Owner of the Best Gay Bar

Anyone who has ever experienced true despair will surely understand me. One morning, you wake up and realize that everything is wrong, terribly wrong. Not too long ago—yesterday, for instance—you were still able to induce change, to improve things, to make your mark, but now—you stand by the wayside and no longer have an effect on events, which unfurl like bedsheets around you. This very sense of helplessness, estrangement, and disassociation is what a person feels, I guess, before death, if I correctly understand the concept of death—you seemed to have done everything right, you kept everything under control, why are they now trying to disconnect you from the twisting red wires of the system, to delete you, like a file, and cleanse you away, like a skin infection; why does life, in which you had just been playing an active role, ebb, like the sea, heading east, quickly becoming distant and leaving the sunshine of slow death in its tracks? The unfairness of death is felt most harshly during life; no one tries to convince you of the purpose of your relocation to the territory of the deceased, they simply won’t have enough arguments to accomplish this. But everything is wrong, you yourself suddenly start believing in it, you fathom it and become silent and you let certain charlatans, alchemists, and pathologists-anatomists rip out your heart and display it at fairs and museums of curiosities, you let them smuggle it out for the purpose of conducting suspicious experiments and performing gloomy rituals, you let them talk about you like about a deceased person and let them fondle your heart—which has become black from love lost, recreational drugs, and a bad diet—with their smoke-scented fingers.

Behind all of this stood the tears, the nerves, and the love of your contemporaries. Tears, nerves, and love, in particular, because all the misfortune and the problems of your contemporaries began concurrently with puberty and ended with default, and if anything is ever able to silence these smoldering Slavic tongues and these strong smoky lungs will once again be capable of containing air—it’ll be love and economics, business and passion, in their most improbable manifestations—I have in mind both passion and, of course, business, everything else remains beyond the flow, beyond the dark turbulent current into which you all jump, having just reached adulthood. Everything else remains scum, circles on the water, superfluous additions to a biography, dissolving in oxygen, which, although it may also seem to be necessary for life, in reality—is not. Why? Because, in reality, no one really dies from a lack of oxygen, they die from a lack of love or a lack of cash. When, at some point, you wake up and realize that everything is terribly wrong, that she’s gone, that yesterday you still had a chance to stop her from leaving, that you could have fixed everything, but that today—it’s too late, and now you’re left on your own and she won’t be around for the next fifty or sixty years, depending on your desire and ability to live without her. And from this realization you suddenly became enrobed with vast and endless futility, and beads of sweat prance upon your hapless skin, like clowns at a circus, and your memory refuses to cooperate with you; but then people don’t die from this either, it’s actually the opposite—all faucets are flipped on and all manhole covers explode, you say that everything is okay, I’m fine, I’ll get through this, everything’s good and you painfully battle on, ending up in those vacuums, which were created in the space where she had been, into all these wind tunnels and corridors, which she had filled with her voice and in which the monsters and reptiles of her absence begin to nest, everything’s okay, you say, I’ll get through this, I’m fine, no one has died from this yet, one more night, just a couple more hours in territories sown with black pepper, shattered glass, on hot sand mixed with bullet casings and bits of tobacco, in clothes, which you both wore, beneath the sky, which is now just yours, using her toothbrush, taking her towels with you to bed, listening to her radio, singing along during especially significant parts—the ones she never sang, singing those parts for her, especially when important things are mentioned in a song, like life or one’s relationship with one’s parents, or religion, for that matter. What can be sadder than this singing alone, which, occasionally, is interrupted by the latest news—and then a situation arises in which each upcoming news update could really be your last.

The only thing that could be sadder than this is the situation with money. Everything that has to do with finances, with the business which you conduct, with your personal financial stability, leads you into an increasingly darker and more hopeless corner from which there is only one way out—into a black, little-known space, in which the region of death is found. At which point you wake up and realize that, in order to prolong life, you need outside support and, hopefully, this support comes directly from the Lord God or from anyone within his closest circle. Well forget about support. Put this word out of your mind. Everything in this world revolves around you, so you’ve got to pull it off yourself, be wary of business and love, sex and economics—yes, yes, economics—that prostate of the middle class, that tachycardia for the boy scouts of the stock markets; a couple of unsuccessful policy decisions and you are a soon-to-be drowned person, in the sense that they’ll definitely drown you, probably in cement, and fatal cement waves, the color of coffee with milk, will overcome you, distancing you from life, and even from death, because, in this situation, you don’t deserve a normal, peaceful death, whether you pull it off or not, it doesn’t matter, financial debt hangs above you, like a full moon, and all you can do is howl at it, attracting the attention of the tax inspectors. So many young souls have been swallowed up by the inability to come up with a good business plan, so many hearts were torn by privatization politics; wrinkles on their wizened faces and a yellow, metallic reflection in their eyes are all that remain after the long battle for survival—this is our country, this is our economics, this is your and my path to immortality, the presence of which you sense, waking up at some point and unexpectedly realizing that, in life, there is nothing but your soul, your love, and your, goddamn it, debt, which you will never be able to pay off, at least not in this life.

And that’s precisely what we’re going to talk about.

The story about the nightclub was told to me directly by one of its founders. I had heard about it for quite some time but I hadn’t crossed paths with him, which isn’t so strange, considering the specifics of the establishment. Rumors of the city’s first official gay bar had been circulating for several years, various names and addresses were mentioned and, because no one really knew where it was actually located, every place was considered to be suspicious. The place where the nightclub was most often discussed was at the stadium—the city’s right-wing youth staunchly condemned the appearance of establishments with such a profile, they promised to burn down this nightclub together with all the gays that gather there for their so-called soirées. Once, during the 2003–2004 season, they even burned down the Buratino café, which is located right next to the stadium, but the police, rightfully, did not trace a connection between this incident and the existence of a gay nightclub, because, just think about it—what kind of gay nightclub could be established in a Buratino café, the name of which, itself, is xenophobic. On the other hand, the nightclub was often mentioned in mass media outlets, in various chronicles of cultural events, or in features about the city’s vibrant nightclub scene. Usually, stories on the city’s nightclub scene recalled letters from the front lines—television reports on this theme featured various toasts being announced which were then followed by machine-gun shots, and sometimes, if the cameraman didn’t neglect his, let’s say, professional duties, in other words, if he didn’t get shit-faced off of the complimentary cognac, the machine-gun shots would ring in unison with wedding toasts and parting gestures, and the pulsating bullets would poke holes in the warm Kharkiv sky, like a salute to faithfulness, love, and other things rarely seen on television. In this context, news about the gay nightclub was intriguing because of the lack of any clear picture or of any mention concerning the direct ties between the government and criminals, it was just that there was a party, it took place in a gay nightclub, the public behaved in a civil manner, there were no casualties. In any case, rumors about the nightclub kept spreading but, in reality, the wave of interest fell, which wasn’t hard to predict from the start—our city has much more exciting establishments, like the Tractor Plant, for example. And, generally speaking, who’s really interested in the affairs of sexual minorities in a country that has such a substantial foreign debt. And even the fact that the nightclub, according to rumors, was part of the governor’s racket, didn’t create any special resonance—this is what they expected from the governor. Everyone, in essence, runs his own business, what’s most important is a clear conscience and the timely submission of tax forms.

San Sanych and I met during the elections. He looked like he was about forty years old but he was actually born in 1974. It’s just that one’s biography is stronger than one’s genes, and Sanych was a prime example of that. He would walk around in a black, squeaky leather jacket carrying a piece—a typical, mid-level mafioso, if you know what I mean. Although, for a mafioso, he was rather melancholic, he seldom spoke on the phone, occasionally calling his mother, and, as far as I can remember, nobody ever called him. He introduced himself as San Sanych when we first met and gave me his business card, on which “San Sanych, Lawyer” was written in gold letters on vellum paper, along with several phone numbers with London area codes; Sanych said that they were office phone numbers, I asked whose, but he didn’t answer me. We became friends at once; Sanych pulled the piece out of his pocket, said that he is a supporter of free elections, and mentioned that he could get a hundred of these pieces, if necessary. He added that he has an acquaintance working for the Dynamo sports club, who takes starter pistols and transforms them into normal guns in his home workshop. “Look,” he said, “if you file down this thingy”—he was pointing to a place where, obviously, the thingy was once located, having earlier been filed down —“you can load it with normal cartridges, and what’s most important is that you won’t have any problems with the police, it’s just a starter pistol, right? If you want, I can get you a set, it’ll run you forty bucks, plus ten more to file down that thingy. If necessary, I can sort you out with a Dynamo worker’s card, to make it fully legit.” Sanych loved weapons and he loved talking about them even more. In time, I became one of his closest friends.

One time, he told me about the nightclub; he just happened to mention that before becoming a lawyer and a supporter of free elections he had been in the nightclub business and, as it turns out, he was directly involved with the first official gay nightclub—that very mysterious establishment that the city’s progressive youth unsuccessfully spent so much time trying to burn down. That’s when I asked him to tell me more about it and he agreed, saying, okay, no problem, it’s all in the distant past, why not tell the story.

And his story went something like this.

