"Vova, let's head home, okay?" Belphegor tugged at my sleeve. "The trolleybuses have already started running. Let's go, yeah?"
Wow, it's morning already. The Palace of Culture administration was kind enough not to specify when the rocker party needed to leave, so the concert smoothly transitioned into an after-party. After the third set, they supposedly sent the audience home. But as far as I could tell, not everyone left. In fact, I'd say most of them stayed. You know, close friends and girlfriends of the musicians.
The festival splintered into small groups, and you could say the concerts continued, just now it was all acoustic.
And of course, there were conversations.
People were passionately discussing politics, cheering for Yeltsin, democracy, and freedom. They bashed the communists, the notion of equality, and the old Soviet ways. In other circles, they were waxing philosophical. In others still, they were singing "Everything's Going According to Plan" [2] and "Blood on the Sleeve." [3] And yes, they were drinking. Bottles of cheap booze passed from hand to hand. The rock crowd didn't bother with trivialities like snacks.
To be honest, I didn't even notice when morning arrived. I was genuinely interested. I'd even say I "caught the vibe," got into it, and "tuned in." At first, I approached it with more of an ethnographic curiosity—a study of a foreign social environment, noting status markers, who's in charge, who's sucking up to whom, and even trying to categorize the types for myself. But then I let it go. If you ignore the wild appearances of this crowd, everything was actually pretty heartfelt. They argued, but didn't fight. There were plenty of drunk people, but no one was picking fights. And the girls, yeah…
There were plenty of girls, and they willingly sat on the laps of shaggy rockers of all kinds, letting themselves be groped. And some of them weren't just being groped. Couples would periodically slip away to find dark corners and then return with silly grins on their faces. Basically, it was "make love, not war" all around.
It seemed like Sveta-Clair wouldn't have minded finding a dark corner with me too. But I wasn't ready for that kind of closeness, not with her or anyone else. I just wasn't in the mood. I'm still not used to how young these girls are. A lot of my old classmates started dating younger girls after forty, but I never got into that trend. I've always been the type of person who's more interested in women my own age. Though given the current circumstances, that's kind of a weird paradox. Vova, aka Belial, is an eighteen-year-old punk, but inside his head is another Vova who's fifty. What if Vova-Belial starts going after MILFs now?
Anyway, I pushed those thoughts out of my head for now. I'll think about it some other time.
Belphegor, who was shaking me awake, looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes and smudged makeup on his cheeks. I suspected that after a sleepless night, I didn't look much like a Hollywood star either.
"Let's go, huh?" the redhead repeated.
'So, I wasn't imagining that Belphegor and I are closer than with the others,' I thought. I gently moved Sveta's head off my shoulder.
"I'll call you today," I said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before standing up. I nodded to Belphegor. "What about Astaroth and Behemoth? I mean, Abaddon, of course."
"They're over there," Belphegor pointed toward the stairs, where a loud but incoherent argument was taking place. They were waving their arms and making their points. At the center of it all stood a proud Astaroth. "And Kirill left right after the concert; his mom didn't let him stay late."
We stepped out of the Palace of Culture into the dark autumn morning. Musicians and their supporters were hanging out on the porch, and someone even tried to shove a bottle into our hands. But they weren't too pushy, so we easily dodged the offer and trudged toward the trolleybus stop. The first snowflakes were drifting down from the gloomy sky, and the puddles were coated with a thin layer of gray ice.
"I'm gonna get in trouble with my mom," Belphegor sighed, pulling his short jacket tighter around him. "I promised I'd be home in the evening."
"You really thought you'd leave right after the concert?" I smirked. "Dream on…"
"I didn't think there'd even be a concert," he shrugged. "If you hadn't negotiated it, we wouldn't have gotten in at all. We didn't have money for tickets."
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Oh, come on, like you don't know Sanya by now," Belphegor snorted. "It's just like last time when he promised we'd be the opening act, and what happened in the end?"
"Hmm…" I hummed meaningfully, adopting a thoughtful, philosophical pose. Like I got what he meant.
"I really like Sanya, honestly," Belphegor sighed. "But… I think the whole arrangement with Bankin was just a pipe dream of his. Or maybe he dreamed it up entirely. Because Bankin didn't remember anything like that. I talked to him."
— I've just got one question then, — I smirked. — Why is he still the leader if that's the case?
— I don't know, — Belphegor shrugged. — We've just gotten used to it… And who else? You keep saying you don't have the voice to sing. Although, I think maybe…
A clattering trolleybus rounded the corner, shaking with every part. We climbed onto the rear platform. For a while, we rode in silence. Boris-Belphegor drummed his fingers on the railing as if playing his keys, while I… I slowly mulled over my thoughts.
