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.
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.
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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.
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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...
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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.
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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.
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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.
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___Part 35.
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________________I"m 9 years old.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.