It turns out that he was a member of the Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation Association. He told me a bit about it; they grew out of the Dynamo sports club as a people’s organization of former professional athletes. What Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation actually did, nobody really knows, but the fatality rate among members of this organization was quite high, every month one of them would be shot and then pompous memorial services would take place, which police officials and members of the regional government would attend. Occasionally, every couple of months, Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation would organize friendly matches with the Polish national team, at least that’s what they called it; several buses would pull up to their office, they’d fill them up with boxers and a large array of domestically produced electronics, and the caravan would set off for Poland. The regional directors and the trainers would travel separately. Having arrived in Warsaw, the boxers would go to the stadium and would unload the whole freight, after which they would celebrate yet another victory for the national Paralympic movement. What was interesting was that Sanych was not a boxer. Sanych was a wrestler. Not as in a wrestler for fairness and social adaptation, but as in a freestyle wrestler. His grandfather introduced him to it; at one time, his grandfather was quite serious about wrestling and even took part in a competition featuring all the peoples of the USSR at which he had his hand broken, which he was quite proud of—not of the broken hand, that is, but of his participation in the competition. And thus, his grandfather brought him to Dynamo. Sanych started out doing quite well. He took part in city matches, he showed much promise, but after a few years he also had his hand broken. At this point he had already finished his studies and had begun setting up his business, but was having difficulty, especially with the broken hand. And that is when he came to Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation. Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation looked at his hand, asked him whether he supported fairness and whether he supported social adaptation, and, having received an affirmative answer, accepted him. Sanych immediately joined a brigade that dealt with the markets in the Tractor district. It turned out that making a career in this business was not so hard—no sooner had your superior been killed than you immediately filled his position. Within a year, Sanych was put in charge of a small unit, again he showed much promise, but he didn’t really like the business: Sanych did possess a higher education and dying before he turned thirty from a dealer’s grenade didn’t tickle his fancy. Even more importantly, business took up all of his free time and he had no personal life, if you don’t count the prostitutes which he would personally pick up at the markets. But Sanych didn’t count the prostitutes, they probably didn’t consider it as being a part of one’s personal life either, it’s more like one’s societal-economic life, which may be the best way to put it. And thus, Sanych began to seriously contemplate his future. The incident with the bulletproof vest was the turning point. One time, in the midst of a prolonged alcoholic stupor (obviously it must have been some kind of holiday period, the Birth of Christ, I believe), Sanych’s underlings decided to give their young boss a bulletproof vest. They had gotten the bulletproof vest from the workers of the Kyiv regional militia in exchange for a latest-model copy machine. They partied for a while to celebrate the gift and then decided to try it out. Sanych put on the bulletproof vest, his boys got a Kalashnikov. The bulletproof vest turned out to be a pretty reliable thing—Sanych survived, having only gotten three semi-serious bullet wounds. But he decided that this would be the end—a career as a free-style wrestler didn’t work out, a career as a combatant for fairness and social adaptation also wasn’t progressing in the best manner, it was time for a change.

Having licked his wounds, Sanych went to Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation and asked to leave the business. Boxers for Fairness and Social Adaptation correctly observed that it’s not so easy to leave the business in this line of work, not alive, at least, but they eventually took Sanych’s battle wounds into consideration and agreed.  In parting, they expressed their hope that Sanych wouldn’t sever his ties with the association and that, in life, he would continue to serve the ideals of the fight for fairness and social adaptation and, in the end, they wished him a speedy recovery and set off to load the bus with stacks of domestically produced electronics. In such a manner, Sanych ended up on the street—with no business or personal life, but with a wrestling background and a higher education; the latter, though, was of little interest to anyone. And in his time of crisis he meets up with Hoha—Heorhii Lomaia. They had been classmates, after which San Sanych went into wrestling and Hoha went into medicine. They hadn’t seen one another for the last few years—Sanych, as has been noted earlier, was actively involved with the movement for the social adaptation of boxers, while Hoha, being a young specialist, went to the Caucasus region and took part in the Russian-Chechen war. But it was unclear with which side he was actively involved because, in the capacity of a middleman, he would purchase drugs from the Russian health ministry and would then sell them to the administrations of the Georgian rehab centers where Chechens were being treated. His downfall, however, came with the anesthetics, when, having purchased too many of them, he induced the health ministry officials to raise the buying price and to pose a completely reasonable question: why does the regional children’s medical center, to which the funds were allocated, need so many narcotics? Because of this, Hoha was forced to return home, getting into several shootouts with offended Caucasian dealers along the way. Having returned, he immediately picked up several shipments of gypsum boards. Business was going well but Hoha became obsessed with a new idea, which occupied an increasingly larger part of his imagination and ambitions—he decided to go into the nightclub business. And it was precisely at this anxious time that our protagonists met up.

“Listen,” said Hoha to his childhood chum, “I’m new to this business and I need your help. I want to open a nightclub.” “You know,” his old friend replied, “I really don’t know much about any of this, but, if you want, I can ask around.” “You misunderstood,” Hoha said to him, “I don’t need you to ask around, I already know everything,  I need a compadre, you dig? I want you in this business together with me, it’s better for me that way, you see—I’ve known you since childhood, I know your parents, I know where to find you if I need to, should you decide to bail on me. And, most importantly, you’ve worked with everybody here. You’re a true compadre.” “What,” asked Sanych, “you really think you’ll make some money off of this?” “You understand,” answered Hoha Lomaia, “I can make money off of anything. You think I’m doing this for the money? Hell, I’ve got five freights full of gypsum boards at Balashovka, I could sell them right now and it’s ‘Cyprus here I come.’ But you have to understand why I’m so enthralled with this idea—I don’t want to go to Cyprus. And do you know why I don’t want to go to Cyprus? I’m almost thirty, just like you, by the way. I’ve done business in four different countries, I’m being pursued by the law agencies of several autonomous republics, I should have been lying dead from a disease in the tundra long ago, I’ve been under artillery fire three times, I had President Basaiev as my client. I was almost shot to death by a Krasnoyar special forces unit, once, a lightning bolt hit a car which I was driving, I later had to replace the battery. I’m paying alimony to a widow in Northern Ingushetia—she’s the only one of ‘em getting any money from me—half of my teeth are implants, once I almost agreed to sell off one of my kidneys, because I needed to buy up a shipment of machine lathes. But I’ve returned home, I’m in a good mood and I sleep soundly, half of my friends have been killed, but half are still alive, like you, you’re alive, but the odds were against you. So you see, somehow it turned out that I stayed alive, and once I was still alive, I thought to myself—hey, okay, Hoha, okay, now everything is alright, now everything will be good, if the Krasnoyar special forces weren’t able to wipe you out and the lightning bolt didn’t kill you, well then what do you need Cyprus for? And then I suddenly realized what I had wanted my whole life. And you know what?” “What?” San Sanych asked him. “My whole life I wanted to have my own nightclub in which I could sit every night and out of which no one could throw me out, even if I started puking all over the menu. And what did I do? You know what I did?” Hoha chuckled.  “I just went out and bought that dreamed-about fucking nightclub, you understand?” “When did you buy it?” Sanych asked. “A week ago.” “What kind of nightclub?” “Well, it’s not really a nightclub, it’s a sandwich shop.” “What?” Sanych asked, confused. “Yeah, the Sub, you know it? There’s a shitload of work to do but it’s a great location, in the Ivanov neighborhood, I’ll unload the gypsum boards, renovate it, and all my problems will be behind me. All I need is a compadre, you dig? What do you think?” he asked Sanych. “I like the name.” “What name?” “The nightclub’s name: the Sub.”

And so they agreed to meet the following day in the nightclub. Hoha promised to introduce his compadre to the proposed art director. San Sanych arrived on time; his school chum was already there, waiting outside by the entrance to the Sub. The Sub was in bad shape, it must have been thirty years since any renovations had been done here, and, taking into account that it had been built about thirty years ago, it can be said that the place had never been renovated. Hoha unlocked the door and let San Sanych in before him. San Sanych entered a half-lit space furnished with tables and plastic chairs and he sadly thought to himself—well I guess I should’ve stayed with Boxers for Fairness. But it was too late to do anything—Hoha followed him in and closed the door behind him. “The art director will be here shortly,” he said and sat down at one of the tables. “We’ll wait for him.”

The art director’s name was Slavik. Slavik, as it turns out, was an old druggie, he looked to be about forty years old, but it could have been the drugs. He was a half hour late, saying that there was a lot of traffic, and then later saying that he had taken the subway—in other words, he was talking shit. He was wearing an old jean jacket and big, nerdy sunglasses, which he categorically refused to take off, even in the dark basement. “Where’d you find this guy?” Sanych asked quietly, while Slavik was walking around and checking out the space. “My mom recommended him,” Hoha replied, also quietly. “He was an art instructor at the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center, but was later thrown out for, I think, amoral conduct.” “Well, obviously not for his religious convictions,” said Sanych. “Well then,” Hoha replied, “all right.” “So,” he shouted to Slavik, “what do you think?” “I like it, in theory,” Slavik replied anxiously, coming up to them and sitting on a plastic stool. Just try not to like something you asshole, Sanych thought to himself, and even turned his phone off so that no one would bother them, and, because, no one ever called him anyway. “Well then,” Hoha was visibly excited about the situation, “what do you say, any ideas?” “Okay, here’s the deal,” Slavik dramatically exhaled and pulled out a cheap cigarette, “here’s the deal.” He remained silent for a bit. “Heorhii Davydovych,” he finally addressed Hoha, “I am going to be frank with you.” What a moron, thought Sanych. Hoha was joyfully relishing in the depths of the sandwich shop. “I’ll be frank,” repeated Slavik. “I’ve been in show business for twenty years, I’ve also worked with the Ukrainian Concert Organization, musicians know who I am, I have contacts with Grebenshchikov’s [1] people, I organized a U2 concert in Kharkiv. . . .” “U2 played Kharkiv?” San Sanych interrupted him. “No, they shot down that idea,” Slavik replied, “and here’s what I want to say to you, Heorhii Davydovych,” intentionally ignoring Sanych, “the fact that you bought this nightclub is a fabulous idea.” “You really think so?” Hoha asked, in doubt. “Yes, it really is a fabulous idea. I’m being frank with you, I know everything about show business, I organized the first rock jam in this city.” At this point he, apparently, recalled something, lost his train of thought, and became silent. “And?” Hoha asked, unable to contain himself. “Yes, yes,” Slavik shook his head, “yep.” Man, this guy must be totally wasted, Sanych thought emphatically. “What do you mean, yes?” Hoha didn’t understand. “Yep,” Slavik again shook his head, “yep. . . .” San Sanych, out of options, went for his phone; in principle, at his previous job, he would just whack someone like this, but this was a different situation, a different business, let them settle this on their own. “This, Heorhii Davydovych, is what I have to say to you,” Slavik suddenly began to say, and, to everyone’s surprise, came up with this gem—

