Argentine Archive №1

Moscow

The pub on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Stoleshnikov Lane was overcrowded. The vaulted basement, streaked with dripping plaster and mold, never suffered from a lack of visitors. A convenient location in a very historical place of the capital, practically in its cultural center. Its past, shrouded in urban legends and no less turbulent present, made it a place of pilgrimage for various categories of writers, sculptors, poets and the remaining creative population of the big city.

According to rumors, here, in the company of Mayakovsky, ‘Uncle Gilyai’, the singer of Zamoskvorechye Vladimir Gilyarovsky himself, who forever glorified pre-revolutionary Moscow in his wonderful essays, read his obscene poems here. Supposedly, even Bulgakov himself used to come here to taste local beer with Tver crayfish, but people of sober thought, of course, categorically disagreed with this.

Anyway, but Yama – which was not its official name, but the locals surely called it that – was a beerhouse that served as the hangout for dozens of artists and musicians who already considered themselves the capital’s bohemians. These were not the same bohemians who frequented places like the restaurant Sovietskiy (the former Yar), or the prestigious Metropol. Their wallets were simply too light.

Andrey Fomenko, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute, sipped his already lukewarm beer and enjoyed the spectacle of Naum. He was a local tourist attraction and a talented landscape artist from Neglinka. Traditionally he was unshaven, with an oily, soiled robe draped over his naked body. This contrasted with an ever-present bright blue chic bow on his long, thin neck. At that moment, he was talking to a visiting farmer. By some miracle, he had become separated from his organized tour, and Naum was trying to convince him to buy one of his works. It was a dull landscape of a dreary, rainy day on the Arbat, disguised as a French watercolor.

The funny side of the situation was that it could have been a perfect fit for either Moscow in the miniature or Montmartre. The visitor to the capital sipped on his third mug of frothy beer, to the fierce envy of the poor artist. He let Naum’s watercolors pass him by.

Swallowing the saliva coming up his throat, Naum was about to drop the price again. He had already dropped it from three rubles, hoping to gain at least a couple of beers. Still, at that moment, his future benefactor set aside a plate with the remains of crayfish. In one rich gulp, he downed half his mug. Belching and plopping a straw hat on his immense bald head, he lifted a thick, overstuffed briefcase. From it, a stick of cervelat sausage he had bought in Yeliseyevsky was defiantly sticking out. He unexpectedly winked at Naum and, with a brotherly slap on the artist’s shoulder, thundered with a commanding manner:

“You don't know how to sell your work for a profit. It would be simpler, dauber, to share bread with your friends over here for the health of Sidor Petrovich from Magnitogorsk. Besides, I have to go. My wife probably already got a caviar mosque on Kazansky…”

With these words, he thrust several crumpled gold pieces into the wet palm of Naum, who still did not believe in his luck. He pushed those present with his elbows, clutching his briefcase under his arm. Like an icebreaker, he gradually made his way to the exit, vaguely looming in the pale spot of tobacco smoke.

Those few coins, by local standards, might as well have been Flint’s mysterious treasure. Andrey watched with interest as some of the forever cash-strapped local regulars started circling Naum like sharks around a shipwrecked sailor.

Naum quickly put his magical watercolor deeper into a large black folder he always carried around, but more for the show, since he rarely sold anything here. Furtively looking around, he made his way through the crowd and showed up at a table close to Andrey. Andrey swiveled and placed a mug with a foam cap in front of the artist, who was still crazed with his unexpected wealth.

Naum took a royal sip and stood there for a while, blissfully savoring the first sensations. Only then did he turn to the student and ask him:

“Well, Physics, can you do that?”

Andrey laughed:

“You are a lucky man, Naumushka. You’ve made a killing!”

Naum looked offended, which made his already brown eyes completely dark:

“He wanted to buy my ‘Rain on the Arbat’.”

“And yet he didn’t! He just felt sorry for you!”

Naum took another sip of beer and winked at Andrey:

“Well, physicist, I see you seem to be popular.”

“What are you talking about?” Andrey jumped up, looking around the lilac twilight of the hall.

