'There's going to be a scene now,' I thought distantly. The woman stopped at the threshold and stared directly at me for a while. Well, I was standing first in line to leave, so I was staring back at her too. She looked around forty, with a tired face and smudged mascara under her eyes. Her hair was in a messy attempt at a teased style, with blonde strands and dark roots. The dark blue coat she was wearing had clearly seen better days. Overall, she was a decent-looking lady if you're into the kind of middle-aged women you'd find in old Soviet movies.
"What's this now? Again?" Astaroth's mother, who had suddenly shrunk down to the size of a scolded teenager, firmly pushed me aside with her shoulder and whacked her wayward son with a wet umbrella.
"Who swore to me that this would never happen again, huh?!" The umbrella flew up again, sending cold droplets flying toward me.
"Mom, the guys just came over, I swear!" Astaroth whined, covering his head with his hands as the blows continued to rain down.
"Just came over and already started smoking, huh?" Her voice had taken on a shrill, hysterical tone. "Oh God, why me?"
The woman dropped a cloth bag, the umbrella, and a cheap faux-leather handbag onto the floor and then sank wearily onto the shoe rack.
"We're leaving now," Astaroth quickly chimed in. "We have a rehearsal, and then we still need to… Hurry up and put on your shoes! Borya, get out of the bathroom already!"
Behemoth clumsily started pulling on his worn-out sneakers but stumbled over a potato that had rolled out of the bag. He would have definitely fallen if the hallway weren't so cramped. Instead, he just leaned heavily against the wall and grabbed onto my T-shirt.
The bathroom latch clicked, and Belphegor's freckled face peeked out.
"Good afternoon, Tatyana Anatolyevna!" he said with the fawning expression of a jackal, and squeezed himself into the hallway with us.
A chaotic scramble ensued as everyone tried to get into their clothes. Astaroth's mother sat with her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"Vova, why are you just standing there?" Astaroth hissed, shoving me toward the open door. "We have a gig today, did you forget?!"
"This isn't right," I said, shaking my head.
Everyone froze and stared at me.
"Vova, we need to go!" Astaroth tried again to push me out the door, but I dodged, and he nearly fell onto his mother.
"Tatyana Anatolyevna, we'll clean everything up and make breakfast," I said, crouching down to gather the groceries scattered on the floor. Then I shot a stern look at my fellow metalheads. "What, didn't you hear me? Take off your shoes!"
"Are you out of your mind?" Astaroth hissed in my ear, grabbing my shoulder. "Let's get out of here before it gets worse!"
"Wrong answer," I said. "Your mom worked all night and is exhausted. And we've turned this place into a dump, like a bunch of lowlifes."
The woman lowered her hands from her face and looked at me in surprise.
"What are you up to, Vova?" she said irritably. "What breakfast?"
"A tasty and nutritious one, Tatyana Anatolyevna," I replied, standing up and glancing at Astaroth. "What's with the face? Get to the kitchen! And take the groceries with you. Let me help you with your coat, Tatyana Anatolyevna."
"I need to get home…" Behemoth mumbled, trying to slip out the door.
"No one's going anywhere, got it?" I said, planting my hands on my hips. Well, more like my bony hands on my skinny hips. I almost burst out laughing, imagining how authoritative I must look right now. But I managed to hold it in, especially since Astaroth took the heavy bag from my hands and trudged to the kitchen.
"Need a personal invitation, Boris?" I smirked, nudging Belphegor on the shoulder. "Grab a rag and start cleaning, fuckers! Sorry for my French, Tatyana Anatolyevna!"
The metalheads kicked off their shoes, grumbling as they shuffled back into the apartment. I could hear their irritated muttering from the other room. I get it; wandering the streets and tormenting innocent musical instruments is a lot more fun than cleaning up after last night's drunken mess.
"Oh please, as if you'll do a decent job cleaning. I'll have to redo it anyway!" Astaroth's mom was still grumbling but with less fire now. She stood up and allowed me to help her remove her coat. I carefully hung the old garment, a relic from the late 20th century, on a wooden hanger and placed it on the rack. Then I picked up the umbrella from the floor.
"Let me hang it up to dry!" the woman fussed.
"I've got it, Tatyana Anatolyevna!" I smiled. "Why don't you take a bath while I make sure everything here sparkles and shines."
I followed the others. It was obvious that none of them were eager to start cleaning. The three of them stood in the middle of the room, grumbling in hushed voices about this unexpected twist.