“The nightclub business,” he began from afar, “is a real shitty affair, first of all because the market has already been established, you understand what I’m getting at?” Everyone looked like they had understood. “It’s all because of mid-level business, it, goddamnit, this mid-level business developed first. So, you bought a space,” he addressed, more than likely, Hoha, “you want to set up a quality nightclub, with a quality clientele, with a cultural program, blah, blah, blah.” “Come on, Slavik, cut the bullshit,” Hoha interrupted him. “Fine,” Slavik agreed, “but what is it that is most important? What’s the most important thing in show business?” Hoha gradually stopped chuckling. “What’s most important is—the format! Yep, yep,” Slavik merrily nodded, even clapping his hands once, “yes, that’s it. . . .” “Well what’s the deal with the format?” Hoha asked after a long pause. “The format is a real fucking problem,” Slavik replied. “In this business, all the spots have been taken, all the spots,” he chuckled. “The market has already been formed, you understand? You wanna do fast food—go for it, but there are already a hundred fast-food joints in the city, you want to have a fancy restaurant—go ahead, I’ll organize a cultural program, you want a dance club—let’s do a dance club, you want a pub—let’s do a pub. But you won’t make dick off of it, Heorhii Davydovych—you’ll have to excuse me for being so direct—you won’t make dick.” “And why is that?” an offended Hoha asked. “Because the market has already been established and they’ll crush you. You’ve got nobody backing you up, right? They’ll just burn you down together with your nightclub.” “And what’s your proposition,” said Hoha, visibly upset, “do you have any ideas?” “Yep,” Slavik smugly said, “yep, there is one fabulous idea, a truly fabulous idea.” “Well, what’s the idea?” asked Hoha, wary of where this was leading. “We need to fill a vacant niche, if I’m expressing myself clearly. And in this business there is only one niche—a gay nightclub needs to be opened.” “What kind of nightclub?” Hoha couldn’t believe his ears. “Gay,” Slavik replied, “in other words, a nightclub for gays. That niche needs to be filled.” “What, are you completely fucked in the head?” Hoha asked after another pause. “Are you serious?” “Well, why not?” Slavik asked defensively. “Wait, you seriously,” Hoha was getting fired up, “want me, Heorhii Lomaia, to open a gay bar in my space?” “That’s it, you’re fired,” he said and hopped off the table. “Hold on, wait, Heorhii Davydovych,” now Slavik was getting nervy, “nobody’s going to write ‘Nightclub for Fags’ in big bright letters on it, right?” “Well then what will you write?” Hoha asked him, putting on his overcoat. “We’ll write ‘Nightclub of Exotic Leisure,’” announced Slavik, “and we’ll just give it an appropriate name. For example—the Peacock.” “Moose-Cock” said Hoha, imitating his voice.  “Who’s going to come to your Peacock?” “But that’s just it, lots of people,” Slavik assured him. “It’s like I said, there is a niche to be filled, in a city of two million people and not one gay bar! We’re sitting on a pot of gold. You won’t even have to work to draw a crowd, they’ll come on their own, just open the door for them.” After these words, Hoha grimaced and once again sat on the table but didn’t take off his overcoat. Slavik saw this as a good sign, got another cigarette, and continued: “I myself was stunned when I came up with this idea. This is capital, lying right on the street, just pick it up and it’s yours. I still can’t believe that no one has thought to do this yet, another month or two and they’ll steal this idea, you can bet on that. Mark my word!” Slavik was becoming increasingly edgy, perhaps truly fearing that they’ll steal it. “In essence, we’ll have no competition! Tell him,” he finally turned his attention to San Sanych, looking for his support. “Okay,” Hoha said at last, “on the surface, it’s not a bad idea.” “Are you being serious?” Sanych asked him. “Well why not, it’s doable.” “Of course it’s doable!” Slavik cried fervently. “Hold on,” Sanych interrupted him and once again addressed Hoha. “Listen, you and I are friends and all that, but I’m against this. I worked almost two years for Boxers for Fairness, they’ll destroy me, are you kidding me? We agreed to set up a normal business, not some peacock.” “Would you forget about the peacock,” said Hoha, “nobody is planning on calling it the Peacock. We’ll come up with a good name. Or we’ll leave the old one.” “What old one?” Sanych didn’t understand. “The Sub! Of course,” said Hoha, now once again becoming jovial. “It sounds great: ‘The Sub: A Nightclub of Exotic Leisure.’ What do you say Slavunia?” Slavunia nodded and then nodded again. It was difficult to expect any more from him. “Don’t sweat it,” Hoha said to his compadre, “the gays will be dealt with by that guy over there,” he pointed at Slavik, “our job is to finish the renovations by summer, and then we’ll see.” And you know what, he was thinking out loud, why not a gay bar? At least there won’t be any whores there.

And everybody went to work. Hoha unloaded the gypsum boards, Sanych introduced him to some necessary people, and they began renovating. Slavik, on his part, came up with the idea to register the gay bar as a youth nightclub, in order to avoid coughing up money as a commercial enterprise. As it turned out, everybody did indeed know Slavik, evidenced by their determined efforts to avoid him. In the morning, Slavik went to the Cultural Events Committee, visited their cafeteria, drank tea there, talked about the weather with the ladies working at the cafeteria, and then went to the office of cultural affairs. They wouldn’t let him in, he became offended, rushed off to the nightclub, argued with the workers renovating it, hollered that he has been in show business for over twenty years, and threatened them that he would invite Grebenshchikov to the opening. And, by the way, about the opening—spring had passed, the renovations were completed, the nightclub could now be opened. Hoha once again gathered everyone, this time in his own, freshly renovated office. “Well,” he asked, “anybody have any ideas for the opening?” “Okay, here’s the deal, Heorhii Davydovych,” Slavik began in a very official tone, “there are several ideas. Firstly, fireworks. . . .” “Give me the second idea,” Hoha interrupted him. “Okay,” said Slavik, not being distracted, “I propose we serve Japanese food.” “And where will you get it?” Sanych asked. “I have some acquaintances,” Slavik replied, not without dignity. “They’re Japanese?” “No, they’re Vietnamese. But they pretend they’re Japanese—they have two freight wagons at the Pivdennyi train station, in one of them they sew fur coats and in the other one they run a kitchen.” “What else you got?” Hoha again interrupted him. “A circus striptease show,” Slavik haughtily offered. “What kind?” Hoha asked. “Circus,” Slavik repeated. “I’ve got some contacts, four chicks in bikinis, they work twenty-four-hour shifts, every third day, they can’t work any more often—they moonlight at the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center.” “Alright,” Hoha cut him off, “not gonna happen, I said—no whores in my nightclub. It’ll be bad enough with the gays,” he added worryingly and once again addressed Slavik. “Is that all you got?” Slavik got a cigarette, lit it leisurely, blew out some smoke and began: “Well then, fine, fine,” he made a distinct pause, “okay, Heorhii Davydovych, I understand what you’re getting at, okay, I mean, I’ll talk to Grebenshchikov if you want me to, but I don’t think he’ll do it for free, even for me. . . .” “Enough,” Hoha waved his hand, “Sanych, be a pal, get me a few musicians, any musicians, okay? And you,” now addressing Slavik, “think about whom we will be inviting.” “What do mean whom?” Slavik asked, animatedly, “the fire department, the tax collectors, anybody from the cultural affairs office. We’ll make a list, in other words.” “Good,” Hoha agreed, “but you make sure that, besides all those fags that you mentioned, there will also be some cool gays there.”

