No Way Out at the Entrance

Sashka counted ten, then eleven, then twelve, and, surprised that the fight had not been stopped, looked over at Paul Paulych. That one was talking with someone who had put his head through into the hall. Realizing that the fight was over, Sashka completely forgot about Bychkov and remembered only when the first of two hits cut into his cheekbone. Sashka was thrown back. He, protecting himself, jerked up his hands, but managed only to scratch the bottom of Bychkov’s right glove just enough to direct it to his own chin. The words “go, lights out!” became a reality not only for girls with the name Sveta.[4 - A play on words in Russian: the Russian word for light is svet while Sveta is a girl’s name.]

After some time the smell of ammonium chloride broke through to Sashka in the dark room. You do not want to, but you come to. Simply out of disgust.

“What a clown! Wriggled, eh? Leave now! Rest for two weeks!” Coach said without sympathy. Sashka looked at him and smiled. Thoughts in him were very few and everything was kind of strange. And people seemed to him surprised: this was probably because he had “slowed down” a little. Somewhere on the horizon loomed Bychkov – confused, feeling sorry for him, and simultaneously being proud of himself. He still did not know that in the next training session he would be paired with one of the stricter guys so that it would be made distinctly clear to him that you do not hit someone who had turned away or knock out the dazed.[5 - In boxing training, there is no necessity for a knockout if the opponent is dazed.] Paul Paulych spat out the whistle, with which he had called up to himself two older fellows in order to send them into the deserted ring.

Out on the street Sashka sat on a tire for a long time, examining the thick poplar trunks. They were sawn off, waste oil was poured under them, but all the time shoots were sprouting and sprouting. Along the edge of the poplar, the bark of which was stripped off for the most part such that it turned out white almost like human skin, flowed a stream of ants. Occasionally first one, then another turned slightly to the side and tried to crawl into a deep crack in the poplar trunk. It moved its whiskers and stepped back.

Sashka attempted to glance into the crack but saw only a head with two large eyes and moving whiskers. He drummed on the trunk with his nails and a large golden bee suddenly crept out of the crack. It fearlessly passed through the stream of ants and, after flying so closely that its wings touched his cheek, disappeared. Sashka plodded to the road. His head was clear and it only slightly resembled a rumbling bucket. Although, of course, with any attempt even to look around, Sashka would begin to sway.

His head was spinning no longer. Sashka as usual pulled back the upper pocket of the camouflage jacket and, considering whom to give the money to, glanced all around. “I’ll be darned! Everybody here is about fifteen! Well, maximum sixteen!” he thought. Not so often you meet your contemporaries in this quantity. Sashka even looked around in order to ascertain that those behind also fit in this range. Improbable, but they did!

Sashka came up with the option that they had finished classes somewhere or, let us suppose, everyone here except him were classmates going somewhere together. But no. No one in the minibus knew anyone else. Otherwise, they would not drop curious glances at each other. There would also not be careful, waiting tension.

Immediately behind Sashka sat a girl, the same one that grabbed her cell phone when someone else’s rang. Small, frail, with a thin neck, which could be encompassed with two fingers. How the head could be held up on such a flower stalk was incomprehensible but it was solidly supported. The face was rather sharp, clever, agitated. Thick eyebrows, lips nibbled at. The hair was not simply cut short but ultra short – to one joint of the little finger. Bulging, obstinate forehead. She wanted to be first in everything for sure. Wrote letters to politicians, directors, and singers. Ready to sweat her guts out like an electric broom for twenty-five hours a day.

In the next row by the window was a skinny fellow in a blue suit and tie, a cream shirt. Brushed, well-pressed. Amazing, all these trappings looked organic on him. One had the feeling that he was always in a suit and not just once a year on occasion. It was stuffy here in the minibus but he was like an idol. Not a drop of sweat on his face, the collar was completely done up, and even the tie was not loosened. He was sitting and moving alarmingly away from his neighbour who was dropping powder from donuts onto her knees and at the same time onto his as well.

