I am sitting in the Pulkovo waiting room, on a plastic chair, with a suitcase and a Halloween cape on my lap, and writing this. There is a crowd around, the smell of coffee from a kiosk, the loudspeaker wheezes about a delayed flight to Moscow. My plane is in a couple of hours, and I still can't believe that I am flying abroad. This story began two weeks ago, and everything started from that morning of June 16, when I had a fight with my grandmother and met Igor. I go over those days in my head as my pen scratches on the paper.
On June 16th, I woke up with a buzzing head - the night before, I had stayed up late with a bottle of Baltika. It was stuffy in the Khrushchev-era building, the wallpaper in the corner by the window was peeling off, it smelled damp, as if St. Petersburg had decided to remind people that it was located on a swamp. The Rubin TV was wheezing news about Chechnya, but I turned it off - I didn't want that crap in the morning. Grandma Anna Ivanovna was rattling pots in the kitchen, apparently cooking borscht. I dragged myself to wash up, and she immediately pounced: "Dmitry, have you been drinking again? When will you come to your senses? You're thirty-one, and you live like an alcoholic from Ligovka!" I snapped: "Don't interfere, I'll sort it out myself." She responded: "He'll sort it out! Look at yourself, a beer belly like Uncle Kolya from the third floor!" I couldn't take it anymore, slammed the door and ran out into the street. Damn, I knew she was right, but I didn't have the strength to listen. It was disgusting to look in the mirror - flabby, with bags under my eyes, and yet at LETI girls used to run after me.
The street on Vasilievsky Island is the usual St. Petersburg bustle. A GAZelle minibus rumbled past, splashing my old sneakers with a puddle. At a stall on the corner, a woman with purple hair was selling "Java" and cabbage pies, it smelled of rancid butter. I walked past, my hands in the pockets of my Halloween cloak - yes, the same one, from 1999. It was already worn out, but in it I felt like I was not quite me, but someone else, bolder. On a bench by the entrance, three old ladies in colorful scarves were yelling at each other: "What are you talking about, Klavdiya, potatoes for three rubles - that's robbery!" I grinned - this is all of St. Petersburg, even old women argue here, like at a rally. I passed a playground where a couple of boys were kicking a ball around and their mother in sweatpants was yelling: "Sanya, come home, I'll pull your ears now!" The air smelled of asphalt after the rain, the dampness of the Neva and the smoke from the cigarettes that two workers were smoking by the trash can.
And then - bam! - I hear: "Dmitry! Is that you?" I turn around, and there's Igor, my classmate from LETI, standing there, grinning like a cat that's eaten too much sour cream. In a denim jacket, with a bag from Produkty, and a pack of Java in his hands. I froze. How long has it been since we've seen each other? Five years? Six? He's like: "You're something, in that raincoat of yours, like from a spy movie! Let's go to my place, let's chat!" Honestly, I almost hugged him right there. Finally, someone who enjoys seeing me, flabby and beer-bellied! Are there really still people who remember me not as a loser, but as that guy at LETI who soldered circuits until the morning?
We trudged to his apartment, two blocks away, in the same Khrushchev-era building as mine, only with graffiti reading "Zenit is the champion" on the entrance. The stairs smelled of cat urine and freshly brewed compote; the neighbor from the first floor had left a saucepan by the door again. Igor chattered like in the old days, as if those years when I was drowning in a bottle and dreams about Afghanistan had never happened.
Everything in his one-room apartment is like it was in the 90s: a sofa with a sagging spring, a Gorizont TV with an antenna wrapped in foil, and a mountain of Tekhnika-Molodezhi magazines on the nightstand. In the kitchen, there's a windowsill littered with cigarette butts, a whistling kettle, and a couple of bottles of Baltika-Troika in the Biryusa refrigerator. Igor got out a beer and clinked the bottle with me: "To LETI, Dmitry!" I took a sip, the foam was cold and bitter, like my thoughts, but with Igor, everything seemed to come to life. He began: "Remember how you and I used to stick cheat sheets under our desks during Petrovich's electrodynamics exam?" I laughed - yes, Petrovich, the associate professor with the perpetually wrinkled shirt, was catching us, but we still got Bs. "And how you distilled moonshine in Sanka's dorm, and then half the floor sang 'Kalinka' until the morning?" Igor laughed, slapping his knee. I nodded, and my chest ached - I was alive then, not like now, with a soldering iron and a hangover.
