Konstantin Voskresenskiy
The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy

Foreword

Konstantin Dmitrievich Voskresenskiy[1], whose work until now has only been released in the form of poems and «The Tale of the Coronavirus», presents to the world this book of prose based on his own life. A rather bold undertaking, given the difficult subject matter: firstly, because of the difficulty journey of self-discovery throughout adolescence, when one's personality is ever-evolving and perceives the world differently on a spiritual level. Secondly, the time frame depicted was a whirlwind, with life shifting dramatically across a huge nation; this book captures life in the immediate vicinity of the capital Moscow. And thirdly, lacking any experience writing a book, Voskresenskiy relies purely on memory.

But those now reading this book see before them the final product; the difficulties have been ironed out, from key moments to tiny details. In this book, over thirty years of the central character's life and the country where he lives, works and indulges in literary creativity, emerge as a whole. It is a living, breathing organism with all its vital organs and functional features.

At the beginning of the story, we find the central character still a child, who like all children, is not too aware of himself in this world. He is growing, developing, and absorbing the good with the bad. He goes through periods familiar to anyone with experience of bringing up preschool and school-age children and how their minds work. Here we find inquisitiveness, a thirst for knowledge, bouts of negativity, first-time experiences and first disappointments.

In adolescence, the central character undergoes typical teenage «restructuring». He breaks away from the emerging set of values, sometimes in a very painful and frightening manner. His teenage years brought the need to «find himself», whereby he decided which path he would take on into the future.

The author depicts each of these stages with soul, fascination and directness, while maintaining a masterful hand. His creative truth does not contradict this depiction of his life, as can often happen with novice authors and other modern artists. Konstantin Voskresenskiy gave us a piece of work that, when reading, involuntarily takes us back to Russian classics about childhood, such as Nikolai Garin-Mikhailovsky's «Tyoma's Childhood» and Maxim Gorky's «My Childhood».

I hope that Konstantin Voskresenskiy's future as a writer will grow in such a way that this, what I deem to be, successful experience will only be further underlined by subsequent successes along his literary path.

Sergey Smetanin[2], Member of the Union of Russian Writers

Preface

Welcome, everyone. I am glad to present to you my autobiography. Both to those who know me personally, as well as the curious minds, thinking, searching and reading this book. Every person is a universe, a mystery and a real miracle. I'm sure each of you has something to say about yourselves, as well as recall and recant from your lives. But with this book I want to share my universe, my reflections, and talk about my adventures. This is not a memoir. This is about the very extraordinary life of an ordinary person from an ordinary family. And, importantly, it includes moments that have occurred in very few people's lives, especially in such quantities as in mine, or in the same order.

It is worth noting that this book does not cover the topic of love. On one hand, I could have written a separate edition of seven volumes on the subject. On the other hand, my story wasn't particularly out of the ordinary, so why tell the tale? Moreover, I covered this topic, albeit without commentary, in my first book: a collection of lyrical poems «In Your Name[3]».

All of the names, dates and events recounted in this book are real and are not fictional.

Chapter 1. 1985. The Beginning

1985. Kesha

Let's start with the boy's name in the title of the book.

You must agree that naming a child is a fascinating but difficult task. Many parents will confirm this. In our day, my wife and I also faced this task. We cheated a little, naming our child after the saint of the month she was born. This practice in the Eastern Orthodox Church and Eastern Catholic Churches that follow the Byzantine Rite.

My mum decided to call me Innokenty, or Innocentius in its Latin form. I lived with that name for almost two weeks. Later it turned out that not everyone liked it, which she discovered when my aunt Nadia came to the baby shower. At the time, she was still at primary school. When they told her what I was called, she said, «Oh, I know, he should be called Kesha! I watched a cartoon yesterday about a parrot called Kesha…» My granny Marina lost her patience and emphatically stated that no grandson of hers would be called Innocentius. The boys would tease him at school!

But if this was no longer his name, then what was? They decided to write three names write on three pieces of paper – Ilya, Roman and Konstantin – and mum picked them out of a hat. Lo and behold, I became Konstantin.

To be honest, I would have been satisfied with the first name, but the one I ended up with is much more normal…

1986. My father's death

But changing names is just for starters. More significant events were just around the corner. When I was one year and five days old, I found myself without a father. My dad, Dmitriy Voskresenskiy, was killed while serving in the military at the (tender) age of 19.

You may not be familiar with how they recruited for the Soviet Army. Long story short, the USSR conscripted young men from the age of 18. Back then, they had to serve for two years. These days, lads tend to serve one year. This can be for many reasons, for example, men are excluded on medical grounds or defer their service because of academic or familial commitments.

When I was born, the Soviet military system, as strange and erratic as it was, gave my father six months leave to help care for me as a new-born. After that, they sent him 3,500 miles away to the remote Amur region on the border with China.

After five months of service, there was an attack by «unknown persons» on a military unit near the city of Blagoveshchensk, where my father was serving with his comrades. For his «main course» my father was served five bullet wounds, and gas poisoning came «for dessert». No, don't try and look up this news from 20th August 1986. The death certificate clearly states «Hemorrhagic Fever with Renal Syndrome» because «Killed by bullets and poisoning» is an unproven hypothesis in the eyes of the state. In fact, it's not even in any archives. This has been contested many times to Russian Defence Minister Sergey Shoygu, until in 2016, the Military Prosecutor said: «Would you care to explain who told you about this?» If you're not working within the military system or the state, there's no point in trying to find out what really happened.

