished bottle.

I nested one bag inside another for strength. If it ripped, it would be over. I collected cans too, emptied them, and crushed them with my foot, folding them compactly. When bags overflowed, I took them to our usual spot under the pines by the Stele. Visible from the sidewalk, but nothing ever went missing. Around the Stele was prime bottle territory - benches and railings crowded with people. Later in the evening, the crowds grew, nobody cared about collectors, and I picked bottles between legs, in positions where, had I looked up, I"d have glimpsed a girl"s underwear fifteen years early, for free.

As it got dark, it felt truly adult. I"d stash the last bottles under a tree, take what I could carry, descend to the park by the trash slope, and walk along the alleys to the rotunda. On the right, under sparse lights, people sat on benches, with piles of bottles I wanted but had to leave. On the left, a shooting range, women squatting and relieving themselves in the dim, holding each other"s bags.

I imagined all these night people as criminal, amoral, capable of harvesting me for organs, indifferent to whether I lived or died. If I got in trouble, no one would save me - unlike daytime people. It was like Buffy - ordinary people turning into vampires at night.

I"d drag my heavy bottles to the park"s centre, walk under a lamppost past a bench with a group, meet a woman"s gaze, and she"d say: "Look at our little baby." Everyone would stop laughing and turn. Their eyes black with makeup, lips red, smoke curling from their mouths. They"d tell me to come closer. I"d drop my bags and run. "Catch him!" someone would shout, and unseen hands would grab me. I"d lift off the ground, everything spinning. They"d press me to a bench, I"d go numb, panic-stricken. Girls would tease: "Thought you were grown? Scared without mommy? Should"ve stayed home watching Karkusha and Stepashka," and laugh. Someone would say, "You"ll never see your parents again."

They"d pour some bitter-sweet potion down me, taking control of my body. My heart would leap, I"d beg to go home, call my mom "mommy" - like never before. They"d force something into my mouth. Police would appear far off, but ignore me. Mom once said, "The cops are the first bandits."

They"d pin me to the bench. "Hold him tight now," someone would say, and I"d faint in terror. Nothing would exist for me after that.

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Part 46, Text 5. Daytime episodes near the square, trying to jump on my bike, about beer bottles, bought a football, playing football with my mom, with Guzhik at the beach and at my place, mom socialising for my sake.

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A couple of episodes around the Lenin monument in the middle of summer. The first - we were walking with my mom to the fair, passing the spittle-stained square in front of it - and suddenly there, down on the curb, was our grandfather. Tanned, sitting, smiling. He says, "Hello." Mom tells me, "Come on, let"s go." Freedom Square, building three, near which that square stood - by the way, this was the building where women"s gymnastics took place in my mom"s childhood. We poked our heads in there too, trying to see if the hall was still there and if we could somehow train there, but nothing was left.

The second episode - we were sitting on the alley with benches along the square, not far from the podium, facing the main stage. And along it, a boy my age was riding a bicycle. The stage - as tall as me, mind you. And imagine this kid, for some reason, deciding to jump off it onto the asphalt. He even had a bit of a run-up. He dove straight down on the front wheel and crashed onto the asphalt. Somehow he didn"t kill himself and even managed to ride off on the bike. Nobody even approached him.

At the same time, my own bike-jumping phase was manifesting. Beyond the embarrassingly low hops on that ramp, I was embarrassing myself with jumps down - from fifteen to twenty centimetres at most - and endlessly practising vertical jumps the wrong way, by yanking on the handlebars. I could hop ten centimetres. By the end of the day, my whole back ached from all that jerking, and at home I"d lie down and massage myself. I mean, I was doing it wrong. I didn"t know about bunny hops yet, hadn"t seen them even once. Better that I hadn"t, but that was for the future. On the square, I was the only regular cyclist and the only one trying to do tricks at all. That"s why I considered myself cool. Blissful years.

It was hot, and every evening that wasn"t entirely devoted to collecting bottles, we went, as usual, to the concrete slope by the Stele, and then my parents mostly went home alone, while I stayed behind collecting bottles. I already knew all the drinks by shape from a distance. They only paid for brown beer bottles from domestic brews, like Baltika, and for all those elongated ones like Velkopopovický Kozel, they paid nothing. Often there were no bottles, but I"d already watch from afar which benches people were drinking at, just to pass the time. Apparently, this was later banned in the country, like casinos, but at the time, the "Find a prize under the cap" promotions were common - in beer as well as Coca-Cola. Nobody believed in them, but I still flipped the caps and looked. My fingers smelled sour from stale beer. From Artem I"d earlier learned to throw partially used lighters onto the asphalt and blow them up with full force. Juice boxes with straws could also be exploded by kicking them, and sometimes there was still juice inside, spraying the other leg. So, there was plenty to do. I even found another storage spot - in the bushes of a flowerbed on the park side, between the Rotunda and the amusement park. And during the day, I"d come separately and carry bottles from there to turn in.

It was mid-July, and at some point, my mom and I bought me a football. It was a classic design - black-and-white pentagons. Closer to evening, we went with her past the Palace of Pioneers - on the way from there to the playground was a so-called "box": a fenced asphalt area with a low barrier. We started playing there. And with whom else? Kozlov had no inclination for either cycling or football. Kozlov was a peculiar one. As for Artem - again, just quiet, until they came to us or we accidentally ran into them in the city - we wouldn"t see them. No other acquaintances were around. And with strangers, I"d have ended up without a ball or my last shred of confidence. Several times, my mom and I went to that box.

Then, after watching some advertisement with the footballer Ronaldinho juggling the ball in all sorts of ways - I started my own ordeal with it. All day, before heading to the park, I stayed in the hall, juggling that ball like a maniac. My record was around ten touches. Sometimes I could start juggling without bending down or picking it up, just rolling it onto my foot and tossing it - then I felt completely cool. But mostly, of course, nothing worked - I"d keep trying until the end of summer.

I mentioned we had exchanged phone numbers with Guzhik, and we"d already called and talked a few times. Now, finally, the plan arose for them to invite us to meet at the beach. Most likely, our moms had coordinated, because it was clearly planned. They liked to arrive early and spend the whole day there. It was still a cool morning, and the plan was that I"d go there alone first, and my mom would finish preparing food and come afterward. I left via the Soldiers" Monument and walked along the still lightly populated morning embankment - a super state: finally, a perfect summer day ahead, to hang out properly with an old friend outside the damn school. We met again at their farthest part of the beach. They were now even closer to the trees at the very end. Some younger kids still went there to poop, while we went to pee. I"d never been to paid porta-potties in my life. Later, my mom arrived, and the adults sat down while Guzhik and I now swam properly and ran across the sand. When he got out of the water, he jerked his head sideways to shake water from his ears. I"d never done that, but later tried - and it really makes sense: a pleasant feeling, like cracking your joints or digging out a gunk.

There was again some cool, beefy guy there, and Guzhik easily made contact with him. Guzhik called him "Hulk"; that summer, a film came out about some green mutant. From these two episodes, and maybe others - maybe just because he was into footballers - it seemed to me that Guzhik had a tendency to gravitate toward physically developed adult guys. Probably, they just inspired him the way Slava inspired me in gymnastics... Probably...

Someone had a ball, and we played football with that guy and someone else. But then the ball owner left with him, and it was still only lunchtime, so it was decided that Guzhik and I would go to my place to fetch the ball. This was even better than meeting at the beach. Even better than with Kozlov, because now I was the guide, leading guests through my territory. That"s what I always wanted with peers. With adults, let it be childish, like the day I read "Harry Potter" at Aunt Lena"s. But with peers, I wanted to be grown-up.

I chose not the embankment route, with its twists through amusement parks and kindergartens, but the adult, straight, Petrovskaya route, leading directly home. We passed it, past Kozlov"s windows, and after the kindergarten, turned into the yard. Walking along the entrances of my "Titanic" block, a kid from the middle entrance, where Lyuba Sedneva and Kozlov"s grandmother lived, came out and hassled us. This kid and Kozlov had brief clashes when we passed each other on our way home, so this kid knew me too. And now he also picked on whoever I was with - he either ignored Guzhik or something else. Guzhik, as always, couldn"t respond in a "guy" way. I felt awkward that Guzhik"s visit to my place was now connected with this incident. We went into the apartment, didn"t take off our shoes, and went to the hall for the ball. It was again a new, unusual feeling. Like the first time you kiss a girl. Doing something that had seemed impossible in reality. I mean, such a geographically distant friend - and here he was in my apartment hall. And from the small room came Murka. He leaned down to pet her and said "kitty." Unusual - my mom and I always said "kitty." Well, we didn"t linger with him, grabbed the ball, and left. He asked how to deal with that kid. I said, "Let"s go around the house," and led us out of the entrance to the left, along Lev Kassil to Gorky, and along Petrovskaya back to the beach.

So we played football there with Hulk, then just the two of us. Guzhik even explained some technique about hitting the ball with the inside of the foot. I always liked - well, in boots - kicking the ball with my toe, so it would fly at maximum speed. By the way, a couple of times that summer, I got hit in the chest with the ball, so I couldn"t breathe for a while.

Such meetings with Guzhik at the beach were probably three or four at most. For the last ones, mom didn"t come - I told you, she didn"t have much in common with them. It was an ordinary traditional family, probably with genuine romantic feelings between husband and wife, where the husband was the main one, wanting to earn. And where Guzhik"s mom had a healthy, close relationship with Guzhik"s grandmother, as if she were her own mother (the grandmother was on the father"s side). Guzhik himself went with the flow. My mom had none of that. She"d gotten involved with my father - an unusual man, a quirky type, no romance with her, just a fun cohabitant she indulged because he was my dad. She had no closeness with any parental figure - unfamiliar territory. And me, already so neurotic - it was clear I was sliding close to the pit of disaster. She would later tell me her friends" families were normal - Kiskins, Shurygins - but she refused; she had nothing in common with them. She had spent her whole life ruining herself through connection with my father - as she said. She could only connect with someone like him, he was all she needed then. She understood that everything was happening as it had to, so she"d soon stop this silly struggle against nature.

The last days with Guzhik were entirely spent jumping into the water from the tiny boat pier at the end of the beach. I was doing flips and all sorts of jumps. Someone else was jumping with us too. That"s it.

.:.

___Part 47.

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Part 47, Text 1. Bram Stoker"s Dracula and my phobias, "Cherished Jokes," BabValya getting mad at me with Mom, Alina at BabValya"s dacha and idyllic sexual fantasies, frigid Serebryakova.

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It had been a long time since BabValya had been involved with playgrounds or Engels-themed topics - and so I went.

Not necessarily on this trip, maybe on previous ones, I watched the film Bram Stoker"s Dracula on her TV. My childhood interest in vampires had, of course, long since passed; all that remained was attention to necrophobia triggers - dying, coffins, and, of course, sexual scenes. There was the scene that neurotically disturbed me: three female vampires, who later drank a baby"s blood, then a lesbian scene in a garden, and the sex of that nymphomaniac red-haired woman with the werewolf. This red-haired woman already looked dead as a human, and as a vampire in the crypt with a baby - that was pure hell. I remembered these scenes my whole life, especially her vomiting blood from the mouth. It was specifically the baby element in those scenes that traumatized me the most. A complete medley of fears from the clinic, the little cuts on my penis, gypsy women stealing you in childhood, and the thought that Mom might go crazy and stop being Mom, mixed naturally with an infernal sexual attraction to a woman like that horny red-haired Lucy.

There were also scenes in that film set in an old asylum with straitjackets. I had already seen those shots in the commercial before Godzilla - my favourite film around first grade. So I knew about crazies from those shots back then, but watching Dracula finally made me fully aware of asylums.

With BabValya, we went again to that house belonging to her relatives, in the private sector somewhere uphill from the Sennoy Market in Saratov. It was again connected to looking after the little daughter of Aunt Sveta while she was away. There was a VCR, so I could watch whatever I wanted. There was the film The Matrix. I didn"t understand it at all, watched only for the stunts. Although it had been famous for a while, and in all the cassette stores - which, by the way, were rapidly disappearing.

On that trip to that house, I also had in my hands a book called Cherished Jokes. All of them on the topic of sex. There was nothing excessive or depraved, yet there were hints. I realised, for the first time, that anal sex existed - at least as a fantasy. Plus, if one accepted that sex in general existed, I began to understand that "sucking" was not a crude joke or fantasy, but reality. There couldn"t be so many jokes in an adult joke collection if they were just made-up by boys in some toilet or fake magazines - like that one on the trip south a year ago, which had seemed fake to me. Most of the jokes I didn"t understand - they were about Lieutenant Rzhevsky, some hussars. I didn"t know them, and even now, I have no interest in them. What stuck with me were three jokes. "Rzhevsky sat in the carriage and said: "Touch it!" The coachman touched it and said: "Whoa!"" Another one started boringly about a soldier, and I only reread the ending: "How do you find a woman"s vagina in the dark? You slide your finger down the spine until the second click." I didn"t understand it at all and became fixated. Months later, I decided it was a misprint and meant "the second snap," although could such primitive humour really be in that book? Googling now, it turns out it was somehow related to disassembling weapons, and it was correct.

I once threw a tantrum at BabValya - which was extremely rare in BabValyaland (what term could I use for visiting her and experiencing her hyper-care?) - and she finally lost her temper. We were going to the dacha, leaving the apartment, and she wouldn"t talk; at the stop under the building, she even tugged my hand. But we soon made up. Her impatience, I already understood, was naturally related to our and Mom"s perceived indifference to Dad, whose periodic absences BabValya saw as Mom "kicking him out," while Mom - with her "dry" BabKlava and the savings in their possession (Mom, unlike Dad, even had her own apartment) - was fully responsible for the tensions. In principle, BabValya would have long been glad if Dad found another woman. And the reason he didn"t, in her view, was probably that he remained loyal to our family. So again, we were at fault. Simply put, BabValya was mad at us for not appreciating Dad, who spent his life on us year after year.

We arrived at the dacha again for a few days. And there was that girl, Alina, from the neighbouring plot. That summer, I desired her. I again threw a knife at the board, and she did too, but often I sat in a prominent spot - on that hammock-chair from early childhood - reading the joke book. "Read your book." Let"s see. At some point, she came to ask what I was reading. I showed her the cover. She looked up knowingly. After that, for a long time, the word "cherished" would seem associated with sex to me, and I used it in correspondence and texts in that sense, hardly conveying to readers exactly what I meant.

We were at the dacha for several days. Probably Larisa, Anya, and Ivan visited again.

One night, probably abnormally hot, it was impossible to sleep in BabValya"s iron trailer, so we went to spend the night on the plot opposite - with Marina (that young woman, but already a mother to an almost grown daughter). I read my joke book there under a dim lamp. I probably addressed Marina as "ты." I mention her because she will appear again later.

I imagined late-night evenings at the dacha, past midnight: crickets, mosquitoes, silence, our adults sitting by our trailer at the table chatting, while Alina and I go inside - bedtime... We were allowed to share one bed, while all adults would later go sleep at the neighbours" or elsewhere, but nearby, so the pleasant supervision, comfort, and BabValyaland remained in the background. And there we were, on the bed, with a lamp and shade, yellow light but enough to see. We smiled; she had such girlish facial features, especially when smiling - I already wanted to take her head in both hands and start kissing. But we began something else: taking my joke book, lying down next to each other, reading. Shoulder to shoulder, quiet voices, accidental touches. Behind the book, unseen, but she seemed to touch me with her toes. The joke about the boss and secretary - "a question arose"... Funny... But it was late; we lay back exhausted, staring at the ceiling... I wasn"t holding the book anymore, and she, leaning, was still there... Lying silently, breathing and barely audible adult voices outside... And then - it"s unclear who first - we turned face to face and kissed... Interesting, what the sensations are. Can you hit each other"s teeth? How to deal with interfering noses? What exactly to do with lips, do you suck?... Nothing was clear, but we had already turned to each other, locked in an embrace, doing something. Once, Mom said, with these things, everything will figure itself out. I slid under Alina"s T-shirt, stroking her tanned back... With her, I was completely equal - it was our first time... We rose to finally pull her T-shirt off... She was all smiles from the joy of intimacy... Finally, she was needed as a woman, not a playmate, and for a worthy boy, not a kid, who performs tricks and flips off the bar... I also took off my glass T-shirt, tanned as well, and we embraced again... Dropping our underwear, I was already in a condom, and sex began...

I still didn"t know much. Nothing about blood from virgins, nothing about how to put on a condom. And I didn"t understand yet that having sex lying face-to-face with legs straight down wouldn"t work - the entry to her vagina is from below. I thought the entry was frontal, thought standing face-to-face was possible.

I pictured Alina in bed with me far more easily than Serebryakova. With Serebryakova, as I said, fantasies never progressed beyond professing love on a park bench under a lamp. Even in fantasies, Dasha was always cold, something dissatisfied her. But I still wanted her. She was the closest - and, according to Mom, I had played with her in the same park, in the flowerbeds, in early childhood. I almost never imagined sex with Serebryakova while masturbating - it was always about those two "naughty" girls, or those naked women with rhombuses, or now Alina - and only with her was it a loving, "non-scary" sex.

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___Part 47

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Part 47, Text 2. First visit to the Shmyrkeviches, the elite from the inside, meeting Sima, GTA: Vice City, the beginning of escapist GTA mania.

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During this trip to Baba Valya"s, another event took place. She had long been telling me about some wealthy people she worked for-a proper family. She kept talking about a girl there with a strange name-Sima. She also mentioned they were Jewish. I had a poor understanding of what that meant. Coupled with their names and surname, I imagined a very exotic appearance. Their surname sounded like Shmyrkevich to me, and as a child I pronounced it incorrectly with "y" instead of "e". The father was the director of a chain of private clinics appearing in Saratov at the time called "Di Center," which would later become the largest. It was known that his circle of acquaintances even included the city mayor. In short-serious. He also knew Uncle Seryozha.

Whether she was called in unexpectedly or Baba Valya herself wanted me to visit them (probably the latter), one day she took me along. It was a sunny, hot summer day in Saratov.

I had no idea where we were going-same thing as always, I wouldn"t understand until I saw it. Early morning, early for a summer holiday day-around nine o"clock-we arrived with Baba Valya at the Krytyy Market and walked along Kirova Street. She said it would be a cottage, but I couldn"t picture where in this part of the city a cottage could be. We turned left onto Volskaya Street, past the main bookstore, past the Youth Theatre. Further along Volskaya, at the corner with Guzhikovskaya, Kiselyova, there was already the first "Intim" store in Saratov, and from the film Amélie I roughly knew what they sold. After the theatre, we crossed the street and turned onto the quiet Yablochkova Street. We walked about a hundred meters-then, in a brick Khrushchev-era building 20/22, there was an archway and a gate with an intercom. Baba Valya had keys, and we went in.

In the yard on the left was a two-storey cottage with flower beds in front. Tiled roof, attic windows. It was a corner house for two families. The yard was already quiet, and once inside, even more so.

Upon entering, there wasn"t much of a hallway. A couple of steps down on the left led directly into a studio space with large leather sofas in front of a massive TV-one I had never seen in any store. There was also a fireplace, and nearby stood a bicycle I was saving up for. There was a piano too. The flooring downstairs was laminate-I"d walked on laminate for the first time. In the hallway and kitchen-luxurious dark tiles with underfloor heating, even in summer, which I also walked on for the first time.

Straight ahead, as you enter, was the plebeian toilet on the first floor, and on the living room side, stairs curved at forty-five degrees to the second floor. To the right of the kitchen, there was a passage to another area-later I"d learn it was a small pool, which Baba Valya hadn"t mentioned yet. The owners were still asleep. Baba Valya told me to sit on the sofa and greet them when they came down. I sat on the side sofa with my back to the yard, facing the fireplace. Baba Valya told me that on Sima"s birthday, there had been a party here, and Sima had sung karaoke, substituting her name into some famous song.

Eventually, music-like an alarm clock-started playing throughout the house, because from the second floor came sounds of water somewhere in the distance. I think the first to come down was the mother-a tanned, blonde woman. I said hello. I had a preconceived notion about the main owner. Baba Valya always fawned over him in her stories. A few times she told tales of displeasing him and not being paid, with only the wife slipping a 500-ruble note between them while handing over a saucer. I imagined him as some kind of gangster, because Mama, knowing high-end clients of cottages through her projects, had instilled this stereotype in me-where there"s big money and cottages, there are always gangsters. For my whole childhood, I assumed he wasn"t even a doctor, just a businessman, like our Uncle Vanya, who had just set up the clinic chain as a business. So, naturally, I was nervous being there.

Then he came down. Either in a home T-shirt or completely bare-hairy and boar-like. We greeted him. They all headed to the kitchen. Who"s Jewish? What does Jewish even mean? I still don"t get it.

I expected some scary girl. But when Sima finally came down, looking almost like she was in pajamas, she turned out to be a pretty blonde, like her mother-Abba-type. Tanned, slim. My age. She was beautiful-but I can"t really use that word for my impressions, as I usually reserve it for people I could immediately start dreaming about, and between Sima and me, there was a chasm, so dreaming made no sense-only fantasising. We said hello.

Then they had breakfast, and the father went into the living room. Baba Valya approached him and asked, "Did the pie work out?"-referring to the curd pie she had made recently, which could only be eaten with tea. He shook his head negatively. Later, Sima came to the living room, and we probably clarified our names and got to know each other. She said they had a computer and invited me upstairs.

Upstairs, there was an attic window in the corridor, to the right-her room, the parents" bedroom, and a fancy bathroom, to the left-the father"s office. We went to the office. It faced the shady side, small, with grey carpet (my first time walking on carpet). There was a sofa to the side, a desk with a computer by the window. On the wall, in frames under glass, were daggers or some other collectibles. On the carpet lay five-ruble coins-more than the cost of a bus ride between Saratov and Engels in bus 284. We sat at the computer.

I don"t recall their Windows interface differing from ours-probably just missed the boot screen; it was XP. She started some game. It was GTA. I thought it was the one on my disc-GTA III. But it was Vice City.

I fell in love with it instantly. Finally-perfect life. Everything I had imagined since childhood, inspired by American TV shows and films like Street Fighter: palm trees, mansions, skyscrapers, American cars, beach, sea, women in swimsuits on rollerblades. Always sun, or sunsets, or super-beautiful neon nights with streets that never sleep. Bright, colourful. Industrial areas that reminded me of my early childhood summer rides with Uncle Seryozha, through areas I hadn"t yet explored, believing we were in the same world as on TV. In this game, it seemed I could literally do anything, and the dopamine rush was insane.

Probably I noticed the music immediately but didn"t remember specifics-just the atmosphere. Sounds of the game, synthesiser notes when switching menus, added to it.

I developed a kind of super-aesthetic-GTA mania. After this, I couldn"t tear myself from store shelves seeing discs of the game. The design, sketches of characters, their styles-mostly inspired by Dmitry Nagiev: jackets of unusual colours, unbuttoned shirts, long hair, 1980s hairstyles. In short-total obsession. Real life was crap; what could I do?

We played almost until lunch, mostly her, while I watched. Her parents had gone out; only Baba Valya was around, buzzing with vacuum and cloth from one room to another. She entered our room needing to clean there too. Meanwhile, Sima and I went to her room. Bright, under the attic windows, not overly girlish-no stupid Dima Bilan posters, unlike my stereotype of girls" rooms. She had carpet, though some laminate. Like me, she had a rope and showed me how she used it, while I only managed a handstand for a couple of seconds.

At lunch, Baba Valya called us down, and we ate at the bar stools. Then we played GTA for a couple more hours. I remember, while running through the southeast district of the first city with neon lights, I liked exploring on foot and accidentally hit the house purchase icon, spending a significant amount of Sima"s saved money. She didn"t get upset, just gestured me to check out what I now owned. She was new to GTA and didn"t yet know all the possibilities. "Ah, a garage. Can"t go inside the house?" I imagined her grown-up self as she would become.

We only explored the first city-second one was closed for her. I remembered the ramps in the centre and how I accelerated under the palm trees. I would later learn all these locations. I didn"t know if I enjoyed being with her in that setting more or playing GTA. If I had first played with some boys in a shabby flat, I probably wouldn"t have been so obsessed. It was precisely the company of this kind, pretty, calm girl, her quiet voice, understandable smiles, carefree rich environment, and the atmosphere of the perfect summer day in the best part of Saratov. The game, with its mansions and luxury, mirrored where I was in reality. Later, until I got a proper computer and could play, I would obsess over GTA for a year and a half, always remembering that day, that office with Sima, the soft humming computer, and the view of the dark courtyard.

Then we went back to her room and did... well, something. There was a moment where we let each other know we both understood sex. Everything was very modest on my part; I was well-behaved, like my first free encounters with attractive girls at thirty. Baba Valya, like at home, brought snacks into the room. Sima called her "Valya" in a friendly way; perhaps this was normal for them even without me. By evening, we watched the then-new Bruce Almighty with Jim Carrey in Sima"s room-she liked it. When her parents returned, we left. I think Sima gave me something, but I might be mixing it up with a visit a year later.

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Part 47, Text 3. Trampoline at the amusement park, shame and complexes, feeling alone in the park, Mom"s schoolmate Bakulin, obsession with beaver haircut, Murka catches a swallow, a bone in Mom"s throat and her distrust of doctors.

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The amusement park had a trampoline, and I went on it. Rectangular, like normal sports trampolines, about a metre and a half above the ground. Mats on springs lined the edges, a wooden platform in front to reach the trampoline, and mesh fencing all around. Mom stood below. Naturally, I started doing flips. After a few somersaults, a bad landing threw me forward-onto that wooden platform. I sprawled there in front of everyone watching-mega embarrassing. I"d tried being cool, but it ruined my relationship with that trampoline. I went on it a few more times, but fear of embarrassment held me back, and it became pointless. Showing off has to be practiced without an audience.

On one visit to the park, Mom and I went on our favourite boats, then sat on a bench. In a corner was another inflatable trampoline-shaped like a little tower with a tall slide. A stocky boy, about seven, shirtless in the heat, was playing there. He looked like Andrey from gymnastics-body type, face, and had abs. Mom noticed too, and we exchanged opinions: unlike me, that boy"s abs and strength were natural. Her words filled me with a lasting envy.

I saw Andrey once later that summer. I was collecting bottles; he was with adults. Rarely did I meet anyone else in those evening walks. Occasionally, walking along the embankment with Mom toward Baba Klava, we"d meet Artyom and his mom, but never on the central embankment or the park. Trips to the park felt like going somewhere alone, knowing it would just be me among strangers drinking beer. By the next summer, I would form a deep, permanent feeling about it-with its own music, smells, and physical sensations. Interesting details-the roots of how we react to things in life. Complicated feelings can arise over something that outsiders might misdiagnose, while in reality the cause is long, deep in unrelated past experiences that you only understand by tracing your personal chronology.

After a fair visit with Mom and Baba Klava, we headed toward Baba Klava. Between the turn to the fair from the children"s park and my first-grade school, someone called Mom. A young man, the same age as my parents, was driving a Gazelle truck. Mom spoke with him casually. He was her schoolmate, had a crush on her back then, carried her backpack-stories like this shaped my childhood stereotype of proper school-day romances, what I call Yeralash-style, because it was shown the same way on Yeralash. His surname was Bakulin, and I think Kolya, though I might be wrong-it got mixed up with my memory of Guzhiev Kolya. Mom arranged to meet him; they likely exchanged numbers.

This Bakulin had no family or serious education-a simple guy from Engels. Mom and I met him on the embankment; everyone swam. He didn"t swear, didn"t smoke, wasn"t mean. Dad met him once, talked, and then nicknamed him "Bobrik" because of his haircut-the front stuck up. His hair looked like Alexei Nemov"s and other gymnasts"-also like Guzhik"s. He was someone I didn"t want to be like, but whose traits I unconsciously copied. That summer, I tried to raise my hair in every way possible. My hair was worse for this-soft, besides my natural classic Hitler-style cut. I wet it, slicked it back with hairspray, wore a hated flat-cap until dry. When removed, the hair slowly reverted, rotating 180 degrees, and I"d flex every bicep in front of the mirror, imagining a micro-Schwarzenegger.

That summer, I also picked up Dad"s guitar again, playing the simple exercises I remembered from music school. I suspected my favourite radio song used guitars and wanted to understand the principle, but for reasons between why I avoided the trampoline and why I didn"t want my parents to know I was thinking about sex, I explained the guitar to them as a way to flex my biceps on the supporting arm-Dad found it hilarious.

The Nespechny family arrived, and these became evenings of walks-again the three of us and them. During the day, we stayed in the apartment with Mom; I worked out and stared at the mirror. In the evenings, Dad would come, and the usual Lev Kassil-style pre-walk fuss began.

Murka, like last summer, constantly climbed from the balcony onto the fire escape and lay there-it must have been breezy, while inside it was unbearable. One day, there were many swallows outside, circling poplars in front of buildings and past balconies. Mom and I were in the kitchen when Murka, stepping carefully not to crush it, brought something in her teeth-at first, it seemed like a big fish, like the river bream Mom cooked endlessly. But it was a swallow. She carried it across the apartment as a hunter. We panicked, unsure how she had caught it without it falling. We took the bird, faked gratitude, but locked it in the living room while Murka prowled underfoot. The swallow escaped my hands and hit the kitchen window. We caught it again, examined it briefly, then carried it to the balcony and released it.

Mom loved those bream; Dad hated them-they were full of bones. I didn"t like them either; I had no patience. But they were cheap, so they were constant. Mom constantly spat bones, but one evening she swallowed one too far-it got stuck. The incident escalated. She went around with a mirror, threatening a visit to the emergency room. Later, Dad came; Nespechny probably cancelled, or they passed by and got involved. Mom went with Dad to the adult clinic on Mayakovskaya and Petrovskaya. They returned empty-handed; doctors couldn"t see any bone. But Mom had. She told them: "Here it is, how can you not see it?" This was typical of her experience with doctors-either they didn"t help or made it worse. Later, after botched dental treatment in a private clinic, her jaw would rot into her sinuses, a lifelong problem. Often she blamed the doctors, but sometimes she blamed herself as an "unlucky patient." She read her thick Mother and Child Health book to figure things out herself. She hated dealing with doctors unnecessarily. I, on the other hand, still relied on them. Eventually, she extracted the bone herself with our tweezers, which I had since lab practice.


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Part 47, Text 4. Books in search of sex... reading sexology with Kozlov... infantile theatre in front of parents... going to the beach with the Nespeshnyes... scaring Lidushka... cut my leg... vomiting and punishment at home... everyone switching to computers, but Mum can"t.

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I was still skimming a book called Ghosts of the Night because of the legends about cunning seductresses. Once, I was alone with Mum, and she, scolding Dad, called him a "hypocrite." I didn"t even know words like that yet, but it reminded me of some ghost names from the book. I went looking, but there it was just "liderets."

Baba Valya also had a book of scary stories, only without pictures. Naturally, I was more interested in other books by then - I dreamt of holding the Kama Sutra, but, of course, didn"t dare even approach those shelves in stores, and they were usually sealed anyway. In our living room, on a high shelf of the bookcase, all through my childhood there was a book called Josephine, with a cover that, by the last year, I finally understood meant erotic literature, but I had terrible difficulty getting through adult text, so I never read it.

Another book we had on health was Men"s Sexual Health. Mum had been trying since I was little to find an explanation for my twinges, and guidance on things like exposing the glans - she even showed me the diagrams, but I refused to look, refusing outright to expose anything. Now, I was interested in it because of the sexual content. One day Kozlov came over - it was close to the evening walk, the Nespeshnyes had already dropped by before going out - and because of all the fuss around us and my excuse that Kozlov was the one interested, I dared. We sat on the big bed in the middle room and read openly. All sorts of urethras, frenula - everything was there. While we were sitting, Mum walked by and cheerfully asked, "Learning something new?" We just smiled. I was curious about what size would be when standing, once we grew up.

Using any moment where it seemed plausible that I wasn"t personally interested in sex, it was sometimes easier to bring it up than ignore it. I even occasionally asked Mum questions about it. For instance, I asked, "Did you ever give Dad a blowjob?" She said, "Well, you know, a bit of everything." Another time I was rummaging through Dad"s briefcase - he, like people fifty years ago, would carry it by hand to run errands and to the store, despising plastic bags - and I found a pack of condoms, cheap ones like from a kiosk. In that situation, too, it seemed right to announce it with a little show: "Look what I found," giggling.

Later came a hectic day, because before going to the Volga with the Nespeshnyes, Mum cooked something - a small feast of sorts. There was fried food, and olives. Then we went. The Nespeshnyes preferred the beach, so that"s where we went.

