Cardan from Ukraine. A Joke of a Man

Cardan from Ukraine. The Joke of a Man
Áåëîóñîâ Àíäðåé Âèêòîðîâè÷
ANDREY BELOUSOV

CARDAN FROM UKRAINE. THE JOKE OF A MAN

KIYV 2012
UDK 821.161.1(477)-31
BBÊ 84(4Ukr=Rus)6-44
         B43

                Andrey Belousov
B43     Cardan from Ukraine. The Joke of a Man. – Êiyv: OBNOVA, 2012. – 80 p.
ISBN 978-966-8869-48-8

This book describes the living conditions in the Ukrainian village in the first years after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The local con man, nicknamed Cardan, deceives the gullible fellow villagers for the sake of booze. In the end, having misjudged his cleverness, he gets fooled by a simpleton. The book is based on real events. I do not want to think up anything and fantasize to embellish the story, and render what I've written to the readers, leaving everything as it was, without exaggeration. All the characters of the story are real. Although, their real names are not revealed at the author`s discretion.

ÓÄÊ 821.161.1(477)-31
                ÁÁÊ 84(4Óêð=Ðîñ)6-44

ISBN 978-966-8869-48-8                © Áåëîóñîâ À. Â., 2012

Contents
1. The Second Hand Grave Yard Cross
2. The Miraculous Concoction
3. Gullible Mikey
4. The Edible Sawdust
5. Ukrainian Halloween
6. The Hilarious Relatives in Law
7. The Electricity Inspector
8. The Cruel Winter Fishing   
9. Oh, Goodness, It must be Sand
10. The Resurrected Pig
11. Prosecutor
12. The Old Women`s Curses



THE SECOND HAND GRAVEYARD CROSS

A starry night, like a gigantic mythical bird, has covered the countryside with its black wings, cooling down the lush vegetation of a Ukrainian village that was profusely warmed by a daily dose of summer sunshine. The full moon has taken its reign in the darkened sky and illuminated the silhouettes of three graveyard crosses with its eerie light.

"It's time!" said Cardan.
"Let's hang on a little longer," interjected Sucker.
"Are you going to wait until the break of dawn?" Gray interrupted them.


The way to the private graveyard had to be trodden through a potato plot. The height of the plant tops reached up to the knees and the thick dew made the movement quite uncomfortable. The courageous group of three men set off to the desired goal.

In place of a quiet summer day came a sonorous night; it filled the darkness with croaking of the frogs and chirping of the crickets. The village dweller, overburdened with hard work, does not notice the day's noise, singing of birds and rustling of leaves. He is so eager to take care of his daily worries, as though he were about to complete some important undertaking, after which there would be a rest, bringing him an opportunity to enjoy the fruits of his hard labor. But the morning comes and the history repeats itself. Totally depleted of his strength, he goes to bed. When he wakes up before the sunrise, he has to feed his cattle and poultry. Then he goes to work. When he returns home exhausted late in the evening, he should do the chores that have been piled up during the day. And there is nothing new under the sun. He is destined to be trapped in this routine with no visible prospect of the future. Life flows like water under the bridge. And now, on the slope of his years he is eager to relive some pleasant moments of his past. In the recesses of his memory he finds only one monotonous, boring day. It turns out that he has lived it over many a time in a row, so the reverie is limited to the life events that comprise the fullness of only one tedious day and the future looks bleak for him.
 
But not all, who live in the village, want to experience such a deplorable fate. They try to diversify their existence with the help of alcohol. The intoxicating effect of it pictures one`s life to be successful, hopeful and full of meaning. It matters little for him that his happy life is just a figment of imagination. As long as he is tipsy, he continues living in his imaginary world - the world of hopes and dreams.
            
Meanwhile, the night prowlers are not daunted by pessimism. They are trying to get hold of the only remedy that gives respite from the boredom of monotony. These three brave friends must act quickly and quietly because the graves are near a private house and they need to avoid the trouble of being seen by anyone.