Apparently, it doesn't matter how he died: in any case, Cargo 200[4] means Cargo-200. Only my grandad was there to identify my father's body. But, oddly enough, it wasn't my father's father, but my mum's father, Nikolay Timanov. At one point he started to tell me about it, but then he stopped immediately and pressed pause on this conversation. He never got around to telling me before he passed away. Nonetheless, our family gathered much of what he probably wanted to say, even without him saying it out loud. After all, we had another source; my babushka's[5] friend worked at the morgue the year father died, and she let a lot of information slip. Nowadays you can write to Putin (I've written, but more on that later). But back then, times were different. No one in our family ever tried to find anything out while the trail was still hot. I can't say I blame them, but I think they should have at least tried. Of course, it wouldn't have brought their husband, your son or brother back, but they had a little son, grandson and nephew to think of…

It is not difficult to assume that the death of my father radically changed both my fate and that of my mother.

1988. A New Dad

My mum was a beautiful young woman. Even with a baby in her arms she could stop a man in his tracks. After just one summer of being a family of two, with just 24 years between us, a new dad appeared. I don't remember this, since I was only three years old. I always called him «dad». We are still friends and get on well; he never said a word in anger or laid a finger on me. Actually, he preferred not to interfere, but just help out financially. I can't say it was the most successful strategy, but I'm eternally grateful to him. He gave me space to grow up by myself, without trying to forge me in his own image. I didn't have to match up to his standards. Some forethought and a light-touch are valuable qualities…

Chapter 2. 1988. First Shocks

1988. Went for a bite to eat

In the summer of 1988, a funny little thing happened in Yevpatoria, Crimea. Well, it wasn't that funny… I got lost. My mother and aunt Ira left me on the beach while they went for a swim. I'm sure they asked some other responsible-looking lady on the beach in a wide-brimmed hat to watch over me. But I'm also sure that she barely took a bit of notice at what I was up to, she was more interested in the sun, the sea, and the beach. When they came back from their swim, I wasn't there. They called out, shouting for me… Nothing. They ran all over the place and spotted me walking along the tram tracks chewing on a tasty bun.

«Where did you get this from? Where were you?» asked mum.

«I went for a bite to eat…» I said.

Oh yes… a small little man, but a hearty eater. Thank God that ended well enough that it remained funny and relatively short.

1988. Fire

Another unpleasant story happened the very same summer. Perhaps even more serious: there was a fire. I remember clearly how my grandmother's room in her flat on the second floor of a five-storey brick building was on fire. Thankfully, Grandma and everybody else were fine. Cars, fumes, people rushing around – that's what impressed me the most. This was the first time I'd seen such a commotion and crowd of onlookers. Of course, I didn't really understand what was going on, but the general anxiety made a real impression on me. Since then, every time I see a fire, I literally go numb and mentally fall back to this episode.

1988. Promising to cut my tongue off

So, summer ended, and kindergarten began, leaving a deep incurable wound in my soul. For me, girls were always the epitome of divine beauty. I don't know who taught me that or when, but it's what I believed. So, what stood out most to me in my kindergarten years? A scruffy blonde girl in a black-and-white plaid dress, smeared with porridge. A real mess like I'd never seen before. Good God, this harsh reality broke my little, naïve, childish world. I started to refuse to go to kindergarten, kicking up a huge fuss, for fear that I would have to see her again.

There was one girl I liked. I remember neither her appearance nor her name, but it doesn't matter. It so happened that our little beds were next to each other during nap time, so I started a conversation with her. «Hello,» I would say, «How are you?» As if I was greeting a stranger. Of course, the kindergarten teacher was quickly on me, promising to cut my tongue off for speaking during nap time… It sounded so threatening and so convincing that you would believe it yourself even now. Ever since that day I use my words carefully, often choosing to keep quiet. Because who knows what might happen…

1989. Forgetfulness

The challenges to my young psyche did not end there.

One day, nobody picked me up from kindergarten. I sat there late into the night until a relative who worked there picked me up. What was I thinking about? Nothing. I just sat there, still as a statue, watching out the window. Outside, everything was quiet, snowflakes were falling and covering the oaks and pathways. It grew dark.

A similar thing occurred during the summer school holidays. I was out all day, and in the evening, nobody let me back inside the house. It wasn't a nasty joke or out of unkindness, just, there was nobody home. And I didn't have a key. At about 9 o'clock in the evening, my neighbour, Vera's mother from flat number 48, took me inside. We all watched a children's TV show together, had dinner and went to bed. I was given a place to sleep in with Vera's brother.

In both cases, many years later, I heard very convincing stories about what difficulties had befallen my parents that meant they couldn't come and pick me up or let me inside. But the harsh truth is simple: both my mother and my stepfather were, at some point in their lives, drunks. I don't exactly have evidence, but I'm sure that while these things were happening to me, they were at my stepfather's place in a nearby town or at someone else's flat. I'm not blaming anyone, but, as it I often say in my anecdotes: «it left its mark…».