It was already dusk on the way there, and by the embankment, there were "vampires" and couples. On the backless benches, I had been seeing these scenes for years - a guy sitting cowboys-style, and the woman, facing him, not just cowboys-style, but wrapping her legs around him from behind in a downright lewd way. She"d wrap around his neck, kissing as if devouring him. If she wore a skirt, he usually sat normally while she tucked her legs into the flowerbed so no one would see up her skirt. Now it seemed to me they were fucking.

This was on the benches to the left after the Soldiers" Monument, where there"s a pull-up bar and volleyball court below. Not so much out of gangster motives anymore, but to feel daring compared to what I"d seen, I spent that walk scaring Lidushka, as usual. She now slightly reminded me of Amélie. I"d call random passersby vampires for her: "Look, fangs!" "Look, he"s hiding in the bushes!" In her naivety, she"d ask, "Where?! Where?!" Then I"d shout, "Behind you!" - and she"d squeal almost to tears. I"d pull these stunts when we were about twenty metres away from Mum.

We swam at the beach in deep twilight and then headed back.

On the dam, it was completely dark; I"d either collect bottles and hide them in bushes to retrieve the next day, or hide myself to jump out at Lidushka. Near the Soldiers" Monument, there"s a sloping dirt path I used to ride down on my bike - lots of bushes behind some memorial statues - and I had a small stash there. I went down there. On those scorching days, I wore some flip-flops (which Dad hated) and socks. Down there, in the dark grass, I stepped on some prickly branches with my left foot. Closer to the museum, in the light, I looked - and the inside of the foot, the one you kick a ball with, was bleeding. Somehow we got home - I hopped on one leg - and sat in the mustard-coloured armchair to be bandaged.

Then nausea hit immediately. I lay on the parents" bed in the middle room in pre-vomiting agony. Then came the grey basin, the one I once stuffed a frog into, and out came olives. My ass hurt, and childhood thoughts added terror: all this was karma for scaring Lidushka - now I"d die. I"d explained before that my fear of vomiting was tied to fear of death. Later they moved me to my room, and the hell continued all night: I kept vomiting, Mum checked on me, and I drank activated charcoal.

Everyone else had already switched to computers, but Mum was still fiddling with rulers and rapidographs - "rapitographs," as I called them - pens with ink and a fine tip. One morning, on Uncle Seryozha, we went to Saratov, far away - to areas called Dachnye, not Third Dachnaya, the popular non-central district, but the Ninth Dachnye. First time I went there. Saratov seemed endless. In the end, we arrived at a building near some hills, and Mum went to some class or exam. Maybe she"d been learning computers before. She came out successful. Something basic, like turning a computer on and off.

Uncle Seryozha had always tried to pull her along, since her student days. But she couldn"t. There was a complex mix of reasons: grudges, self-deprecation from childhood trauma, and a genuine intellectual underdevelopment - the kind that happens when, all your life, trauma prevents you from trying new things. Intelligence doesn"t develop - remains underdeveloped. Idiots and toxic people see someone like this and insist their underdevelopment is primary, which fuels their self-destructive behaviour, worsening the underdevelopment - and that"s the vicious cycle in which all unhappy parts of the world live.

Uncle Seryozha just drove us there, so first we wandered into the hills, where the forest started immediately. A completely different forest, not like our Mostootryad. This one was just forest - boring. Mostootryad had slopes, streams, swamps. Mostootryad reminded me of the film Morozko, when Ivanushka went wandering; this Saratov forest, where we were, reminded me of nothing.

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Part 47, Text 5. Uncle Valera hanging around Frunze... visiting Mum"s acquaintance in the next block... constant bottle-collecting on the bike... doing tricks pointlessly like a cursed stuntman... sex-phobic darkness of the park.

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We spent very little time at Baba Klava"s that summer, but when we did, Mum"s brother Valera was there. He was with his recently new wife, another kid, and, as always, his buttering, grandmother-charming chatter. Baba Klava now allowed him to park his car in the yard. They came from somewhere nearby, probably Melioration. We spent days at Frunze with overnight stays, and, as usual, everyone sat late at night on the bench by the house.

Alina didn"t come up anymore; she had her neighbour issues, and we no longer had an adult protector for her. She might not communicate much with my grandfather - because of his silence - but she felt his tendency not to let the little ones be hurt, so he could protect her from Baba Klava. Without him, she was unsupported here.

I slicked my hair back and flexed my muscles, and Baba Klava, talking about physique, said, "As long as the legs are long." My legs were long enough - just what I disliked: unnecessary in gymnastics.

We probably brought Murka to run around the yard again because in autumn she would have ear tick problems. She didn"t get pregnant this time.

These were days without Dad - he had gone away.

We returned from Baba Klava"s late, so we took Nesterova, the street with cars, not dark Persidskaya. Crossing Pushkin Street, where a wreath hung on a pole from some accident, we stopped a couple times at a gas station where her acquaintance worked - from the next block, in our Lev Kassil. Once connected to architecture, now a cashier/operator doing everything. I was tired - late - and her lights were bright with CCTV screens. She was the type of woman like Katya Lel, like Kozlov"s mum. She would eventually move to Moscow; she seemed advanced - one of those who helped Mum, not the other way around. She borrowed Mum"s expensive magazines with juicy images of elite glass-walled mansions, which I had once studied and formed my dreams about an ideal life - to a Jennifer Lopez song on the beach.

Later, Mum and I visited her a few times in her first-floor apartment. Just behind the rubbish chute wall. Mum told me a rat once came out of the toilet. She had a son older than me, and at five or so, they"d lent me skates for ice near the poplars by our block - until local kids playing hockey bullied me to tears. Her son was away, and while Mum and I sat in her kitchen, I sat on the sofa watching films from cassettes. First was some famous crocodile-horror flick, where a diver gets half his torso bitten off. Second was Mortal Kombat - the film, which I watched for the first time. It didn"t impress me; I was just nostalgic for the tricks and earlier times when I wanted to see it. It was all past: I"d been through that, Alina at Frunze, torture, Buffy, Murashki, and much more... Even the magazine from the south trip and Anekdoty Zavetnye seemed past. Everything moved forward.

My leg was just healing, but I was already collecting bottles again. To move faster between stashes and get more, I now rode the bike always. When the bag had only cans, I hung it on the handlebars; when bottles, I steered with one hand and held the bag with the other. I collected several bottles at a time and carried them to my stash in some bushes - much more productive than walking.

Once, in the morning, I went to my main stash under the spruce by the Stele and couldn"t get to it - a group of kids with easels were painting the spruces, probably from music school with painting classes. I didn"t want to act like a tramp in front of so many and waited a couple hours for them to leave. I then moved the stash thirty metres away into big burdock bushes by the concrete fence of an abandoned bakery - my main stash for the rest of the bottle-collecting saga.

In the evenings, while waiting for more bottles, I rode to the pull-up bars under the embankment, between the Soldiers" Monument and the Brave Dock, and practiced flips and other moves. I also dared a yard trick: sit on the bar, legs out, hold the bar, flip backward, release hands at a certain angle, land on feet. Quite risky: if my big toes caught the bar while my hands were released, I"d fall - straight on my head. Hello, ninety years old.

Sometimes, instead of bars, while waiting for bottles or before leaving home, I kept doing embarrassing tricks near the rotunda and the honour board. No progress. I dared to jump over the half-metre, even the gap in the sewer in the square, but with such speed that it only showed how afraid I was of failing. Sometimes I hit the edge of the sewer with the rear wheel, often misjumped, and my bike had problems. The pedal brake spun - I didn"t have hand brakes. The wheel went wobbly. Dad tried to fix it.

I continued riding on one wheel, doing the "goat" trick. I didn"t need this goat bullshit. Without any chance of girls seeing me, I wouldn"t do anything, wouldn"t even leave home. But the evening park pulled me like a magnet - women in short denim shorts, heels, drunk. I did the goat near the honour board, and in the sex-phobic darkness of the park, their drunken laughter and the flicker of cigarette lights looked like witch eyes.

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Part 47 text 6. Kozlov"s tapes,,, a tape with erotica and porn,,, my bipolar attitude toward sex,,, often with Valera and also to the recreation base on the island with him and Aunt Katya.

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Kozlov had a new batch of tapes, and he invited me to watch them. But not at his place - at his grandmother"s, in another entrance of my Lev Kassil building - that"s where he had the VCR. We sat on the sofa facing the courtyard and watched. There was the film Bloodsport, and then another one, even bloodier, where there was a scene in which someone was hung on a hook. As always, ever since Sasha Emelyanov and his Mortal Kombat, I was surprised that some fathers brought their kids movies like that. Mine was obsessed with travel, Jules Verne, inventions - and those were the kinds of themes his gifts followed when there was money for them.

And then in one of the films there was a scene where a fighter showed how cool he was by killing a fly on the window with his foot. Some spectator there, not understanding what had happened, said something like: "Well great, we"re hiring a fighter who can"t even break glass." And Kozlov was telling me: "Imagine - killing a fly on the glass with your foot."

And then another day, also very sunny, there was no one at home at my place, and Kozlov came over with a tape with that film Hulk. Some kind of weird nonsense. But Kozlov and I started discussing something that led to him saying that he had, there at his grandmother"s place, a tape with porn. And that he didn"t know where it had come from or whether anyone besides him knew about it. And that he could bring it.

I gave him my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles tape - the one we had bought with Grandma Klava when I was in first grade. He went with it and there left the actual black Ninja Turtles cassette at home, and put the porn one inside the case. I was full of anticipation. He came back and parodied how his grandmother had asked what he was carrying, and he, trembling, had lied: "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles." We sat down to watch.

It was mostly black‑and‑white, recorded in fragments. America of the nineties, sun, palm trees, the aesthetics of cars and all that American dream imagery. Curly hairstyles and pussies. Mostly it was erotica, some kind of clips - like, there"s a desert, hellish sun, a guy driving along the highway in an American car and arriving at a car wash where he"s served by busty women who start undressing and pouring water over themselves. Kozlov was the guide. He would say: "Watch further."

And then there were fragments with sex. There was an aesthetic of luxury, Santa‑Barbara‑like mansions, elaborate lingerie, lush hairstyles and all that curliness. When in adulthood I watched the film Boxing Helena, that scene where she"s having sex with the macho character, and also when around twenty I first watched Enigma"s video Principles of Lust, I had the feeling those scenes had been on that tape. Probably not, but it had exactly that kind of atmosphere. That"s about the setting...

And about the main thing... Well, there was no love there. It was like in the park at night. Sex - and even those sucking couples in cowboy positions, face to face - for me were not love. When I fantasized those things with Alina at Grandma Valya"s dacha - I didn"t masturbate. What happened in that fantasy was love, and sex, starting from the first kiss, was the necessity of that love, an instinctive feat. All those desires to make her happy as a woman, to let her realize that purpose of hers. And it was assumed that on her side there were the same desires. We perceived sexual arousal the way I perceived it - as suffering - and helped each other relieve it, pass through those torments. That"s why during the process I called her comforting words, things like "little лапушка" and "kitty," kissed her soothingly when she moaned. And satisfied, as always in life and not only in bed, we empathized with each other"s happiness - that was the sign of real love in my understanding. Everyone I loved, I was codependent on their mood, rejoicing in their joys or, in misfortune, suffering and pitying them.

But on the videotape and in the park, as it seemed to me, it was completely different. No one empathized with anyone, no one merged. On the contrary, they seemed to strive to separate as much as possible. They looked for partners they wouldn"t want to pity, with whom they could be themselves. During the day - ordinary people empathizing with each other, but at night - everyone for themselves, even tormenting each other, delaying each other"s orgasm, keeping each other in dissatisfaction. And I couldn"t accept that, couldn"t live with it. Because it was the opposite of love and frightening, but it also pulled me - and once the process had already started, more strongly than love.

I wanted to be pressed against that bench so there would be no mother, no Grandma‑Valium and Alina. Only those frightening strange women smelling of unfamiliar perfume, sucking into my mouth, doing incomprehensible things there with their tongues, reaching the back of my tongue, their saliva, their hands between my legs, on my cock, fingers pulling the head free - and my heart jumping out of my chest. It was some kind of damn bipolarity. I wanted both the love like at the end of Amélie and all that debauchery. And that"s how it would be for the rest of my life.

Kozlov left me that tape forever.

In the second half of August there was a manifestation of meetings with my mother"s brother Valera and his two sons - Pasha and Dima, Dima being of conscription age. Mom and I went to Grandma Klava"s where they now hung out abundantly. Valera, as I said, was periodically there with his wife and their child, and we walked to the square through the summer‑exhausted heat of Engels and, it seems, also to the concrete descent, late in the evening. I suffered from allergies, as always. But maybe the concrete descent was again with Mom"s classmate, or maybe everyone together - in the memories there were many people. But no one my age - I was always by myself. I endlessly lifted and lifted my hair.

And then Valera, actively working, as I told, in a cosmetics sect like Oriflame, invited everyone who wanted to go on a trip to a recreation base organized by that sect. Mom invited Aunt Katya with us, the same one we had gone south with a year earlier. It all began early in the morning in Saratov, at Chernyshevsky and Moskovskaya streets. Everyone gathered, and we walked down through Museum Square to the embankment. Dima, modest and a music lover, carried his boombox on his shoulder.

At the embankment we had to get on a boat that took people to recreation bases on the islands and, as I understood, simply to dachas that some Saratov residents also had on the islands. We had to wait, and we went into the grocery store at the corner of the Stalin‑era building below the museum. And then they took us.

We arrived at Green Island, three kilometers up the Volga. It was a mosquito, frog and fishing story. The guest houses stood on stilts. Mom, Aunt Katya and I settled into one for three people. I took a fishing rod but fished little. There was no one my age there, so I stayed with Mom and Aunt Katya.

Soon the three of us went to the beach on the western side facing Saratov. There was a strong current, and especially so close to autumn, so we barely swam. The whole day we lay on a pontoon with wooden planks and sunbathed. As always, I read something. In the evening, in the darkness, they lit a big bonfire, and I walked back and forth from our cabin, eating some sausages roasted over the fire. That was my only experience in life of sitting around a campfire in the forest where people sit with a guitar and all that. And I also remember there was some kind of sectarian theme there, which Mom treated as nonsense and advised not to get into. We spent the night in that cabin, and the entire next day again stayed on the pontoon until evening. Then they took us back.

On the boat back there were people returning to the city from those island dachas, and there was my former classmate Belyakov from the gymnasium, who had left long ago.

That was the last time I saw Aunt Katya, and nothing more is known about her.

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Part 47 text 7. Back-flip depression,,, the world gymnastics championship and about gymnasts,,, to the stadium,,, all athlete,,, to the sports ground in the yard of School Thirty‑Three,,, City Day on the square.

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Almost the entire rest of August I spent doing the same things as before - so there isn"t much to remember. Endless, already automatic collecting of empty bottles from under the feet of summer strangers to the same songs of Russian pop.

Two or three times Mom and I went to Aunt Lena"s workplace at School Thirty‑Three very late in the evenings, maybe even at night. While they sat in the guard"s room on the first floor, I went outside into the yard, where there was a football field and a running track around it, and carried out running standards I had set for myself. I really wore myself out, running ten kilometers or more every evening. And then dying of dehydration.

Over the summer I had already mastered my incorrect back handspring enough that I at least didn"t land directly on my head as in the first months, and started doing it on just one layer of pillows. I didn"t want to accept that what I was doing wasn"t a back handspring but a disgraceful mess. I convinced myself I had mastered the element and filmed video tutorials on how to do it as if I were a master of it. For a professional look I put on my sports glassy pants with suspenders over my shoulders in the summer heat and sweated, doing it again and again for hours until I lay there exhausted and dying.

The tape has wrong dates - where it says October 2003 it is actually August 2003, which is clear from the October date written over recordings of the August world championship.

My wrists hurt more and more. I could have done the back handspring correctly and then just lie down and, as they say now, chill in front of the TV with porn, taking off my underwear and stroking my abs and cock, imagining myself with my beloved. But no - it didn"t work month after month, I didn"t push off my hands with any kind of snap, nothing, and I simply tortured my bandaged wrists. From exhaustion and shaking my head hurt, from the window I saw Serebryakova"s window - to whom I was completely unnecessary - and I was basically in hell of dissatisfaction with myself and life.

In the last days of August there was the World Championship in artistic gymnastics. That was what I recorded onto my childhood tape by filming the TV with the camera. I sat in the living room, sometimes my parents were nearby, and I even comment there on their (probably Mom"s) somewhat disrespectful attitude toward gymnastics with the words: "Could you do that?"

There was some Romanian gymnast with blond‑dyed bangs who impressed me, but he fell off the horizontal bar. There was various other nonsense. And there was this gymnast Elena Zamolodchikova - with hair pulled back into a bun and a short fringe in front. In the youth spent before VKontakte I would very often fall for girls like that - one of whom would be the main Dasha (though Dasha had no fringe). And her face strongly resembled Mom"s former classmate Semyonova from Revolutionary Street from my early childhood, and also her daughter Yana. That was already a familiar very Russian type of female appearance - very classical. The most standard, the most correct. Appearances like Audrey Tautou"s, like Lidushka"s - that was already exotic. I suffered a lot watching this gymnast, this girl, doing all those things.

There was also Svetlana Khorkina. She seemed like a tower - maybe the commentators said that for some reason - but now I looked it up and the internet says she was one hundred sixty‑five centimeters tall. But back then, seeming like a tower to me, she was the most comforting gymnast for me, giving hope that with my sticks I might also manage something.

In the last days of summer - all athlete - I went to the Engels stadium, where it was roughly what I imagined when I animated that stadium in my imagination. It was evening, and there were people everywhere - on every field someone was playing football or volleyball. I went inside the stadium itself and ran in circles like some other people.

And I can"t understand when - during the summer or already in autumn - but one day I met Artyom, and after my solo reconnaissance we went to the stadium territory with him in the evening. We climbed onto the tall tower that was there - but not high, only timidly to maybe the level of three floors, though the whole structure was like a ten‑story building. That tower would stay in my thoughts when next year I began thinking about suicide.

Days of sports obsession - Mom and I also went simply to the yard of School Thirty‑Three at the end of some day, without visiting Aunt Lena. Behind the fence along Lenin Street near building 108 there were iron parallel bars of a width acceptable for me, and I did dips there, did that press‑to‑handstand mount and other things to attract attention.

On the main football field grown guys were playing football; on the basketball court beside me they were playing basketball; and on the benches where Mom was waiting for me there were just groups of teenagers sitting. Those bench‑sitters - for doing nothing, striving for nothing, laughing with their breaking voices - I considered trash. But there were some girls among them, and that pissed me off.

Mom and I again brought a football with us, and I juggled it there, and before leaving I even played with it on the basketball court with some harmless boys. In the air there was the smell of bonfires from the private sector toward the setting sun, and on the other side there was that nine‑story panel building and behind it a whole district of such houses, from which, in my imagination, all those football boys came - probably named Denises and Stases and other bold names - whose youth included console games, jumps from the Pier of the Brave, a music player with nineties music, Detsl, Freestyler.

On the penultimate day of summer there was City Day. There was bustle everywhere - in the streets in the center and at our home. In the evening we were planning to meet Uncle Valera and his family to walk around. On these City Days and other holidays, every year, it seemed to me more and more people came to the center. It was impossible to move anywhere. People sat everywhere drinking beer with crackers - on curbs, on any ledge. For children - ice cream and various glowing sticks which we never bought because we didn"t waste money.

During the day on the square the crowd parted and there was karting there, and among the spectators we met Bakulin with his acquaintances and watched near the stands. Later Mom went home and I stayed and for some time walked along the alley with benches near the stands collecting bottles. There were so many that that one place was enough. I was also constantly looking for money and other valuables. I found some metal lighter there that day. Toward evening I returned home.

On those City Days some famous performer often came to the main stage on the square, but usually I didn"t know them - they were stars of the previous generation. I learned now that that summer, that day, Alexander Barykin performed there - a well‑known musician of the late USSR. One day I would have a very distant but real connection to him.

In the evening Mom and I - apparently without my father - met Valera and the others. It was already dark, and while the concert was going on we walked through the crowds around the square and to the embankment. Near the Stella we bought shashlik - either in the karaoke café or in the café near the entrance to the bakery plant territory. There were no free benches, and we sat on the lawn facing the bakery plant, where fir trees grew under which I no longer hid bottles. Probably we talked about Dima"s upcoming departure to the army.

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___Part 48.

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________________ Autumn 2003. I started sixth grade.

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Part 48 text 1. First lesson and girls talking about dicks,,, apartment hunting and my father"s phobias,,, alone with mom and Lev‑Kassil‑style misery,,, the beginning of teas and Anakom noodles,,, cassette rentals,,, childish swinging of my dick,,, the film Brother.

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Back to the gymnasium, second shift again.

I think I remember the first lesson. It was a history class. The teacher was absent for half of it, and the girls sitting next to my desk were telling each other a riddle‑joke.

"Schwarzenegger has it big, Jackie Chan has it small, and the Pope doesn"t have it at all."

That"s how it sounded, or at least that"s how I heard it. By the way, I didn"t even know yet who the Pope was - I"d only heard the phrase before. One of the girls gave the answer: "last name," and they all giggled.

Because of the incorrect part about the Pope, I had to guess what they might have meant and what they were laughing at. And when I concluded that they must have been implying a penis, I fell into sex‑phobic torment - had they really already seen penises too, and for them sex was something funny rather than something agonizing?

I don"t remember any changes in the students or teachers. By then school life didn"t interest me anymore.

One day in those first days - either before lessons or maybe just on a weekend - there was a sunny afternoon, and my mom, dad, and I went for the first time to look at apartments for sale in Saratov.

Moskovskaya Street, building twenty‑four. We went into the courtyard, climbed a wooden staircase, and there, in one of those harsh SZhF houses, there was some kind of place - either a communal apartment or a tiny private one, but still with a shared toilet. Basically the kind of thing my mom could afford, and not long before that in Saratov she could only afford a garage.

A realtor was with us and all that. By then I had also started carrying around the classifieds newspaper and was beginning to understand the jargon, the terms, the abbreviations.

From there we crossed the street and went to look at something else in another courtyard, but I didn"t go in there. I stayed outside next to one of those small thick advertising columns with a little roof - they stood all over Saratov in those years, especially along Moskovskaya, covered with posters for concerts and things.

My father, just like during all the apartment viewings he would attend later, was breathing heavily. He was against this kind of housing in general - the whole idea of apartments and cramped living repulsed him. And in those SZhF houses, according to his stereotypes, life must also have been filled with endless marginal situations involving the kind of people who lived there.

Although, for example, the Guzhikov family lived in exactly that sort of housing.

Mom and Dad also went to look at places without me during those days, but it was all in the same spirit.

My father started spending more nights in Zavodskoy. And then, by long‑standing tradition, once the gray weather, the rains, and the kalina‑and‑rowan homework evenings between me and my mom began, he settled there again. I moved into my mom"s bed with my pillow and blanket.

In the evenings there were idylls, but during the day before school and on weekends it was pure Lev‑Kassil‑style misery. By then I was a complete failing student and studied only under the threat of being beaten.

Around that time there was also a situation involving electricity - the electricity theft through the radiator.

Mom and I were in the apartment, and she was very nervous, hovering around that place where the wire ran from the outlet to the radiator. She didn"t explain anything to me, but I understood that someone might come - some kind of inspector.

Then the doorbell rang.

She panicked and rushed to tear the wire off. But it was metal - not just a thread you can rip. She nearly cut her palms trying to pull it off.

Then we let someone in, and I don"t remember what happened after that, but everything turned out fine. And afterward that setup kept working for some time during the remainder of our life in that apartment. We had less than three years left there anyway.

After gymnasium, in those still dry and sunny but already cool days, Mom and I would stroll slowly through Saratov, going into all kinds of stores.

Sports stores, where I hoped to see something related to artistic gymnastics - maybe mats - but there was nothing. Then bookstores, cassette stores, and now even tea shops.

A large tea shop opened on Kirov Avenue, number thirteen. An entire hall of tea. You could buy it by weight. We bought green tea with strawberry and also hibiscus.

For me all of this was new. I had barely ever drunk green tea before. For a while I became really fascinated with these teas.

Then one day, as usual, I was extremely hungry after school. Back in Engels, not far from our yard, in the Khrushchev‑era building where Sasha Yemelyanov used to live, there was that old grocery store. We went in and dared to buy Anakom - the instant noodles that had once almost made me vomit on the train to Anapa.

At home we had a clay pot with a lid, and we brewed it there. The smell seemed similar to the one on the train. But the nauseating element wasn"t there.

What I didn"t understand back then was something I later explained, as an adult, in the section about that trip south. Back then the vomiting came from the smell of maggot waste products that must have been floating in the train air and mixing with the smell of the noodles. Years later, when I once managed to breed maggots in some trash of my own - completely unrelated to noodles - I instantly recognized the smell from the train.

Anyway, I suddenly discovered that I liked Anakom. I started loving it. Mom began buying me two packs at a time, and I would add different spices. It became a whole idyll - sitting in the kitchen and eating those noodles. I also liked the fact that they were so cheap.

Around the same time the main component of our idylls appeared - the wafer‑chocolate cake "Prichuda." I even used it in my diaries as a general name for those moments.

Basically, "idylls with Mom" meant moments when no homework was being done - usually closer to bedtime, when everything had either been finished or postponed until morning - and we had an atmosphere free from stress or reasons to argue. Anakom noodles, then Prichuda cake with tea, watching TV, and then falling asleep in the same bed, joking and chatting for a long time.

Getting off the bus from Saratov at the stop on Gorky and Lev Kassil streets, we sometimes stopped at a tiny grocery store at Gorky 26. They also rented videotapes there, and by then they were very cheap.

At that time, desperately looking for forms of escapism against a growing depression, I discovered modern children"s films with cool computer animation. Cats & Dogs. Stuart Little - we even extended the rental for a couple of days because I became so fascinated with the idea of shrinking into a little mouse, crawling into a toy house, and wanting nothing else.

Then I took a risk and we rented an even more computer‑made film - a fully animated one with proportions I didn"t like - Finding Nemo. But even that worked for me, as long as it wasn"t the real world.

And that same autumn, I think, as a kind of unfinished business, I watched vampire action movies - Blade, Dracula 2000 with the scene where someone"s head is cut off with pruning shears, and something else too.

Sometimes Mom and I would also play a CD with lively flamenco compositions by the guitarist Armik. One time I had just come out of the bath and was still naked, and to make us laugh I danced to the music. Then I imitated a movement that hooligan boys at the playground had used that summer to imitate fucking.

The movement looked like cross‑country skiing - pushing with both hands - except the boys also thrust their stomachs forward hard.

I had no idea how that related to sex. On the porn cassette the movements were nothing like that. But it looked funny and made Mom laugh at certain moments in the music.

She even asked, "What does that mean?"

Soon I realized that what amused her in general were dances and movements where my little dick was flopping around, so sometimes after baths I would deliberately swing it around in different ways - and she would crack up.

I didn"t have any hair yet, and at those moments it was naturally the tiniest little sprout anyway. And the whole thing was childish nonsense - even that movement was the opposite of sexuality - so there was none of that "NKTSM problem."

One day sometime after September twentieth, in the corridor on the first floor of the gymnasium, Zemskov asked someone:

"Have you guys watched Brother Two yet?"

Apparently they were showing the films with Sergei Bodrov around those days, marking the anniversary of his death. It was time for me to watch those Brother films - all the boys were already talking about them, especially the tougher types like Zemskov.

So in those days I watched them too.

Naturally I immediately shriveled up inside. I was nothing like Bagrov - not even like Bodrov himself - and I knew I never would be.

But the atmosphere of the first film - that whole November‑ness, Petersburg‑ness, nineties‑ness - it was done perfectly and for the rest of my life became the reference point for that whole aesthetic. And there were those rock shops too.

.:::.

Part 48 text 2. Morning gymnastics,,, bus rides to the gymnasium and stress‑jerking,,, collecting money,,, the House of Books,,, Goosebumps and the incident.

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I went to gymnastics at the stadium in the mornings, taking minibuses, around nine o"clock. Then I came back, like in the summer, walking quickly along Nesterov Street.

I don"t remember exactly whether it happened last school year, meaning in the afternoon, or now this year in the morning, but basically once before training I shit my pants.

Sometimes we boys would wait for the coach outside the locked gym doors, and I was standing there on the staircase by the window and farted - and it came out liquid. I think I was still alone there at the time, so there was no embarrassment. I went to wash up in the bathroom.

I remember absolutely nothing from the gym hall from that autumn - the main memories of sports will come later, from the gym room in our apartment.

I went to the gymnasium alone, just like in the second half of last school year. Everything was as usual: from the stop by the eleventh school on the main route, bus 284. Since it was midday, the bus wasn"t crowded. The sun was usually shining. In theory, there was no reason for stress like with the minibuses - there was no problem paying the fare: a conductor walked through the bus, or you could exit through the front door, hand the fare to the driver, and step out, and the bus stopped at every stop.

But somehow I still felt that twisting ache under my sternum - even here. Whenever we had to exit through the front, and I usually had to make my way from the back - because the seats you got when boarding were always in the back, and anyway I liked sitting back there - closer to my stop on Radishcheva, I"d start thinking: "What if I don"t make it in time and miss the stop?" And the ache would start again under my sternum.

Actually, it hit me even when I just had to get off. Eventually, I got carried away with my old faithful self‑torment - squeezing my legs - because the ache was still there. I"d start masturbating like that, I mean with the squeezing, right before getting off, for about twenty or even fifteen seconds. No one around had any idea I was jerking off, that something was aching everywhere. And I had to finish in that short time - or I"d miss the stop.

Because of that nervous tension, and also because I rarely masturbated when sleeping with Mom or being home alone due to the second shift, I could usually finish in time, sometimes even in ten seconds. But there were situations where something interrupted me, and continuing was impossible - and then I"d get off the bus with a hard, unsatisfied edge, and it was lucky if I could jerk off later in class. In worse cases, I carried that unsatisfaction around for ages.

I barely studied at all anymore, and I hardly had any topics or companionship with Guzhik like before. We still walked the corridors together and competed at something, but all without enthusiasm.

I was constantly picking up coins - it gave me a huge dopamine rush. It started at the Engels stop, where there was a stall with trinkets and another with cigarettes, and underneath there could be some coins - sometimes even rubles. I"d grab tens of kopeks, fives. Then I"d walk down the bus aisle before getting off and look everywhere - one reason I liked sitting at the back. If I fished a ruble or two out of some crack or dirt, or very rarely five, I felt like the happiest person alive. A couple of times that fall, when I handed coins to the driver, he waved me off - and I got off with four rubles saved, rejoicing again.

Near the Engels stop, just off to the side of the eleventh school, in the building at Telmana 3B, in a glass extension half on the street, there were locked-up bicycles - among them the one I was saving for. I"d stand staring at it for five minutes at a time - and with every ruble, it seemed closer.

I got to the gymnasium alone, but still went back with Mom. It was still September, warm days. We went to the main bookstore on Volskaya, and there was a book on sports gymnastics. It was for coaches - full of arrows, degrees, flight trajectories, and all sorts of bar transitions. Not cheap, but we bought it right away. Meanwhile, we kept browsing.

Of course, what I most wanted in that store was to get to the shelves with Kamasutra and erotic books, but there was nothing I could do, so I wandered past the others. Harry Potter no longer interested me, but there were huge shelves with equally beautiful covers, even more beautiful - dragons, various Conans. Everywhere there was some Yuri Nikitin, some of his Hyperboreas. I"d skim, open the books, see walls of text, realise I couldn"t get through them, and close them.

Then, by the shelf with more children"s books, I suddenly saw something familiar. Books from the kids" horror series Shivers, which aired on TV during the early months of Katya Ilyina"s third grade. The font was bigger, there was less text, the stories moved faster, and I realised I could handle it. But buying fiction books that you read once and then don"t need - that was unwise, so I decided to come here before school.

I started leaving an hour earlier, getting off in Saratov, walking there, and standing around for an hour. I knew it wasn"t tactful, just like lingering in a café after finishing your food. But after a couple of tries, I got used to the audacity and stood there without shame.

And then - that"s when it happened. A situation, if you remember, like in the Black Chicken episode, where the super‑shy kid finally got bold - and immediately got punched, unlike the always‑bold bastards who got away with everything. I"d say it was very much like me. Here"s a clear example of such crap.

On probably my third visit to that store, there I was, standing, reading - for an hour by now - when a woman, a sales assistant, came up: "Are you going to buy it? You can"t just read here."

I left with shivers - not the book, but from shame - and never went in like that again.

.:::.

Part 48 Text 3. Murka to the Vet,,, Lonely Granny Klava on Frunze,,, Firetruck Accident on the Bridge,,, Music and Autumn 2003 Hits,,, MTV,,, Beginning of DVD.

