Wanderer

by Richard Cheesman

  Afternoon.

  Grigori had made it to Mineral'nye Vody shortly after noon. It had been a warm day so far, and the walk had left him feeling quite achy and tired. He'd come to the old M-29 road, and passed through the checkpoint on the bridge crossing it. They knew him here, so it was easy to get through without any difficulty. He decided to look up an old friend in the city.

  Mineral'nye Vody had survived the initial bombing of the war. Many of the buildings were damaged, but still quite safe and habitable. Several of the more vital businesses in the city had remained, such as the food stores, clothing stores but other ones had been cleared out to house people and refugees. For many shops still running the types of products they sold had changed. Instead of fresh meats, a butcher's would now sell rat, deer, anything the Hunters could catch to bring to them. In the markets, tinned food, once the cheapest food available had become the most expensive as time went on, and there were less to be found. Some people had started farming again, and all manner of vegetables could be bought. The quality was generally poor, but it was fresh food and all the tastier for it.

  One type of business had not changed. The bars. Vodka was easily made from potatoes, which in turn were easily grown. Certain brands from before the war became very expensive, and other locally made variants were cheap. Rumours had been around that people died after drinking too much home brewed vodka or 'bathtub' as it was called. Even though everyone seemed to know a 'friend of a friend' who this had happened to, no-one had ever seems to have experienced it first-hand.

  Grigori loved coming back to Mineral'nye Vody. It was one of the few places that still seemed civilised, like life was normal. Sure the buildings weren't up to scratch, but compared to some places, it was beautiful. He headed towards the railway station in the north of the city. Just before he got to it, he turned left into a small alley from the main road, and found a dark green door, with the sign on it saying, 'Workers of the world, unite!'. He went up the steps and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” An man's voice replied, sounding irritated at the disturbance.

  “A comrade seeking a worker for the good of the glorious revolution." Grigori said.

  A lock clicked, and the door opened. A man, short, rounded with scruffy white hair and a cigarette hanging precariously in his mouth looked at Grigori. His eyes opened wide and flung his arms out to embrace him.

  “Grigori!” he exclaimed. “Grigori, my comrade! Welcome back!"

  Grigori struggled to free himself from the vice-like grip and keep himself away from the cigarette, which was dangerously close to his neck. The man finally let go.

  “Hello, Worker.”

  “Come on in, come on.” Worker turned and walked back in. He went off into another room. Grigori stepped in and closed the door. The hallway was small and cramped, with old, peeling wallpaper barely staying on the walls. A door to the rear led to a small bedroom, and a door on the right led to the main living room, which was combined with the kitchen. Grigori removed his backpack and placed it in the corner of the hall, next to a wooden coat stand. He heard music coming from the living room, some old cassette player with a song about marching enthusiastically. Grigori chuckled to himself.

  “You still think it's all funny?” said Worker, coming from the kitchen area. “I keep telling you, communism is right for Mother Russia." He had a tray laden with some bowls of stew, and a jug of water. The water wasn't exceptionally clear, but the stew looked inviting enough. “Anyway, I'm not going to have a political argument with you, at least not yet. Come, Grigori, sit. Sit and eat. Tell Worker what you've been up to.”

  They sat at a small dining table, barely big enough for both of them. Grigori tried some of the stew. It was made with deer, a good meat to use. The food always seemed to taste better here in Mineral'nye Vody. Grigori had always figured that the local water and fields were unspoilt by the war, and so had always given good crops and livestock.

  “Worker, this food...” Grigori paused between mouthfuls. “...is delicious as always.”

  “Good. I always try to cook the best for my good friends." Worker replied. “Now. Tell me, Grigori, what have you been up to? I haven't seen you for a long time.”

  Grigori put his spoon down. He looked at Worker. A good friend, they had met in a one of the bars near the railway station, he'd been reciting a few poems, and had decided to recite a few communist propaganda ones for a joke. Worker had been listening. After that, Worker came up and they started talking, becoming good friends since that evening. Even though Grigori hated the ideals of communism and how easily it had been corrupted, and Worker disliked democracy, they had a good friendship built on joking and teasing each other. He sat back.