1990. Stutterer

I started to stutter at the age of about five. It all happened very fast…

At that time, I was on holiday, staying with my late father's grandmother in Klimovsk, about two hours outside of central Moscow. I was taking a walk outside. At some point, my rumbly belly told me to go home, and instead of walking all the way around the fence to get back, I decided to take a shortcut by running quickly under other people's windows. I was fast, so fast that I ran through the entrance to the door and almost went headfirst into one of the nice old ladies from our apartment block. A loud cry echoed through the entranceway…

As it turned out, the old lady was not so nice, and I was a pest worse than the Colorado potato beetle… That bit I just ran through was actually her garden! I don't really remember what happened after that, but I was terrified. Like, off the charts terrified.

Another new page in my life had begun. I switched, of my own accord (or maybe adults encouraged me?) from communicating through speech to the written word. Throughout primary school, I had little contact with anyone and always found it difficult to talk to our teacher, Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna, in class.

A long time has passed since then. At work, I often have to speak a lot and perform to audiences of 10 to 50 to 100 people. And in rare moments of intense nervousness, it can be very difficult for me to start talking. I have to take a little pause, a deep breath of up to three seconds and… slo-w-ly pronounce the first word on an exhale with a little riff. Once the first word is out, the second word follows quite nicely. And before I know it, my mini moment of embarrassment is over.

Chapter 3. 1990. First Adventures

1990. A one-way trip up the tree

If my first shocks came from the outside world, about which there was little that I could do, then my first adventures were the fruit of my more or less conscious decisions. My growing inner world was catching up with the outside world, bringing about various activities.

One day my curiosity led me to a tree branch from which I couldn't climb down by myself. And I didn't even try to, which was probably for the best. There were a few things to note here. Firstly, this tree was not far away, only in the yard by the next house over from us. Secondly, the boys there said I should do it. Thirdly, although I knew these boys, they were hardly close friends, but they were older. And fourthly, I had been warned that while it might be easy to climb up, it's hard to get down. Then again, I'd also been taught that «you can do anything if you put your mind to it».

It wasn't that high up, just two or three metres from the ground. But this height stirred up interesting sensations in me, as I think most men will understand. It opened up a wonderful view in front of me. That said, I already lived on the sixth floor. What views could I possibly see from a tree that I couldn't I see from 16 metres high…?

So, up we climbed, sat for a while, then it was time to get down. After taking a little time on trying to get down, I realised that I couldn't do it by myself, and my friends had already gone. Thanks lads, older boys from the yard over, who I barely knew.

So, there I sat, waiting for something, not sure what. It was lunchtime, so I was beginning to get hungry… Should I shout for help? Nope. First of all, that would be too embarrassing. Second of all, I was a man, not an old lady at a market stall. I can't say that I was sitting there very long, I got lucky. My friends ran by and asked me where my piece of cheese was. I didn't get it at first, but then I realised they were joking, as if I were the crow from the fable «The Crow and the Fox» that we'd learnt at school. What they were saying was: I should ask for some help. It was lunchtime, so I asked them to call my mother. She soon came running out, bringing a big strong man with her who plucked me out of the tree just as easily as I'd gotten up there in the first place. When we got in, she didn't tell me off, she wasn't cross. I'd already learnt my lesson, no need to shout about it.

1990. As if falling from the second floor

That feeling I got from being up high in the tree was bugging me, I wanted more. Or maybe I'd just forgotten the previous adventure too quickly, as is often the case with children. This time I tried a ladder. Not like a firefighter's ladder, and not just a staircase, an ordinary ladder. There was one still in my dad's yard out in L'vovskaya, outside of Moscow.

Even now, despite modern health amp; safety regulations, playgrounds are full of dangers. The playground I played in as a kid was made of solid metal: harsh, solid, unyielding. Like life itself. And so, after having mastered what we basically considered Everest, I decided to climb this ladder, without any training or equipment. I almost got to the top before, just like in the movies, I suddenly slipped on the penultimate step and came crashing down backwards. I fell with a thud, got up, brushed myself off, and went home to eat pancakes. And that was the end of that.

Now, that's quite scary, thinking back. Falling from a height equivalent to the second floor of a block of flat is no joke. But back then? Ah, piece of cake. No one saw, it didn't hurt, all was well.

1990. Fall off the carousel

After that I'd realised that vertical ascents were not my forte and decided to experiment with horizontal movements. And it didn't take me long to sustain an injury: I got five holes in my bum… Allow me to explain.

It turns out that the harsh reality is this: if you sit and spin on a kids' roundabout, not facing the way you're going, then when you come to a sharp halt with your feet, your body is probably going to slide right off the seat and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Obvious? Not to every five-year-old. And landing on a board of nails at the bottom, well, that's an annoying detail.

I sent a terrible shrill cry echoing around the playground. Thank god I was only five with the vocabulary to suit, nowadays I would have screeched every swear word under the sun. My mum heard me straight away and came running. She'd been standing just around the corner the whole time…

She took me home, treated my wounds, comforted me, and didn't even tell me off. Mums are just great, aren't they?

1993. Left arm

Having suffered such a public and even slightly shameful fiasco in my horizontal adventure, I decided to return to try vertical ones again. In any case, I hadn't gotten that hurt. There were only a few things available to climb, so again, I tried a tree. But this time I had everything under control. The first branch, the second branch, the third… Oops… And we're back down in the dirt again, as if the floor was giving this brave little lad a pat on the back for trying.