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Murka had something wrong with her ears and on her anaconda-like bald patches - some spots, some germs. Apparently, it was from the rough handling she"d gotten over at Frunze in the summer. On a dry, grey day, Mom and I took her to a veterinary clinic behind the collective farm market, closer to the Engels train station. There were not only private houses but also barracks with several apartments, all in that brutal Engels squalor. The clinic was in an old wooden house; I waited in some kind of entryway while Mom carried her in. Later she told me that the vet looked under a microscope - and there were millions of some kind of mites. They stuffed Murka into a denim jacket sleeve and smeared her ears with something. Soon everything cleared up, but inside her ears there were spots where hair never grew back, and the very tips of her ears, where her squirrel-like tufts were, became a little eaten through.

Mom and I went to see Baba, and it really was just "to Baba." For her, it was a very bleak time. She was almost always alone. Approaching the house in the evening, there was no light, only dim flickers on the ceiling from the TV. You"d go inside, and, only after a half-shout in response, Baba would stumble out from behind the fridge after about thirty seconds, swaying. More often, she simply lay in the middle-room bed, sick. At happier moments, Mom and I had nicknamed that bed the plank. Back at the gymnasium, all the kids in my class had received collections of Pushkin"s works, and in The Wise Oleg, there was this word. It described the way Baba lay on that bed: on her back, hands folded on her chest, like a corpse. For Mom, this had been a source of ironic sorrow since ancient times. She"d known Baba far longer, and she said that the headaches and kidney stones Baba constantly complained about had been with her all her life, bothering everyone. But I still felt sorry for Baba, and around this time I came up with the phrase, "poor Baba, drying up", which I sometimes said with Mom. For me, it was the reverse - tears through irony. Later, in those grandfatherless times, though it was typical for her - with her hyper-weepiness - what really stuck with me was Baba"s monologue-complaint about how bad it was being there alone. Mom would stay silent at such stories, and later, sometimes when talking to me, she might, almost to herself, note that it wasn"t without reason that Grandpa had moved out. Sometimes she would say: "I wish someone would feel sorry for me." That"s how they spent their whole lives, getting worked up over this.

On October 9th, there was a loud accident on the Saratov bridge. The bridge had three lanes: the two outer lanes went both ways, and the middle lane was open according to some unclear rule. Often, when we rode with Uncle Seryozha, they let him use it - and we"d speed past a three-kilometre traffic jam. But primarily, that lane was meant for important vehicles, like fire trucks. So there was a fire truck coming, but at the same time, some cars were allowed onto that lane from the other side, following the same unclear rule. A passenger car came head-on at the fire truck. Apparently, nobody wanted to give way for a long time, and in the end, the fire truck swerved to the side - and flew off the bridge into the water near the beach in the middle of the Volga. Two firefighters died. After that, there were grey days: you"d drive across the bridge, see the gap in the railing with wreaths next to it, and constantly think that they"re no longer alive, and someday, you won"t be either. And why is it all? At least you should live satisfactorily. But even that wasn"t there.

In October, I was probably sick again, or just had a series of exams for my chronic, incurable nonsense, so I often didn"t go to school. Mornings - stress and white coats, then a whole day of Lev Kassil-style reading, alone at home, and endless humiliating attempts at acrobatics to Radio Maximum.

The song Bitter End was initially played infrequently, and over time - even less. By this point, I had heard it about fifteen times. The heavy sound, still produced somehow on an unknown instrument, fascinated me so much that if I"d been given an electric guitar plugged into distortion, I would probably have quit gymnastics for a few days.

Other heavy bands played that fall, too. There was Linkin Park with their hit. It seemed like a perfect song, emotionally super-connected to my depressive end of childhood. But it didn"t evoke the same sense of myself in it. It wasn"t even about the vocals, because I imagined the singer of Placebo in that song - still not mine. Apparently, in Bitter End, there were just two depressive-desperate chords. And what I was, implied a kind of primitive sadness. Other melodic features also influenced me, though explaining them in standard musical terms would be pointless here - I can only describe them in the funny way I explained some melodies in my early biography.

Every cassette stall had Metallica"s album with the fist on the cover - that"s how I first discovered the band. Their songs were never played anywhere, so I wouldn"t recognize them until 2006.

Where else could songs or music play? On MTV. But almost all the time it was boring stuff like Meladze, Savicheva, or Madonna with her Hollywood. Around that time, Madonna and Britney Spears released the Me Against the Music video, with a very sexual Britney and an overall lesbian hint. I... masturbated.

A few times I had probably seen snippets of a couple other bands that matched my melodic-heavy taste, but I"ll talk about them later.

On MTV, there were shows - hit-parades with voting for songs. Voting was by SMS. A similar system was already used on some channel for political debates, where Zhirik appeared (by the way, he had little support, and people mocked him). So came the era of mobile phones. Back then, it was still rare. Phones were mainly in business cities or among advanced adults, in circles I didn"t belong to. But the next year, that cursed crap would suddenly appear everywhere.

And the era of DVD discs was already starting.

.:::.

Part 48 Text 4. Backflips,,, Downstairs Neighbor and the "Other People" Theme,,, Alik and Necrophobia,,, Valera"s Wife Marina with Her Lover Staying Overnight.

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In my home acrobatics, I was then trying to do backflips from a standing position. I have a video, and even now, watching it, I remember that amazing feeling from those few attempts - including the one for the cassette camera - of how many backflips I managed in all my gymnastics practice.

From a single cushion - which gave almost no spring - and landing on just one layer of cushions, almost like the hard floor, I managed to land a backflip on straight legs and even slightly over-rotated backwards, making me recoil. That was awesome. Immediately after that, I landed on all fours a second time - and I had landed on all fours a thousand times, even pushing off from three cushions. Only in the gym, from a high block, could I land on my feet - anyone could do that. Standing backflips never really worked for me. But the fail in them at least didn"t lead to despair, unlike the flop. For a backflip, it was necessary just to keep training push-off strength and faster rotation. I didn"t really understand the flop, how to do it like everyone else. I didn"t do it at all, just something else.

One cloudy evening, I did my "fuck-flop" for so long that I annoyed Mom with the noise, and my Radio Maximum had been playing for hours. But she tolerated it, and the neighbours didn"t bang on the radiators either. Suddenly, someone rang the doorbell. Mom opened. I froze in the hall while she spoke. Then she called me over, and I endured the woman"s lecture in hellish discomfort - about children needing naps, and so on. The discomfort was that she was scolding me in front of Mom. Without Mom - I wouldn"t care. The discomfort wasn"t that Mom would be angry - she wasn"t, she could tolerate my jumps and thuds. Mom was more against that woman, though she nodded along. The discomfort was that Mom could do nothing to help me in this situation. The same theme as being powerless before the army drafting me - I wasn"t hers, but the system"s. Later, the same theme would appear in psychiatric times. And it wasn"t that I, a super-capricious child, oblivious to reality, wanted her to help and rescue me in every situation. It was that, empathically, standing in her place, I saw she was upset that she couldn"t save me - that beyond a certain boundary, she lost control over me, and I became the property of other people. Essentially, it"s the theme of my dead-end, usually in the context of not meeting girls. But closer to the end of my childhood biography, when the psychiatric times come, I"ll use the same concept for other situations where Mom loses me.

In short, the wild apartment acrobatics would taper off from this month - roughly the second half of October.

Occasionally, Mom looked at apartments in Saratov to buy, for my gymnasium. Mostly she looked with someone - Dad, or maybe even Uncle Seryozha, because she didn"t understand technical or repair matters. But she also knew a guy named Alik, connected to architecture or her polytechnic studies, also known to Uncle Seryozha. He specialised in renovations, had his own crew, and Mom often mentioned him when talking about repairs. She viewed one apartment with him, and they were told a corpse had been in it. Mom - like me, a necrophobe - remembered that moment and what Alik told her. He said: "We"ll disinfect everything here, but I"d still recommend buying an apartment like this." That story and situation lodged permanently in my memory. I"ll recall it later in the narrative.

Dad came to visit, but mostly it was just Mom and me. One evening, after school, normal, without Kalin-Ryabin chaos. Around nine o"clock, the intercom rang, and sudden guests came in. It was the first wife of Mom"s brother Valera - Marina. With her was a younger man, younger than her - and judging by how adult I considered even young people, he was no older than thirty. She was around thirty-seven, working as a clothing vendor at the market, in the very pit of the market, with hardened street traders standing in the cold, with hoarse voices, smoking, drinking tea from plastic cups, dropping five-ruble coins into a game machine at the end of the day. That was her. I thought maybe there was some problem - like the guy had nowhere to sleep, and Marina was vouching for him and would spend the night with him. Mom couldn"t refuse, so she sent me to sleep in the small room, lay down in the hall herself, and they took the double bed still in the middle room. A real mess - I didn"t want to sleep and was outraged at having to go to bed so early, especially with no reason to get up early the next morning. But somehow I fell asleep.

In the morning, the guy was gone, and Marina, like at home, stood at the mirror curling her hair. Later that evening, they came back the same way. But this time, Mom could refuse - and they left.

The next day, Dad was over, and Mom told him everything. In his reactive manner, he started scolding her. I also started complaining that she sent me to bed. He scolded her for that too. Then she almost cried and said: "How am I supposed to tell him they went to fuck?" He said: "Why did you even let them in? Just make up some virtual man." Some words I"d never heard before, like virtual, and I remembered the game Virtual Skipper. Dad said: "Yeah."

Anyway, it"s the theme of Mom always helping everyone, never able to refuse - "and why doesn"t anyone ever help me?" she always added. Almost her entire circle of people were the bottom feeders, whom she couldn"t help: half-ruined buildings, cleaning ladies, market vendors, single moms, moms of children with delays, moms borrowing money and never paying back. She didn"t deal with normal families, except in one instance, a one-time visit soon, like to the Kiskins.


.:::.

Part 48, Text 5. At home by the TV... show about a girl erotic model... "Fear Factor" - way too much... depressing in class... already an outsider... making Korolyov laugh... crazy Tanya Petrovskaya... grandpa at Frunze and the movie Cast Away.

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Once again, it was mostly just me and my mom, and the whole Lev Kassil vibe. Little sun, second shift, lots of evenings in life. No contact with any Artyoms or Kozlovs since summer. On some sunny weekend, I was again playing with a sunbeam from the window, bouncing it off a mirror onto the girls in the yard. In the living room - neatly arranged cushions in two layers, dumbbell lifting, and MTV with sexualised ads for all sorts of razors with gorgeous girls, Durex condom commercials, bedroom scenes in every second, and girls in every first music video.

In the evening, when homework allowed freedom, I"d sit on my cushions-mats in the middle of the living room, which I no longer even bother putting away, watching shows. Profession - Reporter on NTV. An episode about prostitutes on the roadside - how volunteers bring them condoms and do HIV tests in the field, how the cops pick them up, and then they"re back again. Another episode - about girl models in clothing, but with a sexual twist. The face of the girl giving the interview isn"t shown. She"s like me. She talks about how the photographer pays well, the parents know - he basically pays them - and she spends the money "on Pokémon and Teletubbies." From the image of this calm girl with pocket money to spare, I remembered Sima. And Teletubbies - by the way, it was this weird kids" stuff back in my first grade, unpleasant. I watched it maybe three times - they ran through green meadows, it seemed, under an always-grey sky, which perfectly matched my first grade.

There was also the new show that started that autumn, Fear Factor. Like Fort Boyard, only with harsher trials. In one episode, participants had to eat raw bull brains. Someone threw up, but they didn"t show it. He didn"t even look horrified - unlike me when I vomit. I knew with my neuroses and phobias I"d soil myself and be kicked out at the first trial. My limit of risk was Last Hero - full of overprotectiveness at the First Channel level, state-level. Anything slightly more informal or extreme, and I"d have already lost it. That"s why I"m in no informal groups - I couldn"t fit in anywhere with my neuroses, sensitivity, and all that. The level of cruelty rises every year - from age ten, the world had already become not for me.

One day around that time, my father picked me up from gymnasium. Stuck in long traffic jams in icy Volgas 280 with work crews returning to Engels, he kept telling life stories. He told how in the army, somewhere in Tajikistan, or wherever he was, some guy couldn"t handle it and deserted with a rifle. An alert was raised, they searched every house in the nearest village. Meanwhile, he sat in the mountains and cried.

At school, the atmosphere was oppressive. Tests, failing grades, which meant yelling and beatings from my mom at home. Around then, Valentina Yuryevna, our nervous homeroom teacher, gave Masha Ermakova a three - and she cried. Another time Valentina Yuryevna snapped and told someone to leave the classroom, maybe Makarov. She said: "Do I repeat in English?" Someone said: "Yes." - "Go away." Whole class: "Wow." That shows the level of English among classmates and whether I had reason to think, knowing no English at all, that I lagged behind. There was no reason. From what I saw, nobody really knew English, except the top students who knew the rules.

In biology, one lesson had microscopes - we looked at onion pieces. What we saw through those simple microscopes, I could basically see with the naked eye.

Once Arik asked about my squirrel. I didn"t even get what he meant at first. He thought it was still alive. I told him it was long gone. Then one day Arik opened his backpack to show me - and in the little slots meant for pens, there were cigarettes. He said he smoked them with someone outside of class in the school"s back yard. That was outrageous for the whole disciplined vibe I associated with gymnasium. Cigarettes were like drugs, especially there.

I was already utterly bored in this gymnasium, no interesting topics with companions. With Guzhik, I was no closer than with any other classmate.

And I had no interesting topics with others because I was out of trends. Lord of the Rings had been out for almost two years, and I had no clue, and the covers didn"t interest me at all. The Matrix was long gone. I didn"t get it, as I"ve said. The boys had computer games at home. A few classmates had mobile phones, and everyone crowded around them. All I could do was keep joking about whatever I could. For example, before a tech lesson, everyone discussed The Matrix - that year it was The Matrix: Reloaded. Someone joked, replacing "Reloaded" with some other computer key"s name. Korolyov laughed the loudest, and I always enjoyed his loud laughter. I"d been revisiting the psychological trauma of a joke he made long ago, which everyone laughed at and I didn"t understand. Now, in tech class, he sat behind me, and I repeatedly turned and said "Matrix" with the names of all other keyboard keys I could recall - and he laughed every time. That was all I could offer. Otherwise, I was done for.

After class, waiting for my mom, I was standing near the fence in the yard, and Tanya Petrovskaya - that strange classmate, like the female counterpart of quirky Evstifeev, with unpredictable, eccentric behaviour - was also waiting. And at that moment, she went a little wild. We talked first, then she started swinging her bag with her change of shoes - first just in the air, then hitting me. There seemed to be bricks in it, and it hurt, but she didn"t even seem to realise. I thought: "This is serious. If she doesn"t understand such things, how can you relate to her, handle anything serious with her?"

In the future, despite her bipolar disorder and issues with drugs, she would still be a classmate of my main Dasha - an English linguist with a solid income, no poor marginalisation. Evstifeev would become a programmer, everything fine. Only empathetic, modest Nikita Kapernau would sit and type all this on cardboard boxes.

This just shows the stereotype I had back then: if I ended up in a crappy life as an adult, all these quirks, almost the freaks of my class as I saw them, would have even worse lives.

At some point in late November, Grandpa appeared at Frunze. Mom told me. We went there in the daytime, entered the house, and he, as usual, emerged from behind the fridge in the living room. With almost black hair and wrinkles across his forehead, he was like Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind, only he had always walked slowly - full of arthritis and taking painkillers. He gave me something. But he wasn"t back for good, he"d leave again later.

On 23 November, late evening, Channel One showed Cast Away with Tom Hanks. Mom and I were at Grandpa"s, and we watched it with him - which was a nostalgic déjà vu, because we had once sat the same way on that sofa watching The Blue Lagoon and Return to the Blue Lagoon, from the same genre. Grandpa had this funny habit of saying "uh-huh" when someone did something smart on TV. In Cast Away, there was plenty to "uh-huh" about - Tom Hanks improvising, making all sorts of Robinson-style contraptions. I remembered the film and how we watched it, and that"s why I would want to watch it again later.

.:::.

___Part 49.

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Part 49, Text 1. Visiting Aunt Marina... Lyonya... playing The Sims... Kill Bill... Gladiator... dry Decembers from that year... mom yelled and went mute... neighbour Natasha... father intervened.

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Mom had three classmates she kept in touch with from school - Bondarenko, Semyonova, and Aunt Marina (a different one, not to be confused with the previous).

Bondarenko - short-haired single woman, worked as a minor clerk in a government organisation like a pension fund near our Lev Kassil, interested mainly in classical music and Peter the Great. Semyonova - the aunt from my early biography, living near the stadium in a dilapidated house with a girl named Yana. But even these weren"t entirely normal: for instance, this Semyonova, or at least Mom"s acquaintance, had a story with a coffin bought in advance and stored in the attic. Not quite normal. The only normal one among the three, even though she had a maniacal brother wandering mental hospitals, was the third - Aunt Marina.

Marina had a daughter, Olya, maybe a year older than me. I"d seen her three times in early childhood. She also appeared at Frunze when they lifted my rabbit by the ears, the one the dog killed on the first day. I saw Marina periodically when bored, going with Mom to the pension fund where Marina worked. Blonde, blue-eyed, not downtrodden or tearful like my mom, so she seemed at her place at work. She invited us over.

In the southern outskirts of Engels, there"s a Khrushchyovka area on Budochnaya Street - I"d never been there before or after - that"s where their apartment was. It was late November, first snow. We arrived closer to evening.

Marina had a husband, Lyonya, probably short for Leonid. He was from those fair-skinned, same Mordovian-type people as us - balding and lively. When we entered, he fussed around us; Marina called him, and he took Mom"s coat off, replying to his wife: "Wait, I need to undress the guest. At least partially." He seemed to work selling discs, so they had discs of all kinds - games to DVDs.

Their daughter wasn"t home yet, but they showed me to the computer room, where I could play while they sat in the kitchen. There was The Sims. Mom approved - it fit her architectural sensibilities. And I even more so: this Sims solved the problem I"d mentioned in early biography with Child World and Ken doll episodes. Here, these third parties finally lived themselves.

Olya arrived later. She sat with me at the computer for a while. I didn"t really remember her, but given her parents" looks and previous memories, she was the type of girl-woman like gymnast Zamolodchikova. They all blurred together - Olya, Semyonova, Yana - tied to early childhood, gymnastics, Engels stadium. They shared something in their facial features. Memories of all of them reminded me of one of my favourite erotic models - Lili-Ana Alexander, from Canada. Felt like she came straight from Engels.

Olya left, and Lyonya came into the room, suggesting a movie - Kill Bill. It had just come out; the yellow-black cover was everywhere, and everyone talked about it. I sat, watching alone. The obvious blood-fountain humour at dismembered limbs - same as in GTA - was hard for me to watch due to my intolerance of blood pulsing and pressure. But the worst, lifelong memorable scene was the cartoonish one with the heroine hiding under the bed as a child and someone close to her getting killed through a mattress with a sword.

After Tarantino finished, Lyonya put on another - Gladiator with Russell Crowe. Spectacular, but it made me queasy - the old stuff, everything not skyscrapers, neon, or cars. My ideal world was modern, with all civilisation"s benefits. Even as a child watching Hercules, I hated all the torn clothes, furs, and faith in gods. Every Conan, King Arthur - all imperfect. So I didn"t care about Lord of the Rings covers, and wasn"t interested. No need for fantasy ears, goblins, castles... I couldn"t stand it; I just wanted to play GTA. After sitting a bit, almost until the end of Gladiator, we went home.

Late evening, all of Engels already home, light snow falling. First and last time we visited them, and aside from a minor incident at age twenty, the last time Mom and I visited a standard family.

Starting from this winter, Decembers became less snowy. Snow fell a little - and since then, classic Saratov-style, mostly dry December. A December smelling of cigarettes at damp bus stops, glowing with lights and garlands, with more ground-floor shops opening instead of apartments. In such a December, you wanted to get home quickly, ideally sit at a computer, like at all these advanced families" homes we visited. But at our place, except for kitchen idylls with Prichudas and cocoa, there was strong discomfort, no computer, dim living-room chandelier. TV had nothing interesting, except MTV, which itself felt alien - like Engels park at night.

I remember nothing from Engels sports school in this second half of sixth grade.

One sunny afternoon, maybe a weekend or I skipped school. As always, Mom and I sat in the kitchen, studying, or there was some other tension. I was probably sulking, Mom on edge. She lost it and, as always, yelled at me. But something went wrong, and she suddenly opened her mouth silently, like a fish pulled from water. My insides sank in terror. She started fussing, holding her neck, went to the living room. I shouted, asked what was wrong, running after her, tears streaming. She couldn"t answer or react - too scared. She only moved her lips, making sounds like fragments of sentences. It was like the worst nightmare, where Mom isn"t Mom.

I didn"t know what to do, panicked, ran to call neighbours. Out came young alcoholic Natasha, with a cigarette. I explained, and she came in. She was only moral support, couldn"t help, just asked Mom what happened, by name, informally. Mom gestured to reject an ambulance. The three of us returned to the kitchen; Mom drank something, Natasha smoked. She saw Murka on the extractor for the first time and rasped in her heavily smoked voice: "Oh Natasha, what a kitty you have." After a while, saying "Call if anything," she left, and Mom gradually regained her voice.

By evening, everything settled, and as usual, the idyll returned with Prichudas and our even casual approach to school. We were approaching the period where we were so fed up with my studies that sometimes - if we lingered at home or overslept, and I added various real or feigned complaints about stomach or fatigue - we decided I wouldn"t go to school. Just like that.

It remained unclear what happened to Mom, but probably just a neurological spasm - I"d later have similar episodes in other torso muscles when entering a strong emotional state, like Mom did when yelling at me.

And that phrase - in Natasha"s rasping voice, "what a kitty you have" - I"d often parody to amuse Mom and myself.

And probably this was the only such episode with Dad at that time. He was at home in the evening, and I needed to do homework. I mean, Mom needed me to. Studies were at a small table in a small room. We sat together; Dad was in the living room or passing by. Noticing Mom"s impatient tone and my reaction, he said: "He"s already afraid of you." She faltered, asked me: "Are you afraid of me?" I didn"t answer anything special. My usual automatic crying mechanism - triggered when someone defends me - could have worked if the tension had already been high, like after a few hours, and Dad came with such a comment. But we just sat down. A situation similar to when I recently told him Mom sent me to bed early because of fucking guests. Usually we did homework when he wasn"t home.

I also remember we never ended up doing that homework.

.:::.

Part 49 Text 2. Waiting for Mom for hours in the evening... The Gift of the Magi... bought GTA Vice City with the modern mod... Bakulin"s fatherhood antics... Artyom on virginity... walking across the square and the ice hill under construction... into the newly opened Pyatyorochka... Rammstein in some apartment.

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After school at the gymnasium, I would wait for Mom for hours - she got stuck in the endless traffic on the bridge, and so, while I could, with a feeling close to what I had when I waited for her in first kindergarten in the evenings, I even stayed behind in class with Valentina Yuryevna, who sat there until the end of her workday behind the long cabinet at the back of the room, checking notebooks. Once I was sitting at my desk like that, and she called me over from behind the cabinet and offered some cookies. There was a window overlooking the main gymnasium courtyard with evening lights - cosy - and I thought how wonderful it would be to be forgotten by everyone with some friend in that little corner, just sitting there together.

Probably that year - because the next year I didn"t pay attention to anything in class - we were covering a story in literature that stuck with me. O. Henry - The Gift of the Magi, I just checked. About a couple who sold their most precious things to buy a Christmas trinket for the other, only to find out each had sold exactly the item the other wanted.

On the way from the gymnasium, we constantly passed street stalls selling computer discs right on Kirov Avenue. One was right after the turn from Gorky Street towards the conservatory. GTA Vice City was everywhere, but one day it seemed I found a perfect disc - with the classic Vice City collage cover, two discs, labelled "Modern Mod." And we bought it. It was truly perfect: inside was a city map, crisp and clear printing on the discs and booklet, and on the second disc, on the back of the insert, there was a picture of some rock band on a red background with the caption "Love Fist." The back showed game screenshots, all in neon lights and cool cars. This was the edition with an add-on - real car models, hence the two discs. But I didn"t know any of that yet. At home, I would constantly go back to that disc - it felt like a portal to some otherworldly paradise, just waiting to be opened. I still remember that enchanted feeling - girls and mastering myself didn"t even interest me in its presence. Naturally, it wasn"t a disc, but an escape the fuck out of this world.

Around the same time, Bakulin suddenly appeared again - Mom"s classmate and the cause of my beaver-level annoyance. There was something odd about him, as if he were almost ready to propose to my divorced mother. But she had nothing for him, and in terms of his practical value as a man - everyone quietly understood he was nothing. Just a guy. And the weird part was an episode where Mom, seemingly, lowered herself to give him a taste of fatherhood, and one evening, when she went somewhere (probably a parent meeting at my gymnasium), he sat with me for about three hours, talking sometimes about my gymnastics, sometimes about computer discs - which he knew of, but very casually. And that was it - forever over with Bakulin.

One day, after months, Artyom and his mom suddenly came over (Mom and I, by the way, referred to them together as "the Artyoms"). It was the evening of a winter day. Their visit brought the apartment to life - the moms went to the kitchen, while Artyom and I went to other rooms. We went into the middle room, where a big bed was still standing. I showed him the GTA disc. There was a stain on the bed - Artyom saw it and, grinning mischievously as usual, went to close the door to whisper something to me. "What is this, stealing the virginity of innocent girls?" I only later realized what he meant - that it was bloody and painful. It cut my self-esteem again. And all girls endure it. Meanwhile, I was afraid even to expose the glans.

They didn"t stay long - they had far to go home, so we walked them out. Walking them and those moments when the moms went together while I walked with someone were always my happiest moments. They were a 100% guarantee that nothing would go wrong: no homework, no fights with Mom. Being alone with her in the apartment was always stressful. Any moment, some quarrel could erupt. She could tell me to do something, I"d resist, and she"d switch into that "stranger" mode, launching a sticky, endless hell where even hearing the doorbell - and if it was someone like the Artyoms - was a relief and joy.

We crossed Teatralnaya and the square. They were building a snow-and-ice hill. I don"t think I ever mentioned those hills in detail. They were a major feature of evening winter outings in the last few years by then. This winter, the penultimate we would go to the hills, was just beginning. The hills were two-storey-high. They were probably built by city workers - trucks delivered snow, reinforced with ice blocks frozen in cubes. In my early childhood in Saratov, they built entire palace-castles in the square with battlements. Here in Engels, simpler - just a mountain. Steps were built, and ice poured on top. Evenings were crowded, and for the last three years I"d been sliding there actively. I always tried to go down standing on my feet, as I liked. And instead of climbing the stairs, some, including me, tried to scale it like climbers - along the side, grabbing the crevices. The hill was always near the sewer line crossing the square - so exiting Teatralnaya onto the square, it was immediately to the right, behind a homeless alley with benches and chestnuts. Mom stood by those chestnuts with other moms, freezing for hours while I slid. Those days the hill was still being iced, but later in winter we would go there several times, all four of us.

For now, we headed toward the fair to say goodbye to the Artyoms, and then we would swing by to pick up Prichuda and go home. We picked up Prichuda at: Svobody Square, number one "I" - the huge, very first Pyatyorochka in Engels had just opened at the start of December.

Closer to New Year, Dad started coming around more, the big bed moved to the small room, mine to the middle, and my useless computer went there. In the middle room, basslines of some track constantly drifted from somewhere nearby. It was a repeating theme from the movie Boomer. I didn"t know any Boomer, but I"d already heard the word Rammstein, which seemed to be a rock band, and I associated the neighbor"s melody with them. I wanted to know about Rammstein, but there was no one to ask. Music and rock bands were the obsession of an age group I had no informal access to. I could"ve found out everything through Mom in a minute, asking her to ask a disc seller, but I wasn"t sure if what I wanted to know involved sex or something - and rightly so, I was cautious. So I carried my curiosity for years before discovering it myself.

.:::.

Part 49 Text 3. Last days of the Engels sports school... stalking Slava... to the Sports Palace for regional competitions... hellish envy... deep depression... I can"t breathe... gymnastics enrolment in Saratov.

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I didn"t know it yet, but I was already attending the last trainings at the Engels sports school. In the second half of December, regional competitions were scheduled at the main Saratov sports school by the city park - where I had never been. Only Vitya from us would compete; the rest could go watch. Of course, I was going.

So this must have been my last connection to the Engels sports school. I left training, and ahead, two guys were leaving the school; I thought one was Slava - the guy who impressed me in the first months of training, but hadn"t come to gymnastics for a long time. I assumed they were coming from some other sport. I followed. There was snow. I stalked across Nesterov Street while they walked along the stadium fence toward the outskirts "Lyotka." They gestured and talked to each other, explaining things. But because they turned toward each other and I was cowardly, I kept far back so as not to be noticed. I eventually lost them, wandered a bit, looked around, and went home.

Competition day came, probably December 20th, Saturday, and we went with Mom. We took bus 284 to Moskovskaya and Chernyshevskaya, then a minibus or trolleybus to the stop past the city park, by the main city pool. Between the pool and the Ice Palace was the Sports Palace - the main sports school - that"s where we went. The entrance had a large hall; straight ahead, the track and field arena, gymnastics was up the side stairs. A distinct smell hit - absent in Engels: either renovation or fragrant HVAC.

We went to the second floor. On the stair landing, a bustling crowd of parents and athletes - broad-shouldered confident boys and girls with hair in buns. Most wore those special gymnastics uniforms I dreamed about. The smell of mats, old stairs, and air conditioning - its own atmosphere.

I felt like shit, insanely jealous. So many kids doing gymnastics, arriving in professional uniforms from other towns, meaning it was serious. The Engels section was amateur - more like after-school PE for discipline.

We asked a passing gymnast, a boy maybe 4-5 years older, Armenian, in gymnastics shorts, no shirt, broad triangular torso - how to enter the hall. We changed, probably in the nearby rhythmic gymnastics room, and entered the sports gymnastics hall.

It was huge. Right: foam pit with two horizontal bars above it. Beside it: two pommels, one official, like on TV competitions. Behind: rings, also official. More rings and a bar below. High men"s parallel bars, official. Along the far wall: runway for vaulting. In the distance: trampoline. Nearby: another foam pit, above it: women"s bars. In front: women"s beam, official, and another on the floor for training. In the center: sprung carpet for floor exercises - blue felt, with boards and springs underneath.

I was in hellish envy. People trained here; all this existed - gymnastics and the people, the Armenian, others. Someone could be better than you - almost certainly would, because damn it, you aren"t the one most naturally suited in six billion people for this discipline. Or conversely, out of infinite activities, the one you"re best at might be exactly the one you practice, becoming a god only in that sphere.

Over the last year, I realised what mastery I needed - not so much physically or mentally (that was obvious) - but mastery of an activity, escapism from the pain of failing the first. It was time to quit gymnastics the fuck out of necessity, abandoning physical-mental competence, and escape into another world unrelated to exertion. But I had nothing else, so almost a year of Don Quixote-style struggle remained - what I called in my diaries "KNB EF supremacy."

The turning point in my life - the end of hope for KNB EF competence (and with it women"s attraction - "the prize" in my diaries, life seen as combat, hence the nickname Mortal Kombat) - was 2003, from first flips to "Bitter End," when I faced dead-end problems of dating, love, and sex, while discovering escapist video games allowing me to avoid the struggle and the prize.

At the Saratov gym back then, I couldn"t analyse my feelings, but subconsciously I wanted to destroy it all - the hall, the people. What I couldn"t achieve should not exist. Just as I wanted sex to be a myth. I shouldn"t have known any of this.

The competitions began. Everything I expected from the Armenian and others happened. In skill, the Armenian was second. Another - Russian, older, taller, around eighteen - I"ll call him "Master of Sport." Muscular, perfect haircut, hair standing naturally like a beaver (what I tried at home). On the bars, he and the Armenian spun rotations, landed flips with pirouettes, maybe Tkachev releases, don"t recall. Floor: double salto. First time I saw a double live. Armenian fell on his ass - even more impressive. Circles on pommel horse, many flips. All kids did flairs. Even Engels" Vitya. Of course - the sprung carpet demanded it. Proper technique mattered. I was in deep shit, though I chatted with Mom and hid it. Nobody from Engels was there except Vitya and Oleg Nikolaevich, not even spectators. Girls had performed earlier, lucky I didn"t see them - I"d see them in summer anyway - perfect.

Then suddenly - bam, a punch to the chest - I see Slava Stallone from the gymnasium, aggressive B-class kid I"d fought in PE locker. He"s also a gymnast. Doing round-off, flair, salto. I can"t breathe. Level like Vitya, no bar rotations, but flairs, saltos, pommel circles - yes.

