Great asthenic. The Road Book - Part 6 (eng)

Prev part: https://telegra.ph/Great-asthenic-Part-5-11-17

The second day of life in the park was passing. Our campsite had taken on a semblance of order, looking almost as if real tourists had settled in. On a misty morning, we went to a nearby lake and managed to get three fish from some kind fishermen. Or maybe they weren’t carp at all—I have no clue about fish. But the logic was simple: if the fish were in the fishermen’s bucket, they must have planned to eat them, which meant they were edible. Or they were meant for the cats. Either way, it worked for us. On the way back, I yanked out some cattail roots from a boggy ditch, hoping for a snack. I used to eat them as a kid, but that was in the far south, and always in summer, when we swam in the pond. What Moscow’s autumn cattail would taste like was a mystery, but surely something similar.

— Bet I can jump over this ditch, — Den said, looking like an old cat hesitating before a leap, unsure of its own strength and eyesight.

— Come on, there’s nothing to jump over!

Den seized the moment, took a step forward—and instead of pushing off, his foot slid on the autumn muck, sending him into a graceless split. Realizing he wasn’t nearly flexible enough, he flopped straight onto his stomach into the filthy water.

— For fuck’s sake! — Den cursed, then burst into laughter.

— Yeah, yeah… First, we dried one of us out, now it’s your turn. Belka will be thrilled.

— It’s fine, I’m barely wet. Just a bit dirty.

— A bit? You look like a swamp demon.

— Serj, you go ahead. I’ll head back to the lake and clean up.

— Fine. Just don’t go swimming, vodka won’t warm you up after.

— Don’t lecture a sailor, kid, — Den grunted, satisfied with his comeback.

I walked back to our camp, cattail in one hand, a plastic bag with fish in the other. Kicking up colorful leaves, I thought of that old DDT music video—‘What Is Autumn? ’—where Konstantin Kinchev, Vyacheslav Butusov, and Yuri Shevchuk strode through an autumn park just like this.

— How’s the catch today? — a voice interrupted my thoughts.

An elderly man with a wooden fishing rod and a shoulder bag walked alongside me. He wore a greasy old pea coat over a striped sailor’s shirt, heavy work pants, and boots like a railway worker’s. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, his massive, potato-like nose pocked and dented. But his pale blue eyes smiled kindly. They were the same shade as Den’s, yet completely different—crystal clear and transparent.

— No idea. The fishermen gave them to me,— I said, showing him the bag.

— And what will you do with them?

— Cook them over the fire with my friends and eat them.

— Right here?

— Yeah, we’re… camping.

— I see. You’re not from around here, are you? Testing fate?

— Or maybe fate’s testing me, — I replied with a smile.

— You won’t outrun it.

— I’m not running. I’m just… focusing.

— That’s good. But don’t take too long. Sooner or later, you’ll have to decide, or it’ll end badly. — He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of salt. — Here, take this. It’ll taste better.

— Thanks. Good luck to you.

The old man veered off the path, disappearing into the grass. When I returned to the fire, I found Belka sitting with her knees drawn up, hood pulled over her head. I set the bag of fish down and sat beside her, handing her a cattail root.

— Pretty.

— Not for looking at. For eating.

— I’m not a cow, — she scoffed.

— Cows don’t eat these. But we will. Watch and learn.

I peeled away the outer skin, revealing the pale root inside. I bit into it, trying to compare the taste to my childhood memory. The past always tastes better. But this wasn’t bad either. Belka copied my actions, giving me a skeptical look before taking a bite.

— Mmm… not bad. What if we roast it?

— Won’t taste good.