The nightclub opened at the beginning of June. San Sanych got a vocal-instrumental ensemble that regularly played in the restaurant of Hotel Kharkiv; their program was well rehearsed, they don’t ask for a lot of money, and they don’t drink on the job. Slavik put together a list of invited guests, a hundred or so people, Hoha spent a lot of time studying the proposed list, crossed out the names of the ladies working at the Cultural Events Committee cafeteria and of four workers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center, the rest of the list was agreed upon; Slavik tried to argue the case for including the cafeteria ladies but gave up after a long debate. Hoha invited his business partners, middlemen, to which he had sold gypsum boards, some childhood friends, and the Lykhui brothers. San Sanych invited his mother; he wanted to invite an acquaintance of his, a former prostitute, but then thought of his mother and gave up that idea. The opening ended up being quite pompous. Slavik got drunk within half an hour, San Sanych asked the security guards to keep an eye on him, Hoha told everyone to relax—it was an opening, nonetheless. San Sanych’s mom did not stick around for long, complaining that the music was too loud; Sanych hailed her a cab and returned to the festivities. The middlemen took off their neckties and raised toasts to the owners, Slavik sang loudly and kissed the representatives from the tax administration; in essence, out of everyone there, he was the only one who was acting gay, at least the way that he understood it, and he did this entirely on purpose, in order to engage the guests. The guests, finally, became engaged, and in the end, the Lykhui brothers got into a fight with the middlemen in the men’s bathroom, basically a good old fisticuffs—in essence, that’s what they’re paid to do; from the bathroom one could hear an offended Hrysha Lykhui’s shouting, “you’re the one that’s a faggot!” His brother, Sava Lykhui supported him. The fight was quickly contained, Sanych separated everyone, and the drunk middle-men set off to continue their drinking at a strip club, because the Sub wasn’t offering a striptease show. The drunk representatives of the tax administration also set off for the strip bar, not taking Slavik with them, in order not to spoil their reputation. All the guests were almost gone, except for a girl who was sitting on a stool by the bar and two middle-aged men whispering in the corner, who kind of looked like the representatives of the tax administration, in other words, it was hard to find something that was memorable about their appearance. “Who’s that?” Sanych asked Slavik, who was beginning to sober up and was now recalling whom he had kissed. “Well, they,” he said, focusing his look at them. “I don’t want to offend anyone here but, I think, they are authentic gays.” “Do you know them?” Sanych asked, just in case. “Yes, I do,” Slavik nodded his head, “it’s Doctor and Busia.” “What kind of doctor?” Slavik replied, “I don’t know—a doctor, come on, I’ll introduce you. Greetings, Busia.” He was addressing the guy who looked younger and looked more like a representative of the tax administration. “Howdy, Doctor,” he shook the hand of the guy who looked more together, in other words, he looked less like a representative of the tax administration. “I would like to introduce you, this is Sanny.” “San Sanych,” a fearful San Sanych corrected him. “He’s our manager,” interrupted Slavik. “Nice to meet you,” Doctor and Busia said and invited them to sit down. Sanych and Slavik sat down. Everyone became silent. Sanych became nervous, Slavik reached for his cigarettes. “So, Slavik,” said Doctor, trying to relieve the situation, “so you’re here now?” “Yep,” said Slavik, lighting his cigarette and putting out the match in their salad, “my friends asked me for my help and I thought to myself, why not, I’ve got some time to spare. Of course, things aren’t running all that smoothly just yet,” Slavik continued, taking Doctor’s fork and pricking the salad with it, “let’s look at tonight’s opening, for example: in essence, we could have taken the high road and had a cultural program, I had already cut a deal with Grebenshchikov. . . . But, it’s okay,” he placed his hand on Sanych’s shoulder, “it’s okay, I’ll advise them, a little bit here, a little bit there, everything will be fine, yeah. . . .” Sanych carefully moved Slavik’s hand off of his shoulder, stood up, nodded towards Doctor and Busia, implying—have a nice time, we’ll talk again later—and went up to the bar. “What’s your name?” he asked the girl, who had just ordered another vodka. She had a piercing on her face and whenever she drank, the metal balls would clink against the glass. “I’m Vika,” she said, “what’s your name?” “San Sanych,” San Sanych replied. “Gay?” she asked, seriously. “Owner,” Sanych defended himself. “I see” said Vika, “can you give me a lift home? I got pretty trashed here.” Sanych once again hailed a taxi, and bidding farewell to Hoha, escorted the girl outside. The taxi driver turned out to be some kind of hunch-back, Sanych had seen him here before, and now it turns out that they’re riding together; the hunchback joyfully looked at them and asked them—“Did you order a pickup at the fag bar?” “Yeah, yeah,” San Sanych replied uneasily. “Where to?” he asked Vika.  Vika started getting head-spins in the taxi. “You aren’t going to puke are you?” the hunchback asked. “Everything’s fine,” Sanych said, “we’re not going to puke.” “As you wish,” the hunchback said, somewhat disappointingly. “So, where are we going?” Sanych put his arm around Vika, pulled her towards him, reached into the inside pocket of her biker’s jacket and pulled out her passport. He looked at the address listed in it. “Let’s try this,” he said to the hunchback, and they set off. It turns out that Vika lived very close by; it would have probably been easier to carry her home, but who knew? Sanych pulled her out of the car, asked the hunchback to wait for him and carried her into the entrance of her building. He stood her up on her feet by the door. “You gonna be okay?” He asked. “I’m fine,” she said, “fine, give me back my passport.” Sanych remembered that he still had the passport, pulled it out, and looked at the photo. “You look better without all the piercings,” he said. Vika grabbed the passport and put it in her pocket. “If you want,” Sanych said, “I can stay with you tonight.” “Dude,” she replied, smiling smugly, “I’m a lesbian, don’t you get it? And you’re not gay, you’re just the owner. You dig?” Vika kissed him and disappeared behind the door. Sanych tasted coldness and felt a piercing on his lips. It felt like his lips had touched a silver spoon.

The tribulations of everyday business started to kick in. The tribulations lay in the fact that the nightclub was wholly unprofitable. The target audience doggedly ignored the Sub. Hoha was infuriated, Slavik tried to stay out of his line of sight, and, when he wasn’t successful in doing this, he would loudly holler about the niche, about the Ukrainian Concert Organization, and about the Vietnamese diaspora, he even proposed to turn the Sub into a sushi bar that would focus exclusively on the Vietnamese diaspora, after which he received a smack in the face from Hoha, and, consequently, stopped showing up at the office for some time. Hoha would sit in his office nervously trying to solve crossword puzzles published in Accountants’ Review magazine. San Sanych tracked down Vika and invited her to a dinner date. She told him that she was going through her period and asked to be left alone, but then added that someday she’d stop by the Sub. The summer was hot. Juice trickled down from the air conditioners.

Slavik showed up. Diligently trying to hide his black eye, which was still visible behind his sunglasses, he entered Hoha’s office. Hoha asked Sanych to come in. Slavik was seated, sadly shaking his head and not saying anything. “How long are you going to keep sitting there without saying anything?” Hoha asked, smiling joyfully. “Heorhii Davydovych,” Slavik began, carefully selecting his words, “I understand, okay—we were all very upset, I was wrong, you flipped out.” “Me?” Hoha asked, continuing to smile. “You know, we are all professionals,” said Slavik and then adjusted his glasses. “I understand—business is business, and we have to save it. I’m used to everything being up front, yeah. . . . And if you have a beef with me—I’d like to hear it, I won’t be offended.” “But,” Slavik continued, “I understand completely, maybe we don’t fully agree on some matters, perhaps our ways of seeing things are not always the same, okay, that’s just the way it turned out, I understand—you’re new to this business, that’s why, no, everything is okay, I’m part of the team, everything is fine.” “Slavik,” Hoha said to him, “it’s absolutely fantastic that you are part of the team, but the problem is that our team is being kicked out of the big leagues.” “Yes,” said Slavik, “yes. I understand—you have every right to say this, I would have said the same thing if I was in your shoes, I understand, everything is okay. . . .” “Slavik,” the boss addressed him again,” “I’m begging you, give me something to work with, I’m in the red, that’s not how businesses are run, you understand?” Slavik continued to shake his head, talked about how great this team to which he had returned was, mentioning his belief that, if they had been in his shoes, they would have done the same; he bummed some cab money from Hoha and said that he’d return tomorrow with some good news. He called the following morning using somebody else’s cell phone and enthusiastically shouted that, at this very moment, as it turned out, he was at the Cultural Events Committee office, and that at this time, decisions were being made on a regional level, regarding the idea of awarding them the right to host this year’s Embroidered Rushnyky! [2] “What?” Hoha asked him. “Rushnyky,” Slavik patiently repeated, you could hear the phone’s legal owner grabbing at the phone and trying to get it back, but Slavik just wouldn’t give it up. “Embroidered Rushnyky! Hey, would you just back off for a second!” he yelled on that side of the conversation and, once again commanding the phone, continued: “It’s a talent competition for children and youth, backed directly by the governor; it gets funded by the budget, if we pull this off—they’ll give us the status of an artistic center, and then the tax police won’t fuck with us.” “But are you sure that this a good fit for us?” Hoha asked him, just in case. “Well of course it is,” Slavik yelled, “this is exactly what we need—painting on asphalt, a children’s fashion show, older schoolgirls in bathing suits, fuck, we’ll come up with a program, we’ll run the dough through the accounting office, we’ll give the firemen a cut so that they’ll include us in the budget next year, and that’s it—we’ll be talent-showing for the whole year on the public’s money, ze show mast go on, Heorhii Davydovych, I’ve been in this business for twenty years, goddamn it!” This was, probably, shouted into empty space, because they had indeed managed to take the phone away from him. Hoha sighed heavily and returned to his crossword puzzle.