I probably just said I wanted to train there. Mom talked to a coach, then asked Oleg Nikolaevich to talk, and they settled it. I got into gymnastics at the Saratov Sports Palace, under Ivan Borisovich.

Fuck, I wasn"t as desperate then as I am writing this. Now I understand all desires and tendencies back then. I was blissful not analysing my subconscious wish to destroy everything.

Ivan Borisovich, unlike Oleg Nikolaevich, naturally large, surprised me he"d been a gymnast. Big glasses, always in a grey T-shirt, grey hair - all grey. Ordinary, not mean. No ambition to produce champions. Armenians, Master of Sport, and a few exceptional trained under another strict coach. Ivan Borisovich trained mid-tier boys. He told me when to come and start morning sessions - 7:30 a.m.

.:::.

Part 49, Text 4. Like the beginning of a new life... first trip at six in the morning.

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It was almost a feeling of starting a new life, a second chance. And, by the way, from that moment-at the turn of 2004-my memories even seem to become somewhat coloured. Like in the style of certain films, where the first part is black-and-white, and at a certain point, colour begins. That"s how my life looks in memory. But it"s not because of emotions-simply because, from that threshold, life feels like it"s truly mine. I remember events from that moment in much greater detail, as if they happened just last year, and I don"t even know yet how I"ll describe it all. In principle, life started to look roughly like it would through all of adolescence, and since I"m mentally stuck in adolescence, that means-always. All those trips to Saratov for my own purposes, my initiatives, the beginnings of a serious obsession with music very soon... And the emphasis on education and my mother"s push in that direction would sharply decline...

It was around New Year"s, and by then my father was living with us full-time. I slept on my bed in the middle room. I set my electronic beeping alarm for five. I had never gotten up that early. When it rang, it was hell. Mom even came out in her nightdress, saying, "Have you lost your mind?" But it was too late-we were awake, and I didn"t even know how long the journey would take-we couldn"t be late. Father kept sleeping, and we set off. Since trips to Saratov for gymnastics were quite expensive, we decided I would go by trolleybus, which was slower than the bus but a rouble cheaper, and, most importantly, it was possible to buy a pass for it, which we planned to do after a few sessions, once we saw I"d be going regularly.

Again, like in second grade, I sat at the end of this trolleybus line by the House with the Dumpling Shop, almost always sitting, despite the cold. Not the modern trolleys, but the old rigid ones. In Saratov, from Moskovskaya and Chernyshevskaya streets, we switched to minibuses. Later I would discover the option of buying a monthly trolleybus pass there as well. Training was twice a week, and sometimes on Saturdays if you wanted, so it was not cheap for my mother, who was saving to improve our living conditions.

We arrived at the Palace. Locker room, entrance to the hall, powerful ceiling lights. Very early, sleep-deprived, trembling state, and the atmosphere-everything unfamiliar. The good old fucking stress of a new environment and new group. But I endured. Training began with a quick warm-up on the mat, as usual, and then straight to the trampoline. On the trampoline, there were just normal jumps, and there were jumps onto it from a tall, almost construction-style vaulting horse, followed by a spring into a pit over an improvised foam mat. Mom watched from afar, standing in the doorway. The boys jumped one by one, and it was my turn. On the very first jump, I got thrown onto the mat in shame. I mean, I slammed into an obstacle instead of clearing it. Mom later recalled: "You got thrown like that!" Not a huge embarrassment, but it was fucking irritating-just that. I wished I could do something perfectly on the first try, like I saw others do. But never.

I became the local Vitalik. Not as cowardly, but more cautious than the others, and above all-the least capable. Most could do double somersaults from the trampoline into the pit or onto mats. I never even tried. Even though the trampoline wasn"t a proper gymnastics apparatus, there were elements that served as transitional steps for more advanced acrobatics. For example: jumping on the trampoline, you had to land on your stomach and, pushing off, do a backward somersault-four hundred and fifty degrees. Or land on your back, push off, and do a forward somersault. Later I did the latter, but landing neatly on my feet-never. The world spun too much, and I couldn"t judge when to land. Everyone else did it easily. Everyone, fucking, effortlessly, and no one feared hitting the wooden floor or the bench along the trampoline, where we sat.

Then we moved on to other apparatuses, where I continued being Vitalik, especially embarrassed on the pommel horse. Sylvester Stallone was also in the hall, but I saw him training with that strict coach who worked with Masters of Sport. I"ll describe some more sessions later, and then the boys, but for the first one-that"s it. Mom and I went home. The sun was just rising. I spent a couple of hours at home and in the afternoon went to gymnasium-my second trip to Saratov that day. First time for that too.

.:::.

Part 49, Text 5. Going around collecting money at the fair... description of the stalls, fairground music, desire for foreign goods... like a little homeless kid... while others are at GTA.

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Several pre-New Year winter days were weekends, and I went to collect money. Sometimes I took the usual route along Teatralnaya Street, passing the blue kiosk to check for coins underneath it, but more often I went straight down Ploshchad Svobody to the fair. With the nearby Pyaterochka store and the general growth of trade over the years, there was more and more activity around the fair. I scanned the slush for the coveted coins. On Ploshchad Svobody, between Kommunisticheskaya Street and the square, there was already a stall-something might be there-and then I reached the corner of the fair near Pyaterochka, where two kiosks stood.

Then I went into Pyaterochka"s foyer, where, short of the main store and the tills, there were stalls with CDs, chebureki, and other stuff. Here it was trickier to pick up coins, because the space felt owned by the stallholders, and sometimes, if I saw a coin, I had to wait for a customer to approach, so I could grab it, while the seller didn"t care about me anyway. I wandered back and forth like a little homeless kid. Often, others saw the coins first and picked them up while I waited, paralyzed by fear of conflict. Then I moved on.

Along all the bus stops were food stalls-not exactly shawarma (I wouldn"t hear that word until 2007)-more like hot dogs and other things I never tried. Underneath could be small change. Stalls with tinsel and Christmas toys triggered nostalgia for my childhood, though it was long past. That year, our Christmas tree was tiny.

The fair itself had two large sections. Adjacent to the long Pyaterochka building was the first, under a canopy, mostly clothing rows. Three entrances-near Pyaterochka, in the middle, and at the far end toward the second section. Along the fence were two rows of cheap goods and household items, where coins were most likely to be found-naturally, since items were cheap and paid in coins. "Everything for five rubles" stalls were popular, selling disposable junk. Beyond those were long clothing rows, where I rarely went-only in desperation when the front rows and kiosks yielded nothing. Even there, picking up coins felt like trespassing. By "inconvenient," I mean moral discomfort.

Through the third entrance to this first section, straight ahead was the entrance to the covered food market we visited in the phrasebook episode, where I searched for "not a word about the dragon." Mom and I sometimes went there; I wandered in search of coins. Two aisles ran around the central island, stalls duplicating each other; only in the far section was fish, and at the very end-meat. I loved this indoor market. Counters were solid stone, sellers far behind, so the pedestrian area felt communal, and morally, picking up coins here was easy. The floor was mostly dry, especially that December, unlike the slush outside. And in snowy days, especially near the entrance, it was disgusting. From that winter, I began utilising the many pockets in my two down jackets-dirty coins in dirty pockets, separate from where I kept my freezing hands.

From the back of the covered market, near the meat section, an exit led outside to the clothing fair. Right there was a slot machine, where red-nosed stallholders in fingerless gloves dropped five-ruble coins. Fascinating, but too grown-up for me; I didn"t linger. Exiting from this section, you reached a small lane between mini-garages, at the base of the under-construction high-rises-left led to the Ferris wheel, right to the second section of the fair. That"s how Mom, grandma Klava, and I used to weave between the two sections in previous years, searching for clothes for me. Those times in this part of my life are past, almost gone.

I had nothing to do in the back clothing rows, so I usually went to the second fair through the busy spot with stops and hot dogs. At the entrance, there was another slot machine, red noses, and a stall with audio cassettes. Always some Verka Serduchka playing.

Musically, Verka Serduchka was just clever pop hits, like any chart-toppers. But I didn"t yet know metal or second-rate music of any kind, so anything I disliked was maximum garbage. Verka Serduchka, and the recently released "Shokoladny Zayats" of late 2003, were the most hated songs ever. Only old war-time songs performed by veterans were worse-at least you were obliged to respect veterans. Verka, with her exaggerated persona and that half-drunk, red-nosed, cigarette-smoky, hot-dog-scented fairground atmosphere, seemed made to be hated. The more I heard her, the more I wanted MTV and foreign English pop, where nothing like this existed. I disliked rap and Black artists abroad, but at least there was no "joy from shit" there. Serduchka was satire, of course, but I didn"t get it then, so I hated her sincerely.

Another song had been playing for two months-Valeriya"s "Chasiki." It was everywhere, from Radishchev to Gorky along Kirov Avenue, with stalls every hundred metres. It would become the anthem of my next summer, the peak of my bottle-collecting and wandering. It was the soundtrack of my loneliness in a crowded park. My impatience with these performers stemmed in large part from their being old fogeys. I wanted girls. Avril Lavigne. Or that one, still unknown to me, dark-haired girl with a beautifully drawn name starting with "E" on the cassette cover. I walked among thick-boned, fat, hoarse-voiced saleswomen and grandmothers stocking up. At the fair, I came only for money; unlike bikes, gymnastics, or GTA, which were real pursuits. They represented polar options: mastery of self, with a "prize," or escape into 3D oblivion. That proximity and "fail-safe" endings motivated me far more to collect coins than all the iguanas and bikes, which were mere means. Gymnastics and computer discs needed funding.

In the second section of the fair, entirely outdoors, there were clothing rows near the first fair and cassette stalls at the entrance. Along the farthest row was a repetition of the indoor food market. Wooden pallets lay on the ground to cross filthy puddles with spit, pickle brine, and smoked fish heads. In snow or rain, it was harsh. I made dozens of circuits daily, finding up to ten rubles per day-enough for a metro ride in Moscow. My working day lasted two to three hours, until I froze to the bone.

I gave this detailed account because it"s a strong association for me with that time; that fair haunts my dreams-it"s where I wandered like a little bum. Other kids, even from modest families, often spent such days at home on computer games. Discs were everywhere. I looked at them as America, inhabited by others, while I couldn"t afford a ticket.

Frozen almost to tremors, I went home, where the atmosphere was completely different. Carefree, pre-holiday, no fucking lessons or obligations. Perfect days. Gymnastics had ended too, and wouldn"t resume until 10 January.

I collected coins like this until the thirty-first, possibly inclusive. On the thirty-first, my father and I went to Pyaterochka-a full tradition now-wandering its fifty-metre aisles, though the selection was no different from the smallest grocery. Something cheap and cheerful, like Duchesse lemonade, we bought, and later, under the pink sky, crossed the square, entered a bookstore in building 32, walked along Teatralnaya, and returned home.

.:.

___Part 50.

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...............2004 ---------------------------------------------------

.:::.

Part 50 Text 1. Gifts all about despair, desperate behaviour, a lost piece with vulvas, festive locker-room training, pre-training nervous meltdown.

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In the past few months, I"d had a couple of harsh episodes where I"d slept through my beeping alarm for gymnastics, and with the Saratov sessions, the risk of oversleeping only went up. So the main gift for this New Year - which I even contributed to myself - was a new metal mechanical alarm clock. Like a school bell, right beside you, it screamed through the whole apartment, and suddenly - basically, pure hell. I had initially set a gentler beeping one, and a few minutes later, as a backup, this mechanical executioner.

From my father came those rubber straps he"d mentioned - two little rolls. I didn"t attach them to the radiator, obviously, since I knew it would just rip off, but I improvised other ways: pressing my feet against them and, holding the other ends with my hands, straightening and swinging my back.

Also from my father - a disc-encyclopaedia Extreme Sports, with articles written in an informal tone. That"s where I learned the terms "BMX" and "bunnyhop." It said you could jump almost a metre. I thought it was a joke, though there was a gif of a real video where people really jumped that high. The explanation was simple: "Jump, lift the front of the bike with your hands, the back with your feet." Fucking brilliant. But how do you lift the back with your feet? Should your feet be strapped to the pedals? I just had to wait for summer to try it properly.

Basically, those were all my gifts, and I didn"t need anything else. Talk of buying a computer never came up. I lived with the understanding that we were a super-frugal family.

As an extra, not so much a gift for me but something we"d all wanted to revisit for a long time - the cassette Forrest Gump. I started rewatching it over and over, and it became, and would remain for the next few years, my default favourite film. Though other films would periodically appear to challenge its place - Amélie, for example. I hadn"t yet fully entered the Amélie-mania phase - that would come later.

In Forrest, my favourite thing was the atmosphere of his family home and the surrounding area. All the scenes with Jenny, the farm, fields, his mother bustling around their enormous house with terraces, lawns, dry American weather, sunsets. Childhood atmosphere. It felt like I"d always been there, even though my own childhood was spent in a fifty-square-metre apartment in Lev Kassil, the Engels park, and a hundred-metre stretch of Frunze Street, with no forest or nature anywhere nearby.

There was also a symbolic gift from Aunt Larisa, accompanying her main gift of money on the New Year trip to Grandma Valya. A few times in my childhood, Aunt Larisa had given me money, and this seemed like the first substantial sum - about five hundred rubles, which was quite a lot then. She paired it with a small plush toy - a dog with a human torso. I brought it home, and we named it Forrest as well. It would appear again later.

With Larisa"s four-year-old daughter Anya, who still barely spoke except for a few rare words, I was mischievous again, and I think this time, left alone with her in the hall, I showed her my penis. Just quickly pulled down my pants and put them back on. The thrill was like a game of chance: would I get away with it or not. The reward - being the version where I got away. To my horror, Anya ran to the kitchen to the adults. I thought: shit. But even though she said the super-dangerous word "sausage," nobody seemed to notice.

Grandma Valya, even now, every few months when I visited, would buy me that children"s Cool Magazine, and probably did this time too, though I"d already explained I"d grown up.

On the way to Grandma Valya, I made another New Year gift to myself - or rather, asked my parents to buy at the kiosk: a Rubik"s Cube. I fiddled with it briefly, without success, and set it aside. But it would later become a symbolic element in my story.

A few memories with Grandma Valya from the tail end of childhood, undated. The first - we were walking along Kirov Avenue opposite Detsky Mir in winter, and I, trying to play a nimble parkour guy, jumped along the route from shop entrance to shop entrance - probably at least a year earlier, given such childish antics - and slipped on one porch, landing on my back and elbows. Grandma Valya said: "Ah, fell down?" with that tone like, "you overdid it." Again, the theme that whenever I tried to be cool - I embarrass myself.

Another occasion, maybe months or a year earlier, at Grandma Valya"s invitation, my parents and I attended some celebration and banquet where she was one of the cooks and organisers, held in the canteen of that English gymnasium on Bolshaya Kazachya, where I"d failed the exams in first grade. Many unfamiliar women, boring.

And this episode, seemingly after the New Year trip to Grandma Valya: left alone at home, I went for my paper with vulvas in the drawer of my wardrobe - where I"d hidden it - and it wasn"t there. Total shitshow. But nobody said a word.

I remember almost nothing about that holiday. Probably nothing happened - I just trained in the hall with those rubber straps and dumbbells. I kept trying, but my handstand progress was zero. I managed to attend my new gymnastics sessions before the holidays maybe three times at most. Then, in the first working days, around the twelfth, this year"s training began. As usual - by 7:30, which, frankly, my father didn"t like. He said: "Why the hell so early?" Through hellish frost and darkness.

I arrived, went up, but the gym was closed, and all our guys and Ivan Borisovich were in the locker room: the hall was closed for renovation. In the middle of the locker room - somehow moved here from the gym - were parallel bars, with a few mats beneath, and all training took place on these bars. The ceiling was high enough, though the older boys - four of them bigger than me - would touch it with their feet in a handstand. Standing on their hands, we did large swings as high as possible, then got into handstands. The coach stood nearby, holding guys like me so they wouldn"t fall forward. I, of course, couldn"t hold myself up and would have smashed to pieces without him. But most could stand on their own. He constantly said to suck in the stomach and even arch like a cat. And you had to tighten your ass. I once mentioned this to my mother, and she asked if he touched us anywhere in the locker room. There were four or five sessions in that locker room in a row. It pissed me off. I travelled through two cities to train in a proper gym, not a stinking locker room. But I attended every session to look diligent. These locker-room sessions were short, like an hour or an hour and a half, and returning home it was the dead of night. Ivan Borisovich lived near Museum Square, so on the way back we"d walk together a bit, sometimes talking. I had bought a pass for the Saratov trolleybus number four, and once the minibus arrived before the trolleybus - I explained I needed only the trolleybus, and he said he"d pay for me, so I went with him.

From the very first solo trips to Saratov gymnastics in the freezing darkness, a humiliating issue emerged. I"d enter the sports school - from freezing cold into warmth - immediately smelling that locker-room scent, and I"d head down the stairs, not up, to the basement toilet. From pre-training stress, almost instinctively - though partly my body had a morning routine - I"d feel the urge, like a pinch in my gut, only in my ass - and often, nothing came out. Nervous shit. Because in the locker room everyone would see me, and if I went away after undressing, after a couple of times they figured out I did this, showing weakness. I"d go to the toilet fully clothed. There were no stalls - just holes - and at that moment, a cleaner was washing the floors in chlorine-smell, right in front of me. A few times our guys did come down while I strained. Total humiliation. Nobody else did nervous shit like that there.

.:::.

Part 50 Text 2. Boys at Saratov gymnastics, complicated jealousy of newcomer Korovin, Mephistopheles from the higher echelon.

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Until summer, I hardly ever interacted with the boys there. I mean, on non-gymnastics topics related to gymnastics. They would chat on the bench, especially during trampoline sessions - not only about gymnastics but about random stuff. I barely shook hands or asked nerdy technical questions about elements. In Engels hall, I didn"t socialise either - Vitalik was a quiet one, Andrey a fool a couple of years younger, only Vitya was somewhat suitable to talk to. Hardly anyone else. Here there were about fifteen boys - and I was a quiet outsider.

There was a dark-blond, freckled boy Lesha, shorter than me but maybe a year older, doing double somersaults on the trampoline. Another Lesha - Korovin - appeared during locker-room sessions. He was fair-haired like me, had an earring. A mix between Scooter"s vocalist and Garik Sukachyov. He was a better version of me. About my age, smaller, thinner body, smaller head. Arms about the same thickness as mine. So proportionally, more suited for gymnastics. Like in the Russian gymnastics team 2020 - there was Nagorny and a smaller David. First Lesha at Saratov gymnastics was Nagorny, the brawler; Korovin like David, smaller and lighter. He was a newbie, even newer than me. He was learning to do a backflip. Later, in the hall, he sometimes fell embarrassingly in exercises. But he was super-determined - like me, only more. I perceived his determination as robotic. He never despaired. He could smile, no negative emotions. Meanwhile, I, under the same circumstances, battled other things. For me, all of this was ultimately about male victory, about winning a girl"s attention.

Because of Korovin, I felt awful. He progressed before my eyes. Held handstands. I saw his first backflips - perfect first try. Simultaneously, he could do a front somersault. Did I ignore it? I wanted him dead. Though he was genuinely decent and kind. Probably straight-A student at school. Once, the coach asked where we lived - me from Engels. Then he said Korovin came from Solnechny, a district of Saratov I hadn"t visited, far from the centre, like those remote "Dachnye" areas. The coach said: "Even farther than Engels," emphasising Korovin"s enthusiasm. Last - my reinterpretation. Korovin had a black backpack with "Korol i Shut" on it. At fairs, everywhere there were stalls with them. Black backpacks, rope-closed - torby - each with a picture, mostly evil monsters and aggressive lettering. Shirts, hoodies, belts with skulls, chains, and so on. I knew it all related to rock and guitars. You might think: "Rock music, okay, why mention?" Well, now you know it, but back then it was another world, hard to enter. Like sex: impossible to approach a stranger, let alone be naked with them. Rock and all its paraphernalia was the same - intriguing, inaccessible. Money or parental permission? Couldn"t buy. Couldn"t explain interest. Maybe even porn? Maybe about death, judging by the pictures. Korovin had no problems. I didn"t even know "Korol i Shut," but he already had the backpack and earring. Oh, he once pooped properly after training when I went to the toilet - calmly, unlike my nervous shit.

Girls were present after the hall reopened post-renovation, close to the trampoline. Mostly small, so in the first months none caught my eye.

Other boys in a group under a different coach, with Slava Stallone - who didn"t seem to recognise me - included a Sasha, quite capable, slightly younger, dark-haired like Slava. Their coach trained a Master of Sport, Ruslan Kuzikyan, a triangle-shaped Armenian. Under that coach, post-renovation, I saw another boy who annoyed me even more than Korovin. Older by a year and a half, but as small and light as Korovin, already at a high level - twists without spotting, circles on the pommel horse, dismounts with somersaults. First sports rank. He hung out with Master of Sport and Kuzikyan, laughing. But his face - even without grimacing - looked like Mephistopheles: evil triangular brows. Blue-eyed, dark-blond, eternally tanned. The ideal type for me, like Erokin. When away from the coach, he and the medium-level boys, including Slava, could have rowdy pranks. I knew for sure I"d never match him. Looking at my sad eyes, he"d immediately see I was nothing, just a random organism. Any conflict - he"d pin me and humiliate me with a hold; I"d cry in front of the gymnast girls. So I stayed quiet - to avoid a repeat of any Zemskov-style humiliation. Brutal.

.:::.

Part 50 Text 3. Tormenting Murka... home alone... MTV... Evanescence beginnings... with Lena and Masha at the Bridge Squad - illusion of fun... days spent playing on the old computer... growing disinterest in my own body.

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The school days began, but I barely remember any actual lessons. From what I recall, I was stuck at home most of the time. Apparently, Mum was arranging sick leave for me. We went to the clinic more and more often. The rest of the time at home, I was lifting weights, trying to make a damn matchstick. Often home alone, often tormenting poor Murka. I pushed her to the brink of screaming, just as I"d written before. I was full of desperate despair, and there was no one else to vent it on but her. Every time Mum was out - I masturbated. I looked out the window at the shitty snow, freezing or melting. The radio station Maximum was always playing, and I waited for my favourite track. I lingered with a video camera by the window, and once, at Nastya Storchak"s house near our entrance, there was a funeral. I zoomed in with the camera, trying to make it out, but it was too far. They were placing things on stools.

My favourite track was already, apparently, becoming outdated, falling out of the charts, and you could hardly catch it anymore. Maximum radio had almost nothing worth listening to, so I almost always had MTV on the TV instead. At some point, I started hearing and falling in love with a heavy, melodic rock song by a strangely named artist called "Him." The video showed a snowy field, kind of like that frozen river with Lena and Masha. Dark silhouettes of people, horses, fires. A strange, mystical atmosphere - all under an unforgettable melody, Titanic-level. The musicians played guitars, and I no longer doubted that the heavy sound came from an electric guitar. I just didn"t know how. Pulling acoustic strings didn"t produce anything close. It was a mystery - how to get that heavy sound, and I had no idea how to solve it. Imagine, it would take exactly three more years before I finally figured out how an electric guitar makes that sound. I couldn"t learn it anywhere!

But I didn"t really consider this "Him" heavy. Even "Bitter End," with its "melodic despair," felt heavier to me.

Then I really got into the video and finally figured out who the girl - well, technically, she seemed like an older woman to me - on the cassette cover in nearly every kiosk was. Evanescence. I wasn"t sure how to pronounce the name, and MTV never said it aloud, so I never pronounced it myself until adolescence; I only knew it visually. She had heavier songs than Him, and just as melodic, not just one. Very soon, my favourite song would become "Going Under," and Evanescence would push "Bitter End" to second place - or even lower - in my personal chart.

One frosty, sunny weekend, Mum and I grabbed skis, met Aunt Lena and Masha, and went to the Bridge Squad. Masha studied at School 33, one grade above me, and I"d seen her in the corridors back in September. While the three of them sorted ski rentals, I was already gliding across the lake"s snowy surface. It was a state of dopamine-induced excitement, anticipation of fun. On these skis, you could move fast, feeling like the king of the forest. The sky was cloudless. We skied for about three hours. Nothing thrilling, really - just trails and the lake. That feeling - always just a dopamine illusion, a dopamine state. Closer to adolescence, I"d realise this and notice I loved mostly the beginning of things - which is why I often abandoned them before finishing. Anticipation is far sweeter than results, especially the difficulties and stress in the process.

I can"t recall how exactly, but there were a couple of days when I sat at our old computer in my middle room, playing two games that were somehow installed. The first was simply called "Chickens," where the same background played and red-combed chickens flew across, and you had to shoot as many as possible with the cursor. The second was "Sven," where a ram, escaping a shepherd, ran between sheep and did things to them when they turned their backs. It didn"t immediately click - he was having sex with them. I hadn"t expected that in a game. I thought games were for children. Though I"d already seen discs in stores titled "Rendezvous with a Stranger," with obviously erotic covers.

Both games were almost demo versions - I"d explored everything, and there were no new situations. Then something happened to the computer - Windows wouldn"t boot. Black screen, some line in English I didn"t understand. After trying everything, I gave up and went back to the living room TV.

I also went to the fair for money again, but nothing new to report - I wandered there like a bum, as usual. Usually after the clinic.

I still went to the gymnasium, and Mum and I studied lessons in the kitchen so as not to fall behind. I understood something, even as a low achiever. Mostly, I got by in subjects like biology and literature - where I had Cs, sometimes Bs. At the gymnasium, nothing social happened anymore. Vanity and showing off were in the past. By the way, clips on the kids" cassette where I posed like a bodybuilder were before 2004 - before this period. My body was becoming less interesting. I still liked doing athletic moves, the sense of agility, the feeling of achieving something physically, the sense of progress. But I no longer lingered by the mirror like before.

.:::.

Part 50 Text 4. Apartment viewings in Saratov... to BabValya... gastroscopy and BDSM fetish... but before sleep, still thoughts of love.

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Mum clearly struggled to keep me in the gymnasium. As I noted, since last autumn, we"d been viewing apartments in Saratov for purchase. Dad and Mum looked, sometimes I went with them. We saw something in Arik"s building - a brick ten-storey at Gorky 16/20. Since this wasn"t an SZF building, it was an option to fully replace Lva Kassil with everything Mum had. Even that was under consideration. But we also saw a really shitty SZF unit on the first floor at Gorky 10, right by the gymnasium. Dad came out angry - he didn"t even want to spend a minute there. Angry because if we bought it, he"d have to help, and nothing worked: stoves, shared toilets, all that.

Right after Arik - at Gorky 22 - there was a music and cassette store. We went in several times. I looked for the Evanescence cassette with my eyes.

Once, before gym class, BabValya picked me up - right after work at the Shmyrkeviches". On the icy evening Michurina street, she told me Hans suddenly started attacking her, even lifting off the ground. She said she locked him out, got scared, called Larisa. On the sixth bus, I looked at the brick nine-storeys along the way - scanning for technical floors. Apartment viewings triggered this childish obsession with tech floors. Like she needed it, I kept saying: "There"s a tech floor!" at every one.

When we arrived, Hans was normal, sitting by BabValya as usual. I went to gymnastics after sleeping until six. Traffic jams and crowds exist even from Zavodskoy.

No matter how I begged Mum or paled in doctors" offices, they couldn"t blindly treat my semi-imaginary gastritis anymore: on January 28, I had a gut-swallowing test scheduled. Scarier than drawing blood by a thousand times. I went there like to my execution.

In recent days, I"d been feeding pieces of this biography into ChatGPT, asking for reviews. It almost always told me I was detached from my body, not feeling it as my own - and that"s exactly how it was at the time. All childhood before this, a background of clinics. Damn those clinics. Previously - just tests, painful but still extracting some liquid from my body - now, what they did felt like sadistic torture. Just like that penis surgery.

I hadn"t eaten, and we arrived in the morning. Waited for the call, and I went in alone, frozen. Two women again. I had to lie on my side. Apart from my head, I was tightly covered with a sheet, unable to reach my hands. Sprayed anaesthetic in my throat - it went numb immediately - and a gag with a hole was placed in my mouth. One woman held me wrapped in the sheet, the other inserted the tube. I cried, burped air, while deep inside my stomach - unexpectedly low - I felt that total mess.

To the depraved BDSM fantasy of being tied, girls teasing despite my "please stop" now added the horror of strangers pushing a tube into my mouth, making me choke with tears, snot, and vomit - like a movie I saw where a soldier in a gas mask choked and died. I was tied in a shameful star pose, like a dissected frog. My skin red with fear, stomach hollowed, ribs visible ectomorphically, and the skin over my sternum pulsating with the heart. Nurses with long scary manicured nails, unlike my Mum"s, traced the pulse teasingly, pressing lightly. They explored my neck arteries, tested pressure, as if playing with blood flow to the brain... fingers on my penis vein. Strangers from other cities. Beautiful, alien beauty - like Ela, or the Asian girl from Mortal Kombat. Names unfamiliar: Nelly, Mia.

They saw my tear-swollen face, red marks, my armpits, my balls floating in the scrotum, my tied, suffering, bare feet. They even knew what was inside my stomach. They knew everything about me; I knew nothing of them. One wiped my vomit from my cheek, smiling, stroking my face. A caress not of love, but work - like a vet with a lethal injection. I moaned, begged to remove the gag - I"d promise never again to try being a man. Just not to flirt with death. They mimicked my moans with staged whimpers and continued. One held my head, the other leaned close, moving the tube in and out, torturing my stomach with foreign motions. Her unfamiliar scent reached me through my snot-filled nose. Velvet cheeks, perfect hair, alien eyes. She gazed into mine, claiming me. My body was taken; I remained only in my brain. But the brain - even more fragile: two fingers could stop it forever, cutting blood supply. One small move - and medical records, treatment, apartment purchase in Saratov, my grade diary - become irrelevant. At eight, I was in the kitchen talking to Mum; by nine, I didn"t exist, and I didn"t know what I had been. Nothing changed for anyone but Mum - unconscious from the news I had died, taken away by ambulance.

I wept, hoping she"d save me. But she wasn"t there.

Of course, much of this crystallised only over time. I simply compiled all plots and phobias tied to that experience. Some moments about Mum, not sexual, in erotic fantasies, didn"t exist. Thoughts of possible death weren"t sexual either, just maximum neurotic arousal - released with leg-squeezing masturbation, not normal. Like stories about my death, torturing myself psycho-physiologically. At that time, I masturbated manually to mild fantasies: lying on my back, one girl on raised arms, another on legs, doing things to my penis while the first, hair fallen over her face, kissed me droolily, and I felt disgust but helpless.

But I didn"t only indulge in perversion. I no longer loved anyone, almost lost hope for reciprocation, yet before sleep, when I most wanted to hug someone, I still instinctively imagined love. Silverkova and explaining things to her on a park bench. I didn"t love her - she was just a nominal heroine for the fantasies. Sex with her was barely arousing, more due to her cold real-life attitude. Often, Alina from BabValya"s dacha, sometimes Sima - a very close friend in my fantasies.

Dad left. Stopped staying overnight. Dropping the pillow, I ran straight to Mum.

.:::.

Part 50 Text 5. Depression,,, Forrest the toy,,, transferring to the thirty-third school in Engels,,, classmates,,, Dima Fyodorov main,,, GTA mania.

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I stopped going to the gymnasium. Probably it was just everything hitting me at once - and Mom let me go. I would attend the thirty-third school here in Engels.

I was deep in a depression. It was obvious from the outside, and this was one of those "everything piling on Mom" situations that pushed her to make my life easier and pull me out of the gymnasium. And leaving the gymnasium itself was, in turn, yet another reason for my depression. After all, the gymnasium and its strict academics, though pointless in my view, was still a battle that others could handle - and I couldn"t.

I didn"t have a full-blown suicidal depression yet. Gymnastics was theoretically lost, but in practice, while I still went, there was at least some small progress in certain things, and that kept me tethered to the living world. What I had was just a shattered psyche, neurotic hyperreactivity. I watched Forrest Gump over and over and cried. At the fair, situations like dropping a coin under a stall and having the vendor say, "Give it back" (which I did) threw me into a brutal state - the same as when I accidentally took partially drunk bottles in summer and got scolded. In a haze, I"d leave the fair in self-reproach, only to soon sink further into antisocial gloom, feeling wronged that I, supposedly a good and diligent son of cultured parents, was seen as a cheeky vagabond prone to mischief and without empathy.

