Читать интересную книгу The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

these eyes… same eyes only without the oily blueness over the irises… "Volodya!"

The neighbors pulled back, some of them grabbing the tin basins moved over to other tables. I love the Konotopers' polite understanding, they never want to be in the way of intimate developments…

How could I not recognize him right away? One of my partners in our trinity sharing 2 beds; he smiles bashfully. The absence of that quirk in his eye put me off track at first…

(…it's not the glassy-eyedness, it's just like a translucent film swimming over the iris, and later exactly the same steely-bluish veil I saw about the eyes of people in the Azeri village of Krkchyan who arrested me on a toomb slope, taking for an Armenian spy though I was just picking blackberry there, aka mosh, aka ozhina, because it was a Sunday…)

By the official version, the Karabakh war lasted for three years, 1992 – 1994, but, in fact, it started much earlier and hasn't ended yet… On the third (in the unofficial estimation) year of the war, when I stopped to like the expression in Sahtic's eyes, I attempted at evacuating her from the theater of war. By a strange coincidence she, together with Ahshaut and Ruzanna, got to 13 Decemberists, Konotop.

Can you imagine my surprise 3 months later when she appalled me with her coming back together with the kids? Anyway, you surely can’t imagine the facial expression of the RMK Supreme Council’s cashier when she was handing me my 2 monthly salaries in advance, as ordered. 600 of Soviet rubles, the devaluated currency of non-existent state, the sum though was enough for me to cut and run from the war zone. That’s why her countenance reflected both disdain and envy, it’s hard to say of which there was more… I had to fly to Yerevan to meet the repatriates at Zvartnots airport for the subsequent airlift from the airport of Erebuni equipped with a heliport, also by a chopper fetching a barrel of diesel fuel and another group of fedayee fighters to Stepanakert.

(…on their arrival day the city had not yet recovered from the shock caused by the death of 25 people killed by a single "Grad" volley…)

Unfamiliar people in Yerevan, learning where we were going to, suggested to at least leave the children, Ahshaut and Ruzanna (in alphabetical order), by them…

When we got to the apartment in Stepanakert which our friends were renting to us for free, I asked about the reason for so quick a return. "I realized that living just so as to live was not worth the while."

Here is a bright example of the unavoidable influence of environmental effects. Take an Armenian woman, brought up in all the strictness of patriarchal-matriarchal way of life, let her live for 3 months in Konotop and she will come back without even asking for permission but philosophizing already, giving out darn wise maxims. Hello! Here you are and sign this receipt, please…

But couldn't that Konotop-acquired wisdom get it that fearing for just yourself is easier to endure than that same amount of fear plus for those who you love? Especially when the air alarm sirens start their wailing, or from the toomb of Camel Back thunder the naval guns brought there from the Caspian flotilla? Not mentioning "Grad" missiles that make no noise at all when on the fly to their final din-bang-crush, and half the block is wiped off. After all, we live in the age of high technologies, you know.

(…and again I got washed off somewhere else…

I was talking about Romny, right? But a madhouse and war are two big differences.

Or are they?..)

All this is to elucidate the fact that I somehow did not have much spare time to update Sahtic as to certain facts in my previous biography, being busy with waiting for a suitable moment. Though her unawareness was not entirely my fault. Had Sahtic asked a direct question, like, “How many times did they lock you up in a madhouse?” then, as a well-trained supporter of righteousness and, generally, man of principle, I would give a direct exhaustive answer. (It’s noteworthy, that handling me is a fairly straightforward and intuitive job.)

Now, because of all that I was curious, to certain extent, what information could she scoop up there during the evacuation period?

None, as a matter of fact. The Konotopers did not rat on their own. The only puncture happened in a conversation with a fellow employee. (Sahtic even got a job at the KEMZ plant when in the evacuation.) Her gossip, having learned that Sahtic’s husband was named Ogoltsoff, said only, "Hmm…"

And that comment, I reckon, exhausts the denigration of my personality leaked to the Transcaucasia from Konotop sources…

~ ~ ~

(…the game of ‘knifelets’ starts as a kiddie fun, yet it goes on all over your lifespan and even from a generation to generation. It’s only that among adults the game acquires a longer name, Securing of Interests, however, remains as fascinating and brings in play lots other playthings besides a primitive knife blade. Consider the following example, if you please.

At the initial, small-fry stage of ‘knifelets’ the player Russia (further in the example named ‘R1’) lost some part of its ‘earth’ sector to the players Armenia and Azerbaijan (further on, ‘A1’ and ‘A2’) because the USSR broke into parts (you can’t avoid sharp downs and outs in so a dynamic game).

A1 and A2 go on unskilled stabbing at the territorial integrity of each other while R1 goes over to the next level in Securing of Interests and assumes the peace-keeper attitude in the eager contest of two A's. As a result, the conflict between A1 and A2 flourishes for 3 (as of yet) decades and very beneficially for R1. To see how a peace-keeper can by Securing of Interests make profit on war, one should watch it from the book-keeping angle. For a starter, let’s try some finger-counting. Suppose that army of each side to the conflict comprises 100 000 servicemen. (Sure enough, none