"Please, don't go, okay?" Lena said, sobbing. "I'm... I'm scared to be alone. My mom works nights, and every time she's not here, I invite one of my friends to stay over..."
"Well, what am I going to do with you?" I sighed. "Alright, here's the deal. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, and then I'll head home. Agreed?"
"Maybe..." Lena looked at me with pleading eyes, which, combined with her smeared makeup, made her look quite dramatic. "Alright, fine..."
She leaned on the toilet and stood on unsteady feet.
"I need to wash up..." she mumbled.
I went back to the living room and sat in the armchair. Well, this probably isn't the Lena that Vova-Belial had a thing for. She's likely one of Lariska's classmates. Then again, who knows? People are full of mysteries. It's pretty common for one of a sister's friends to fall for her older brother. And maybe the brother could develop a crush on one of his sister's friends too. I might see her as a kid because I'm in my fifties now, but objectively speaking, she's pretty. Vova-Belial could easily have been attracted to her. The age difference isn't that big.
I had to wait about ten minutes for Lena. With nothing better to do, I took the dishes to the kitchen, rinsed the decanter and glasses, and put the plate with sandwiches in the short "Saratov" fridge, which was covered in transfer stickers. Then I returned to the armchair.
She reappeared, wrapped from head to toe in a pink terry robe, her hair tied up, her cute little face free of its "battle makeup." Her eyes were red and swollen, but that was much less unflattering than the eyeliner up to her ears and the garish pink blush on her cheeks.
Her room turned out to be the one that had been locked. It was almost identical to my sister's, except Lena had a lot of potted plants. It was practically a greenhouse. Plants hung from shelves, bloomed on the windowsill, and climbed a trellis on the wall. Otherwise, it had the same setup: a couch, a wardrobe, a desk, a bookshelf, and colorful posters of Presnyakov, Malikov, and some other "star boys."
On the made bed, next to the pillow, lay a well-worn plush bunny. How cute!
Lena no longer tried to act like a femme fatale. She seemed reluctant to even think about it. Under her robe, she wore a very puritanical flannel pajama set. She tried not to look at me. She climbed under the blanket and hugged the toy.
"So, should I tell you a bedtime story?" I smirked, sitting down on a chair next to her.
"Are you making fun of me?" Lena asked plaintively.
"Not at all," I winked. "I'd love to hear a bedtime story right now, but I doubt anyone will tell me one."
"It all turned out so stupid, didn't it?" Lena sighed shortly and buried her nose in her bunny's belly.
"Forget about it, these things happen," I chuckled. "Just tell me, why are you friends with her?"
"With who? Nadya?" Lena raised her eyebrows in surprise. "She's actually fun. She always comes up with something. It's never boring with her."
"Yeah, lots of fun," I snorted. "Alright, go to sleep already. Should I turn off the light?"
"I don't turn it off, I'm afraid to sleep in the dark," Lena said, sticking her hand out from under the blanket. "There's a thing over there... next to the bedside lamp. Can you cover it, please?"
I draped a dark blue velvet cloth over the square bedside lamp, and the room was enveloped in a mysterious twilight.
"Good night, Lena," I said.
"Are you leaving already?!" she whispered fearfully.
"I promised to wait until you fell asleep," I sighed and sat back down on the chair.
"I don't think I can fall asleep at all tonight..." she trailed off, falling asleep mid-sentence. Her breathing became steady and deep, her face peaceful and almost childlike.
I quietly got up, left her apartment, and headed home. Although I first had to fiddle with the lock to make sure it clicked shut. Couldn't leave her sleeping in an unlocked apartment.
"Vova!" someone whispered urgently and shook my shoulder insistently. "Vova, wake up for a minute, I need to get to work!"
"What? Where?" I jolted awake, struggling to remember who I was and where I was. I had been dreaming something hazy, about horned demons playing bright pink guitars. And girls in Japanese school uniforms dancing in the background. When I finally emerged from the fog of sleep, it took me a few seconds to figure out what was going on, until my eyes landed on the painted faces of the band "Kiss" on a poster illuminated by light from the partially open door.
"You can go back to sleep afterward," Mom whispered. "It's only half-past seven in the morning. I just wanted to check. Should we expect you and the guys today?"
"Oh…" I rubbed my eyes. "Okay, I think I remember. We need to help unload something. What time do we need to be there and where?"
"Are you still not awake? Be at the entrance by two o'clock, like always," Mom said. "Nikolai Ivanovich will let you in."
"Got it, yeah," I nodded sleepily. "Two o'clock at NZMA. I'll call the guys now…"
"Great, I'll be off then," Mom gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Have a good day. Breakfast is on the table."
She quickly left the room, closing the door behind her. I laid my head back on the pillow. I stayed like that for a bit, feeling every muscle in my body. I listened to Lariska stomping around in her room. Something fell to the floor and rolled away. There was an angry, indistinct mutter. Well, that makes sense. She's getting ready for school and is almost late, so everything's slipping out of her hands.
