Chapter Seven

It was that borderline hour between the end of the night and the beginning of dawn, when the probability of catching a taxi was zero. I had to walk home. After Dunya’s fantastic demarche, my mood was rotten. I decided to walk through the park, past the local “Disneyland.” For some reason, I thought it would be more fun that way. However, the dimly lit, motionless rides of the amusement park resembled the scenery of some absurd performance, bringing on even more melancholy. I turned into one of the side alleys of the park.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, a dog began to bark nearby, and another one joined in. A few minutes later, a polyphonic barking echoed from all corners of the city. Friendly and in sync, the four-legged creatures greeted the moon, which hung in the sky like a platinum medallion broken from the neck of a Canis from the "Hound Dogs" constellation. The dogs' choral singing had an unexpected effect on me. My soul was relieved of its gloom, and my head cleared. With a joyful sinking of the heart, I forgave Dunya for those offensive and unfair words she had thrown in my face as she got into the taxi. Finally, the barking died down, dissolving into the night. I stopped, listened to the silence, and moved on.

This unkempt corner of the park was decorated with a plaster sculpture of a canoeist on a pedestal. On the opposite side of the alley stood a public toilet, an example of park architecture from the 50s or 60s. It was a rectangle made of shell rock, without a roof, and with empty openings instead of doors. Inside, a blank wall divided it into two halves: men’s and women’s. In each, six oval holes were cut into the reinforced concrete floor, directly above the cesspool.

I was quite drunk, but not so far gone that I wasn’t aware of my surroundings. So, when a certain "unidentified object" appeared before me instead of that Stalin-era latrine, I naturally assumed it was a figment of my imagination. However, after taking a few steps toward it, I had to abandon the idea of its virtual origin and admit it was a very real, one-story structure with an attic.

I walked around the left side and stopped in front of the facade. The glass door was locked. Backing up, I noticed a glowing sign: "Restaurant Knyazha Vtikha." In Ukrainian, it meant "Princely Delight."

"So that's it!" I thought, feeling like a character in some Kafkaesque plot. The former public toilet had been transformed into a catering establishment! This metamorphosis made me burst out laughing. "Knyazha Vtikha!" I repeated, cackling.

"Don't rock the boat," Brain cut me off. He continued: "The transformation of a toilet into its polar opposite—that means something! What if this holds the key to the secret essence of capitalism?"

"Capitalism? That socio-economic phenomenon was already thoroughly studied by Karl Marx," I objected.

"Marx dissected capitalism as an economist," Brain insisted. "But you have the rare fortune to view it from a physiological perspective—to observe the 'post-processing,' or, in other words, the imitation of turning shit into gold. This is the very pinnacle capitalism has reached; its quintessence."

Suddenly, a light flashed in the restaurant windows. The glass door creaked open, and in the gap appeared the cone-shaped head of Anubis with ears pricked up. However, instead of a bark, a human voice spoke:

"What's all the racket? People are resting here, can’t you see?"

"Forgive me, dear... head," I began. "I was just so shocked by the transformation of a public toilet into a catering establishment..."

"Not an 'establishment,' but a five-star restaurant in a prime location," the head corrected me.

"A crime location, you say?" I asked, mishearing him.

"Not a crime location—a prime location," he snapped. "But if you've still got something left in your pocket, come on in."

I was finally convinced that I was dealing not with an Egyptian deity, but with a real night maître d'. "Yes, there’s still something 'clinking' in there!" I said, slapping my pocket. I took a seat at a table on the terrace.

"What shall we drink: champagne, cognac, vodka?" the ingratiating maître d' asked, shooting me the look of a hardened profiteer.

"Black coffee and mineral water, please," I replied.

"How banal!" he said, visibly disappointed, and left.

I drifted off for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, he was there again.

"Here’s some Mukuzani—found it in the sideboard," he announced, uncorking the bottle.

"What's this?" I asked cautiously.

"Think of it as 'Georgian coffee,' if you like!" he said, his smile revealing the jagged teeth of an old predator. We clinked glasses. "So, what brings you to our park at this hour? What are you sniffing around for?"

"I just had a fight with my girlfriend," I admitted.

"And where is she now?"

"She ran away."

"Alone?"

"No, with a taxi driver."

“It happens,” he said, looking at the moon, its oval side snagged on the chimney of a house.

“What do you mean by ‘it happens’? Or are you, like a dog, susceptible to lunar magnetism?” I asked.

“No, more like flatulence,” he answered with a crude rhyme. “But what I meant was: ‘running away.’ A woman always runs away. Do you understand?”

"A runaway woman, you mean?" I asked.

“A ghost woman, a dream woman... I was married to one once; her name was Galina,” he said. “Galya and I started sinning long before the wedding. She couldn't live without it. She’d come to the naval school where I was a student to meet me after classes. We’d find a secluded spot by the sea and make love.”

