Сергей Огольцов – The Sweets At Dawn (страница 1)
Сергей Огольцов
The Sweets At Dawn
The Sweets At Dawn
On getting a hefty kick in the seat of his pants in the end of the first book, the lyrical hero of the story rocketed up out of the tender Continent Childhood. An invisibly parabolic trajectory lands him in the thick of provincial Soviet life in northern Ukraine. Adolescence began—the process of becoming a 'cut-off slice' followed by 'hardening', the loss of friendships, the collapse of dreams, and their replacement with brand new ones. Just like by everyone else. Then, of its own accord, came the 'time of folly youth'. Changes in the heroic anatomy entail the growth of new instincts, and the protagonist charts an independent course into the open sea of his personality's sexual maturation.
The 2nd book in Rascally Romance series warns of certain pitfalls in blissful period of life ruled by the smaller yet mightier of your 2 heads or, to make it clear for amatomically innocent guys as well, when instincts keep brains prisoner. Donations to the redemption fund are welcome!
~ ~ ~
a cool youngster
(… looks like it would do. Yep, definitely enough.
It's time to rake those potatoes out of the ashes before they themselves become embers. Coal is the undisputed champion in terms of kilocalorie content, but I'm somehow dubious about the taste of a charred dinner.
And look how dark it is already, but overeating at night, you risk breaking into the wrong aura in the morning, if not sooner. At times it’s useful to ask myself PLAINLY, 'Do I need it? Really?'
'And leave your dinner,' advised one wise nutritionist, most likely deceased; good people, as a rule, don't live long, 'for your enemies.'
On the other hand what good is in outsiders’ wisdom? Here I am—honed and forged for the good of the society, where every person is a friend, comrade, and brother to every one else. To anyone at all—whoever turns up.
Damn! But I still feel like spilling the pearls of barley noodles they once overfed me with. Otherwise, what else would make me perform an arioso for your half-sister, for Lenochka. Pouring out like a complete prima donna, I was. Affirming that all people are kind, by nature. Well, it's just that not everyone has yet grasped how soft, humane, and meek is the lining of their human souls, deep down beneath the surface. Yet we, people of good will, are working on it, yes. So, sooner or later…
She's a smart girl, she didn't contradict her dad. And why bother, if there's TV? Literally that same evening, the damn stars of my quirky fate arranged a showing of Shakespeare's 'Richard III'. A charming example of Anglo-Saxon art, interpreted by some famous Moscow Theatre! A truly capital institution. Right up to the trendiest seats.
They did captivate the kid! Lenochka couldn't take her eyes off it, like those kind people (just not all of them have managed yet to bore deep enough to reach the depths of their innate kindness) strangling each other and tearing each other to shreds in various ways. ‘Ugh! And whose head is kicking around on the scaffold? Again, goddamn, it's left untidy!’
And who would have doubted it! The next morning she even turned on a rerun, because you can't argue with Shakespeare, it's a classic… So I learned my lesson and from then on I stopped performing sermonized recitatives. Since then, we are maintaining an armed neutrality between us, the television and me, in exchange for non-interference…
All this is to say that if, say, I were to suddenly make an enemy, I'd rather give him my last shirt, but not dinner—take this, enemy! I’m caring for your health! As the moral code bequeathed. No need to make cutesy eyes here. What a cocker spaniel! Such delicacies are not for you. It's a potato-baked-in-a-fire itself!.
It's beyond description—what a culinary miracle it is. And the moment you break open its black, crispy crust and sprinkle a pinch of salt into the lightly steaming core, you see at once the radiance of Truth… Hearken, folks of the right, left, and orthodox as well! No kulebyaki on kamizyaki or shaved beefs hooves can even hold a candle to it. The levels are too different!
I hand over all the blancmanges, even with pistachios, not hesitating for a sec, to patent gourmets, certified experts in the delights of taste. And what about us? Simple, innocent folks, all our need is good money and yummy snack.
If I weren't a Negro of advanced years, oppressed by everyday life and the struggle for survival, then I would immediately compose an ode to it! To it My beloved—a potato baked in a fire!
