“Read what it says next… They’ll only pay that if the hair’s thirty centimetres or longer.”
“Damn! His isn’t that long yet.”
And it never would be.
The situation was complicated by the fact that hair shorter than thirty centimetres was accepted by weight, and weighing this particular asset while it was still attached to Squire’s head was clearly going to be a challenge. There were a number of other issues to contend with, as well — for example, almost a third of Squire’s hair would have to be combed out because it was of inferior quality. The whole business was enough to make your (unshorn) head spin, and the owner of the relevant ‘commodity’ was the only one who simply didn’t care enough to try and understand it. He just listened to his friends when they specified the days he ought to wash his hair, because a certain amount of grease would make it heavier.
This ridiculous aspect of his enlistment was probably what Squire found most alarming. The longer they spent hanging about by the advert, the more he began to wish that they would hurry up and cut his hair off so that everyone could finally stop going on about it. This thought was enough to induce a wave of panic — he’d been growing it for so long! Oh, but what did it matter now? He himself had been growing for even longer, and look how he was ending up.
Meanwhile it was decided unanimously that they would call the number on the flyer. The number was duly copied down onto the palm of someone’s cold, dry hand, and they set off in search of a phone booth. None of them had a phone card, so they decided to try and borrow one from someone once they’d found a phone.
In the event, they didn’t have to try too hard. They approached a booth they’d spotted, which was making a soft, metallic noise in the wind and the snow. Just at that moment a pretty girl stepped away from it, wrapped up against the cold, and she kindly lent them her card. This group of strapping lads in leather biker jackets must have made quite an impression on her. They reacted with a great show of enthusiasm — with the possible exception of Squire, who suddenly felt like a ‘non-person’. Why was this happening to him? Why?
Was there any point trying to understand it? Was there any point tormenting himself by thinking about his future and what it would be like? No. There was no point to any of it. He’d messed things up, and now it was all over.
The flat that he’d been subletting had already been returned to its legal owner, Mrs Hassanova, a corpulent, taciturn old woman whose clothes were always covered in the husks of sunflower seeds. On Sunday, his last night of freedom, Squire collected his old posters, his cassettes, the material trappings of his former life, and took them out to the rubbish tip. New tenants would be moving in and redecorating soon — they wouldn’t want his old junk lying around. Squire thought of the confused stares that would greet countless young hitchhikers from all over Russia, who would mutter their apologies before crossing this address from their notebooks.
Towards evening the temperature dropped, and the chill in the air officially became a frost. The park was partially illuminated by the few street lamps that remained intact. Although the paths were empty there was every chance that they might run into one of the street gangs, so perhaps they should have chosen a different route… Never mind! Squire and his friends walked through the park, chatting quietly, the hair had been cut off and sold. Are you wondering what Squire looks like without his hair? Well, I can’t tell you, because he’s wearing a woolly hat. And he’s walking in silence.
His friends continued their half-hearted conversation — discussing how much money they’d made, how much they could have made, how much had been combed out, how much it weighed, and so on. But none of it mattered any more — the deed had been done, and the bottles were clinking in their bag.
They sat down on a bench under a street lamp. This place was just as good as any other.
Squire produced the first bottle of vodka. It was a good one, too — none of that lethal fake rubbish from the workers’ districts.
Their disposable plastic glasses crunched like the snow.
“So, what are we drinking to?” His friends were determined to remain optimistic. “Let’s drink to things working out OK for you!”
They didn’t clink their glasses, but this was purely out of practical considerations — when the air is so cold sometimes all it takes is an awkward touch, a tremble of the fingers, for the plastic to shatter in your hand.
If you have to drink vodka outside in subzero temperatures you might as well not bother, because it doesn’t have the slightest effect. It doesn’t get you drunk. You can’t even feel it! But they had to drink, and that was what they were doing day after day in the run-up to Squire’s departure — an inevitable and compulsory ritual.
Squire heard the jackdaws squawking aggressively and looked out at the darkened park, at the illuminated façade of the House of Culture… The street lamps lining the main road disappeared into the distance, and the factory chimney was adorned with red clearance lights.
Squire cried in his sleep.
12
The alarm went off at 7.00 a.m. and Squire hit it with a groan. At 7.10 a.m. the plumbing system broke into a cheerful grumble as Nikita began his morning ablutions.
Maintaining your oral hygiene can be quite a challenge when you’re on the road. Most hitchhikers tend to solve the problem with chewing gum: minty fresh breath in seconds! But that wasn’t our Nikita’s style… Even if he woke up in a forest somewhere, chilled to the bone, after a good stretch he would ceremoniously extract his toothbrush and squat down by a ditch. As for rinsing his mouth out, well, why do you think he carried a bottle of mineral water? It had the added benefit of preventing terminal dehydration on a hot day on the road.
While we’re on the subject, Nikita’s washing accoutrements really were something to behold. Particularly in contrast to Squire’s filthy bathroom, with its grimy surfaces, stray hairs everywhere, and the cracked toilet seat. Nikita Marchenko always carried a plastic wash bag containing his shaving equipment, his deodorant, a travel toothbrush in its own little protective case, a bar of soap and a barely dented tube of toothpaste. He even had a pair of nail scissors. Good for him! A snagged nail is enough to ruin a holiday.
Nikita belonged to the glorious generation of hitchhikers from good families, with smart clothes and plenty of pocket money. Their life’s path was already determined, and there were no potholes to navigate — just a nice, easy ride.
These boys took to the road, to the anguish and dismay of their doting parents — when they knew about it, of course. You should read Nekrasov’s Russian Women, about Princess Trubetskaya who followed her husband into the depths of the Siberian wilderness — it’s exactly the same impulse.
At 7.15 a.m. Nikita was still brushing his teeth. He knew that he was going to be successful, to get on in life. He knew that it was worth preserving a perfect, white smile, because it could be a valuable asset in years to come.
At 7.20 a.m. all four of them finally sat down at the table for a breakfast of boiled pasta without salt or butter, or any particular enthusiasm on their part. They couldn’t tell whether it was tasteless because Squire had overcooked it or because it was cheap pasta. Either way, they had to eat it. They needed the energy.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any ketchup, have you?” asked Vadim, who was having trouble swallowing.
“I’m not sure… Have a look in the fridge. Maybe someone left some.”
They continued their breakfast in complete silence, lost in their own thoughts. They all felt apprehensive about heading out to the highway. In their minds they were already out there, on the road, so they didn’t feel much like talking. Or eating, for that matter.