“You’re a lucky man, maître d’,” I said.

"I'm no maître d'. I'm a retired sub-navigator, and now I’m just a night watchman in this godforsaken restaurant," he spat. "In the summer of 1965, we got married. That autumn, I was drafted into the Navy. Galya wailed: 'Darling, what will I do all alone without you?' However, even the love of a woman like Galya could not cancel a draft into the USSR Armed Forces.”

“I know the Bolshevik narrative: ‘First think of the Motherland, and then of your wife,’” I quipped.

“While I was serving on a warship, a letter arrived from my older brother, Vitka. In the flowing forms of the epistolary genre, he reported that my Galya was cheating on me. I thought it was a provocation. Vitka had been flirting with her himself..."

At that moment, something began to drum against the umbrella. Thinking it was rain, I leaned out—only to find myself under the massive morning defecation of a passing flock of birds. I recoiled, and felt a sudden sharp prick in my liver. It was the memory of a girl named Alya—Alevtina Goritsvet—awakening within me.

I knew of the memory of the heart, and the memory of the phallus. But in that instant, the memory of the liver was revealed to me…

Alya lived on Stanislavsky Street. On Sundays, I would visit her with a cake. We would drink Georgian tea. She had the face of an immaculate virgin: smooth pink skin and a chin as round as an apple.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she’d ask.

“You are just so beautiful,” I’d say, flushing.

I’d watch her full chest rise and fall. I wanted to press my face against her and never let go, but I was terrified she would throw me out. So we played chess until evening. We said our goodbyes like middle schoolers, shaking hands. One evening, Alya ran her palm over my lips. I froze, confused. She twisted her lips into a contemptuous smile, turned away, and slammed the gate behind her.

One winter, Alya, my colleague Nikolai, and I headed to the sea terminal. We ran into Nikolai’s friend Sergey, assistant captain of the Dolphin, and he invited us on board. In the wardroom, they were celebrating their "return to the home port."

The men toasted “To those at sea!” and “To patient women.” Alya adored the attention. Casting a cheeky glance at the sailors, she asked, “Is anyone brave enough to show me the bridge?”

“No problem!” Sergey replied, offering his hand.

“I’ll come with you!” I said hesitantly.

“Sit, sit,” Alya stopped me. “I’ll only be a minute.”

They were gone for nearly an hour. I was growing nervous when the door swung open. They burst in, laughing. In Alya’s hand was a large, branded bag from the duty-free shop. “Strange... she didn't have any bags when we boarded,” I thought.

Alya sat next to me and said: “Lenya, I really need you. Come with me.” In the corridor, she asked: "Do you know where we can find a secluded spot?” She headed for a restroom and stepped inside first...

“Hey, boy, you’re not listening,” the sub-navigator called out, tapping my shoulder.

“I'm listening!” I lied. “I just don't understand how you could believe she was cheating without any evidence?”

“The heart feels everything!” he said. "Once, I dreamed of my wife spreading her loins and my brother Vitka entering her. To see this, even in a dream, was more than I could bear! I ran out onto the deck and dove overboard like a swallow."

"The sailor on watch raised the alarm. They fished me out like a pup. What a disgrace! The next morning, I was summoned to headquarters. Rear Admiral Bering accused me of undermining the combat readiness of the entire Soviet Navy. But when he learned the reason, he gave me a fatherly scolding. He said roughly thirty percent of men are raising children who aren't theirs. 'I have three children myself, and I haven't a clue who their fathers are,' the Admiral said. 'So, sailor, be modest. We humans are simply obliged to exchange chromosomes to maintain genetic diversity. Otherwise, we face extinction...'"

The sub-navigator kept talking, but I was remembering that moment in the Dolphin’s restroom. Alya had latched the door and said: “Lenya, please fasten my bra strap. I can’t reach it myself."

Flattered by such trust, I lifted her blouse and became intoxicated by the scent of her body...

“Now can you guess what your Alevtina was doing when she was alone with that guy?” Brain asked sarcastically. I told him to go to hell, pulled Alya toward me, and kissed her between her shoulder blades. My hands found what they were looking for...

“Well, listen!” the sub-navigator continued. “I was granted leave to look that bitch in the eye... But on June 5, 1967, the Arab-Israeli War broke out. Our destroyer deployed to the Mediterranean for combat duty…”

"Lenya, did you hear that? He called his wife a 'bitch'!" Brain chimed in. "What an insult to the animal kingdom!"

“Leave the man alone!” I snapped.

I remembered how Alya had said in a husky voice: "Oh, Lenya, you're such a bitch! Why didn't you do this to me before?"

But as for whether I ever actually managed to fasten that bra strap... somehow, I’ve forgotten.