And it's no wonder, of all the crap cooked up by Julian Semyonov, the most poignant episode is when his Stirlitz, aka Soviet spy Isaev, rolled up the sleeves of his fascist dress uniform. He's baking potatoes in the fireplace of his Berlin safe house, to spite the enemy, so he can properly celebrate Soviet Army and Navy Day.
However, with all due respect to his culinary patriotism, it's all bullshit. To fully enjoy baked potatoes, you need to sit on the ground and under the open sky, and have this dark evening quietude around you. With or without Varanda—that's secondary…)
~ ~ ~
In Konotop, Grandma Katya kissed us all, one by one, as we stood, alike to klutzy pillars, in the middle of her kitchen, and then—she burst into tears. Our mother started her bagpipes of fast-talk consolations. Then she spotted two toddlers' heads, peeking furtively from behind the half-closed door to the sole room in this I.Repin's painting, 'No One Expect Him'.
Swapping the record side, Mother asked, as a kinda distraction, 'Are those Lyudka's?'
'Yes, that's Irochka and Valerik. They're so big already. The girl is three, and he'll soon be two.'
When their father, Uncle Tolik, came into the house after work. For the first time in my life—in person, not in a movie—I saw a wide bald spot on a man's head. From the forehead to the nape of the neck. However, I tried not to gape too noticeably.
An hour later, he and I went together to meet Aunt Lyuda. Her grocery store closed at seven, and she wasn’t up to schlepping her bags all the way home by herself. I kept apace with Uncle Tolik, marking the route to Underpass, which in Konotop is still called Overpass…
This name conjures up a vague image of a crowd in a drawn-out wait in front of a railroad barrier.
A lowered crossbar with black and white stripes blocked the crossing over the tracks. The crossing bridge is made of black wooden sleepers laid lengthwise, just below the level of the railheads in the iron tracks.
The crossing barriers rise, and two crowds rush toward each other to cross the tracks. In the thick of the current are a couple of carts and a three-ton truck with wooden sides coming in the opposite direction… we’re leaving Konotop for the Object…
In my absence, a deep concrete tunnel has been dug under the multi-lane railway tracks. Hence, the official name—'Underpass', but people, out of habit, call it 'Overpass'…
On the other side of the Under-Overpass, long-bodied red trams rumble briskly—from the City to the Station and back.
The central part of Konotop is called 'the City', although it has no officially established boundaries. This is how it differs from London's 'City' or Yerevan's 'Kentron'.
Therefore, for reasons beyond the control of Konotop residents, their opinions on the area and boundaries of the 'City' may differ. However, the Train Station, which is technically within the city limits, is not considered 'City'. I still have to learn these and other subtleties.
While we stood waiting for Aunt Lyuda to arrive by a tram from the City toward the Train Station, Uncle Tolik persuaded me to catch up with her under the sparse streetlights of the descent to the Underpass. He would remain off to the side, unnoticed. I had to grab one of her bags and ask in a hoarse voice, 'Ain't this one too heavy for you?'
However, Aunt Lyuda recognized me immediately, even though Uncle Tolik had pulled my cap down over my eyes while she was getting off the tram…
The three of us then headed back to Nezhin Street. Uncle Tolik carrying both bags, whose contents Aunt Lyuda would pay for from her wages at the store. We climbed up the tilt from the Underpass tunnel, and after the crossing traversed the silence of the deserted Bazaar, walking along the passageway between its empty stalls under the high, sloping roofs. It was as if two rows of stalls had lined up opposite each other for a ceremonial formation, gotten bored, and fell asleep.
After trudging along for about ten minutes, we turned onto Nezhyn Street. A couple fireflies of distant bulb lights on their posts, somewhere deep along the road, distinguish Nezhyn Street from other lanes filled with unlit darkness.
~ ~ ~
Our arrival in Konotop took place on the eve of the last quarter of the academic year. The three of us, with no other options, were destined to attend Secondary School No. 13, thanks to its prime location. The school gates were right across from Nezhyn Street; all we had to do was pass over the bumpy cobblestone road of Bohdan Khmelnytsky Street.