The front door slammed. Mom left. A few minutes later, it slammed again—Lariska was gone.
I turned onto my side, closed my eyes, and tried to go back to sleep. But I realized I was fully awake. And the thought of breakfast was more tempting than the unfinished dream about demons and schoolgirls.
So, I got out from under the blanket and went to wash up.
The last to arrive at the factory gates was a gloomy Astaroth. He had tried to convince me over the phone that he was too busy and couldn't make it this time because… He couldn't come up with a reason and ended up rambling, but then he got confused and just said he'd come. Now, he was making it clear with every step how much we had interrupted his important plans with our nonsense. At least he didn't start whining, or we'd have had to give him a little attitude adjustment.
Uncle Kolya let us onto the premises this time without any snarky comments about our hairstyles. I guess my mom has some pull… Oh, speaking of which! I need to tell her about the doctor; she did ask. And I promised.
To avoid asking dumb questions like 'Where should we go?', I just fell back a bit. Since this wasn't the first time we'd apparently done this, my slacker friends knew exactly where we needed to go. And it worked out. While I was pretending to tie a loose shoelace, Astaroth and Behemoth headed toward the part of the factory grounds where I'd noticed some activity last time.
Next to a brick warehouse stood an old van with the word "watch" on the side.
We went into the building and stopped at the entrance. I looked around curiously. So, this is what the source of our family's livelihood looks like… Inside the former heated warehouse were about a dozen industrial sewing machines, with women of various ages working at them, concentrating hard as they pressed the pedals. They were wearing aprons and headscarves. It looked like a scene straight out of a Soviet newsreel about hard-working seamstresses. I spotted Mom right away—she was standing with three other women at the cutting table, where a pair of jeans was being taken apart piece by piece.
"Mom!" I shouted over the clatter of the sewing machines and waved my hand.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming!" Mom waved back, gave a few more instructions, and hurried over to us. "Hi, kids. So, here's the deal: you need to move the fabric from the van into the warehouse, and then load the goods from the warehouse into the van. Got it?"
"Of course, Aunt Valya!" Belfegor answered cheerfully before I could. "By the way, Mom asked me to give you something…"
The redheaded keyboardist pulled a couple of grayish slips of paper out of his pocket that looked like tickets.
"Are these for 'The Ides of March'?" Mom gasped and impulsively hugged Belfegor. "You're my darling!"
"Just don't tell anyone I got you tickets, or everyone will try to pester mom for more," Belfegor said conspiratorially.
"I thought I'd never get to see Vakhtangov," Mom's face lit up with joy. "There are no tickets left, neither at the box office nor from scalpers."
"Shh!" Belfegor narrowed his eyes. "We're the mafia! We always find something for the family."
'Belfegor's mom works at the city drama theater,' I mentally added to my dossier. 'I forgot to note that, gotta add it.'
You'd think moving some fabric wouldn't be that hard, right? But the rolls turned out to be a lot heavier than expected. Especially the dark blue denim ones. Those seemed to weigh a ton. It took at least three of us scrawny guys to lift one of those. Two wasn't enough.
The finished products were easier to handle—they were packed in soft bundles, which were bulky but not heavy.
At first, I thought my mom was involved in something illegal. You know, like counterfeiting clothes under foreign brands. Local seamstresses doing the sewing, and then slapping on an Adidas logo or something. But no, nothing like that. In fact, there was even a sign at the warehouse entrance.
"Sewing Cooperative 'Butterfly.'"
And every item had a corresponding label. With a blue butterfly and small letters. It seemed my mom was one of those people who didn't miss the Cooperative Law in the USSR somewhere in the late eighties. And that's why she's doing pretty well now. She took advantage of the factory's facilities, where she used to work. Maybe I should ask her sometime how she managed to pull it off, it's pretty interesting…
I was dragging a sack of women's plaid wool skirts. And there was a very important thought spinning in my head. Cooperatives… Entrepreneurship… The year ninety-one… Price liberalization…
But then Behemoth, charging toward me like a tank, crashed into me, and I lost my train of thought.
We finished the loading and unloading work in about an hour. Mom pulled me aside and slipped a few bills into my hand.
"Here, this is for your work," she said quietly. Then she discreetly placed a few more crinkling bills into my other hand. "And this is for your pocket money. Just don't tell your father, or he'll be upset."
"Thanks, Mom," I said. I didn't even think of refusing—obviously. But I promised myself I'd definitely pay my amazing mom back someday. Not because I had to, that would be silly. Just because I wanted her to be proud of me. Wow, this metalhead got such a fantastic mom! She doesn't nag, doesn't mess with my head, she's beautiful, and fun. — "Hey, I was talking to the paramedic the other day. You know, when I hurt my hand. With that, um… I realized I didn't ask for her name… Tatiana… Svetlana…"
"Tonya?" Mom guessed, nodding toward the building where we rehearsed.
