“No one’s lost anything here today. That’s for sure. I’ve been here since morning.”
“Too bad,” I say, moving off.
“Stop!” he cries, “Can you help me?”
“How?”
“I need to buy a bottle but I can’t get to the shop.”
“My pockets are empty.”
“I’ve got the cash. I’ll wait for you in that little square over there.”
“Okay.”
“My hangover’s killing me,” he sighs.
“Mine too.”
He pours a pile of change into my hand.
“There’s more than enough for a bottle here,” I say.
“Buy two so you won’t waste time running back to the shop later.”
When I come out of the shop I see my saviour approaching the square, thrusting his crutches forward and dragging his paralysed body in their wake. I join him and we introduce ourselves. His name is Borya and he comes from Leningrad.
I discover that Borya is no drinker and only sent me for the wine because he guessed the state I was in. He drinks a glass to be sociable but refuses a refill.
“I’ve been paralysed since I was a student. I jumped from a train to avoid the ticket collector. If he’d reported me for travelling without a ticket the college would have cut off my grant. I had no family to support me. Since then I’ve been all over Russia. Once in a while the police pick me up and send me to an invalid home but I always run away. I arrive in some town or other and don’t leave it until I’ve collected 1000 roubles.”
“And then?” I ask.
“I bury them and go on to another town.”
“Are you trying to save a lot of money — for retirement perhaps?”
“No. It isn’t the money itself I need. I give away most of what I collect.”
“But why d’you live like this? You stand the whole day long at your pitch, collecting money. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke and you give it all away?”
“The money is not the most important thing. I make people happy.”
“How?”
“Imagine, I am standing on my pitch, virtually a corpse. A man goes by. I don’t know anything about him. Perhaps he’s a cruel person who beat his wife that morning. I’ve never seen him before and I’ll probably never see him again. He notices me, fumbles in his pocket, finds a three-kopeck piece that’s no use to him and chucks it into my cap. To me those three kopecks are nothing, but I’ve done something for that man.”
“What have you done?”
“I’ve caused him to do good. When he passes on down the road he is a different person, although he may not know it himself. Even if he gave me the money automatically, without thinking, he’s become a slightly better person.”
I stare at Borya, as stunned as a bull in a slaughterhouse. He laughs. “I can see that you’re not yourself yet. Here’s some more money. I’m going to work. Meet me in Gorky Park this evening?”
“Agreed.”
Borya pours some change into my hand, then he stands up. His body swaying like a pendulum, he returns to his pitch.
Anxious to continue our conversation, I do as Borya suggests and make for the park. As I near his pitch I cross to the other side of the street to pass unnoticed in the throng of pedestrians. The sight of me might remind Borya of his kindness; he’s not in need of my gratitude.
Picking up a bottle of Imereti wine along the way, I choose a far bench in the park where I can sit hidden behind some bushes. From time to time I take a slug of wine, trying to maintain myself on that blissful cusp between sobriety and drunkenness.
Long-suppressed thoughts churn in my mind: ‘Who am I?’ An alcoholic and a tramp. But I’m no white raven; half the country are alcoholics. Our alcoholics outnumber the populations of France and Spain combined. And that’s only the men. If you count women too you have to add on all Scandinavia and throw in Monaco for good measure.
Unlike me, however, most people work, or at least give the impression that they’re working. And for what? Just to drink away their pay at the end of the month. Many men claim they work for the sake of their family. But what’s the good of an alcoholic in a family? How do they pay for their babies’ milk? By collecting empty bottles? And I’ve seen children tremble at the sound of their fathers’ footsteps. At least I had the honesty to ditch the pretence and take to the road, although it cost me my wife and daughter.
The worst thing you can do to someone else is humiliate them, but self-degradation is no less evil. The person who humiliates himself drags others down with him. I’ve seen this happen often enough and I don’t want to be guilty of it too. Yes, I made the right decision back in that forest in the Kuban. I’m responsible only to myself now. Yet the one question remains: how am I going to live? I won’t steal and it’s hard to find work, so how will I buy my drink? In practice I’m almost a beggar, and I’m trying not to admit it. I shut my eyes to the truth. But when all is said and done I have to acknowledge what I am.
Why am I not ashamed to accept Borya’s money while I refuse to hold out my own hand in the street? I don’t consider myself better than him. It’s not the first time a beggar has bought me a drink. I can’t bring myself to beg, yet I drink at someone else’s expense which is worse.
Another part of me interrupts: but beggars also live at others’ expense.
No, I correct myself, beggars support themselves. They earn their kopecks through self-abasement.
All the same, I am mistrustful of beggars. I have known hundreds: on the streets, in camps, police cells and psychiatric institutions. Most of them are scoundrels and hypocrites. Many times I’ve heard them ask a passer-by: “Give me a few kopecks for the love of God.”
When the person passes on they curse: “May you rot in hell you greedy bastard!”
I sometimes ask them: “How can you talk like that? It’s up to them whether they give to you or not. Besides, people might overhear and what would they think of you then?”
“Fuck them. They are many and I’m only one. If one passes by another will drop something in my cap. Only God sees everything!”
But it’s not for me to sit in judgment. Everyone lives as they can.
In former times whole villages worked as beggars, training their children to follow the family profession. These beggars roamed the countryside, pretending to have lost all their worldly goods in a fire. Others hung around stations asking for the price of a ticket, claiming all their money and documents had been stolen. In Astrakhan camp I met a man who spent years selling a saw outside Moscow stations. He worked with great artistry, dividing his time between Moscow’s eleven termini. His victims were officers: none below the rank of major. He would go up to the officer, salute, stand to attention and bark: “Comrade Colonel! May I introduce myself? Sergeant-Major Sidorov, of the 187th Standard Bearers, guards division, Order of Suvorov!”
“What can I do for you, Sergeant-Major?”
“Excuse me, Comrade Colonel! Could you buy my saw?” Sidorov would bring out a wrapped-up saw from behind his back.
“But why should I buy your saw, Sergeant-Major?”
“I want to rejoin my family but I need 23 roubles for the ticket. I’ll sell you the saw for five.”
“Haven’t you been to the Commandant’s office?”
“Of course, Comrade Colonel, but as everyone knows, they’re just a bunch of pen-pushers. They’ve never smelled gunpowder. I remember, now, near Breslau…”
At this point the colonel usually pulled out his wallet and gave Sidorov a 25-rouble bill. If the officer was at all suspicious he might ask: “Who was the commander at your Front?”
“Marshall Zhukov, Comrade Colonel!” replied Sidorov with shining eyes. “Now there was a true officer! He loved his men.” Sidorov had learned the history of the 187th Standard Bearers off by heart. If the officer asked any tricky questions Sidorov would reply: “I don’t remember. I was in hospital at the time, wounded in action.”