In the second half of a working day a man with a face shattered by some grim occurrence peeped into the local tractor workshop.
“Excuse me! Can you tell me where the turner is?” he asked. The man was not local and did not know the mechanics of the workshop. Cardan, who was fiddling with the engine to his broken down tractor, sprang into action with all the energy of a natural swindler and instantly rushed to him.
“I'm the turner,” he answered convincingly, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.
“My aunt's passed away,” the stranger continued, “I need to have a cross made.”
“My sincere condolences! Sadly, there's no way of escaping death. Death is a price we pay for life."
"Yes,  that's true," said the man with a sigh.
"I honestly assure you that we`ll get it done in no time. Don`t worry. Tomorrow morning the cross will be ready. It will cost you next to nothing. Just one liter of vodka,” Cardan reassured him in a confident and sympathetic tone of voice.

In the village people are more known by their nicknames, which correspond to their type of character in a colorful manner demonstrating a person not only as a unit of society but also as an individual. And why is he called Cardan (a driveshaft in Ukrainian) one might ask? Well, because it spins. To survive in this cruel world, one has to always remain on a constant move.

For greater credibility Cardan led the visitor to show the welder, who would weld together the parts made by the turner, to create a tomb cross.
“Oh, speak of the devil. Here he comes. Now, we`ll sort out everything right away. I'm telling you that everything will be alright. The things will work out well. Tomorrow the cross will be made, come rain or shine,” Cardan encouraged him again.
“Gray, this man`s aunt has died. He`s in a desperate need of a tomb cross for tomorrow.”

Gray was not actually a welder. He was visiting the tractor workshop by chance. "Maybe," he thought, "the guys have some alcohol today and will treat me to a drink." And why do you think he was called Gray? Simply because he constantly sniffed, searched, and scoured in search of booze like a wolf. He knew the simple truth that if you are always early, you are never late. Gray instantly sensed the chance to have a drink and assumed a role of the welder with no hesitation.

“There's nothing to worry about. It's a done deal now. Tomorrow morning come with a liter of vodka. A cross will be ready. The turner will make the rings and cut the pipe. I will weld everything together. The chief mechanic will provide us with the material.”
“But if the chief mechanic will not give you a pipe.” The stranger's doubt gave away a moment's anxiety.
“Oh, there he goes, Dmitry Ivanovich, can I talk to you for a minute?” Cardan called up a passing by Sucker with a fake name.

“I? What? What do you want?” dumbfounded Sucker stammered. Cardan and Gray, having winked, explained to him that the man was in grief, that his aunt had died and a pipe for the cross was required immediately. Sucker was clumsy in swindles and scams, however, knowing the nature of these two rascals, he realized that they were up to cheating some alcohol out of him. When Sucker had been in doubt as to which way to move, Cardan had always nudged him subtly in the right direction. So Sucker looked at Cardan for confirmation and he furtively nodded back.
“Yes, of course, I will sign you off a pipe. My condolences! When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow at 2 pm.”
“OK, come to me in an hour, I'll look for it in the storage room.”
“Dmitry Ivanovich, tell the man directly, will there be a pipe or not?” Cardan insisted on the answer, winking at Sucker surreptitiously.
“I have one, such as you need. Come to me in half an hour, now I`m just busy, I'll provide you with one.”
"So in half an hour we'll have the wheels turning," Cardan said.

Finally, the matter was settled and the visitor left the tractor workshop.
“Where can I get you a pipe?” Sucker asked Cardan indignantly.
He was not able to think quickly and grab everything straightaway and always asked dubious questions.
 
“For crying out loud, why are you so slow to think? You should be always on the move! Even a blind chicken finds a corn now and again!” Cardan reproached them. “Let's go outside, I'll show you something.” Leading two of his friends out of the workshop, he pointed his index finger at three graves located two hundred meters from them, “Now, I'll put the cards on the table. There's no point in reinventing the wheel. Tonight, that cross over there, the newest one, we will steal."
"Are you kidding us or do you really mean it?" Grey chuckled.
"What's the big deal? They'll never know what hit them.”

During the Man-made famine (Holodomor) of 1932-33, people died massively. Managing with the funerals and see off the deceased in their last way to the local cemetery was not possible. They were buried near the houses in which they lived. In the course of time some of the relatives of the deceased expressed a wish to be buried next to their relatives; and thus the tradition of burial at the family cemetery continued for several decades after the tragic events experienced by the people of Ukraine.

And so, in the deep-night darkness the men approached one of such family cemeteries. Suddenly they heard a sepulchral creak of the opening of the front door of the nearby house.
“Be quiet, someone went out,” Gray stopped his friends.
The trinity, holding their breaths, crouched down.
Another door creaked, producing an infernal reverberation in the air.
“Someone went out to the outside toilet. We should wait until he comes back into the house.”

