... in which Valya finds herself part of the Soviet nomenclature, meets an old school friend, and her nightmares become prophetic.
From a distance, Valentina noticed a black rounded silhouette speeding through the darkness and thick snow. Two round bright yellow eyes illuminated the area near the bus stop, and the car stopped right next to the girl. Valya patted herself with her leather-gloved hand, brushing snow off her short coat, then sat down beside the driver, who kindly opened the door for her.
The engine rumbled lowly, and the car confidently plunged back into the blizzard. It was warm inside the cabin, so Valentina immediately took off her gloves from her chilled hands and carefully examined her red-lacquered nails.
"Are you cold?" asked the young man in a military trench coat without epaulettes, his voice showing restrained concern as he tightly gripped the steering wheel.
"I'm fine," replied the girl and listened to the radio, where the sounds of the old pasodoble "Rio Rita" were coming through. "Can't they play something fresher?"
She was about to turn the tuning knob, but the guy stopped her. The touch of his fingers seemed simultaneously gentle and deathly cold to her.
"No need. We'll arrive and listen to fresh music," the young man smiled and winked. "Our 'Land Rover' promised to deliver new records."
"Could it be Anatoly?" Valentina exclaimed in surprise, and it seemed she lit up with joy slightly more than would have been proper.
"Talk about him," corrected the guy. "Yes. A couple of days ago. He asked about you."
"That's crazy! I haven't seen him in ages. And how is he?"
"Well, you'll see," said the young man even colder, averting his gaze.
And while he stared intently at the night road, Valya looked at him just as closely. Now he hardly resembled the Kostya she had known since school. That awkward, hunched-over boy with perpetually messy hair and wrinkled trousers. Konstantin was always lost in thought, building some fantastic theories. He was fascinated by music one day, mathematics the next, or history, always trying to find hidden meanings everywhere, yet unable even to tidy up his own school backpack, where battered textbooks lay mixed with notebooks, random crumpled papers, and cellophane wrappers from breakfasts eaten over the past week. "I'm sure he even shits in there!" Tolyan once joked bitterly, but it seems he wasn't far from the truth.
Now that old Kostya was completely gone. His hair was neatly combed back, almost slicked down, and he himself stood straight as a rod, becoming stern and well-groomed. Even his nose, previously drooping on his face like a round turnip, no longer seemed so funny. But along with him disappeared the soft, slightly absent-minded gaze and the kind smile. Now, through Kostya's stony face and cold eyes, someone else peered out into the darkness—harsh and calm. He calmly drove the heavy car through the blizzard toward their destination, and nothing else mattered to him anymore.
Despite the frequent swipes of the windshield wipers, the front window still instantly became covered with flying snowflakes. Dim streetlights and rare glowing windows of three- and five-story buildings flashed by on both sides. Here and there, against the backdrop of light stone walls and delicate iron fences, solitary swaying figures could be seen, as if avoiding the speeding car through the old winter city. Meanwhile, the car screeched its tires on the frozen asphalt and turned onto the boulevard. Now, against the backdrop of houses, dark tree trunks also began to pass by. Their gnarled branches, like someone's claws, clawed into the pale-yellow night sky above the city. Valentina suddenly remembered how, during academic drawing lessons, the enthusiastic but strict teacher Anastasia Dmitrievna would say with a sigh: "Girls, a properly sharpened pencil should resemble a witch's fingers..."
A sudden impact tore the girl from her school memories. A thin body in a baggy brown suit sprawled across the hood. Wipers smeared snow mixed with blood across the glass.
"Damn it!" Kostya muttered irritably, not even thinking about braking, but only jerking the steering wheel slightly from side to side to knock down the unfortunate passerby. The body slid down, but almost immediately several more people appeared in the headlights. The car crashed into them like a bowling ball hitting a dense row of pins. Someone flew helplessly to the sides, several were crushed by the chrome bumper and dragged under the wheels.
"Where are they all rushing?" Valentina asked, turning up the volume on the radio's "Rio Rita" so she wouldn't hear the crunching bones.