As it turned out, I didn't have a parachute, nor a rescue catapult on me. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail: I dislocated my left arm. Nothing too serious. I mean it was tolerable, and no one was going to find out anyway… The next day, like a good little Soviet boy, I would be heading to a pioneer summer camp. But not just any camp, the summer camp in Crimea named in honour of Oleg Koshevoy[6]. What if they wouldn't let me go because of my arm?! I was hardly going to let that happen.

1993. Hospitals

I lay in hospital for the first time with pneumonia when was just one, but I certainly do not remember it. I only know about it from the stories grown-ups told me. But when doctors removed my adenoids at the age of seven – oh, yes, I won't be forgetting that one in a hurry.

In a large brightly lit room, there was a large table on which lay various white-enamel medical utensils and shiny tools. The soft summer sun shone through large clean windows, pleasantly and mysteriously illuminating the people dressed all in white, like angels. These angels circled around me, affectionately throwing a large white sheet over my chest and politely asking me to say «Ahhhhh». A stormy stream of warm scarlet blood spilled out of my mouth onto the white sheet and dripped down onto the floor.

And now I think: could they not have given me a heads up about that? I understand that doctors don't usually warn their patients to avoid panic, but my God, this scarred me for life…

1994. Bitten by a shepherd

Let's talk about my left arm again. Of course, it had already managed to heal after the last fall, but not for long. My power of deduction says it must have been 1994, but that's not that important.

It was summer, July. We went to visit my aunt Galya, who was widowed after my uncle, my mum's brother, Andrey Timanov, passed away. It was hot and we took the shortest path through the garden (a plot of 30 acres or so). Eventually, we saw our aunt entering the house. With joy, I rushed towards her. But as if to catch some kind of lawless maniac, a German shepherd grabbed my left arm by the teeth. He managed to bite right through the palm of my hand. Sticking out of the wound was some thick yellow thread – not from my t-shirt, oh no. It was a piece of muscle, or something.

Weirdly, the dog was usually well-behaved and had never harmed a child before. Perhaps he had just woken up or my movements were too loud and erratic. Well, either way, something wasn't quite right…

It was quite the family embarrassment. What do we do now? The next day we went to the hospital and got my hand treated. I was prescribed 40 injections to the stomach, which seemed over-the-top and downright troublesome to me and my mum, since the dog was our family's dog, it wasn't stray or rabid. So, we went to get an official document to certify that he was indeed rabies free, and as a result, I got off with only 2–3 injections to the stomach. It wasn't very pleasant, but I'd had worse…

1995. Sledging

I decided to give my arm a break and turn my attention to other body parts. This isn't going to end well. During the school holidays, I went out, without permission, to go sledding on the hill. Well, it wasn't really a hill, it was more like sneaking behind the local townhall and down towards the stream. The slope was fairly steep there. What we didn't know was that it was actually a pedestrian area, we barely even noticed the older ladies walking around with their shopping bags, blocking the runway…

At the time, I was ten years old and therefore far too old to be sledging the way I was used to (i.e., on my bum). I wasn't no toddler anymore. If I wanted to avoid being laughed at, I'd have to try balancing on the side of the sledge will going down the hill or going headfirst.

I decided to do it the way the others were – on my belly, headfirst. And I did so almost all day, until I had an unfortunate accident. Blockage on the runway, sledge jam, and a huge blow to the face as I smashed into the sledge in front of me. I walked home with my tail between my legs…

No one was home. I wetted and squeezed a little rag, which my mother for some reason washed regularly, dabbed it on my eye, went to bed and began to wait. No, not for it to get better – I was waiting for my fate. My time came when mum got home and I surrendered, awaiting the telling off I would surely get. But again, she didn't scold me; I guess she could see that I was already punishing myself for going AWOL and had already received my bad karma for running off like that.

1996. And again with the left arm

Obviously, the head is more important. So, let's turn our attentions back to the left arm. It had already been through the wars, one more accident wouldn't hurt. Although I couldn't help but think, why was this left arm of mine so unlucky?

It was 1995 or 1996, summertime. I was at a sanatorium. Nap time had just finished, I'd been sleeping sweetly. Then, we were allowed a snack and a play outside before dinner.

As was customary at playtime, we were hanging out with the girls in a little gazebo outside with a seating area. I decided that sooner or later I would have to impress them, so I jumped over the edge wall of the gazebo, hoping to land on the outside. But the jump was immediately unsuccessful; I tripped and slammed to the ground with all my weight on my left hand. Another miserable attempt to show off.

After that, the usual: losing consciousness, regaining consciousness, and waking up to my arm in plaster.

Chapter 4. 1990. Mischief amp; More

1990. Got a bus to a nearby village

A little boy with no pranks is like a pair of shoes that fasten with Velcro: flat, predictable and uninteresting. Little boys should always have at least a little bit of zest and mischief going on in their heads, or else where would we get our brave and daring heroes come from?

It's hard to tell whether this story is one of recklessness or not, but at the age of five I went out without my parent's permission and got the bus to the nearby village of Sertyakino, where there was a pea field. I had no adult supervision, I was just with a mate of mine, Roma, from the second floor. He was wise and experienced, two years older than me. At this age, you can feel the difference: it's like a high school student hanging out with a university graduate.