In the afternoon, four guys in sweat suits came in, but they didn’t look like athletes, unless they all played for a goon squad. The security guard asked them what they wanted but they knocked him down and went to look for the director. Hoha was sitting with Sanych and finishing up a crossword puzzle. Sanych saw the four of them and quietly turned off his cell phone. “Who are you?” Hoha asked, already knowing the answer. “We’re the Copy Kings,” the first one, the one in the blue sweat suit, replied. “Who?” Sanych asked. “What are you deaf?” The second one said, also wearing a blue sweat suit. “‘The Copy Kings”. That building across the street from this joint, it’s ours. The parking lot around the corner—ours.” “And an office at the Pivdenyi train station as well,” the first one, wearing blue, again entered the conversation. “In essence, we are the leaders in this market, you got it?” Now this was said by the second guy wearing blue. The third, wearing green, turned awkwardly, and a sawed-off shotgun fell out from under his sweat jacket, the green guy quickly bent down, picked it up, and put it back, apprehensively looking around. “We have a network of wholesale dealers,” the first one said, “we receive direct deliveries from Sweden.” “What,” said Hoha, trying to prolong the conversation, “you want to sell us a copy machine?” The foursome disconsolately became silent, sternly moving their glances from Hoha onto Sanych. “What we want,” the first one finally began to say, wiping his sweaty palms on the blue fabric of his sweat pants, “is for everything to be sorted out the right way. You guys are new here, you were not here before. This territory is ours. You gotta pay up.” “We do pay up,” Hoha tried to joke, “to the tax police.” The third one once again turned around awkwardly and his shotgun once again clanged onto the floor. The fourth one flicked him in the face, bent down, picked up the weapon, and put it in the pocket of his crimson sweat pants. “Yo, brother, you didn’t get it,” the second one again started speaking, putting all his disgust into the word brother. “We’re the Copy Kings, we control the whole region.” “What do you mean?” San Sanych asked. “Hey, don’t interrupt, alright?” the first one said sharply and turned to the second one, “go ahead Lionia, continue.” “Yeah,” said Lionia in reply, “we’ve got connections in the administration. This is our territory. So, you gotta pay up.” “Well we’re not complete strangers here either,” Hoha tried to say something, “I could say that we are known around these parts.” “Yeah, well who knows you, brother?” the second one exclaimed, making a fist, but the fourth one took him by the elbow, as if to say—easy there, Lionia, easy, they don’t know what they’re doing. “So, who knows you?” “What do you mean, who?” Hoha tried to buy some time. “I deal with gypsum boards, I know people in the Balashovka district plus I’ve got connections in the tax administration. The Lykhui brothers, for example. . . .” “Who?” the second one asked, and Hoha immediately realized that it was better for him not have mentioned the Lykhui brothers.  “The Lykhuis?! Those morons?!! Yeah, they got a set of printers from us, from Copy King, and resold them to some dorks from the Tractor district! They claimed that they were copy machines for the next generation! And the latter guys, for their part, resold them to the militia academy, together with our warranty! We barely got out of that one!!! The Lykhuis!!! The Lykhuis!!!” The second one was tugging at his blue sweat jacket and was hollering, for the whole nightclub to hear, that accursed last name. “Well that’s not it,” added Sanych, just to add something, “we’re also on the Cultural Events Committee. . . .” “What?!” The second one didn’t let him finish. “On what Cultural Events Committee?!! You want to tell me that you’re also under the protection of the Cultural Events Committee?!!! Are you standing by your words?!!!!” The fourth one resolutely reached into his pocket for his weapon. Shit, thought Hoha, it would have been better if those Krasnoyar special forces had killed me, it wouldn’t have been as revolting. All four of them began approaching threateningly, blocking off half of the room with their bodies. And it looked like neither Hoha Lomaia, nor, even less so, San Sanych, could expect anything other than serious bodily injuries from this situation.

And, at this point, the door to the office opens and Slavik walks in, merrily smiling and waving a stack of xeroxes like a fan. The foursome, with raised fists, stopped in their tracks. Hoha slowly sat down onto a stool, Sanych shrunk himself and touched the phone in his pocket. Everyone turned to Slavik. “Hi, hello,” Slavik called out, failing to notice the surrounding tension, “hello to all!” He walked up to Hoha and shook his lifeless hand. “Partners?” said Slavik, playfully referring to the foursome and, smiling, shook the hand of the one on the end, the one in the blue sweat suit. “Voila!” he shouted emphatically, tossing the stack of xeroxes in front of Hoha. “What’s this?” Hoha asked, barely able to speak. “We got it!” Slavik emphatically called out. “Embroidered Rushnyky!” “Embroidered Rushnyky?” Hoha asked distrustfully. “Embroidered Rushnyky?” Sanych asked, walking up to check out the copies. “Embroidered Rushnyky, Embroidered Rushnyky,” the foursome whispered in fear, backing out of the office. “Embroidered Rushnyky!” triumphantly repeated Slavik and, leaning down to Hoha, confidently said, “So here’s the deal, Heorhii Davydovych, I sorted everything out with the fire department, we’ll run the money through their account, I figured it out, we take the cash and write it off as an overhead expense,” he anxiously giggled, sharply cut off his laughter, and, turning to the foursome, commandingly asked them: “can I help you with something, gentlemen?” Hoha also inquisitively looked at the foursome, but lacked the guts to ask them that very question. “Brother,” the second one finally said, zipping up his blue jacket, “you’re gonna tell me that you’re really under the protection of the governor?” “Yep,” Slavik impatiently answered him and whispered to Hoha, “we’ll list the deficit as an expense for the children’s choir, I settled it with the administrators, they’ll register it in the quarterly report as a one-time payment to the orphans.” The foursome nervously lingered by the door, not knowing what to do. The fourth guy tried to give the shotgun back to the third guy but the latter guy glumly spurned him. “What, leaving so soon?” Slavik turned to the foursome. “By the way, Heorhii Davydovych, are we inviting these gentlemen to Embroidered Rushnyky?” “Embroidered Rushnyky, Embroidered Rushnyky,” the foursome groaned and slid out of the office. When the door behind them closed, Hoha sighed heavily. “Give me a smoke,” he addressed Slavik. Slavik pulled out his cheap smokes and stretched one out to Hoha. Hoha grabbed the cigarette with trembling lips, Slavik instantly gave him a light. The boss took a drag and immediately coughed. “What just happened?” Slavik didn’t understand. “Slavik,” Hoha addressed him, “you’re a guy who has seen his share of things, right? You’ve been in show business for twenty years. You know, what’s his name. . . .” “Grebenshchikov,” Slavik helped him. “You organized U2’s Kharkiv concert, you’ve worked with the Pioneer youth. Now tell me—does God exist?” “Yes, he does,” said Slavik. “Of course he does. But it doesn’t really matter.”

Vika stopped by the Sub. “Howdy gayboys!” she said to the compadres who were sitting by themselves at a table. Hoha grunted. “Okay,” he said to his partner, “I’m heading home.” “Alright, I’ll close up,” Sanych promised. “Ah, sure you will,” Hoha laughed and, timidly letting Vika pass him, went outside. “Haven’t seen you in a while?” Sanych asked. “What do you care.” Vika answered. “What happened to that piercing you had?” Sanych inquired. “I sold it,” Vika answered. They then set off to drink some vodka, Vika cried and complained about her life, saying that she broke up with her girlfriend, who had left the country for good. “So why are you still here?” Sanych asked. “Well, what about you?” Vika countered. “Well, I’ve got a business,” he said, “plus, I don’t know any foreign languages.” “Neither does she,” Vika said, “she’s an actress, her body is her language, you under­stand?” “Not really,” Sanych honestly replied. “Listen,” Vika asked him, “you’re almost thirty. Why haven’t you gotten married yet?” “I don’t know,” Sanych said, “I’ve been busy with business. I’ve got three wounds. Plus, a broken hand.” “Just find yourself a gay guy,” Vika suggested. “You think it will help?” Sanych doubted. “Probably not,” Vika said. “Hey, let’s go to your place,” he proposed. “What, you wanna fuck?” “Well, maybe not fuck,” Sanych said, “we can just. . . .” “We can just—not,” Vika authoritatively declared.” And then added, “Yeah, it’s too bad you’re not gay.”

Then they just lay on the floor of her room for a while. The air was dark and warm. Vika counted his gunshot wounds. “One,” she counted, “two, three. That’s it?” She asked somewhat disappointingly. “That’s it,” Sanych said apologetically. “It’s kind of like having a piercing,” she said, “except that they don’t heal.” “Everything heals,” he answered. “Yeah, yeah,” Vika didn’t agree, “my girlfriend would also say that. And then she takes off for Turkey.” “That also counts as an experi­ence,” Sanych said philosophically. “Uh-huh,” Vika replied with anger, “you know, experiences like that are like those things on your body— you can always track how many times somebody has tried to kill you.”

Things weren’t going well for the nightclub. And even the suc­cessful presentation of Embroidered Rushnyky—during which Slavik almost got beaten up by the older pioneer youth, because he had entered the dressing room where the older girls were changing without knock­ing—didn’t save the situation. Hoha would spend his evenings in the office, computing their debt on a calculator. Sanych fell into a depres­sion, Vika wasn’t calling him, she wouldn’t pick up the phone, he was running out of money. Sanych smoked by the nightclub entrance and looked on jealously as the Copy Kings began constructing a penthouse on top of their building. Business was obviously not happening, it was time to return to Boxers for Fairness.

One morning, Slavik showed up and said that he had some good news. “We’re going to present a show,” he said. “You didn’t want a strip show,” he addressed Hoha, “so be it. Let it be. I respect your choice, Heorhii Davydovych, I do. But I’ve got something that will amaze you.” Hoha became tense. “I,” Slavik said lazily, “have made arrangements with Raisa Solomonovna. At first, she categorically refused because, as you know, she has a very busy schedule, but I got through to her using my connections. She’ll be here soon, it would be nice if everything was very civilized here, well, you know what I mean,” and Slavik threw a concerned glance at Sanych. “And with whom is it again that you have made arrangements?” Hoha asked him. Sanych laughed. “With Raisa Solomonovna,” Slavik repeated somewhat vociferously. “And who is she?” Hoha asked carefully. “Who is she?” Slavik smiled arrogantly. “Who is Raisa Solomonovna? Heorhii Davydovych, are you kidding me?” “Alright, alright, take it easy, answer the question,” Hoha inter­rupted him. “Well,” Slavik said, “I don’t even know what to say. How could you have gotten into the nightclub business without having heard of Raisa Solomonovna? Hmmm . . . Alright. You gotta be kidding me . . . Raisa Solomonovna—she’s with the gypsy municipal ensemble, an award-winning Belarusian actress. You must have heard of her,” Slavik confidently yelled out and then reached for his cigarettes. “So she’s coming here to pick up something she left behind?” Hoha asked with dissatisfaction. “Well that’s what I’m trying to explain to you,” said Slavik, taking a drag, “we’re going to present a show. On Tuesdays. She can’t do it any other day, she’s got a very busy schedule. I’ve made all the arrangements. Everybody has heard of her, we’ll fill a niche.” “Are you sure?” Hoha asked without enthusiasm. “Of course,” said Slavik, sprin­kling ash onto a crossword puzzle that had just been solved. “So what does she do, this actress of yours?” Hoha asked, just in case. “She has her own repertoire,” Slavik informed seriously. “An hour and a half long. To pre-recorded music. Gypsy romance songs, and movie hits, about gang­ster life.” “And in what language does she sing?” Sanych inquired. “In Belarusian?” “Why Belarusian?” Slavik was offended. “Well, I really don’t know. In the gypsy language, I guess, it is a gypsy ensemble.” “Is she going to perform alone,” Hoha asked, “or with bears?”

