The Zone Read Online Free Page B

could make an effort, bring your influence to bear, as they say… Have a little chat with Balodis, Volikov… and of course with Petrov. Your thesis should be: drink, but within limits. Not drinking at all – that would be overkill. That would be an anti-Marxist utopia, as they say. But know your limits. The zone is right next door, personal weapons, you get what I mean.”
    On the very same day, near the latrines, Boris spotted Lance Corporal Petrov, who was called Fidel by the other soldiers. The lance corporal had got this nickname a year earlier, during one of Lieutenant Khuriyev’s political lessons. Khuriyev had asked for someone to name the members of the Politburo, and Petrov had immediately raised his hand and said confidently, “Fidel Castro.”
    Alikhanov went over to talk with him, skilfully imitating Prishchepa’s Ukrainian accent: “Soon it will be the New Year. To eliminate or even to postpone this bourgeois phenomenon is beyond the Party’s power. So it means a drinking binge will take place. And that is a wreck waiting to happen. All in all… drink, Fidel, but know your limits.”
    “I know my limits,” Fidel said, pulling up his pants. “A litre to stick your snout in, and that’s it! I’ll live it up before the line goes dead. But your Prishchepa is a douche and a halfwit. He thinks – a holiday, so we’re going to get plastered. But we, goddamit, have our own calendar. If we got dough – we booze it up. But without dough, what kind of a holiday is it? Though in general, it’s time to put on the brakes. We haven’t dried out since Constitution Day. Wouldn’t want to give up the ghost by accident. Hurry up, I’ll wait for you.
What lousy weather! The shit freezes, you have to break it off with your hand.”
    Alikhanov headed for the rickety stall. The snow near it was covered with golden monograms. Among them, the calligraphic flourish of Potap Yakimovich from Belorussia stood out especially.
    A minute later, they were walking side by side down the icy footpath.
    “When my demob finally comes,” said Fidel dreamily, “I’ll go back to my native Zaporozhe. Go to a normal human toilet. Spread a newspaper with a crossword puzzle at my feet. Open a half bottle. And I’ll be as merry as the King of Siam…”
    The New Year arrived. In the morning, the soldiers sawed firewood by the barracks. Just the day before, the snow had shone underfoot. Now it was covered with yellow sawdust.
    Around three o’clock, the guard shift returned from duty. The shift commander, Meleshko, was drunk. His hat sat backwards on his head.
    “About-face!” Sergeant Major Yevchenko, also tipsy, yelled to him. “About-face! Sergeant Meleshko – abou-u-ut-face! Headgear, in place!”
    The weapons room was closed. The soldier guarding it had locked it and fallen asleep. Guards wandered around the yard with their guns.
    In the kitchen they were already drinking vodka. They scooped it up in aluminium mugs straight from the borscht tub. Lyonka Matytsyn started singing the old army-guard hymn:
    “Do the recruits want war?
The sergeant has the answer ready,
He who’s drunk up all he could
From his shoulder belt to his boots.
     
    The answer’s ready from the soldiers
Who lie about dead drunk,
And you yourself should understand
If the recruits want war…”
    Political Instructor Khuriyev was the officer on duty. As a precaution, he had brought a pistol from home. The right pocket of his jodhpurs bulged visibly.
    Tipsy soldiers in unbuttoned fatigue shirts wandered aimlessly through the corridor. At dark, mute energy was building in the army barracks.
    Political Instructor Khuriyev gave an order for everyone to assemble in the Lenin Room. Ordered everyone to line up by the wall. However, the drunken guards could not stand. Then he permitted them to sit on the floor. A few immediately lay down.
    “It is still six hours till the New Year,” the PI observed, “but you’re already drunk as swine.”
    “Life,