Then Igor quieted down, poured himself another beer, and said: "Listen, Dmitry, here's the thing. Our teacher called me the other day, you know, Kovalev, and he was lecturing us about antennas. He was gray-haired, with a beard like Leo Tolstoy's." I remembered Kovalev, strict but fair, always droning on about waveguides, and Igor and I were arguing in the back rows about who was cooler, "Terminator" or "RoboCop." Igor continued: "So, he says: 'Igor, do we have any guys who know English?' I'm like: 'What's the point?' And he says: 'A request came from the States, from those well-fed, pot-bellied Yankees. They're looking for someone at LETI who knows electronics and can string two words together in English.'" I froze, the bottle in my hand shaking. "Igor, are you serious? What's the point of all this?" I ask, and my head is already spinning. He shrugged: "I don't know, Dmitry, but Kovalev said that some institute in America needs our man. Maybe for some project, maybe for a conference. But I immediately thought of you - you were cramming English at LETI, while Sanek and I were sitting in a pub."
I almost choked on my beer. I know English, yes - I learned it in Afghanistan, when I was hanging out with American instructors, and at LETI I translated articles for my term papers. But me, Sukhov, to the States? This is not just a trip - it is a chance to escape this everyday life, from the Khrushchev-era buildings, the kiosks, the whining of my grandmother and dreams about the sands! My heart started pounding, like when I jumped out from under fire in 1986. Igor looked at me and smiled: "So, Dmitry, are you going to go to the Yankees? Or should I tell Kovalev that you never let go of your soldering iron?" I just exhaled: "Igor, you... that... let me think." And in my head I was already thinking - oh yeah, a chance, damn it, a chance!
I left Igor when it was already dark. My head was in a whirlwind: the States, college, English. This wasn't just a trip, it was like a ticket to another life, where there was no St. Petersburg swamp, no kiosks with warm beer, and no whining about my beer belly. I walked along Vasilievsky, not noticing anything - not the stench of wet asphalt, not the screams of boys kicking a ball near the garages, not the smell of shawarma from the eatery on the corner. In the entryway, our neighbor Aunt Zina, as always, was shaking out the doormat, grumbling: "Dmitry, you're stomping up and down the stairs like an elephant again!" I just nodded, flew into the Khrushchev-era building, and locked myself in my room. Grandma Anna Ivanovna shouted something from the kitchen: "Dmitry, are you going to have dinner? The borscht is cold!" But I ignored it - no time for borscht when the States are spinning in my head. I lay down on the sofa and stared at the crack in the ceiling where the wallpaper had peeled off back in Brezhnev's time. Before my eyes were skyscrapers, like in Van Damme films, and me, Sukhov, in a normal suit, not in this Halloween cloak. Damn, am I really capable of anything else? I didn't sleep until almost the morning, I kept thinking: what if this is my chance to escape from this grayness, where there is only a soldering iron, Baltika and dreams about Afghanistan.
The next morning, on the 17th, my grandmother started from the doorway: "Dmitry, go to the store, there are no potatoes, and take some bread, otherwise there is nothing to eat!" I muttered: "Okay, I'll go," and dragged myself to the "Grocery" across the road. There was a line in the store, like in 1991, women in curlers were arguing about whose loaf was fresher, the saleswoman was yelling: "Don't crowd, citizens!" I took potatoes, "Borodinsky" bread, a couple of cans of sprats - everything as Anna Ivanovna ordered. On the way back, I almost tripped over a broken bottle at the kiosk, where the local alcoholic Kolya was sleeping again, hugging a bottle of "Putinka". At home, I threw my bag in the kitchen, my grandmother was at it again: "Dmitry, at least find a normal job!" I just waved her off, saying, no time for that. In my head - Kovalev, the States, the institute. I found the number of the LETI department in an old notebook, scratched back in 1992. The phone, an old VEF rotary phone, wheezed like a tank, but got through.
