 
# The Roaming Renegade

by Eugene Shrayman

Copyright © 2012 by Eugene Shrayman

Smashwords Edition

### Translated by V.Y. Shrayman

### Preface

An investigator for especially important cases Julia Lavrentsova was stacking the papers on the table while looking at a man sitting in front of her. Neither his appearance nor article of crime had stood out. The man could easily be identified from his slim intelligent face, sunken eyes, unshaven cheeks, and sparse hair on the scalp. And this same ambiguous man just two days ago went to the parliament building, where the nominees communicated with the people who elected them, and with a cold-blooded shot murdered on the spot such an influential businessman and deputy Vladimir Korolenko. After that, he didn't bother to run but instead threw the gun on the ground and surrendered not to a tough cop but to a casual patrolman sergeant. A real killer doesn't act like that...

Julia finally put aside the papers, and as if for the first time noticed the killer.

\- So, Yuri. I don't even know how to call you correctly. According to the documents you are Yuri Krilov Petrovich. But before his death, Korolenko had called you Anthony. Who are you actually?

Yuri, or Anthony didn't reply.

\- Well, okay – The investigator said with an unbothered expression. "We have a bureaucratic system, so once you are Yuri Krilov on your passport, I would refer to you by Yuri. So, I would like to know, Yuri, why had Vladimir Ivanovich Korolenko troubled you so much?

\- Julia Gennadievna, - the detainee wasn't looking at the beautiful young woman, who was not suitable for such work based on her spectacular appearance. – There is my notebook. I've had written something that seems like a confession. Read on and everything would be clear to you. And now, I beg you, let me be taken to my chamber. I am very tired.

Lavrentsova has always humanely treated even the inveterate murderers, therefore immediately called for the guards. And when the prisoner was taken away, Julia picked up the notebook that had a highlighted title "Notes of a Renegade. Part One," and reluctantly, as if opening someone else's door with her key, turned the first page...

### Notes of a Renegade. Part One

So, I am traveling "abroad". With me is a passport, where my photograph is attached, but a foreign name is written. My companions are strong and joyful men, laying on their seats. They would fight off in the States and would come back home, planning for new adventures. As of for me, I've had enough with my journey. So, I am flying around the sea to evaporate. Or more accurately, hide. And I don't mean to hide from those damn individuals who constantly stalk me, but from that mad life where I have no place in.

You could identify me as a false traveler and "interpreter" of the wrestling team, who is "required" to keep out from kindred as soon as possible, am sitting inside and writing this note. So, my third overseas job would terminate most likely in the New York's airport. Third. But there had been two other unforgettable jobs beforehand. The first job had reminded me of myself, especially in the nightmares, as if an epic film with sharp scenes and breathtaking deception. However, most films have fictional and surrogated aspects. But in my constant nightmares, I experienced everything as it actually happened in my first job.

We, the newcomers, had been transferred from Tashkent. At first, they let us drink as much as we liked, but then announced to us that we are heading to Afghanistan. It's righteous to assume that from hearing such news we all became sober right away. Momentarily, we had been strictly warned that once we arrive, we must not pick anything up we see in the ground. For somebody like me who is over the age of 20, the caution is straightforward. But what about those who were required to perform such international duty right after graduating from school? Now that would be a problem. In the matter of fact, there were to gentlemen who looked as if they were just adolescence. They always went together as if they were in a same town or region; I don't remember the details. So one time one of them bent over to pick up a regular pen. And the other one stood next to him like always. The pen actually wasn't so regular after all. It had an image of a smiling woman in a bikini, but when you flip the pen the same smiling woman is now nude. I have seen hundreds of such toys, already in my second job. Seeing the dropped pen, I wasn't much excited because of remembering what the captain said in the plane. But that gentleman from Belarus decided to pick it up. And I witnessed how after the blast the whole ground was covered with his blood and brains. It was too late now for me to explain to the poor soul that the pen was actually a grenade. Apparently his friend was still alive, but without an arm. Perhaps it was a way of liberation in a form of a cheap pen with a message of death that had sent his naive and native friend to the afterlife.

It was after this that I started to have a calmer attitude towards death. I have nothing to be scared of, even if a gun is pointed directly at my temple. I wouldn't even tremble and beg for mercy. Taking into account of how many deaths I had seen, only by riding on my car I could've exploded over twenty times. Even after watching those unfortunate men being catapulted from the grenades, I still tried to steer the wheel without much hesitation. Off course, they wanted to leave me in the headquarters of the regiment as the translator. But in the institute I studied the languages of Hemingway and Dickens and ought to study Ferdowsi and Hayum. But the rest of the regiment was entirely illiterate, and if it was necessary to extract something from them, before being put to the wall, they called a man from Tashkent or Dushanbe. So that full year I was in Afghanistan and worked as a driver, but I can't brag that my driving went entirely smoothly. Though I had couple of scratches, but that is nothing compared to what has been happening around me.

Hence, I returned home, wandered around a bit, finished my studies, and carried documents to the graduate school. Not just anywhere, but to the university, the Department of World Literature Institute.

-What are you doing? – My friend shouted. – That place is surrounded by only the gifted. Who would take such a fool like you?

-Do not worry – I eased myself. - I will come with a gun; let them try not to accept me in.

I joked about the gun. He remained in Afghanistan. But I came to the university in full dress, in the form of a sergeant's stripes, hung with medals and badges that seemed like badges of Leonid Brezhnev. The experts did not dare to reject my application. And have not regretted it. I studied voraciously, studying Hemmingway, Faulkner and Steinbeck, and even gave lectures to some students. So, probably, I succeeded in my second job.

The Union back then went along well with America, and our institute even allied with one of their university not far from Philadelphia. At first, only highest representatives traveled to the US. Soon, there had been an available two-month internship at the three post-graduate course on topics related to a field of study in America. At that point, a brief conjecture in the dean's office took place on the issue of who should go to the States. First, of course, Lena Orlov, the favorite daughter of the second secretary of the city committee was on the list. Back then the party had rejected the sixth article and its monopoly on power, but everything still revolved around city and regional committees. They still firmly held all the strings together and pulled them clearly and without disruption. The second "lottery" number fell on Victor Bondarenko. His father didn't have Lenin attached to the wall. Bondarenko, Sr. only at the dawn of Perestroika founded one of the first in the city Cooperatives, by the time my trip turned into a major corporation. And, I had seen a visionary fellow Orlov decide to combine the party with the weight of the monolith Bondareknovs' millions. Destiny prolonged in such a way that Helen and Victor decided to meet up with each other and in some time break their vows. Before that time, Helen persistently rejected the claims of candidates to get accepted for the internship, spending most of the time with her friend Kate Baluk, almost entirely breast-less with short hair style and who was disdainfully looking at all men. Now getting rid of Kate's authority, Helen was able to draw more attention towards Victor. Well, off course I was the third candidate in this company. Time has already come like a storm for the nomenclature, and on such business trip a clever person without protection was necessary block Orlov's and Bondarenko's feebleness in the American literature. And so that's how it happened. Helen and Victor got closer to each other and at the most part spent time together in one of the separate rooms of the young Soviet scientist with a difficult to pronounce surname, Bondarenko. I was accountable to them, tirelessly explaining to the disturbed owners, that lady Helen was ill a little, and Mr. Victor as true gentleman, looks after her, as if after a baby (What a busty baby Helen could've been). While my two compatriots and schoolfellows were taking care of each other, I was taking care of my studies and perfected my English comprehension. On one of seminars I have got acquainted with Chris. The guy was young, about my age always in a suit and with a tie, though other beginning students wore whatever they wanted. Some even wore shorts. Chris Sweeney was my antagonist \- I studied American literature of the century XX, while he studied about the Soviets of the same time period. He was especially interested in the work of Vladimir Vysotsky. Here in the facility we were acquainted to each other. As long as I remember myself, I was always singing something from Vysotsky, knew over hundred of his songs by heart and such a fact struck the American companion outright. I remember, we went for a holiday dinner - during the Thanksgiving - to his parents, and Chris rushed like a madman on the highway. Hence, the scene reminded me of one of the songs by Vladimir Semenych Vysotsky. So, I began singing to him "Slightly slower horses, slightly slowerrrr". And he echoed me "I implore you not to fly off at a gallop". And at the same time the arrow of the speedometer is increasing and increasing.

Chris's mother, a white-haired, affable, self-conscious, like a true American lady, didn't hesitate to ask me (when I was totally hungry after long hours of studying, while consuming with a vast appetite the roasted turkey on the table): - Anthony, tell me, did Chris again speeded on the road as if on fire?

\- Having looked at Chris, I made a helpless gesture. - Like, sorry my friend, but I didn't learn how to lie. But I would attempt to end the situation with a joke:

\- We were simply afraid, that the turkey would not wait for us and fly away.

And mothers not up to jokes:

But the mother wasn't in the mood for any jokes:

\- Personally, I don't sit down in his car. Not for a million dollars. Chris told me, that you are going to New York so I ask you, boys, travel by bus.

But no, we actually went by car to the city of the Yellow Devil. The devil, neither yellow, nor red, nor green, I have not met; the great Petrel messed something up, but I still went to the Russian region. I traveled to the same Brighton that I only heard about from the songs by Villi Tokarev. Nothing was so striking in that area; too much noise, trains hoot above your heads, and the people walking from shop to shop. I was more amazed while on the coast of the sea, to where I afterwards went with Chris who was holding in his hands a digital tape recorder with the cassette of the best hits by Vysotsky, and I – holding some cans of beer. There is no better thing then drinking beer near the ocean. But, something clicked on the tape recorder, and instead of reinserting the tape Chris regained awareness from indifference:

\- You know, Anthony, how great would it be to meet up here in about 10 years. At that time I would be the youngest professor in the history of the university, and would invite you to my faculty to read a lecture on Russian literature.

\- - Chris, what are you saying? - I have tried to distract the friend from any more dreams.

\- How can I read your Russian literature if I am studying your American?

\- Really if you so well know Steinbeck, you can have problems with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky? You are a talented person, Anthony. If you survived from such war, if at your protective and corruptive regime they have sent you head, instead of any boy with communications, then don't worry about the future. I think we shall work well together...

\- Well fine, you have persuaded me. Only do not count on Tolstoy with Dostoevsky. If I would ever be required to read something about our domestic literature, it would only be Vysotsky.

With that idea we were therefore settled. Our conversation on the seaside had been often recollected in my mind in many occasions. But Chris, you've appeared a false prophet. No damn thing that you said was being fulfilled. All was turning up just fine at first, but the human life consists of dark and light bands, only at one it alternates, and more in favour of light. But for me, the direction went into the dark side, and I still cannot replace this shade.

... So, I have protected my candidate standing. And I could be most thankful for that to Helen Orlova, by this time Bondarenko. Victor has not waited much for this moment, had neglected his studies, and went to his father to enhance their business. To the same place and time his father-in-law was landed to their aid. In fact, it was already July 1991 on the calendar. After graduating, I went to the village of my wife's parents. My activities there included catching fish and admiring the cornflower-blue meadows. There I was acknowledged with the August's coup and having left the sobbing wife, who was on her third month of labor expectancy, went back to Moscow to protect now not the candidacy but the democracy. All of these days I had been standing near the walls of the White House. Could've pleaded for any job as a security employee, but I didn't have enough courage. And so, unarmed and just standing and observing the events, I felt myself as a participant of the events that should change completely the world where I lived till now. And further on there was a prose. The academic college where I have come to work after graduation was an agony. Who needs the world literature when the country has collapsed, the prices keep on growing, and instead of money you have some papers in your hands that are not inspiring any confidence? School reductions were already in effect, though not influencing much the old institutions; the new facilities were undoubtedly being cut from any funds. Finally and I have learned a roundabout way, that our department would reduce one additional established post, and it was a necessary choice between me and Lena Bondarenko who would be fired. With naivety of the thoughts of a five year-old child, I thought that my place in the facility was secure and would be spared from being fired. But, who is actually more valuable for the learning; Helen who sits all day and talks on the phone about her latest restaurant date with Victor, or I who has published three significant articles about early works of Faulkner, and preparing the voluminous monograph? When I was told that the officials decided to fire me, I was already out of control with my feelings and actions. Like a meteor, I burst to the cabinet of director of college Oreshchuk. Only half a year ago he wrote the review of my dissertation, and on a banquet while being drunk, strongly embraced me with words:

\- Anthony, your participation here in the facility is highly required. With your mindset, we would put this Academy of Liberal Science back on feet.