After a sleepless night, my brain was working in a strange mode. It kept showing me disjointed fragments of memories, with faces popping up now and then. Today at the festival, I had a few odd moments of recognition when I spotted familiar and half-familiar faces. That punk with the crooked mohawk will one day become a father of many and the commercial director of a shopping mall. And that skinny redheaded girl with smudged makeup will magically turn into a top-notch lawyer.
Another conversation came to mind from my past life. Or should I say, future life? About how in the '90s, the show business was a real goldmine. The spectacle-starved inhabitants of the Soviet Union were hungry for anything and spent money on artists even during the leanest times. Because you can't live without joy.
"You can't live without joy," I said out loud.
"Huh?" Belphegor sleepily perked up.
"I was just thinking that maybe I should handle organizing our concerts…" I said, watching a Lada "Zhiguli" trail behind our trolleybus. 'Twenty-eight plus seventy-four equals one hundred and two,' my brain automatically calculated.
"Listen…" Belphegor's eyes lit up. "You did such a great job today, I never expected…"
"Just a flash of inspiration," I laughed. "A broken arm adds brains."
'I wonder how this all looked from my friends' perspective today?' I thought. 'I must be acting differently, not quite like Vova-Belial…'
But Belphegor didn't seem concerned about that at all. The idea of me taking charge of promoting the band was clearly fine by him. He even seemed more awake now.
"…and then, you know, we could try playing some of my songs too," he was excitedly saying. "I like Sanya's stuff, but his last three songs have all been pretty similar. And we need to evolve!"
"We'll definitely play them," I promised. "When's our next rehearsal?"
"Saturday," Belphegor responded enthusiastically. "Oh, and you know what? Do you remember Yurila Brykin?"
"Mmm," I both nodded and shook my head at the same time, but the redhead didn't notice.
"He plays the trumpet," he continued. "And a bit of guitar too. If we add rhythm guitar and a trumpet, it'd be awesome! Oh, this is our stop, we have to get off!"
We hurriedly jumped out of the moving trolleybus and continued on foot. The whole way, the now-energized Belphegor was bursting with creative thoughts and ideas. I listened carefully. Not even pretending. A vague idea that had been haunting me since last night was starting to take shape. Show business, yeah. I thought the best choice would be to ditch my headbanger friends, get a normal haircut, and do something useful to make the most of living through the '90s again. But I didn't have any brilliant ideas. Getting into the security business during the crime wave of various organized crime groups wasn't appealing. But show business…
I don't know much about it, of course, but the '90s is a time when NOBODY really knew much about it. So…
"Hey, Vova?" Belphegor nudged me. "Got your head in the clouds? That's your building over there!"
We stopped between two high-rise buildings. The other buildings on Dostoevsky Street were student dorms, but these two had proper apartments. They used to be faculty housing, apparently, though that changed sometime in the '80s. Each building had a single entrance, facing each other. Belphegor waved goodbye and headed to building seventeen. I was left with building fifteen, which meant my registered address matched where I was actually living.
I climbed up to the fifth floor on foot, just to get a feel for the place. On the second floor, I ran into a grumpy woman holding a fluffy white dog. She gave me a disapproving look. My "Good morning!" nearly made her recoil and cross herself.
Well, here goes… The moment of truth. Here's my apartment—number thirty-three. And the set of keys.
I stood in front of the door for a minute, counting the beats of my own heart. I realized I was actually nervous. It's one thing talking to random people, but this is my family. They've known Vova-Belial since he was born. What if they recognize I'm not really him?
"Stop overthinking," I told myself as I picked out the right key. "I'm just a teenager after all. Parents usually know their teenage kids far less than their friends do. So they probably won't notice anything. The worst I'll get is a scolding for staying out for two nights. Or more—who knows…"
The door opened smoothly. A wave of warmth and the smell of fresh coffee hit me from inside the apartment. There were also all sorts of delicious aromas. I stepped into the hallway and took a look around. Hmm, it seems my family isn't struggling financially at all… At least there's nothing here that screams "grandma's outdated decor." The wallpaper had embossed patterns in soft pastel tones, there was a frosted milky-white wall sconce, and the furniture was made of real wood, likely custom-made—I've never seen anything like it before. From the kitchen, along with the intoxicating scent of coffee and fresh pastries, came the faint hum of a TV.
Phew. Hopefully, my assumptions were right, and I've got a good relationship with my parents.
I kicked off my boots, hung my jacket in the closet, and headed to the kitchen. I couldn't resist the smell of food, especially since I hadn't eaten anything all day.