Raisa Solomonovna arrived around one p.m., out of breath because of the heat. She looked to be forty-five years old, but she wore a lot of makeup, so it was tough to tell. She was a skinny, dirty-blonde in leather go-go boots and wearing some kind of see-through slip, explaining that she has come straight from a concert she had performed at an orphan­age, adding that she brought along a poster, to illustrate. Printed on the poster, in large red letters, was: “The Kharkiv Philharmonic Invites You. The Award-Wining Belarusian Actress Raisa Solomonovna in ‘Twilight Shout-outs.’” At the bottom were the blank lines reserved for ‘Time’ and ‘Price of Admission.’ “Alright then,” Raisa Solomonovna said excitingly, “show me the nightclub!” Everyone went into the main hall. “So what do we have here,” the actress asked, “a fast-food joint or a pub?” “What we have here is a gay bar,” Hoha replied, uncertainly. “Fuck yeah,” Raisa Solomonovna said and climbed onto the stage. Slavik, being a show-business pro, turned on the pre-recorded music.

Raisa Solomonovna began with songs about the gangster life. She sang loudly, addressing the imaginary audience and waving her arms emphatically. Surprisingly, Hoha liked it; he smiled and started singing along, obviously having been familiar with these tunes. Slavik stood edgily behind the mixing board and monitored his boss through the corners of his eyes. Sanych watches all of this perplexedly. After the fifth song, Hoha clapped his hands, said that it was time to take a break, walked up to the stage and, offering the singer his hand, led her to his office. Sanych hesitantly followed them. “Good stuff,” Hoha said to Raisa Solomonovna, “real good stuff. Raisa, what’s your. . . .” “Solomonovna,” she helped him. “Yes,” Hoha complied. “Let’s have a drink.” “What, we won’t be singing anymore?” the singer asked. “Not today,” said Hoha. “Let’s agree that today we will drink to our having met.” “Okay then,” Raisa Solomonovna agreed, “but, if I may, I’d like to change my clothes, it’s so hot in here.” “Whatever you want,” Hoha said merrily and, dialing up the bar, order two bottles of cold vodka. Raisa Solomonovna took off her go-go boots and pulled a pair of slippers from her bag that looked like puffy cats. Hoha looked at the cats and opened the first bottle. Sanych understood where things were heading and sadly turned off his phone. Slavik was not invited to come to the office. He came anyway.

First, they drank to celebrate their acquaintance. Then they started singing. Hoha suggested that she get back up on stage, Raisa Solomonovna agreed, and slid back up onto the show business stage, as she was dressed, in house slippers. Hoha followed her onto the stage, wearing her leather go-go boots. Wearing go-go boots and in his silk, fake-Armani shirt he looked like a nineteenth-century Russian intel­lectual. Slavik turned on the pre-recorded music. Raisa Solomonovna returned to the mafia-themed material, Hoha sang along. The go-go boots glistened in the stage lights.

Upon entering the bathroom, Sanych found Slavik in there. The latter wasn’t feeling very well, he was splashing water onto his face from the faucet and breathing heavily in the hot air. “You feel like shit? Sanych asked him. “I’m fine,” Slavik groaned, “fine.” “Slavik,” San Sanych said, “I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while, maybe this isn’t the best place for such a conversation, but, you know, I’m not sure if we’ll get another chance—what, in general, is your opinion on gays?” Slavik stuck his head under the cold stream, breathed out and sat up against the wall. He remained silent for a bit. “I, San Sanych, will tell you this,” Slavik began speaking, trustingly, spitting out the water. “I am not thrilled with gays. But,” he lifted his pointer finger, “there are reasons for that.” “What reasons?” Sanych asked; he didn’t feel like returning to the main hall, that’s why he decided to linger here. “The reasons are of a personal nature,” Slavik informed. “I’ve got aller­gies. People like me are constantly popping pills. I, for example,” Slavik said and pulled out a cigarette, “am a pill popper. For ten years now. My doctor used to write me prescriptions. They, however, stopped having any effect, you understand? But my sister works for a pharmaceutical company, they opened a factory just outside of Kyiv. The Germans gave them a half a million worth of equipment and they constructed an entire lab as part of a rehabilitation program. They promptly divvied it all up and threw an extravagant grand opening for the factory. Joschka Fischer [3], the president of Germany, came for the opening,” Slavik nervously exhaled some smoke. “The ex-president,” he added. “So, they began working, they created a sample batch and then the attorney general’s office says: fuck this—it does not meet the necessary stan­dards, it has too much morphine in it.” “Too much of what?” Sanych didn’t understand. “Morphine,” Slavik repeated. “The whole problem was that the equipment was theirs, while the raw materials were ours. And because their machinery is geared for non-waste production, in other words, it produces no waste, they ended up producing massive quantities of half-strength drugs. The whole program, obviously, was shut down. The factory went bankrupt. The unions raised a ruckus, our environmentalists backed them. They wrote a letter to Joschka Fischer. But he did not write back. So, to make a long story short, they laid off everyone, my sister included. And, in order to ease the ten­sions with the unions, the workers were paid with the product which they had produced. These days, they stand by the side of one of the main roads leading out of Kyiv and sell these tablets to tourists, along with squeezable toys. And my sister brought me a couple of boxes. So, I have allergies, just so you know. . . .” “What does this have to do with gays?” Sanych asked after a long pause. “Well, hell if I know,” Slavik disclosed. “Here, take this,” he said and offered Sanych two tablets. “It’s good stuff. It’ll knock your socks off.” Sanych took the pills and swallowed them, one at a time. It can’t get any worse, he thought to himself. It didn’t get any worse.

Raisa Solomonovna got completely drunk. She ripped the micro­phone out of Hoha’s hands and began singing movie soundtrack hits. She put her red wig on distressed Slavik’s head. Hoha tried to take the microphone away from her but she grabbed him by the hair and began screaming. Slavik tried to pull her away from his boss but was unsuccess­ful—Raisa Solomonovna was holding on tightly to Hoha with one hand, while trying to poke his eyes out with the other. At first, Hoha tried to push her away but then, later, also got riled up and started blindly waving his fists. With his first punch he knocked Slavik to the ground. Slavik grabbed his bruised jaw and once again tried to pull Raisa Solomonovna away. Raisa, having met resistance, became incensed and attacked Hoha with renewed strength. After a few attempts she connected with his left cheek, leaving bloody scratches and breaking off her press-on nails. Hoha bellowed, stepped back, and kicked Raisa Solomonovna right in the stomach with the toe of his shoe. Raisa flew back and, together with Slavik, who had been holding on to her, stumbled into the main hall. Hoha, cursing, wiped away the blood. “Sanych,” he yelled to him, “do me a favor, lug that witch outta here. And turn her music off,” he yelled. Sanych walked up to the singer, grabbed her, and pulled her to the exit. Running in the tracks of all the crying was Slavik, still wearing the wig. Hoha looked at all of this from the stage and cursed. “A witch,” he yelled, standing in the middle of the stage, “the devil’s witch!” Sanych hailed a cab, slid Slavik some cash, and returned to the nightclub. Hoha was sitting at the edge of the stage, wiping away blood with his silk sleeve and drinking vodka straight out of the bottle. “A witch!” he cried, and buried his nose in Sanych’s chest. “What did she do that for? Damn witch!” “It’s okay, buddy,” Sanych replied to him. “Let me take you home.” They went outside. The hunchback was standing by his car, looked at Hoha in go-go boots, shifted a ponderous glance at Sanych and silently got behind the wheel. Nobody spoke on the way home, except for Hoha’s occasional sniffling. “You know, I have a gay neighbor,” the hunchback tried to get a conversation going. “Big deal,” Sanych said sullenly. “My apartment building is full of homos.”

In the morning, Hoha woke up at home, in bed, fully clothed and wearing go-go boots. Ponderously looking at the go-go boots, he tried to remember everything that had happened. He couldn’t. Shit, Hoha thought, what the hell am I doing? Soon I’ll be thirty, I’m a good, established businessman, chicks throw themselves at me. Well okay, chicks may not throw themselves at me, but nonetheless—what is it that I need this nightclub for, that I need these gays for, that’s worth ruining my life over. He grabbed his phone, dialed up his middleman buddy, and hastily bought a batch of gypsum boards.

Sanych arrived at the Sub sometime in the afternoon. A frightened security guard stood at the entrance. “San Sanych,” he said, “Heorhii Davydovych is in, uh. . . .” “We’ll sort it all out,” Sanych succinctly replied and entered the nightclub. The main hall was littered with a bunch of boxes. They were all over the place. The tables were folded up in the corner. The bar was closed. Sanych went to see Hoha. Hoha was sitting, with his legs propped up on top of the table, and cheerfully conversing with someone on the phone. The go-go boots were on the table in front of him. “What’s all that?” Sanych asked him, pointing at the main hall. “What?” Hoha asked him, calmly. “Oh, the stuff in the main hall, they’re gypsum boards. I got a good deal.” “Well, what about the Sub?” Sanych asked him. “Not happening,” Hoha replied. “It’s useless, this Sub. I’m in the red, Sanych, fuck the Sub. Soon I’ll unload these gypsum boards and I’m off to Cyprus.” “Well what about the exotic leisure?” Sanych asked him. “Yeah, what about the exotic leisure?” Hoha nervously smiled. “We just don’t have the men­tality for this, you understand?” “Well then what kind of mentality do we have?” “Hell if I know what kind,” Hoha answered him. “Our mentality is that we gotta have vodka and a babe for exotic leisure, right? And, with these gays, you can forget about vodka. Let alone the babes,” he added sadly.

