About those, who were Sauls once and who is able to create the real history of the humankind unlike the fruitless pragmatics, – he grinned awry, forcing this phrase, and then, as though regaining consciousness, added crossly: “I’m joking…” – There’s a novel of the Great Russian proletarian writer, Gorky, it’s called “Mother”. In this novel Nilovna sacrificed to revolution her only son Pavel.
Who was that Nilovna?
Pavel’s mother – in Russia it is accepted to call the eldest by the name of their fathers, not by their own name, and what’s her own name was – I can’t remember.
Eugene’s look again flew away to somewhere, and his lined face suddenly became strangely harsh and weak mouth with slightly swollen lips huddled up in snakish grin. Then he, like remembering something suddenly, returned to the reality, and continued in the tone of relaxed and bored observer of ten-years-ago events, who condescended lazily to enlighten a queer bird-foreigner.
Yes, everything was up on the 21st of August, with the false curfew: the troops stood still, disturbed nobody, waiting for some orders from “putschists”. It seems to me still, that they were frightened by themselves. It was their last day. As it could be expected, and you shouldn’t be a Delphi’s Oracle to predict it, the crowd got excited and was the first to start fight with the troops, which didn’t know what to do. The blood of “democracy defenders” was spilt, which were not attacked by anybody, and then GKChP was doomed to become a “putsch”. And for televisioners, as well as for the crowd, there was the fifth day – August, 22 – when the head of Interior Minister of USSR was “chopped off”, and Gorby’s accomplices have formed OMON – “Interior Ministry Riot Police” within IM of USSR.
I didn’t understand, Eugene, what does it mean – “to be chopped off”?
It means that somebody “polished him off” – Galba made the expressive gesture. But seeing the misunderstanding in my eyes he continued. – It is another idiom, and it means that the last USSR minister of Domestic Affairs – Pugo – had his head knocked off. According to the official version, he had shot himself, but everyone could see on TV that the pistol was laying on the night table, where they say he has put it after he had shot himself. And then there started big shmon of different party committees: oblast, city, rayon and some smaller ones.
What is shmon, Eugene? Explain it, please.
So in Russian jails people call a big search[32], accompanying by shaking out all the contents of cells, prisoner’s belongings, and personal inspection. And all the westerners willingly call Russia “the jail of peoples”. But, frankly speaking, it’s rather hard to grasp who is a jailer in this case; it could be supposed, that Russians are, but they always lived worse than prisoners: simple jail pottage wasn’t enough for everyone.
It was apparent, that Eugene was willing to develop the theme of “jailer” further, but suddenly he, as if stumbling on something in his speculations, stopped unexpectedly. I was so astonished by his story that I started to doubt: didn’t he make a fool of me? The farther he went in his narrative, the clearer I saw the pictures from the first “picnic” in my mind, as fairy-tale illustrations to his story, and I was almost sure – Eugene saw “picnics”.
May be, that’s enough of hints, may be, it’s better to ask him directly, and that’s that, – I thought, – but how can I do that, all the more, he didn’t want to remember “circus Shapiro”, starting to explain me about “circus shapito”. If Galba knows for long everything about “picnics”, and even how they’re connected with the events of September, 11 in New York and Washington, may be, Holmes and I are just wasting time? Eh, no! Our day is not over. It would be better to continue conversation how it goes and to try to draw out as more information as possible from this strange fellow. And at last it’ll be possible to ask about “picnics” directly.
Hopkins left us and approached the counter of the bar, where he animatedly talked about something with longhaired youthful fellow wearing leather coat and shabby jeans. Eugene asked for coffee with Grand Margnet liquor for the second time, and I ordered tea with lemon and honey. While the waiter was serving the table another time, my story-teller, as though having forgotten about my existence, sat, turning away from the window, and, holding the tea-spoon between his fingers, like a crossbeam of child’s swing, tinkled rhythmically with it knocking on the brim of a glass vase with beautifully laid biscuits and chocolates. I decided to attract his attention to me.
I see that the events of August of 1991 seemed distasteful to you. But why didn’t you leave Russia at once, but only in two years? Did you hope on something?
He kept silent. Either he withdrew into himself and really didn’t hear what I’ve said, or he became interested in something irrelevant to the theme of our conversation. I caught his, as it seemed to me, absent look, and was rather astonished that he was staring on the TV screen to the right of the bar counter. Evening news by CNN was coming to an end. There was rumble in a bar, usual for such places; but when heeding you could understand something from commentator’s words.
What date is it today? –Eugene suddenly asked, addressing to no one exactly, and not interrupting watching TV.
October 4, if I’m not mistaken. Something interesting in evening news?
Something interesting? – He repeated my question thoughtfully, and, not taking his eyes off TV screen, choosing the words slowly, uttered something completely absurd, – yes, Watson, this evening there will be an interesting story at the Patriarch Ponds!
At this moment he, as if awoken, seeing the bewildered-inquiring expression on my face, started to talk quite consciously.
Oh, Watson, don’t worry. I just remembered something. One Russian writer, Bulgakov, wrote a novel, the most popular novel of 20th century, as your, I mean – western, literature critics say, – it is called “Master and Margarita”, haven’t you read? There, one of the main characters – Woland – answered with this phrase the irrelevant question of one writer. However, Watson, it has nothing to do with you. What about interesting news: they have just reported – today, 13.44 (Moscow time) not far from Sochi TU-134 – the plane of Russian air company, committing a flight №1812 Tel-Aviv – Novosibirsk – fell in the Black Sea; all passengers and crew members perished, searching works have started. The causes of catastrophe are being investigated, though Americans have already reported that the plane was shot down by Ukraine AD in the course of exercises.
Eugene was again looking through the window and seemed totally absorbed in studying the street life of evening London, pondering about something.
Have they really celebrated?! – He grumbled angrily, and a familiar smile disfigured his face again.
What have they celebrated?
It is ‘who’, not ‘what’, that matters, Watson. Today is the eighth anniversary of tragic events near White House in Moscow in October of 1993. You asked why I didn’t leave right after August of 1991. Yes, I was hoping, and very much, that Russians had not so short memory as people here on the West. But they’ve forgotten everything, all the sacrifices on the altar of true freedom in October of 1917. After August putsch we all were sure that nobody was going to build capitalism in Russia in earnest; simply, the well-meaning crowd needed an “inoculation” against capitalistic evil going from the West. And this anti-capitalistic “vaccine” should be driven to such doses, that common people would throw up when only hearing such words as “market”, “capitalism”, “humanity values” and so on. But nothing had happened as we expected. Many people, losing their memory about achievements of Great October, got rid of this “inoculation” and instead of easy walking…
Picnic? – I interjected, in a hope, that this time he would reveal himself and understand what I wanted from him.