And now before me sat a deeply withdrawn elder, even though the academic individual was nearly 60 years of age. He glanced at me in such a way that there had even passed a desire to arrange a dispute and settled things straight with fists.

\- I understand everything, Anthony, - Oreshchuk stated when I having calmed down a little, sat opposite to him. This is mean, sickening and immoral. I am doing this for the detriment of the studies. But believe me, I have no choice.

\- Really? - I have again started to begin to boil slowly. – Helen really cannot handle the papers and while on phone she sneaked into her father's office? Reduction does not threaten them. And, Ivan Zakharovich, you know that I have a serious topic of study. You know for certain that if I leave the faculty, the prospective topic would be neglected.

\--Anton, my friend, now tell me, how many people can you feed with that subject topic? You are silent, thinking that Oreshchuk has gone out of his mind. And perhaps I, thanks to your Helen Orlov, am feeding the entire institute. You don't know this since your head is only filled with Hemingway and Faulkner. But I have a contract with Helen's father-in-law, of which sponsors our firm up until the year 2000. And one condition of it is to cut the staff of employees by half.

\- What is the reason for that?

\- What, reduction?

\- No, sponsorship. What is the reason to invest in studying the world literature?

\- Hence, if we were chemists, and a synthetic drug has been invented...

\- Not clever. I have a feeling that you've had fallen from another planet. In fact, by them doing so they are reducing own taxes and improve their own image. Look what we are; we are providing survival for the domestic sciences. But I could care less about their motives. I wish to rescue the institute at any cost. Let them even fire me, even though everything here is created by me.

\- But what is there for me to do now? – I glanced to the academician directly in the eyes, and he allocated the sight. Then he stood up, approached to me and put a hand on my shoulder:

\- You think that the earth rotates only through studies? Look around yourself. The iron curtain has fallen, we are opening up the world, and the world is opening up towards us. Now the people knowing foreign languages, especially English, in perfection just like you, will be worth its weight in gold. Believe me, Anthony that a young intellectual being like you would definitely not perish in this world in contrast to me. - Then academician Oreshchus had turned away so that I won't see his tears glittering in his tired face.

The road to the Master's degree on which I was walking up to that very day had suddenly turned into a dead-end. I had to turn on the dirty road, covered with mines of the slowed action. At first I was fluttering, not wishing to completely fall into the abyss. I had continued teaching in my native language, and writing the monograph. However, a next reduction occurred, and I am once again unemployed. In an instance I remembered the words of Oreshchuk that with my monograph it's impossible to feed the hungry and warm up those who suffer. So, I finally said "good bye" to Faulkner. It was a necessary thing to support the family. In fact, Vlad was at that time already running throughout the apartment and was throwing a tennis ball on the wall. Luckily, the neighbors weren't much aggravated. But he spent most part of the year in his grandparent's village. There, the air is purer and the products are fresher then the ones we city people have. My wife Anna for the first time was near the child and her parents, but she has never enjoyed much the village monotony. After Anna returned to the city, she went to work in the kindergarten. By that time, I was already able to change couple of job positions. At first, I became a tour guide in the historical reserve. But the English-speaking tourists preferred more civilized countries instead. I tried to engage myself in a translation position but the flash in the pan was: the publishing house that gave me a contract became bankrupt. Only then I gave up my hopes for a brighter position and became an English teacher in an average school.

Money was only enough to purchase food, for apartment rental, and to buy some kind of a shirt for Vlad. But the problem was not in the money, I felt, as I was gradually lowered to the bottom. Am I really not capable of something better, than exposition to the accelerated blockheads of the articles and gerunds? Helen Orlova-Bondarenko perchance, after a couple of years of obtaining doctoral will begin to write, or would have someone write for her. But what about me? While I was tormented, me wife unexpectedly began to blossom. Her institute friend Galina Lysovskaya perched in an exhibition center of Ministries in trade, and began to take Anna on presentations and conferences, stand-up meals and banquets. Not once already I woke up alone in our two-bedroom bed and my domestic wife took off at dawn, smelling with expensive perfumes and cigarettes, calmed down my spirit by telling me of opening of usual exhibitions that were prolonged far for midnight.

\- Anna, do you really think that this would keep on continuing? – I shouted one time not able to withstand myself, and decided to put everything in order.

From her old habit, my wife chose an attack as the best means for her own defense:

\- And what do you expect me to do? Do the laundry, cook, and watch you knock your head on the wall throughout the four corners? Understand, I am a woman; I cannot be ruining myself, just like you are ruining yourself.

\- What are you talking about? Ruining... Everybody lives like that; do hard labor for a small payment and raise children. Or do you want me to go into racketeering, stealing, and killing? Throughout my entire life, I've never killed a single person. Though I've been to places where you could kill somebody in a way as if smoking a cigarette. From all those bastards with whom you've been sipping champagne in the buffet events, have you ever met an honest one? What could those people with "dirty" and fraudulent money that were unjustly earned give you?

\- And what have you ever give me? You've sat in front of the typewriter all this time, at first stitched the dissertation, then worked on that monograph. And because of you, your wife had to go graze cattle with her child. And so, where are your dissertations and monographs? And I, maybe only now saw the real life. Yesterday one Italian man declared love to me for the entire evening! He's ready to take the child and me with him as soon as possible. But I still feel pitiful for a fool like you.

\- You could get the damn out of here with your Italian macho. – I stood up and left the apartment, slamming the door so hard that from horror our cat jumped all the way on top of the kitchen cupboard.

For a long time I wandered through the streets of our micro-region, built up with the standard nine-story buildings. "What a creature" - I still couldn't calm down my overheated brain. "I picked up that rural fool, 'cleaned out', and exposed to the public. While she studied in the Teacher's College, did all coursework for her. And she looked from the top to the bottom. Certainly, I am a graduate student, ant then an applicant. And who is she? She's a simple schoolteacher who wipes children's noses and makes them sit on toilet seats. As the Soviets used to say, "those who were nothing would one day become everything". Here already an admirer appeared, straight from Rome. But suddenly I realized that there was my guilt as well to some extent. Truly, I spent a small, very small time with her and the child. For over half a year already, I frequently visited one time per a week my graduate colleague Kate Balyuk. Yes, yes, the same Kate from whom Victor Bondarenko "stole" the love of the doll Helen Orlova. We somehow by chance met each other in a subway, talked, and reminisced the golden post-graduate years. And that's how unexpectedly reached the quarters of her dwelling. I remembering the doubtful orientation of Kate undertook no active actions, but she as if a true Amazon took the initiative in her own hands. And I, am not sure how, had been greatly seduced by her. But I wondered for a long time how was it possible to be seduced by such a masculine figure as she had. Don't want to sound disrespectful, but I believe that only an astronaut after an annual mission into space would get so much seduced by Kate Belyuk.

\- But now, - I thought, - It is finished. If I want to still be with Anna – and I wanted to be with her because I truly love her, and couldn't imagine a separation from my son: My image, my Vlad. – Forget about Kate, I would become an ideal husband and father.

Maybe I turned into an icon, but my wife continued a busy and entertaining life. And in one day, perfect for her and miserable for me, Anna declared that she doesn't want to torment herself, the child, and me any longer, that we both don't have any future together, and she is going to cast her destiny with the down-to-earth Italian businessman Christian Case.

\- Understand me, we should think primarily about our son. What awaits him here? And all of us as well? I cannot live this way anymore. And if God gave me such a chance, I must use it.

And she took advantage of her chance, entering with my child to a new world, where to me, alas, was no room. And for me... I did not want anything any more; the two-bedroom apartment where I became a permanent owner that turned out to be sickening to my sight, the whole capital that became filled with temptations and dirty tricks, hateful work of which for only few coins all these students and faculty members sit on your last nerves.

– Something needs to be changed here, - I decided firmly, and after long periods of thinking, sold the apartment and moved in to the parent's house, until pain familiar for me... hail.

...I walked on its silent streets, planted with apple-trees and lindens, with two-storied small houses around, with cozy, home-styled and provincial simplicity. Passing by the central area, I glanced at the monster-like Lenin on the pedestal. Then, I turned to a popular street that exceeded nearly 100 feet. That place as always bustled with life: Wandered couples that were deeply in love, underneath the cafes, men were drinking beer and perhaps something stronger; numerous shops enticed with bright signs and abundance of showcases. I decided to go in one of tens of commercial stalls, in order to get "hold of myself", as I read that in the advertisement in the windowsill, that has been only recently filled with imported Czech beer. And I did not even have time to stretch money to the seller, as I heard:

\- Anthony, is that you?!

I could not believe my eyes. On the other side of the counter, in a neat white coat marked with the company, which owned the stall, looked at me, Vitaly A. Koshkin, our school gym teacher. He conducted classes in addition to the school soccer team. One day, after his "matchmaking" I was offered a practice training session for our team "Dynamo". At first I seemed to fit perfectly in the game, but after the first game scrimmage some kid injured my bone so much that after my mother saw the wound, she firmly said: "No more soccer for you!". And I continued to run for the school practices for Vitaly, and after each practice or game, he came up to me and sadly shook his head, exclaiming:

\- Anthony, Anthony, what a striker is declining inside you!

Inside the same Koshkin, it turned out, was declining a seller of the commercial stall, and he decided to dedicate his life to this incarnation. So I was here standing near the counter and forgot about the beer and stared at the new appearance of my favorite teacher, a little bit older, but still in great shape

\- How have I surprised you? - In the eyes of Vitaly alternately flashed irony and sadness.

\- What was I expected to do if the school hadn't given out salary for over five months. And I have a four-year-old daughter, and for the older one I still have to pay child support. If I had been younger, I would've probably roamed through markets and knocked out debts. I am still thankful for this. It's warm here, pleasing, and always have a penny in the pocket. And how are you?

I briefly told the teacher about my troubles. He thought for a while, rubbed his forehead, and looked at me carefully:

\- Who knows, maybe I can help you. Where can I find you? At your parents?

I got a call a couple of days ago, and was invited for an interview to his company "Orion". Right away, I made some inquiries. Wow, this is definitely not a shop stall or the Institute of World Literature. "Orion" seemed as not just a company, but a large predator, the subjugation of almost all market trading in our town, including the beer pubs. Central Market was also in the hands of "Orion". In addition to internal sale, they are engaged in foreign trade, though I do not know what could our dilapidated industry export. But I was needed to them for both importing and exporting. This I have already learned in the interview, in which the owner of the company was the interviewer who was known in our town for a loud, although a bit unoriginal name George Mercedes. He was a squat, almost bald man in his fifties with a dark-wooden look from his frowning white eyebrows. When I walked into the office, he had not even said hello, looking at some papers, only nodded carelessly, and pointed to a chair opposite him. On his desk was a tuned on computer, but only in that first meeting, and then, I've never seen it being turned on. Behind George hung an elegant Japanese watercolor painting that was not in harmony with the gloomy appearance of the owner and the same faded interior of his spacious, somewhat reminiscent of the crypt room.

