Author’s Note

Moscow. En Route to Kursk Station.

Moscow. Kursk Station Square.

Moscow. Kursk Station Restaurant.

Moscow. To the Train via the Store.

Moscow – Serp i Molot.

Serp i Molot – Karacharovo.

Karacharovo – Chukhlina.

Chukhlina – Kuskovo.

Kuskovo – Novogireevo.

Novogireevo – Reutovo.

Reutovo – Nikolskoe.

Nikolskoe – Saltykovskaya.

Saltykovskaya – Kuchino.

Kuchino – Zheleznodorozhnaya.

Zheleznodorozhnaya – Chernoe.

Chernoe – Kupavna.

Kupavna – 33rd Kilometer.

33rd Kilometer – Elektrougli.

Elektrougli – 43rd Kilometer.

43rd Kilometer – Khrapunovo.

Khrapunovo – Esino.

Esino – Fryazevo.

Fryazevo – 61st Kilometer.

61st Kilometer – 65th Kilometer.

65th Kilometer – Pavlovo-Posad.

Pavlovo-Posad – Nazarievo.

Nazarievo – Drezna.

Drezna – 85th Kilometer.

85th Kilometer – Orekhovo-Zuevo.

Orekhovo-Zuevo.

Orekhovo-Zuevo – Krutoe.

Krutoe – Voinovo.

Voinovo – Usad.

Usad – 105th Kilometer.

105th Kilometer – Pokrov.

Pokrov – 113th Kilometer.

113th Kilometer – Omutishche.

Omutishche – Leonovo.

Leonovo – Petushki.

Petushki. The Platform.

Petushki. Station Square.

Petushki. Sadovoe Koltso (Garden Ring).

Petushki. The Kremlin. The Monument to Minin and Pozharsky.

Moscow-Petushki. An Unknown Entranceway.

I tell you, if the whole world, and everybody in it, was as weak and frightened as I am now, and as unsure of everything – unsure of themselves, their place in the scheme of things – it’d be a far better place. No more enthusiasts, no heroic deeds, no commitment, just general all-round pusillanimity! ‘General pusillanimity’ – yes, that’s our remedy for all ills.

Oh, vanity. Oh, the ephemeral! Oh, that most helpless and shameful of times in the life of my people, the time from dawn until the liquor stores open up!

Go on, anywhere. It’s all the same where. Even if you turn left, you’ll end up at the Kursk station; or straight, all the same, the Kursk Station. Therefore, turn right, so that you’ll get there for sure.

Yes, I have drunk too much, but I’ve drunk without losing my mind, which is a rare thing, and with an open soul, which is all but impossible.

And I drank up immediately.

Moscow. En Route to Kursk Station

Everyone talks about the Kremlin, the Kremlin. I’ve heard about it from everyone, but I’ve never seen it myself. How many times (a thousand times!) have I walked through Moscow, drunk or hungover, from north to south, from west to east, end to end, across and every which way—and never once have I seen the Kremlin.

And I didn’t see it yesterday, either, even though I was circling those parts all evening, and I wasn’t all that drunk: as soon as I got off at Savelovsky Station, I started with a glass of Zubrovka, because I know from experience that people haven’t invented a better morning pick-me-up.

So. A glass of Zubrovka. And then—on Kalyaevskaya Street—another glass, but not Zubrovka, this time it was Coriander vodka. A friend of mine said that Coriander vodka affects a person in an anti-human way; that is, while strengthening all the limbs, it weakens the soul. With me, for some reason, the opposite happened: my soul strengthened to the highest degree, while my limbs weakened, but I agree that this is also anti-human. Therefore, right there on Kalyaevskaya, I added two mugs of Zhigulevskoe beer from the neck of an alb-de-dessert bottle.

You, of course, will ask: and then, Venichka, and then—what did you drink? I don’t really know myself what I drank. I remember—this I remember clearly—on Chekhov Street I had two glasses of Hunter’s vodka. But I couldn’t have crossed the Garden Ring without having a drink? Couldn’t have. Which means I drank something else.

And then I went toward the center, because that’s always how it is with me: when I look for the Kremlin, I inevitably end up at Kursk Station. I should have been going to Kursk Station anyway, not the center, but I still went to the center to at least look at the Kremlin once: I thought, I won’t see the Kremlin anyway, and I’ll end up right at Kursk Station.

I feel almost tearfully upset now. Not because, of course, I never made it to Kursk Station yesterday. (That’s nonsense: didn’t make it yesterday, I’ll make it today). And certainly not because I woke up this morning in some unknown entranceway (it turns out I sat down on a step yesterday, the fortieth step from the bottom, hugged my suitcase to my heart, and just fell asleep). No, that’s not why I’m upset. This is why: I just calculated that from Chekhov Street to this entranceway, I spent another six rubles on drink—but what and where did I drink? And in what order? Did I drink for my own good or for my misfortune? No one knows this, and now no one ever will. We still don’t know to this day: did Tsar Boris kill Tsarevich Dmitry or vice versa?

What is this entranceway? I still have no idea; but that’s how it should be. Everything is like this. Everything in the world must happen slowly and incorrectly, so that man cannot grow arrogant, so that man is sad and confused.

I went out into the air when it was already dawn. Everyone knows—everyone who has stumbled into an entranceway in a blackout and emerged at dawn—everyone knows what a weight in my heart I carried down those forty steps of a strange entranceway and what a weight I carried out into the air.

Never mind, never mind, I told myself, never mind. Look—a pharmacy, see? And there—that queer in the brown jacket is scraping the pavement. You see that too. Well, calm down then. Everything is proceeding as it should. If you want to go left, Venichka, go left, I won’t force you. If you want to go right—go right.

I went right, swaying slightly from the cold and from grief, yes, from the cold and from grief. Oh, that morning burden in the heart! Oh, the illusion of calamity. Oh, the irreparable! What is there more of in this burden that no one has yet named? Which is greater: paralysis or nausea? Nerve exhaustion or mortal anguish somewhere near the heart? And if it’s all equal, what is there more of in all of it: tetanus or fever?

Never mind, never mind, I told myself, shield yourself from the wind and walk slowly. And breathe so infrequently, infrequently. Breathe so that your knees don’t knock together. And just go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. If you go left, you’ll end up at Kursk Station; if straight—still Kursk Station; if right—still Kursk Station. So go right, just to make sure you get there. Oh, vanity!

Oh, the ephemeral! Oh, the most helpless and shameful time in the life of my people—the time from dawn until the stores open! How many extra gray hairs it has woven into all of us, into the homeless and anguished brunettes! Go, Venichka, go.