keeping the position of the trade-union's visitor at SMP-615.
That, at first somewhat chaotic, position I did manage to bring to the impeccable state-of-the-art perfection. Forgotten were the times when someone from the jacks or carpenters returning to work after a couple of days in the railway hospital grumbled disparaging complains about being neglected and not visited by me in the infirmary, whereas no bricklayer on my team was ever ignored. But how could I know? Their foremen did not report to me!
The problem was solved radically – at the end of every working day, I called the hospital registry office to ask if they had admitted for a treatment any employee of SMP-615 and they informed me even of abortions which could be safely counted out because the patient went home on the same day.
Then there arose the question of justifying the use of the 3 rubles, which the trade-union allocated for visiting a hospitalized co-worker. How to spend the sum, so that each sufferer received the equal amount of consolation, regardless of their age, gender, and other inclinations?
Not at once, but that issue also found the proper and—without indulging in false modesty—superbly clear-cut solution. One ruble was spent on drinks – the invariable three bottles: one of beer, one of lemonade, one of kefir. Cakes, marshmallows and/or other sweets were bought for the second ruble. For spending the final, third one, I went to the railway station to chose from the wide counter of the news stall, next to the restaurant entrance, the always popular cartoon magazine Perets, the Konotop city newspaper The Soviet Banner—which my father affectionately called "our little liar mutt"—and a couple of the central periodicals for the kopecks of change. From the station, with the fully readied visiting package, I walked to the hospital…
Frictions arose later when I was handing in the report for the spent 3 rubles to get reimbursement from the trade-union. "Boss" Slaushevsky rigorously protested mentioning the bottle of beer in the report. (Trade-unions and beer are two things completely incompatible, mutually exclusive, so to say.) Then, as a compromise, I suggested he write the reports himself and I would sign anything.
And now that, brought to the perfect equilibrium, shebang had to live no longer than until the November report-election trade-union meeting of SMP-615. Still and all, I did manage to feed waffles to Panchenko…
Hearing on the telephone the registry's report, that they had a certain Panchenko from SMP-615, I realized there was no time to lose, I did not want to run the risk of an abortive discharge.
First of all, I bought waffles for him. Then again waffles. And once more – waffles, for the entire ruble, all in different wrappers and from different shops…
With a short glance back over my shoulder at the fuzzy reflection of the 2 of us in the grate-less window with the black winter dark outside, I complimented the interior of the hospital hall. The cellophane packet in my hand issued a soft luring tinkle when I stretched it out to the patient. He could not refuse, as any other employee at SMP-615, he perfectly knew there was beer as well…
Why was I so uncontrollably laughing in backstreet short-cuts from shop to shop to collect waffles of hodgepodge hues? It's hard to explain, but I laughed splitting my sides, laughed till tears streamed down my cheeks…
A couple of days later, Lydda, a bricklayer from our team, asked me, confidentially, in the trailer, "Visited Panchenko?"
"Sure."
"With cakes?"
"No. To him – only waffles."
She knew that I never lied, for the principle's sake. I fell silent and tense because once again I had to restrain a surge of irrelevant laughter.
In a moment, Panchenko entered the trailer for some reason. Carefully, weighing each of her words, Lydda asked if I had visited him.
"Yes."
"With the package?"
"Well, there were some newspapers. I did not even read them."
No more words were said. The rest she poured out at home to her husband Mykola. That he was already a family man for whom it was a crying shame to look up to that wafflister Panchenko…
~ ~ ~
I did not immediately understand why my divorce proceedings left me a vague impression of some incompleteness. Something felt oddly amiss.
(…the trademark of my mental retardancy is that in the end, I get it plus stuff which, at first, I did not even guess to think of…)
Of course! That people's judge had completely forgotten to mention alimony! As if I was childless… The task of correcting the judicial error lay on my shoulders.
Since December, I started sending monthly 30 rubles to Red Partisans for which transaction, on the payday, I visited the post-office opposite the bus station. And, as you were not my only child, I sent the same amount to 13 Decemberists as well. For several years "30 to Nezhyn, 30 to Konotop" became my financial way of life, and the most recursive line in the pocket notebook. Why just that sum? I don't know. In total, that made up half of my earnings. For the second half, apart from my hygiene-bath-laundry expenses, I sometimes bought books, and every day had a midday havvage at canteens.
At first, my mother tried to convince me that the Konotop's "30" could be brought home and past from hand to hand, although she did not even need that money; my argument for the refusal was that doing it that way was more convenient for me.
My status of an alimony-payer was not a secret in our team, given my principle of answering direct questions directly, it was enough for them to ask why each payday I trotted to the post-office from our Seagull. And some women bricklayers also asked that question: why 30 rubles exactly?
Fighting back a wave of anger welling up in me from I didn't know where, I answered no more was necessary and were I even paid 3,000 rubles a month, the monthly "30" to Nezhyn and Konotop would remain just "30".
There were times when I was not able to