Finally after finishing studying the papers and throwing them carelessly in the trash, the owner of "Orion" forced himself dully:

\- Well, are you willing to work for us?

\- Yes I am. – I said in a smooth tone.

\- I learned something about you, - in a same dull way George Mercedes exclaimed. – Maybe you really are a great graduate who is skilled in linguistics. – Smiling for the first time, he decided to joke around. – But here we don't have an institute but a serious business. And you are now becoming a part of it? Do you acknowledge what this business is about?

\- In general terms, - I stated honestly. – I wasn't required to work in a business yet.

\- And you wouldn't be required to just yet. – George smiled. – You have a task purely according to your profession. Don't you speak English perfectly? So, you would have to negotiate with business partners. You would implement translations and documentations in English if necessary. We are currently expanding and tying up new connections, so off course we would have to send some people to work abroad. Perhaps you would travel as a translator. If not, then at least you would give some lessons to the others so that they would blather out some English.

Before that, George was talking in an even, calm tone, and his speech was neutral, even slightly intelligent. And this "blather" dissonance had burst into his monologue, as if recalling a time when George was not "Mercedes" yet but the deputy director of the urban market, landing into the bottom of the struggle with unearned income, and for those damned revenues was forced to bear the labor services there where he and other projectiles were vigilantly watched by the tower guard.

\- Oh, I almost forgot - George drummed on the dusty glass of the monitor. In addition to those obligations that I have named, you are going to teach English to my son. He always has problems with foreign language in his school.

Fine then, I was even in consent to teach George to speak English not worse then the mistress of the Buckingham Palace. The main thing is that I'm in charge. That fulfilled the words of academician Oreschuk: I opened up the world, even though in a somewhat dubious company like, "Orion." Especially at the beginning it was more than promising. For the first time I got my own office. Off course my office was not a chamber but a little nook to which hardly fitted a chair, table, and a shelf with dictionaries. But it was something, and in such circumstances, why shouldn't I work in a proper way.

But it turned out that there were some complications with the job. The first couple of weeks, I did not do anything at all in the job. As George told me, I was getting used to the course of business. But what type of course, what type of business? If this influential company in the city only has three rooms, where these occupied people sit with cell phones always in their hands. I haven't seen any serious customers yet; mostly some young people in tracksuits hanged out in the company a bit, chattered with Andrew, "Orion's" head of security, and disappeared someplace else in their expensive foreign cars. Sometimes some business people came by, most of them having a typical Caucasian appearance, golden teeth, and sealed hairy fingers.

Finally I received my first assignment, to translate to my boss a magazine article published, as I read in Hong Kong. The article was written about the Chinese economy, prices, exchange rates, and all that stuff from which I was very far away like a true humanist. After this article, followed a second one, then the third.

\- How much time do you need? – Natalie asked me, who was the secretary and apparently as I learned boss's personal massage therapist.

\- To seriously work hard and translate the article accurately, I think two days would be enough.

\- Fine then, work hard, but in two days I want the papers to be ready on George's table by 10 in the morning.

It only took me half an hour to complete this hard work. The rest of the time I dedicated in playing computer game, because every employee's office now had own computers. Sometimes I had to translate business letters, written by the owner of "Orion." I translated it from the average George's language into the literary Russian. I was also engaged in business with the staff of "Orion," who were traveling abroad. Precisely, with the employees' relatives. Even more precisely, George's wife who fell in love with the hospitality of the Caribbean islands. She went there a few times a year. And now, because an English language specialist joined "Orion", why shouldn't she learn some of their language so that the next time she goes to vacation, she would know something more then to ask "How much?" However, most of our classes held lengthy monologues about the wonderful time she spent in Aruba last fall. Anyways, there had slightly been some situations I had involving my encounter with the boss's offspring who I had to visit three times a week to give English lessons. This 15-year-old who seemed so mature, treated me quite blatantly and arrogantly. He treated me as if I was his housekeeper, personal chauffeur of their Mercedes car, or a waiter in a restaurant where the holy family dined every Saturday. Not once did I have a desire to punch that lazy kid with sleek hair and a golden chain directly in his face. But I restrained myself, did not want to lose my job, whatever it was.

One day George's son greeted me with a discontented look, reluctantly took out a notebook, and warned me:

\- Today you are teaching me for half an hour and then you would get out of here.

\- Oleg, your father has allocated me to two hours of lessons with you each day. I cannot violate the order of my boss.

\- Oh, stop it! I would tell my father that you have been here for two hours. How would he be able to check that?

Instantly, we proceeded with the lessons. Two minutes later a door of the room suddenly opened. And I heard a thin girlish voice:

\- Oleg, are you coming already? I miss you...

As I turned my head, I plainly froze. In the doorway stood a completely naked girl about the same age as my hateful student, perhaps a classmate. She was not embarrassed by my presence, and probably would have exposed her "charms" indefinitely if Oleg hadn't waved his hand.

\- Go back to the bedroom. I will be finished soon.

The girl showed me her tongue, as if a five-year-old kindergartener disappeared through the door. – What a cool girl she is, right? – With a look of a connoisseur, Oleg winked at me. Then he changed his tone to a more appropriate:

\- You didn't see anything, you got me? And if you tell that to my parents, I would tell them that you molested me.

From such surprise and fury, I became speechless. And after he saw that he went too far, he offered me a honey-cake.

\- If you would keep quite, maybe she would return you the favor. Lucille is not an arrogant young lady, because she comes from a poor family. I will give her some money for ice cream, and then she'll serve you as well...

I've never been an angel with wings. In the matter of fact, when I was in Afghanistan, I never refused some of the woman's meat, in order to distract myself from the painful sight of war, where I was not part of the audience but instead a man on duty. But for the first time I experienced a feeling as if I was being forcibly plunged into the toilet, and couldn't get out. Quickly, I finished the lesson in just ten minutes and told the kid – Go already. The girl is tired of waiting – and left that doghouse. At first I wanted to quit the job, to escape the bald boss with his bizarre son. But then some hope glimmered in my way: What if George would really help me find a way to travel abroad so that I could visit the States once again. I would like to meet up with Chris again, because right after my abroad career terminated, our contacts became distant.

I shared by doubts and hopes with Vitaliy, my benefactor, who pushed me into this business, like before pushing me into the alluring world of great soccer. We sat and drank wine near the banks of river Luza that was winding like a snake in our city. Settling on the grass, we were drinking wine from plastic cups and admiring the sunset that was taking away all the troubles and anxieties that have been accumulated during the day. We had a blissful mood; a match for the nature, the beach that was overgrown with reeds, and the narrow ribbon of the river where the last gleams of the day's sunlight were being reflected. And suddenly during a slow progress of our conversation, silence was broken down with a loud round of laughter. It was, rolling on the grass, choking, the former teacher and now a seller of the commercial stalls Vitaliy Koshkin. This reaction of his was caused from my hopes for the unsophisticated foreign renaissance of the "Orion."

\- Well Anthony, you truly are a comedian, - my interlocutor couldn't get back into himself. – That's for sure, that people of liberal studies are brain-damaged.

\- Enough. You laughed a bit, but now stop it. Explain to me what's wrong.

\- Do not be offended – Koshkin at once became serious. - I thought you were quick-witted. But sometimes you are still living in a world of illusions, so be it, I would get back to the point. So, there never was any export and import in George's firm. Think about it, what serious-minded Western businessman would want to do any business with him? And if there were one person who would, then he would be just like George based on his character. You can't even imagine what kinds of jobs they are involved in.

\- Like what?

-Want an example? Okay. They spoil our women, employ in picking up olives in Greece, and perform Russian dances in Switzerland pubs. And in the end where are our Slavic beauties?

\- In mess – I suggested involuntarily.

\- Well, well, well. You are being savvy a bit. And they do many more speculations like that; I am not familiar with the details. Therefore, I wouldn't fill up your head any more with so much information. But did you get the main point?

\- I understand. But there is only one thing that I am unclear with. Why am I needed to George?

\- Again, you're acting like a little child. George just needs to make it look like if they are seeking communication with foreign countries, to lift up our filthy economy. Here's why they recruited an interpreter to the States. It's only to improve negotiations and relations with the West.

\- So then, I am kind of like a dummy, being exposed as bait?

\- Anthony, just don't do anything silly. And am I not a dummy myself? I am a respectful man, led ten athletes into the world of professional sports, and now I am selling Armenian cognac in a shop. At least you have an intelligent office job position away from those prying eyes. My advice for you is to stay warm in your position and don't move anywhere. As you know in the army, while the soldier is sleeping, the service is still proceeding.

No, I could not stay calm again. I was being neglected once again, having my face dipped and covered with dirt. What did I do wrong to all of them? Is that my fault that I don't know how to deceive, cheat, and steal? Why are we, honest people, living life so poorly, while some scum that used to steal and cheat still continue to openly implement fraud while sitting in an elegant office surrounded by bodyguards with guns and rocket launchers? And nobody is holding "it" down. The press praises it on the contrary. And the mayors with deputies bow down to them. Whose power is it now, dear fellow?

I lay on the couch at home, hiding my feet with a blanket and thought of my bitter thought. I did not go to work that day, called the secretary Natalie and told her that I was sick. And probably would never return to work. So this page of life is thrown into the trashcan, and I will start all over again. Suddenly the phone rang, and a pleasant male voice asked for Anthony.

\- It's me. Who is this?

The voice from the phone replied:

\- Anthony Zhukov, could you please go outside. A car is waiting for you there and we would like to talk to you.

\- About what?

\- You would soon find out. Believe me, there wouldn't be anything illegal or threatening for you or your family. We just have an offer that should interest you.

\- Listen, either you clearly explain to me what's wrong, or I would hang up the phone.

\- Anthony, you're and educated people. There are things that cannot be said by phone. I swear that everything will be okay. We will take you to a place, talk, and after half an hour you would be back home.

I am not a coward. And the war in Afghanistan had repulsed my every instinct of self-preservation. So, curiosity made me get dressed and go outside. Near a Volvo stood a totally unknown to me young man, who, seeing me, smiled broadly:

\- Well, that's excellent, Anthony. Sit down, let's go. And do not worry. As I promised, everything will be just fine. The car instantly broke away from the city and into the meadows and grain fields. Anxiety began to grow again inside myself, and my companion, seeing this, took me by the hand:

\- We are almost there.

We drove under the shadow of a beautiful birch grove, and then continued right towards the steep shore of the river Luza. This wasn't a lazy river already, based on the profound waters that were gloomily rolling into the limits of the city. Luza flowed impressively and the coastal meadows came to her with a bow. The car stopped near a high green fence three hundred feet away from the shore with the dense giant pine trees. The "guide" sitting next to me asked me to exit the car. Then he said something on his mobile phone, and the gates were opened. I questionably looked at the accompanier who with the same kind of a smile gesture signaled as if saying "come through, don't be scared". I wasn't scared and I slowly walked into the wooden two-story house that seemed to be a summer residency of some political figure not a long time ago. I wonder who lives in there now. I was entitled to discover that in any second. Over there, ahead on the porch with perhaps a cup of coffee in the hand, was a silhouette of a man. I climbed up the creaking stairs, came closer, and of course, immediately recognized the host of the country house. Oh, how couldn't a former secretary of the Komsomol Organization of school number 12 recognize the former leader of the Communist League? You have changed so little, Vladimir Korolenko. The same light-blonde hair, dimpled rosy cheeks, and horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Only now some gray facial hair at the temples and a couple of wrinkles on the rounded forehead.