As I walked through, I noticed the apartment was quite large—four rooms in total. The renovation was recent; there was even a stepladder and a few rolls of wallpaper still in the hallway corner. The kitchen…
"Good morning, night owl," said a cheerful woman sitting at the table. She had an elegant short haircut and a slender figure. She wasn't looking at me or at the small black-and-white TV on the fridge. She was sipping coffee from a delicate porcelain cup, with an open butter dish holding a yellow slab of butter and a plate of buns in front of her. In her hands was a book she was absorbed in: Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind.
"Morning, Mom," I said.
"Want breakfast?" she asked, turning a page.
"If I don't eat, I'll die of hunger," I admitted honestly and made a move to sit down on the stool.
"Not with dirty hands!" Mom chided me, casually, without a hint of harshness in her voice.
"Right!" I smacked my forehead and headed to the bathroom.
It was clear here too that we were doing well. The tiles had a subtle golden pattern, and the plumbing was definitely not the standard domestic kind. There was even an automatic washing machine—a Soviet "Vyatka," not an imported "Indesit," but still, getting one of those wasn't easy back in the day. Honestly, I would've loved to strip off my smoky clothes and jump in the shower, but if I did that, I might miss the chance to chat with Mom. Judging by the fact that she wasn't in a housecoat but rather an elegant pantsuit and wearing makeup, she was getting ready to head out.
So I unwrapped the now frayed bandage on my hand, set aside the ruler that was acting as a splint, and flexed my fingers a few times. There were bruises on the back of my hand, but it was manageable. Not broken—thankfully, just bruised.
I washed my hands and went back to the kitchen.
"There's still some coffee left," Mom said, nodding toward the stove. "Your father will make a fresh pot when he wakes up. What happened to your hand?"
"Caught it in the door at rehearsal," I said. I opened a random cabinet above the sink. Got it right. I took another cup from the dish rack. Poured coffee from the Moka pot. It was almost enough to fill the cup.
"If you want something more substantial, there's some sausage in the fridge," Mom said, finally lifting her eyes to me. "How's everything going with your band?"
"The guys performed at "Rock Province" today," I said. "I couldn't because of my hand, but I was really rooting for them!"
"How did they do?" Mom's face showed a cool but genuinely kind interest.
"Not bad," I nodded and opened the fridge. 'This was a good time to drop by…' The thought popped into my head by itself. Wow, I'm not sure what my parents do, but we're definitely not struggling. The fridge was full, with two kinds of sausage—salami and bologna. On the top shelf was a tray of some cooked food, probably for the day. There were apples and grapes, vegetables… greens… cheese… Milk in a glass pitcher. Damn, I might faint from hunger!
I grabbed a chunk of bologna, took a cutting board off the wall, and a knife… Probably in this drawer. Nope, wrong one. In the next one. Got it… The bread was in a wooden bread box. Half a loaf of rye and a baguette.
I sliced off a piece of sausage and some bread. I grabbed a flat plate—I wasn't sure what the usual practice here was, but my mom would have definitely smacked me if I started making crumbs on the table just like that.
"By the way, since you're here," Mom said, her eyes back in the book. "Can you help me with the guys tomorrow afternoon? We need to load some goods into the car, like last time."
"Of course, no problem!" I agreed enthusiastically and bit into the sandwich. So far, it seemed like I hadn't messed up. At least, Mom didn't look surprised or confused. Though, it seemed like she was lost in her own thoughts. Goods? Interesting… So, is she a businesswoman?
"Alright, I need to get going! You'll wash the dishes," Mom glanced at the clock and stood up. She put the book on top of the TV, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Ew, you reek of smoke!"
"It wasn't me, it was the guys smoking nearby," I chuckled.
"Oh, sure, keep making excuses!" she chuckled too and ruffled my hair. "And your hair's dirty. If you're going to grow it out, at least take care of it! By the way, I bought you a new comb and left it in your room. Tamara praised it a lot, and you know how thick her hair is. It should work for yours too. Alright, I'm off!"
Mom left the kitchen. I exhaled in relief, realizing just now how tense I'd been. I didn't want to disappoint such an awesome mom. I got lucky!
The front door closed, and the elevator hummed as it was called.
I jumped off the stool and dashed to the fridge. On one hand, I felt really guilty, but I was so hungry that it drowned out all other emotions. One sausage sandwich wasn't going to cut it.
"Hey, Vovka!" came a man's voice. "Starving, huh? Heat some up for me too, those buns are just snacks, we'll have them for dessert later, okay?"