We were quickly ratted out, and on my return home, instead of being greeted with bread and salt[7], I got a good spanking from my mum before being made to sit in the corner. By the way, in my time, the corner was often used. We can't really do that these days, times are different.

Just imagine: a whole field of peas! I don't know if it was a fodder field or not, but either way, it was an unreal even by adult standards. I often have to drive along this road even now, and these memories of it are the best. The smack I got at the end of that day pales in comparison to the joy of that pea field. I'd felt such a rush of freedom, an impenetrable sense of excitement on the edge of a big adventure with a hint of mischief. Just like the Russian poet Sergey Vasilyev said in his song: «Everything around me is kolkhoz[8], and everything around is mine!» And it all paid off in the end: stuffing my face with young, springy, juicy peas…

1991. The lift: riding with open doors

Of course, it is very risky for children of such a tender age to travel to whole other villages, but that's not to say home can't be just as dangerous. We had a lift in our apartment block. Boy, what a lift it was! The coolest! Why? Because, from the inside, you had to open and close the large, wooden folding doors by hand. On the outside, on each floor, there was also a large metal door which you also had to operate manually.

Have you ever taken the lift with the doors open? Oh, you're missing out. It's an indescribable feeling. I don't remember who taught us this little trick, probably some older boys in the building. But this is what we did: we headed inside the lift, closing the outside door but not the inside one. Then, we would push our arms to both sides of the lift wall and, feeling steady, would lift up our feet to hang there. The lift senses that there's no one there anymore, and so will wait until someone presses the button on another floor. Next, your partner in crime (which you need to arrange beforehand) would press the button on another floor and the lift would shoot off and the metal bars from the elevator shift would flash before our eyes. If we got dizzy (which was a common occurrence), then we'd just drop back down to the floor and the lift would stop dead. No need to worry, the ride's not over yet, you'll be off again soon.

There's another trick «for the older ones». Why? Because you want to keep the outside door open too. To do this, your partner needs to get in place before pressing the button to call the lift. They must:

1) Open the outer door;

2) Reach behind the wall and find the little switch that senses when the doors are open or closed. Switch it so the system thinks the doors are closed (when actually, they're open). Then, reach into the elevator shaft to find the lever and pull it out;

3) Then, they can twist this lever clockwise to tighten it and put it in the «outside door is closed» position;

4) Then, the doors will stay like that until you undo the lever. So, your partner can go up all the floors, doing this, leaving all the doors open;

5) All that's left if for you to fly up all the floors in the lift, watching all the open doors fly past you!

When these new modern lifts with automatic doors came out in the 00s, parents everywhere breathed a sigh of relief. Now our children will not be able to get themselves into such danger. The elevator shaft isn't a playground, no sir.

But what I'd give for another go right now! Especially with the new mod cons…

1992. The tunnel under the bridge

No less dangerous were our little walks through the tunnel under the main road. That's where the river Petritsa flowed through. We used to go there all the time. What on earth for? First of all, there were lots of crayfish. I didn't catch any of them, but the boys I was with managed to. I was just afraid to stick my hands under the stones – what if it bit me! Even now I would think twice before doing that…

Second of all, me and my friends had made a dam there. I'm not really sure what it was for, but we took joy in the making of it. It was quite fun wading through the wet mud against the current; we had to be resourceful, trying not to drop our building materials but also not falling into the water ourselves. We didn't always get it right, so quite often our spare parts would float off downstream or we'd lose them. We'd finish the day soaked, wet all the way through, stood in this raging stream. We'd walk home, tails between our legs. When mum always asked «Why are you so wet?» I told her the standard lie «I fell in a puddle…» If she had seen this «puddle», I'd have got a clip around the ear.

1992. Bike theft

One day, my list of fibs I used to tell my mum grew one lie longer. It was about a stolen bike. Not my bike, I was the one who stole it… Not exactly GTA, of course, but these criminal acts were barefaced, committed in broad daylight. And the thing was that I was forbidden to ride a bicycle, because, well, the roads were chaos! Gena from flat 36 would drive around in his cherry-coloured Lada Zhiguli[9] and there would be at least three Zaporozhets[10], including ours, out on the road each hour…

And suddenly there it was, the transport of my dreams. A kind of confusion came over me, an inner tightness at the same time as a rush of determination and a passionate desire. It was impossible to resist. I wanted it and that was enough.

Within just fifteen seconds of riding the stolen bike I saw a whole spectrum of emotions: it went from euphoria, to joy, to lightness, anxiety, burden, fear, and finally horror. The latter was so depressing that I immediately parked the bike behind the khrushchyovka[11] opposite us. And immediately the horror turned into annoyance, then even into anger. With that, I ripped off the spoke nipples and threw them into the bush. If I couldn't enjoy it, nobody could!