I knew that Vladimir Korolenko is not up to the old ideological impulses any more. He easily and quickly found his direction and niche in the stormy sea of post-Soviet business. Now he has his own bank and he is not involved in fraudulent export-import industry, but in instead in business. I also knew that any mention of Korolenko infuriated my boss and his crew. He was not just a competitor, but also a savage enemy, the monster of the human race, and a combination of brutal tyranny, in an image of a newly rebuilt Communist League leadership. And now I was visiting George's number one enemy, who was supposed to be my enemy as well.

Meanwhile Korolenko stood up, walked over to me and shook my hand vigorously:

\- Hello, Anthony. Hello my friend. I see that you recognized me. Remember how I presented you a Komsomol badge in a museum? And how many medals does the Komsomol have, you forgot I suppose?

\- Six. I was still in a trance, and my voice seemed strange to me.

\- Great job. I knew that our youth is always with us, even through such opposition by the Perestroika supporters. Well, I didn't call you hear to listen to how I indulge you with nostalgia of the Community League. Sit down and chat with me. I have an offer to you.

We drank one shot each. It wasn't our native "Samogon", but real "Vodka Absolut" which was digested smoothly and easily.

\- Anthony, I know that you work for George in the "Orion". How do you like it there? -

\- And how much does he pay you?

It was a commerce secret. But I could care les about George now.

\- Nothing – stated the former secretary of the city committee of the Komsomol. And how about you work for us for the same amount with an extra half of that sum on your paycheck? You could work here without interruption from your regular job.

-Well, I would not mind, but what kind of job?

I mean, I laid out all of the cards on you. I see that you are our guy. You would understand. I desperately need a worker from "Orion". That is, to find out what is George up to in the moment, and what is would he be up to in a long run. He isn't that of a big shot, but sometimes he gets into our way.

Chewing some food, I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to complain about.

\- So what's the problem? - My surprise has not been feigned. – You do not know how to deal with this? Just get a couple of guys with guns to come into the "Orion", and the problem is over.

\- No, Anthony, you're wrong. We do not do these tricks. The moral to destroy the enemy - it's a different issue, but human life is God given, and not for me to take away.

It was strange to hear the argument about God from the lips of a former atheist. And meanwhile Vladimir continued:

\- Therefore, if we "remove" George, all of the suspicion would first fall on us. Off course, we would find our way out, but after some talking would take place, the press would be washing out our brains. This is not of our interest. That's why we invited you here. You - the interpreter, the person, close to the emperor would have an assignment to check what people come to George for business. And if you by any chance find any documents, don't hesitate to make copies. Come on my friend; let's remember our country and the Komsomol that had brought us into the public. Didn't you forget how I used to sign up your characteristic? Well, well. So, how about one more round of Vodka?

I was drinking, eating, and laughing from the bottom of my heart. Poor Vladimir, clever man, but also like me was brought into George's "bullsh". And with my help, Vladimir wants to obtain secrets of the "Orion's" foreign trade. Well, if he want me to, he'll get it. And I became a secret agent. I passed to the Korloneko "soldiers" the copies of the documents that I translated from George's language into Russian. I gave them the verbal portraits of the burning brunettes with aquiline noses, who were routinely flooding the cabinets of "Orion". It may have been a conspiratorial meeting with Vladimir's people. But I, an amateur spy, understand what I can run into. And George would deeply care less that I have been passing some garbage to the competitors. In his eyes, I would appear like a traitor. And he, in contrast to Korolenko, doesn't differ from humanism. And so, I asked Vitaliy to get me a gun. Koshkin, off course, was surprised. But he still brought me a heavy rifle. And when he presented it to me, said: "God grant that this thing wouldn't be necessary for you". And I plead the same thing to the Almighty. But a gun hanging on the wall doesn't shoot only at Chekhov's.

At that day, I as usually worked hard on an article from an imported magazine. And I already wanted to get back to my computer game where the partisans were hunting down Hitler, as Natalie called me and said that the boss wants to see me. Perhaps my written article was urgently needed to him, or maybe?... But my weapon was resting securely in my pocket, and I still remember how to use it after training in the Afghanistan war.

In the room stood only the boss and Andrew, the head of security. And I realized that things were about to get ominous. Andrew was modestly sitting on the couch with a newspaper in his hands. But I had physically felt the heavy stare of the former boxer with a broken nose, and it seemed that he was looking directly at the place where I have hid the deadly weapon. Hence, George still greeted my warmly:

\- Well, come in, come in. Sit down. You overworked so much that you can't see the brightness of the world? – He looked at me slyly, - Really, I am happy for you. My son approved your lessons, and my wife who recently returned from the Caribbean boasts out that now with her English she could open up every door. Perhaps, it's time for me to raise your salary a bit. Only here's the deal; my guys saw you sitting inside some car with some gentlemen. Who know, what kind of people they were. You have to understand that our business is special and we don't want to glow much to the external public. And if I find out that there is a phony among one of our employees, I would not tolerate that. Now tell me, like to a father, who were those people. And then go back to work for the benefit of our "Orion". So what?

\- Oh, it's just that you are too overwhelmed – I said in a quite careless tone. Those were my friends. We were going for a barbecue, so they just picked me up.

George's face darkened, and his faded face flushed:

\- You're lying my friend. You're bad at it, but are still lying. Well then, Andrew would ask the same question again, in his office.

Suddenly I've heard a rustled paper and the former puncher stated to rise up from the sofa. There was no need to wait any longer. So, I snatched a gun from my pocket, turned around, and pulled the trigger towards the security official. He clutched his chest and fell back clumsily on the sofa. Then I turned to George Mercedes. His eyes were filled with astonishment combined with horror. He surely knew that he was walking on the edge of a blade and sooner or later he would be carried into the morgue with a bullet in his head. But who could've imagined him dying in his own office with the help of his own employee? How ironic!

Hence, I ran out into the corridor. Being frightened by the gunshots, the employees hastily ran into the same corridor. But after seeing me with a gun in my hand, they quickly lined up near the wall. Outside in the street, I went inside a first car on sight and putting the gun back inside my pocket, I ordered:

\- Take me to the Olshanka Street, please. But hurry.

I knew where I was going. In the suburban Olshanka region lived my friend Alex Gutman. He also had a divorce with his wife, and lived in solitude, waiting for a call for an interview in the American Embassy. I knew that I would be safe in his place.

Alex grabbed his head, after listening to my story, and kept on pouring me "Samogon" out of a big bottle. As long as I've been in his house, I couldn't understand how does a Jewish man have so much "Samogon", until my friend took me to his attic, where he showed me his "laboratory" of "Samogon". "Aren't we Jews humans" – Alex joked, while watching how from a brewery machine runs down a dark drink. He was a chemist and used his professional skills for pleasure. But I needed him for a different reason. And nobody could've accomplished my task better then him.

I gave Alex a phone number of the person through whom I passed information for Korolenko.

Tell him that I have to run away from here. Anywhere, at any cost, - I instructed my companion. And he assured me that he would do everything I asked. Indeed, neither the police nor the people of "Orion" have suspected Alex. He excitedly shared with me the news of the world, from where I hurriedly fled.

Anthony, could you believe what he told me? He said that the only place where you can escape to is – America!

No, really? I cant' believe that.

Yes, really. In a couple of weeks a team of either wrestlers or weightlifters would fly to a tournament in the States, and they could get you to be a translator. We must send them your picture, and they would give you a new passport so that when you arrive to New York, you would evaporate, as if you've never arrived with these wrestlers in the first place.

For crying out loud, this really is a way out. There is a good guy, Chris Sweeney, who will help me start a new life. I know the language, my talented head is attached to my neck, what else is needed for complete happiness? And meanwhile my friend Alex Gutman was talking to himself:

\- So simple: depart from the East as a translator, and arrive to the States as an immigrant. And you don't have to fill in a questionnaire, go to the embassy, and register for a visa. Beauty!...

My faithful friend has also worked for me. He drove me on his motorcycle to the regional city center where I've been photographed for a passport. He also drove to the city a couple of times to deposited a card, and in few days he picked up my new passport; where appeared my own image, but the name was written as Yuri Krilov, born 1962. That's it, Anthony, you don't exist any more. You perished alongside George Mercedes and his security guard, giving room for the all-new Yuri Krilov. Farewell to all my friends and enemies, to my parents whom I wanted to meet one last time to say "goodbye". However, Korlonekov's people told me through Alex Gutman to not be foolish and be visible to the public. That's fine, Alex would tell them everything. He would deliver to my parents a farewell letter to which a couple of teardrops fell. But I thought that after Afghanistan I wouldn't be ever able to cry.

### Notes of a Renegade. Part Two

I am now in New York once again. Just as nine years ago, I am standing on the seashore where a slothful wave is lashing at my sneakers. But I can't seem to be bothered with that. I was raptly looking straight ahead as if giving an invisible and inaudibly convey greeting to those individuals who have stayed back there, on the other side of the globe. Although, who is there for me to send those greetings to? Parents, maybe to some friends. And off course, to my son. Though, he doesn't understand yet, that there is a person in the world chosen by God to give him life. Well, if the Lord decided on such faith, then let Him do everything the best for my son and make Him not repeat his father's fate. As for me, I don't require anything from the Almighty. He had cast me on this side of the shore, and for that I give thanks. But from now on my future depends only on myself being devoid from my home country, house, and even a given name. I would break through from such a violent past solo for now. A bit later, things would likely change in a vivid manner. But for now it is so desirable for me to just stay here and absorb in fresh, healthy air. This air would cleanse all of the dirt and filth that I've been breathing for the past few years. God, how pleasant it is to stand here and look at the excitingly immense blue. As if those past nine years had never existed, and Chris and I are still drinking bear at the shore enjoying peace and building exciting plans for the future.

Except, this time there is no Chris next to me. I called Chris the following day after my arrival to New York, thinking that Professor Sweeney would pick up the phone and invite me to read lectures in his university. But the phone tone was silent... It was a good thing that I had the phone number of his parents. As soon as I asked Mrs. Sweeney about her son, Chris's mother began crying into the phone:

\- Anthony, you do not know this... But Chris had been gone for four years now.

How???

He crashed on the highway. The speed of the car was extremely quick. Don't you

remember how he was driving?

Chris, Chris. I purposely plead you "drive slower!" Then your mother begged God to save and help you. Hadn't saved you enough. It seems that you've felt your destiny, written that you had to die in speed, and instead of trying to escape such harsh faith; you went in nearer into your ultimate destination. And what would fate bring me? The more I am thinking about it, the frightening my thoughts become. No, it's better to live unknowingly of your future. Whatever happens, happens.

And I began to live in blissful ignorance not only about the future, but in general about what awaits me tomorrow morning. Therefore, I've settled in some dormitory that had been likely built by enterprising natives of Brighton Beach for illegal aliens like me, or even for those who had received such privileges to be half-alien residents. The place had perhaps even served as a shelter, or how I used to call it "flophouse for the homeless". This isn't a deluxe Brighton hostel for you, where the room is accommodated for up to four people with every comfortable aspect around the corner. Instead, it was technically a shelter that served as barracks for 25 beings, of which I was the only one of European heritage. Once a nice "neighbor" put a knife to my throat while his "brother" examined the contents of my backpack. After stealing some items and couple of dollars, they settled down and threw my backpack (now relatively lighter in weight) into my arms and one of them amiably said:

\- Live, buddy. But it's better for you to live somewhere else. Here, white guys always get into some problems. Today you've lost a couple of bucks. But tomorrow you could lose something most precious to you – your damn life.