"What a mess!" the young man exclaimed indignantly. "What are the trade unions looking at?"
"By the way, will Leo be here?" Valya asked, trying to steer the conversation away from work.
"He promised."
"That's good. Otherwise, you're having a bad influence on him. He's become too serious lately..."
"Is that a bad thing?" the guy wondered, running over another pedestrian.
"A person has completely unlearned how to have fun..." the girl sighed. "We need to rest more, enjoy life..."
"Not yet," Kostya replied seriously. "You know what times we're living in."
"Yes... Yes..." Valya interrupted him tiredly. "Terrible times."
Meanwhile, the car broke free from the crowd of workers and drove onto the avenue. Between the rows of houses standing at attention, it stretched forward in a wide straight line and ended at the sharp, towering silhouette of a skyscraper illuminated by lights at night, topped with a star. Neither the yellowish haze above the city nor the heavy snowfall could overshadow this majestic sight.
The car swerved again and parked near a square building with massive white columns. Valya carefully got out of the vehicle. Fresh fluffy snow crunched under the thin soles of her patent leather shoes. The young man, without fastening it, threw his leather coat over himself, carefully closed the door, meticulously examined the hood, wiping off the blood-red ZIM emblem with a handkerchief. Trying not to slip, the girl took her companion by the arm, and together they climbed the marble staircase.
Inside, there were already many people. While Kostya hesitated in the cloakroom with the girl's coat, Valya entered the banquet hall, searching for familiar faces. On a small stage, a jazz band played softly. The soloist, with a velvety voice but rather broken English, mournfully sang "Too many tears... Too many years..." in such a way that Bert Ambrose and Harry Warren themselves would probably have cried... Nearby, five or six couples were dancing. One was especially bright and stylish. Glancing at them with an assessing look, Valya snorted disdainfully and finally spotted Anatoly at one of the tables. He had taken a seat by the wall and, smiling, watched the dancers, occasionally taking sips of wine from a wide cognac glass.
"Who do I see! Valentine!" he exclaimed as soon as he spotted the girl, immediately getting up and kissing her on the cheek. "And where is your undead ear... admirer? Where is our dark leader?"
"Apparently, the old men from the Politburo have been chatting him up at the entrance..."
"Damn! How long has it been since we last saw each other? Five years?"
"Three years," corrected the girl, sitting down opposite him.
"Exactly!" Tolyan nodded and took another sip from his glass, although he was already quite drunk. "Three years... What difference does it make? I feel like I've known you my whole life!"
"I missed you too," Valentina smiled. "How are you doing overall?"
"As you can see! Except I'm afraid I'll get seasick because of these airship flights. Without them, I start feeling carsick... Or airsick," the guy smirked. "I have to drink."
"And how's it going there now?" the girl asked, lowering her voice and examining her friend's plaid jacket with interest.
"There?!— Tolyan chuckled, spreading a crooked smile across his face.— Right now, everywhere is just like here!"
"Really?"
"As our giant of thought used to say: de Broglie's theory is omnipotent because it's true."
"Oh, my God..." Valya whispered barely audibly.
"Oh, God..." Tolyan poured the remaining wine from the bottle into his glass and also switched to a sinister whisper. "Forget about the Lord, little girl. What could He do? Turn water into wine? What about blood? What else? Resurrection? Soon everyone will rise again! So why do we need Him now?"
Only now did Valya notice three bullet holes visible beneath the crooked orange tie on Anatoly's chest.
"What's this? Were you shot?"
"What?— the thoroughly drunk guy didn't understand right away.— Oh, that... That was me. Today. This morning. I just ruined my shirt," there was some kind of resignation in his voice. "Oh, well... The main thing is that our light industry makes wonderful shirts."
Suddenly, he jumped up and, dramatically spreading his arms to the sides, shouted loudly enough to make those seated at neighboring tables turn around: "Our cause is just... We have won! The revolution has happened, comrades!"