Kovalev picked up the phone, the same creaky voice as his lectures on antennas: "Hello, Radio Engineering Department, Kovalev listening." I stammered out: "Viktor Pavlovich, this is Sukhov, Dmitry, your student, remember? Igor said you were looking for someone in the States who knows English." He paused, coughed: "Sukhov? Oh, the one who glued cheat sheets under the desks? Yes, we need volunteers. There is a request from America, such-and-such institute, they need an electronics specialist. How is your English?" I blurted out: "Fine, I translated articles, hung out with their instructors in Afghanistan." Kovalev chuckled: "Okay, come to LETI, to the department, tomorrow at ten. They will explain everything there." He hung up, and I stood there like a fool, with the phone in my hand, my heart pounding. Tomorrow at LETI? Will they explain? This is a real chance! Can I, smelling of soldering iron and beer, really break out to these Yankees, to their skyscrapers and clean streets? In my chest - as if sparks from LETI, when Igor and I soldered circuits until the morning. Oh yes, this is my ticket out of this melancholy!
On the morning of the 18th, I woke up with a feeling that everything would be decided today. My grandmother had been rattling pots and pans since the morning, but then she grabbed her polka-dotted headscarf and ran off to her neighbor Aunt Zina - to gossip about potato prices, I suppose. I quickly pulled on my Halloween cloak, even though it was shabby, but in it I felt like I wasn't just Dmitry with a beer belly, but someone who had a future. I jumped out of the Khrushchev-era building and headed to LETI, through Vasilievsky Island. This time, St. Petersburg didn't oppress me with its dampness, but seemed to look at me with sadness, like an old friend you're saying goodbye to. The Neva flowed slowly, reflecting the gray sky and rusty barges that were dragging themselves to the port. The houses on the embankment, peeling, with stucco, seemed to whisper: "Where are you going, Dmitry?" The square near St. Andrew's Cathedral was green, flocks of pigeons were swarming around a stall selling sunflower seeds, and the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress stuck out in the distance like a needle, reminding me that this city was my youth. I walked and thought: can I really leave? Leave this Petersburg, where every corner is like a page from life, where Igor and I drank in gateways and soldered circuits until the morning?
LETI greeted me with the smell of old parquet and paint, which is always used to paint the walls in the corridors. The building is the same: peeling window sills, a notice board with yellowed sheets, where the 1995 schedule is still hanging. I walked past room 312, where Igor and I used a knife to cut out "Zenit is the champion" on the last desk. I remembered how Petrovich, our associate professor, yelled: "Sukhov, are you pasting up cheat sheets again?" - and we laughed like idiots. On the stairs I met the cleaning lady Aunt Lyuba, the same one, with a broom and eternal grumbling: "Don't trample, I just washed it!" I just smiled - everything is like then, only I am no longer that boy, but a man with bags under his eyes and a past that I can't run away from. But my chest was burning: what if this is my ticket to a new life?
I went into office 405, where Kovalev usually sat. The door creaked, like in an old movie. Inside was Kovalev, gray-haired, with a beard like Leo Tolstoy's, in his eternal sweater with pellets. Next to him was the director of LETI, Pyotr Sergeyevich, bald, in a formal suit, as if from a party congress. There was also a cop, in uniform, with shoulder straps, clearly not from the district office - his bearing was too well-groomed, like those who hang out at the embassy. And the fourth - an American, you can tell right away. I still have a nose for foreigners from Afghanistan: this one, in a gray jacket, with a short haircut and glasses with thin frames, looked like he was from a CIA movie. Kovalev introduced himself: "Dmitry, this is Mark T., from America, such-and-such institute, and this is Major Ivanov, from the embassy, a translator." Mark started jabbering something in his own language, quickly, with a smile, and the cop, Ivanov, explained in a human way: "Mr. Mark says we need an electronics specialist who knows English. You, Sukhov, are suitable." I stand there like a fool, in my raincoat, my heart pounding. Kovalev nodded: "Dmitry, you were not the dumbest among us. Volunteers are needed, you will go to the States, to their institute. They will tell you the details there." Pyotr Sergeyevich only chuckled, looking at me as if I were an exhibit. I squeezed out: "I... am ready." And in my head - St. Petersburg, Neva, pigeons, and as if I was already saying goodbye to them. Could this really be it - my salvation from this melancholy?