And so, I followed his advice to some extent, but not completely. Another person in my place after a similar priceless experience would've settled only in Brighton, or elsewhere, generously populated with our Russian-speaking ethnic group. But I didn't want to live amongst my own. No, I'm not being a snob. It's just that hearing the Russian language and seeing signs in the native language, I would again be immersed into yesterday from which I escaped forever. And so I've met an old man who moved to New Jersey to his daughter. But by some hook or by crook, he had maintained an apartment in Coney Island. Situated 300 feet away from the ocean, the apartment was very close to the area where Chris and I had once drank beer and dreamt of the unfulfilled. The "grandpa" handed me the authority of the apartment for only $300 rent, and drove off to his corner of paradise to baby-sit his grandchildren. That was the first time in three month when I've obtained my own corner.

What specifically is public housing? Here in the States, it means apartments for the poor. And who are the poor? Off course, many could say it's the minority ethnic groups. So I got back to the environment most familiar to me. Fortunately, now I no longer lived in the barracks but in a small studio with a kitchen. "Grandpa" was so generous that he had left all the furniture, bedding, and a TV, turning off the pre-cable television and long distance telephone service. But why do I need all of that entertainment if I live right next to the ocean, and everyday breathe-in this perfect blend infused with the smell of seaweed, fish and everything else that lives in the depths. I, a terrestrial resident, all my life dreamed about all of this. And now everything here is mine!

Except that I got an opportunity to work with the Russians... Just like many of our kind of men, legal and illegal, I went into the car service position. I would not go into details in explaining how I obtained my driver's license, but here in Brighton you can get anything you want, even a certificate stating that you are the rightful son of the Pope.

\- You would be driving at your own risk, - warned the owner. – If anything happens, you don't know me and I don't know you. You are on your own.

And thus I drove. I tried not to talk much with my colleagues and boss, mostly communicated through the radio. I also tried not to talk to the passengers even though some of them were highly talkative. Whenever the passengers tried to talk to me, I answered them in short one-sentence statements, giving them a sign that "they could talk back there in their backseat as long as they want but my task is to get them to their destination alive so instead I would rather keep quite and keep a closer lookout after the road."

My car service company was located in Brighton, therefore majority of the passengers were of Eastern European heritage. The passengers included: elderly couples who were quarrelling with each other because of overspending their food stamps; important-looking business owners with expensive cell phones whose own car was either in a repair shop or were frightened to drive themselves being under the influence or hadn't earned enough to afford a personal chauffeur; or young guys with piercing who were "partying" on their parent's income. I was here as if being acquainted with the geography of my former homeland, and wondered how the immigrating wind brought our brothers and sisters to the New York soil. I remember the black-haired native of the Ferghana Valley, whom I drove to Queens. This boiling, handsome fifty-year-old in a white jacket, with a chain around his neck and diamonds on every finger was right in the middle of anger, and electing me as a listener, every now and then bent forward from the back seat:

Listen, why are they like this? Well, I am married and have children. But, am I not a human being? Why can't I just relax at least once a year? I've found a phone number of that bit**. She wrote on the advertisement that she would like to "meet up with a decent man". So, I called her and we dated. Like a gentleman, I invited her to a restaurant and ordered something that you cannot imagine. We had barbecue, caviar, vodka, and brandy. I stated to her 'why do you have such poor fingers that don't shine with any jewels? If you would be a good girl, I would brighten up your every finger with diamonds, so that your fingers would shine just like mine.' And I was being deliberate with my words. I have a jewelry business in Manhattan and I could enrich anyone. And what do you think she did? After that bit** ate and drink, I asked her to invite me to her quarters for some tea. But, guess what she said. She stated, 'You, Zalman, didn't get me correctly. I am not the woman you think I am. And after a first date I cannot bring a man to my house.' Wasn't she a beast? I went to your lousy Brighton, met that damn creature. And instead of thanking me for everything with gratitude, she concluded, 'Thanks for dinner, good-bye.' Oh, these people who are being admitted to the great Americas...

Another passenger once tormented me with complains regarding the ungrateful female gender. He was of a small size and seemed all nervous and antsy. But, how could a man riding from a court hearing that is divorcing him from his wife be? The man really had to speak out about the situation, and I had not hindered him.

\- After all, I've been warned before my departure: Alex, she's getting married so that she could fly to America, and then after few months she would command a divorce. But no, I hadn't listened to them. Instead, I married to a woman with a child and I thought that she would give birth to our own child as well and wouldn't ever think of leaving me. Yeah right. Here in the States, I worked harder then a diamond miner. My schedule included – one day I'm moving furniture, the other day unloading accessories from the trucks. But that creature had found herself a Brazilian. And look, while I am bent over and am carrying those 100-pound boxes to earn a penny for a living, she left the young child alone in the house, while she was hanging around in the taverns with that ape. I tried to persuade her to come back to me. I've even stalked her like some kind of a Sherlock Holmes while seeing a white car on the driveway and thinking that's her with her Brazilian inside the car. One time I couldn't resist myself and punched her directly in her face. Here it's no Russia. That bit** instantly called the police. The cops came, handcuffed me, and drove me to their station. The first time they warned me and told me to live in my parent's house. After a while, I came back to her, and went up the stairs. But at that time I saw her kissing Jose near the stairs. And once again I couldn't resist myself. Now I was given a one-year sentence. Thus, I was also required to do community service every Saturdays for a full month by sweeping out dirt and leaves in the park as an additional punishment to make my life more miserable. I could care less about her now. But I still felt sorrow for her poor little daughter. Who would she turn out to be, having such a mother? You know, at the moment I am living from one Saturday to the next, waiting for the week to be over already to see the daughter. I pick her up from school on Saturdays. And now my ex-wife threatens me, 'pay us child support, or else you won't see the child again'. But what child support if I don't even have a bank account? She won't get a thing from me.

After these monologues, off course, I lost much of the desire to look for a companion for myself not only for lifetime, but also even for a weekend one-night-stand. But nature took its toll and I decided to go to special acquaintance meeting workshops, responded to newspaper advertisements under the heading titled "She's searching for him." However, one of the "She" had hung up automatically when she discovered that I have no status in the States. Another one pressed me with questions of what is car brand I drive. And whilst hearing that I work for an owner of a limousine company, she in a dull voice responded that unfortunately she had to leave, and she told me that she would definitely call me back tomorrow. "Tomorrow", undoubtedly, never occurred. The third one finally agreed to meet up with me. But, right after I saw her, I knew that she is not my option and she definitely doesn't deserve me! Though, unlike the lady of that "diamond king", "she" was in favor of inviting me to her house.

... I politely said "good-bye" to that overrippened "girl" and on foot went back home from the well-known Brighton. Maybe it was a bad thing for me to disappoint that poor plain girl? Oh, whatever. Still that would've done her well if I agreed to get acquainted with her, and in same time would've forced me to imagine that the person in my arms is someone of a combination of Julia Roberts and Sharon Stone every time she was next to me. So I went, and soon walked in my "native" Coney Island, past the small shops, where in addition to groceries and toilet paper it's possible to buy a bag of some marijuana; past basketball courts where from the shine of the sweaty bodies, took off towards the hoop with high jumps the future Michael Jordans. I had to walk three blocks to my 24-story tower, as I saw HER. She seemed to be just standing there at the crossroads, or intending to cross the street, or waiting for someone. But my eye knew what or why was she waiting for. As soon as I walked up to her, the eyes of the lady flashed with a bright light, on the face appeared one of the sweetest smiles I've ever seen, and as if to an old friend she threw me a short-pitched "Hi."

"Poor thing!" I heard almost everyday some of her companions telling her that. Or perhaps she said that to herself. But how could she be not poor, standing there carelessly in the corner for hours. I've known from my colleagues in the car service, that they often used the low-cost and fast service "prostitutes" in Coney Island. You open the door for her, driver her to the dead-end oft he boardwalk, and in a couple of minutes the beauty would jump out of the car holding the demanded ten bucks in her fist. I personally never paid attention to those "street workers", believing that it's the last thing in mind - to satisfy your animal instincts with a cheap black prostitute. But today something shifted in me, and the shift forced me to take advantage of the opportunity to be attracted to a prostitute. She was about 30 years old based on her looks, perhaps a bit more. She wore a uniform, typical for the representatives of her profession: a short skirt and a see-through jacket that made it possible for her potential clients to see the tip and the edges of her breasts. From distance, she seemed not bad, but after looking closely at her it was possible to see her wrinkled face, unhealthy looking eyes, and slightly trembling fingers. All of those qualities were the side effects of her long-standing love for marijuana and stronger substances.

Understanding that her "bait" succeeded in getting a new customer, the girl came up to me and asked me softly:

\- Where are you going?

That question was their main pitch on the job. And after hearing the question, I had instantly found an appropriate response:

\- I am going home. If you want you can keep me company.

She nodded and followed me. When we entered the entrance of my building, my 20-year-old African-American neighbors (who were constantly playing loud rap music and drinking beer next to my windows) knowingly what I was about to do, smiled. One of them, like an old friend, even winked at me. It seemed that my actions made me become closer accepted by their customs. But at that point I wasn't concerned about that. I just wanted a woman. I was desperate to have any type of woman next to me, white, black, evergreen, with horns and hooves, without arms or legs. Any!

In my house, she immediately asked me about the money. Then she took a shower for ten minutes. Meanwhile, I undressed myself and sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling and impatiently waiting for my today's love to appear in my room. I was moments away from my first sexual encounter with an American woman, even though it was an African-American prostitute who was selling her body for a couple of dozen bucks. But what about those ladies with fancy make-up, smoking outside of the Brighton's Russian restaurants in the company of overweight gentlemen with hairy sweaty hands? Aren't those women for sale? Undoubtedly they are on the market as well. But they cost a few dollars more. Instead, they get restaurants, golden rings, and trips to Miami as a profit. But it all ends the same way: screwing, screwing, and more screwing! The practice of prostitution has been imposed for thousands of years. So, why should I be left out? However, while some acquired overdressed beauties with furs and diamonds, I got an African-American slut from Coney Island for $20. Still it's better then nothing.

She went into my room quietly completely naked. Her coffee-colored skin was smooth and even delicate. My lust was growing, she smiled knowingly and handed me a packet of a "saving" rubber band, and shaking her big blue-black nipples, lay on the bed. I lay down beside her but soon got a strange feeling inside and wanted to discharge as soon as possible and release the woman from my house with the honestly earned money. I suddenly found myself kissing her large yielding breast. I was kissing it in such a pleasure and enthusiasm as if underneath me laid a woman who I've waited for all my life. But what about her? At first she was playfully astounded just like the rest of them, and repeatedly sighed over and over again "Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah, baby." But after a while I felt she was actually receiving some pleasure. Her breath became louder, nipples hardened becoming the shape of two bullets, and the body began to move toward my burning tongue. Therefore, I left the breast alone and began to slide my tongue all the way down. The lady was in complete astonishment. Never thought that I, by far from being a sex-monster, could excite a woman in such a way. And what kind of woman? The one that had long been accustomed to such a hateful profession to whom we all, men, white, black, yellow, - per person – are rude, smelly, and lewd... No, definitely something has happened to me in this blessed country.

She was getting a long and strong orgasm, with loud moaning and abrupt movements of the body up and down. After I waited for her to calm down, I took the long-awaited rubber, and now it was my turn. After she silently stood up, took out of my hand the piece of rubber filled with life-pleasing moisture, and went into the bath. She came back dressed, refreshed, as if nothing had happened for the last twenty minutes.

\- Can you stay? – To my own surprise I asked her, while thinking how much would she demand for the night. After paying rent and bills, I didn't have much cash left. She nodded:

\- Okay. I'm going to go do my business, then come back. – And then she went out of my apartment.

Surprisingly, I never asked her name. And I didn't introduce myself to her. But why should've I done that? It's not like I am going to marry her or anything. Why on Earth had I offered her to stay in my place? I hope she wouldn't come back!

