Having a Dickens in his hands the man in the metro train is striving so hard to concentrate on the text, it may look like he’s falling asleep.
But he’s only trying to look closer. And closer.
His glasses left about the new reception girl, they can’t help him this time. He’s nearly to tears, prepared to quit his conventional frame of mind at any moment.
He’s about 50, one of the slightly grey men, whose life’s filled with a damn lot of some things. They’re trying to buy something, sale something, and get something made. Inevitably, something is not made, not that big a deal though, and the men keep steadily and relentlessly turning themselves into the old men.
And that with a Dickens, he is one of them. While he trying to hide his eyes, his hair seems to be turning more and more grey.
Having made no use of rubbing and wrinkling his forehead he’s got some drops hanging under his nose. Finally, he hides his face wholly by the book cover.
The good old soviet hard cover saved a world of pupils’ souls.
Being good enough for the long-term use, the hard cover served many years after the party of workers and peasants had made its next U-turn. It come to, there were some poor writers to be punished for a missed call, or not attended meeting, or whatever. Their books had to be removed from people, so the party ran the people’s challenge in waste paper picking. Those books named MACOOLATOORA were moved out of the city in the shaking dump trucks called GAZ.
Maybe it’s just his teary eye he’s got. That happens to the people who barely drink.
He’d meant only to show the reception girl he was still young, so both snacks and pepsi were dismissed completely and not quite politely. An hour later, he was keen to discuss nothing but politics. No one else was.
Now, he’s got himself drunk on his way home.
There are the sour cream (they call it SMETANA), milk and the thing of bread (called BUTON) in the plastic bag lying by his foot.
His family must be of three.
Again, it might be the words by Dickens have caused his tears, reminded him of the distant times when nothing allowed, anything wished.
When he was a young man, no censorship could spoil the day of life. No mud on the streets could spoil an hour. No arrogant lie by politicians could be louder than the truth by the rock-stars.
They were happy as the young do.
He’s sad for he isn’t happy.
The metro stations are replacing one another, similarly nice looking, and having no reflection of their brand new names.
At last, having heard his station’s name he rises up, and steps out of the train. The station is that of architecture of the moderate beauty featuring in those built in 1960s. There are not many people at the station as it’s half past eleven.
On the platform, he’s looking somewhat confusedly for the right way, as if he hadn’t been here for years, and goes up to the city.
He leaves the station named after a thing never existed. The thing is Friendship of Peoples, and a huge boulevard is named after it, too.
He takes his pass through the array of the similar grey houses divided by the similar streets. People call them after a man which did exist. They call them KHRUSHCHOBE.
He thinks of the new secretary, young little girl tasting the real life. She was sitting down there in the office, surrounded by young men making fun of the important things. They were laughing at discipline, the old men had appeared to live with. Eventually, they likened such a discipline to the sheep order, he went out along with them to have a smoke, yet not to come back from the cold again.
He went alone through a keen frost, up to the hilltop named after a skull. CHEREPANOVA HORA, that’s how they call it, and no one could reach the top for its being too steep and slippery. Fortunately, the pavement had cracks made by a frosty winter. Clinging to those cracks one climbs up to the hill in seven minutes.
There was a university square on the top, lightened by the galaxy of yellow lamps and lights turning the place into a stage. A huge stone figure was stuck in the middle.
The five-meters high figure of a sad green man in the wide trousers.
In the night, it seemed to be the monument of Sadness.
Now, KHRUSHCHOBE is a completely different sight to see.
It’s rather a dark place with some lamps shadowed by the trees. There are a few windows lit by the hot little pears of glass. There’s no man nor animal as we may want them to appear. There are just shadows lurking in the high and dry bushes and you never know what they’re about to introduce you to.
KHRUSHCHOBE isn’t that place you’re meant to have pleasant walks through. It’s the place for having a deep and frightened dream in your bed on the 5th floor.
Well, you should be fast as you can to take shelter by the doors of yours.
Having got himself safe with a Dickens in his plastic bag, the man’s waiting for the lift, which makes an unbelievable noise while going down, while opening his doors, while going up really slowly.
As the man opens his flat’s door, takes off his weary shoes, hangs up his crackly jacket, he’s welcomed by nobody, for everyone in this family has her own life to live.
Finally, hardly touched the bed, he’s crying once again today. He’s crying in his sleep, with no shame now, while the Great Expectations growing damp in a shaking fridge called ATLANT.