A piercing scream could be heard coming from the main hall. The doors flew open and Slavik raced into the office. “What?” he yelled. “What’s all that?” He was dejectedly pointing towards the main hall. “Heorhii Davydovych, Sanych—what is all that?” “They’re gypsum boards,” Sanych told him. “Gypsum boards?” “Gypsum boards,” Sanych confirmed. “What do you need gypsum boards for?” Slavik didn’t understand. “Gypsum boards, Slavik,” Hoha explained to him, “are for building architectural structures.” “Heorhii Davydovych is shutting down the business,” Sanych explained to Slavik, “from now on he’s going to be dealing gypsum boards in Cyprus.” “In Cyprus?” an affronted Hoha disagreed, but Slavik was no longer listening to him. “What?” he asked. “He’s shutting down the business? Just like that? What about me? What about our plans?” “What plans?” Hoha nervously interrupted. “Oh okay, I get it,” Slavik breathed in, “I saw this coming from the start. For you guys it’s like—today we open it, tomorrow, we close it, that’s just what it’s like for you guys. I under­stand you, if I was in your shoes I would act just like you did. Sure. When you need something, when you need to put on Embroidered Rushnyky, then it’s—Slavik, take care of it. Or when you need some­one to invite Raisa Solomonovna, then it’s Slavik, no problem.” “Your Raisa Solomonovna is a witch!” Hoha responded, yelling. “The devil’s witch!” “Oh yeah?” Slavik, for his part, yelled, “Raisa Solomonovna is an actress! She has her own show! And you kicked her in the stomach.” “What do you mean I kicked her in the stomach?” Hoha was confused. “Yes! You kicked her! In the stomach! And she has her own show!” Slavik couldn’t contain himself, dropped onto the chair, and, grabbing his head in his hands, bellowed. A rotting silence took hold. “Sanych,” Hoha finally began speaking, “Sanych, what? Is it true? Did I really kick her in the stomach?” “Well, you were just defending yourself,” said Sanych, looking away. “I can’t believe it,” Hoha whispered and also grabbed his head with his hands. San Sanych went outside. Across the street stood two Copy Kings in green sweat suits who blended nicely with the July greenery.

Maybe Hoha was just reacting to this whole story about the stom­ach, about Raisa Solomonovna, that is. Something clicked inside of him after all of this, maybe it was because he felt shameful in front of this group, but, the next morning, he unloaded the gypsum boards to the director of the amusement park and asked Sanych and Slavik to come over for a talk. Sanych was beset with depression but he collected himself and came over. The last to show up was Slavik, who was quite together and had a stern look about him. Hoha tried to avoid making eye contact with him. The go-go boots were still on the table, it seems that Hoha just didn’t know what to do with them. Everyone sat down. No one said anything. “May I?” Sternly, and in somewhat of school­boy manner, Slavik raised his hand. “Please, go ahead,” Hoha allowed, trying to move things along. “Let me go first, Heorhii Davydovych,” Slavik began. “I created this mess and it’s up to me to save this proj­ect.” San Sanych looked at him with despair. “I understand,” said Slavik. “We all made a lot of mistakes. You guys are new to this busi­ness, maybe I didn’t say on top of it as I should have. So then. No need to point the finger of blame,” said Slavik and then looked directly at Sanych. “But not all is lost. I always have an ace up my sleeve.” “Well now,” he said, “they should be here any minute.” “Who?” Hoha asked in horror. “The Bychkos!”

And Slavik told them about the Bychkos. He found them through the strippers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center. The Bychko duet—father and son—were circus clowns but, a few months ago, because of the financial difficulties that the city circus was having, they were laid off and began focusing on their solo career, according to Slavik. According to him, they had an awesome show program, an hour and a half long, with music, acrobatic numbers, and card tricks. Slavik laid everything on the shoulders of the Bychkos, they wouldn’t disappoint them.

And so the clowns arrived. “Bychko, Ivan Petrovych,” the older Bychko introduced himself and shook Hoha’s and Sanych’s hands. “Bychko, Petia,” the younger one, lacking the guts to shake their hands, greeted them. Hoha invited everyone to sit down. “Well, then,” Bychko Sr. began talking, pulling off his glasses and wiping them with a hand­kerchief. “I was told about your dilemma. I think that Petia and I can help you out.” “What’s your show like?” Hoha inquired. “Our show is all about dysentery,” Ivan Petrovych said. “Dynasty,” Petia cor­rected him. “Yes,” Ivan Petrovych agreed. “We have a circus dynasty, from the year one thousand nine hundred seventy-four. It was then that my older sister applied to circus school.” “Was she accepted?” Hoha asked. “No,” Ivan Petrovych replied, “—so then, for us, the circus—it’s a family thing. I, just so you know young man, back in the year one thousand nine hundred seventy-three, received second prize at the all-republican competition of young stage performers in Kremenchuk. With my number ‘Africa—A Continent of Liberty’ I caused quite a furor during the inter-regional shindig in Artek, in one thousand nine hundred seventy-eight. No,” Ivan Petrovych abruptly contradicted himself, “it was in seventy-nine. Yep—it was in one thou­sand nine hundred seventy-nine, in Artek!” “So you’re,” Hoha tried to join the conversation, “so you’re proposing to present the ‘Africa—A Continent of Liberty’ show for us too.” “No,” Ivan Petrovych calmly countered, “no, young man. We always try to stay in touch with the new trends. Petia and I have a show, we perform for an hour and a half, any overtime will cost you extra, debit or credit, everything is legiti­mate, everything is legal. You may wire the payment, but then you must pay an extra ten percent service fee.” “Well, okay,” said Hoha, “that’s clear. But do you know about the specifics of our establishment?” “Well what specifics?” Ivan Petrovych asked, throwing a displeased look at Slavik. “We operate a gay nightclub,” Hoha told him. “That is, a night­club for gays, you understand?” “So let’s see, what do we charge for gays,” Ivan Petrovych pulled a tattered notebook out of his sport coat. “Eighty dollars an hour. Extra for overtime. Plus ten percent service charge,” he added, as a decree. “But have you ever performed for such an audience before?” Hoha continued to doubt. “Ahem, ahem,” Ivan Petrovych coughed heavily. “Recently we did an office party for a con­sulting firm. Well, that audience, I must say, was quite special. And, just imagine if you will, the executive director walks up to Petia and I and says. . . .” “Alright, alright,” Hoha interrupted him, “I know that con­sulting firm.” “So then,” Slavik voiced. “Are we booking the Bychkos?” “We’ll book them, we’ll book them,” Hoha replied, “but how do you see all of this coming together?” “Okay, here’s how it’ll be,” Slavik grabbed the initiative. “Heorhii Davydovych, I thought of everything. How’s your calendar look?” “Well, what do you got?” Hoha asked him. “Kupalo! [4] We’ll do a gay Kupalo celebration!” Slavik said, and cheerfully laughed. The Bychkos also laughed—Ivan Petrovych’s laugh was rough and congested while Petia’s was ringing and clueless. Hoha also laughed, his laugh was particularly nervous and uncertain. Later, as they were leaving, Ivan Petrovych turned away from the door. “Are those yours?” he asked Hoha, pointing to the go-go boots. “Yep,” Hoha said. “My friends sent them to me. From Cyprus. But they’re the wrong size.” Bychko Sr. walked up to them and felt one of the go-go boots. “Quality material,” he said, well versed in such things.

