While Nicholas and Minnie were passing the time playing cards with a few courtiers, Valentine was toiling away in the sweltering heat of Baku, thousands of miles away.
Life had become more hopeful for Valentine, who now worked at a kerosene processing plant near the Baku oil fields. After saving up enough money from a stint on a construction site, he had moved further south, eventually joining a petroleum company after being recruited by a headhunter offering good pay.
Due to the booming oil industry in Baku, there was a high demand for labor. Even as an unskilled worker with only a few months of experience, Valentine earned a decent wage of 160 rubles, more than one and a half times his annual income as a farmer.
"Get up and get to work! Get up! You lazy bums!"
Every morning at dawn, factory dormitory supervisors would ring large handbells, shouting to wake the groggy, exhausted workers and drive them out the door.
Valentine, half-asleep, felt the stiffness and soreness from sleeping on the hard wooden planks. He groaned, scratched his greasy hair, and struggled to rise from the coarse burlap blanket.
The Bob Kerosene Processing Plant, where Valentine worked, was one of the upstream contractors for a large oil company. Although Valentine couldn't recall its exact name, it was similar to other small and medium-sized oil processing enterprises that attracted workers with slightly higher wages, persuading them to work long hours.
Valentine's room was a large communal space with thin wooden partitions and coffin-sized beds, so cramped that turning over was nearly impossible.
But this was considered a "benefit" of the factory! In some factories, as Valentine had heard from his coworkers, there were no beds at all, just ropes. Workers had to rest by draping themselves over the ropes, only to be jolted awake when supervisors cut the ropes in the morning.
The Bob factory dormitory, a three-story building, could accommodate hundreds of workers, who filled the corridors at shift change. The air was thick with the pungent odor of petroleum, the "fragrance" of the black gold that spouted from the ground nearby.
"Hey, Valentine, here you go."
Valentine had become familiar with many of his coworkers in the workshop over time. They brought tea and bread for breakfast, a common meal among workers.
The tea was made from low-quality tea leaves ground into powder and brewed in cloth bags, while the bread was hard black bread, which had to be soaked in tea to be edible and help stave off hunger and fatigue.
Many of the workers at the factory were northern farmers, bearing typical Russian names, reflecting the growth of Baku on the foundation of Russian immigration.
Valentine's colleagues, part of his production group, worked daily to separate kerosene from the crude oil through atmospheric distillation.
"A few days ago, Andrei caught a cold. I told him to switch beds because someone next to him was sick, but he didn't listen. Now, even the doctor can't help him."
Ivan, the shortest of the group but stocky and muscular, complained.
"When the room is empty, it's cold and damp. When people are in it, it's stuffy and hot. The smell of sweat and mold overpowers the stench of oil."
"Alright, Ivan."
Sergei, the oldest and most experienced of the group, knew that Ivan's complaints stemmed from discovering that the supervisors had private rooms, which made him resentful.
Despite the grumbling, work had to continue.
Aside from workers like Valentine, who walked to the factory, buses brought in laborers crammed inside and clinging to the sides, transporting them from distant dormitories to the factory gates.
The factory buzzed with activity as workers arrived at their stations before dawn. Under the dim kerosene lamps, a new day of labor began.
"Valentine."
During the backbreaking work, workers would occasionally take a break when the foreman was out of sight. Today, it was Igor's turn to bring the "cup of cheer."
Glancing around to ensure the coast was clear, Igor handed Valentine a dirty enamel mug with blackened floral patterns. Despite its filthy appearance, Valentine took it eagerly and gulped down the liquid.
Valentine was drinking smuggled wine from a local shop.
At Bob's factory, the workday lasted 14 hours. Due to a lack of manpower, the factory couldn't implement a two-shift system, so they extended the single shift and offered a small overtime pay, though the workload remained high.
Valentine essentially lived at the factory, socializing mainly with his fellow workers, forming genuine proletarian friendships.
These friendships replaced Valentine's former family ties, as they shared meals, played cards, drank, took turns keeping watch, and slackened off together.
Drinking was a worker social activity despised by factory owners.
Despite being a large collective, the factory saw a constant turnover of workers. To fit into this collective, one had to partake in the essential rituals of eating, drinking, and socializing.
At Bob's factory, the custom was to drink from enamel mugs.
"Alright, my turn."
Valentine took a large gulp of the wine, wiped his mouth with his arm, and handed the cup to Ivan. Short Ivan took a smaller sip before passing it to Sergei. The four of them finished the enamel cup of wine quickly, and Sergei tossed the empty cup back to Igor.
But it wasn't over yet. Igor pulled another bottle of wine from his stash in the materials heap and refilled the cup. They passed the wine around, finishing two bottles in total.
Thunk!
