Wanderer

by Richard Cheesman

then. I'll get your bottle gentlemen." He took some of the money Worker had placed on the bar. “Why don't you take a seat? I'll bring it over to you." With that, he went to the door, and the guard stepped to one side.

  Worker and Grigori found a table well enough away from everyone else, but also lit well enough to see their surroundings. Bar Yuri was dingy, but one of the more reputable places. Both Grigori and Worker had been here a few times, and enjoyed drinking and stories until early morning. Worker was looking happy. Grigori was pleased that the gift from Rotislav was a good one. He needed that. Communism had risen after the war, in the sense that the survivors needed to pull together as a whole, for the good of everyone. In time, unfortunately, criminal gangs had taken over, and bribery and corruption became more commonplace. Worker had tried hard to rally people to the communist cause, but recent months had seen a sharp decline in attendance at the rallies.

  Whilst they waited for the vodka, the made small talk. Just how the weather was getting warmer, price of rat, and other such trivial things were discussed. After a short while, the barman came over with the bottle, and three glasses.

  “I hope you don't mind.” He said as he placed the bottle and glasses on the table, “Could I join you? It's quiet here at the moment, and...”

  “Of course!” Worker interrupted. “Grigori and I were just catching up. I'm Worker." He held out his hand.

  “I'm Iosif." They shook hands. “And you are Grigori?”

  Grigori held out his hand, and nodded.

  Iosif opened the bottle, and poured a measure into each glass. They each took a glass and held it aloft.

  “Budem zdorovy." Iosif said, and took a swig of the vodka. Grigori did the same, taking a good gulp of the drink. It was a strong vodka, with a much more pronounced taste than the usual bathtub vodkas he'd had in the past. It warmed his throat and the feeling continued to his stomach. This was a good vodka, he thought as he let out a satisfied breath.

  Once they had taken a swig, they placed the glasses back on the table. Iosif was the first to speak.

  “So, what brings you two to my bar, drinking my expensive vodka?”

  Worker looked over to him. “Just a celebration. My friend here had been away, and met a former comrade of mine in Cherkessk. They sent me a gift, a precious gift I will treasure for a long time.”

  “And what was this gift?”

  “A picture, a rare thing these days. A photograph of Lenin himself. It now sits on my mantelpiece and I am so proud!" Worker took a deep swig of vodka.

  “And you?” Iosif turned to Grigori. “You delivered this?”

  “Yes.” Grigori replied. “I travel around a bit, trading information.”

  “Ah,” Iosif said, “a Wanderer. That makes sense. It's quite some distance to travel, all the way from Cherkessk. You must have been gone some time.”

  “A few weeks. I travel light and quick. Although..." Grigori was about to tell them of Sunrise, but held off.

  “Although what?" Worker said.

  “I met someone. It's all a bit strange. I don't know what to make of it myself." Grigori finished his glass. He reached for the bottle to fill it again. Iosif stopped him, and poured the drink for him instead.

  “Who? Who did you meet, Grigori?" Worker was looking at Grigori intently, and all joy of his recent acquisition had gone.

  “A man. I'd camped outside Lermontov. Time had run out for me during the day, I was hungry, tired and didn't have the energy to make it to the city itself. I made camp about two miles out as the darkness approached." Grigori paused to take a sip of vodka.

  “I was sitting by the fire, the clouds were coming in, and decided to speak some poetry to myself, it helps me to keep myself company. I stopped suddenly at one point, and turned round. There was this man there, a few years older than myself, a bit taller, more weathered and worn than I was. He asked if he could stay by the fire. I said it was okay, we introduced each other.”

  “What was his name?" Iosif interrupted, now looking as intently at Grigori as Worker was.

  “He said his name was Anatoliy, and that people also called him Sunrise.”

  “Sunrise!” Iosif nearly jumped out of his seat. “You are indeed a fortunate man, my friend.”

  Both Grigori and Worker looked at Iosif.

  “What do you mean, fortunate?" Grigori said, looking puzzled.

  “Sunrise... I never thought I'd hear that name after the war." Iosif seemed distant, lost in thought.

  “Tell us! How do you know this name?” Grigori said.