No, she returned. This time she came inside my apartment not alone, but with bags and a cigar. It was funny to see a woman holding a cigar in her hand. Skillfully filling marijuana into the cigar, she inhaled and offered me some. I tried it. But for a non-smoker, I couldn't think of a difference between tobacco that I smell in every corner around the city and marijuana. However, I received no pleasure from the drug. My mouth was instantly filled with some distasteful residue and made me want to spit for a while. We smoked, chatted a bit, and then went to bed. Just sleep, without sex this time. In the morning Diane, my new friend, left me taking with her only an additional ten-dollar bill. Before telling me "good-bye", she kissed me in the lips and with a sincere smile said:

You are a cool guy. Whenever you want, call me over. I am always around working here.

No thank you – I thought to myself. We played around a bit, but that's enough. But later that evening, I felt so lonely that I barely drove myself away from the window. The 12th floor was a long way away from the ground level! After I drank two cans of beer, I didn't feel any relief. Moreover, before my eyes suddenly appeared the face of George Mercedes and his astonished glance just before I shot him. I swung my head to drive away the vision – it's too early for the dead to come into view to me in broad daylight - and went out into the street.

Almost an hour I wandered through the streets of Coney Island, peering through the faces of some sluts who were standing like always on the sidewalk corner. They smiled with hope, but I quickly averted my eyes. Diane was not there. Only when I decided to return home, I heard her familiar husky voice:

Anthony!!!

Yes, damn it, she was addressing to me. It's only for the Brighton's car service company, for the grandpa, the landlord of my apartment, and the rest of my dear fellow companions I am Yuri Krilov the translator and straggler from the aircraft. For her, I was Anthony. When I was acquainting with Diane, I introduced myself to her with my given name. Forget about all those legends and masks for once. Let me at least be myself here!

In short, we once again were experiencing pleasure inside my little studio. And again she exited my apartment in the morning with a couple of green dollar bills. But in the evening we repeated our procedure over again. And the next day and the day after. Sometimes I took a time-out, with horror feeling that now I am working only on Diane. And one morning, when I handed her two $ 10 bills, she left one in my hand. Well done, I decided in my heart, I became her regular customer and deserve a discount.

And thereafter, our relationships slightly changed. Now we were not just doing the same routine over again, but began to fall into long conversations. I was telling her about my life outside of the "Orion", not asking anything about herself, and taught her the Russian language or rather Russian words like "I love you" "Come to me," and similar nonsense. And in return she got me accustomed to the American diet, all these fu***** cheeseburgers, Big Macs, French fries. And off course marijuana! In the matter of fact, oftentimes Diane purchased food and herb for her own money. But I didn't have much delight from the drug, so as previously I preferred beer instead.

One usual for us evening when Diane was puffing her cigar and I was sipping an icy drink from the jar, Diane suddenly took my hand:

\- Listen Anthony; you never asked me how had I sunk into such a life. You are probably not interested about me?

\- No, baby, I want to know more about you. But I am afraid it would hurt you to talk about your life.

\- Nothing in my life ever hurts any more. Do you think I was always like this, standing by the road and clinging on such handsome guys like you? No, dear. I had a family. Had a husband and two children. Mike was a real man, not like that other fool from Coney Island who had in mind only three things: eat, smoke grass, and fu** someone like me. Mike worked just like you on car service. He thought to save money, and that we will go to his hometown in Virginia, where there is no dirt in the streets, as in our New York City. Yeah, gone... That son of a bi*** just didn't have five bucks to buy some crack. What else is it the easiest to spend money on? He set inside his car service and framed a knife directly to the back of the driver seat. They thought that Michael would give back all the debts. In short, the cops found my man with a knife in his back. What was I left to do? Two babies were left on me, and had no relatives to provide me with some support. So I moved from Bronx to this Coney Island. The apartment is cheap and the ocean is near. And most importantly, I don't have to cross every day the intersection where they found the car with Michael's body. To this day, I haven't found any man like Michael. Instead, I came across all sort of filthy men. One of them almost stranded my youngest son. Can you imagine; he locked him inside a cabinet so that Danny wouldn't interrupt him from watching television. The other one sent me all the way there - Diane pointed in the direction of the window, behind which raged in full street life. – He told me that I wasn't capable of doing anything else, so at least I had to earn a living doing some dirty work. That meant working for his grass and booze. And the children went hungry. Try to buy them a bag of chips. Then, I was forced to fly all over the apartment because of his fists. As a result, my boys were taken to the Foster family, and I do not know where they are and how are they doing (You are not alone on this issue, I thought sadly.) So I went further on this path. This is the type of girlfriend that you've pulled out, Mr. Anthony...

How was I supposed to respond to her? Only with the tenderest caresses that I ever gave to a woman was the only think I could answer her back. I didn't care if I received any pleasure or not, I wanted only one thing: that this poor black woman, just as lonely and dispensable as I, got a little bit of warmth and love. Yes, love, and I admitted to myself that I love Diane. Exactly like in Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment" – murderer Rodion and prostitute Sonia. But here, white murderer Anthony and black prostitute Diane.

Couple of weeks passed and Diane came to me with a huge suitcase that she dragged along the ground. Lately she had been coming to my place by her own and I didn't have to find her in the streets, but what is the suitcase for? She clung to my cheek:

\- Do not be surprised, my dear. Almost every night I sleep with you. So then why am I supposed to pay for my slum? We will live together, and I'll pay you rent with this... - and she started unzipping my pants.

Being accustomed to her profession and never discouraging her to change it to something safer and law-abiding, assessed the situation from the practical side:

\- This is great, Diane, but in your slum you could invite a client over, but here I wouldn't allow you to do that...

\- It's over, dear. I am finished with those clients. Now I would have to find something else for earning a living.

\- I don't understand...

\- There is nothing for you to understand. Our mayor before the elections decided to show himself as a great fighter with wickedness. And instructed the cops to fight with us to the end. And not even with us, but with Johns, those who rent the girls like me. Now the cops patrol the streets back and forth all day. During the nights I could've gotten a few clients, but now I am busy with you in the nights. So, Anthony, if you love me, accept me. Or else they would carry your handcuffed Diane directly to the 60th precinct.

\- But you've told me that you have some cop as your friend, and he would not give you into any offence.

He is not the head of the city policy yet. If they order him to put those bracelets on me, he would do so. Who am I to him, his wife, his girlfriend, for risking him his career?

In short, would you take me as your resident or I would have to carry the suitcase back to my slums?

We started living together. Diane, I knew, really forgot about her old profession. Almost forgot. Sometimes she called some long-standing clients, she went with them somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and returned with some food and marijuana. But on those nights we were not doing anything together. For a piece of bread, or more precisely for hamburgers, she earned in another way. There were also further phone calls, after which she had disappeared, and in a while brought home some more food, marijuana, and even a couple of cans of beer for me. The difference was that every time she had returned from "work", she willingly allowed herself near me. My mind, not yet clouded from beer and the smell of marijuana, suggested that Diane's new part time job was being a drug courier. But I didn't bother sentimentally telling her about the fact that smuggling is not a less dangerous occupation then prostitution. We formed a different kind of relationship. Each of us had a distinct type of life, however she had a real life, while mine was more of the memory of my past. But we still retained our sovereignty: Diane would not let me into her current life, while I was hiding from her my past.

I do not know how, but in my work where I hadn't made much of "hazing" relations, everyone soon learned that I live with a black woman. And just when I showed up at our Brighton "office", I became the target of jokes and mimics. Frequent imitations were especially made by one of the drivers, Dimity, a heavy-built bull around forty-five years of age, with huge arms and a vast belly that barely fitted inside the car. Feeling the physical superiority, he constantly forcefully squeezed himself in the car.

\- Yura, - Dima spoke to me. – Is it true that black women's p**** is not along but across?

On the other occasion, he caught the moment when I was talking to the dispatcher, and with an anxious voice shouted:

\- Matveyitch, Matveyitch, tell Yuri not to breathe on you.

\- Why not?

\- Haven't you heard yesterday the Russian television reported that AIDS could get into a person through the air?

He thought that his physical strength gives him superiority, and he can make fun of me, defenseless co-worker, and to excel as soon as his half of the gyrus allows him. How naïve. It's a pity that he wasn't in that office where I was blowing up George Mercedes and his dog-guard. Only then Dima would've first thought before opening his mouth. He and his like are looking at me from the top. But in what way are they higher then me? That they are living in a "white" neighborhood? That isn't even a white neighborhood but instead a Russian ghetto where the windows of the dark as a crypt face the blank wall of the neighboring buildings, where along the floor run hordes of mice and cockroaches and from the open windows came the dreary neighborhood squabble of Misha and Rima and the Vaseline voice of the Russian television announcer. Maybe Dima actually is superior because over the past 7 years in America he had learned only 2-3 English phrases, which he flourishes out at every opportunity? And yet at the same time, tearfully asks Matveitch not sit in his car American customers. Oh Dima, Dima, pray for thanks that chance hadn't brought you into different time and different country where in my pocket waiting for the right moment was a gun which I later tossed out into the river. In fact, to heck with you and all of you. I am no longer yours for some pranks. I have my own life – the life of a renegade. I've lived such a life back in the East, and here in the States nothing has changed.

No. Actually something had changed. With horror and at the same time with interest I noticed that... I am changing race, as some fags change sex. Seriously. One passenger - an elderly white Americans even notice that I speak in the purest African-American slang. I? Who was in his time proud of his Oxford-like accent? Diane, it's all your bad influence. I was left to pull on a do-rag, stretch out dragging along the ground jeans, pick up a tape recorder with rap music, and that would've been the end of the Russian Anthony. In his place, would've appeared a black guy Antauwn.

Evidently Diane also realized that I became "ripe" for the higher society, and once took me to her girlfriend's birthday party. I – not a particular fan of noisy companies, was to some extent interested to see how the natives hold their celebrations. It turned out that their parties are much different from those in Eastern Europe. There weren't any large tables with food and alcohol, weren't any drunk singers and fighters. In the room, some were dancing while some were playing cards. In the hallway a pair was kissing, and in the neighboring room some children were playing around. All of the food was in the kitchen. Whoever got hungry had to go all the way to the kitchen table and pour some food into the tray before. Next to the food were few cans of beer, but I haven't noticed anything stronger. And no herb was being seen as well, though it had to be somewhere.

Maria, the mistress and the "birthday girl" was Puerto Rican. She was a lively, funny, rather pretty plump woman with three children, apparently from different fathers. And her boyfriend was white! "Thank God, I am not here alone" – I thought with relief, quietly looking at the "fellow of my race." He made a very impressive impression. He was of a tremendous growth, relatively heavy-built, with a bovine smooth-shaven neck, truly a beast. And at the same time, you should have seen how he tenderly embraced his Puerto Rican girlfriend and enthusiastically played with her brood, who certainly weren't his offspring. Barrie - that was his name - obviously felt at ease among black and Hispanic participants, gathered at the party. I had some difficulty being used to the party. And not being the primary source of attention at the party, at least I had to try to fit in and become an average member. Unknowingly what to do, I went to the kitchen, put a full plate of lasagna or some other Italian nonsense and slowly began eating the hot mash while drinking the cold beer. Suddenly the door opened, and Barry went into the kitchen. Opening a can of beer, he sat down beside me, drank a little bit, and said with a friendly smile:

\- Are you bored, man?

\- No, just a little hungry. – I said defensively. I had no particular desire to maintain a conversation with this burly man, but it seemed that he purposely came into the kitchen to communicate with a Russian immigrant.

\- Tell me, is it that lousy in Russia that everyone rushes here to America?

