Ольга Палагина – Stories from Lyubavino. Chronicle of an extraordinary Incident (страница 10)
Among his few acquaintances, he had only one true and tested friend – Vitya. The two had been thick as thieves since kindergarten. Since childhood, Vitya had been seriously passionate about weightlifting. He was solidly built, muscular, broad-shouldered, short, and stocky.
Outwardly, they were an impossibly absolute contrast to one another. Vasily was a brown-haired young man with dark eyes, tall, scrawny, and pale to the point of bluishness. Vitya, however, was a fair-haired lad with gray eyes, stout, with rosy cheeks, and radiating health. Vasily and Vitya – two completely opposite poles, yet by some mysterious laws of the universe, they had in time become the closest of friends, so inseparable that they couldn’t imagine life without each other. Can you, dear reader, imagine a more comical pair than these two?!
Their behavior was at times utterly unpredictable, and on occasion, as is often the case in youth, even verging on the reckless. But the most peculiar and eccentric of the two, as you have no doubt gathered, was the main hero of this story – Vasily.
His father had barely managed to persuade his old friend, Yevgeny Vladimirovich, the director of the electrical goods store, to take his son on. He had done everything possible to get the boy a job, at least for the summer.
As we have already mentioned, Vasily was a peculiar fellow – quirky, but interesting. His appearance, to be honest, slightly resembled that of a vampire – pale skin, sharp facial features. However, far more important was his ability to find a common language with people. At eighteen years old, he was perfectly capable of handling simple tasks, and that was enough.
Ah, youth! Reckless acts, eccentric self-expression through unusual clothing (and not only that), incredible dreams and desires, an indomitable belief in a beautiful future! And, of course, the tremulous anticipation of first true love…
Although, it seems we have digressed slightly…
So then, in recent days, a local artist, Serafim Nikiforovich, had passed on to the next world – a grandfather of very advanced years, a man of complex and heroic destiny, highly respected throughout the district.
The lavish funeral, scheduled for Friday, was not going to be canceled, despite a major power outage having occurred. The director of the electrical goods store, being a man who deeply respected Serafim Nikiforovich, decided to contribute his modest share to the expenses of the upcoming event.
The expenses were managed by a certain responsible official, who, on his own initiative, had organized a collection of funds in his office at the local administration. Vasily was entrusted with carefully delivering this very contribution – neatly placed in a sealed envelope – to the aforementioned official.
There was little use from Vasily at work anyway, and Yevgeny Vladimirovich himself couldn’t possibly get away today. He had decided to use the suddenly available day off to maximum benefit: to arrange a minor rearrangement in the store, combined with a long-overdue thorough cleaning. And he intended to personally supervise this important process, without stepping away for a moment.
“You know where our administration building is?” he inquired of Vasily, who was enthusiastically chewing gum while simultaneously listening to some clanging music through a single wireless earbud protruding from his ear.
“Nope…” Vasily shook his head in negation, continuing to chew.
“Then listen up and remember… And spit out that gum already when your superior is talking to you…”
“Just a sec…” Vasily nodded quickly, transforming his demeanor into one of pure attentiveness and obedience, and spat the gum into a trash bin.
“You’ll exit the store, turn right, then walk straight along the sidewalk to the intersection, cross the road, bear left, and in about two hundred meters you’ll come upon a two-story, light-colored building – well, that will be our administration. Go up to the second floor, right in front of you will be a door. You’ll enter, hand over the envelope, and say it’s for the funeral. Got all that?”
“Uh-huh…” Vasily nodded briskly, taking the envelope from Evgeny Vladimirovich’s hands.
With a carefree, springy gait, he set off to carry out his assignment, swaying his head to the beat of the clanging music in one ear.
And so, about twenty minutes later, an angry phone call came through on the landline in the director’s office. Evgeny Vladimirovich had once prudently kept the wired telephone – just in case. And would you believe it, it came in handy…
Just a few minutes after that call, Evgeny Vladimirovich burst out of his office, crimson and huffing like a boiling samovar, the pathetic remnants of his hair standing on end.