  “Well. This could be a long tale. I don't want to interrupt you recalling your tale.”

  “No, please tell us. If you know anything about this man, I'd like to know. We have the whole bottle here to get through yet, and plenty of time to kill.”

  “Well then, let's have another drink shall we?" Iosif poured another round of vodkas for them all. He looked around the bar, before turning back to Grigori.

  “There was, before this cursed war, a legend that went around these parts. A myth, whatever you want to call it. Some people said that they had been on the edge of life and death and had met a man, who always called himself Anatoliy. Of course, the meaning of that name is...”

  “Sunrise." Grigori said, interrupting.

  “That's it. Rumour has it, that if this man came to you, it was to prevent something terrible happening to you. Here, I'll tell you how I heard of him.

  “There was a man I met, a long time ago before the war, we'll call him... Ivan. Ivan was a drunk. He had had a lovely home, wife, kids, everything. He worked for a big computer company, I forget which one, maybe it was IBM. Anyway, this guy, Ivan, had a problem. He loved to drink. Used to come to my bar straight after work, get drunk and go home. It became a nightmare really quickly. Turns out he used to beat his wife because of his problems, and then started to do the same to the kids too.

  “Some of us here found out, and made a decision to try and help Ivan. We kept him in the bar one night, talking to him, trying to get him to open up, let us help him. But he refused everything, every offer. He kept saying he was going to sort it himself. We eventually had to let him go.

  “It turns out he never went home. He ended up at the railway tracks. He'd managed to steal a bottle of vodka from the bar, and had drunk it all, he wanted to make himself unconscious and sleep on the tracks!”

  Iosif looked into thin air for a moment, consumed with the memories of the event, before continuing.

  “So he stumbles on to the tracks, and collapses. As soon as he hits the ground, he sees a pair of boots, then legs, and he realises that there's this man, standing there next to him. The man says he wants to end it himself too. Eventually they get talking and introduce each other. He calls himself Sunrise.

  “So, Ivan talks to this guy for hour or so. The more this 'Sunrise' talks, the more Ivan wants to live. Wants to try and sort things out. This is the strange part.”

  Iosif leant forward, and started talking a little quieter.

  “Ivan goes to stand up, and as he does, he gets stone cold sober. Clear as day. It's like he never touched a drop at all.”

  “No. I don't believe it!" Worker slapped the table, shaking his head.

  “Oh, my friend, it's true. He steps off the tracks, but this Sunrise is still sitting there. Ivan starts trying to get him off the tracks, but Sunrise is ignoring him. He turns and sees a train approaching. He's screaming 'Come on! Get off the tracks!' and other things. Sunrise looks like he's talking to himself. At the last moment, Ivan is screaming at him, Sunrise just turns and smiles. Then disappeared. Vanished.”

  “That's ridiculous!” Worker was shaking his head in utter disbelief. “That's a myth, urban myth. No way did that happen!”

  Iosif looked at him calmly. “It did happen. Ivan said he saw the guy vanish just before the train would have hit him. That made him realise how close he was to losing his own l
ife. Now, Ivan was reformed, and went back home, sober. He talked to his wife and kids, stopped beating her, and even after some time, got his job back. Lived quite happily after that. Never touched another drop again." Iosif took a swig from his glass..

  “So what's that to do with what happened to me?" Grigori asked, puzzled.

  “Well, the same name, same mysterious circumstances. I'll bet you didn't see him leave?”

  “I did, actually." Grigori paused. Actually, he hadn't. It all seemed too strange. “Actually, no. I didn't see him leave, he just disappeared.”

  “Well, tell us about it then!” Iosif said.

  “Okay." Grigori took a swig. The vodka had started to help him relax, he felt free enough to talk. “He'd appeared by the camp-fire, as I said. After an introduction, we were talking about poetry, when we heard these howls. Howls coming from a creature like nothing I'd heard before. He said we'd be in for a rough night. We talked more, long into the night. Then these beasts that made that awful howling were on us! We had to shoot them to survive, and we did. After that, we headed here, but at the last minute, Anatoliy decided to head to Inozemtsevo. We went our