We leaned into each other, silently chewing and watching the fire. Sparks shot up, cracking softly as they vanished into the night. I thought about the old man’s words: “You won’t outrun fate.” Of course, he was right—I was hiding from my own destiny in the Moscow woods. But deep down, I never truly believed you could escape fate. I drifted back to my time working security on that construction site. A cold, damp day in late November. The building had reached the sixth floor, maybe higher. My new partner was Zhenya, a guy ten years older than me, with curly black hair. He barely talked, always holed up in the guard booth, listening to his MP3 player. Rammstein had just released a new album, and he played it on repeat. It was around five or six in the evening, already dark, as usual in St. Petersburg winters. Snow mixed with rain. The site was still active—a cement mixer had just arrived, and two migrant workers were filling a bucket, signaling the crane operator to hoist it up.

The floodlight on the guard booth cast a bright circle over the crane tracks outside the window. Nobody was there anymore.

— Listen to this, it’s brilliant, — Zhenya said, passing me his headphones.

Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier

Sie ahnt dich, sie sucht nach dir

Nistet auf gebrochenem Herzen

Geht auf Jagd bei Kuss und Kerzen

Saugt sich fest an deinen Lippen

Graebt sich Gaenge durch die Rippen

Laesst sich fallen weich wie Schnee

Erst wird es heiss

Dann kalt

Am Ende tut es weh

Amour, Amour

Alle wollen nur dich zaehmen

Amour, Amour

Am Ende, gefangen zwischen deinen Zuehnen…

At one point, a sharp shadow flashed across the window from top to bottom, and I barely caught it with my peripheral vision. A dull thud. Looking at Zhenya, I felt a sickening churn in my stomach, as if I’d eaten something bad. I put the player down on the table and stepped out of the booth onto our balcony. Outside, there was a deathly silence. The snow was falling quietly, glinting in the spotlight. Zhenya followed me out. Suddenly, the construction site seemed to freeze — no workers anywhere, neither below nor above, and the crane had stopped. My gaze dropped and caught on a shapeless black spot lying on the crane’s rails. Despite the spotlight, it was hard to make out the details, especially on a construction site where piles of rubbish were always scattered about. We both went down and walked toward the spot. By this point, it was clear that it was a body in a winter coat. Although, of course, it had been obvious from the start. It’s just how our brains work — we don’t want to believe something awful until the very last moment.

— Serj… the head — Zhenya whispered barely audibly.

I looked toward where the head should have been — but there was nothing. A fraction of a second later, I realised that the white snow around us was black with blood, though at first, it had seemed like just a shadow.

— What do we do? — I asked. — We need to call an ambulance, quickly — Zhenya frantically started searching for his phone and dialing.

I stood there, hypnotised, unable to tear my eyes away from the body on the ground. For some reason, the only question spinning in my head was: “Why don’t I feel anything?”. Lighting a cigarette, I thought — is this it? Just like that? You travel to a foreign country that isn’t exactly friendly to you, a country that doesn’t greet you with open arms, but you make this choice either for your family or because you want to escape your fate. And of course, after all my time working on the construction site and dealing with migrant workers, I knew that the vast majority of them were running away. From their fate, or from themselves. Though it didn’t come up in conversation right at first. At first, everyone tells you they’ve got a wife and kids back home, and they send money back to them. But a little later, you find out they don’t really want to go home, and the last time they sent money was five months ago because they pay poorly, there are delays in wages for months, and it’s just too embarrassing to go back.

Zhenya and I went back to the booth’s balcony and kept smoking, looking either at the sky or at the dark spot on the rails. About 20-30 minutes later, an ambulance pulled up at the construction site gates. Two doctors walked toward the body, barely pausing by it, turned back without a word, and walked toward the exit.

— What the hell, why the fuck did you call us? He doesn’t even have a head. 

— Who should we call then? — I felt a wave of anger rising. 

— The cops, who else? They’ll sort him out. We’ll leave you the paperwork, just pass it to them.

The doctors disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared. I looked at my watch — it was 7pm. Zhenya called the police, and we continued standing on the balcony, smoking one cigarette after another.