The neighbour was his complete opposite. Large, plump but not fat, with a chest like a sofa. From her face fluttered absolute, unaffected calm. Whether “the suit” moved away from her or not bothered her little. Most likely, the girl did not even turn her head in order to find out if someone was sitting beside her. She was in a contemplative half-sleep all the time. She was dressed in a spacious hand-knitted top. Any crumbs would fall through such a top and cat fur would not be visible on it. Her hair was long like a mermaid’s and carelessly braided. And she did not have such hair because she let it grow specially, but simply did not prevent the hair from doing what it thought fit. If you want to get into the life of such a girl, do not attempt to flicker before her eyes. This is too tiresome for her. Simply come and settle down beside her. Possibly, in a year or two she will discover that some stranger is sitting near her in the kitchen, and finally it will come home to her where her pancakes have been disappearing to.

To the right of “sleeping beauty” was a young fellow in a bright T-shirt rhythmically twitching his head. Small, hook-nosed, continuously moving his feet restlessly even while sitting. Teeth uneven, crowding each other. Over the left eye was a black plastic patch tied with two fabric strips. Sashka was pondering for some time whether he actually did not have an eye or this was the final stroke of a romantic portrait. Sashka was still at a loss why on earth the young fellow was twitching when he noticed the small headphone.

Suddenly the young fellow in the tee turned to his neighbour and loudly (immediately evident that music was roaring in his ears) uttered, “A bet on your phone number, your name’s Lena!” The calm girl looked thoughtfully at him.

It seemed to her one-eyed neighbour that there would not be an answer. He managed to take off and put on the headset four times when he finally heard, “Should be: a bet on your phone number, your name ISN’T Lena!”

One-eyed was happy. There was contact! “A bet on your phone number, your name isn’t Lena!” he obediently repeated.

“You lose. I’m Lena!” the girl sympathized and continued indifferently to sprinkle powder from donuts onto the knees of the neighbour on her left.

Sashka almost slipped down under the seat. He saw that one-eyed had made a guess for the first time in his life and was confused now, not knowing how to move on further.

“Serious, Lena? Or are you pulling my leg?”

“Leave me alone, eh?” the girl dully requested.

“How ’bout showing some document?”

“Fat chance!”

“Here I can show mine! I don’t mind!” one-eyed proposed and with the motion of a conjurer extracted two passes and a calling card. “Don’t look here! I turned out like a dork here!” he imparted and showed precisely this photo with pleasure. Sashka noticed that on the photo one-eyed was presented with two eyes. And even saw the name: Cyril.

Across the seat from Sashka a girl in a black tank top breathed on the glass and drew gallows. On her neck were two army dog tags tied together, in standard military style. On her face were delicate pink pimples. “Interesting, does she know that you need a second dog tag for hanging on the left big toe of the dead body?” Sashka gauged. Sensing that she was being looked at, the girl with the dog tags stopped sketching and turned around interrogatively. Sashka hurried to put a wooden expression on his face.

Staring, he disturbed not only the girl with the dog tags but also the big-forehead person with the flower-stalk neck. She jerked up her face with annoyance, at the same time covering the cell phone screen with her palm. Sashka perceived that he was to her a kind of additional seat of the minibus.

“For one!” Sashka heard and did not understand how he found himself with money in his hands. She did not ask, even did not demand, but would give a target designation. Since you are staring and not busy with anything, do something useful.

“Also for one!” The girl with the death dog tags woke up.

“Interesting, why to me? Could give to Makar. Or only to him at night in the park and together with a purse?” Sashka was being mentally malicious. The precisionist in the suit also charged Sashka to pay for the fare and immediately demanded change. His bill was so smooth, as if he kept it in a dictionary all night. The girl with the donuts could not be bothered and, not even making an attempt to count, poured out a handful of change into Sashka’s hand.

While Sashka was sorting out the money, someone gave him a friendly nudge in the shoulder. The fellow sitting diagonally grinned at him like an old friend. This turned out to be that same fellow with the abrasion. “Hello!” said Sashka.

“Hello to you too! I said that I would go search! You nodded and bolted!” the fellow said reproachfully and added, “Danny!” Leaning towards Sashka, Danny pushed him with a sharp knee and simultaneously scratched his cheekbone with the forehead. Not a person but a walking injury for the surrounding people.

“Noticed?” he whispered.

“That everyone is of the same age?” guessed Sashka.