I went as far as carrying that little dog, Forrest, everywhere. I slept with him, sat with him in a chair while watching TV. I made him a bed - mattress, blanket, pillow. All this - almost at eleven years old. And when I was moving to the thirty-third school, I took him in my backpack - he would be my link to home. Because, as an extra neurosis, I expected that entering a new environment - and at the thirty-third, in a class of difficult kids, halfway through the year - I"d immediately face hazing, some Zemskov-style hierarchy, or another social stress.

But the class wasn"t like that. All the boys were more like phlegmatic goofballs; there were no cocky aggressors like Zemskov.

What struck me immediately about the thirty-third school was the chairs - they were made for five-year-olds. You couldn"t sit properly; everyone was almost on the floor, and soon my sharp, bony buttocks ached. I"d sit there, hand in my backpack, stroking Forrest, talking to him to myself.

I went to a different class than the one I"d been in at the start of the previous school year. Here, lessons were again in the morning shift. Gymnastics was in the afternoon shift, more on that later.

The thirty-third school was huge, with twice as many students as the gymnasium - around two thousand. The first floor had a big square hall, crowded during breaks. I saw the "grandfather" boy from those few days in September in the corridors, but he didn"t remember me.

I"m sure the letter of the class I was now in was "Zh" or "G," because I associated letters with shit or ass. But I corresponded incognito with a classmate, and he said it was "V." Still, he didn"t remember many notable classmates, so not entirely reliable. Most importantly, my medical record listed class letters: beside five was "G," and for six and beyond - "B." But it couldn"t have been "B," because the kids, especially the boys, were clearly slow or problematic. So I didn"t take that class seriously - it felt like an evening school for troublemakers.

Anyway, this was the exact class and set of students where I"d finish my last school year in 2006. I remember these classmates far less than the gymnasium ones.

In the first days, aside from Forrest, I didn"t talk to anyone - until Dima Fyodorov showed up.

Back then, the Internet had a cartoon called Masyanya in crude Flash animation, but for some reason, Mom and I already knew about it - probably from TV. We compared Dima Fyodorov to it: flat, broad head, ears sticking out. He was tall, solid, yet flat. Broad hands, and later in the bathroom he"d show his penis - a true giant, even in hair. A year older than me, as usual, with grey eyes, light-brown hair, and glasses.

His personality, mannerisms, and status in class were odd. A freak with above-average intelligence, he ignored teachers, scorned studying, seemed like a D-grade student. But it felt like he could learn anything fast when necessary. His parents were similar: neglecting him for now, but near exams, they"d hire tutors and restrict all fun until he caught up - confident he could. I never saw his father; his mother was either an entrepreneur or just a shop worker at the jewellery/copy place in that building near the school, on the corner of Telman and Gorky, where there was also electronics and disc stores, and a hunting shop. I"ll call that building "Gorky 47" from now on.

The whole class considered Fyodorov a total goof, but that"s why I called him a freak - in the modern informal sense: someone deliberately making a spectacle of themselves. Fyodorov provided reasons for mockery himself: constantly doing scenes, impersonating people, not macho, but ridiculous characters. At a school assembly later, he"d wear a headscarf and walk with a stick like an old woman. Among people I knew, he reminded me of YouTuber Stevie T - advanced guitarist, compulsively making faces and playing a fool on camera.

He played piano at music school, performed Moonlight Sonata at school, and among his parodies, imitated an opera singer - as if with a true operatic voice. He could even do it in public. In short - quite the actor.

I bonded with Fyodorov over my all-consuming interest in GTA. Almost all the boys had played it - most had computers, those who didn"t had friends who did. I had nothing, and no connections.

Fyodorov seemed an expert in GTA. I don"t know if new-generation readers know about cheat codes - you type a word on the keyboard and your health is restored, or weapons appear, or a car falls from the sky. Somehow I already knew about them, or Fyodorov told me. Normally against artificial shortcuts, I immediately became obsessed with bending game rules.

He knew the codes by heart. I followed him like a stenographer with a piece of paper. "Aspirin" - restore health... "ProfessionalTools" - get a full weapon set, including a six-shooter... "BigBang" - blow up all visible cars... "Seaways" - wheels tuck in, drive on water... "LiveMIAAlone" - escape the cops...

I had no patience to play as I wanted. It felt like an entire world, infinite codes, a place to live in absolute comfort forever. And suddenly - not just streets, but houses too, and Fyodorov told me he went inside them. It was overwhelming. I no longer carried Forrest to school.

.:::.

Part 50 Text 6. Failures and neuroses with gymnastics,,, more about the boys in the gym,,, in Zavodskoy,,, "Keyboard Solo",,, visiting Fyodorov,,, blizzard days and slides from the dam,,, Giardia.

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I started going to gymnastics in the afternoon shift. In general, you could come twice a day if you wanted, like the Master of Sports, Kuzikyan, and Mephistopheles did, whom I saw in this shift too. I dreamed of being like them, a pro, preferably spending the whole day in the gym.

The Master of Sports would enter the gym all cool, hopping into the warm-up, smelling of cologne. He"d jump on the mat - one, two - then wham - two consecutive forward somersaults. Forward somersaults were my best move. On the springy mat, with a good take-off spot, I could land full-height, sometimes doing two in a row, landing in a crouch on the second. That was all I had to boast about. Nothing else.

From the trampoline to the mat we did combinations... Tempo backflip, then a couple of flairs... I could do them, but it would seem I had a proper flair on the first, so I could do the second... No. I was just carried by inertia from the trampoline. I did flairs wrong - both the first and second were crap. On the mat - complete disgrace.

Ivan Borisovich also taught, constantly reminding us to put palms inward in flairs - fingers toward each other, not outward. Outward, he said, with high stress, elbows could twist and break inward. Especially relevant for people like Guzhviev or many girls, whose elbows already bend backward.

It was one of my strong phobias - breaking or dislocating joints backward. I imagined the pain and shame of screaming on the mat, right next to the girls" section, where older girls were in the afternoon shift. With palms together, I couldn"t do flairs at all.

Wrists hurt more - I"ve had wrist issues my whole life, even without gymnastics. Plus I still jerked off on the mushroom - the mushroom is a cap-shaped apparatus, and the circles are breakdance spins using only hands on the floor, but in gymnastics, legs must be straight. Heavy, endless stress on the wrists.

After training, I stayed longest, struggling until I didn"t even want to masturbate by squeezing my legs. I knew Korovin would soon surpass me in the morning shift.

In this second shift, I didn"t socialize. There was a boy my age - Denis, dark-haired, stocky, shorter than me. He did all the basics - flairs - but nothing serious like spins without trainers. He was the most approachable.

Then Maksim, a couple of years older. As he later said, he"d trained only two years but already did spins without trainers. There were shared grips for upper bars. For the lower one, without chalk, almost all boys in my group trained spins with trainers, and I only did big swings - we wore construction gloves that, tossed into a bag sweaty, always smelled musty.

Maksim wasn"t as extroverted as Denis. I also remember Kolya, fourteen, short hair, curly, very blond - even eyebrows white. From brief talks with the coach, he had a history of falling from the bar, hitting his head on the edge of the foam pit - like the Engels gym guy. That gave him a fear of doing spins again. He was the only one I could reach online. He responded "properly," without enthusiasm, never answering clarifying questions. He said, like himself, Korovin trained until twenty-two and now worked as a coach.

Since Saratov gymnastics was near Zavodskoy, that winter and spring I made trips to my father and BabValya - especially after Saturday third-week training. My father got a computer - not modern, not a Pentium 4, but a second-generation that could theoretically handle 3D graphics. He got it second-hand, with the program Keyboard Solo - to develop typing speed. It had hints, praise, some interactive elements. Another kind of virtual life, a world.

I"d sit after freezing, stressful weekdays, in sweaters, working through it. BabValya would come into the gym, chat, call me for dinner. Local idyll.

About ten days after meeting Fyodorov, he invited me to his place after school. He lived in a Khrushchyovka above the city library on Gorky, where my father was. Upper corner apartment overlooking the intersection with Khalturina. No parents home, and we went straight to the computer, which felt more like his parents" than his. I couldn"t wait to see GTA, and he turned it on. I watched him drive. That classic Vice City sunrise on the main neon street, beach in view. Music hit my ears when he got in a vehicle. A song - "Shi Selz Sankshery" - forever linked with that Miami morning, the start of some interesting day. Fyodorov switched radio. He had completed Vice City a hundred times and wanted to show another game - car races in canyon terrain. Also, he showed a UFO snatching a cow by the roadside. I had to rush home for lunch and training, counting minutes.

Another time, I came leisurely. We started Vice City, I played, searching for the rock station - Slayer was playing. It would be almost two years before I learned all those band names.

Then we went to the kitchen. On the floor, a big bottle of homemade wine, with a tube. Fyodorov sucked and poured it into a glass, topping off the bottle with water. Fyodorov was always the guide; I treated him as the expert. Artem was similar, though less confident. Fyodorov wouldn"t even admit being wrong after proof.

Next came those freezing gray days, heavy skies, blizzards. On the embankment, they had a slide on a concrete descent by the Stele. Fyodorov and I went there in the afternoons after lunch. We exchanged phones. A few days in a row, we went. There was a classmate too, but no interaction. Many kids, view of Saratov. Embankment snow-covered, deserted, except for the slide. Felt like a music video - riding plastic sheets, sliding far - three times further than the slide itself. Sometimes we went until evening; sometimes I went alone. Mostly I went hoping to socialize. Nothing happened - everyone was there to slide, nobody cared about anyone, only me feeling needy all the time.

On February seventeenth, a Giardia test - I think Mom and I went to some medical place near Khimvolokno, maybe a blood draw. Stressful, but minor compared to other tortures. They found Giardia, treated it fast. Around that time, the clinic mentioned worms - not me, just stories Mom relayed. Some acquaintance said her daughter yelled from the toilet: "Mom, there"s a string!" - pulled out a long worm. Another story of someone finding a worm in their heart. I didn"t believe these stories, figured Mom was told fiction.


.:::.

Part 50 Text 7. Visiting Dad,,, Soldiers of Fortune,,, games - about calm, not happiness,,, bought an Evanescence tape.

.::::.

For a couple of days around the 23rd of February, I went back to my dad"s on the ninth floor. BabValya was always at work, and we just sat there, messing around with the computer. I kept going through Keyboard Solo, but it was already getting a bit tedious. On the first day, we went to buy some game disc - just to see if it would run on his computer. We found something with the lowest system requirements, some compilation. One game had flying carpet races. But even then, it ran in the worst possible quality and froze after a couple of hours, taking the whole computer with it. Dad got nervous immediately - that beat-up computer had cost him a lot. But eventually it came back to life. In the evening, we went for groceries at the shop across the street - Penzenskaya 41... I mention it because there will be déjà vu episodes at the end of this childhood story. The flying carpets could be traded for something for the future, when I"d finally have a computer of my own. The next day, we swapped them for a wrestling game disc. Judging by the pictures, it had all the famous fighters like The Rock, and a blond guy with long hair, someone I remembered vaguely from early childhood as some rock musician... Then we went to the Sharik market, and in the freezing cold, men were selling second-hand discs, pricing them spitefully compared to stores. I liked a disc called Soldiers of Fortune - I"d long wanted a proper boyish shooter, and I persuaded my dad to buy it. It should have worked, but it didn"t, and the way I"d begged like a kid made my dad frustrated; a couple of times that day he muttered, "I can"t believe I wasted money." It cost ninety or a hundred rubles, being on two discs - nine trips on the Moscow metro, or twenty on bus 284 by our reckoning.

Back in Engels and at school, I told Fyodorov about the Soldiers of Fortune, and he said it was meant for network play with others, like at computer clubs where kids played Counter-Strike.

Around the same days, after school, we went to that old grocery store where Mom and I had first bought my Anacom. There was a small computer club there, with kids playing shooters online. I wasn"t going to pay - I always had to save for a computer - so Fyodorov covered for me. We spent an hour there, but I had to rush to training, and he stayed.

Even though I"d found a buddy at school, even though there was no Zemskov-style bullying, even though we had the topic I cared about - GTA and computers - all those trips to the shop with Fyodorov, browsing games after school, were still all about depression. The dopamine from anticipating escape into computer games was about depression. Everything there was bright, colourful, safe, stress-free - but it didn"t make me happy. And gymnastics, those stupid, stinking mats, the green-walled, rank changing room - strangely, that was more about happiness. Even the army, even the most brutish crap. In places like that, in such activities, you could grow real happiness. Because I mean real, biological happiness - the "prize." Forgetting yourself in front of a game monitor - escaping stress and real life - isn"t happiness, just calm, as I"ve said. But biological happiness is feeling strong, a man, a male, respected by peers in the real world. To be mentally and physically strong, to face a trial like sport, to win, to be the best. To have some girl cling to you, like I saw that summer in the park, fighting for you - screaming in sex, underneath, not on top, unlike in my depravity. With my hyper-anxiety, hyper-sensitivity, and poor physical strength, that biological happiness was out of reach for me.

Music was something in-between. Not an escape into toy worlds, not a real-world satisfaction - just despair. I mean music like from Titanic, Bitter End, stuff like that... I spent all my time in front of MTV, and one morning, just me and Mom in the hall, a clip of Evanescence"s Going Under played. I told Mom, "This is my favourite music," and over the heavy parts, I mimed a rock-guitar performance, shaking my head. I had to prepare her for this music because it meant I"d be buying the tape. I pretended to like the aggression, the vampires in the clip. I was pretending, and though I wasn"t immune to aggression, what really drew me were the notes of despair and the minor keys, especially with the highly harmonised young female vocals, like Evanescence. There was nothing else like it.

A few days before my birthday, after school, I went not with Fyodorov through the disc shop, but to a little shop near the school - corner of Telman 6. They had audio cassettes. There was Metallica with a fist on the cover, which I also wanted, but wasn"t sure it was really rock. I bought the Evanescence tape, their main album. I was super proud: the first time I bought something myself, and immediately something "grown-up." For several days, I just sat in the Kenwood chair, listening.

.:.

___Part 51.

.::.

________________I"m 11 years old.

.:::.

Part 51 Text 1. Fyodorov wrecked the computer,,, International Women"s Day at school,,, computer games of that era,,, NCTSM with Mom,,, bought a computer at "President Agency",,, first day of GTA and escapism.

.::::.

On my eleventh birthday, Fyodorov came over. BabKlava was around, the kitchen in chaos, and we sat in the middle room at our computer. He claimed he"d fix the black screen and some message that had been there for a month, and I really thought he was a pro. But instead of a software fix, screwdrivers came out, the computer was laid on its side, and Fyodorov started unplugging and reconnecting things - until the screen went completely dead. I wasn"t upset; it was clear the computer was finished. And that was the first and last time he came over.

By evening, Dad arrived. Fyodorov had already left, and I sat in the hall at the Kenwood, keeping the tape playing. Dad came in, and I told him I"d bought a tape from a rock band. My Immortal was playing. He listened and said, "This is pop."

By 8th of March, we had a half-day of school and then a class assembly, with a view over the fifteen-storey buildings and alleys in front of the school. Moms sat in class, we hung out nearby. That"s when Fyodorov played the Moonlight Sonata, and later, amid informal chaos, wrapped a scarf around his head, took a stick like a cane, twisted his face, and limped from the corridor into the class, playing an old woman. I sat near our moms, and his mom, pretending to complain but actually proud, said: "Well, he is what he is." She knew he"d wrecked the computer, but unlike Mom of Artyom, she wouldn"t even remotely try to apologise.

Computer disc shops were in almost every building on the main streets. Wherever Mom and I walked, I went into every one, scanning for something, and she waited. There were always games like Serious Sam, Unreal Tournament. None of it interested me. I wanted GTA or a sports simulator. I saw a track-and-field simulator, hoping there might be one for gymnastics.

On the wall of the Telman Lyceum, they hung a plaque for a neighbour who returned from Chechnya in a zinc coffin. He had studied at that lyceum.

I was preoccupied and a couple of times asked Mom questions about sex. Once we were crossing Telman street, and I pretended not to know, asking what "to come" meant. She explained using the word "pleasant." It always seemed she only knew from hearsay. It annoyed me that people - even if not her, but those telling her - could link sexual arousal, even orgasm, with "pleasant." For me, arousal was pure suffering, orgasm felt like death, just the onset of calm. Not pleasure. But this memoir is already so huge, I don"t want to repeat what I"ve explained - it"s clear.

Later, after lunch, sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, I annoyed Mom, hands hidden under the table. She said, "...like boys sit and masturbate." I laughed automatically, "What?" pretending not to know the word. She repeated it, laughing too. Humor was the only escape. After her clarification, I quickly changed the topic. Meanwhile, I kept running from the bath, jerking off, pretending to be a little kid, and she kept checking I hadn"t "drifted away." I was almost a year and a half from developing my first pubic hair.

Mid-March, Mom and I went to the computer shop President Agency, in the Serebryakova building, on the street-facing side. The smell of plastic and computer hardware hit immediately - heaven for my eyes: a dozen monitors, many LCDs, half showing Windows XP desktops with the green hills, some a beautiful screensaver. Ten or so system units in a row. A couple of pushy salespeople - we got a guy with perfect posture, like a model student, and sad eyes. We"ll call him "Tear."

This was our first ever visit to a computer shop. It felt like buying Zosya, the Cross bike, and other past purchases - Mom was close to the limit, and it would take only a few coaxing words from Tear to move from "just looking" to "buying." Tear understood the computer was mainly for GTA, which ran on everything, and pointed out the cheapest system. White, simple, hooked to a monitor - Windows XP Home Edition. About nine thousand rubles - roughly sixty-three thousand in today"s terms - very expensive for a minimal modern setup. Back then, hardware was pricier; the most expensive PCs and laptops brought memories of the Shmyrkeviches.

We lugged it home. Lunch, and I soon had to rush to training. We"d gone in spontaneously and bought it on a whim. I"ll call it "the computer" - that"s easier.

I hooked it to the monitor, but something went wrong, so we ran back to Tear for advice. Returning, I nearly had it ready to install a game, but time was tight, and I gritted my teeth and went to training.

In the evening, we started GTA. Mom sat on my bed, watching. Given how many days the computer would stay with us, I"d obsess over the game"s music; sound problems didn"t matter - either Tear had advised us to buy speakers, or I had headphones.

The iconic mob table scene, "Tommy Vercetti... ha... burns," I skipped like Sima, mostly afraid something inappropriate would appear. I told Mom, "We don"t need to watch this."

Then, the equally legendary: "I poked my head out of the gutter for one frickin" second and... shovels hit my face..." Enter key. My left hand stayed on the arrows to get into the Admiral - in my version, a cool, realistic Mercedes... Michael Jackson... I knew nothing. No Michael Jackson, no context, nothing at all.

Mom watched for about ten minutes as I drove through the streets, and once she understood what all the fuss was about, she left.

I felt awful for her - especially if she knew the state I was in. To see your child surrender and degrade at the dawn of life... Better if he never lived at all.


.:::.

Part 51 Text 2. Miami Vice City,,, returning the computer,,, late return from training and the end of trolleybus 9,,, wandering around Engels and Serebryakova in the gym,,, Hans died.

.::::.

I didn"t know about saves, and I couldn"t ask Fyodorov at school because I didn"t want to reveal that we"d bought a computer. So every day I replayed all the missions from the very beginning. What I loved most were the motorcycle chases over ramps and things like that. Also the scenes with Lance in his white "Lamborghini" - the Lamborghini Diablo, which became my favourite car of that type. I found and recognised the house with the apartments where I"d squandered Sima"s accumulated in‑game money. I couldn"t figure out that the menu that popped up when you ran over a cassette icon - that was the save system. I didn"t even know that saves were supposed to exist.

The most "Vice City-ish" scene for me was the yacht party. It felt like a dream, as always. In the sense that it felt like it had always existed. Everything I"d seen in childhood - Miami Vice, Knight Rider, Strongest Strike Two, Sima, the atmosphere of summer heat, cottages and air conditioning - all of it seemed to mix together and recognise itself in that scene and in the whole game. I even liked that every evening after school and homework I found myself again at the start of the game. I love beginnings most of all. The furthest I ever got was unlocking the island with Gonzalez"s mansion. And then, when it was time to go to bed, I"d switch the computer off and lose all the progress.

On the weekend, after I"d spent half the day at the monitor, Mom demanded I turn it off and take a break. After enduring it for a while, I begged her to let me sit down at it again.

Uncle Seryozha stopped by and said that Windows XP Home Edition didn"t support ArchiCAD and professional programs - you needed Professional. Partly Mom had decided to buy the computer so it could eventually serve for learning her work programs. But if that was the case, and since the computer was such an expensive purchase, we immediately started thinking about returning it - you could do that within two weeks. I myself didn"t want a half‑measure either - some "Home Edition" when there was "Professional." I wanted to be a professional.

And so, after owning the computer for about ten days, I said goodbye to GTA for an indefinite time. I think I deleted it, we packed the machine up, and took it back. It was insanely awkward in front of "Tear" and the shop. The feeling was like those situations when I picked up a half‑finished bottle and was snapped at, or when I picked up some coins and was immediately told to put them back. I wanted to beat myself up - that"s how painfully I experience moments like that. Mom, meanwhile, was calm.

It was the spring holidays.

Those days I stayed in the gym as long as possible, long after our group had left, when only some other evening groups remained.

On the twenty‑second of March I was returning from gymnastics as usual. It was already well past seven when I got to Moskovskaya to transfer to bus 284 to Engels. A crowd had already gathered there, but no buses or trolleybuses to Engels were boarding. Some people had already started walking away from the stop, and after about forty minutes our whole stop moved toward the bridge too. The bridge was closed, the lamps along it were off, and people were walking across it on foot. So in the end I went along with everyone, right along the road across the bridge. There were crowds of people, like some kind of procession.

I kept remembering Mom"s story of how, in her student years, she once got stuck late in Saratov when there were no buses left, and traffic police officers drove her to Engels - while BabKlava happened to be coming the other way in a taxi, and they saw each other.

I got home well after nine. Mom and Dad were sitting in the kitchen, unsure how to react, but I spoke first and said, "What, you don"t follow the news?" - even though they had nowhere to follow it.

Something had happened to the trolley wires on the bridge, and for the next fifteen years trolleybus number nine would stop running. Soon they removed the lamp posts along one side, and for years the bridge had lighting only on one side.

It hit finances hard: now we had to ride buses without travel passes, which cost more - and around that same time, or a bit later by summer, the fare rose to five rubles or even five and a half. In an emergency I could spend my own money, but I didn"t want to - I was saving. Mom now gave money for fares reluctantly too, because she was saving every kopeck toward the distant hope of buying a separate flat in Saratov. The story with the gymnasium school still wasn"t completely finished.

The Engels park sits three steps lower than the square, and now everything there was flooded - an unusual sight. Once I went there alone in the evening for some reason. Some boys were there, someone from my class in thirty‑three, and everyone was trying to walk deeper into the park along the curbs above the water. The lamps were already on - that childhood atmosphere without the internet, and all that.

Another time - though here I"m not entirely sure; maybe it was actually the previous autumn - I met Kozlov, and we wandered around the grey, deserted centre of Engels in a light drizzle. Passing along Kommunisticheskaya Street opposite the grown‑up café Zhiguli, we looked through the windows of building number fifty‑three. There was always some hall below street level there, something sports‑related. Inside were girls doing dance or aerobics, and among them we saw Dasha Serebryakova. Kozlov spotted her first - I didn"t believe it at first. But I looked, and it really was her. And that was it. Yet I"ve remembered that moment my whole life. Interesting memory?

Dad was living with us then. One day he brought news: Hans had died.

The next day I had training, and since it was still the holidays, I was going to BabValya"s afterwards. She met me at the entrance to the Sports Palace. She already knew that I knew, and we rode sadly to Zavodskoy.

At her flat, in the living room, between the armchairs on the table stood a framed photo of her and Hans. Left alone in the room, I started sobbing. I remembered everything I knew about him. BabValya"s stories - how in his childhood he"d fallen from somewhere, hurt something, and afterwards for the rest of his life wouldn"t let anyone touch him except her. She used to brush his long dark fur with a special comb. He had never been outside that one‑room flat and had never seen other cats. His whole life he dragged around that stinking currant‑scented rag in his teeth. He"d lived a really shitty life.

BabValya saw me when I was already finishing crying.

.:::.

Part 51 Text 3. Mom"s abortion,,, classmates list,,, Yarik and cigarettes,,, I try smoking,,, spring dopamine despair,,, gymnastics exercise phobias,,, smoking with Fyodorov,,, with Artyom we saw homeless kids in the park.

.::::.

The holidays ended.

Already during the school days, news exploded at home: Mom had accidentally become pregnant. Dad immediately left. There was bustle for several days. She talked to me about it. She said, "And I was thinking - why are my tits getting bigger?" But she immediately began talking about an abortion, and her cheerful tone about it was probably just self‑amusement; in reality she was tormented about it, going to church and all that. On the last day - at lunchtime after school - she suddenly said: "Maybe we should keep it? You"d have a little brother or sister."

I was sitting in the mustard‑coloured armchair, pretending to be cheerful. Those days at gymnastics, while doing big swings in my training shorts, Ivan Borisovich pushed me over the bar and I did my first backward circles - so I felt good and sporty, victorious even, which was why I stayed strong for so long in the conversations about the pregnancy. But then, even though I understood she would have the abortion - because a new person didn"t fit our situation at all - I broke down and burst into tears. I stood up and went into the room while she called after me with tones like "oh come on" and "it"s nothing."

In reality she should have understood that this was one of my most painful themes - becoming unimportant to her, or having to share that importance with someone else. It felt as if she wanted to test my reaction for some reason.

Dad"s departure seemed logically automatic to me. The pregnancy - as Mom said - was from him, which made him the one responsible for everything Mom had to go through. An abortion is surgery, a risk to life. And when someone is guilty, they get punished. So he was expelled. Or rather, he simply "left guiltily." That was my simple explanation.

And actually, until this moment - right now as I write - I"d never even considered that the pregnancy might have been from Uncle Seryozha. That would explain both why Dad left and why Uncle Seryozha suddenly appeared in those days helping Mom - taking her to the operation and bringing her back. And Dad later returning fairly easily could be explained by the fact that he"d long ago grown used to Uncle Seryozha"s parallel presence in Mom"s life and wasn"t jealous. But I thought it was from Dad.

On the thirty‑first of March we went again to that Saratov Soviet Hospital about my urethritis, like the year before - and, by memory, also about Mom"s issue. But I don"t remember in which hospital she actually had the procedure.

Maybe I slept somewhere that night - I don"t remember. They paid the doctor something; Mom said he even refused at first. A whole story like that. It traumatised me badly. Because it showed that sex for the sake of sex exists.

Who were the other classmates besides Fyodorov?

There was Yaroslav - Yarik. A C‑student. A man in a boy"s body. I don"t know how old he was. They were all at least a year older than me. He seemed about fifteen. Hairy legs, voice breaking, everything like that. A short, stocky guy - no one would have started trouble with him. But he was kind and normal. He lived in an old corner three‑storey house at 34 Kommunisticheskaya, where a mobile phone shop had already opened on the corner.

Someone named Tyulenev - also a C‑student. A small, sturdy, good‑natured kid, living in a private house on Khalturina Street near Fyodorov.

Someone Mitinkov - dark hair, brown eyes, with some Turkic mix or something like that. His appearance disgusted me. Probably acne too. Another C‑student.

Roma Yefimov - a small, chubby kolobok‑like kid. C‑student. The one I later messaged to confirm our class letter.

There was also a Tsyganov - nothing much will happen with him. With the others, a little bit.

Sasha Yezhov - tall, proper, completely correct. The only straight‑A student in the class, the only one who always did his homework. Most of the others were solid C‑students or even failing.

Seryozha Slepukhin - the only boy with a "proper" build, heavier‑boned than me. The rest were either fat and small, or the mini‑man Yarik, or tall ones like Yezhov and Tsyganov.

There wasn"t a single girl in the class who suited my taste or build. They all seemed overgrown like Yarik. So I didn"t pay attention to any of them and only remember three: someone called Tsyganok, Darya Levintsova, and Maria Charikova. At best they were B‑students. The class had only one A‑student girl as well. Nothing significant will happen in the biography with any of the girls except Charikova - just a little.

This Yarik - he smoked. In school, cigarette smoke hung in the first‑floor toilet. You could barely stay there, your eyes watered. After the gymnasium school it felt brutal. So I wasn"t very surprised to learn that Yarik smoked. He smoked both in the toilet and after school with other boys behind garages in a "yard straight out of the nineties" between Telman and Petrovskaya. There were boiler houses and garages along the wholesale warehouse walls - syringes, shit on the ground, all that - hence "nineties vibe."

I walked through that yard on my way to school and back, and sometimes stopped there when there were conversations about computers with some of the boys. It wasn"t only Yarik smoking there - maybe Tyulenev too. One day I came there and Fyodorov was there, smoking as well. His reaction suggested he didn"t want me to see it. Already then I sensed he didn"t quite trust me. It probably started because I never invited him to my home again after he wrecked our computer. Maybe also because around that time I revealed to him that I"d had a new computer for a few days. In short, he realised I didn"t trust him - and therefore I might be capable of more - so he shouldn"t trust me either. But we still hung out.

Because Fyodorov was there, I started coming to those garages more often. One day I tried smoking with them too. From the stress of the risk, and because smoking was associated in my mind with the girls in the park that summer, I got hard.

That spring I already had the feeling I would later call my lifelong "dopamine despair." It"s when you stand by the sunny window of the flat and look down at the street where the snow has melted and the ground is drying, people walking without hats. Sometimes the balcony is open and the first flies buzz in. You realise that summer things will start again - girlfriends, meetings. For other people. For you - nothing. You"ll stand at that window again, or maybe go collect bottles like a tramp. Wander around garages with Artyom. Nothing will happen, no prize. Because there is no victory. You"re just a component of this planet"s biosphere.

At gymnastics there were regional competitions planned for the end of April. Everyone in our group would perform, including me.

I couldn"t hold a handstand at all, but every training session the coach made me do it on the parallel bars. There were no mats underneath except the thinnest one on the wooden gym floor, barely covering the metal supports. Even if it did cover them, falling from one and a half metres onto that mat - even a soft one - could mean an open fracture and losing use of your arm forever, or if you landed on your head, paralysis for eighty‑nine years. Or death. All of this was instinctively obvious to me. What I couldn"t understand was how others didn"t see it. How is this allowed? What kind of sport is it if you can die? Extreme sports already made no sense to me. But here too you could die. Yet gymnastics was state‑supported. How can someone join the army if you can die there? How can you take a weapon if it kills? And the state even forces it. What kind of world is this? Where have I ended up?

I thought about things like that constantly. And the more I noticed that other people didn"t seem to think about it or feel the same way, the more alienated from them I felt.

Still, I kept seeing Fyodorov. We went to his home again, and now that his smoking was no longer secret, he"d pull out his Bond cigarettes. Cigarettes were cheap - about ten rubles a pack - so sharing one wasn"t an issue. We smoked them on his balcony. I don"t remember getting dizzy. Bond became my favourite brand, though every cigarette I"d smoked by then tasted the same. Fyodorov also told me about Captain Black - he called them "cigarillos" - with different flavours. Even though he was weird and eccentric, he somehow knew all this stuff. Back then that meant someone was socialised, because there was nowhere else to learn it. Compared to him, with my outside‑school acquaintances limited to Artyom and Kozlov - and even them rarely - I was basically Hans.

Around that time I met Artyom again, and we wandered the bleak, empty centre of Engels together. We went into the park. At the exit toward the museum, after the public toilet, there was another rubbish area with large dumpsters. As we approached, a pack of boys was moving around there, and their rough play was serious - the kind where someone might shove a lit firecracker down another kid"s trousers. Kids like Artyom and me couldn"t do that. This pack looked like real street vagabonds, like in programmes about the nineties. Mom and I had seen them wandering around Engels before; she"d said they were homeless.

And while we were passing, one of the older boys grabbed a smaller one and threw him straight into a dumpster. Fucking hell. I"d never seen that level before. I thought: if they can throw each other into dumpsters like that, with someone like me they wouldn"t bother being careful at all - they"d just kill me. Nothing would stop them, because they didn"t care about parents - they didn"t have any.

Artyom silently quickened our pace away from them. He understood street life better.


.:::.

Part 51 Text 4. Massage at the clinic,,, fetishes,,, physical therapy at the clinic,,, infantilism with Timon and Pumbaa,,, family jokes in an idyll with Mom,,, GTA escapism and the music of the radio stations.

.::::.

Mom and I kept going to the clinic. All the worst things were already behind us, and I actually liked those clinic days: not going to school, but instead going to suffer a bit in the lines, sitting in the office with Mom next to some white‑coated lady while she scribbled something down, and then heading home through Skazka - and the whole day was free, and no homework.