— Look! — Zhenya pointed to a dark area near the construction site fence. Two cats had crawled under the fence and were heading toward the body. — And here comes another… and another — now there were five cats from different corners of the site, all heading toward the dark spot on the ground. It was a completely surreal sight. The cats settled nearby, each in their own spot. I’d never noticed cats on our site before. We sometimes had stray dogs sleeping under the booth, where we’d throw old rags. The cats just sat there. And we silently watched them.

About an hour or so later, the police arrived. Three officers entered the site, two went to the body, and one came to us. We walked into the booth, where they began to question us one by one. The officer asked the usual questions indifferently, and I answered with the same indifference. The whole procedure took them about an hour, after which they wished us good luck and started getting into their UAZ van.

— Hey, what are we supposed to do? — I shouted after them. 

— Nothing, we’ve notified the right people, just wait for the corpse van — the UAZ turned at the construction site gates and drove off. 

— Cigarettes are finished, I’m going to the shop — Zhenya took money from our shared stash, which we made from the prostitutes. 

— Buy some Coke too, I want some — I called after him.

Sitting by the window, looking at the dark spot below, I wasn’t thinking about anything. Or maybe that’s just how it seemed. But one thing was clear — whatever happens in the next minute of your life, it depends very little on you. But at least you can try to choose where exactly it will happen. At half past four the next morning, the corpse van arrived. It was a regular “bread van, ” with “SPECIAL” written on the side. Two drunk men — the driver and the assistant — walked up to the body, stood by it for a couple of minutes, and then headed back to the van. Pulling out a bag, they came toward us.

— What are you standing around for? Wrap him up and load him in — the driver of the van handed us the bag. The sharp smell of alcohol hit us like a wall. 

— Are you out of your mind? — Zhenya got angry. 

— No, I’m not. What, you don’t like something? — the driver was clearly feeling cocky. 

— This is your job! 

— No, it’s not. Either you load him into our van, or we leave. We don’t give a damn, you can sit here with your headless guy.

We exchanged glances. Having not slept all night and after everything that had happened, I felt completely drained. I think Zhenya was in the same state.

— Give me the bag, you asshole. — Zhenya snatched the bag from the driver’s hands and walked over to the body on the rails.

The first thing we did was cover the head… well, the place where the head should have been. Just so we wouldn’t have to see it. I realised my mind had switched off all emotions and made it feel like we were just loading an inanimate object into a bag. The hardest part was dragging the body to the van and tossing it in the back. Bodies are always unbelievably heavy.

— Ivan, take another bag, a broom and a dustpan, gather up the scraps from our Batman — the driver gave instructions to his younger assistant, who, like him, was drunk. Ivan took the broom, the bag, and went over to the rails. We watched in disgust as he found pieces of skull and shoveled them into the dustpan. Eventually, he finished, walked over to the van, and tossed the bag into the back, right where the body had been thrown. Just like throwing firewood into a stove.

— The rest will be eaten by the dogs — the driver laughed and walked back to the cab.

At 7am, the construction site would usually come to life, but this time, no one showed up. There wasn’t a soul around. By 9am, my shift ended. I changed, washed my hands twice with soap, and stepped out the gates. The city was bustling, people walking wherever, cars driving off on their errands. The world seemed to have no idea that behind the metal gates, there was silence and death. But how could it? People are in a rush to live their lives, they don’t have time, and that’s a good thing.

— What, are you just sitting around? — Den’s voice broke me out of my memories.

Turning my head, I realised that Belka, who had been sitting next to me, was now sleeping with her head on my shoulder.

— You didn’t even fry the fish?! Well, it’s good, I’ll make you a proper sailor’s dish now. 

— Here’s some salt, it’ll taste better — I handed Den a packet. 

— Well, now we’ll live for sure! — No… We need to eat and leave! — Where are you going? We’ve made ourselves so comfy here!

Belka looked at me with sleepy eyes.

— No… we have to go. Otherwise, fate will find us.