"Yeah, I think so," I said. "She says they haven't been paid for three months, but she knows how to sew. Maybe you could help her out… I didn't promise her anything, just said I'd pass it along. So, I'm passing it along."
"Alright," Mom nodded seriously. "Good people are always needed, especially good ones. I'll drop by to see her today, thanks, Vova."
"Mom, feel free to ask me for help anytime," I said. "I'm just hanging around doing nothing anyway, so at least I'd be useful."
"I will!" Mom laughed and ruffled my hair. "Now go on, I've got tons of stuff to do!"
I handed out our pay outside the gates.
"We're living large!" Behemoth's eyes gleamed with joy. "How about we hit 'Lakomka'? I'm starving already…"
"All you think about is food!" Astaroth snapped. "I'm all for not spending money and putting it toward a new amp."
"The old one's still working," Behemoth grumbled, hurriedly stuffing the bills into his pocket before Astaroth could snatch them.
"How's your hand?" Astaroth changed the subject, glancing at my wrist, which was wrapped in an elastic bandage.
"Not good," I said, feigning gloom. "No fracture, but my fingers won't bend all the way. The traumatologist said the nerves might be damaged."
To illustrate my point, I raised my hand to eye level and wiggled my fingers as if trying to make a fist, but couldn't manage it.
"So Kiryuha will have to play for now," I sighed. "He seems to be doing alright."
"Yeah, he's a good guy," Behemoth agreed. "Too bad about your hand… When will it heal?"
"Who knows," I shrugged. "Mom promised to take me to some specialist if it doesn't get better in a month. We'll see."
We walked down the sidewalk toward the city center. My friends chatted, discussing some acquaintances and possible plans for the day. Most of the conversation revolved around deciding whose place we could crash at. They debated three options—going to Dyne's place in the Western District, dropping in on Borzhich at the "madhouse," or hanging out in "Mordor."
From the details they mentioned, I gathered that Dyne was a chick named Tanya who lived in a private house near the Alekseevsky Cemetery and was always happy to have guests. But people mostly liked to visit her in the summer when they could build a fire in the nearby woods and roast kebabs. Or toast bread, depending on the presence or absence of money and meat.
The "madhouse" was the nickname for a rundown Stalin-era building at the intersection of Lenin Avenue and Southwest Street. It had housed a marginal communal apartment for as long as anyone could remember, and Borzhich rented one of the rooms. The place was called a "madhouse" for a reason. There were no strict housewives keeping things in order or posting duty rosters; it was a haven for all sorts of drunks, ex-cons, and other socially unacceptable types. Like us. You could show up there anytime with any amount of booze. And Borzhich was the lead singer of one of Novokinyev's rock bands.
As for "Mordor," that was the hangout spot for fans of the English writer Tolkien. The kind who liked to dress up as his characters and act like they were not of this world. They had a leader, who was also the owner of a huge apartment somewhere on the outskirts. That place was also welcoming to rock musicians who dropped by, especially if they didn't come empty-handed. So basically, when you've got money, your options are pretty wide.
"Ah, but we can't go to Borzhich's place today," said Behemoth, slapping his forehead.
"Why not?" Astaroth asked, surprised.
"He won't be home" Behemoth paused and stared at the sign of the "Snezhnika" cafe, which we were passing by.
"Where will he be?" Astaroth nudged him.
"At a private concert at "Fern's" place," Behemoth snapped out of his daydream about delicious and unhealthy food.
"Oh, I didn't know! Maybe we should go there instead?" Astaroth perked up. "Where's the concert?"
"No one knows, the location is secret," Behemoth sighed. "It's invite-only."
"Who told you about the concert then?" Astaroth pressed Behemoth, narrowing his eyes. "And why didn't you mention it earlier?"
"Borzhich told me…" Behemoth stammered. "I ran into him at the store this morning."
Astaroth began interrogating Behemoth, suspicious that he might be hanging out somewhere without the band. 'Yep, it's because of people like you, Astaroth, that these private concerts are kept secret,' I thought, and discreetly nudged Belphegor with my elbow. I started making faces, trying to telepathically convey that he should play along with me.
"Oh, Boris, I mean, Belphegor!" I suddenly pretended to remember. "Didn't your mom ask us to… You remember what I said?"
"Oh, right!" Belphegor quickly caught on, widening his eyes. "Guys, we need to go right now! So, if you head to Mordor, say hello to the guys, okay?"
"What?" Astaroth tried to switch his focus to us, but we were already running in the opposite direction.
We turned into the nearest alley and only then slowed down.
"So where are we going?" Belphegor asked, practically bouncing with curiosity.
"To the bus stop," I looked around, figuring out the best route. I turned towards Montage Avenue.
"Okay, and where are we headed?" the redhead persisted.
"Take a guess," I smirked.