On a nippy March morning of 1962, once proud American sailor was navigating streets of Minsk in search of beer to cure his hangover. Put up collar of his worn Old Navy coat did not give him comfort against icy Soviet Spring. He stopped to light up another belomorina, his last one.
With an old seaman’s curse he coughed stinking smoke like a sick dragon. ‘Hell awaits!’ was the only though crossing his post-inebriated mind, ‘They should ban this shit!’
The beer shop was closed. Forever. ‘Hell no!’, he spat and screw up his eyes. Hopeless...
Lifting eyelids was heavy and merciless. The sight of a young boy in front of the dirty door to the local watering hole was painfully shocking.
‘Not good’, the boy said with a steely voice. ‘Did you come all the way from New Orleans for this, Comrade?’ It wasn’t a question.
The Sailor sobered up and shivered. ‘I obey!’, whispered he coughing. ‘I do!’
‘We know’, the boy said. ‘Go back and do what the party commands’.
‘What is it?’, fear stroke the sailor’s throat draining his voice of any intonation.
‘We can’t wait until our treacherous scientists develop most deadless substance. And our stock of elements is still too cheap to throw away’.
‘So what should I do then’.
‘Use proletarian weapons - old and rusty. Do not hide it. Use post offices, regular flights and fancy hotels. They will know nothing’.
‘Who are you?’ - the Sailor shrugged.
‘My time will come, Comrade. We shall fall and rise again. Like great white crane observed by bears semi-naked we will return to taiga. We puzzle them to death. We enigmate’.
The boy stepped forward and gave the seaman icy stare. ‘Ruby is waiting for you’.
‘Why!’ the sailor screamed. ‘Why me?’
‘The truth is out there. They will not know it. Sheep breeds sheep. The black one omens, the red one ends. You’ll be remembered for nothing’.
His last word was most the powerful. The Boy looked straight into the Seaman’s eyes. ‘I see that you do’. And then he was gone.
‘Nevermind the bollocks’ cursed the Sailor aloud. ‘I am going home. Texas be it!’