Introd., Panikin, 1097

THE MEMOIRS OF A NEW RUSSIAN MANUFACTURER Homeless My family on my mother's side comes from peasant stock. For several generations they had lived in the village of Khilkovo, on the Vorona River in central Russia. These are the backwoods. Our village was one of those "different" ones, like Zaplatova, Dyriavina, Razutova, Znobishina, Gorelova, Neelova, and Neurozhaika.1 The back of the beyond. I was born in Krasnodar, a generous, green city. I never knew my father. My parents parted ways when I was less than a year old. I learned a bit about my father later from stories. He was of Kuban Cossack heritage, and he served in the armed forces. Apart from me he left no visible signs that he ever existed. While I was growing up, I was less than obedient. I was continually annoying my nearest and dearest with outbursts and escapades. My mother had no time for such things, and she found it hard to deal with me. She worked long hours as a bookkeeper and earned miserable wages. She often had to take a second job. My mother loved me, of course, but fitfully and furiously, dissolving in the desperate, even morbid attachment of a lonely woman to her only child. We often quarreled. Her punishments and moral admonitions, her reproaches and silencings drove me crazy. I soon became my own master. I do not remember when, but soon enough she lost control over me. My grandmother Evdokia lived with us. It was she who had a decisive influence on me. Although she never really tried either to educate or spoil me, her kindness and patience won me over. Quietly she brought order into our house. Working came just as naturally to her as breathing and believing in God. Grandmother died in 1974 at the age of 89, and right to the end of her days, she bore her lot with dignity. She had had to endure severe times. She had had 16 children, four of whom had survived to adulthood. She worked hard and, despite her age and health, never reminded us of slights and insults or of everything she had done for us. I never knew my grandfather. I only know that he was an enterprising person with an irascible nature. Grandmother said that I was just like him. Evenings when I would come home, tired from some scuffle or other, my mother with her care-worn face would be sitting in the carved, high-backed wooden chair. This chair had been given to grandmother long ago, and it was guarded from me with special care. Mother's face would be distinctly haughty, reminding grandmother and me that she was still angry about yesterday’s quarrel. My mother could not keep up this act for long. 1Each of these village names has a colorful meaning: Zaplatova means Patches, Dyriavina—Holes, Razutova—Shoeless, Znobishina—Fever, Gorelova—Burned, Neelova—Did Not Eat, and Neurozhaika—Bad Harvest. 1 PRIVATE WEALTH—NATIONAL VISION She would soften as she remembered how I had been as a very young child, a creature whose very existence vindicated everything else that had happened to her in her unhappy life. Over the years Mother grew hard and never laughed anymore at my follies. She was absorbed with the bare necessities, the thread of daily life, taut and ready to snap at any moment. For hours she would sit silently by the window, looking whether out at the life around her or into herself. My grandmother felt for her daughter. They had been so close for so many years. Now, watching her come unraveled, she spared her unnecessary worries. Grandmother had become accustomed to many things in life, and she grew accustomed to this, as well. My mother died when I was about fourteen. My uncle, who was also my godfather, welcomed me into his home in Volgograd. So I moved to their place in a blue-collar neighborhood on the very edge of the city. The second day at the new school in Volgograd turned out to be crucial. The school's entryway with its mildewed floor and low-arched ceiling breathed a moist warmth. "Take off your boots!" barked the custodian from his perch on the banister. I stepped to the left, trying to slip past him along the wall. "Hey, are you deaf?" He would not let me go. I was right in thinking that I was not welcome. Between classes some oversized thugs who had been held back a grade sauntered up to me. "Let's get acquainted. We have some business to do with you," they said. Prodding me, they drove me down the hall to the boy's bathroom, the place where justice has always been served. They pushed me up against the corner and crowded around me. "Give us 15 kopecks." "No. Let him cough up 20. Every single day." They searched my pockets and found five kopecks. "You'll bring it to us right here," Their husky voices intoned as they flicked their cigarette packets with their fingers. "If you spill the beans to anyone, you'll have only yourself to blame. If you don't show up, you'll wish you had." A daily tribute of 20 kopecks is no joke. I had no one to complain to. How could I get out of this? What could I, the new kid in school, do on my own? I felt as if I had turned into a frog and was about to be squashed. My deskmate, Sasha Frolov—his nickname was Frolik—asked what was going on. When I told him, he answered coolly, "Don't worry. Everything will be fine." His words didn’t help. He was just too small and weak. The next day between classes those vampires dragged me into the bathroom again. Right away puny little Frolov showed up. Sizing up the 2 THE MEMOIRS OF A NEW RUSSIAN MANUFACTURER leader, who was at least six feet tall, he muttered, "If you raise a finger against him, you'll have me to answer to." I was sure they would trample Frolik right then and there, but suddenly they melted away, sullen, without a murmur. Later I was told that my savior's older brother was a local thug, a repeat criminal, whose life alternated between long stays in the camps and short months of freedom during which he would do something new to terrorize the neighborhood. Frolik's friendship seemed almost unbelievable. He had come to my defense just because he took a liking to me. There was an unusual generosity about him. He's someone I'd like to see again . During class I usually sat in the second row on the left side studying the teachers on the sly. I really liked the literature teacher. Many of the boys had a crush on her. This youthful, minute, always smiling, and always welcoming woman had a daughter. The daughter was in the eighth grade at another school, one of the "special" magnet schools. Why hadn’t my mother been that way? My mother would leave home in the dark wee hours and return from work after night had fallen. Now I understand that she worked herself to the bone. Tired and devastated, she would take her worn shoes off and wrap herself in a bathrobe, which she then would not part with for the world. I tried to imagine the daughter of the literature teacher, how she would greet her mother and what they would do in the evening. But I could not. We felt an even greater fondness for our English teacher, "the Englishwoman"—or Maryasha, as she was affectionately called at school. By comparison to Margarita Vasilievna, the literature teacher, she seemed much more familiar and friendly in her coarse wool skirt and homemade, cornflower-blue sweater. She seemed much less complicated. When she would explain something, moving around the room, there was strong smell about her of tobacco and something like autumn. I loved Maryasha for her patience, something I did not have. On the whole, I remember my school years as a big waste of time. Everyone was bored. It is hard to remember even one teacher, except Maryasha and Margarita Vasilievna, who would do something to make school interesting. I often ended up getting into trouble. I was different from the usual kind of laggard in that I could learn whatever I needed to. I could easily have been the best student in the class in any subject. But just as easily my grade could slip to a "D" the minute I tired of being a model student. It is a shame that the urge to be the best came only once in a long while. 3 PRIVATE WEALTH—NATIONAL VISION In school, people generally saw me as an active, energetic boy. I was often recruited for the Young Pioneers2 and the Communist Youth League, but I was too lively for their routine orderliness. I would always start some project in a spirit of self-sacrifice. I would get involved, only to become embroiled in some kind of controversy. Once, when I was given a radio digest to prepare, I immediately had the songs of the Beatles, who were forbidden fruit, blaring into the microphone at full blast. It was 1965. I was reproached and removed from the editorial board. In Krasnodar, and later in Volgograd, the teachers generally treated me with respect, and I gained the reputation of a talented "bad boy." Most of my time I spent on the street, sometimes hanging out with shady characters, but mostly playing soccer in the yard, getting into fistfights, catching pigeons, and playing knife games.

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