The next day, my friend's father had a polite conversation with me, trying to nip anything like that in the bud. It was very embarrassing, and I couldn't say anything, not even the standard «I won't do it again.» I muttered something to myself, and they let me go. I didn't do it again. At least not with bikes. You know, it's busy out there, with all these cars about…

1993. Prawns and dentists

Though not criminal, it was dangerous of me to try and catch prawns underneath an abandoned building. It was when I was at the Oleg Koshevoy summer camp in Yepatoria. Of course, we didn't realise it was so dangerous, but that's another story…

When we were caught red-handed, the supervisors made a note of our names. In the evening, they cooked us these shrimps and made us eat them. The next morning, we were sent before the Comrades' Court[12]. It was quite the event, you know, but there was an issue: someone lost that list with our names on. The teachers asked us to own up and stand up. All the culprits stood up, except me. I just sat there. What was it to me? Nothing to do with me what they got up to. My mates whispered to me, «Get up!» But I couldn't. I was an excellent student and an exemplary little lad. I was the first to «perfectly» make the bed, the first to brush my teeth… You name the Soviet summer camp activity, I excelled in it. So, I didn't own up.

Later these mates launched a campaign of blame against me, and then a terrible punishment. A couple of days later, we were taken to the dentist for a routine check-up. I wanted to go among the first so I could finish earlier. But I was pushed to the back of the queue. Here it was: public shaming in all its glory. I had to wait for a couple of hours and then, when I had almost reached the front of the queue, I lost my nerve, turned around, and left.

The next day, my counsellor caught me by the hand and marched me back to the dentist. She put me in a chair and asked me to open my mouth. It was already scary, but bearable. But when they put cotton wool on one of my teeth, I started to panic and ask her not to hurt me. I sat there for a minute and the kind woman promised that it would not hurt. She pulled out the cotton wool and I began to stutter on about injections, drilling, and so on. When I was really nervous, that lady showed me the cotton wool, upon which lay a baby tooth.

I couldn't believe my eyes, so I asked, «Is that all?»

«That's all!» Said the lady, calmly and even a little sloppy. And off I went…

1994. Kitten of dreams

But prawn, bikes, and milk teeth… That's nothing. Here's a very serious tale that got out of hand. Everything else pales into insignificance and seems like childish fun by comparison…

Ever since I was a child, I had dreamed of having a kitten. A small, fluffy, grey kitten. One day we even got one, but it cried all night, and my stepfather insisted on returning it to its mother.

I was about eight or nine years old. One day, out on another one of my walks, I was walking down some stairs and, through the broken window between the eighth and ninth floors, I saw the kitten of my dreams on a windowsill. I calmly came up to him and stroked him. And what do you think I did next? Did I take it home? Did I take care of this kitten? No. I threw it out of the window onto the street…

Yes, that's right, through the window. You know, those apartment blocks have these little openings for various kinds of needs. I guess this was one of them…

What happened next was even stranger. I almost immediately forgot about it. I calmly continued about my business, slowly planning my new day. I realised what I had done only when I went outside. The kitten was coming towards me, meowing and limping. I, in my childish naivety, had been sure that it would just have splatted into a flat cake – and that's all… So that's how it happened… I felt ashamed and ran away.

А lot of things happened in my life. But I am not as sad and ashamed of anything as for what I did to this kitten. Even making corrections for childish stupidity and curiosity, I can find neither an explanation for the act, nor an excuse for myself. If I had the opportunity to correct just one episode in my life, it would definitely be this one.

1996. Gorodki and a gas mask

Yeah, that was a pretty serious mistake to make. But life goes on and so does my moderately criminal track record. Now let's switch from pets to items. It was summer, I was at a sanatorium in Stupino, outside of Moscow, and I was in a bad crowd.

Well, they weren't that bad, but they did force me to climb into someone else's shed. It fit snugly against the fence of the sanitorium. So I broke in, and heroically retrieved one gas mask and Gorodki set[13]. The gas mask was lost quickly – hidden under a pillow and successfully seized by unidentified persons. But we played Gorodki for ages. When the adults asked where we got it from, our official story was «I got it for my birthday».

So, yeah, they tricked me again but I recovered quickly. When I was getting ready to go home, I started to gather it up to take it with me. The band of lads started pressuring me to leave it behind for others. Of course, I was hardly going to do that. It was a matter of principle! I said: «It's my birthday present, why the questions? Do you want to discuss it with the adults?» And as a result, I took it home, which I am still childishly happy about.

At least one lesson was learned from this. Later, I realised I could smell bad crowds a mile off and always avoided them, not getting involved in any confrontations.

1996. But I don't want to go to school!

Hooliganism was later replaced by social protests. Perhaps the latter logically ran from the former. In the sixth grade, when I was about 12, I gave myself a holiday of disobedience. I'd told my mother that I would not go to school that day. And, would you believe, I really didn't go. With mum's permission, of course!

In fact, I was surprised by my mother's sensitivity and the understanding with which she accepted this riot of mine, because everything happened spontaneously and in the moment. There was no apparent reason for this behaviour. No tests or exams were scheduled for that day, I hadn't fallen out with anyone in my class. It was an unexpected whim. Or really, I needed to be alone and think about something.

Quickly getting my bearings, my mother gave me a list of chores for the day and rushed off to work. After spending the whole day doing household chores and having worn myself out, I'd knocked some sense into myself. I never acted out like that again. No wonder they say that hard work ennobles a person…

2001. Smoking on the first day back at school

Not going to school is one thing, but to let down your class leader[14] on the first day of school is quite another. After all, in Russia, we all go back to school on 1st September and line up in the playground. It's all quite a spectacle for everyone involved. I couldn't miss it.

