One-Two by Igor Eliseev

Author:Igor Eliseev [Eliseev, Igor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1911414-25-4
Publisher: Glagoslav Publications

Lower World

We spent all night long in the cell feeling cold and restless. I automatically rummaged around, always looking for something. In the dispatch center that never sleeps, I was forgetting and remembering again and again: they didn’t give us our blanket back.

In the morning, an absolutely unfamiliar man, who looked as if he had a huge pug (Decorative dog breed traditionally held by the aristocracy. A dog with a lively, cheerful, yet even temper, noble and affectionate to the owner) instead of his head, with thick whiskers resembling furry paws and short ears covered with wool-like hair, came for us.

“Those ones!” he barked through clenched teeth to the militiaman accompanying him, pursing his lips as if he were getting ready to spit. “There is no need to make something up, they’re model freaks; the money will just roll in.”

And having blown his nose on the floor, the “pug” continued addressing us directly:

“Congrats! You’ve got a job: standing in a walking tunnel. Hey, don’t make that face; to tell the truth, there’s not much choice: either going with me or staying here in jail. And don’t forget to thank Shanita for helping you.”

We needed to make a decision. In search of advice, I looked around but saw no one. The bench in the depth of our cell was empty; the gipsy, probably the same Shanita, had miraculously disappeared. The only sound to be heard was the snotty pug’s voice:

“The treatment of detainees at militia stations might actually be worse than in prisons.”

We hesitated, but we really had no choice.

“Deal,” you agreed.

In half an hour we were brought to a tunnel where some cripple was already standing with his knees slightly bent and his head tilted sideways. Thrusting his only hand forward, he squinted intensely, as if from blinding sunlight, and smiled mildly. As we came nearer he put his hand to his face convulsively, as if protecting himself from invisible blows, and started shivering miserably. Meanwhile, the pug whispered something in his ear, making the one-armed beggar screw up his face, which became small and sloped. A minute later he picked up his can from the floor, poured its contents into the pug’s pocket and obediently left the tunnel, casting fearful glances around.

“Now this is your spot,” the supervisor told us. We didn’t know yet that that was what people collecting tribute from beggars were called – supervisors! Dwellers of and in the tunnels – cripples and the poor – literally worshipped the pug. He endowed them with a spot, and having a spot ensured, they didn’t die, and food and a roof over their heads were guaranteed.

“There’s no spot for us,” you murmured in disbelief.

“Don’t play stupid,” he barked and handed us a can that had emerged from his hands and seemingly out of nowhere.

“Nobody will give alms to us; besides, we don’t know how to beg,” I said.

But instead of answering, the supervisor burst into loud laughter, which made the giant pug substituting for his face shake jerkily on his shoulders.

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