When everything became as quiet as a grave again, Sucker approached an iron cross.
“This one or what?” he asked.
“Can`t you see that those two crosses are wooden and this one is made of iron! Of course this is the one! Come on, pull it out!” Cardan commanded.
“Why me, again me?! It seems like there is no one else but me! Always me! OK, here goes nothing.” Sucker, grumbling, grabbed the cross with his both hands, trying to pull it out of the ground.
“Guys, help me, it doesn't give way!”

Cardan started pulling it to the left, Gray to the right, Sucker, standing in the middle, was being wagged like a tail from side to side: to the left - to the right, over here  - over there.
“Something doesn`t let it go out,” complained Sucker.
“Keep on pulling! Stop talking! A rod welded across the bottom of the pipe is the obstacle that prevents it from coming out. Pull stronger!"
Gray took the initiative.

Huffing and puffing with the effort, the guys managed to pull the cross out of the ground.

“Oh, no! What the heck have we done? Just check it out! We bent it at the bottom. What do we do?” whispered Sucker in a frustrated voice. “Shall we leave it here or take it? I think we'd better call it a night.”
“Are you crazy?! Of course, we'll take it! It's too early to cry wolf. Tomorrow we'll make something up,” Cardan blurted out, not losing enthusiasm.

The next morning the friends gathered over the bent cross and began to rack their brains, trying to figure out a way out of the difficulty.

“Now what?” Sucker stammered, throwing an incomprehensible glance at his friends.
“I always seem to be the one, who picks up the slack. I will go to the welder and promise him a drink for cutting off the twisted end and welding a new piece of pipe,” Cardan eventually came up with an idea that really looked like a plan.
“But a welding seam will be visible!” Sucker, not believing in the success of their trick, expressed a doubt again.
“Oh, guys, enough already! It's too bad about that, but there`s nothing to worry about. We will paint it, and it will look like a new one.”

Ultimately, managing with the task, the guys went to meet the customer of the cross at the entrance to the workshop. His timing was perfect.

“Wow, you have even painted it!” The customer was pleasantly surprised.
“Yes, do not get smudged. Take it over here and over there with these two pieces of paper; wrap them around the pipe just like this. When you come home put the cross against the sun. The paint will instantly dry.
“Here's the payment, as agreed.”

Grabbing the alcohol with his both hands, Cardan rushed in the direction of a grove, Gray and Sucker followed him for a feast. They looked like three excited children on Christmas Eve. Knowing without a doubt that there were treats on the horizon.

Having buried his aunt, the nephew went out to take a look at the potato plot and was struck with a horrible surprise. The grave of one of his relatives, whom he buried two years before, happened to be without a cross.

Later he told people in the village, "Guess what, I walk in front of the funeral procession of my late aunt, carrying a cross. We stop to take a breath. I look at it, and strange thoughts start creeping into my mind: somewhere I've already seen it, but I'm not sure how that could possibly be relevant. We start moving on; the same flashbacks keep nagging me: well, there's something familiar about it.

Yesterday morning I went out of the house to check out the garden and there I stumbled on a grave of my relative, which was lacking a cross. So that's it! Suddenly I clearly recalled that I had already held it once. It turns out that I buried two of my relatives with one and the same cross. Oh, those bastards! They will be punished for their sins in the afterlife. No harm done, though. At least the cross is back again with our family."


THE MIRACULOUS CONCOCTION

On the following morning Cardan woke up with a severe headache. "Once again that frigging hangover," he thought plaintively. "The pain won't go away till the next day unless you deal with it now. In order to alleviate it you need to get some booze. You should always be on the move. Get up and go look for another "victim"," the solution, worked out over the years, reverberated in his head, like an echo in the cave. He splashed some cold water on his face, patted the drops of it with a towel and looked at himself in the dusty, cracked mirror. He eyed his fractured, sour reflection. It was craving for some sort of invigoration. Drinking ravenously a cup of cold water, he flung a worn-out jacket over his shoulder, like David his sling when he was challenging Goliath, and went out and about to face the world.

His future victim, a driver called Chika, was delivering grain from the farm field to the grain facilities. It was lunchtime and he, hurrying up home to have a snack, asked the colleague drivers where they signed the driver's vouchers. "Over there, at the bench," one of them said casually and nodded to the other side of the road where an old man was sitting.