In those days I smoked quite often. It was trendy, cool and new. I still steal a cigarette every now and again, although much less often, maybe five or six a year. Smoking is no longer new or fashionable, but it still looks cool. Especially when it's not often.

So there we were, first day back, 1st September. People were rushing around, running here, there, reading this, reading that. Why not to go for a smoke? Why not, I thought, and started smoking in the back row. In a flash, my eyes met those of the class leader…

I still wonder at Mr Yuriy Yarkin's restraint that day, it was solid, soldier-like, like that of a Lieutenant Colonel. In fact, he had been in the military before becoming a schoolteacher. I'd like to have even a fraction of that kind of restraint. He didn't even say anything to me: his eyes did the talking. They said, «You, my boy, are making a mistake…».

I didn't argue with him – if said I was in the wrong, I was in the wrong. I wasn't a baby anymore, I understood everything indeed…

Chapter 5. 1990. First Disappointments amp; Grievances

1990. «I want to be able to fly!»

Frustrations and resentments are a subtler matter than just mischief and messing around. Disappointments bring down one's inner world, and resentments distort it, deforming your personality. At the age of five or six, I had been lied to. It was a big lie. And it was my family who did it.

One day, I told my mother all about my dream: «I want to fly!» The new school term was coming up and my mother «explained» to me that «if you want to fly, you first need to read 30… no… 50 pages per day…» So, I read 70 or even 100 pages.

Before I knew it, I was starting to be able fly. Very quickly there was a feeling of lightness and airiness, as if I was floating, but for some reason I just couldn't get off the ground. Apparently, I read a lot, but not carefully enough, I thought. I pushed a little harder. Time passed, and I never learned to fly. Well, what can I say? A young boy getting first place for reading speed in primary school is very rare. It was a point of pride for me, and all good things, as you know, have to be paid for…

1993. «It wasn't me!»

These disappointments were just the beginning, and the next serious one was waiting for me at the end of my first year at school, when I was about eight. An ABC book for a first grader is what the Bible is to Christians. And one day my copybook had two pages glued together. Where the Russian letter «Щ» is, which sounds like «Shch». It had a picture of a puppy, in Russian «Shchenok». When they had been glued together and how – I had no idea. The mystery remains until this day.

Our first lesson was reading. My turn came, and I needed to read the text from the pages that had been stuck. I asked the boy sitting next to me, Edik, to help me. «No,» he said, «use your ABC book.» A technical difficulty.

Our teacher Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna was already quite old and the epitome of a strict Soviet teacher. I almost wrote «caregiver», but that doesn't quite fit the bill. She always set the bar high in terms of morals and education. The technical difficulties I was facing were absolutely unacceptable for her, and she quickly pounced on me.

Just 20 seconds later, I was standing in front of the whole class next to her desk, testifying to what had happened. To her, the story sounded unconvincing, it fell apart with lies. Her verdict was clear and sharp: to stand all day in front of the class until I could confess. I wouldn't admit to something I didn't do, even now. I remember how I was going mental inside, and I stood all day. The next day I had to come into school with my mother.

But it turned out to really make my day, because it so happened that the place I was forced to stand was straight ahead of Lena Khryashcheva – my super crush. So, even if I had glued these pages together myself, I would never have admitted it. I'd have stood there gladly all day long.

1993. Russian grammar

It turned out that this first incident with my teacher hadn't been enough and she wanted more the next year. I'll be honest, it was because I used to get mixed up with my grammar. I struggle to this day, but then it was a much bigger problem.

For example, to make the word «November» into an adjective would make it «Novemberish» (I promise, that's a real word in Russian). Except I used to write Novemborish. Or for December, I'd write Decemborish. You see? So I often failed our homework miserably, to the point where my work was read out in front of the whole class! The teacher's pet, the good boy, doesn't even know his grammar!

The stutter, which had almost disappeared, quickly came back. I don't know if it was visible from the outside, but from the inside I was all burning with blue flames. It was that day when a persistent dislike for this subject began to form, and in four years' time it would be fixed definitively. I'll tell you about that later…

1997. Not guilty and moving schools

There were no more special incidents, and gradually the end of the sixth grade came. And then a very hurtful and unfair story happened to me. One of the key moments that defined my future life path.

Like all normal children, I had a best friend: Vadim Zagvozdkin. I don't know why he fought with the other boys, Artyom and Alexander, but we were old enough to be fighting over girls yet. I happened to witness them scuffling after classes outside of our school. In my opinion, it wasn't a real fight, just a bit of a show.

The next day I was called to the headmistress's office and asked to explain the situation. When I wrote it, she looked at my writing with a grimace and gave me the verdict: I had egged them on. She didn't believe my story that I was only an onlooker. Vadim's mother really fanned the flames. She said things like «you two were best friends…» The investigation of this story was slow and tedious. The last word on the subject came from our class leader, Ms. Vassa Kondratyevna, who just stopped saying hello to me.

At the beginning of the school year, my mother had offered to send me instead to the lyceum in the nearby town of Lvovskaya. I'd remembered this, and later firmly told my mother that I was moving to the Lyceum – no explanations. In Russia we have this a proverb: «He said he would, so he did.» Four months later I moved schools and started a new year.