This "innocent question" I have heard many times, and always tried to avoid answering. But now I just exploded from the inside:

\- And is it that great in here that you guys cannot exist without us? Look who's sitting behind the wheel of a taxi or car-service? A Russian or Pakistani. Who shifts tomatoes in the vegetable store stalls? Amigo from Mexico. Who sews cloth in stuffy shops of Chinatown? Young Chinese girls. You would not want to perform this kind of labor for three dollars and hour. Do you think that you are born to sit in offices, carry in wallets more then five credit cards, discuss baseball news, and sip whiskey in the bars? And all the hard work is left for us, immigrants. I – an illegal, was required to return home six month ago. But who cares about that? All you people would be looking blindly at everything, only making sure that laborers like me plow on you from morning till night so that you could save your money and insurance!

Barry squeezed with his hefty hand the can of beer, as if wondering what to do with it next: drop it on my head or pour the remnants of the beer into my angry face. But he decided to leave the can on the table, and still with the same smile, but a little sad, shook my hand:

\- You know, you actually have a point. Only I want to give you a little advice: Never boast to a first comer that you are an illegal. I don't know how things are back in your country, but here we have plenty of rot. However the immigration services would not see that you plow on us from morning till night. They are required to report to the government about the done work. So, they would report back about your deportation. - And slapping me on the shoulder, he walked out of the kitchen.

I haven't seen Barry any more on that night. And when Diane and I came home, I asked her as if by accident:

\- Where had that guy, Maria's boyfriend, disappeared so early?

\- He went to work. Where else could he...

\- Work? And what work does he do?

\- Hadn't I told you already? He is a cop. The same cop who always had my back.

\- You're telling me that he is from the police???

\- And what happened, why are you so worried?

\- Why didn't you tell me what before? I admitted to him that I am an illegal! Well thank you, Diane!

Do not worry so much. Barry would never betray his friends. He is not like that. He

believes that his job is to catch a real fish \- such as those bastards that killed my Mike. But people like you and do not bring any real harm. You've got some clients, and I have others. You drive yours on your car-service, and I give my men a bit of pleasure. Gave, - she corrected herself. - And you know how stupid am I, did not understand at first and Barry explained to me, that if it wasn't for me and those women like me in the city, then the city would've experienced hundred of times more in murders and rapes. After all, it's difficult to imagine how many crazy freaks walk in New York. And every one of them wants a woman. But, what normal woman would ever want to be with those crazy fools? So, after I run into him, for ten bucks, I'll do what is necessary, and then he cheerfully goes home to rest. But what would happen if he doesn't meet someone like me in the street corner? He would drag a random pretty girl into a park, brutally rape her, and stab her in the throat so that she wouldn't snitch. If only those idiots of top authority understood that and didn't chase us away, but rather guarded us and paid for our insurance...

\- Are you serious? For that you would have to go live in some place like Amsterdam instead of highly moral America.

\- Where am I supposed to go? I am well living with you here.

I also felt nice and peaceful living with her. I stopped caring about Barry the cop, Dima the car-service driver and the rest of the merry, screwing, cheating, and killing world. I've encountered my refuge, my sink, and there was nothing else I needed... Except for one thing: At least once a year to see my son. I constantly carried with me his photograph and looked at it every time when awaiting a customer inside my car, or the times when I was waiting for Diane during her "business" absences. Sometimes I solely headed to a nearby bar, and drinking beer there, and staring at the picture of Vlad who was only two years old at that time, so dear and distant. Once doing this I was caught by one of the neighbors in front of the bar. I have not seen him, when I heard the question addressed to me:

\- Your son?

I do not understand him at first, but then realized that he was looking at Vlad's photograph.

\- Yes - reluctantly I said, turning my face to the man, who rudely interrupted into the invisible conversation with my son. And suddenly beside myself I saw a familiar enormous figure. Barry?

He was obviously delighted, being in the same company with me, immediately ordered a whiskey for two, then another. I'm not very fond of this drink, calling it "American moonshine," but today it went through into my body easily and pleasantly. And with every sip of whisky grew my sympathy towards Barry. I saw him physically and morally a strong man, standing firmly on his feet, maintaining his independence even on duty, where obedience and unconditional fulfillment of orders was an immutable law for everyone. And, apparently, Barry also obtained some interest in me, probably, because of my tirade on the birthday party, feeling that I am the person to whom you could pour out the soul. And I listened carefully to his sober conversation:

\- For you, I'm the same as all the other cops. As if I roam around all day thinking what person should I handcuff next or to whom should I issue a ticket. You're wrong, Anthony. I was preparing myself to something completely different. I graduated from the University, thinking that I would dedicate my entire life to the computer. I had such intelligent and professional projects that the professors clutched their heads every time they've seen them. But then I saw that it's not the rightful job for me and I can't sit besides the monitor my whole life. You think that I am crazy, but I would tell you as to a friend, I am sick of our police lives. We do the same things over and over again, as if we are programmed to do so. And if I luckily won't get shot by some smoke-filled idiot from Coney Island, then I would live to retirement, and will begin playing card games with the other retired cops until my last breathe. That is why I went to work in the police, so that life wouldn't seem so boring and worthless.

\- And that helped? – I asked to show Barry that I'm with him, and follow his thought.

\- The first year I was astounded: I thought how interesting, how cool it was to be a cop! And then I see - the same swamp, the same boredom, as in all of our America. I always envy you guys: at first you have a revolution, then the Perestroika. You know, when in 1991 in Moscow you had the mess, I wanted to quit everything, and fly to Yeltsin for providing my help and support. And handcuff all those conspirators by myself.

\- You wanted to go there, but I've been there when it all happened. Well, we won, but were people's lives changed for the better? No, on the contrary, they removed one bastard, and sent in those one hundred times worse. Those that used to steal are being quietly covered by the ideals. But the current ones in power continue to insolently steal and don't care a single bit about the people. So you have nothing to envy about, Barry...

\- But what, we have angels sitting in power in America? They also take care about themselves first. And they only throw leftovers for the poor, so that they would sit quietly and satisfied a bit. And they feed them up with stories about how a regular scavenger could one day become a millionaire. That's why it's so quite here in America. But I'll tell you, we need at least one revolution. To somehow imagine, the entire country is made up of self-righteous over-consuming robots.

\- Barry, visit my home country one time, and you would instantly see that neither America nor any place else needs these revolutions. If we'd lived for generations without revolutions and coups, maybe all would've been eager to emigrate to us, the Chinese, Indians, Poles, and every other nation. In fact, it's closer for them to migrate to us rather then flying overseas to America. Only then I wouldn't have sat behind the wheel and instead would've continued with my studies and calmly learned your literature.

\- At least now you are learning about life - Barry said with a smile, apparently wanting to terminate our stormy debate. - If you have not emigrated, you would've never met a charming girl like Diane, - he said, and his voice didn't even have an inch of irony.

... When I got home, Diane sat in the stool and looked resignedly at the wall. I've never seen her like this. What is the matter? Maybe she was irritated with my drunken condition? But she overcame fire and water, and seen much worse situations then that. And we weren't even in such a relationship to pay attention to the way one of us comes home.

\- What's wrong, Diane? – I decided to take the matters into own hands.

She burst into tears. Heck, it's her tears. That was the first time I've ever seen her cry! What is happening?

\- Anthony, I'm sorry ... - she barely spoke.

\- Sorry for what?

\- I ... I have ... AIDS.

\- What are you talking about, what AIDS?

\- The last time when I went to Bronx, I decided to check myself. So I went into the laboratory near the place where I used to live in to take some tests. Today, they called me and I was told that the result is – positive.

I told her some words of comfort, saying that those are just regular people who could make a mistake or confuse the results. But at the same time I felt a cold wind sweep past my body, frozen into my head, and turned into an iron punching bag, repeatedly beating the brain. She has. AIDS. But recently we hadn't screwed with the rubber savior. It wasn't her fault, but my own laziness to run across the road at night and buy a couple of condoms. And now, it's all over, wait until this plague eats you through. Or maybe it's for the better? Anyway, this is not life that I have, but eternal servitude to the rich American soil. Therefore, I would continue living with Diane and we both would guess who would be the first one taken from AIDS, the humankind's ultimate curse.

Do you think that we did not have any intercourse that same night? Yeah, you wish. I, sober from the unexpected news, dragged Diane across the bed like a doll. And without any condom. And in the morning, with the wildest headache and a nasty taste in the mouth from whiskey, I drove to work as if nothing had happened. There as usually I saw Dima who looked at me shaking his head:

\- How miserable you seem now, Yuri, all pale and faded. Here look, - those were now the words to the other two drivers, standing beside him – the man tempted on red meat, and became a victim in the unequal struggle with the passionate African woman ...

Then he failed to finish his speech. Out of myself I jumped on the fat pig, and grabbed the collar of his denim shirt.

\- Listen, you animal, if you won't shut your filthy mouth, I would... - I couldn't think of the right words to back up my anger so I finished up by saying – I'll take you down and kill you. Right here in Brighton.

\- What a wonder! His face became distorted, whether by unexpectedness, whether from fear. He is taller than me by two heads, and three times wider, and instead of burying that swine into the asphalt, with trembling hands, he pushed me out of his way:

\- What happened to you, you fool, I was only joking. Don't you understand humor at all?

At that time I had already stepped few steps away from him, and breathlessly stood on the side. And being instantly altered, he continued, turning to the witnesses of our feud:

\- Gentlemen, what is this, indeed? I was just acting friendly.

Fortunately, for him perhaps, the dispatcher called me. I was required to take a client to the Kennedy Airport. Not glancing at the direction of Dima, I went towards the car.

On the way to the airport, I thought about everything: about my unfulfilled life, about my poor Diane, about this foreign America, that is filled with cops who dream of rebellions and such immigrant car-service drivers like Dima who dream of generous tipping passengers. But here in America there are plenty of fools as well as cool guys who are willing to give their own shirt to the neighbor... I continued thinking of those intense thoughts even in the airport. Thus Matveyitch assigned me another client. I waited for him in his car, impatiently staring at the door, whence should come the new passenger. My thoughts, as always, were far, far away. But I digressed from them and turned my attention to the family emerging from a limousine parked alongside my car. Not seeing faces, I appreciated the view of a slender figure of a woman with flowing light blond hair. And as if to a contrast to her, appeared a barrel-like frame of her companion, dark-haired with a clearly visible bald spot. Their son, a boy of seven years of age, walked behind his parents, raised up his head and looked at the giant airliner penetrating the gate. The mother turned around and shouted impatiently:

\- Vlad, presto! - She had added some other Italian words, but I have heard nothing else afterwards. It was my wife. And this curious, like everyone else at his age, boy - my son, my Vlad...

Ana has remained true with her tastes. She has always loved the color red, and now she wore a red skirt and red scarf. Her Italian man satisfies every requirements of his beautiful wife, except he didn't give a child for her. Or perhaps they have their Giovanni or Luigi, but they just do not take him along for the ride. Afterwards, what is the reason for them coming to the States? Does this ape have a business trip, and he took with him his family? Or they just decided to scatter in America? I didn't care about the details. The only thing I wanted to do at that time was to go out of the car and hug my son... But I couldn't force myself to get out. Well, I could've gone out of the car, smelling of gasoline badly-shaven man in jeans and an old shirt. But then what? Would Ana begin explaining to him: This, Vlad, is your father? Whence he always believed that his father was the bald Italian, who has only one advantage over me: inside his pocket is a full wallet, while I only have few papers in mine, of which half I should give to the owner of the car service.