“Oh, yes,” said Naum, pointing his unshaven chin at a dark corner, “Over there. He’s been looking at you for half an hour.”

“Come on!” Andrey stared at the stranger. He was dressed in a simple suit of a worker from the Moscow suburbs. On his head was a cap with a hard visor, breeches of an army cut were tucked into not too new, but neatly polished cowhide boots. A sturdy jacket over a clean, ironed shirt. In appearance about thirty, thirty-five. His face was unfamiliar.

To Andrey's surprise, the stranger intercepted his interested glance, smiled, and winked at him. His smile was kind and open. Andrey involuntarily smiled back. Naum eyed the student warily.

“Be careful with him,” the artist whispered hotly in Andrey's ear. “What if he is one of them?”

Naum vaguely waved his hand in the air, portraying these unknown people. Andrey only grinned condescendingly: the alarmist character of his friend was well known.

From somewhere inside the mess of smoke and beer fumes emerged the figure of a lean peasant with a mint in his mouth and an empty mug in his bony hand. Looking for buddies with dog-like eyes, he bleated:

“Splash a little something in the mug of a venerable participant in the heroic defense of Sevastopol! My throat’s on fire, it’s unbearable!”

Andrei gave by him a scornful look and turned away, and Naum glanced askance at the 'hero' and half-whispered his advice:

“Kindly get lost, Timon. My pal here, his uncle died at the ninth battery. Guys like you, who were rats in the rear, he kills in the alleyways. With his bare hands, no less.”

Timon's eyes widened to the size of a five-dollar coin. Grabbing his mug, he disappeared into the tavern's haze. Naum nudged his comrade with his elbow:

“What are you thinking about, good fellow?”

“I’ll get my diploma tomorrow or the day after. Then what? Distribution? In all likelihood, they’ll find me some hole in Upper Pupinsk, beyond the Urals. In that case, I can kiss all my dreams goodbye…”

“Oh, that.” Naum savored another foamy sip. “What did you expect, brother? That Moscow will greet you with open arms? There are enough engineers here.”

“And then some.” Andrey butted his stubborn head against his mug. “But I still hoped for the best, so to speak, all these five years. Yes, and the last course washed my head, so…”

"And why?” his pal laughed. “From what has accumulated in it over the past four? No, the rumors that you’ve been laying about this winter have been going around even here, in the Pit.”

“So what?” Andrey jumped up, shaking his blond locks. “That diploma is still almost with distinction!”

During the argument, the two did not notice as the stranger picked up his mug and moved closer to their table. Behind a heavy beer and a newspaper with his leftovers a little to the side, he listened with interest to their conversation. At some point, Naum glanced around and spotted him.

'Hey, comrade, we didn't invite you to our table,' he grumbled. The stranger flashed a broad smile:

“So? This spot wasn’t reserved, so I can sit here if I want.”

Andrey grabbed Naum by his sleeve and said:

“Come on, Naum, the comrade is right: in the pub and the bath, everyone is equal.”

“Indeed! I can get you a beer. How about that? We can drink and get to know each other at the same time.”

“Beer is good,” the artist said, as he tempered his anger with forgiveness.

“Great! Why don’t you take this,” he pulled Naum’s right hand closer and shoved some money into it, “and get a couple of chervontsy, and a beer for each of us. Oh, and ask old man Theophanes for a crawfish. I’ve heard he keeps a couple of buckets in the back. Tell him to get his shit together.’

“Right, like he’d listen to me,” said Naum with a crooked grin. He loved crawfish but didn’t want to deal with Theophanes. All the Countertops admired him for his cool temper and his enormous fists.

“Just tell him the Cat is begging and begging. I’m sure he won’t refuse,” the stranger said. “But you’ll need to hurry, or they’ll close and we’ll have neither crawfish nor beer!”

Despite glancing over his shoulder every so often, Naum went to the counter to confront the formidable Theophanes. The stranger leaned in closer to the recent student and raised his mug:

“Good evening, so to speak.”

Andrey looked at him gloomily.