At the clinic the topic of massage suddenly appeared. Most likely it was something preventive for kids with scoliosis, though maybe not - maybe it was already the beginning of my back problems, the ones that by the following autumn, among other reasons, would end my gymnastics.

The massage was again in one of those rooms on the dark side, like the ones where they took blood from a vein, tortured people with gastroscopy, and where in childhood they had cut my dick. But in this room there was a table you had to lie down on, and some girl - technically an adult, but still a girl - would massage your back and legs. She didn"t do it the way I liked: she didn"t press very hard and didn"t really knead the muscles. And she also smeared cream on me - which I still don"t understand the point of. But it was still nice because of that same feeling of being a little king, like when waiters brought plates of food to the table during that last trip to the south.

The clinic massage itself happened around lunchtime, so I didn"t like it because it conflicted with my gymnastics training schedule, though I always managed to make it in time. Because of that - and also because of a background, almost sex‑phobic feeling, or rather clinic‑phobic: a reluctance to let anyone do anything to my body - I kind of rebelled against the massage.

When it came to massaging my legs - which had been in boots all morning, because I even went to massage on school days - and they smelled, I behaved there in the spirit of "serves you right, go ahead and smell it." Once I even said something along those lines, or maybe just asked: "How do you even tolerate this?" She did the massages without gloves, too. But she said it was nothing. The leg massage she did wasn"t how I liked it either. When I massaged my own legs, I did it with all my strength, twisting them hard, but she did everything gently.

Around that same time I also happened to catch fragments of some movie which, as I later found out, is called Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood. It"s a comedy, and there was a scene where a guy, as part of a sexual practice, was going to smear something on a woman"s feet and lick it off - but he used some kind of hot sauce and basically tortured himself. That was the first time I"d ever seen or heard of such things. But I still didn"t understand that people actually practiced them seriously, and until about fifteen - before the internet and porn appeared - I was, as I call it, blissfully ignorant.

At fourteen or fifteen I then got seriously shocked by all that stuff and lost my mind a bit - started becoming antisocial, creating an image of myself as some kind of necrophile maniac as compensation for the fact that people were doing all sorts of things while all I had was jerking off when Mom wasn"t home. But that"s already outside the childhood biography. I"m mentioning it just to show what it would"ve been like if I"d known the reality earlier.

At the clinic I was also assigned some kind of preventive physical therapy. It was supposed to happen after the massage, and I didn"t go, but once - exactly on a day when I had training - Mom suddenly got irritated about something and said I would go. I was miserable and almost swearing: you had to wait for the procedure, and I was already going to be late.

It was at the far end of the corridor where there were a lot of posters about HIV, AIDS, and pregnancy, and nearby was that room where they made you inhale some vapors for allergies. Then the kids were let into a small gym room. There was a carpet, a mirror along the wall, and I stood there with a very displeased face doing various simple nonsense - mostly not doing anything at all, just rebelling.

That was the only time Mom managed to keep me from going to training. I don"t remember whether I at least went for the remainder of the workout or not. I went to that physical therapy exactly once, and the massages also ended soon after.

Because of depression from everything - including having nothing to do - I sat in front of the TV for hours. I started rewatching my tapes again, specifically Timon and Pumbaa. That cassette was an indicator of depression: if I was watching Timon and Pumbaa, it meant I was depressed. I didn"t want to die yet, but I didn"t really want to live either. At least not here.

I needed to escape into something.

With Timon and Pumbaa I rediscovered the episode with the song Stand by Me. I hummed it a lot and thought about it constantly. One day I thought about it literally the whole day - on the trolleybus ride to gymnastics along Chernyshevsky Street, and on the way back.

A note from those months has survived, which nevertheless shows my cheerful spirit - or at least the way I presented myself to Mom. Before leaving for gymnastics around noon, I wrote this to her:

-------begin insert-------

"I left, you little fidget. Ate the crunchy buckwheat, the sausage the size of a hand, didn"t eat one - too thin.

Benjor... spirit sector... sandarella."

-------end insert-------

"Kozastra" was Mom"s word. Something like "little rascal." And the last strange words were mine. As I remember, their origin had something to do with the weird cartoon Futurama. I had stumbled onto it a few times while bored and flipping channels. It didn"t interest me at all, but it seemed like someone - maybe a robot - said some strange words there that I later parodied like this.

Or maybe I"m mixing it up, and it was Fyodorov who often imitated English speech and once said some similar nonsense, and I picked it up and joked around with it at home. I even imitated that English smoothing of sounds when I said it.

Mom and I slept in the same bed. We talked and laughed for a long time before falling asleep, and sometimes in the morning we would already decide that I wouldn"t go to school at all.

We also started amusing ourselves with the toy Forrest. I think I started it. I squeezed him into a ball in my fist so that only his bulging eyes stuck out between my fingers. Then I swung my arm and, with theatrical fury, hurled him from our bed across the entire living room at the balcony door. Mom burst out laughing, and so did I. I"d go get him and throw him again with all my strength somewhere against the wall. It became one of our frequent entertainments.

Around that time, talking with Mom at home while complaining about someone who had treated us rudely, I once said: "You can"t treat us like that. We"re sensitive." That amused Mom too, though it was actually true.

We remembered and laughed about "Moteo," "Izzhopa," "Oh, Natasha, what a pussy you have," "I"ll saw off this pipe," "Like this right here," "These hands." About Aunt Klava"s tears that burst out at the first words of her lamentations, and about how she would lie down on the bed in the pose of a corpse.

But the main, most desired escapism was GTA. Part of me seemed to stay inside that game, in that sunny city. Besides the radio station V‑Rock - which I pronounced "Vrok," and for authenticity I"ll keep pronouncing it that way in this biography - whose heavy metal music would gradually become a massive obsession for me, songs from other radio stations also got stuck in my head.

The most important one, the most Vice City song for me, was Self Control by Laura Branigan. A pentatonic hit with a sad vocal, sung - as I imagined it - by some sad grown‑up woman with a bob haircut like Mom"s acquaintance Shurygina. When I remembered that song, I pictured the neon night of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City near the southern bridge in the first city area. A parking garage building, small houses hidden in palm trees, rare cars on the nighttime streets under the lamps. As if I had always been there - that feeling again.

The squeaky songs of Michael Jackson were associated in my mind with little ladies" lapdogs, and although memorable, they seemed like childish, unserious music to me. The same with the hit Africa and many others. I didn"t know a single performer from the radio stations in that game and had no idea they were all considered world hits.

On V‑Rock, the most anticipated track for me in those computer days was a song by Slayer - the most aggressive of them all. But because it played immediately after Madhouse by Anthrax, and because of the similar chromatic style, I thought it was one continuous song by one performer. I loved both parts equally, though the main melody of the Slayer section became my favorite melody in general. I hummed it endlessly.

My love for such a melody came from an earlier attraction to dark chromatic music - from Morozko, Spider‑Man - mixed with nostalgia for moments connected with In the Hall of the Mountain King, and also from horror movies whose soundtracks often used similar sounds. The same origin explains my love for other dark‑sounding melodies that would appear toward the end of 2006.

And the track that preceded "Madhouse" - Peace Sells by Megadeth - also seemed strange and unserious to me, like Michael Jackson, though just as memorable.

Yes, I was already standing with one foot somewhere else. The only thing that remained here was gymnastics. I could still try - until I broke, literally or figuratively.

.:::.

Part 51 Text 5. Preparation for the regional competition,,, the Balakovo girl from hell,,, on the bus with Oleg Nikolaevich,,, the competition and my shame.

.::::.

The day before the competition there was a rehearsal day when everyone who would participate came to the gym.

I walked into the hall, and Oleg Nikolaevich was there along with the boys from Engels - Vitya and Andrey. They were standing right near the entrance, next to the pommel horses. I greeted everyone and felt socially cool: the local boys saw that I had acquaintances here and that I was shaking hands with people, while the boys from Engels, I imagined, were jealous that I trained in this hall - in Saratov - instead of wherever they had to go wearing galoshes, where there wasn"t even a spring floor.

Of course, most likely nobody gave a damn.

But after that there was nothing to envy me for.

Some visiting girl stepped onto the corner of the gymnastics floor, ran forward - and instantly placed me in hell. She was maybe a year older than me, dark‑blond, hair in two braids on the sides, skinny, with those joints bending inward. Wearing a gymnastics leotard. She was doing backward tumbling saltos as easily as if they were simple back handsprings. In the handsprings she placed her fingers together perfectly, everything by the book. Landing from layouts with a one‑and‑a‑half twist, she would throw in another forward salto afterward. On their balance beam she did flips, on the bars she did circles and adult‑level dismounts - all kinds of extreme stuff.

But the main thing was how she looked.

She was the prototype of the Twins who would appear in my story the following year. They would be the same dark‑blond type, and one of them would sometimes wear the same little braids. Girls of that type always made me want to call them "little rascal" - probably some stereotype of a slightly mischievous girl that came from kindergarten or the kids" show Yeralash.

If that girl had been fat or unattractive, I wouldn"t have cared about her tumbling passes and pirouettes. But she was exactly the kind of person I would most want to be with in every parameter. And she was also modest and gentle. She only turned into a hellish chariot when she performed her combinations.

It was obvious to me that as a partner she would choose either Mephistopheles or the Master of Sports if he had been younger. With the first one she even matched perfectly in build. And the fact that she was modest while he was bold and cocky - that would only make her more drawn to her opposite.

She was from Balakovo - a city far from Saratov within our region. Someone from our group said that their gymnastics hall there was even better.

Besides her, no other amazing trick‑performers had come. Toward the end of that rehearsal training session I saw the Balakovo girl jumping on the trampoline, already dressed in pants and a track jacket. She was clearly very familiar with trampolines.

On the way back to Engels that day I arranged to go part of the way with Oleg Nikolaevich. We rode together to Moskovskaya Street and transferred to a white‑and‑blue bus of route 284 that went deeper into Engels, where Oleg Nikolaevich needed to go.

The whole ride we talked about gymnastics. I bombarded him with questions I had accumulated for a long time - about technique, about other boys who trained there. I asked something about that Slava, and Oleg Nikolaevich said he had tried to persuade him to stay in gymnastics, but Slava had eventually switched to judo or something like that. I had finally learned for sure.

We got there quickly - it wasn"t rush hour yet. We said goodbye, and I got off at my stop at Gorky and Lev Kassil Streets, while he rode farther.

On April twenty‑seventh Mom and I again went to the Soviet Hospital in Saratov because of my dick. At that time I often had sharp pains, by the way. You"d just pee - and it would start. Chills, and then hellish pain for half an hour. Then suddenly everything would be normal again. Nobody would ever figure out what it was - they just wasted my time and my sanity with that clinic.

Then the day of the competition came, probably at the very end of April. Dad showed up as if nothing had happened, just as I had predicted. It was already hot, almost T‑shirt weather, sunny. I went to the Sports Palace first, while my parents came later as spectators. I met them on the steps at the main entrance. Dad, just like before the entrance exams to the English gymnasium years earlier, asked: "So, ready?"

Yes, I was ready. I had gone down to the toilet several times beforehand to strain from nerves - that"s why I came early.

We went into the sports hall filled with people. My parents squeezed in and sat on a bench with many other parents. Soon they had some kind of running joke going on there, joking about someone. Later Dad said to Mom about someone - probably another parent - "Didn"t like that goose," and she laughed.

Judges were sitting at tables, and soon we began performing one by one. I think they even announced over a microphone who was next.

In the floor exercise my very first combination was a disgrace: a round‑off and a back salto. The whole hall of kids was doing back handsprings - I was the only one who couldn"t. I even felt embarrassed for the judges. Really, they should have disqualified me entirely for not performing the basic element. They gave me some barely satisfactory score. And that was in my favorite apparatus - floor exercise.

On the other apparatus my routines were just as pathetic. Nothing serious at all. Basically everything I had already been training a year earlier in the Engels gym. In some ICQ histories around 2007 I bragged to someone that I was performing a second‑class sports program... What second class... I didn"t even hold a handstand anywhere.

Andrey from Engels also wasn"t doing anything impressive yet, but at least he could already do handsprings. I wasn"t even competing with him anymore. Anyway, Kuzikyan, Mephistopheles, and the Master of Sports ruled the show.

I don"t remember the girls" performances - whether they were simultaneous with ours or not, though I think I saw them. The Balakovo girl did her tumbling passes, danced through her feminine elements, and struck a gymnast"s pose with her arms spread wide, pushing forward - for now - her nonexistent chest, especially thanks to the sport.

At the end they lined all of us competitors up in a row and announced the winners - those who had scored the highest totals.

I never found out my own total score.

But there was this story - Mom later told me, since my parents had been standing not far from the judges" table - that I had the lowest overall score that day.

And then we went home.

I saw the Balakovo girl for the second and last time.

But more importantly, that was also the last time I ever saw Oleg Nikolaevich.

Just like many others did.


.:::.

Part 51 Text 6. A forward flip on the beach,,, May holidays,,, pull‑up bars,,, woodworking shop class,,, Huckleberry Finn and dreams of escape,,, a book obsession and its end on the beach.

.::::.

Already during the May holidays I started going out collecting bottles again.

Like a stereotypical mama"s boy, I once again walked along the embankment with Mom. We were on the still empty beach. On "our" end of it. There were pull‑up bars and kids" climbing ladders there, and one of those ladders was shaped like a little bridge about waist‑high or a bit higher. Mom was walking somewhere nearby.

And I could no longer keep acting like a wimp. I piled up some sand next to that ladder as a sort of makeshift mat, climbed up, stood on the edge, said goodbye to life - and did a forward flip.

I landed on my feet and over‑rotated forward. But it was finally some kind of victory - even if only over myself. I did it again and landed on my feet properly. And that was without mats, in real, natural conditions.

It felt like in Mortal Kombat, like in action movies, like Jackie Chan - the way I had always dreamed of doing things since childhood.

It charged me up enough to keep going with gymnastics for another five or six months.

On May 9 I was riding my bike between crowds of people wandering along the embankment and saw Serebryakova with her mom. They were carrying some kind of cake, or maybe a sealed box. For a while I followed them around meaninglessly on my bike and then lost them in the crowd.

When it finally became really warm, I started going to the pull‑up bars in the courtyards in the center of Engels. Dad had sewn me some training straps, and I also wore construction gloves. One of the bars was in the yard of the school at Volokha 16. That"s between Telman Street and Stepnaya, on the way to the collective‑farm - pig - market, in the courtyards of the nine‑story buildings where guys like Stas and Denis lived.

Green grass was already everywhere, Stases and Denises were playing soccer on the school field, and I was there on the bar doing my muscle‑ups and other nonsense.

I went there after separating from Mom - across Volokha Street from that school we had gone to pay the phone bill. The main office with the payment counters was there then. The era of landline telephones hadn"t ended yet, but the Internet was already starting to be talked about more and more. There were lots of flyers about it in that telephone office, because the Internet somehow worked through the phone line.

They said you could find out anything you wanted in it.

I had no idea what that even meant, so I didn"t believe any of it - and therefore didn"t care about it.

And all those courtyards, nine‑story buildings, and post‑Soviet scenery - after GTA - I was gradually beginning to hate. But that feeling was still only in its early stages.

At School No. 33 there were also shop classes in that grade. But they were either very rare or somehow avoidable, because I remember attending them only a few times. Here the boys worked not with wood but with metal. And even though I went there so rarely, the smell of metal became permanently associated in my mind with that school.

Toward the end of the school year in literature - maybe already from April - we were studying Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I took a worn‑out copy from the library of the Palace of Pioneers and for a while reluctantly read it according to assignments.

Years earlier I had taken The Adventures of Tom Sawyer from our bookshelf at home, and I hadn"t liked it at all. But now I had grown up and understood the text better, and more importantly the theme became close to me - escaping, gaining freedom. Escapes, wandering, downshifting - real‑life escapism without retreating into virtual worlds.

Of course reading about it was still a kind of virtual escapism, but I dreamed about living like that in reality.

So I kept reading Huckleberry Finn - "Huckelberrifinn," as I pronounced it - even after we finished it at school. Suddenly it no longer mattered to me that the book was old and worn out. I got to the point where I barely talked to anyone at school and spent all the breaks reading, carrying that book everywhere.

It was already mid‑May.

At some point I got tired of Huckleberry Finn and went to the library to get something else. There were shelves of books, and I walked around choosing. But this time I again picked based on colorful covers. I took some children"s detective story. Now I carried that around. Then I took something else. I started bringing both Huckleberry Finn and detective stories to school.

By the way, at some earlier point I had started going to school with a plastic bag instead of a backpack.

So I ended up carrying a whole pile of books with me. An entire epic of bookworm‑ness. All through May.

One day during recess a classmate, Masha Charikova, came up to me. She was actually the best‑looking girl in the class face‑wise and overall - just big‑built, and also very kind, which meant she would never interest me. She silently handed me a couple of books with covers similar to the ones I had been reading recently. More children"s detective stories.

Of course my real interest had already ended with Huckleberry Finn or the book right after it, and after that I was reading just for appearances. Just like earlier I had carried around a phraseological dictionary to look like a nerd. To be different from the others. So that at least Charikova would come up to me like that.

It went so far that I started putting a book into my bag and going to the park with it, sitting on a bench reading.

The days were already hot and beach‑like, and once I went to the beach with one of Charikova"s books. I went to Guzhvievsky - the farthest end of the beach. I lay on the sand reading and tanning. I lay there for an hour.

I was miserable.

It was boring. It didn"t give me what I needed.

Well, Charikova had come up to me - and what? That didn"t change anything.

Toward the end of the book episode I took a classic novel from the library: Jaws. I only read the first pages. They described the body of a woman washed up on the beach, and the detectives examining it were vomiting while one of them tried to hold it together, but then said, "I"ll join the company," and vomited too.

.:::.

Part 51 Text 7. Bicycle jumps and despair,,, prelude to the Twins.

.::::.

By then I was already spending every evening in the park on my bicycle, collecting bottles or practicing my half‑baked tricks. As expected, the bunny hop turned out to be the bicycle equivalent of a back handspring - something I couldn"t really do. To compensate, I started jumping from greater and greater heights while riding fast.

There were two main places: the stylobate of the music school and a three‑step rise on the approach to the Stela from the amusement park.

That three‑step rise wasn"t just a drop - it was literally three long steps you had to clear with speed. About a meter and a half. I think I started with those steps first. At the edge there was an asphalt ramp about as long as the steps, and before the first real jump I practiced there. I would accelerate from the Stela along the top and try to clear the whole ramp and land on the asphalt below. If I didn"t clear it, I would just land on the ramp - nothing terrible.

But I cleared it. Which meant I could clear the steps.

And eventually - probably, as usual, saying goodbye to life - I jumped the three steps too. It worked. I cleared them. I was ecstatic.

Later I sped along the stylobate of the music school toward the museum and jumped off the highest half‑meter drop onto the parking‑lot asphalt. The run‑up there was short and bad, because the entire stylobate area was paved with slabs whose seams had deep gaps that made it impossible to gain proper speed.

Because of that, jumping there almost every day and often landing unevenly - front wheel first, then rear - I soon started having serious problems with my rims again, looseness and other issues.

There was another jump of about the same height on the other side of the music school into the park. But there were no spectators there, so I jumped there less often.

In the park they were already playing "Satisfaction" and other summer music.

One evening Yarik appeared on the square with some other boys on bicycles - guys I didn"t know. Yarik treated me normally, so there shouldn"t have been any conflicts, and for a while I rode with them. I noticed they rode very fast, even though their bikes were the same simple non‑speed ones as mine.

I didn"t have enough strength in my legs to pedal that hard for that long. And that despite the fact that those boys had absolutely no muscle definition - they clearly didn"t do any sports, unlike me.

I kept up with them, but soon the ride became hell for me. I could barely manage it, while they rode, talked, and had no intention of slowing down.

The Twins I mentioned earlier in the story about the Balakovo girl - the ones readers of my earlier biography may already guess about - studied in the same School No. 33.

I saw them in the school corridors during breaks. They were thin and long‑boned compared to average girls. They seemed older than me. Usually they had straight hair down to their shoulders or slightly lower, and large hoop earrings in their ears. Instead of backpacks they carried women"s handbags. In cold weather they wore vests with fur collars.

Overall they looked like budding socialites. A lot of attention to all that feminine presentation. But at the same time they seemed very modest, judging by the behavior I noticed. It was impossible to imagine them competing or acting aggressively.

They always walked together and were sociable with their classmates.

At that moment I was still very far from even having any kind of interest in them. I had simply noticed them and remembered them.

They would only truly enter the story at the beginning of the following year.

Until adulthood I never realized that they were the same little sisters from my childhood in 1995-1996. Until I began digging into myself at twenty‑four, I never pulled any early childhood events out of the memory closet.

And that"s all I can remember about May 2004.

.:.

___Part 52.

.::.

________________Sixth grade over. Summer.

.:::.

Part 52 Text 1. Last summer of socialising,,, unofficially at the playground,,, the start of O-Ke-Ra in small doses,,, morning gymnastics,,, with freckly Lyosha to Moskovskaya,,, sharp pains in the penis and godly delusions.

.::::.

This would be the last summer of my life that I"d spend like normal people - with real, live socialising just for the sake of socialising. Later on, in 2007 and 2008, I"d meet people maybe once every ten days. But that would be for shitty music rehearsals, not for socialising. And in 2014 and 2015, I"d be dealing with employers and clients every weekday doing courier work. But just meeting friends casually - that summer of 2004 was the last.

Mom didn"t sign me up for the playground that summer. But I could go there anyway. Artyom was officially enrolled, and I just turned up whenever I wanted. When they had lunch, I"d stand by the café, because naturally, lunch didn"t apply to me. Once Artyom brought me something to eat from there. All those girls went too, including Serebryakova, that Natasha, and Nastya Storchak. We didn"t go to Serebryakova"s yard with Artyom anymore.

I carried my gym shorts with me, always doing something on the pull-up bar where the other kids were bored. When doing flips or pull-ups on the outdoor bar, dirt or sand from my shoes would often fly into my face and nostrils. By that point, I couldn"t stand it anymore.

These are almost the last stories about the playground. A couple more episodes will come later, about going to the beach with all of them. I also returned all my books to the local children"s library.

Gymnastics in the summer moved to the morning session. Not at the brutal hours, but around nine, I guess. The boys who usually came in the morning started showing up too: Korovin, that other small freckly Lyosha, and others.

In the foam pit, when the morning sun hit it, I noticed clouds of dust in the air. I noticed this dust in buses too, when the sunlight pierced through the whole cabin. I started thinking about how I was inhaling this dust into lungs that nobody knew how they worked, but if it was damp in there, the dust clearly didn"t come back out, and I got "clogged up."

I started compensating shitty flips and shitty backflips with forward flips. Especially now, I wanted to be able to do them from a standstill, landing without putting any hands behind me. I hadn"t seen anyone - not even a Master of Sport - doing a standing forward flip. But Ivan Borisovich said it was possible, that experienced gymnasts could do it and land in a small squat. I trained, trained - and at some point, I trained enough to actually do it. On flat ground, on the mat, from a standstill - landing on my haunches. I started showing off to everyone.

In the group with Slava Stallone, there was a boy named Sasha, I mentioned him before, at a level close to Mephistopheles, like flips without gym shorts. I challenged him, asked if he could do it, and then did the flip for him. He tried, but landed on his ass. Well, to compensate, he did a standing backflip. I didn"t do a backflip in response - that would"ve been embarrassing with him.

Before training, I shook hands with different boys, including Slava Stallone. Well, everyone shook hands with everyone, and he shook mine mechanically, not "personally." As if he didn"t remember me at all.

Korovin was already doing flips in gym shorts with the coach. After just six months of gymnastics.

I endlessly tried to do circles on the mushroom, and also the spichag - all in vain.

On the girls" side of the hall, on the beam, a girl appeared - or rather, a young woman. Fourteen, maybe older. Apparently, she went in the first session before. She did backflips on their beam. She was lean and strong-legged, not like the girls from Balakovo. But I still watched endlessly, stuck in my secret hell. After all, I would never in my life even jump on their damn beam, where you could break a collarbone, tear nerves, and spend eighty-nine years doing everything with one hand, like the actress from Amélie.

But the "dopamine of early summer" saved me from gloomy moods. The coolness of the first summer days, the anticipation of something. The eternal instinctive illusion of good prospects, every start of summer, every beginning of everything.

Freckly Lyosha lived somewhere near Museum Square, and once I returned from morning gymnastics with him on the trolleybus, chatting about something. But, like with everyone except Guzhik, my conversation partner was the guide, and I was the "student." I mean, like with Fyodorov, who knew everything about everything, and like Kozlov, who could do everything and had everything. And with all of them, I was always the beginner, the novice, "still one level below," and so on... That"s how it was with everyone my whole life, except Guzhik and a few other cases. Even as an adult, even with people younger than me.

We walked from the Solnaya Street stop to Moskovskaya, and then parted. I went to the Engels stop, he went down along the Stalinist building. The features of his freckly face, the upturned nose and short stature, later reminded me of the main Dasha"s friend in my story from my youth - Polina Yeronina. She also lived, or at least hung around, in the Museum Square area near that Stalinist building. In general, the erotic model Lili-Ana Alexander I mentioned once bears the closest resemblance to that Lyosha. I just note these coincidences. Since childhood, there were, for me, types of faces, types of features. For example, the lumpen neighbour Natasha on Lev Kassil Street, who came when Mom was out, had facial features like the main character in The Mummy, or the singer of Placebo. Another man in my youth was a copy of Serge from the movie Chocolat. A bunch of women looked like Evanescence"s singer. And so on. And this influenced how I perceived all new people who resembled someone from the past.

Another trip home from gymnastics stuck in my memory separately: on the way, my penis started aching. I got home, it was still morning, Mom wasn"t there, and it got to the point that I filled the bath with hot water and sat in it. When in that state of pain, I didn"t want anything, it was full-on attacks. The pain wasn"t even that sharp - any cut would hurt more. But since the penis was clearly connected to some major nerves, during these thirty to forty-minute attacks, chills and some instinctive inability to focus on anything else developed. These attacks happened maybe once every three weeks during childhood, usually after peeing. And if I had some borderline mischievous thoughts - like, say, stealing something from a fair stall - then I would start promising some god I"d never do it, just to have mercy and stop the pain. Like in that story with the "punishment" for scaring Lidyushka, when I later cut myself and threw up. For comparison - I never had such nonsense during pain from ordinary injuries. And when the pain passed, I didn"t believe in any god again.

By the way, every summer, the hot water would be cut in June for a week or two. But that would only start to be a problem for me from the next summer.


.:::.

Part 52 Text 2. Thoughts about making money,,, fishing,,, swimming,,, granddad arrived and started talking,,, wandering with Artyom,,, Fyodorov on the kiddie cars,,, bratty little shit snatched 5 rubles,,, saving money.

.::::.

A burning desire to earn money welled up inside me. Daytime wasn"t "bottle time" anymore, and I couldn"t sit idle. The easiest thing I saw was to catch fish and sell them. One morning, I grabbed a rod and went fishing on the rocks near the Stele, where now the ramp from the embankment leads to the alleys on the old bread factory site. I was fishing with bread. I didn"t catch much. But while standing there, I saw something small floating toward the shore, some weird thing. When it got to shore and climbed out, it was a turtle. I hated turtles so much that I hadn"t read about them in my books before and didn"t know that one species lives in our region. So it felt like I"d witnessed some kind of phenomenon. I even lost interest in fishing that day and left.

The summer heated up quickly; I was already swimming at the concrete ramp. But all my attention was no longer on fun, but on the bottom. I was always trying to find something down there. Dive and surface with a treasure chest, like Andrey Mironov. But all I ever surfaced with were beer cans. The deepest I dived was about two meters, and by then I was really saying goodbye to life. Deep dives, and water in general, were some of my main phobias.

Almost all my fishing trips were part of walks with Mom when I was little. We"d reach the Stele and usually turn right along the dam. In those years, the underwater wildlife near the city bank of the Volga was disappearing. Gone were the ubiquitous divers in masks and fins hunting crayfish like in my early childhood. Crayfish were still on the bottom near the Stele when I dived, but in quantities hardly worth catching. Fish were getting thinner, smaller, and more skittish.

For a couple of years, I"d heard the boys talk about "bychki" - some kind of fish. To me, that fish was associated with boys. Some "boyish" fish. But now, due to the lack of decent fish near the city bank, and my endless issues with the rod - it would snag on branches during a swing, or just break - I started spotting the bychki. They"d be right by the shore, hiding under stones, which meant I didn"t need a rod - just a line with a hook.

A little further than where Pushkin Street meets the embankment, there was a small low metal pier for motorboats. At certain hours, people went out to the islands; at other times, boys and drunks dived in, or fishermen hung out. That"s where Mom and I started going. She would sunbathe nearby, I"d fish for bychki closer to the shore, and when bored, I"d show off flips into the water or watch the boys jump in with their dumb cannonballs.

That summer, several times, with parents or Artyom, I came to jump into the water from the so-called Pier of the Brave. I even jumped from some tallest post there. But unlike the brave ones, I jumped straight down, not like a pike. And even so, it still constantly smashed my balls with the water.

Mom and I visited the grandparents - "granddad" came and stayed overnight. It was a sunny day, and suddenly he turned out to be talkative, like a normal person. During those gymnastics days, while the coach was absent, I did my first forward rolls in gym shorts on my own (again, like with the flips, forward elements worked better, but backward rolls didn"t). I boasted to granddad, and he told me he did rolls in his youth and army days too. That"s how it got rolling with him, and we started being everywhere together, talking about these rolls. We went back and forth from house to yard, from yard to street on a bench - and back home to the sofa in front of the TV. It seemed his goal was just to talk, it didn"t matter that it was about rolls. Morning and evening, we shook hands. Those few days we stayed with them, that interaction lasted more than I"d ever had in my life.

Outside the playground, I saw Artyom more that summer than before. One day, after lunch, maybe after the playground, we walked to the embankment. We probably went to the Pier of the Brave or swam at the concrete ramp. We were grown-up enough to swim without parents. We wandered, roamed, suffered through boring, almost unmemorable crap. We stood, for example, at the entrance to the amusement park by the claw machine. We had no money, but some fat boy was dropping five-ruble coins one after another. A bald patch shone between his sparse hairs in the sun, and Artyom said, "Look, his bald spot even shines." Nothing more interesting to remember. Other meetings would come later that summer, and I"ll describe them. But this just shows how socialised I was then - I saw Artyom maybe twenty times outside the playground. And on some days, I also met Kozlov.

One morning, I went out to move bottles collected the night before from a stash under burdocks to the collection point on Lev Kassil. Passing a sparsely populated square, I saw Fyodorov walking along the honour board. I pulled up, and without slowing down, he said he was going to the amusement park to ride the kiddie cars - not the big ones, the tiny ones. I was stunned. He was twelve, what cars? Better buy cigarettes. But he was determined, and he seriously went to the entrance in my company - I couldn"t ride in on my bike - and I watched from the square as he barely fit on that miniature car, probably not even bumper cars, just on wheels, grinning like a maniac... I didn"t get what just happened. For me, it was like adults playing computer games.

That"s the only time I saw Fyodorov on the street. Where he spent his summer was unclear. I was on the streets at least half the day every day that summer.

I transported the bottles in parts along Teatralnaya Street, and further, through the passage between Khalturina and Lev Kassil, straight to the collection point. One time, while handing in bottles, a boy from Yarik"s crew rode up on a bike, saw me with money, and asked to borrow five rubles. He said he needed to get to his mom in Zavodskoy, Saratov. I don"t remember details, but the story was extremely implausible. This boy was older than me, solid and big-boned - one of those who pedalled tirelessly while I barely turned the pedals - and had a tendency to be aggressive. He lived somewhere in the city center and might meet me again later. I had to give it to him. I felt super sorry: it was nearly my whole day"s earnings. He met me later, but naturally, didn"t pay back a damn thing, didn"t even remember. Fucking bratty Engels little shit.

At home, after lunch and after handing in bottles, I constantly counted money. I often changed it into paper with Mom. Soon it would have been enough for a minimal speed bike - a couple of thousand rubles, saved over my life. But now I didn"t need a bike, I needed a computer. So I eagerly waited for evening to go out and collect more. I don"t remember even sitting by the TV that summer. I became more and more obsessed with saving.


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Part 52 Text 3. Hated Engels,,, outsider within the crowd,,, the park department of my freakish behaviour and reasons for antisocial fits,,, got a job delivering newspapers,,, Burmistrovs,,, to the beach with newspapers,,, mum taken away with guns.

