Nikolai Nikolaevich and Camouflage by Yuz Aleshkovsky

Author:Yuz Aleshkovsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, Fiction/Literary, LCO014000, Literary Collections/Russian & Former Soviet Union
Publisher: Columbia University Press
Published: 2019-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

02

Today I have overtime leave, so let’s take a walk to the cemetery. We can reminisce about our old folks, sit by their graves, and then go to the café where my wife, Duska, is manager. She’ll set a table for us right in her office. Take my word for it, our bellies will like what they see—no camouflage! Herring—the real thing—from the Danube! When they skin it, the fat on it is so delicate, it melts before your eyes just from the warmth and the electric light. Real mother-of-pearl! Then we’ll dig into the solyanka—also the real thing—not for working-class stiffs. There are steamed kidneys in it, and sausage, and lean meat, and capers. Everything that’s supposed to be there is there—even olives. And, of course, there’s shashlyk.1 You don’t get chow like that in the Kremlin. Lamb! The real stuff! Duska soaks it in dry red wine, with green onions, herbs, pepper—you’ll go crazy over it. Real shashlyk! Shashlyk like it’s supposed to be! You don’t even have to chew—it goes straight to your stomach and makes itself at home there.

By the way, the slogger-workers, the camouflagers—that is, the People—they know what’s up. How can they not know when all they get is rotten eelpout-and-shark-meat-kebab, pan-fried in vegetable oil that’s already been used to overfry a thousand doughnuts. The People know everything. They know, by the way, that the shashlyk you and I are about to eat, or the shashlyk that’s being eaten in the Kremlin, is top secret, while their solyanka-swill, their yellowed herring, and their homemade cutlets—that have less frozen meat in them than a hungry bedbug has blood in it—they know that’s camouflage. See, brother, if our People were not so politically aware and literate, this kind of chow would, of course, make them kick up their hooves and create another October Revolution—a real one this time. But the People are as wise as the serpent, they understand what the main task of the Party and the Government is, they work to forge a nuclear shield and sword, they don’t give a shit about the quality of the food, or the fact that cod fillet has disappeared. The People are fed not by bread alone, not like you generals and your cuntocracy….

After lunch, let’s go to the cemetery. Our folks were lucky: They were buried in a real cemetery like human beings. Nowadays, they burn people. But they don’t burn the flowers and the bouquets we put into the coffins at the very end. Those are resold by the old ladies at the Quiet Market. I once bought a bouquet like that for Women’s Day.2 It smelled a little sad, but it was still fresh and sassy (after all, it had made it back from the other side). I asked the broad who sold it, “Tell me, whore, can you make a living from this stuff? “Thank you kindly,” she says, “we do a bit of camouflaging on the side.” I gnashed my teeth, wanted

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