“Can you imagine! Do you know who just called me?!” – and without waiting for an answer from his stunned subordinates, who were lazily polishing the shelves, he suddenly wailed:
“The prosecutor herself!.. Yes, yes, the one from our district! Furious as a witch on a diet, and she asks me: ‘Why would you do this to me?! What did I ever do to you?!’”
He made a dramatic pause, his eyes wide open:
“I’m standing there, listening, not understanding a thing! And she says to me: ‘Why are you wishing me dead?! Why did you send me money for my own funeral?! What is the meaning of this outrage, Evgeny Vladimirovich?!’”
And suddenly, his face contorted with a horrifying realization:
“And that’s when it hit me! That blockhead Vasily managed to mix up the administration building with the prosecutor’s office! I ask you, where is our administration and where is the prosecutor’s office?!”
Evgeny Vladimirovich scanned his employees with a look that conveyed a silent question and utter indignation. Satisfied to see the required mixture of bewilderment and righteous anger on their faces, he continued with renewed vigor:
“When he gets back – I’ll kill him on the spot! Although, no…” he suddenly thought better of it, “first, let him explain what on earth he said to that prosecutor. And then I’ll kill him!”
He delivered this last phrase with particular inspiration:
“And then I’ll hand over the money for
Evgeny Vladimirovich took a greedy gulp of water from a half-liter plastic bottle – indignation had left his throat parched. Then, with unquenchable fervor, he continued to depict for his team the nightmarish situation that had caused everyone to drop their work in a hurry.
“So there I was, explaining myself to the prosecutor like an idiot, telling her that the money wasn’t for her funeral, but for our Serafim Nikiforovich, that Vasily, that good-for-nothing, mixed up both the buildings, and the floors, and the offices. Now I have to go around explaining to her why the hell I sent her money for her funeral, and while she’s still alive! Should I send her flowers now, or what?”
The team let out a unified, disapproving murmur and waved their hands in horror.
“Oh, right, of course, now, in this context, she’d take
The team nodded in agreement, humming and mumbling their assent.
Frustrated, the boss took a powerful breath, retreated into his office, and threw over his shoulder:
“As soon as that cutthroat appears – send him straight to me!”
The entire staff nodded in servile unison and immediately abandoned all their ‘frantic’ activities. They were now eagerly awaiting the continuation of this unprecedented incident. Whispering and animatedly discussing the event, they all instantly forgot what they had actually come to work for today.
Vasily, however, evidently decided not to keep anyone in agonizing suspense. Still nodding his head in time with the insane music blasting in his ear, he walked into the hushed store.
The staff immediately perked up and, with a single impulse, stared at him with wide eyes, anticipating something thrilling. With an air of importance, he marched silently past them into the director’s office, on the way studying his colleagues’ frozen faces with mild bewilderment.
The door had barely slammed shut behind him when, with remarkable unity, they tiptoed over to the director’s office door. Pressing against it with whatever body part was most convenient and holding their breath, they began eavesdropping on what was happening inside.
“Vasily,” began Yevgeny Vladimirovich, barely containing his emotions, “which building did I ask you to find?”
“The Administration building…” the subordinate replied, perplexed.
“Then what the hell were you doing in the Prosecutor’s Office??!”
“???” Vasily stared at his boss with a look full of silent question.
“How did you even get in there? The place is swarming with security! Ah, to hell with it…” the director waved his hand dismissively. “Better tell me… my dear Vasily, what exactly did you say to our highly respected prosecutor?”
“Well… I – I—I…” Vasily hesitated.
“Well?!” the boss snapped.
“Well, I saw a two-story building, went up to the second floor, like you said, and walked into an office… There was a woman sitting in a chair, reading some papers. I walked up, put the envelope on her desk, and said: ‘This is for the funeral, from Yevgeny Vladimirovich.’ And that’s it… I left…”