1997. «I will never snitch on my mates!»

But that wasn't the final word on disappointments in friendships. A child with such an active life philosophy couldn't have just one friend. There were also the boys that played out in the yard. The ones with whom I started smoking in seventh grade.

We didn't smoke that much; it was mostly just to get to grips with the idea and meet modern standards. But full disclosure: I was the first to start. When my mother demanded that I tell on my partners in crime, I said «I will never snitch on my mates, matter what!» And the case was closed.

At the same time, one of my «accomplices» Alexey Antonov from the flat 35 was compromised. He snitched on everyone to his mother. All the mothers at home made a showdown of the whole thing. But Alexey told everyone that I was the traitor, because I was first exposed.

That's when our long-term friendship ended.

1998. Taras Bulba

My mood actually improved when I'd run out of friends. There were less ways to get tricked. But I had completely forgotten about my Russian Literature amp; Language teachers. Clearly I had either a lack of experience or short memory loss.

Ms. Irina Borisovna had always been friendly and kind to me. I liked her too, but a man called Taras came between our love. It was Taras Bulba from the novella by Nikolay Gogol.

I had to write an essay on this subject, but I'd forgotten about it until it was almost too late. I scribbled it down while I was at my mother's workplace, a kid's massage clinic.

This time, my grammar was perfect. It was the commas that let me down. I used them so weirdly, that some of my sentences didn't even make sense. It was just hilarious! And everybody in the class thought so to. Laughter hit 100 dB, no less.

These sentences were read out to the class, with that stuck-up teacher voice, which drew a strong, hard line under my love for this teacher and the whole subject of Russian literature. I hate it.

But hatred, I'm sure you will agree, is a bad feeling, and later fate decided to play a little game on me: my wife Maria is a Russian Language amp; Literature teacher. Yes, yes, very funny… But years later I learned about Russian postfixes, some parts of the speech and some other little things. That said, I still can't manage phonetic from the third grade, which our daughter Anfisa has already mastered. Indeed, language is not my strong point.

2000. More Pushkin

Then, Ms. Irina Borisovna went on maternity leave and she was replaced by a trained specialist. She was so awful that I can't even remember her name. Ms. Valentina, was it? At the end of the ninth grade, in five lessons in a row I was asked a question in literature class. It was on the subject of the great genius Pushkin. In the first three lessons, I answered questions about him with all that I could remember from the textbook, no worries. But then by the fourth lesson I began to struggle. Some people weren't getting any questions, I was being tortured ever time! The fifth time came and it started to drive me mad. For all five answers I got five points out of five, again, no problems. But wasn't there such a thing as too much Pushkin per pound of flesh?

I was asked a sixth time, and I publicly refused to answer.

«Don't you know?» asked the teacher.

«I know, but you've already tortured me enough. Why do I have to answer every time?» I replied.

«Right, so, obviously, you don't know. Two points.[15]»

During the break, I came up to her to find out what she wanted from me, but she shrugged me off, did not listen, and said that it was impossible to change the grade she's given me. This brought my marks down, and I would be awarded a 4/5 for the term. F**k you… I thought to myself, leaving in silence. Pushkin, Pushkin, Pushkin… I get it, he's our national treasure. But you'd have thought someone else would have written something better by now…

Chapter 6. 1995. First Money

1995. Beer bottles

Pushkin, lifts, and grammar – I had bigger fish to fry. A real man needs money. A lot of money. For… crisps, chupa chups, and a little later for the collectable Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers.

Сheburashka[16] beer bottles were the answer to our meaningless summer existence and the absence of any pocket money. It made us a little more confident and even more grown-up. It was fun.

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Примечания

1

Russian: Константин Дмитриевич Воскресенский

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2

Russian: Сергей Сметанин

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3

Russian: «Во имя твоё»

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4

Russian: Груз 200. A military code word referring to the coffins used to ship Soviet soldiers' coffins home.

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5

«Babushka» is Russian for «granny».

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6

Russian: Олег Васильевич Кошевой. 8th June 1926 – 9th February 1943. Koshevoy was a Soviet partisan and one of the founders of the clandestine organisation «Young Guard», which fought the Nazi forces in Krasnodon, Ukraine, during World War II.

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7

A traditional greeting in some Slavic, Nordic, Baltic, Balkan and Middle Eastern countries

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8

A form of collective farm in the Soviet Union.

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9

A car designed and manufactured in the Soviet Union.

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10

A series of rear-wheel-drive superminis from the Soviet Union.

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11

A type of low-cost, brick or concrete-panelled apartment block of three to five floors. They were common in the Soviet Union during the early 1960s, named after then-leader of the USSR, Nikita Khrushchev.

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12

A special form of collective justice that existed in the Soviet Union.

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13

An old Russian folk sport similar in concept to bowling. The aim of the game is to knock out groups of skittles arranged in various patterns by throwing a bat at them.

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14

Your main teacher that stayed with you throughout school, much like a form tutor in the UK.

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15

Equivalent to a D in western grading.

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16

Also known as «Topple» in earlier English translations. It's a character from Russian children's literature and now a cartoon based on the 1966 story by Soviet writer Eduard Uspenskiy. The bottles were brown, just like Сheburashka, hence why we referred to the bottles this way.

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