Svetlana's heels clattered urgently down the hallway, and I could barely keep up with her pace. She kept turning back to me, rambling all the while.
"You see, the band 'Fern' has arrived!" She gave me a wide-eyed look like I was supposed to know exactly who that was. "From Moscow, you understand? They're the opening act, but there's a mess in the bathroom—Goose is lying there, puking, and someone smashed the toilet. It's a disaster… So I locked it up and put a sign saying it's out of order. But the guys still need to… you get it?"
"Yeah, people need a place, of course," I nodded.
"No, you don't get it!" She stopped and jabbed me in the chest with her fist. "They are writers and publishers of a magazine! And they're definitely going to write about their experience at Rock Province in Projector. Do you get what they'll write if they see…? Are you going to help or not?"
"I'd be happy to, Sveta," I smiled, "but I don't see how I'm supposed to fix this situation."
"Just take 'Fern' to 'Kinevskie Zori'?" she pleaded. "I would do it myself, but I'm swamped!"
"Oh, that's it?" I sighed with relief. "Of course, no problem."
"I'll let you out through the staff exit and lock it behind you," she said, hurrying away, her heels stamping against the floor. "I'll give you the key. Don't go near the main entrance; it's packed right now."
The band "Fern" was important enough to get their own room instead of being stuck with everyone else in the main dressing room. The place looked like it used to be some kind of craft club back in the day, probably for making embossed wall art, based on the remnants still adorning the walls.
"Guys, this is Vova!" Svetlana announced, pointing at me. "He'll show you the way."
"A savior!" one of the "guys" declared with dramatic flair, raising his arms.
Ah, I think I even recognize them! The band "Fern" looked like typical hippies—flower children, au naturel. Extremely flared pants, long hair tied back with headbands, colorful shirts decorated with tassels and ribbons, and beaded bracelets up to their elbows. The one who called me a savior wore glasses, either trying to channel John Lennon or genuinely nearsighted.
A friend of mine, a huge fan of Russian rock, once mentioned this band and even let me listen to some of their music. It wasn't bad—melodic ethno-rock, though the vocals were a bit bland. They'd been popular in certain circles since the late '80s, but I wasn't part of those circles. They broke up in the early 2000s, with some members moving to an obscure country—either Indonesia or Sri Lanka—and then they vanished from the scene. But here, at Rock Province, they were practically superstars. Straight from Moscow, no less!
Svetlana handed me the key and hurried off. I waved to the "Fern" group, figuring that since they needed a bathroom, long pleasantries were unnecessary.
"Vova…" the glasses-wearing guy said in a sing-song voice. He drew out the words like he was reading fairy tales to slow-thinking kids. "That means you were named Vladimir at birth… But it also means that you didn't choose your own name… May I ask if there's another name that more truly reflects your inner essence and life's purpose?"
For a moment, I was thrown off by his flowery speech, but quickly realized he was asking for my nickname.
"Belial," I answered shortly. I locked the staff entrance and started down the stairs. The guys from "Fern" moved sluggishly, like they were wading through water.
"Be-li-al…" the bespectacled guy echoed in a chant. "A fearsome demon temptation, father of lies and deceit, sower of discord between brothers and sisters, husbands and wives…"
"What happened to your hand?" the second long-haired guy cut in. He spoke just as slowly and deliberately. Maybe it was just their style, how they got in the zone before performing. Or maybe it was the result of some "herbal supplements"—like, "I've dried out this herbarium, want to try some?" I didn't judge, though I'd never touched drugs myself, not even during the wildest moments of my life.
"A gangster's bullet," I smirked. "Actually just caught it in the door, so I can't play today—had to find a replacement."
"It's truly a tragedy when the transience of existence hinders the flow of creative freedom," the guy with glasses declared.
I knew the restaurant "Kinevskie Zori." It was always a notorious dive. Back when I was a proud Soviet Pioneer with a passion for aquariums, I'd go to the "Kolhoz Market" nearly every week. I'd buy food for my guppies and swordtails, maybe pick up some more fish, snails, plants, or handmade gadgets for the aquarium crafted by local enthusiasts. On Saturdays, the market reserved a whole section for aquarium hobbyists.
And, of course, I saw "Kinevskie Zori" as well. But the word "restaurant" didn't fit with the bleak Soviet-era apartment blocks, warehouses, and drab industrial zone around it. "Novokinevsk Restaurant"? That made sense—right in the city center, occupying the entire first floor of the namesake hotel. Travelers step off the train, and boom—there's bread and salt for you. "Central Restaurant"? Also logical. It's right on Soviets Square, next to the department store, regional government building, and Lenin's statue pointing the way. But here? What kind of restaurant could possibly be here? At best, a cafeteria…
I asked my parents this very question. Mom, as usual, brushed me off. But Dad said something strange that I didn't quite grasp at the time: "Well, even dirty money needs somewhere to be spent…"
It was just a short walk from the "Chemists" building to "Kinevskie Zori." Cross the little park where the House of Culture stood, and voilà—the restaurant. The only source of light in the entire district. It took up the ground floor of a gray five-story building, with a "shop window" facing the street. The flashy letters on the sign were supposed to be lit up, but that idea had long been forgotten, so they were barely visible. I only knew what they looked like because I'd seen them before. Huge windows were partly obscured by curtains, but through the gaps, you could glimpse the current "good life" inside. And hear it too.