Petr Sergeyevich, the director of LETI, suddenly turned to me and said: "Sukhov, you understand, a trip to the States is not just like that, buy a ticket for a minibus. You need documents, a visa, certificates. Finances, again, are not cheap." I stand there, nodding, and my head is in a mess: what other certificates? After all, I solder TVs, and I don't hang out in embassies. He continued: "But we will intercede, fortunately there is money, the institute will support. Mark T. did not come empty-handed." I glanced at this Mark - he is sitting, grinning, in his jacket, like from a Hollywood movie, and mumbling something in his English. Major Ivanov, this cop with an embassy bearing, translates in a human way: "Mr. Mark says that their institute will cover part of the expenses. You need to get a passport, a J-1 visa, a certificate of no criminal record, and a medical examination." I almost whistled - how much running around was that? But my chest was still burning: the States, skyscrapers, a chance to escape the melancholy of St. Petersburg with its kiosks and Baltika.
Ivanov obviously knew his stuff - he spoke clearly, as if reading from a piece of paper: "You'll get your passport at the OVIR, on Zakharyevskaya, it's not far. There's a questionnaire, 3x4 photos, a military ID, a receipt for the state fee - a hundred rubles, no more. You'll get a certificate of no criminal record from the police, on Liteiny. A medical examination - at the clinic, but you need a test for tuberculosis and HIV, the Americans are strict." I listened, and in my head there was a mixture of panic and hope. In Afghanistan, I ran under bullets, and now I'm going to fight with papers? But Kovalev, sitting at the table, encouraged me: "Dmitry, you can handle it. We'll write a letter to the embassy that you're our candidate. LETI doesn't abandon its own." Mark is back at it again, mumbling something in English, and Ivanov translates: "Mr. Mark says their institute will send an invitation for a visa, everything is official. The main thing is to quickly collect the documents."
I just nodded, the words stuck. This is real - me, Sukhov, with a beer belly and a soldering iron, is being invited to America! Pyotr Sergeyevich added: "Sukhov, don't let me down. This is not only your opportunity, but also the prestige of LETI." I squeezed out: "I won't let you down," - and I was thinking: am I really going to leave? St. Petersburg, with its Neva, peeling houses and pigeons, seemed to be already looking at me as if I were a stranger. After the conversation, Ivanov said: "Let's go, Sukhov, we need to go to OVIR, let's start with the passport. Mark is with us." The three of us left LETI, me, the cop and this American in the jacket. We walked along Vasilievsky, past the park where old women were feeding pigeons, past the pie stand that smelled of rancid butter. The Neva sparkled in the sun, the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress stuck out in the distance like a farewell signal. I walked and thought: damn, this is my ticket out of the Khrushchev-era building, out of my dreams about Afghanistan, into a new life. I just hope I don't screw up with these papers.
Well, my great pilgrimage through the bureaucratic jungle has begun! I, Sukhov, with a beer belly and a Halloween cape, like Don Quixote with a soldering iron, rushed into battle with papers for the sake of the States. Honestly, if I had known how much sweat and shame awaited me, maybe I would have stayed fixing TVs in my Khrushchev-era apartment. But in my head there are skyscrapers, like in Van Damme films, so go ahead, Dmitry, don't talk nonsense! From June 18 to 28, I was running around St. Petersburg like a hero of some fairy tale, where instead of a dragon there was a woman from the OVIR with a face like a bulldog.
On the 18th, Major Ivanov, Mark T., that American in a suit, and I trudged off to the OVIR on Zakharyevskaya. The office was three by three meters, the table was piled high with folders, and there was a smell of coffee and stale tobacco. The woman at the desk, wearing glasses on a chain, looked at me like I was a cockroach: "Did you fill out the form? 3x4 photos? Where's the receipt?" I shoved my photos at her - damn, they make me look like a criminal after three Baltikas. She muttered: "Military ID, passport, state duty of one hundred rubles." Ivanov, a cop with an embassy bearing, winked: "Calm down, Sukhov, I've made a deal, they'll speed it up." Mark mumbled something in his English, and Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark says their institute has already sent an invitation for a visa." I just nodded, sweating in my coat - the office was like a bathhouse, and the window was painted over, like in a bunker.
Three days later, on the 21st, I came back for my passport. The same woman threw me a red book: "Check it, Sukhov, or else don't whine later!" I opened it - well, at least they didn't mix up my last name. First victory! Then - a certificate of no criminal record, on Liteiny. June 20th, police station, a line like at a mausoleum. An office - two chairs, a table with a cracked tabletop and a cop in a shirt with a ketchup stain. "Sukhov? Write a statement, give me your passport." I wrote, my hands were shaking - what if they find some kind of fine for 1995, when Igor and I were drinking in a gateway? The cop yawned: "It's ready in a week, don't talk nonsense." Ivanov, who was hanging around with me like a nanny, whispered: "Don't worry, LETI interceded, everything is clean." Mark mumbled something in his own language again, and I just thought: damn, this Yankee probably doesn't go to such offices in the States. On the 27th I took the certificate - a piece of paper with a seal, where it is written that I am not a bandit. Hooray, Dmitry, you are clean as a whistle!