They prepared for the gay Kupalo celebration particularly ear­nestly. Hoha no longer trusted Slavik and personally took care of the task of attracting an audience. Once again, among those invited were business partners, middlemen, childhood friends, and the Lykhui brothers, of which, however, only Hrysha showed up because Sava had gotten beaten up during a fight in the Tractor district and he was lying at Regional Hospital #4 with broken ribs. Slavik was given per­mission to invite the workers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center, all four of them. Besides them, a whole bunch of unknown people packed the place, who were enticed by God knows what, but definitely not by a gay Kupalo celebration. Providing the main event for the eve­ning, were, of course, Ivan Petrovych, and Petia, Bychko. As they had mentioned, they had put together a program especially for the celebra­tion entitled ‘The Fires of Cairo,’ which, according to Slavik’s— who had been at the dress rehearsal—indisputable affirmation, would blow everybody away. The Bychkos appeared on stage wearing pharaoh cos­tumes, which they had rented from the amusement park. The music sounded. The stage lights went ablaze. Petia Bychko bent down back­wards, forming a bridge with his body. Ivan Petrovych flexed, grunted, and also made a bridge. The audience applauded. Hrysha Lykhui, who was already drunk upon arrival, even jumped to his feet but lost his balance and knocked over a waiter. The security guards attempted to lift him up and lead him out, but Hrysha resisted. He knocked one of the security guards on his ass and was able to free himself of the other. Sanych noticed the fight and tried to break it up. The middlemen, who had already managed to take their neckties off, saw that Hrysha was being roughed up and, forgetting the recent past, set out to help him. Meanwhile, Hrysha tossed the second security guard onto the stage, and the latter cut himself on a truss on which the lights were hanging. The truss collapsed and fell onto Ivan Petrovych who was still bent over in the form of a bridge. Bychko Jr. saw none of this because he too was bent over in a bridge. The public leapt to pull Ivan Petrovych from under the truss but Hrysha was in their way, fighting both the security guards and the middlemen, not ready to give in to either of them. At that moment, Bychko Jr. finally turned his head and saw his dad, lying under a mound of metal beams. He stretched towards him but his father commandingly lifted his hand, as if to say, go back, onto the stage, you are an artist, so get to it—enchant the audience! And Petia understood him, he understood what may be his father’s final command. And he once again formed a bridge. And the audience also understood everything and restrained Hrysha Lykhui and took him to the bathroom to splash him with cold water. “Go ahead Petia, go ahead my son,” Ivan Petrovych whispered from under the truss and then a blast sounded—Hrysha Lykhui was offended at everybody and, not having any strength left to resist, pulled a hand grenade from his jacket pocket and threw it over into the last toilet stall. The toilet exploded like a crushed walnut, smoke drifted out of the stall, the audience fled for the exits. Sanych tried to gather the beat-up security guards, Hoha stood by the stage and didn’t understand what all the noise and smoke was about. “Heorhii Davydovych! Heorhii Davydovych!” Slavik ran up to him, out of breath. “It’s mayhem, Heorhii Davydovych.” “What happened?” Hoha asked, confused. “The cashier!” Slavik yelled out. “The cashier, that bastard, he took off! With all of the proceeds!” “Where did he go?” Hoha didn’t understand. “He’s not far from here!” Slavik continued yelling. “That’s it. He must have gone off to blow the money on slot machines! Let’s go, we can still catch him!” And Slavik ran for the exit. Hoha, not really wanting to, followed him. Sanych left behind the bruised security guards and joined them. Already waiting for them outside was the hunchback: “Hurry up!” he yelled, “Get in the car!” Besides Slavik, Hoha, Sanych, two workers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center, and Petia Bychko, a deafened Hrysha Lykhui, reeking of smoke, also, somehow, piled into the car; the latter was yelling louder than anyone else, as if it was his money that had been stolen. The hunchback floored it, Slavik was showing the way but he was being interrupted by Hrysha, whose jacket, missing one sleeve, was still smoking. The hunchback was angry but kept flying, the work­ers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center were shrieking with every turn, until, finally, the hunchback lost control of the steering wheel and the taxi, having crossed over the oncoming lane, slammed into a newspaper stand. Newspapers flew all around, like startled geese. It was four a.m., all was quiet and calm. A truck drove by, hosing down the street with water. The doors of the taxi creaked opened and the passengers began crawling out. The first to crawl out was Hrysha Lykhui, wearing a jacket missing one sleeve; he saw a stack of news­papers, grabbed one paper, and walked down the street. Behind him, with snake-like dexterity, crawled out Petia Bychko, wearing the pha­raoh costume. Behind Petia, San Sanych stumbled out pulling out the two workers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center. Pushing the two workers out of the car was Slavik. Then they pulled out Hoha. Hoha had lost consciousness, probably from anguish more than anything else. The hunchback was able to get out on his own; it seemed that his back became even more hunched. Actually, one of the workers from the Pioneer Youth Cultural Center, Anzhela, had probably got the worst of it—Hrysha Lykhui had knocked out one of her teeth along the way. San Sanych walked off to the side and pulled out his phone, which had been turned off since yesterday. He tried to turn it on. He looked at the time. Four fifteen. He checked his in-box for new mes­sages. There were no new messages.

Within a month’s time, Hoha renovated the place again, paid off his debt and filled the Sub with arcade games. The hunchback was now working as his new cashier. Slavik, together with Raisa Solomonovna, set off for the Far East. Sanych left the business. Hoha had asked him to stick around, stating that they would soon make some money off of the arcade games, and begged him not to abandon him alone with the hunchback. But Sanych said that everything was okay, that he didn’t need a cut of the proceeds and that he simply wanted to leave. They parted as friends.

But that’s not all.

One time, at the beginning of August, Sanych ran into Vika on the street. “Hey,” he said, “you’ve got some new piercings?” “Yes, I didn’t even wait for the scars to heal,” Vika answered. “Why haven’t you called?” Sanych asked. “I’m flying to Turkey,” said Vika, not answering him. “I’m gonna try to convince my girlfriend to come back. It sucks without her, you know?” “Well what about me?” asked Sanych, but Vika just caressed his cheek and, without a word, set off for the subway.

A couple of days later, Sanych received a message from Doctor and Busia. “Dear Sanych,” they said, “we’re inviting you to our place to celebrate our beloved Doctor’s birthday.” Sanych reached into his stash, took the remaining cash he had in there, bought a plastic amphora at the gifts store, and set off for the birthday party. Doctor and Busia lived in the suburbs, in an old, private building, together with Doctor’s mother. They greeted him joyfully, they all sat down at the table, and started drinking some dry red wine. “What’s new with the Sub?” Doctor asked. “The Sub is no more,” Sanych replied, “it sank.” “That’s a shame,” Doctor said, “that was a nice place.” “So what are you going to do now?” “I’m going into politics,” Sanych said. “Elections are coming up.” Unexpectedly, the phone rang. Doctor picked up the phone and got into a long argument with someone, after which he curtly excused himself and disappeared, slamming the door behind him. “What happened?” Sanych inquired. “Oh, that would be mom,” Busia laughed, “that old hag. She’s always getting on Doc’s case, she wants him to ditch me, she sneaks off to the neighbor’s house and calls from there. But Doctor doesn’t give in. Good for him!” Busia slid closer to Sanych. “Listen, Busia,” Sanych said, after having thought a bit, “I wanted to ask you something. So, you and Doctor are gays, right?” “Well . . . ,” Busia began saying diffidently. “So, fine, you’re gays,” Sanych interrupted him. “And you live together, correct? Well, and of course you love one another, if I understand everything correctly. But explain one thing to me—are you physically satisfied with one another?” “Physically?” Busia didn’t understand. “Well yeah, physically, you know, when you’re together, is it good?” “And why do you ask?” Busia was lost. “No, I’m sorry, of course,” Sanych answered, “if this is an intimate topic, you don’t have to answer.” “No, no it’s fine,” Busia was even more lost. “You understand, Sanych, what I want to say is that, in essence, it’s not so important, I have in mind, the uh, physical side, you understand? What’s most important is something else.” “What then?” Sanych asked him. “What’s most important is that I need him, you get it? And he needs me, at least it seems so. We spend all our days together, we read together, we go to the movies together, we jog together in the mornings—did you know that we jog?” “No, I didn’t,” Sanych said. “We jog,” Busia confirmed. “But physi­cally, I honestly don’t really like it, well, you understand, when we’re together. But I never told him this, I didn’t want to upset him.” “The reason I’m asking,” Sanych explained, “is that I’ve got this acquain­tance, she’s very cool, except that she drinks a lot. And once we spent a night together, can you believe it?” “Well,” Busia said unobtrusively. “So, I’m in the same situation—it was great being with her, even with­out the sex, you understand? Even when she was drunk, and she would be drunk all the time. And all of the sudden she gets up and takes off for Turkey, can you believe it? And I just don’t get it—where’s the justice, why can’t I, a normal, healthy guy, just be with her, why does she take off for Turkey and I can’t even stop her?” “Yeah,” Busia replied, deep in thought. “Alright,” Sanych looked at him. “I thought that at least with you guys, with gays, everything works out okay. But you gays have to deal with the same bullshit.” “Yep,” Busia agreed, “the same deal.” “Well then, I’m off,” Sanych said. “Say hi to Doc.” “Wait up,” Busia stopped him. “Just hold on for a second.” And he ran off to the kitchen. “Here, take this,” he said and handed Sanych a bundle of something. “What is this?” Sanych asked. “A turnover.” “A turnover?” “Yes, an apple turnover. Doctor baked it, especially for me. It’s just that there are things that always make me cry. This turnover, for example. I know that that he baked it especially for me. You asked about sex, well, I’ll tell you. How can I leave him after this? You know, I had an acquaintance who explained to me the difference between sex and love.” “What is it?” Sanych asked. “Well, generally speaking, sex is when you’re fucking and afterwards you want her to get out of there as soon as possible. And love, correspondingly, is when you’re fucking and after the fucking you want her to stay for as long as possible. Here, take this,” he extended the bundle to Sanych. “So what,” said Sanych, after thinking for a bit, “so this is justice?” “No, no, it’s not justice. It’s just a pastry.”

And he set off toward the bus stop. Along the way, a dog began to tag along with him. And that’s how they walked, up front was Sanych with the turnover, behind him, the dog. The warm, August twilight unfolded around them. Sanych got to the stop, sat down on a bench and began to wait. The dog sat across from him. Sanych stared at it for a while. “Alrighty,” he said, “you mutt, today is your lucky day. In honor of International Gay and Lesbian Day, you’re getting a turnover!” The dog was licking himself with approval. Sanych pulled out the bundle and broke the turnover in two. Each of them got about half.

Notes

[1] Boris Grebenshchikov (b. 1953) is a Russian musician. He is considered to be one of the founders of Russian rock music. His band Akvarium (Aquarium) was immensely popular in Soviet times and remains relevant and respected today.

[2] A rushnyk (pl. rushnyky) is a ritual towel that is one of the most widespread popular symbols of Ukraine, and, as such, can often function as a representative of Ukrainian kitsch. Traditionally, however, it has been an important element of the Ukrainian folk tradition. Among its powers are the abilities to secure a marriage and to protect one’s home from intruding evil.

[3] Joschka Fischer (b. 1948) was, in fact, vice chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany and its minister of foreign affairs (1998–2005).

[4] For more on Kupalo, see the note for Viktor Neborak’s “The Writer.”

Translated by Mark Andryczyk