"What the hell was that all about?!" Astaroth hissed indignantly. "She's going to lose it… Cleaning? We already tidied up!"
"How about we just sneak out while she's in the bath, yeah?" Behemoth—Abaddon, I mean—looked pleadingly at Astaroth, then at me.
"Go ahead and run," I sneered. "But I find it pretty low that your mom has to clean up after us when she's just finished a night shift. Don't you? What about you, Astaroth? Is it normal to leave cigarette butts in tea cups under the table? Here's the deal… Belphegor's on trash duty, Behemoth wipes down surfaces, and Astaroth's on floor patrol."
"Did you just call me that?" Behemoth puffed up, his round face looking even more bloated.
"Who put you in charge anyway?" Belphegor protested, trying to sound tough but already losing confidence. He looked at Astaroth, who was staring at the floor. Dirty, stained, and covered with spilled something that had been halfheartedly wiped up, then sprinkled with cigarette ash, sand, breadcrumbs, and more debris.
"I'll handle the kitchen," I said. "I'll make it spotless and whip up some breakfast. And by the time I'm back, this place better be shining, got it?"
They glared at me in sullen silence. I surveyed the tiny kitchen: a gas stove, a peeling table with a pull-out drawer, covered with a plastic tablecloth that had several long cuts in it—clearly from someone chopping without using a board.
The sink caught my attention. Interesting… Two faucets, just like in posh London houses, with an ancient rubber mixer hose between them. There was a rectangular window leading to the bathroom, painted the same dull grayish-brown as the walls. A trendy designer might call it "cappuccino color." The most colorful thing in the kitchen was the curtains—synthetic, with pink ruffles and large strawberries on a white background. A sight that would probably give that same designer a heart attack. Above the sink hung a drying rack, and in the sink, dishes were piled up haphazardly. That's where I decided to start.
"Is he out of his mind?" one of the metalheads muttered from the room—who, I couldn't tell. "Are we really going to clean?"
"You're so annoying!" Astaroth snapped. Then I turned on the water.
Washing dishes was always my form of meditation. Some people need drums to go into a trance, others need special music or silence. For me, it's the sound of running water and dirty plates.
It's strange that I'm not freaked out by all of this. I should be in pieces, zipped into a black body bag, and carted off to the morgue. But instead, here I am, washing dishes in a shabby Khrushchyovka, hanging out with three metalheads and a middle-aged woman who hasn't given up on finding happiness. I even got those metalheads in line—sounds like they've started rustling around. And I'm… okay with it. Like this is how things should be. The sun rises in the east, water boils at 100 degrees Celsius, and when you get blown up while shielding others from a grenade, you wake up as a scrawny, hairy teenager. With a hangover.
My head still hurts, by the way. In my previous life, I got my first hangover headache at 33. This kid wasn't so lucky.
"We need a bucket and a rag," Belphegor burst into the kitchen. "There should be some under the sink!"
I stepped aside with a satisfied grunt. Well, maybe these "Angels of Satan" aren't completely useless. They stopped complaining and got to work.
The next hour was spent getting the kitchen into decent shape, while I occasionally threw out motivational jabs at my companions in this circle of hell. Surprisingly, Belphegor was the most helpful. The freckled runt handled the rag pretty efficiently—it was clear he'd done this before. Astaroth and Behemoth, on the other hand, mostly shuffled around aimlessly, radiating the confusion of royalty suddenly forced into manual labor. Aristocrats, ha.
The food supplies were pretty sparse. The wall cabinet held a row of transparent containers. One had fine noodles, another grayish round rice, the third buckwheat, and the fourth bay leaves. In the bag, Mom had brought some potatoes, onions, and carrots. Let's see… A loaf of bread… A sliced baguette. A pack labeled "culinary fat." And a triangular milk carton. Wow, they still sell these? It's like a flashback to childhood—when you're sent to the store with a paper ruble to buy a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. And with the change…
I chuckled.
I've never been one for nostalgia. In my opinion, those inconvenient packages were a hassle—I don't get why someone decided to start producing them again.
Alright, time to get started on that promised breakfast. I did a quick check of the fridge. I found some boiled potatoes, half a ring of liverwurst, and a rack of eggs, only eight left out of thirty. There was also a pot with some grayish mass—who knows how long those boiled noodles have been sitting there.
Well, the options are limited. I sliced the boiled potatoes and liverwurst into thin strips. I found a cutting board in the dish rack and a knife in the drawer. Now, a frying pan… Yep, they're usually stored in the bottom drawer of the stove. Bingo!