Elsewhere in the fractionation workshop, other workers were busy with their own tasks. There was always someone on the lookout, ready to give a warning. This time, a worker dropped a tool loudly as a signal. By the time the foreman returned, all he saw was workers diligently going about their tasks.
"Good!" The foreman nodded approvingly. "No drinking during work hours! Several people were already fired this month!"
The factory owner, Bob, a middle-aged bald man, was nicknamed "Torch" by the workers because light would reflect off his shiny head.
"Yes, yes, we're working hard," Sergei responded nonchalantly while wiping the sweat from his face with a towel tied around his waist.
Knowing his supervision was despised, the foreman quickly left the hostile environment after his round.
"Payday is coming! Ivan's turn to treat us," Valentine said to his comrades as the workshop livened up again after the foreman left.
Besides working at Bob's factory, Valentine had also learned some numbers and letters. The factory owners incentivized workers to attend night school with the promise of higher wages for literate skilled workers.
When he heard it was his turn to treat, Ivan's face fell. "Why is it always me?"
"Oh, our dear Ivan is saving up to marry," Igor teased, mimicking Ivan's nasal tone.
"I'm thirty-one! If I don't find a wife soon, I'll be an old man!" Ivan, the oldest of the group, had been working in Baku for years, saving every penny for his wedding.
"And you all are no different!" Ivan shot back.
"I haven't decided yet," Valentine admitted. "I want to work in the city for a few more years."
A year ago, Valentine never imagined he'd leave his hometown and work in a place he'd never heard of. But now, his perspective had completely changed.
Seeing the bustling city life had broadened his horizons. Although he found city folks' obsession with money distasteful compared to the simple interactions of rural life, he now fully understood the importance of money.
"I get it, everything costs money in the city," Ivan said with a wink. "Our Valentine even bought a useless hat!"
Early on, Valentine had been dazzled by the colorful goods in a shop near the factory. Pressured by a sales clerk, he bought a fancy hat that disappeared within days, likely stolen from the communal dormitory. This incident made Valentine lament the hardships of city life, where petty theft was rampant.
"Alright, we all know the struggles of being broke," Sergei said, gulping down some cold water to cool off after finishing his work. "Ivan's saving for a piece of land, a house, and a family."
Sergei voiced the common dream of many workers from rural backgrounds.
"But it's hard to save money here. Meals and drinks cost a lot," Igor complained about the high prices at nearby shops. "And those shopkeepers display everything so nicely, it's hard not to buy something."
On payday, workers liked to treat themselves to a meal and drinks at local eateries, often ending up buying flashy but useless items, falling into the trap of consumerism. Consequently, workers occasionally petitioned the factory owner to remove the nearby shops selling attractive goods to curb impulsive spending.
"Lunch break!"
Literate workers kept an eye on the clock, and as soon as it struck noon, they hurriedly finished their tasks. Leaving on time was a fundamental rule for every worker.
Valentine and his three friends were part of the same lunch buying group, led by Sergei, who negotiated with the factory canteen for group discounts. Many workers banded together for meals to save on costs.
"I've decided, once I save 700 rubles, I'll go home to get married," Ivan said, squatting in the factory shadow with his metal lunch box.
The four of them squatted together, eating their meal of meat soup and boiled potatoes.
"How much do you have now?" Igor asked, swallowing a potato with his soup.
"A bit over four hundred…"
"We can chip in for your wedding, how about 50 rubles each?" Sergei suggested, lifting Ivan's spirits.
"That way, in less than two years, I'll have enough."
"You'll be… thirty-three, still an old guy!" Igor exaggeratedly counted on his fingers.
"Get lost!" Ivan retorted, and the friends shared a laugh before it was time to get back to work.
The afternoon was similar to the morning, but with no more wine, Ivan worked with renewed vigor, his dream giving him hope.
"Fire! Fire!"
Around three in the afternoon, shouts from afar disrupted the workshop's busy scene.
"Fire?"
"What? We need to get out!"
Experienced workers immediately ran upon hearing the alarm, followed by the panicked crowd. The factory, filled with oil, kerosene, and other flammable materials, quickly caught fire, with flames spreading rapidly.
"My savings!" Ivan screamed, running towards the dormitory despite Sergei's attempts to stop him. Valentine, unable to let Ivan risk his life alone, ran after him. But as the wind changed, thick smoke forced Valentine to retreat, tears streaming from his eyes as flames blocked the path.
As he ran, Valentine stumbled upon the supervisors' private quarters, the iron gate left open in the chaos. The flames were inching closer.
Valentine swallowed hard.
"Ivan?"
"No, the fire separated us," Valentine said, clutching his singed coat pocket as Sergei dragged him away from the burning site.
Valentine, who narrowly escaped with luck, never saw Ivan again.