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Authors: Oleg Zaionchkovsky
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to blame Dmitry Pavlovichâs flat for everything. To be quite honest, I had suffered similar bouts of empty-headedness previously, indeed I still get them under the most varied circumstances, and I had known for a long time what I should and should not do in such circumstances. Basically, there are two recommendations: donât try to work, because it wonât happen anyway, and go for a walk.
I followed my own advice, based on my experience of life and writing. That is, after having a smoke by the window, I put on my coat and shoes again, left Phil in charge of the flat and set out for a stroll with a clear conscience. From the stratosphere of the elite flat I descended once again into the fragrant Eden of the elite yard. I walked into the avenue and stationed myself on a bench near the fountain. Here in the shade of the watery jets, I froze, transfixed, for a long time â still without any thoughts in my head, simply in a state of bliss. I resembled a statue in a park. Pigeons journeyed between my feet and hopped up fearlessly onto my shoes. Promenading mothers ceased to notice me, and I could clearly hear intimate confessions that would no doubt have amazed even their own husbands. For my part, I observed them surreptitiously. I donât feel ashamed of spying and eavesdropping on people because, even without a thought in my head, I always remain a writer.
The mums in this yard were quite attractive. Attractive in the same way â no other comparison occurs to me â as military officersâ wives. I had seen those wives in the old Soviet days, when I was still a teenager, living in Vaskovo. At that time there was a military garrison not far from us (I donât know if it still exists now) and we used to slip through a hole in the fence, bypassing the checkpoint, in order to buy food. Well, apart from the commissary shop, that garrison had other things that were well worth a look. From the distant parts to which they travelled in the line of duty, the officers there brought back women so beautiful that they simply took your breath away. At least, they made a powerful impression on us provincial youths and we expressed it in our own, naturally crude style. âWomen with equipmentâ â that was what we used to call them, and whatever that expression might have meant, I recalled it as I gazed at the mums in the elite yard. Although I realised, of course, that the equipment here had not been nurtured by the bounty of nature in distant parts of the country but by the endeavours of cosmetic medicine. Where, nowadays, can you find natural female beauty without prosthetic devices, untouched by the scraper or the scalpel, unmutilated by exercise machines? The only hope left is for the revival of the army: then the military garrisons will be rebuilt and young officers will go flying off again to those distant parts.
But there are exceptions to every rule and I was fortunate enough to be granted proof of that right here, in the elite yard, by the fountain, while observing the local elite mums. The exception came drifting along the avenue entirely without haste, like all the other mums, pushing along a buggy that was also like all the others. But I picked her out immediately. Believe me, you women, no beautician in the world could ever give you such pretty dimples in your cheeks, or such an enchanting smile; that is natureâs work. She was wearing a loose summer frock, but I know how to see into the depths of things. Beneath the thin material, I could divine the natural perfection of her body and the free oscillation of its parts. Here was a genuine example of natural, pure, organic female beauty. I wouldnât say that I have already reached an age at which such masterpieces are admired disinterestedly, but at that moment I observed her with the eyes of an artist . . .
Her name was Nastya Savelieva. I probably wouldnât have found out her name if it hadnât been such a
I followed my own advice, based on my experience of life and writing. That is, after having a smoke by the window, I put on my coat and shoes again, left Phil in charge of the flat and set out for a stroll with a clear conscience. From the stratosphere of the elite flat I descended once again into the fragrant Eden of the elite yard. I walked into the avenue and stationed myself on a bench near the fountain. Here in the shade of the watery jets, I froze, transfixed, for a long time â still without any thoughts in my head, simply in a state of bliss. I resembled a statue in a park. Pigeons journeyed between my feet and hopped up fearlessly onto my shoes. Promenading mothers ceased to notice me, and I could clearly hear intimate confessions that would no doubt have amazed even their own husbands. For my part, I observed them surreptitiously. I donât feel ashamed of spying and eavesdropping on people because, even without a thought in my head, I always remain a writer.
The mums in this yard were quite attractive. Attractive in the same way â no other comparison occurs to me â as military officersâ wives. I had seen those wives in the old Soviet days, when I was still a teenager, living in Vaskovo. At that time there was a military garrison not far from us (I donât know if it still exists now) and we used to slip through a hole in the fence, bypassing the checkpoint, in order to buy food. Well, apart from the commissary shop, that garrison had other things that were well worth a look. From the distant parts to which they travelled in the line of duty, the officers there brought back women so beautiful that they simply took your breath away. At least, they made a powerful impression on us provincial youths and we expressed it in our own, naturally crude style. âWomen with equipmentâ â that was what we used to call them, and whatever that expression might have meant, I recalled it as I gazed at the mums in the elite yard. Although I realised, of course, that the equipment here had not been nurtured by the bounty of nature in distant parts of the country but by the endeavours of cosmetic medicine. Where, nowadays, can you find natural female beauty without prosthetic devices, untouched by the scraper or the scalpel, unmutilated by exercise machines? The only hope left is for the revival of the army: then the military garrisons will be rebuilt and young officers will go flying off again to those distant parts.
But there are exceptions to every rule and I was fortunate enough to be granted proof of that right here, in the elite yard, by the fountain, while observing the local elite mums. The exception came drifting along the avenue entirely without haste, like all the other mums, pushing along a buggy that was also like all the others. But I picked her out immediately. Believe me, you women, no beautician in the world could ever give you such pretty dimples in your cheeks, or such an enchanting smile; that is natureâs work. She was wearing a loose summer frock, but I know how to see into the depths of things. Beneath the thin material, I could divine the natural perfection of her body and the free oscillation of its parts. Here was a genuine example of natural, pure, organic female beauty. I wouldnât say that I have already reached an age at which such masterpieces are admired disinterestedly, but at that moment I observed her with the eyes of an artist . . .
Her name was Nastya Savelieva. I probably wouldnât have found out her name if it hadnât been such a
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