The funniest thing was the medical examination, June 24, the clinic on Sredneokhtinsky. The therapist's office was like a storage locker, piled high with cardboard boxes containing medical records. The doctor, a woman of about sixty, with a voice like a sergeant, barked: "Sukhov, take off your clothes, we'll take your blood pressure!" I took my clothes off, embarrassed - my beer belly was sticking out like Uncle Kolya's from the third floor. She poked at the tonometer: "One hundred forty to ninety, Sukhov, drink less!" Then - tests. Oh, I'm afraid of injections, like a kid! A nurse, looking like a saleswoman from a kiosk, shoves a syringe at me: "Don't move, this isn't Afghanistan." They took blood, I almost fainted, and she laughs: "Get tested for HIV and tuberculosis, the Americans demand it." I took the test, sweating from shame - in the mirror opposite I saw my red face and bags under my eyes. On the 28th I came for the results, the doctor muttered: "Clean, Sukhov, but your liver is crying." Well, at least it's not tuberculosis, it's bread.
The final push - a J-1 visa, June 28, the US consulate on Furshtatskaya. There was a line of about thirty people, all sweaty, with folders, as if it were judgment day. The consulate office was cramped, with linoleum, like in a school, and an air conditioner that wheezed but did not cool. The official, a skinny guy with a tie, looked at my papers: "Sukhov, do you have an invitation from the institute? Did LETI give you a letter?" I shoved everything I had collected - my passport, a certificate, tests. He nodded: "Wait, about two weeks." Well, ok, we left the consulate on Furshtatskaya, and Ivanov suddenly said: "Sukhov, let's go to a restaurant, let's celebrate your papers. Mark is treating us." I chuckled - well, if the Yankee is paying, it would be a sin to refuse.
We went to "Europe", a posh place on Nevsky, where embassy officials and all sorts of foreigners hang out, sipping whiskey and munching steaks. The room is like something out of a magazine: white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, waiters in waistcoats scurrying about, as if at a reception with the English queen. It smells of fried meat, expensive perfume and something sweet, like liqueur. We sat at a table by the window, Mark grinned like the cat from the Whiskas ad, and I sat there as if on pins and needles - in my shabby raincoat I was here like a plumber at a ball.
The waiter, with a face like an actor from Santa Barbara, brought a menu as thick as a textbook on electrodynamics. I poked at a cutlet with potatoes - at least something familiar. Mark ordered something in his own language, Ivanov translated: "Steak and wine." Then Mark stood up, raised a glass of red wine, which probably cost as much as my monthly salary, and began to mumble. Ivanov, yawning, translated: "Mr. Mark says: for Russian science, for its great minds that have always amazed the world!" I almost choked on my cutlet. For Russian science? Was he serious? I muttered: "Come on, Mark, you Yankees have long since surpassed us. Your computers, the Internet, satellites - and we are sitting here with Baltika and soldering irons." Ivanov translated, Mark laughed as if I was telling a joke, and then went back to his old tricks. Ivanov: "Mr. Mark says: it only seems that way to you. The Russians launched the first satellite, the first man into space. Your minds are a treasure."
I grimaced: "Treasure, you say? Yeah, only your Pentium III beats our Elbrus a hundred times over. You have Microsoft Windows 2000 there, and we have Tetris on BK-0010." Mark grins again, as if I'd paid him a compliment, and mumbles something funny. Ivanov translates: "Mark says that your Tetris is a brilliant thing, the whole world plays it. And Windows, he says, glitches, like everything else." I snorted: "Well, yeah, and your scientists in Los Alamos are probably already churning out quantum computers, while we're soldering lamps at LETI." Mark laughs so hard he almost spills his wine, and answers through Ivanov: "Quantum? Nonsense, that's science fiction. But your work on radar is still in our textbooks." I just threw up my hands: "Radar? That's the 60s, Mark, we're stuck in the past!" He still beams as if he were on a talk show, and I sit there like an offended schoolboy whose older brother didn't give him candy.