Vlad ran to his mother, took her hand and they disappeared from my view into the terminal building. Only for some two minutes I was able to enjoy the actual view of my child. Probably it was my last time to have such an opportunity. Unlikely that fate would offer me such a gift some other time. So anyways, where the heck is that damn client? Maybe it's that guy of typical Slavic appearance, who came out of the airport with the diplomat and a traveling bag in his hand? I've wanted to blow the horn already, but instantly froze. Today I received so many gifts, but this gift for a different type. At 30 feet away from me stood Andrew, the shot by me chief security guard of George Mercedes.

What is going on today? One by one appear to me guests from the past. However, I was happy to see my son even in a form of a young boy from a happy Italian family. But then why on Earth was I required to see Andrew, the messenger from the afterlife? Although, where was my 100 percent proof that I actually killed him in the office? Regarding George everything was all clear, Alex even told me about his graceful funeral. But had anyone mentioned the death of George's watchdog guard, who was now standing almost next to my car? He certainly survived, and now either from the assignment by George's companions or from his own will he came to America to get even with me. I guess they tracked out Alex Gutman and he told them everything about me. But who wouldn't snitch even on a closest friend, while being tortured with a hot iron placed on one's stomach? Anyways, why am I sitting in the car so calmly and staring at Andrew's damaged nose? Would it turn out that he would sit in my car and I would drive him to the direction towards my own death? In essence, what's the difference, either slowly die from AIDS, or just take a bullet from a former colleague, and not suffer anymore... I was ready to open the door and call out: "Come, Andrew darling, I'm here," when a yellow taxi pulled up, and took inside it my likely savior. Our meeting was postponed, but probably not for long.

I realized that just a couple of days later when Matveyitch, our manager, told me that "some guy, apparently a former boxer, with a wiped out nose and an appearance of a mafia member" was looking for me. So here it is, fate. There's nowhere to hide from it. You could change your name and last name, travel to the other edge of the world, but you would still get what you deserve in one way or another. But I didn't flutter, carrying my cross for protection. As previously I continued to work hard on my car-service and to fool around with my dear Diane completely forgetting what a condom is. In addition, there still remained two modes of entertainment for my leisure: bar, where I was involved in arguments and long discussions with Barry and walks on the beach through the wooden boardwalk, where I was able to think clearly of every detailed thoughts and memories ranging from my first teenage discoveries up to "spy" involvement in the "Orion". I really wanted to fill my breath with as much happiness as possible before my breath would leave my body.

...The following morning I was walking along the boardwalk, looking at the waves that were jumping ashore and immediately pushing off back into the ocean. The seafront was deserted, except for only one man wearing sportswear who lay on the bench. Most likely it was an exhausted athlete who decided to rest a bit before running a new lap. I've caught up to him, and was just about to make a move to leave him behind the bench, as I felt my back being pressed against a solid object and a familiar gentle and sincere voice advised: - Anthony, let's go down please, just to talk...

I have long waited for some actions from Andrew's side, but have never expected them to be here in the boardwalk. And confused, with a pistol at my back - and I do not doubt that it was a gun, walked with my slaughterer into the embankment of the street cluttered with parked cars. He took me to a red Nissan of a relatively unattractive form, opened the door, and removed the gun that was being stuck to my shirt. Once again, he kindly suggested:

\- Sit down, we would drive and talk a bit... We have so much to talk about.

\- No, I would sit nowhere – I awakened and once again felt like a rebel, - If you want to shoot me, shoot right here. But I would go nowhere with you!

He took a step back, and I noticed how pale his face had become:

\- Ah, so you do not want to go with us! Well that's good, very good. However, I was assigned to offer you a little job. But if you don't want to talk, it's fine with me... - Afterwards I received a punch on the face by the boxer. The punch, that in his earlier years, Andrew used to knockout his opponents. But as the years go by, skills do not remain the same. So, instead of being knocked out, I've found myself being in a knockdown! And through the mist in my eyes, I watched as Andrew pointed the gun with a silencer right in my chest.

I have long feared nothing. I even started to have a bit of an interest of what awaits me up there. But a sharp cry in English somewhere in the side had terminated my contemplative waiting condition:

\- You, drop the gun on the floor!

I turned my head to the right and for the first time I saw Barry in the police uniform. No, it was not the relaxed and good-natured giant this time as I saw him to be in Maria's house and at the bar. This time it was a completely different man with a tense posture, stern look, and a finger on the trigger. Andrew did not understand a word in English, but the meaning of the order came to him instantly. The gun, from which I was close from experiencing death, flew nearly ten feet away. Barry handcuffed Andrew and pushed him into the cabin of the blue police car. Then Barry helped me up, brushed the dust off my shirt, sat on the hood of his car, and asked me with his everyday tone as if nothing had happened:

\- What happened between you guys?

\- I will tell you everything, Barry. Just in a couple of minutes I will explain. But now I beg you, give me your gun. I have to ask this bastard a couple of questions.

Barry gave me the pistol without any hesitation:

\- Man, Just hurry up, because my kids would come home at any minute and I have to go meet them.

I opened the car door and pushed the gun on the head of Andrew who sat motionlessly in the backseat.

\- You have two minutes to think, - I was myself surprised with the pitch of my voice, - Either you tell me who sent you here, or I would finish what could not be done in George's office. I am not joking...

He didn't even bother using the two minutes. Andrew started telling me everything from the beginning and hastily mentioned the name that surprised me more then anything.

\- Korolenko. It was he who had sent me to find you. He has moved to the capital, and became the deputy. And now he is involved in serious business and has strong relations with the States.

\- What does he need me for?

\- Why? For you to kill someone from his requests if need be. You have a good experience.

\- You are lying! Korolenko doesn't engage in such illegal matters.

\- Did he tell you that himself? That time, Korolenko attempted to murder George thanks to your help. You've showed us a great initiative in your work. And now Korolenko told me: "If Anthony refuses work for us, you can take revenge on him for his former boss, and your injured shoulder."

Being shocked from the words, I've decided not to hear anything else Andrew had to say. So, I shut the door and returned the gun to my rescuer Barry. Having calmed down a bit, I told him all about my work in the "Orion", and under what circumstances I had left the office. Barry listened to my story with great interest, shook his head, and concluded:

They would never leave you alone. And our guys as well. According to our laws, I must write you into the report. And you know what would happen? Nobody would look at the fact that you were attacked and was nearly killed. For them you are a Russian mafia, and also an illegal. First you would be taken into a cell, then given a plane ticket, and finally would be released and told to fly back home.

\- So, I'll fly.

\- First wait, you would always have time for that. So, let's do this... I'll take him with me to the station and would write a report that he attempted to attack me with a weapon. In 25 years from now he would not be able to hold that gun. And you would quickly go home, pack your belongings, and leave New York as soon as possible.

\- Where to?

\- Don't worry. There is a place where you'll be safe. Near Seattle lives my brother. He is a sheriff's deputy, and he would figure out something for you. Your English is well, so you won't get lost. If Diane wants, she could go with you. Only she must forget about her work.

Thank you, Barry. You're a true friend. But I don't want you to expose you on such a risk. Think about how many times you had risked your career and rescued Diane with her friends. And now you are ready to go into this forgery just to protect me. I don't think that I need your support. Whatever will happen would be inevitable.

\- Barry, I think that I would go with you to your station. You have to understand that this is the only way out for us – I said firmly. – We all have to pay for our actions, and I am the one who has to pay, not you.

...I wasn't locked up in the cell. On the contrary, I was kindly told not to leave the state of New York before the court hearing would take place. But I could care less about their convincing requests for me. I understood that my upcoming act would be foul, I am leaving Diane to die alone, but nothing could be done. That previous mad world from which I was running away strongly demanded my return. I was returning to return a favor to my fellow countryman. You, Vladimir Korolenko, attempted to retrain me as a killer? Well, I am ready. And perhaps I would start my spree with you, ruddy-faced leader of the Communist League of the past, and now a deputy and a businessman. You and your like wiped on me your feet, turned me into an outsider, a renegade, and deprived my present and future. And am I the only one to fall victim to your trick? You don't care that there is poverty everywhere around. You don't provide any aid for the retirees digging into the dumpsters and the poor children begging for leftovers of the plates of wealthy overweight restaurant customers. If only I could avenge those "masters of life". That's okay, if I at least prevent and remove one of Korolenko-type from causing global cruelty; it would pay-off well in my afterlife. And why must I be afraid of the court and a possible sentence, if I am already a walking corpse, wearing the damn immunodeficiency virus.

...Diane didn't drive to escort me to my departure from the States. She didn't feel well probably because of the first symptoms of the disease, or perhaps she viewed me as a traitor. We will meet There very soon I believe, where eternal rest would reconcile us and bring the happiness that we have not found in our earthly life. But right now I am tranquilly flying to Moscow, carrying with me a bag with some clothes, a couple of books, and these notebooks filled with my confessions. If only I could obtain a gun and carry it through the customs. However, that's not an issue for me to think over, because in Moscow resides Vitaliy Koshkin who would supply me with everything needed for my urgent cause.

...In Moscow, Constantine Taranitsky, my companion from Afghanistan, greeted me. The day after arrival, I visited two places of the capital. First I visited the Vagankovskoye cemetery and putted two bouquets to the grave of Vladimir Vysotsky. One of the bouquets was from me and one from Chris Sweeney's name, who dreamed so much to visit the site but couldn't because he was burned from his fast driving.

And my second visit was to a more prosaic place – the clinic, which took blood samples for AIDS. The results were promised to come in a week. Therefore, throughout the week Kostya and I drank and talked. I spent all of the earned money from New York in that one week. And now at last, in a rainy morning during a frustrating hangover, I dialed the clinic.

\- You have a negative result – an official voice of a woman replied to me on the other end of the phone line.

\- How is that possible? – Stammered and confused, I perplexedly asked.

\- It's the truth. You are a healthy, young man. But do not forget to continue protecting yourself and avoiding random encounters.

I have not heard any more of the humane words from the doctor's office, as I quickly ran to the kitchen and took the unfinished bottle. Then I greedily gulped what remained left of the bitter alcohol, like a wanderer through the desert reaching for a well full of water. That mean the disease has spared me and thus Diane and I are on the different sides of the poles; neither in this nor the other world we would soon be together. I was alone again, all alone among millions of workers and howlers, lovers and stealers, killers and suffers, and all the rest of my fellow countrymen. I had nowhere to run. Tomorrow will return back to the sovereign State. I would come back to the not so long ago built republic where awaits me, the renegade, the unknown. But I have no other choice, I shall return. And to do what I intended, the last time I crossed the sea.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Julia Lavrentsova closed the notebook. The work is finished, so now she could come back to her senses. She has seen so much, and absolutely devoid of sentimentalism, with difficulty held back her tears. But three days had passed from the moment of Anthony's arrest (she already knew his name, even though she still had to verify his last name). "But what can I do? – Julia thought, moving up a portable typewriter to herself. – Refuse dealing with the issue? That way his case would be transferred to Dotsenko, and he would be clueless with the subject. He likes them, the so-called 'resonant cases'. No, I will solve this case to the end, and I'll try to soften everything that's of my ability. Also I ought to advice the man with a sensible lawyer. But how would Anthony obtain the money to afford an attorney? Lord, if only he had ran away that time and afterwards came back to confess in a few years..."

With a heavy sigh, the 35-year-old divorced woman, daughter of a chemist, having chosen such a difficult profession, stomped her fingers on the typewriter. The lyric is over, and the investigator for particularly important cases has returned back to her duties.

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THE END

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## About The Author

Eugene Shrayman was born in Kiev, Ukraine in 1962. After graduating from the Faculty of Journalism of the University of Kiev he has worked in the sports press. As of 1995, he lives in New York City. He is the author of various books as well as short stories and articles published in periodicals in the United States and Ukraine.