It's like learning to swim—you never really forget once you've got it. My hands still remember! I stood by the stove, reached out to the windowsill, and—aha!—a box of matches. Struck one, lit the burner… Oh, wait, I need to open the valve on the gas pipe first!
Fwoosh! Blue flames burst to life. The frying pan was well-worn, with walls coated in a thick layer of grease. Heavy, made of cast iron.
Oil? Here it is! A dark yellow liquid in a cloudy bottle. I poured some into the pan, and it immediately started smelling like fried sunflower seeds. It's like stepping back in time. Back then, they used to buy oil in huge containers and pour it into a more convenient bottle. I peeked behind the stove. Sure enough, there's the oil can. There's probably a bag of sugar and a sack of buckwheat stored somewhere nearby too.
Someone's really stuck in the past if they even found one of those vintage milk packages early this morning…
The potatoes and sausage started sizzling as they fried. The smell awakened my stomach, which responded with a heroic growl.
I swallowed my saliva and stirred the contents of the pan with determination. Let it fry while I handle the eggs. Four eggs into a bowl, beat with a fork, add some milk. Salt? Ah, there's the salt shaker…
Perfect.
I admired the still-liquid omelet, rinsed the bowl, and covered the pan with a lid from a large pot. I turned down the heat and took another whiff of the air. It's amazing how hunger can make even the simplest things seem appetizing! I should put on the kettle. I didn't find any coffee among the supplies, but there's tea in an old, worn tin can with a picture of an elephant on it.
Yeah, my grandma had one of these. They used to buy tea in paper packs, whatever was available, and pour it into this can.
I had washed the teapot along with the other dirty dishes. The enamel kettle, yellowed with age, sat on the stove.
When the bathroom latch clicked and Astaroth's mother appeared, wrapped in a threadbare bathrobe with a towel turban on her head, everything was already in order. Well, almost. We hadn't washed the windows, and I hadn't gone into the far room. It looked like Astaroth lived there, while his mother clearly occupied the larger walk-through room and slept on a fold-out couch. She kept her things in the closed cabinet drawers and an old dresser. Living in a walk-through room isn't exactly ideal, especially when you have an oafish son.
"Please, have a seat, Tatyana Anatolyevna!" I pulled out a chair, playing the role of a gallant gentleman. "Breakfast is ready; I'll bring everything over."
There wasn't much to show off. The omelet with pieces of sausage and potatoes didn't exactly look restaurant-quality, and it was slightly burnt.
"You even mopped the floor?" Tatyana Anatolyevna's eyebrows shot up. "What's gotten into you today? Did someone bite you or something?"
"My conscience woke up," I snorted, elbowing Astaroth before he could open his mouth.
"It woke up a bit late," the woman said sarcastically as she picked up her fork. "No thanks needed," I thought. It didn't really matter to me whether she thanked me out loud or not. It was clear enough that she enjoyed the food and was puzzled by the whole situation. But she was one of those people who would rather have facial paralysis than say thank you.
"Did you get the newspapers from the mailbox?" she demanded of Astaroth as she chased the last piece of potato around her plate.
"No, I'll get them now," Astaroth grumbled and hurried out into the hallway. The front door slammed shut.
"Is there anything left to eat?" Behemoth asked. "I've got anemia, you know, I can't sit around hungry…"
"What nonsense are you talking about, what anemia?" Tatyana Anatolyevna grimaced.
"Hand me the plate, I'll wash it," I took the dirty dishes and headed to the kitchen. Behemoth followed me.
"But I really need to…" he muttered, reaching for the frying pan.
"Quiet!" I swatted his chubby hand away. "Eat at home, I said."
The door slammed again. It was Astaroth, returning with the newspapers. Newspapers. It felt like I was in some kind of parallel reality. Who even reads newspapers these days? Although… there must be someone for those newsstands to still be around.
I shoved Behemoth out of the kitchen and closed the door. You can't leave a glutton alone with food. Otherwise, the poor lady of this shabby dwelling would have nothing to eat for breakfast later. Well, when she wakes up, that is.
Astaroth silently, with a significant shake of his unkempt, graying hair, placed a stack of newspapers and a magazine on the table in front of his mother.
At first, I glanced at them casually. Then I looked more closely, not quite believing my eyes.
Then I grabbed the top newspaper. Izvestia. But that wasn't the main thing.
The date, damn it!
October 15, 1991.