You're a sailor girl, I'm a sailor
You're a fisher girl, I'm a fisher
You're on the land, I'm in the sea
We'll never meet no way - blared out into the street. [1]
"We're like covert spies in enemy territory," the guy with glasses said dreamily.
"Let's just hope it doesn't turn into reconnaissance in force," I laughed and grabbed the door handle. Hopefully, the restroom is before the dining hall, because our scruffy bunch would look as out of place in this "noble estate" of the Novokinevsk backstreets as a tuxedo on a Lenin statue.
The heavy door creaked open, letting us into the restaurant's "foyer," decked out with ornate carved wood paneling. The décor was still Soviet, and quite worn. In some spots, I even spotted bullet marks with my practiced eye.
Scanning the room, I was pleased to find the familiar sign of two schematic figures—one with a rectangular torso and the other with a trapezoidal one.
"Alright, move it, guys," I commanded, pointing the way. "Before they catch on."
And the band "Fern" trotted across the lobby, hair swaying, under the bewildered gaze of the sleepy coat check lady.
"Where do you think you're going?" she shrieked like a siren. Luckily, the door shut behind the last musician just in time.
"Don't worry, ma'am, everything's under control," I smiled. Then, in a lower voice, I added, "We're here on Ivan Stepanovich's orders…"
"What Ivan Stepanovich?" she croaked.
"What? You don't know Ivan Stepanovich?" I widened my eyes in mock surprise.
"Well, uh… they didn't warn me…" she stammered, blinking rapidly. Then she leaned out of her little booth and hollered, "Misha! Miiiisha!"
Great, just what we needed—some Misha. Who even is this guy, a bouncer?
Honestly, Svetlana really pulled one over on me. "Take them to 'Kinevskie Zori,'" she said, "since we've got Goose throwing up everywhere and the toilet's been smashed." Like it's nothing. "Kinevskie Zori" was a crime hub back when the whole country was still singing about the unbreakable Soviet Union and cracking jokes about Brezhnev's eyebrows. They'd have been better off going behind a bush—at least there, they wouldn't risk catching a stray bullet. Probably.
"What's going on here?" Out of the hall, clattering with glassware and blasting yet another pop hit butchered by the local cover band, came a short, balding man in a crooked bow tie. Balding almost to the back of his head, a belly barely contained by a strained jacket—clearly not a bouncer, more like some administrator. "Larisa Gennadyevna, what's all the noise?"
"Absolutely nothing to worry about," I stepped forward before she could start complaining. "Just a minor incident involving some notable figures of the cultural scene, so we had to make use of your fine establishment's facilities. You could say you've just saved a luminary of global importance."
"What on earth…" The old-school cloakroom attendant was so outraged, she almost choked.
"Tell me, Mikhail… what's your surname" I threw a friendly arm around the balding administrator.
"Georgievich," he responded automatically, eyeing me with a bewildered expression. Honestly, I get it. If some punk kid came up and tried to hug me, I'd be just as stunned—and might even take a swing at him, after the shock wore off.
"Mikhail Georgievich, have you ever dreamed of doing something great in life?" I asked in the same sing-song tone the guy with glasses often used. "To touch the sublime, as they say? To preserve cultural heritage or leave your mark on art?"
"I don't understand," he blinked rapidly, trying to pry my arm off his shoulder. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
"They're in the restroom…" the cloakroom lady started waving her hands.
"One day, the great teacher Don Juan approached a river," I began in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close to the still-confused Misha. "On the shore sat three fishermen. One was throwing stones into the water, the second was staring at his reflection, and only the third held a fishing rod. When they saw Don Juan, they fell to their knees and wailed, wringing their hands. 'This is a cursed river, great teacher! There are no fish here! We'll starve and die in poverty!' Don Juan spread his arms wide, the river parted, and there on the riverbed lay fish. Slapping their tails and making sounds like this: 'Glup! Glup!' The fishermen screamed, 'Fish! Fish!' and rushed forward to grab the catch with their bare hands. Don Juan clapped his hands, and the waters closed."
I paused briefly to catch my breath. The main thing now was not to burst out laughing. The bullshit I was spewing was unbelievable! It felt like I was high on whatever the guys from "Fern" were inhaling in their downtime. But I had to keep talking to hold the attention of these nosy restaurant watchdogs, preventing them from chasing our rock stars from Moscow out of the restroom with wet rags. So I just kept rambling.
