Yury Polyakov: A Goatling In Milk


Late in the morning, I woke up Vitka:
“Get up you pest!”
“Why a pest”
“Because it’s unhealthy to sleep for so long…We have to go!”
“Where to?”
“To go and get the loot.”
“What freaking loot?”
“You should have paid attention in school, instead of chasing after dogs!”
“If I paid attention in school would I really have met you?”
“Get up! And remember this: Stenka Razin went to Persia to get the loot, this is where he got the Persian princess, which he later drowned…”
“Just like Gerasim did with Mumu?” Vitek brightened up.
“Something like that,” I nodded in surprise. Such an analogy had never entered my mind.
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Nothing”
“What do you mean nothing?”
“Nothing, we don’t have any money. That’s why we need to go to get the loot…”
Vitka got dressed. And once more I looked over his obnoxiously folk image with pleasure. I took one of the folders and shoved it under his arm, but on second thought took it away: there was something unnatural about it. Then I sat him down behind the table, and gave him a pen and paper:
“Write! ‘To the secretariat union of writers. Application. Requesting to provide financial assistance in connection to the work on a new novel.’ Put a cross.”
“What?”
“Sign it!”
“Wait, how do you spell ‘secretariat’?”
“With an ‘e’.”
“Everywhere?”
“Give it to me!”
I grabbed the paper from him: an author of a brilliant novel, who makes spelling mistakes, was not part of my plan.
I typed up the application on a machine and forced Vitka to sign it.
“Could it be possible that they will grant this?” he said doubtfully.
“If you ask nicely – they will for sure! What is socialism? A huge cash register of mutual aid. This is what we’ll burn on…”
I shoved three folders into the bag just in case, and we went to get the loot.

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