“Well, that’s not too bad!” Danny dismissed it. “More: we don’t stop at traffic lights. One. No one gets on or off along the way. Two. Several times people raised a hand but we didn’t even stop, although lots of free seats.”

“Strange,” agreed Sashka. “Usually they take everybody.”

“Hey, you two! Stop whispering! Can’t move?” the bossy girl impatiently tugged at Sashka’s sleeve. Her voice sounded fearless. It was felt that she not only spoke the plain truth but also brandished it like a shaft. Sashka discovered in his own hand a bundle of money and, remembering that it was time to get rid of it, passed it forward.

“Hey! Pass it on!” he hailed and shook the shoulder of the person sitting directly in front of him. The person turned around. Out of surprise, Sashka jerked his hand back. He thought it was a guy there but “hey!” turned out to be a girl.

The beauty of the girl was so obvious that even a catty sharp-tongued old hag would not call it into question. True, she would feel obligated to add that there are signs of dystrophy from the long legs and there cannot be a brain in such a pretty head. However, there is no getting away from envy: you cannot climb up to the fence at least to spit on one who sits on it.

Noticing what impression she had made on Sashka, the corner of the girl’s mouth twitched and this spoiled seventy percent of the impression. Roosters are not the only smug ones. Simply one can more readily forgive hens.

“May I ask an improper question? What camouflage is this? English? Bundeswehr?”[6 - Bundeswehr is the Federal Defence Force of Germany.] she asked. Sashka answered that for the time being the camouflage was Russian. Three more improper questions were posed to him in the next forty seconds: “Why the hanky on the neck?” (Cool.) “Why a smell of burning from him?” (A fire.) “What does Sashka want to express with his military pants?” (Simply comfortable.)

It turned out Sashka was not the only one who saw the beauty. The young fellow with the patch on his eye also gave her the once-over. “A bet on your phone number, your name’s… eh-eh… Natasha!” he plunged in, not wasting time on display of fantasy. His calm neighbour raised her eyebrows and with defiance shook the crumbs off her skirt onto his knees.

“Nevertheless, well done!” Sashka mentally approved. “He has no fear of a snub. He flies through life as a woodpecker. Knocks, doesn’t open, flies further.” Sashka himself was unable to be this way. For Sashka the world was too detailed, and the people too. He could not talk in phrases prepared ahead of time. He vaguely caught that for each person there exists special words, which reach him like a key and unlock his soul. But he did not know these words. Therefore, when he talked to a girl, he would carry on with the usual stock nonsense. What music she likes, what sites she visits, and so on.

The beauty looked dully at Cyril. Likely he scored even less points than Sashka. Still, Sashka was passable. Light-brown hair, grey eyes, an open face. “So what’s your name?” Cyril repeated.

“Don’t remember,” the beauty answered with defiance.

“What? Really they didn’t write it down in the passport?” Cyril was amazed. “Cool!”

The girl gave in. “Oh, fine. I’m Lara! Anything else?”

“Yea, smile!” Lara smiled, obediently and tiredly.

“Got a bite!” Sashka praised.

Vlad Ganich – the name of the precisionist in the suit – suddenly got up with a pressed knee on the seat and glanced back with suspicion at the last row. “Ah-h! Well then, yes!” he mysteriously drawled and sat down.

Sashka also half-rose in order to figure out what had attracted Ganich’s attention. He looked behind the high back hiding this spot from him earlier and lost his way in simple feelings and words, like a baby among table legs. The beauty Lara was instantly forgotten and simply faded into the background.

In the last row by the window sat a girl. Her face was cheerful like a person waiting for a gift of life, although also catching some bumps. Many small freckles added character to the skin. There were even freckles on the earlobes. The short, slightly pulled-up nose was similar to a sparrow’s beak. It seemed that the nose was not quite right at first – absurd, as if it had strayed from another’s face and got stuck. Only later you feel that there cannot be another nose here. After sculpting this girl from clay, life looked over its work, remained contented, as a last stroke merrily flicked the nose with its forefinger, and whispered, “Well, why are you standing? Go! Breathe! Live!”

“What are you?” Sashka foolishly asked, trying to comprehend how he could have missed her. Then he understood: the high back had been blocking the girl.

“Me? A person!”