"You think Don Juan wanted to kill those poor souls?" I raised a finger dramatically. "Of course not! The river was shallow, and the closing waters barely reached their waists. 'Idiots!' Don Juan told the drenched fishermen. 'I wasn't going to do all the work for you; I just showed you the goal!' He turned and walked away. And the three fishermen kept chasing him for a long time, leaving wet footprints behind…"
"That's brilliant…" the guy with glasses said in awe, standing in the restroom doorway.
"Who the hell are you people, anyway?" the administrator shouted, pushing me away finally done with my drivel. That's when I couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.
"Get the fuck out of here! Right now! Or I'm calling security!" Misha fumed. The long-haired rockers from "Fern" burst out of the restroom. They might have looked a bit out of it, but they'd been rock musicians since Soviet times, so they understood the "get out fast" command perfectly. Laughing and bouncing along, they skirted around the raging Misha, made faces at the cloakroom lady, and all of us spilled out into the dark street. I was the last one to leave. I couldn't help but notice suspiciously non-tobacco-smelling smoke wafting out of the restroom.
"Apologies for the disturbance," I said with a mock bow and quickly shut the door.
"Were you guys smoking in there?" I asked.
"You see, Belial…" the guy with glasses placed a hand on my shoulder. "When we entered this hostile place, I realized I simply had to… no, was obligated to leave some kind of mark here. Resorting to vulgarity and writing on the walls is just bad taste."
"Plus, we didn't have any paint on us," the second one added.
"Ah, got it," I nodded. "So it wasn't just smoking. It was a sort of ritual purification of the 'Kinevskie Zori' restroom from the taint of pop music!"
"You're pretty cool," the guy with glasses said with respect after we finished laughing. "What's your band called?"
"Angels of Satan" I replied. "We're playing in the second set."
"You know, Belial, if I were just a polite hypocrite, I'd say I'll definitely listen to your music," he said, looking me straight in the eyes with a sly smile. "But I'm an honest guy, and I can't lie, even to the lord of deceit. By the time the second set rolls around, I plan to be in a completely altered state of consciousness. So…"
He exchanged a knowing glance with the rest of "Fern." Then he looked back at me.
"We messed up our train tickets, so we're stuck in Novokinevsk for three more days," he said almost normally, without the mystical tone. "And a local artist is hosting a private concert in his apartment the day after tomorrow. Just for friends and trusted people. And I officially invite you, Belial, to join us."
"Alone? Or with my guys?" I asked.
"That's for you to decide," the bespectacled guy gave me a patronizing pat on the shoulder. "I'd be happy to see you; we're clearly on the same wavelength. As for bringing anyone else… Think it over. If you believe they'd be welcomed, then bring them along."
"Got it," I smirked, and for some reason thought of Belphegor. The eternally hungry Behemoth and Astaroth, with his hysterical attitude and inflated ego, probably didn't fit under the category of "someone who'd be welcomed." But our redhead—he's a charming and harmless guy.
We walked up to the service entrance. I fumbled in my pocket for the key and unlocked the door. I escorted "Fern" to their little room; their bespectacled leader dragged me inside, flipped through his notebook for a while until he found the contact he needed, tore out the page, and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.
"The higher powers tell me that our trip to the restroom has left an indelible mark on the tablets of history," he said with dramatic flair. "See you the day after tomorrow, if we don't cross paths in the chaos of the festival before then."
I stepped out of "Fern's" room and took out the piece of paper from my pocket. Montazhnikov Street, building thirty, apartment twenty-nine. And a six-digit phone number. Shutikhin Gennady Lvovich.
Yeah, this must be the artist who's hosting the private gig. And the address… Right, that's the high-rise at the roundabout with the massive windows up top—it's probably the art studio. I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my passport for safekeeping. In any time and place, connections are the most valuable thing in this world. And that bespectacled guy… That's when I realized I had no idea what his name was. He didn't introduce himself because, well, who doesn't know the lead singer of "Fern"? And that guy in the patchwork vest playing the flute for him… I should check out the "Rock Province" brochure I saw lying around in the dressing room—probably has all the names, surnames, and nicknames listed.
"Where have you been?!" Astaroth pounced on me the moment I opened the dressing room door. I almost recoiled when I saw his face smeared with black streaks, but then I quickly remembered—it's just makeup.
"Had to help Claire with something," I shrugged. What's up?
The dressing room was more crowded now, people practically sitting on each other's laps. Someone was strumming innocently on a guitar, a group in the center passed around a bottle, smoke hung thick in the air, and the lights on the ceiling floated in a tobacco haze.
"Helping just about anyone with their problems!" Astaroth scoffed. "We're the ones with the problem, don't you get it?!"