Chika ran to the place indicated while the drivers, hardly suppressing their laughter, expected his reaction. With an angry expression on his face and non-stop complaining Chika returned to the drivers. "What the heck... he signs the frigging vouchers, he`s looking after the turkeys and doesn`t sign any vouchers," he continued to grumble. And then a barely restrained avalanche of laughter came upon him; some of the drivers even rolled on the ground holding on to their bellies.

One day a cruel joke was played on him, which led to a chain reaction of ridicule. A circus came to the village; and it was written in the poster that a funny monkey called Chika would perform. However, some local man with a good sense of humor replaced a photo of the monkey with an image of the driver, who after the circus left the village was nicknamed Chika. Since then his friends had always been waiting for a moment to poke fun at him.

Waving away the driver's laughter, angry Chika went home to take a bite. When he got home he said hello to his father who came over from the neighboring village. Everyone called him Boss there. He arranged a repair of a barn for keeping hay, hiring two handymen for help. Chika was able to do just some petty chores about his household. He was not cut out for this sort of thing. From the first days of his married life his father helped him with everything he asked for: he assisted him with repairs, planted vegetables, harvested potatoes and delivered hay for the cattle. In addition to his own household, he also took care of his son's chores. A few years before Chika got married, Boss had decided to make a real man out of him and had sent him to work to the north of the country. "Go," he said threateningly to him, "you will see life, you will gain experience, you will grow wiser. There they will beat out that foolishness of yours quickly out of you! Besides, you will have an opportunity to earn some money."

Chika went to Murmansk. He worked at the port on a forklift. It so happened though that he could not cope with the steering of the "freaky clunker" and fell into the ocean from the quay together with the forklift.
 "Hey, boy, you`d better go home, we have plenty of our own workers like you," his formidable chief fired him at last.

And then, a month later, Boss contemplated his "prodigal son" again. After that he realized that he would have to help his awkward offspring till the end of his days.

Chika's wife laz the table for lunch. Boss flavored each dish with red pepper.
“Did you ask the guys if they like food with pepper or don`t? Do you think if you enjoy a spicy meal, so does everyone?” All of a sudden Chika lost his temper and flashed with indignation like a peel of thunder.
“There you go again, wimp!” Boss responded back with one of his volcanic outbursts and shoved his middle finger under Chika's nose.
“Help yourself!” angry Chika retorted with the same gesture. All hell broke loose: a family squabble flared up. The handymen rushed to calm down the brawlers.
“I don`t give a damn about you all! I`m going back to work.” the furious son headed for the door.
“You'd better get rid of the Colorado beetles on the potato plot. Just take a look at it, almost all the potato tops have been destroyed,” Chika received a sharp reproach into his back, like a stab of a knife, from his father.
"I know what to do with it without your advice! You're preaching to the choir!" Chika retorted.

Arriving at the garage, he met Peter the First. Instantly comes to mind the image of the Great Russian Tsar; but not in his honor Petya received such an important nickname. In the local garage there were two more Peters. Peter the First always turned up for work the earliest of them, exactly for this reason he was awarded this honorable nickname from his colleagues.

Chika's agricultural capabilities were hanging in the balance. He was in a precarious situation. Something had to be done about it to neutralize the threat.
"If I don`t deal with it urgently, I would be a laughing stock for my father again," he thought demurely.
“And what should I do to those freaking potato beetles?” he began complaining aloud. “Soon all the potato tops will be devoured. I seem to have done everything I could. I poisoned them, and choked them, and crushed them - nothing helps.”
“You should do as I have done to them in my garden. I've stricken out their teeth with a hammer,” Peter the First suggested.
“Are you crazy? How can you strike out their teeth with a hammer unless you smash their heads with it?!”

Chika's indignation reached the limit. He hurried into the building to find someone and complain about the stupidity of Peter the First.

“Guess what,” he said to Pirate, who limped on one leg and resembled the famous Captain Flint; that's why he got this nickname. “Peter the First says that he`s stricken out the teeth of the potato beetles with a hammer in his garden. How can he strike out their teeth with a hammer unless he smashes their heads with it?!”

“So what? I've also done the same,” Pirate played along.
“And you too! Are you crazy just like him? Don`t you understand anything? How can you strike their teeth out unless you smash their heads with it?!”

