3, 7, A

Author: (Russia) Y. Maslov (Author), Sun Lingyun (Translator)
Translator: Sun Lingyun / Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-12-01
Features:
In the past three years, Klimov has frequently fallen into a state called frustration by doctors, which has a cyclical nature, approximately once a month. Frustration is a feeling of disappointment, the shattering of hopes, and a sense of no way out. Overall, it is a psychological imbalance, usually arising from the inconsistency between the moral demands of a person's life and their actual behavior. Each person's expression of frustration is different. Some manifest it as depression, tension, while others exhibit aggressive behavior, and some even retreat into a fantasy world through alcohol. The latter group is common. If someone falls into this state, they are called a drunkard. The word "drunkard" bothers Klimov (for some reason, he associates it with a Black Sea fisherman who wears the same clothes every day and smells of fish). Therefore, when a colleague sees his exhausted and listless face (his appearance is impeccable: a three-button suit, a snow-white shirt, a tie) and asks how he is feeling, he usually replies, "Brother, I'm frustrated." And he smiles sadly, to the point where "Brother" thinks that the head of the third department, section two of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Bureau, has gone mad and quickly leaves. Around one o'clock, Klimov's deputy, Major Smorodkin, rushed into Klimov's office.
Journalists often write that the children of generations of steelworkers, fishermen, and surgeons show respect for these people, as they have since childhood studied and absorbed the essence of their ancestors' science, and it is only natural and competent for them to engage in their ancestors' professions. But when the topic turns to the descendants of some people, such as the son of an actor, journalists immediately start scratching their heads. At that moment, the only thought they have is to use connections. And if they hear that the descendants of gamblers are involved in this, they will make sounds like a cow mooing or be completely speechless. They don't know how to explain this combination of words. Grisha Bronsky was a descendant of gamblers; his great-grandfather and grandfather were also gamblers. They were very passionate about gambling, completely ignoring the tsar's prohibition and their ranks and positions. According to his grandfather's recollection, Ilia Grigorievich Bronsky helped Koria Ne (yes, come on, the reader of "Knot," that's the one who wrote "Yesterday, Sunday, I went to Shenya, where women were whipped with whips, young peasant women") gamble, losing the magazine "Modern." Later, Koria Ne fled abroad and lived in poverty for a long time (it's hard to make a living just by writing poems). But at the age of nearly forty, he got out of his and became one of the richest people in Russia. He bought an estate with lemon trees, ordered hunting dogs and guns from Britain, stole the beautiful wives of others, and committed financial fraud against Finance Minister Abaz. Grigory Illich Bronsky lost his inherited estate and the stables with twelve outstanding Orlov trotters in Saratov. Grigory's grandfather was a colonel in the Denikin anti-revolutionary White Russian army from 1918 to 1919. When he was fleeing from Novorossiysk, he lost his ship ticket and was left in Russia, about which, really, he never regretted it later. His father was a candidate of sciences and was good friends with Igor Kio, Alexandrov, Voronin, Nikolai Gutarov, nicknamed "Babai," Marek Rabinovich, and other famous gamblers in Russia. Every evening, after their serious work during the day, they would gather at someone's home, indulging in their favorite game—gambling—until dawn. Once, Voronin "robbed" Kio, and then rumors spread that Voronin lost a million to Alexandrov (at that time, the monthly salary was between 120 and 180 rubles). A week later, Bronsky, nicknamed "Pain" (whenever he lost, he would say, "I'm so sad!"), tricked Alexandrov out of money and then lost to Marek Rabinovich. Marek Rabinovich took a huge amount of money, bought a car, and went to Sochi to indulge in drinking and revelry. On the way, he was killed. Some said that a man who lost money chased after him, Grisha, and continued his family's glory without disgracing them. It can be said that he upheld the honor of his family. Here, the phrase "without disgracing" is justified with quotes, because Grisha always remembered that what mattered most in life was education and work, so he followed in his father's footsteps, graduating from the Automation and Mechanics Institute with excellent grades and then from the postgraduate program, but unfortunately, he didn't have the chance to apply his knowledge in practice, as reforms began and life changed completely. About one-third of Grisha Bronsky's friends went abroad—Germany, America—selling their brains to people who truly understood their value. One-third of them got involved in the wheels of the market economy, started businesses, but failed quickly. Some did nothing, because they hated money making money. Sometimes he really did that. In the morning, while preparing breakfast, Marina was coquettish): "Dear, I had a dream last night that you violated me, screaming like a madman. Is that really you?" If Lev Borisovich admitted it, Marina sighed, "My God, nature has given you such a wonderful toy!" If Lev Borisovich denied it, Marina's reaction was different: "How terrible! There's a saying that's true: If you love someone, you won't refuse them even in a dream!" But no matter whether Lev Borisovich admitted it or denied it, the same scene always played out: Marina took off her nightgown, pulled her husband to bed, and she could even make the dead rise to establish merits. Lev Borisovich imagined the entire scene, groaning sweetly, and then screamed, not out of excitement, but because he felt the injustice of God: why do some people rest and enjoy, while he, the all-powerful ruler of the empire, is stuck in this dirty, dusty, smelly Moscow, solving constant problems and barely earning a living? When will it end? After all, he was tired. He wasn't thirty, not even forty-five, but almost sixty, yet he was still running, non-stop, in this endless, damn circle. "It doesn't matter, if you want to enjoy, you have to suffer," Lev Borisovich comforted himself. "Tomorrow is a reception day, and all sorts of people will come, and it will be a whirlwind. Everything will be arranged. Take two sleeping pills and sleep!" "'Your grandfather also died near Stalingrad,' Koria countered. 'But the point isn't that. I'm not satisfied with this salary as a history teacher, 120 rubles a month, I can't even support my wife.' 'Foreigners can't support you, but your own can,' Dad said. 'What's the difference between our women and German women? Are their mouths bigger? Do they eat more?' But I earn 180 rubles supporting you four!' Dad stamped his foot. 'You're taking advantage of the state,' Koria replied, and a punch landed on his neck. Then he heard his father say outside the door, 'I'll stay in the villa, and you—just remember your country, and you'll be let go. If not, you'll be locked up.' He left, and locked the door with three locks."