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Those summer evenings in the Engels park and on the embankment - those are the moments in my past I hate the most. That fucking music - Valeriya with her "Chasiki," "Chocolate Rabbit," and all that. I downloaded it all recently to immerse myself in that time, but I just can"t listen to it - it tears me apart morally. Fucking all those people in the park, fucking park, fucking Engels.

If last summer, a big part of why I collected bottles was driven by some perverse sexual tension, tangled up in my sexophobic complexes, especially on Wednesdays, packed with sexuality, this summer it was gone. Having processed and absorbed all past feelings and experiences - especially those from the last school year, the last six months in particular - I was consciously depressed and antisocial. I could clearly distinguish myself from society now. I could see, objectively, that I would never be like that youth in my own adolescence - I simply had no predisposition for it in any sense. I was now an outsider inside the crowd. Nothing there belonged to me anymore. My music taste had changed. I collected bottles solely for money. Heaps of people laughing for some reason, and me, darting between them, obsessed with the desire to accumulate cash so I"d never have to be there again.

The steadily mounting despair, combined with the fact that I was starting to feel like a professional in bottle-collecting, manifested in what could be called "the park department of my freakish behaviour." The best illustration - how I approached bottles. When cycling in a crowded spot and spotting bottles, I"d leap off the bike mid-ride and just let it go. It would roll forward, crashing into things, while I, not giving a damn, went and grabbed the bottle. It was a provocative, staged self-flagellation, which had already appeared at the end of third grade, when my zipper had come undone in English class. "Notice me and pity me, fuck. I"m completely fucked, I don"t even value my bike anymore. Pull me out, make something happen. I"ve done all I can, and I"m still on the sidelines. My core is irreparable, and with it, I"m useless to anyone. If you"re not going to destroy me, and especially if you expect anything from me - study, join the army, follow social norms - then at least help me somehow satisfy my socio-sexual needs."

Unconditional love from my parents, moral values in society that created a sense of family, and health, educational, and other institutions creating the feeling of a state that watches over you - that"s obviously behind this behaviour and my fits. But since this is literally the main theme of my story, and it raises questions about serious consequences, I"ll leave it for the end of my childhood narrative.

All my bottle-collecting was already, in principle, self-humiliation. One and a half metro tokens a day - that was the equivalent of my average earnings after a whole evening and morning of physical work. And they all sat there drinking, laughing, and probably having sex somewhere.

And then one time, while literally humiliating myself, pulling bottles from under the feet of some girls sitting on a bench in the park alley, one of them said: "Do you want to make money?" I showed interest, and she told me to come the next day to the editorial office of Novaya Gazeta and ask for some Burmistrov. I said I would.

Novaya Gazeta was a primitive Engels newspaper, a couple of spreads, often appearing free in mailbox slots. I had read some jokes from it in the kitchen before. The office was in a building on the very corner of Lva Kassili and Gorky - Gorky 33.

I arrived at the appointed time. The corridors were buzzing with adult business, like the Architecture office we once visited with Mum and Uncle Seryozha. Only here the atmosphere was simpler - humanities people. I waited by a secretary, then was invited into the office by this guy Burmistrov. From the secretary, the leather chairs, and wooden desks, I understood he was the boss. He had a moustache and an unusual face, which, combined with the leather chairs and dark interior, reminded me straightaway of Mephistopheles. But he was kind, clearly a family man. The girl in the park was his daughter. The job was simple - sell newspapers. On the street, however you wanted. Part of the take was for yourself, part for him. I agreed to try, immediately took a batch, arranged to come back when I sold them, and left.

The first couple of days I devoted solely to this. I walked along Gorky offering newspapers to passersby: "Do you want a Novaya Gazeta?" Sales were terrible. I walked along the embankment toward the beach with a bag, offering papers even on the beach, pausing occasionally to sunbathe, hang on the bars, or do a flip. There were tons of people there. After two or three days, when it became clear I wouldn"t get rich selling Novaya Gazeta, my enthusiasm waned. The remaining couple of weeks, I only did it when I had absolutely nothing else to do. I"d return to the office maybe three times just to get a new batch. And when I last went to hand over the total earnings, Burmistrov waved his hand, and I kept it all.

Meanwhile, Mum - with her supernose able to detect the tiniest dodginess in food quality or freshness - had a scandal at a grocery store in the Khrushchyovka at Alva Kassili 1. Some chicken wasn"t fresh. She returned it to be replaced, but they were stubborn, and a scene erupted. Those weren"t the days when shops could just replace goods easily. Back then the grocery was private, and they got cocky. Eventually they called the police. Special forces arrived with guns and put Mum in a UAZ. They even took her to the station, but she managed to contact someone higher up, to whom she had drawn a project, and was released.

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Part 52 Text 4. Father in the gallery and discs,,, Kelly Family,,, desire to return to GTA,,, to the beach with the playground and self-flagellating impulse.

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Dad - who, at the time, more or less didn"t live with us - later, when he arrived, and I told him, said he knew Burmistrov. In that tiny Engels centre, everyone knew everyone. Dad was no longer in the city library; he was now working with frames and stretchers in some room in the city art gallery, the building just behind the main square stand. As I understand, he had a nominal gallery position, but in fact did what we always called "cutting boards" - any handwork, mostly wood. There was another guy with him - Vitaliy Gavrilovich - a former Northern Fleet serviceman, red-faced, either stationed in Kronstadt before or moved here. I knew nothing about Kronstadt or even St Petersburg; for me they were just vague associations - Russian military, submarines, Pushkin, "Italians in Russia." Mine was Miami, Vice City, palm trees.

And that funny man, Sanya Krylov, kept coming to see Dad. Once, after Dad had returned, Krylov brought a huge pile of CDs with music. Dad brought them home and sorted them in our Kenwood. One disc was a compilation by the Kelly Family. About it, he said: "Let"s keep this one." I didn"t understand the style - kind of pop, mostly vocals: voices ranging from childlike to elderly, all incredibly memorable songs. Only years later did I realise half were folk or borrowed songs, like the English ballad Greensleeves and the Beatles" Let It Be. All fifteen or so tracks, light stuff, became part of my favourite music and melodic compass. Some songs Mum and I called "crazy" - weird vocals, weird melodies - and later, during our idyls that autumn and winter, including that disc, I"d perform some Mum-pleasing moves to it, like waving my dick around.

Almost all of my summer existence at home was futile attempts at a spichag, in the square futile attempts to jump higher than fifteen centimetres on my bike, and otherwise - collecting and turning in bottles. I simply have nothing else to recall; it"s like one long day, or rather, it doesn"t really register at all. I strained, jerked, then just collected and turned in, collected and turned in. I hated fucking Engels and wanted to return to Vice City. I escaped in my mind, was never where I actually was. It was then, against the backdrop of all this Engels-association crap - fairs, Chocolate Rabbits, and Katya Lel - that I began recalling GTA radio stations with a particular ache, sketching the Vrock station logo from memory.

I rarely went to the still-running playground. In late June, all the children were taken to the beach. I went with them twice. The first time I rode a bike. I no longer entered their playground, and while they had their morning kids" session, I was busy riding around the district, checking my bottle stash spots. Occasionally I"d pause by the mulberry tree near the café where the kids were taken for lunch and gorge myself. Sun blazing, ten a.m., whole day ahead, I could do whatever I wanted, quickly reach anywhere on my two wheels, imagine myself in GTA, imagine taking a mission and completing it. But I waited at a set time by the stand until all the children and counsellors passed, then joined them. I might have let someone ride my bike while we walked across the square.

The playground led us to the nearest edge of the beach from my early childhood, where the little sisters and all the rest were... I don"t remember much from the first beach day, except the return. We walked along the embankment near the tennis court, now the spot of some complex at 1 Demokraticheskaya Street. I pushed the bike by the handlebars, walking with the rest. Artem walked either with other boys or wasn"t there that day. And at that moment, a sharp social situation hit me. Something about my self-esteem and the girls. Someone hurt me. Most likely the girls. Because there was no one to hit back or blame - everything coming from female mouths toward me, all the female attitude toward me, was exactly why it mattered, and therefore - fact or nonsense, irrelevant. Plus, I was far from understanding consciously that I am what the Outside does to me - I slid into self-flagellation like oil.

A wasp circled among us, and in an emotional flare, I reflexively grabbed it. My classic pattern - oscillating between grabbing attention and replacing mental self-flagellating pain with sharp physical action. The wasp, for some reason, didn"t sting; I tossed it aside and calmed down.


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Part 52, Text 5. Second trip to the beach, dyeing hair black and the resulting shame, pink girl Ksyusha, Artyom saw a pussy, and my sex-phobic, incel hell, end of the playground and beach in my story.

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By the next day"s trip to the beach, I decided to transform myself.

On the back cover of my GTA disc were the four rockers from the game, and they all had black hair. I hated my blondness-just hated being a moth-and wanted to be a proper black Mephistopheles with a goatee, sitting in black leather chairs like Burmistrov, leaving a mark on memory. I needed black hair, damn it. I grabbed black watercolor, mixed it in a cup of water, and somehow dyed my hair-right before leaving the house. Mom didn"t notice, and only at the Palace of Pioneers did I see in the mirror that I hadn"t rinsed the black stains off my neck and sides. I didn"t have my bike and couldn"t quickly go home to wash it off, and there was no time. I tried to wash in the bathroom, but only made it worse.

When the kids came out of the hall into the main lobby, I was in black disgrace, especially since, to show off my blackness, I hadn"t worn or brought a cap that day. Somehow, no one noticed me, except Artyom, and I couldn"t wait to reach the beach to wash all that shit off. Once we arrived, I still feared that the dye might not wash off and that I"d be covered in it forever, trapped in shame. But after the first dive, Artyom said it was all gone.

We then started messing with the girls-sexually teasing them. For shy Artyom this was unusual, but he was basically just executing orders. I, indecisive when it came to direct action, became the motivating control centre. I needed someone"s panties to be pulled underwater so we could see the coveted thing. There was a girl, Ksyusha, whom I had mentioned once in the original list of playground girls from the previous summer. "Shy, cute, and all in pink"-and that day she really was all in pink, already at that age when we all knew about sex. She sexually terrified and angered me to the point of severe inner neurosis. Pink meant pussy.

When sexual topics came up, provoked by boys" mischievous talk, she behaved neither like the outrageously promiscuous Nastya Storchak, nor the obviously asexual Serebryakova, but somewhere in between-too neutrally, neurotically, yet not cold. Ksyusha seemed capable of hiding real lust, more than Storchak. But for the panty operation I was too cowardly, too modest, so Artyom swam the underwater mission. There was chaos in the water, everyone splashing, and he could remain unnoticed. From Ksyusha"s reaction, we succeeded, though she recognised who did it. He surfaced, and we went to the sand to discuss. I asked: "So, what was it? A slit?" "Yes, a slit." Soon she walked past, upset, as if something had been taken from her. She said to him: "I"ll tell my dad," proving he had indeed seen. She didn"t actually complain.

I sat there, unable to think of anything else. In my mind"s eye was what I imagined Artyom saw. Like the edge of an apricot... From her pale, untanned skin... As in my childhood encyclopedia-a tiny slit of a closed girl"s pussy, starting between her legs and ending above in a little loop... Just pure hell... Because there was a possible cure for my psychosexual cancer. The cure was right there-just on someone"s body, in their panties, freely available to give to the one in need. But she wouldn"t give it to the one in need. She"d give it to someone who didn"t suffer at all. Like a casual drink. Or maybe she"d give it to another needy person. But not to me. And not to spite me-but because she wanted it. And why not me? Then why the hell am I even alive, born with a dick?

Soon we ran to dive again, but the adult supervisor stopped me-the same woman who had talked to Mom at the start and been "friendly," the kindest of all. She told me to be gentler with the girls. Also, officially, I wasn"t in charge of them. This curbed my mischief almost completely.

It had been a highly genital day. The boys, while I did unimpressive somersaults nearby-thinking about sand flying from feet that would stay in my lungs forever-found a packaged condom in the sand and, while swimming, inflated it with water to a huge size. At the end, we sat on the sand, and I played with the wrapper, smelling it and thinking: "Could I catch HIV? The person who handled this packaging, including this condom, might have been in the middle of sex, and all their fingers were infected."

I still had my straw-like hair, and Artyom said: "Yeah, you really need to go dark." His hair was dark too, and I envied him.

This was the end of my playground memories. I never saw Ksyusha or that Natasha again. I saw Storchak a few more times because of proximity, and Serebryakova too-once even sitting next to me on a bus in 2012. She didn"t notice me then, and certainly not in 2012.

And that is also the end of the Engelssky summer beach in my entire story. I never swam there again.

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Part 52, Text 6. With gymnasts at Mostootryad, the bottle-collecting old lady, bottle shed, smoking "Captain Black" with Artyom and another boy, poverty with Artyom, Pentium 4, Rammstein d-d-d, feeling like an outsider.

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By July, gymnastics training was wrapping up for the summer break. One of the last sessions was unusual: instead of the Sports Palace, we went to Engelssky forest at Mostootryad. Sunny day. The whole group with the coach arrived at the first Engelssky stop after the bridge; I was already waiting there. We went deep into the forest to a place I"d never been. There was a sports area with bars. We ran, played football, then went swimming in the lake. I had never swum there before. The water was immediately deep and strangely light yet murky-nothing visible twenty centimetres below the surface. Local athletes were kayaking and runners on forest trails-the usual atmosphere of everyone absorbed in their activity. Gymnastics was now on break.

One morning, I went to my main bottle stash near the bread factory fence at the Stele, but the bottles were gone-someone had taken them. Later, when I came to store newly collected bottles, an old lady was rummaging there too. I got angry, raised my tone: "Get the hell out of here." She muttered and left, saying: "Read books," implying "...not collect bottles." A few days later, somehow, we made peace, and she stopped taking my bottles. I still kept storing them in other stashes. Later, for a few days, I frequented the yard of three-story buildings by the embankment near the pull-up bar. There were sheds, one of which was for sale for six to ten thousand-affordable. I discussed it with Mom, imagining filling it with bottles and becoming a pro.

Once, wandering near the square with Artyom, we met a friendly, semi-acquainted boy. The three of us wanted to buy "Captain Black" cigarettes, sold individually. Near the edge of the Children"s Park, by the current registry office-where Mom had done gymnastics as a child-this boy offered to buy them. They sold them, and we went to the park, to the lilac bushes by the shooting range, and smoked. It was cherry-flavoured "Captain Black," not very impressive, but something compared to nothing. I had previously sniffed chocolate-flavoured "Captain Black" from smoking men, and wanted to try. I think I only tried my first one the next year.

Later, walking with Artyom and his mom from the cigarette kiosk across the square, she asked: "Do you smoke, Nikit?" I said: "No." Artyom added: "Even if he did, he wouldn"t tell you."

As I said, both Artyom and I were poor-he didn"t even have a bike. We never had money. At eleven and twelve, we lived on pennies, for a single cigarette, or walking two kilometres to maybe find an unused lighter. Slight exaggeration, but almost exactly that level. Artyom had no savings; I had untouched money, never spending a kopeck. Buying a cassette for twenty rubles was my most adult financial act. This conveys the material level of life back then.

Other similar activities: Artyom and I, later with Kozlov, would go to the shooting range, searching the floor for lost pellets. If we found them, we"d dare-usually when no one was watching-to attach them to the rifles, load, and shoot. Such was our daily life: dirt under nails from picking things off the ground, constant stress and fear of doing something forbidden, the unending refrain: "Read books, not this." A poor childhood with no internet.

A holiday was being prepared in the square. Artyom"s mom planned to work selling ice cream by weight. One day, they set up stalls and rehearsed on stage. Sponsored by a computer company, they planned a Pentium 4 giveaway. Artyom and I seriously aimed to win it. I asked: "What if we win?" He said: "We"ll sell it and split it." He didn"t share my obsession with jumping into virtual worlds fast, though he knew GTA as well.

During the festivities, standard crowds gathered. I rode my bike collecting bottles like a maniac. At night, there were performances and contests where, of course, we won nothing. We wandered until late, approached his mom, then wandered again.

On another day, at the shell-shaped stage near the shooting range, we stood with Artyom, fiddling with some found trinket. From somewhere, Rasmus"s "In the Shadows" played, often on MTV, and having never heard Rammstein, I thought maybe this was it. Artyom doubted, adding that Rammstein goes "d-d-d"-imitating the low electric guitar sound. I wondered how he always seemed to know more than me. That made me even more want to listen to Rammstein.

One day I found a packet of half-smoked cigarettes, hid it in the bushes by the shell stage, and in the morning retrieved them soggy from the dew.

Every day felt like a festive celebration, like Anapa. I could ride late, and the joy of life bubbled with darkness. But mostly I was alone with bottles, suffering from the blasted Valerias, the Blestyashchies, and Dima Bilan, enduring it all only for the Pentium 4. Dominantly, I felt not social joy but like an outsider at someone else"s party.

Everyone smoked and drank, and although I was curious about smoking, even trying it myself, I developed lifelong moral aversion to cigarettes and alcohol-other people"s habits. Seeing cigarettes or beer instantly recalls Engelssky Park and its people. Brands like "LD," "Bond," "Pall Mall"-pure Engelssky scum, pure Valeria.

.:::.

Part 52, Text 7. Kozlov got a computer... going to the park with Kozlov... with the Ovody on the island to the tourist base... my parents" low bar... Artyom"s dam spot... a drowned man... with granddad on the boat to the island... shitting in the water.

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One time Kozlov called and said, "They bought me a computer." I went to his place. His mother always made me wash my hands whenever I visited. She didn"t buy the computer for him, really, but for herself, for work. AutoCAD was already installed along with everything else needed, and I kept thinking that she had mastered all this while my mother hadn"t, and was sinking into a pit of professional inadequacy. Kozlov"s first-and for the first few months, only-game was Mafia. It was like GTA, but set in an old American city with vintage cars-didn"t appeal to me at all. But he liked it, and over the summer I visited about five times, just to sit there while he played, sometimes joining in. When his mother left, a couple of times we sat together on the sofa and masturbated again, and I still couldn"t understand why his penis curved upward, thinking it was abnormal. Kozlov, by the way, knew about the game Sven somehow, and sometimes he would pronounce it "Svennnnn" in a quivering, bleating tone-irony within irony.

One time we masturbated at my place too; I showed him a tape I had. I already had semen, and I told him, but he didn"t believe me. I couldn"t prove it because I had just ejaculated shortly before he arrived, so nothing would have worked in front of him. I don"t even know if he had ejaculated-didn"t matter to me.

Computer games for him were also limited, and Mortal Kombat no longer interested him. So, one damp, drying-out day after the rain, with nothing to do at his house, we ended up in the park. We had some harmless roughhousing, running away from each other. At one point, as he chased me, he slipped on the wet asphalt and fell into the mud. We went down to the embankment where the pull-up bar was and climbed down onto the rocks to wash him off. That"s all I remember from that summer with Kozlov. He never swam, never rode a bike, and never met Artyom.

During those playground days, in some discussion with Artyom about our plans for the afternoon, where I showed my decisiveness, Artyom said: "I"m thinking about where to go-Alyonka or Baba Yaga." Apparently, these were islands about six hundred metres from the shore near the dam where Artyom lived. People were ferried there by motorboats from the pier I mentioned. Artyom went there often. So, when in July we had days when my mother and I met Artyom and his mother to swim at the rocks where they lived, and where we once brought Murka to swim, we decided to go together to that tourist base.

We met at that little pier one morning, and they took us there. It was about a ten-minute boat ride. The islands had a tourist base-my second and last experience at a tourist base on an island. I mention this because "tourist bases" were the only organised leisure my parents had in my early life, something I"d been told about as a child. They were the only example, and even now, when I think of leisure for myself or a hypothetical romantic partner, these are what come to mind. Until I was twenty-four, when Dasha, the girl I would later pine for, began travelling, I didn"t even conceive of going abroad, or even just to the sea in Russia-anywhere beyond my region. I didn"t care about how others lived, and trips like that-or any costly leisure-were unimaginable for my parents. My father never even considered renting a separate place from Baba Valya, let alone having money for travel.

I constantly mention how what my parents showed me-or anything parental, like Channel One on TV-became my standard, my norm, my benchmark. If my parents had experience with anything requiring decent wealth-expensive leisure, buying a dacha, a car for all needs-not just school-related-my benchmark would have been much higher, demanding education and work. From childhood, I wouldn"t have been scavenging coins under stalls or living like a beggar. My parents" example was a maximally "plan-free" life. They lived worse than I do now, and I would never have done better, even if I"d had extra money. Materially and in life necessities, I feel more than successful.

On the island-Alyonka-it was like a copy of the tourist base where we had been with Uncle Valera"s group, but with a strong fishing theme. A small wooden pier had a net lying on it, full of fish rotting under the July sun. I fished, caught a few things, and saw a pike. I never executed my plan to catch and sell fish, but fishing still appealed to me because it saved the food budget. So, after a full day there, swimming with Artyom at tiny beaches while our mothers sat under trees, and exploring a swamp in the nearby groves, I approved the island and left with the intent to return specifically for fishing.

I also got a fairly large black car camera, and a couple of times brought it to our swims at Artyom"s spot. I felt like the "king of the water" those days. We swam far into the Volga, with minimal fears-thanks to the camera. Still, I kept thinking of unlikely but possible disasters: "What if, while swimming far from shore, a catfish bites my leg, or I get caught in an underwater net, or a sunken mast, and a shock breaks a clot, I lose consciousness and drown?"

One day, walking with my mother along the dam to Artyom"s spot or the island, near the little boat pier, there was a crowd and police. Passing through, my mother suddenly said, "Don"t look." I glanced right: a sheet on the grass with legs sticking out. Standard "memento mori" for the day, and a lifelong reminder not to step where he lay. Future O-CA-R foreshadowed. Around that time, we also saw a snake on the asphalt-never needed snakes again.

Granddad was at Frunze, quiet as usual, but eager to fish. We agreed to row with him to the island in his inflatable boat from Artyom"s spot. The day before, we dug up worms in the garden for bait, and I went to sleep at Lev Kassil. Early next morning, I walked there alone; granddad had already arrived, leaving his car at the foot of the dam near the rich cottages. He inflated the boat and we set off. He asked, "Can you swim?"-just to say something, knowing I could. I wondered if he could swim.

We rowed around the island all day. I kept trying to catch a pike in crystal-clear water down to the sandy bottom, but no luck. We did well with other fish, catching plenty both from the boat and on shore for a snack. At one point, I said we were nearly out of worms, but then dug some up from a tin-granddad laughed. Just a fucked-up life...

By evening, we returned to the Engels shore. My mother was there. This was the last time I fished with granddad. He mostly stayed away from Frunze otherwise.

I don"t remember if the same day or another, but in the evening at Artyom"s spot on the rocks, I needed to defecate. There were no bushes, and people were walking along the dam non-stop. I had no choice but to shit in the water. I stepped away from the swimmers and went. The turds floated up spitefully, and I tried in vain to sink them. But my main feeling then wasn"t shame-probably no one saw-but regret for polluting the Volga.

.:.

___Part 53.

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Part 53, Text 1. Rat on the bottles and winding down... stash obsession... looking for an apartment in Saratov... father and his phobias of cops and shady types.

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By mid-July, the peak of my bottle-collecting activity had passed, and I began winding down. It started when I went to the reeds where I kept my stash, and a rat jumped off my pile of bottles. Even though I had mentioned rats before, like with the neighbour on the first floor in our Lev Kassil, rats in Engels were new to me-I had never seen them here. The ones by that neighbour were just rumours. I had only seen rats at Aunt Larisa"s in Saratov, in Zavodskoy. And suddenly, there they were, on things I had to touch with my hands. I knew rats carried all sorts of diseases-plague and the like. I don"t remember if I actually handed in that pile of bottles, but I never stored anything in the reeds again.

As I mentioned, this was also the time when my O-CA-R obsession began to take root. Condoms, HIV... rotting fish on the pier... a drowned man... disgust for the playground outside our entrance, always wet with filth from the garbage dumped from inside... my constant aversion to dirt in front of entrances in general, because coffins with dead bodies are sometimes placed there. Now there were rats on bottles too... But I didn"t "snap" yet. More had to accumulate. Meanwhile, I continued bottle collecting-but with diminishing enthusiasm.

During this winding-down phase, when deciding where to stash things (maybe linked to the idea of renting a garage), I also fell into a dopamine-fuelled obsession with having stashes in general. Between the music school and the museum was a lawn with grey spruces, under which I"d hide some bundle of my belongings-small finds or trivial things-and it amused me to check them the next day; my stuff was still there. I imagined having interesting street missions, like in Mark Twain or GTA, performing tasks while leaping over curbs on a bike. Also, regarding stashes, I simply wanted some immovable property of my own, outside the main apartment.

At that time, my mother was active in searching for an apartment. Weekly magazine-style newspapers with listings-"Apartments in Saratov," "Square Meter"-constantly lay on the kitchen table. She needed an apartment in the Oktyabrsky district-where my gymnasium was-so I could be registered there and attend school locally. Bribes weren"t an option anymore. The housing process had its own bureaucratic complications I mentioned before: a child couldn"t be registered alone in an apartment, or needed a share of ownership, and there were minimum space norms per person. I can"t recall the details. No one supported her. She was the only one pushing my gymnasium placement, maybe with Uncle Sergey seeing the sense in getting me away from Engels hooligans.

There were several trips to view apartments in central Saratov: Sobornaya Street near Lipki, near the regional Duma, and also Sakko and Vanzetti Street-a name I associate strongly with Saratov, also near Lipki. My father lived with us permanently at the time and participated in the apartment hunting.

I already knew the abbreviations and jargon in the housing ads. Space for text in the paper was limited, full of acronyms incomprehensible to outsiders. These viewing trips went on through August. By late August, I also looked at rental listings and saw the advantage of renting long-term and subletting short-term. I think I already noticed hourly rentals and understood their purpose. My father didn"t want to hear about any of it. To him, cops, prostitutes, drug dealers, and racketeers were immediately imaginable. Remember, he had a hypertrophied fear of law enforcement, criminals, and any activity that might put you in contact with them. And since I considered parental stereotypes as benchmarks, this would later create conflicts with others. For example, in my youth, learning English online, I came across a guy, founder of linguistic schools-an erudite polyglot with more hobbies than my father had in his life, some of them businesses, one even a brothel. Seeing someone shatter my stereotypes, I felt cognitive dissonance and anger, perceiving him as very unlike me-aggressively-and hating my father for his phobic teachings. I became a complete outsider: neither with the panicked nor with the brave. I had already discussed this fifteen months ago in this biography.

Also, at some point, when my mother and I were nostalgically missing Engels, land, and gardens after planning the move to Saratov, my father said: "Here"s what I think: we need an apartment in Saratov and a house in Engels." At the time, I barely understood anyone or anything, and took it as a smart remark-but in reality, it was hilarious, and my mother and I would laugh at it for years, given my father"s lifetime habit of never saving for housing, expecting to get it for free just for being a good person.

I visited Baba Valya"s about four or five times that summer. I don"t recall trips to the dacha then. I could no longer allow myself long idle periods. But most likely I went and saw Alina and Aunt Marina for the last time, before I would only see them at the end of my childhood story.

The day before one of the July trips to Baba Valya, I saw an ad in a newspaper: "Part-time work for people of all ages, 150 rubles for a few hours." I even called, and they replied something like, "We"ll call you back." I didn"t understand that phrase yet, so I waited. I told Baba Valya about it, and she didn"t believe me-back then that pay was too good for a few hours without experience. She said, "I"d go myself."

Trips to Baba Valya, where I would visit the Shmyrkeviches again, will come later.


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Part 53, Text 2. Resuming Training - First and Last Backflip - Returning via Rakhova and Boldyrev.

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By then it was already August, and training at the Sports Palace had resumed. Only the first sessions were once again not inside, but outdoors, nearby - in the city park. There were one or maybe two of these morning sessions. Ivan Borisovich led us past the entrance to the swimming pool and then left, into the narrow alleys between buildings - including those which, whenever I passed them along Chernyshevsky, seemed the most elite in the city: six-storey blocks with tiled roofs, insulated, plastered, and painted beige. Like the last little towers they were finishing up in Engels. These were the first buildings of this style and technology in Saratov and Engels. Regular apartment blocks were still being built simply from brick or panels, without insulation.

We crossed the park diagonally to its northernmost corner. There was a small sports area there with parallel bars, pull-up bars, and a small football field where we kicked the ball around. In principle, it was, in my estimation, a good, social time, even though I never really got close or formed friendships there. After that training, around noon, when the sun was already blazing, we all parted right there, and I - not having a trolleybus pass that month - walked up Rakhova Street. Together with parallel Astrakhanskaya, it was a tree-lined avenue, with roads for cars on either side and a wide pedestrian path in the centre between tall trees. Benches all along. About two kilometres uphill to Moskovskaya. That"s how I would return from training all August.

After a couple of these park sessions, the indoor sessions resumed. Morning was for main training, and in the evening you could come again if you wanted. Free from all schools and feeling at home here, shaking hands with everyone, calling training "trenchki," I finally fulfilled a long-standing wish - I started coming twice a day.

And then came the only triumphant miracle day of my life, when I suddenly managed a back handspring with straight arms. Just out of nowhere. I pulled it off in the morning session. Strictly speaking, it still wasn"t perfect - my arms were flung wide to the sides, palms turned as far outward as possible - dangerously so for the joints. But thanks to the straight arms, I sprang into a proper backflip and finally felt what everyone else must feel when doing one - that powerful rotational momentum that makes even a triple somersault believable. I ran along the mat, did a round-off, the back handspring, and then - almost a straight backflip, no tucking, landing nearly upright.

Despite the ugly arm position, which I couldn"t correct all day (they seemed to instinctively flare out, nothing could be done), I felt like a fully realised human being all day. Like after your first kiss. I imagined myself soon mastering all the elements and combinations that had been impossible for me before - reaching the level of Balakovka, Mephistopheles.

Perhaps it was on this very triumphant day that, returning from the morning training through the park to Rakhova, I ran into Boldyrev - a top-classmate from the gymnasium. I meant to just nod and pass, but he stopped me, and we talked. He had this manner - which always struck me - of never rushing and crafting a thoughtful, complete conversation, even with someone insignificant like me. I"d only seen this a few times in life; most people didn"t linger. He mainly asked where I"d been all winter. I gave a brief rundown. We said goodbye, and I continued along Rakhova under the tall poplars. I constantly recall those weeks and those returns - my last summer feeling like a whole person.

In the second session that day, I again did the classic round-off-back handspring-backflip combo over and over. Ivan Borisovich saw it and said something needed to be done about my arms - they couldn"t stay like that.

But my musculoskeletal system refused to cooperate, and in the next session, my arms bent again and ruined my backflip. I ended up doing a backward flip landing first on my hands, then my feet - on all fours. I could no longer place my arms either wrongly or correctly, and my fragile wrists wore down and ached. But for the rest of August and even September, I held hope that I might once again manage it, even imperfectly.

By the way, I hadn"t filmed my gymnastics in ages - my uncle Valera had borrowed the camera for six months anyway - and there wasn"t much to film; I hadn"t jumped at home for a long time.

.:::.

Part 53, Text 3. Visiting the Shmyrkeviches - Second and Third (Last) Times.

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For a few days, I went again to Baba Valya. I arrived one day before training. In the morning, I went to training, then, as arranged with Baba Valya, I went to Yablochkova - to the intercom gates of the Shmyrkeviches" courtyard. Another scorching, very Saratovian day. City centre, early morning... I waited for Baba Valya, and we went inside their townhouse (not a detached house).

This time, Sima wasn"t alone but with some boy our age, maybe her classmate. His family background was unclear - equally wealthy like the Shmyrkeviches or more modest. He was broad, plump, and acted like he owned the place. One of those kids who imagine themselves devouring hamburgers with ketchup all over their mouths in a fast-food joint. He seemed totally spoiled and unfamiliar with life"s hardships. I greeted him, and he welcomed me kindly. The centre of attention was again computer games, in the main Shmyrkeviches" office. GTA was still installed, though Sima had long opened a second city, completed all missions, wreaked havoc in tanks, blowing everything up. I tried to remember the music and icon design of Vrok radio while I could.

This visit stuck with me less. We took breaks for snacks at the kitchen bar, with a bowl of miniature Twix and Milky Way chocolates the Shmyrkeviches had brought from abroad. The boy devoured them one by one. Then we played games until evening. At some point, we turned off GTA and started another game Sima was playing - Tarzan, based on the cartoon from my cassette.

In the evening, the boy left. Sima"s mother came home, and while I played Tarzan alone, they fussed near the wardrobe by the office - going to the TYUZ theatre for a play. I sat amazed: living three minutes from TYUZ and five from Kirov Avenue.