Ivanov, seeing that I was wound up, added fuel to the fire: "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, you have Korolev, Kurchatov, and what do they have? One Edison, and he even fiddled with a light bulb." I chuckled: "Edison? And what about their Internet, DARPA? They were already running ICQ chats in 2000, and our modems squeal like cats." Mark was again droning on, grinning, and Ivanov: "Mark says that your modem squeak is the music of progress. The Russians always catch up and overtake." I had just finished chewing the cutlet, thinking: what a fruit this Mark is, eternally cheerful, as if he doesn't know what the St. Petersburg blues are. We argued for another half hour, until the wine ran out. I kept grumbling that we had fallen behind, and Mark, through Ivanov, kept repeating that the Russians were great. In the end, I gave up: okay, Yankee, drink your wine, and I'll go to the States and see for myself who got the better of whom.
The two weeks after Europa dragged on like rubber. I, Sukhov, counted the days like a kid before the New Year, checked my phone - what if the consulate calls? And so, on June 28, I was back at Furshtatskaya, near the US consulate. There was a line of about forty people, all sweaty, with folders, as if it were an exam in electrodynamics at LETI. I was standing there, my heart pounding, like when Petrovich asked about waveguides, and I was looking for a cheat sheet under my desk. The agonizing wait was worse than the line for Baltika in 1991. Some guy next to me was grumbling: "I've been standing there for an hour, and they're drinking coffee there!" I just nodded, sweating in my Halloween cloak. Finally, they called: "Sukhov, go to the third window!" The official, the same skinny guy with a tie as last time, leafed through my papers as if I owed him taxes. "Everything is fine, the visa is approved. Take your passport." I almost jumped - a J-1 visa, a red booklet with an American eagle, in my hands! How cool! I left the consulate, smiling from ear to ear, like a student again who passed his session without failing.
I walked home as if on wings. The Khrushchev-era building smelled of dampness and the neighbors' compote, but I didn't care, because the flight was tomorrow! Packing was a separate comedy. I pulled out an old suitcase, my father's, with a cracked handle. What to take? Two shirts, both wrinkled, but they'll do. Jeans, a sweater, sneakers - I'm not going to fly in a jacket like Mark's. I wanted to stick the soldering iron in, but changed my mind - suddenly they'll think I'm a terrorist in the States. I threw my passport, visa, ticket (Ivanov had shoved them in yesterday, saying that Mark had paid for them) into my coat pocket. Grandma Anna Ivanovna flew into the kitchen: "Dmitry, where are you going?" I just chuckled: "To America, grandma, I'm flying tomorrow." She groaned, but my thoughts were already somewhere over the Atlantic. I went to bed on my sagging sofa, listening to the crackling Rubin TV, which was wheezing out an MMM commercial. I couldn't fall asleep - my head was buzzing: the States, skyscrapers, a new life. Damn, Sukhov, you're really doing this!
On the morning of the 29th, I had just opened my eyes when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and there was Mark T., in his jacket, grinning like a cat from Whiskas, and Ivanov, with his embassy bearing. I dragged them into the Khrushchev-era building and introduced them to my grandmother: "Anna Ivanovna, this is Mark, from America, and Major Ivanov, from the embassy." Grandma, as if in a theater, was rushing off her feet: "Oh, dear guests, I'll have some tea now, I've baked some cabbage pies!" She rushed around the kitchen, rattling the kettle, shoved a vase of "Crayfish Neck" caramels and a plate of pies on the table, almost dropping them. Mark was mumbling something in his own language, Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark thanks you for your hospitality." I just nodded, and grandma was already chattering: "Eat, eat, you're so skinny, you American!" The farewell was crumpled - she sobbed, thrust a bundle of pies at me: "Dmitry, don't go hungry there!" I hugged her, my throat was tight, but I didn't show it. Time for a new life.
Mark, Ivanov and I went to Pulkovo. The taxi was an old Volga, the driver was yelling at a minibus that cut us off on Moskovsky Prospekt. There was a crowd at the airport, the smell of coffee from a kiosk and announcements over the loudspeaker: "Flight to Moscow, delayed by an hour." Our flight, to New York with a transfer, is on schedule so far. Mark keeps smiling, Ivanov checks my papers like a nanny. The flight is in a couple of hours, I finish writing in my diary. Damn, Sukhov, you're really flying to the States. Hold on, don't screw up!