That night, Korka called him at the dormitory, saying he had been locked up. He told him about a plan to get him out. He gave him the role of the menacing part in the plan. He was supposed to meet his father, show him some materials that showed how he had embezzled money using his position, and then say, 'Dear Igor Vasilyevich, either you release your son and sign the document allowing him to go to Germany, or these materials will be sent to the prosecutor's office.' He did it. But he didn't expect that Igor Vasilyevich was an honest communist."
"'You're saying he didn't embezzle?' Klimov asked. 'He was foolishly used and framed. If someone is framed, there's no escape. He should have supported the government that promoted him, or he should be in a grave. The old man wanted to go to heaven, so he chose the grave. All those in the center who were connected to him were purged. Who would expose the family's shame? Korka got married and went to the West. And I, a fifth-year student at the History Department of Moscow State University, was locked up in Lubyanka and fell into the claws of the modern guards, experiencing firsthand what I had only read about in textbooks and literature and could only understand with my mind."
"'Did you get the black materials of the Central Committee staff there?' the interrogator asked him during the interrogation. He asked in a bored, lazy, and indifferent manner, as if he wanted to sleep. Sidorov understood that the interrogator and his assistant, who were sitting on the windowsill listening to the radio and playing with a rubber stick, were completely indifferent to him. They asked him questions not out of curiosity but as part of their duties, following orders.
"'These materials were given to me by Koria Kleykov,' Sidorov didn't have a chance to finish, and a punch landed on his left cheek, knocking him to the ground for a few seconds.
"'Did you use too much force?' the interrogator asked. 'You're so thin, don't die.'
"'Some people look thin but are very tough,' the interrogator's assistant smiled, stepping on the ribs of the person being interrogated with his toes.
"'Get up!' Sidorov barely supported himself with both hands, leaning against the wall, spat out a mouthful of saliva. Along with the saliva, there were teeth that had fallen out. He thought that no matter what, he would go to jail. It was fate: to resist fate, one must fight back, otherwise, one would die in jail. Thinking this, he pretended to be part of the criminal gang: 'Boss, I want to confess to the crime. Can I get a reduction in sentence?'
"'The judge will consider it,' the interrogator said, surprised.
"'You've also done it?'
At the end of the alley, turn left at 'Volodya.' Klimov was about to close the window when he suddenly heard the sound of an engine starting and saw a parked "Zhiguli" suddenly move. It drove to the end of the alley and turned left.
"'Someone is tailing Kuchkov. It's his own people,' Klimov ran to the phone, picked up the receiver, thought for a moment, and threw it down with a clatter. He realized it was too late. Even God couldn't help Kuchkov at this time. He sat in his armchair, started smoking, and tried to imagine where and when his agent, Yakunin, would expose himself.
"', it's something like this. A police officer, like Shupakov, who supports his family with money from the criminal gang's treasury, didn't find the agreed-upon amount in his account, so he contacted the person who recruited him, like 'Toyota.' 'Toyota' took action: called Kuchkov in for a scolding, listened carefully to his statement, gave him a week to pay back the money. Just in case, they arranged for someone to follow him to see if the young man was betraying them? Today, he would get the answer. How? Shupakov knew where Klimov lived. If 'Toyota' called him and asked which police officer lived at this address, they would arrest him. Tomorrow, an order would be issued: kill Kuchkov! No,' Klimov thought, anded his hypothesis. 'They will first make him find the 'big shot'—they are very interested. Who is this bird in this forest? I'm interested too. It will be very interesting when he finds the 'big shot'!' Klimov snorted and dialed Skokov's number.
"'Semyon Timofeyevich, the money has been paid,' Klimov said when the other party picked up the phone.
"'Good.'
"'Rakitina recognized Slepnyov? It was Slepnyov, wasn't it?'
"'She recognized him.'
"'We need to find him and protect him. Otherwise, we'll just arrange for someone to follow him.'
"'Rogin will do it tomorrow. Did you arrange for someone?'
"'Not going well. They'll be here at ten in the morning at your place.'"
"Good night!"
"Good night!"
When someone knocked on the door, Klimov was already asleep, or rather, in a deep sleep. He hadn't even finished reading the newspaper that day.
One, two, three
"'It's probably here to collect my soul,' the thought pierced him.
'SToo early. I'm not even forty yet.'
He immediately put on his, took out his pistol from the gun case, walked into the hallway, leaned against the wall, and asked loudly, 'Who?'
"'Klimov, open the door!'
A woman's hysterical scream came from outside. Klimov opened the door and saw Tatyana Bronovskaya's face twitching in pain, as if she had just been beaten.
"What's wrong?"
"'Klimov!' Tatyana didn't finish her sentence and threw herself at his shoulder, crying.
"Forgive me! Please forgive me!"
"Why?"
"You!"