  “Well, I've been out to Nevinnomyssk, at least, to the outskirts. That wasn't much fun, not at all. The gangs there are fighting again, some kind of misunderstanding has erupted into a kind of civil war. Seems one of the daughters of one gang had decided to sleep with the leader of another. A stupid move." Grigori sat back, reflecting on his recent journey.

  “They started arguing after it turned out the girl was pregnant. It got out of hand pretty quickly after that.

  “So I decided not to hang around. I'd not got much information from there, and didn't have much to give. I went south for a while, meeting various travellers, trading information, urging people to keep clear of Nevinnomyssk for a while, at least. Some of them were grateful, gave me food or a scarf. One gave me some information. She said to me, 'Head to Cherkessk, and seek Rotislav.', and so I did.”

  “Rotislav?" Worker looked in thought. “Rotislav. That name rings a bell to me, I can't think where from though. Sorry, Grigori, carry on.”

  “Once I'd finally reached Cherkessk,” Grigori continued, “I was tired, I just wanted to come back. I found this Rotislav that the girl had mentioned. He controls a lot of what happens around that city. He gave me some food for my journey back, and something else. He said, 'Give this to Worker.'.”

  Worker's eyebrows went up. He looked very interested now. “What was it?” He said, sitting forward in anticipation.

  Grigori got up and went to his backpack in the hallway. After a moment, he returned with a small package, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Written on the package was 'To my good friend Worker, from a fellow Comrade!' Grigori handed it to him.

  The package was no larger than a book, but heavier. He removed the paper wrapping, and unfolded the paper tissue within on his lap. Inside was a picture frame, face down. Worker turned it over and gave a small gasp. It was an old photograph of Lenin.

  “Oh!” He exclaimed, holding the photo up to the light. “This is a truly wonderful gift! Rotislav! Of course! He was one of the old KGB guard like myself. The old dog, Rotislav! I'll have to send him something back in return. This is..." He trailed off, almost in tears. Grigori never understood how some people still clung so tightly to the notion of Russia as a communist state. It gave them some hope, he had always reasoned with himself. It helped people cope with the desperate situation around them each day.

  “Come!” Worker said, having proudly placed the picture on the centre of his mantelpiece. “This calls for a celebration! I will have to hear the rest of your story at the Bar Yuri!" Worker was already out in the hallway and putting his coat on before Grigori realised what was going on.

  They had gone round the corner towards the railway station. To the right of the station was a building which had a crudely painted sign that read 'Bar Yuri' and a depiction of a spaceman's helmet. Inside was a small entrance hall, and a set of double doors that led into a larger room. Along the right was a wooden bar, with a collection of empty bottles on display behind it. The value of alcohol was high, so it was kept in a separate room with an armed guard blocking the way. The left of the room had several alcoves with tables and seats that offered some privacy. There were a few men at the bar, just local people drowning their sorrow
s, and a younger couple making full use of the private darkness in the far corner. Grigori had guessed that this place used to be a restaurant or hotel before it's current use. They had gone up to the bar, and Worker was desperate to get the attention of the barman, waving a few roubles in the air in his direction.

  The barman came up to them, a tall, balding man in a vest that showed strong arm muscles. This was not a man to mess with, Grigori thought.

  “What'll it be, gentlemen?" The barman looked at them both in turn.

  “Vodka!” cried Worker. “Let's have a bottle!”

  “Sure, no problem. Which one?" The barman stood off to one side to show the empty bottles. Worker studied them for a moment, and then pointed at one in particular.

  “That one. There!" Worker pointed repeatedly and excitedly.

  “Moskovskaya? You know, that's not a cheap vodka.”

  “I don't care. Here!" Worker fished in the pockets of his trousers and placed a pile of crumpled notes on the counter. The barman looked at it, then back at Worker.

  “Looks like we have a deal