It was a narrow living room in a panel-block apartment, an apartment block in the midst of all the other apartment blocks. There were two guys about my age sitting there. One of them was probably the friend she’d mentioned to me and the other guy was his friend. There were no girls there and — I would suspect — there had never been any. On the low press-board table stood an empty wine bottle and a half-full bottle of liquor, one of those completely undrinkable kinds. The new bottle didn’t seem to pique as much interest as my arrival, but even that lasted only briefly. At least they acted like they didn’t care and left the questions for later. They poured vodka into their glasses and left her standing. They didn’t ask her about me, she’d brought me here and that was that, without “why” or “how.” Maybe the only girl in the group enjoyed special privileges. Then the question logically arose: why was she the one sent to buy alcohol at 11 p.m.? The answer: so as not to risk being recognized at the store, the very same store where earlier they had stolen the wine and liquor. That explained the strange choice of drinks, since these dusty bottles were always on the very back shelf in the corner, where no one ever passes by, so it’s a cinch to hide them under your shirt.
“Pour him a drink, why don’t you!” she shouted from time to time, pointing at me. “Don’t be a tight-ass, I bought the vodka. And I spit on him to boot, the poor guy.”
It was the sad, gloomy, and impoverished time of the Transition, without electricity.
It was a convenient time for the illusion that the Comsomol and all the memories that went along with it could be finished off once and for all. The past, which is eminently accusable, even though it can no longer repay you with anything.
When you see a million and a half neatly tucked in a briefcase on the table, those illusions capsize like canoes and the truth gapes in front of you. For all your moral causes, for all your unfulfilled dreams you haven’t gotten a single penny. No matter how righteous your cause, that guy, K-shev, for example, still managed to collect the dividend, despite his wrongness, despite the brazenness of his crime. Somehow he cashed in your very self.
Running makes me all the more hostile — if that’s even possible. I know what’s going to happen after another kilometer if I don’t stop or slow down. It’s not necessary for me to do one or the other — my body is now moving on its own, the running is automatic, as mechanical as it is unpleasant, single-minded, surrendering to the pain that keeps growing in every muscle and especially the joints. And I myself have already noticed that I’m trying to do something that’s perhaps out of line, deceitful. To force a whole swath of my past through the fleshy filter that is the body. To burn it up as if in a stove, to cremate it by doing exercises to fill the emptiness inside me. I’ve done this before, I thought I’d given it up — but what do you know, when backed into a corner I run again toward it like the only escape route. Replacing the unfinished gestures of the past with active athletic movements — it’s absurd, boring, pitiful. And just look how many more runners there are here around me. The Germans, and particularly those from Hamburg, probably yearn for some impossible part of the gestures from the past. Or they just want to be healthy.
The time of the Transition, like I said. The attempts to replace the Comsomol with athletics had no way of achieving a total effect, despite superficial successes. The army also didn’t offer me anything more than a familiar backdrop. Distorted features of an image impressed upon me by youthful romanticism. Formerly handsome and monolithic, it would now look me in the eye polluted, with scratches on its very pupils. After being discharged I felt more confused about myself than ever.
Later — I’m talking about the time when the Transition was over and nothing external could be altered — in yet another attempt to change my very self, I resorted to my usual method. When I decided to take up boxing, however, I had no idea that my nose would get broken so quickly. Knowing my own character, I was afraid that after two or three workouts at the gym my self-confidence would skyrocket and I’d be unable to control myself, I’d bait somebody on the street and get my ass kicked. But let me reiterate that I’m talking about the time when violence had already taken on a new meaning. Just like the street itself, by the way. Collective spaces had shrunk, the street was the line of demarcation. And I always felt one category lighter than necessary, a slightly lower weight-class than everyone else. Who knows, maybe that was the reason I chose boxing — in the hopes that speed would compensate for mass. I also think that the incident from that night made a difference.
But things turned out differently than I expected. My nose was broken not in the outside world, but in the gym, at the second practice session. It wasn’t even during sparring, they wouldn’t let me get anywhere near the ring yet. It’s a mistake to think that the padded helmet that protects your cheekbones and chin will also protect your nose if you yourself aren’t protecting it. They smacked me good and despite the fact that the gloves soften the blow to some extent, I felt such a strong and blunt pain that with no qualms whatsoever I immediately felt like bawling, which I did. With tears, but silently. My coach wasn’t moved, he just stuffed wads of cotton up my nose and said that that was the beginning.
I decided, however, that it was the end and went into the locker room to gather up my stuff. Tears, like I said, have a strange, contradictory power.
I didn’t become a real street boxer. Even after tireless exercises targeting specific aspects of my body and mind, a fair amount of my original inconsistency still existed. Passivity, mixed with surprising and unexpected outbursts of hidden rage. Presumably the Party, just like the Comsomol before it, had no use for such quickly detonating fireworks. Plodding mediocrity is preferred, since it is far more predictable and can be governed. This must’ve been the reason that the Comsomol spurned me, in a sense that it spurned all of us together, following the example of the Party itself — like a fossilized creature giving a final croak beneath its shell and going belly up. We had become too spontaneous, the freedom of our bodies turned order into chaos.
Everything happened very quickly, during that night, I mean. The guy, the tall one whose bulging Adam’s apple was somehow ugly and menacing — he cracked first, his gaze became hostile, dangerous, and I felt the threat. At such moments it’s as if I’m seized by a strange sense of weightlessness.
She was sitting by me on the armrest of the battered sofa, holding onto my shoulder. She was touching me somehow ambiguously, but every time that guy, the tall one, tried to grab her around the waist, she would pull away, turning her back on him.
“Hey, whore,” that’s all he said, but it sounded sufficiently frightening.
“What are you playin’ at?” I saw the other guy snarl, emboldened. He was short and unpleasant in his track suit.
I didn’t realize the three of them had known each other for such a short time. It only now became clear to me — this was some kind of random boozing or hoodlum hang-out, they’d gotten together, found each other that night. What had I gotten myself into? The question crossed my mind. I had to run, to get out of there. I got up abruptly — why? To run for the door? I don’t know, I stood up.
“As for you, douchebag,” the tall one snarled and took a swing.
I could’ve stepped back, for example, because the movement of his arm was drunken and unsteady and way too slow. I didn’t move, though, I didn’t step back; his fist just got heavier from the slow swing and managed to take aim, connecting with my cheekbone and partially with the nose.
Good thing I didn’t yell — that somehow startled them, because I didn’t even raise a hand to my face, I just shut my eyes for a moment. When I opened them and looked around again, I saw that they were staring at me rather strangely.