But I wasn"t jealous. Not of her, nor the boy, even knowing he came from a wealthy family living nearby. My envy had long been directed elsewhere. I envied those who felt fully and confidently human in this physical reality. And when you do feel that way, I couldn"t imagine spending the whole day staring at a screen. Even I, an escapist at heart, spent the day just glancing at Sima while they played. The boy, however, seemed compelled to play, and behaved in a way that, to me, indicated he wasn"t pursuing a deep or serious connection with her. If it had been me, the pursuit of such a bond would have taken over everything, leaving no room for other desires or needs - except those tied to my or my parents" survival. Or did he lack that desire? If romantic connection meant nothing to him, then he was even sadder than I was.

On another day, probably the next, without training, I went again with Baba Valya. The boy wasn"t there. This was the most eventful day at the Shmyrkeviches". Everything happened. Sima and I sat at the computer upstairs, went into her room, did other things. I was already at home here, not like the boy, but nearly - sliding across floors in socks, racing down steep stairs without a handrail, and calling the local toilet the "tubzik."

Around noon, Sima decided: "Now let"s go to the pool." I already knew behind the kitchen door was their pool room. Apart from us, only Baba Valya was there; she prepared everything, and we undressed and entered. It was more like a large jacuzzi - two by two metres. We swam for five minutes.

Then we had a snack, and soon it was decided we"d go for a walk to the city square nearby. As I said last summer, Sima had the speed bike I wanted, a popular model at the time with rear suspension. She took it, and I - I don"t recall exactly - but probably her scooter. I"ll say "we walked," not "rode."

I had assumed rich girls didn"t go out alone in childhood, so seeing her casually step into the city, clearly used to it, brought her closer to me in a good way. Leaving the yard at Yablochkova, we headed toward Gorky Street. We met a grown woman Sima knew. We, too, were already familiar - very happy moments. The Saratov afternoon sun blazed; the city centre - exactly how I liked it. At home, Baba Valya was hyper-protective, and Sima greeted acquaintances along the way. Super comfortable. I hummed GTA tunes to myself.

Near the end of Yablochkova, in an old building next to a shop where my mother once bought me a Ken doll, was a sex shop. I thought about how Sima might view that. We "ignored it."

Turning left on Gorky, we reached the intersection with Kazachya and crossed. Suddenly, Arik appeared from the theatre side - he lived nearby on Gorky. I stopped to speak with him briefly, and Sima waited, letting the green light pass. I don"t recall what he asked; maybe "Is this your sister?" since Sima was blonde like me. Or maybe "Is this your girlfriend?" I wanted to perceive her that way, as my peer and companion, unlike Alina or Anya. I shook Arik"s hand, and Sima and I continued past the theatre.

At the square near the theatre were some primitive metal ramps. As I recall, only skateboarders used them that year, BMX bikes were rare. Watching Sima ride, I scanned the surroundings. Previously, my mother and I had met Guzhvieva at the same square. He had a basic Soviet bike. That day with Sima, the sense of union and all I desired - like "I just died in your arms tonight" as a mental soundtrack - was so strong that only meeting Guzhik was missing. But he wasn"t there, and, as with the pool, our time at the square ended quickly, and we returned home.

Later in the evening, Baba Valya, anticipating Sima"s habits, gave us about a hundred rubles to buy some clothes for me. Sima eagerly seized the idea, and we went out. We walked to Gorky, turned right, entered a grocery store briefly, then bought loose ice cream in a cup outside. There was also a kiosk; I looked at computer and gaming magazines. I was most drawn to the thickest, usually with two demo discs, "Igromania," costing about a hundred rubles - roughly ten subway rides in Moscow.

We continued to Kirov Avenue. It was crowded as always. Sima guided, and I cautiously suggested a cheaper shop. I didn"t need T-shirts and would have preferred to convince Baba Valya to buy "Igromania" for me, but refusing would offend Sima. She suggested "Sela" - a then-popular chain of clothing stores, unlike the pricier "Iguana," where my mother and I previously browsed expensive teen jackets. Appearance no longer mattered to me; without inner substance, a stylish exterior was useless.

At Sela, guided by a sales assistant, we headed straight to the sale section. There were simple white T-shirts, which I tried on. When I came out, Sima returned from another section holding underwear: "I think you should get these too," leaving change for them. Remarkably, I remembered this for twenty years, thinking it was a joke or her habit of spending every last ruble. Perhaps she saw my old Tarzan swim trunks and thought I should wear something more modern.

We paid and went home the same way.

Thus end my memories with Sima, one of the only two desired peers, and the main one, with whom I interacted informally in real life. Alina at Baba Valya"s was another, but considering Sima"s association with GTA, she remained more significant.

Baba Valya continued working for them for many years; in 2013, she definitely still did. From the 2000s, Shmyrkevich was building a huge mansion on the Engels side of the Volga, opposite central Saratov, where Baba Valya served. They sold the townhouse on Yablochkova. My mother said Shmyrkevich offered it to Uncle Seryozha, likely because they knew each other from the Engels clinic opening, when he was chief architect. By the late 2000s, Shmyrkevich"s "Di-Centres" were in all districts. My father, clueless about government clinics, would go to the nearest - in Baba Valya"s building - pay for consultation, then curse capitalism over beer.

Around 2006, during my hospital stays, Baba Valya mentioned Sima asked how I was doing.

In her youth, Sima was active online and on Inctagram; I, dismantling another stereotype - that rich kids needn"t study - saw she attended medical school. Otherwise, she seemed stereotypical.

On Avito, I found a 2020 video tour of their townhouse, with completely different interiors. If one went completely crazy, you could reconstruct the old interior with AI and rewatch it to GTA soundtrack.

.:::.

Part 53, Text 4. Engels-ness and Tommy-Vercetti-ness - the arcade machine at the fair and the fight with the fairground Kazakh.

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I came back home from Baba Valya"s, and my Engels-ness continued. Already on my creaking bicycle and with ever more irritating Russian café pop playing everywhere, I was still riding around collecting bottles and constantly slipping into dopamine anticipations about earning money from one or another utopian scheme inspired by Mark-Twain-type adventures, GTA, and my already barely smouldering hope of being master of myself. For example, by placing an ad in a newspaper and becoming the executor of some missions - something involving secret caches, stealth, agility, leaping with somersaults from one garage roof to another... I explored courtyards, figured out how many minutes it took me to get from point A to point B. There was a through, secret path behind the theatres from Kommunisticheskaya to Khalturina. Starting somewhere near the Pier of the Brave, imagining that I had just received a mission on a Siemens mobile phone - some sporty-looking model that I wanted badly at the time - I would turn my baseball cap backwards like Sylvester Stallone and set off. I tore along the embankment, weaving between idle couples and the evening Engels louts my father hated with their "Jaguar" drinks, rolled down the slope by the soldiers" monument, blasted through the park, jumped a ramp, rushed across the square, mentally swung by Yarik"s courtyard where he lived - as if he were my business partner - and then rode that tricky passage behind the theatres and came out onto Khalturina, where at the time the newest, smoothest asphalt lay. There I "had a meet arranged" face-to-face with the leader of a rival gang - a cocky teenager in the spirit of the boys from the film Amerikanka. Only, knowing what other people were in the gang whose interests I represented - Yarik, Tyulenev - and also that I was close with Kozlov, who if needed could show how mosquitoes get knocked off your forehead with a heel, nobody would want a war with me, and we"d settle things peacefully.

All those scenarios - grounded in nothing concrete - those dopamine anticipations, I savoured there on Khalturina, which back then still wasn"t choked with cars, in endless attempts, late into the evening and until my handlebars grew loose, to master control riding on the back wheel and to jump higher on the bicycle. It was right beside some kind of technical college from which energetic Engels youth often poured out. And sometimes I"d ride into the courtyard of building number twelve - the one where Artyom had told me about masturbation - pull my training grips out of my pocket and, like a tough guy, preferably in view of the people sitting by the entrance there, perform various kip-ups and flips. More and more I thought about maybe trying rotations already here too, on the outdoor bars. Even with crooked legs it would impress everyone. Nobody in the city had ever done such rotations - not even kip-ups - on street bars. The street bars, though, differed from a gymnastics horizontal bar by their rigid static stiffness, and my lower back was already starting to ache a little from the harsh jerks.

Besides the mini-casino building opposite the big Pyaterochka where the fair was, as I briefly mentioned in winter, there were also two outdoor gambling machines - one inside the first fair near the exit from the meat section of the local covered market, and another outside the entrance to the second fair. The gates of both fairs closed around six in the evening, so later you couldn"t reach the first machine. But the second one, standing at the minibus stop, could be approached at any time, and there was always a crowd of mixed riff-raff around it: from traders already drunk after the workday, all kinds of losers from nearby districts and minibus drivers coming to dump part of their earnings - to boys my age standing behind the adults, and even younger ones.

By that time, I had already begun regularly riding past there "by chance", hoping to see and pick up a dropped five-kopeck coin, and the machine was spinning in my head more and more - already for its intended purpose. I was ready to part with a couple of my own coins and try my luck. But the machine was never empty. And children weren"t allowed to play. There was, supposedly, a sign about it. The machines were shaped like hexagonal kiosks: on five sides were the screens, coin slots and buttons, and on the sixth a door inside. When the operator opened it and went in, you could see there were simply five ordinary system units and computer monitors inside. Even if there was only one person playing on one side, and you rolled up to another side, there was always a risk he would suddenly come over to yours, because many people had the habit - either from gambling impatience or as a strategy - of throwing coins into one side and then immediately going around the machine, tossing coins into the others without waiting for the result. And although I was a non-conformist, and my need for money was not a whim or a desire for excess but something rooted in a lack of something biologically basic - female attention, that is, or at least the possibility of replacing it with escapism, which required a computer - I still could not break norms in this particular situation, because getting money here meant using an instrument that was someone"s property, and the owner"s regulation of the rules for its use was fair.

Unlike the first machine, which stood at the edge of the clothing rows where a significant part of my childhood had passed wandering with my mother and grandmother among those hardened saleswomen with their caring "wiggle your finger", "does the sock pinch?" - a place that had become almost familiar - the second machine stood in the most alien part of that fairground area, the part that had nothing to do with my childhood, and I almost never even stopped there to watch the players from behind other people"s backs. But those boys who stood there - they didn"t just stand watching; at certain moments they stepped up and shamelessly threw coins into it themselves, just like the adults. Those boys were something between the boys I naïvely classified as "good" - like my classmates from School No. 33 - and those drifters Artyom and I had seen who performed cruel jokes on one another and who "would probably just kill me". I remembered faces and read them at a half-glance, and among the boys at that machine I had already noticed one Kazakh my age. His face was traditionally very flat, and the slant of his eyes and his features were exactly like the villain from the second Strongest Strike (incidentally, that actor later became a murderer). He was heavily tanned. He was clearly a malicious Kazakh, and I realised that if I started hanging around that machine - something would happen between us.

And one tired hot evening, when the first clothing fair had long been closed and on the second only a couple of food kiosks remained and it too was about to close, and the people were only at the bus stop and around the cheburek stalls and that machine, I was milling around there on my bicycle. Mostly collecting bottles, searching for coins under the already closed kiosks inside the second fair. I gathered a bag of bottles there and hid it behind one of the kiosks for a while, and then went for another round. And everything happened not even near the gambling machine but by the corner one-storey building opposite. I don"t remember the details, but it seemed connected with my bicycle. I had apparently got off it to pick up some bottles, and at that moment two or three boys, including the Kazakh, passed by and started fucking with me. He began rolling my bicycle away and I ran after him. I may even have dropped and smashed the bottles. Somehow I grabbed him and stopped him, and then God knows what happened and we fought.

I had fought only a few times in my life, the last time already two years earlier, and of course I was again stunned - by the force with which another person could hit me, and by how strong someone my own age could be in general. He landed a good blow on me, and I could deliver nothing even close in return. But the greater outrage in that moment was already caused by something else. Not his strength and not my own physical inadequacy. As always - and more and more with every year - I had a self-image of myself as a decent, purposeful, empathetic person, and therefore a "higher" one, whom nobody could possibly beat with such contempt. That came from all the Leopold the Cat stories, from Amélie, from Russian hyper-kind films and TV programmes, from my father, and above all from my mother (and her beatings were not about contempt). I thought everyone had grown up on those fairy tales and films and had been raised the same way - and therefore should not show contempt, especially toward someone like me. But those malicious bastards with whom I had clashes throughout childhood completely destroyed that idea, showing full contempt, and with every fight it was tolerated more and more by the people around and by adults. I had been used to protection and people standing up for me, sorry. In kindergarten with Kosarev there had been some justice. With the first Kazakh in the hospital they had spoken to him. In the Zemskova situation people at least paid attention to the conflict. Though already there nobody regarded Zemskova as an unquestionable villain (which, incidentally, only became clear now and explains the misanthropy that had been growing in me over the last two years). But with this narrow-eyed fairground degenerate nobody reacted at all, and his beastliness rather fitted the mentality of the place we were in. I had finally fought with the fair itself.

Through the square, barely seeing where I was riding through tears of self-pity - without even retrieving the hidden bottles at the fair where the gates were soon closing - I rode home. In accordance with the way my high sense of self-worth had been raised, my self-pity was not egoistic but empathetic. I put myself in everyone"s place - from Leopold to my mother - and I felt sorry for my "pupil". And, in the same spirit in which I felt sorry and embarrassed for the compilers and illustrators of children"s books and magazines who had vainly tried to prolong our childhood, I felt sorry and ashamed for all those teachers of kindness - they had fucked up. In reality it is not goodness that wins, but audacity and physical strength.

I entered the flat and, crying even harder, told my mother about the fight. And immediately I began repeating the intention I had already formed on the way home: "I"m going to kill that bitch." My mother panicked and, while I rushed around the flat choosing a weapon, followed me and forbade it. Meanwhile I took a bicycle wrench, a metal template with holes of different diameters for nuts and sharp edges. I can"t remember exactly, but perhaps it was because of my mother"s prohibiting pressure beside me that I didn"t take a screwdriver, because I remember clearly that even with that wrench I imagined a lethal blow that, according to my childish stereotype about the thin bone at the temple, would smash the Kazakh"s skull bone through to the brain. In other words, unlike my repeating the words "I"ll kill him" and the story about the fight in general, this was definitely not for show in front of my mother. But my mother of course didn"t let me go outside until I put the wrench down.

That is, when I had calmed down a bit, I rode there again. I could easily have picked up some iron object in the street. But since my mother believed me and was convinced I wouldn"t do anything like that, I - and here I showed myself spineless, a classic mummy"s boy - didn"t want to upset her, and therefore didn"t look for any iron object outside. That was the beginning of my understanding that as long as my mother existed, I would not be able to kill anyone. So I arrived simply hoping that the gates of the second fair would still be open and that I could take my bottles. But they were closed. And the Kazakh and the boys around the machine were already gone.

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Part 53, Text 5. Mother as rival - Artyom the intimidator - the last clash with the Kazakh - the end of bottle-collecting.

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I had never seen that Kazakh before on the embankment or in the park, so I had no expectation of meeting him there. In those days - already after mid-August - I fished several times on the concrete slope near the Stella and swam. Once when my mother and I were there, the Kazakh came with some boys and went down onto that slope. There was of course no contact with him then, but we all saw each other, and I told my mother that this was the one. And then one day, closer to evening, I was fishing there without my mother, and she came later and stood above by the railing while I continued fishing for a while longer. Some other people were fishing near me as well. When I came up and we left, my mother told me that while I had been down there the Kazakh and the boys had again approached the slope, and they had looked at me predatorily, but when they saw her standing there they left. Internally that humiliated me, in the same spirit as my humiliation after daytime sleep. Again that element of not knowing, of being in a vulnerable state. And my mother had become a witness to it. It always humiliated me inside when she said something like: "You didn"t see it, but I did..." It infantilised me and almost made her into a rival. Though of course the psychology there is very twisted and leads back to the same maternal dead end in which my mother is not a rival but a victim suffering for me. But in those moments - during the events themselves, with all those powerful feelings and with the way my mother behaved, presenting herself as strong and separate from me - I could not see the root of it. I was in a state of affect and still very far from understanding any psychology at all, so I lashed out at her in aggression.

So this is a good moment to mention another episode, unrelated to the Kazakh and the summer events, which I mentioned in passing in the spring of last year. As I said then, it happened in the second half of fifth grade or the first half of sixth. But during the school year, because I associate it with the days when my mother picked me up from the gymnasium, and with another small memory - how we once wrestled playfully, tripping each other, and because of her greater weight she always threw me down, and internally I felt the same bitter frustration as from losing to a real enemy. At some moment I lost control and struck my mother. That was the only time in my life that I ever hit her. It shocked her so much that she complained to Uncle Seryozha, and he, while we were driving in his car, gave me a restrained reprimand - but that restraint felt even more intolerable than if he had reacted angrily. This was the time when conversations began between my mother and Uncle Seryozha - as she told me later - in which he suggested sending me to a boarding school. All of it because of a psychology that in reality implied my attitude toward her was the complete opposite of sadistic.

Except for two occasions in later years, those were the last days in my life when I swam. One day my mother and I again met the Ovody. At the same concrete slope. Artyom and I no longer wanted to swim - it was probably getting colder - and after such a long break since our previous meeting we apparently wanted to talk about something, so while the mothers stayed sunbathing on that sloping concrete embankment we went into the park. We walked to the mulberry tree behind the music school where I often climbed to gorge myself and climbed it together. We talked about something dull, and at some point I called my mother a "bitch". Artyom, out of boredom, latched onto that like a hooligan - not so much from genuine indignation as for amusement. He said that when we returned he would tell my mother what I had called her. I tried to change the subject and pretended I didn"t care, but it soon became clear that he wouldn"t back down. Something had come over him. As we walked back he kept talking and in a theatrical clever-guy tone elaborated the theme: "Just think about what future you"ve got now. Boarding school. And then where? After boarding school the most you"ll get into is a vocational school." It was very unlike him - in my introduction to him I had even called him my main friend in life - yet the topic he teased me about was actually typical for him. He was clearly one of those sons who place enormous value on their mothers, raised in that moralising idea that "mother is sacred". Among the other boys in my story Nikita Kozlov was like that even more. Someone like Elchin, if you remember him, would probably have immediately crossed a person off who called his mother a "bitch", and for insulting his own mother might even have killed. I was the opposite of all that - the opposite of blindly following moralising slogans. I always understood that my companions were like that - even the neurotic Guzhik - and if those themes ever came up we would fall out.

But Artyom was more flexible and clever than the others, and he knew I was problematic, especially in my relationship with my mother. When we came back - after he had giggled while crossing the embankment saying "Well then, get ready" and I was already in terrible anxiety that he might really say it - we went down to the mothers and he began: "So Nikita said..." - but in the end he continued with a completely different topic.

There remains one more episode at the concrete slope. I hung around there constantly on my bicycle at that time, making the same jumps over those long three steps that led nowhere except to wearing out the bike. Behind one of the benches arranged in a semicircle near the Stella there was also a big mulberry tree. One day, leaning my bicycle against the trunk, I climbed it and sat there eating. At some moment that fucking Kazakh appeared below - he jumped onto the bicycle, rode off on it and left. Bastard. I climbed down, and nearby stood another boy - the very same prick who had squeezed five roubles out of me earlier. He watched the Kazakh riding around the Stella and mocked me: "That"s it, he won"t give it back to you." I began walking after the Kazakh while he teased me, riding up close and then quickly away. Soon he rode out onto the embankment and moved away from the centre. This went on for about ten minutes. We reached Pushkin Street. There I pressed harder, and the Kazakh must have grown bored - he got off, threw the bicycle aside toward the water and ran back to that boy. Apparently he had some limits of what was allowed: he could have rolled the bicycle down the slope so it smashed, but he didn"t. That was the end of the Kazakh in my story. As with that other boy.

I remember the last day of my bottle-collecting. It was evening, and I was walking through the park toward home making my final round. All day I had been in a kind of despair and readiness to sink lower - to dig bottles out of a rubbish bin like the tramps did. Until that day I had never reached into bins. It was my taboo. Anything could be thrown there - shit, a dead crow. People spat there. Someone with AIDS might spit there. You could prick yourself and catch HIV. All the filthiest things were there. But I rode along the alleys behind the music school and I was already exhausted, and I just grabbed some bottles sticking out by their necks. I didn"t know where to put them. I suffered with them. I don"t remember what I eventually did with them, whether I even handed them in. Bottles gave only pennies anyway, and by then it was already clear that I wouldn"t save up for a computer that way.


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Part 53, Text 6. Dopamine end of the summer - buying the kennel on Radishcheva - the price-list craze and the computer hardware of those years - father the museum worker.

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Only a few days remained before autumn. I kept going to gymnastics, walking back from there along Rakhova, which was the Saratov analogue of those returns from the Engels gymnasium. Under the shade of the poplars, still in the first half of the day, through a lively and not yet overheated Saratov - just how I liked it - a comfortable routine during which I sank into pleasant dreams and anticipations. Now I liked those walks back even more than the training sessions, and in my fantasies the main thing was the computer and GTA. The first of September was approaching, and I would have to go back to the gymnasium. We would constantly pass computer and disc shops. I was sure that during that school year I would finally get a computer. In sport, in those weeks, I also felt confident. I still couldn"t straighten my legs when I spun my forward circles in the trainers - some problem in the same spirit as my crooked arms in the flic-flac - and Ivan Borisovich hated it and nervously turned away, but it was better than nothing. And I, having already accepted that I would not become a master of sport, was leaning more toward the image of some kind of cool hybrid teenager - a parkour kid (still, master of myself after all), a BMX rider and a computer nerd. It was a very dopamine-filled time, a feeling of reboot.

On the twenty-first of August, after Saturday training, already near Gorky Park I suddenly picked up the refill from a pen off the ground, made a bow out of a shoelace and a stick, and like a little kid spent the whole way along Rakhova Alley amusing myself by shooting that refill into the sky. It flew impressively high - up to the level of the poplars and the nine-storey panel blocks, one of which there was the one where my parents had met. When I got home, using the bits of metal that had survived from my childhood construction set, I made a better bow and went to shoot on the square. There was bustle there - festive events were scheduled for that evening. In those days I felt the preparatory bustle everywhere. Everywhere I felt something approaching.

And on another of those returns from the gymnasium, already nearing Moskovskaya, I nicked from a bench a newspaper someone had left behind - Square Metre, with flat listings. At home in those days we had a special kind of movement in the kitchen: my mother and I sat for hours phoning all that SGF rot around the gymnasium that she could now afford. A few days earlier we had gone to view a flat in a Stalin-era building near the gymnasium that was being sold by a strange woman who seemed like some theatre actress slowly going mad - and that was when I first noticed to myself that I was afraid of women like that, not with the childish fear I once had of the gypsy figurine at Aunt Lyusya"s, but with a sexualised one - with a sexophobic tinge. But this isn"t about that now.

In that newspaper I had brought home we found an advert with huge potential. In the sense that it felt like we might actually be able to buy this one, not just waste time again. In those days my father wasn"t living with us, so my mother and I went to the viewing alone. Radishcheva Street, house twelve, the corner with Michurina. Two blocks from the gymnasium. It was a classic two-storey SGF dump right by a busy intersection, with a semi-basement ground floor. But the flat for sale was from the courtyard side, and since the house stood on a steep slope, that particular flat was actually properly above ground.

I don"t remember who showed it to us. Through a gate from the Radishcheva side they led us into the yard and up to the porch. The flat had a separate entrance, its own door - like a townhouse almost, even a decent iron door. In the yard the rusting remains of some car stood. There was also a spot for alkies - at the far edge, with a fire pit.

They opened the door and we went in. A narrow corridor where immediately to the left there was a shrivelled bathroom, about a metre and a half. The shower was either in it or in a nook right after it - which meant it might have just been a toilet rather than a full bathroom. The narrow corridor then turned right and you immediately ended up in a walk-through kitchenette. The flat was on the corner, and there was a window in the kitchen looking into the yard. As you entered the kitchen, on the left wall there was a round gas heater from floor to ceiling. And then to the left, after that heater, with no door at all, there was the only living room - about seven square metres. It had a window facing the neighbouring building, or rather a kennel standing in front of it with some furious dog that barked straight into the window. At least there were bars on it. The whole flat was eighteen square metres, and later my father the museum worker explained that it had originally been a caretaker"s room.

Already during the viewing my mother and I realised we were going to buy this shit. It felt amazing. The very centre of Saratov. A flat like a townhouse. Opposite - a computer shop. You walk there after lessons in a cool fashionable teenage jacket from the Iguana shop, spinning your keys on your finger, grab a snack. Casually pass another mission in GTA. Take the BMX off the hook on the wall. Three seconds - and you"re in the yard to fix something and immediately try riding it. You could even practise coming out of flips there. Lay out mats. No one around to embarrass yourself in front of, like in the courtyards of tower blocks. Basically your own yard. Fix the bike and ride it to training. Maybe there would finally be local friends - it would be easier for me to get close with Saratov kids - and some integration into society. Maybe there would appear even... well, that was far away. First we"d see how we moved in here.

Because for my mother, in her panicky premonitions, already during the viewing the domestic hardships of the flat"s utilities began appearing before her eyes. Something would have to be done there. The flat was basically empty, uninhabited. There were signs it had stood unused for a long time and for some reason it had been impossible to live there. We were buying a pig in a poke, and of course the realtors and sellers wouldn"t tell anything. We"d have to figure it out ourselves. And we didn"t even have Uncle Seryozha with us. Though maybe my mother went again later with him. After that viewing I didn"t go there again before school started, but my mother said we were buying it.

The dopamine was enormous, and on that wave a new theme developed: I - even without my mother - began going to computer shops and taking price lists. A typical computer shop of that time was a small room with several computers and bits of hardware behind glass, while most of the assortment was by order. Ready-made builds didn"t interest me: this time I approached the computer topic like a pro. Managers printed price lists for me, and I - having "examined" the manager with a few questions (as my mother later called it) - would leave the shop with still warm sheets of the price list and immediately start studying availability and prices. The main focus was video cards. At that time the most expensive in ordinary shops" price lists was the Nvidia GeForce 5900, and for Radeon... I don"t remember. With Radeon, like with AMD, the colour red was associated, and with GeForce and Intel Pentium 4 - green and blue respectively, my favourite colours. The green GeForce with its nymphs in the advertising pictures became my dream and excited me exactly the way iguanas once had. Later in autumn I would learn that the top model then was no longer the GeForce 5900 but the GeForce 6800, which cost an impossible five hundred dollars. For some reason it hardly appeared in price lists anywhere. And at the top of processors, after several years of Intel Pentium 4 leadership, there appeared the Athlon FX-53 and it cost close to a thousand dollars - four or five times my poor father"s salary at the museum.

At the museum, by the way, my father had the position of "research associate," and sometimes he did indeed take part in actual museum work, but his main business was designing and installing various podiums for exhibits, inventing different budget-saving contraptions there, and other technical tasks involving drills, saws and bits of wood. Because in the museum, like earlier in the gallery and the library, he was almost the only man. Later I would drop by there, but very rarely and with boredom - that sort of life and those prospects did not interest me at all. And with such examples around me - my mother barely managing to save enough for an eighteen-metre dump (three or four times cheaper than a one-room flat in the house diagonally opposite), Grandma Klava working for a thousand roubles at the military commissariat, Grandma Valya working for rich people but only able to afford an extra T-shirt once in a while, and a father like that - it was already impossible to convince me of the need for studying.

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Part 53, Text 7. To Udarnik with the Artyoms - father arrives - the theme "university is the best years of your life."

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My main source of information about computer hardware became magazines in a small reading room on the territory of the college opposite Serebryakova"s building. Once my mother and I passed through the grounds and went in there. It turned out anyone could come, and I got into the habit of going there. The magazines were modern but already many months out of date, and only about computer hardware, not games.

Around those same days single mothers were invited with their children to free film screenings at the children"s cinema Udarnik on Teatralnaya Street, which was already running on its last breath. That"s where, once, from the playground of School No. 33, some bastard had poured sand over me from his shoe saying: "Thanks, trash can." Now they showed some obscure Soviet adventure films for teenagers there. Three days in a row we went there with the Artyoms. And they came to visit us again during those days.

Two episodes from their summer visits remain unclear chronologically. The first is that after some break they came again, and Artyom went with me into the hall, took the stick I once used to balance on my finger, swung it and broke one of the lampshades of our chandelier. He chose the strategy of immediately going out and boldly telling my mother. She didn"t mind - we were planning sooner or later to sell that Lev Kassil Street flat anyway. So that episode might have been during these days. But the episode with the trousers is harder to place. Also after a break in meetings they came together, and Artyom was sitting in camouflage trousers on my bed in the middle room. My mother was in the room too, and we were all talking about fishing, clothes and his trousers. He boasted about the useful property of camouflage colouring: "You can"t see it, but actually my trousers are very dirty." Later my mother and I recalled how inappropriate that boast had been, considering what he was sitting on. Probably that had been in mid-summer after all, around the time of the island trip. Because now I had absolutely no interest in chatting about clothes and fishing.

On the last day of our cinema outings we again went to our place afterwards, and around midday I had to go to training (orienting myself toward the future first shift at school in the coming year, I had started going to training in the second shift). While the mothers were doing something in the kitchen, I suddenly felt like running to President Agency to grab a fresh price list. Artyom went with me. While they were printing it we looked at the pocket computers. Windows Mobile... that was real coolness. Compared with it the mobile phones that had recently seemed new already looked like crap. But, like those phones, pocket computers were insanely expensive. We went home through Serebryakova"s courtyard, whose memories already meant nothing to me. I ate something and went to training. It already felt like an obligation.

Nevertheless, during those same days, in that second shift in the gym hall, I began forming a companionship with a boy named Denis. I"ve only mentioned him once so far. That companionship gave the trips to gymnastics a new and final breath. But first I want to go through the events associated with the last days of summer and the first days of autumn before moving on to Denis and the computer theme with which he is, briefly, connected.

My mother completed the flat deal, and my father arrived. Maybe it was coincidence, but during my mother"s purchases - the Niva back then, the garage, the flat, as well as during all sorts of arrangements for placing me in schools - he was usually absent, and when everything was already done, he appeared.

Those days the Olympic Games in Greece were ending, which I hadn"t watched, and he told about Alexei Nemov"s performance after which spectators from all the stands protested for many minutes until they forced the judges to review and raise the score. My father explained: "Greeks are fighters for justice." He always had some stereotypes about nations. And I, having no other sources of information besides him and not being interested in such things myself anyway, absorbed his stereotypes for many years. Mordvins for me became associated with pettiness, everyday incompetence and quarrelling over trifles, Americans with knowing what clothes to wear and how to live in general (in separate houses with workshops and so on), the English with untreated teeth, and now Greeks - with fighting for justice. As if all that were unique to each and not found anywhere else.

Even though I didn"t watch the Olympics, I still kept straining uselessly trying to do a stalder press in the gym - on the floor and from supporting myself with my hands on the armrests of a chair - and I would still have a few last achievements in acrobatics.

In those days there were also the last evening walks with my mother and father along the embankment, traditional for our family. Once I was on my bike riding a little ahead of them, and at the place where the pull-up bars stand below I instinctively grabbed a forty-kopeck bottle standing alone. But I no longer carried any bags with me, so I tucked it under my armpit. Only I tucked it under the arm I was steering with, and when I turned sharply during the lazy strolling ride I had to stretch that arm far out. The bottle flew out and smashed to pieces on the asphalt right in the middle of the embankment, in front of people sitting on a bench. I didn"t know how to behave and, burning with shame, just had to keep riding.

And while moving around the monument to the Soldiers by the museum we discussed my future after school, in which I had no desire for any studying at all. My father said: "If you don"t go to university, you"ll lose the best years of your life." I understood what he meant, and maybe I wouldn"t even have opposed the prospect of continuing education after school... if all you actually had to do there was simply "go". But times were changing, and I could see that my father thought in stereotypes that were out of place in modern reality. On the first floors of schools more and more posters about some OGE and EGE exams were appearing, and it was clear that no university was shining for you if you studied like my father and like me - meaning not studying anything at all. My father, judging by his stories and by the way I knew him, hadn"t studied anything in his time either. Only compared with my situation he even had an advantage: he had served in the army - which, as he himself explained, gave certain concessions when entering university - and besides, unlike me, he liked reading books. I simply hated reading books. And now there were these super-strict exams appearing as well. Meanwhile looming like a black threat for not studying were two years of the fucking army, which unlike my father I perceived exactly that way - as punishment. And punishment for failing to do something turns the impossible - whatever it may be, even if it promises the best years of your life and the fulfilment of what you most need - into slavery. I already explained this.