Because of his large bald spot, some call him Pleshner.15 He knows they do. He knows who these people are, too. His colleagues from the school, all those gossips and ne’er-do-wells, and the women from the tourist camp – he tries to avoid them all. Not one of them said as much as a Happy Birthday when he turned 50. Could have sent a card, at least. One from the whole staff, it wouldn’t have killed them. But no, instead he gets nasty notes stuffed into his mailbox. To heck with it – he’s managed just fine without them, and he’ll be fine just the same. And the woman can take her pity and stuff it.
Soon, soon enough the new group of tourists will come, and with them – new women. He’ll have his trips. And his peace. And his islands. The still expanse of the river. The fish-soup in a pot over the open fire. And his guitar. When asked, Viktor Ivanovich plays Russian romances and sings. And people enjoy listening to him. They do.
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Viktor Ivanovich went down the stairs carrying his bicycle – it was time to go check in at the camp. He had no particular reason to be there, but he went every day anyway, as if to work. Sometimes there were things to be fixed or painted. And all they paid him – it’s a shame to say it! – was 40 rubles a month, part-time. But he wasn’t doing it for the money – money can’t buy inspiration, as they say.
He checked his mailbox purely out of habit – he wasn’t expecting anything good there. There was a single sheet of paper in there, a page torn out of a school notebook. Viktor Ivanovich pulled it out – he already knew what it was. Another note from the kids.
They’d been tormenting him all winter: there were notes with a skull and bones, or unprintable obscenities, or threats to set his door on fire. Little sons of bitches – what had he done to them? But he bore it patiently for a long time. Once or twice he tried to ambush whoever did it. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore, went and complained to the precinct duty policeman. The cop just laughed at him: “What do you want, boys will be boys!” he said. Boys! These are underage criminals! His son is turning into one of them, never mind how much his father might beat him. These are the boys who changed the points on the siding at the train yard – it was just luck the trackman saw it before anything happened. That made quite a stir. And it was this same precinct captain who saved their little asses then, the bastard – he had to cover for his own kid. Law and order, my ass! Look at all the muck in the stairwells, and the words carved out in the elevators, and all these young punks hanging together at night – it’s a miracle they haven’t raped anyone yet.
After that conversation at the precinct Viktor Ivanovich commanded himself to ignore the captain, too – and he used to say hello to the man whenever he saw him.
But the note turned out to be something out of the ordinary. Viktor Ivanovich read:
This is a good-luck letter.
This letter brings good fortune. The original of this letter is kept in Holland. Now the Letter has come to you. With this letter you will receive good fortune and happiness, but on one condition: you must send the letter onward. This is not a joke. You will receive happiness. Money can’t buy happiness. Send this letter to someone you know who is in need of happiness. Do not delay. You must send 20 copies of this letter in the next 106 hours (4 days). Even if you don’t believe in magic. This Letter began its life in 1842. Arthur Conan Doyle received this letter and told his secretary to make twenty copies. Four days later, he won a million. One office worker got this letter and threw it out – and was in an accident the next day. Someone placed a copy of this Letter at Khrushchev’s dacha in 1964, and Khrushchev tore it up. Two days later, his colleagues from the Politburo toppled him. Under no circumstances can you tear or shred this letter; treat it kindly. You will see the results four days after you send all 20 copies.
Do NOT alter the text of the letter.
That’s what it said. On a piece of ruled paper. A handwritten carbon copy.
For whatever reason, the letter struck Viktor Ivanovich as funny. It’s too bad none of his neighbors were around – he’d have shown it to them. They’re all old ladies, though – stupid old hens, they’d probably make a fuss over it.
He’s gotten some “holy” letters before, but this was the first one that promised happiness. Good fortune. On a silver platter, so to speak.
So, what’s going on here? Little old ladies with nothing to do are now after good fortune and untold riches? They’d want it free, of course. Just copy the thing 20 times, and here you go, here’s your million. Like Conan Doyle. An elevator ride to heaven, wouldn’t you like that... But there are no elevators – this ain’t the place with miracles we live in, he knows that for a fact. A man has to make things happen. With his own two hands. You reap what you sow, that’s right.
But he didn’t toss the letter – he thought he’d show it to the folks at the camp, they’d have a laugh. Or maybe he’ll give it to the old Leshcheva – let her copy it and get some happy times come her way. She does nothing but complain about her life and her son. Her son drinks, and his wife drinks too, and Grandma Leshcheva feels sorry for them all – usually for a week or two, then she goes right back to cursing them. Than back to pitying, and back to cursing again. That’s how they get along; she mostly sits on the bench by the apartment building, waiting for someone to come by and talk to her – when she’s had a chance to complain to someone, mourn her lot, shed a tear, she feels better, and another day’s gone. But what else do you expect: she’d raised that boy without a father, he’d basically grown up in the juvenile system. You won’t get a decent grandkid out of a son like that either: the little one just takes after the father.
That’s it – he’ll give it to her. She’ll copy it and send it around. All her country friends – they believe this nonsense. They believe everything you tell them. Dreams – they believe in those. The Evil Eye. Jinxes. That, if the priest’s wife were to take a swing with the incense burner, all the drowned would come up from the bottom of the river. UFOs.
UFOs are a special topic, Viktor Ivanovich’s favorite. He enjoys telling stories about aliens at campfires, knock those arrogant Moscow types down a rung. They try to argue with him – bring up the so-called facts from newspapers, but he beats them at physics. There is no natural law anywhere in the universe that would allow an object to travel faster than a speed of light, is there? He shoots holes in their theories with natural laws – they don’t know their physics from their botany. And as far as the newspapers are concerned, there’s a reason journalism is called the second oldest profession on earth, the first being whoring, of course. Whores is what they are, those journalists.
Journalists... He had one in a group once; the son-of-a-bitch was only good at drinking and eating, you couldn’t make him work with a stick. He’d probably believe a letter like this, too. Never mind there’s no logic in it whatsoever – that never bothered them before. Viktor Ivanovich, they said, doesn’t understand the supernatural. Supernatural or not, but when he made them row across the lake – in the rain, he did it on purpose – they changed their tune, didn’t they? They barely made it. He’d put the fear of God in them that day, better than any UFOs! They thanked him later, of course – until the day they left, they talked about how he saved them. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
The thought of that poor journalist (the wimp!) instantly improved Viktor Ivanovich’s mood, and he effortlessly sped off on his bicycle. Only at the camp’s gates, near the village, did he again remember the letter: he spotted the old woman Leshcheva at her post on the bench, she was watching her grandkids, as always. The kids, also as always, were dirty, snot smeared under their noses, and covered, at the moment, in clay – they were making tanks out of mud. Of course, when your parents sell your toys to buy vodka, you make do with mud. How else? And if you’re in third grade already and can’t read, that’s not a big deal. How could anyone raise a decent kid in a pigsty like this?