The Reunion

I have never had school reunions since I left school, and very long ago it was. So, I do not have the slightest idea of what happened to my former classmates, how they earn their living, how they survive, or how many children they have. I have no way of knowing it, and I don’t give a damn. But there is a guy whom I meet every year, always on the same date, December 4. I just feel I ought to spend some time with him on that day. We don’t talk, because there is nothing much to talk about. Everything goes without saying. This is the way it had always been, between the two of us. We just are together, looking at each other, not a word said. And we thank God for having this kind of friendship. At least, I do. I hope, Oleg thinks so, too, but I can neither ask him a question, nor shake his hand. All I can do is look at his photo on the stone from where he is smiling at me. I smile back. And even though I cannot afford drinking any alcohol for health problems, I drink two shots of vodka, one for myself, and one for him.

25 years makes a lot of time. It’s enough for a person to grow up, get married, have children. That is exactly the time that passed after Oleg died in Afgan, 25 years ago. I am getting old, while he will always remain young.
To say that his family was very poor is to say nothing. His father died in an accident working on rotation in Siberia, and his mother worked as a painter. No, she wasn’t an artist or something. She painted public buildings, both from inside and outside. Railway stations, bus stops, WCs, kindergartens, schools, stuff like that. No matter how hard she toiled, her salary was barely enough to feed herself and her son, to support him through schooling, to keep him away from the street. The small family was always short of money, living from hand to mouth. No wonder that Oleg started his working career very early, trying to help out at home. As my best friend, he had no secrets, and was always ready to share with whatever little he had.

One day, he made up his mind to take up business, so that he could really make the sort of money to start a family with.
- I don’t see myself working blue in the face, like my mom did, only to survive. I want my children to have a better life, and I want to be able to help my friends, too, - he used to say.
At the time, most of business used to be controlled by mafia. As a matter of fact, it still is, mafia bosses working as government officials and top managers of state-owned oil and gas companies. Well, anyway, it was more evident at the epoch, so I refused to go into business with him. It would have killed my parents who had gone out of the way to help me enter an institute that I was unwilling to give up.

Oleg didn’t mind. We kept in touch, and he would call me or drop a line from now and then. It was really a challenge to start a business from scratch without knowing the right people. But Oleg wasn’t the kind of man to be discouraged or give up something he was focused on.

For better or worse, but in six months’ time I met him getting off a brand new Lada, which was considered to be a luxury car at the epoch. I was a student, always in need for money, and I knew I could rely on him, if the worst came to the worst. He never asked any questions, neither what I needed the money for, nor when I was going to give it back. But something went wrong with his business pretty soon, causing him to give away all his kiosks to the neighboring clan that claimed the area was theirs. He finally was forced to drop his business, as it was no longer possible to carry on. Armed people would arrive just all of a sudden in the middle of the night, beat up the night shift salesman and throw the goods out into the street – cigarettes, drinks, chocolates, chewing gum, everything. So, he joined a fighting crew, the co-called ‘brigade’, got himself a Kalashnikov, and was soon changed beyond any recognition. He hated what he was doing, but there seemed to be no other way out. Oh, yes, there was. He volunteered to go to Afgan to fight there, because he said it made more sense to fight as a soldier rather that just be a ‘bratok’ for some big guns in Moscow. He knew it was a risky thing to do, but he took the risks, and that risk eventually killed him. That’s all.