“Oh, some people can be extremely stupid," Chika thought. He was swept outside on a way of righteous indignation, angry with his colleagues. The idea of hammering out the beetle's teeth was so unlikely, so incongruous, that it made him laugh out loud. While he was walking to his truck, he bumped into Cardan, who was coming towards him.

“Can you imagine, Cardan? I've just talked with Peter the First and Pirate and they say that they've stricken out the teeth of the potato beetles with a hammer in their gardens. How can they strike out their teeth with a hammer unless they smash their heads with it?! I can't stand such stupidity!”

Cardan realized that the mountain had come to Muhammad.
“I think it's highly unlikely. Do not listen to anyone. One should insecticide his potato plot with his own concoction.”
Chika breathed a sigh of relief.
“Finally, I met a normal man. At least you aren't such a crazy one like them,” he said delightedly.
“Tell me, have I ever deceived you? You know, I can make a fool out of anyone but you."
"I think I'll pick them up by hand and crush them on the road."
"That's the worst thing you could do. Just sweep this idea under the rug. I'll give you one popular remedy, which is environmentally friendly and does not require any expenses."

Chika looked at Cardan as if he was some sort of miracle, as if he could hardly believe that he was real.
"Will you give me the recipe?"
"Not unless you pay for it. If you give me a bottle of vodka, I'll share it with you in return.
“Yes, sure! I've got a pint of moonshine in the truck. I have earned it today. I just don`t want to share it with those fools. So what is the remedy?”
“Let's go to your truck. First, you'll give me the bottle, and then I'll tell you how to make the miraculous concoction.”
“You won't deceive me, will you?”
“Never. I've totally cleared my garden of them. Come to my potato plot and take a glance at the potato tops, you'll make sure for yourself.”

Chika opened a truck door and pulled the bottle of alcohol out of the glove compartment.
“So, what's the remedy?”
“Give me that bottle, you miser! What are you afraid of?!” Cardan grabbed the booze and almost tore it away from Chika together with his hands. “Listen, put a bucket in your garden and go pee into it by the whole family. When the bucket is full with urine, fill up a sprayer with it and spray it on the beetles.”

A pang of doubt crept into Chika's mind.
“I hardly think that's likely. Everyone would do that if it was so easy. What's the catch?"
"Give it a shot and you'll make sure that your potato plot will really have taken up a notch. You'll be grateful to me. We`ll certainly have a drink together some time later. I assure you that you will never forget my kindness as long as you live.”
"You know, when someone cheats me, I become an animal. This is how I'm made."
"I know, I know, I do know you well. Maybe better than anyone else in the village. Do you think I'm stupid enough to play games with you?"
`I guess you`re not. You are not crazy enough to play games with me.`

Eventually, Chika succumbed to Cardan's arguments. To each their own: Cardan cured a hangover, and Chika found a cheap and effective remedy for the Colorado beetles. It seemed to him like the most wonderful piece of luck. And it all was surely working out for the best. Excitement bubbled in his veins. He felt like all his Christmases were coming at once. "Now, you, Boss, you'll dance for me ... I'll prove it to you that you've underestimated me ... Why should I go to the toilet and neglect such a miraculous concoction? .. Oh, Boss, I'll teach you how to take care of the garden... You`ll see what a wimp I am," he reiterated comforting thoughts in his mind.
 
When he got home in the evening, he told his wife about the miraculous concoction. "Honey, if we solved the problem of dealing with the Colorado beetles, that would be a miracle. That would be a fulfillment of a lifelong dream."
"I think this is too good to be true. Still, it's worth a try."
Although his wife was a little doubtful, she couldn't help but give it a go. So they collected urine and sprayed the potato plot with it until the bug razed the crop to the ground. Chika finally realized that Cardan appeared to have taken him for a fool. It all triggered some desperate thoughts that started running through his head, "Is my sanity still intact? How have I dug myself such a big hole? How do I get out of it? Oh, my gosh!" Now that merciful Chika, the one who could not say boo to a goose, and who could forgive others easily was gone. There was a ruthless beast in his place. He could tear to pieces anyone, who would dare to mess with him again. Overwhelmed with anger and annoyance, he clenched his teeth like a madman and squeezed out: "Oh, bastard! I'll get even with you some day!"


GULLIBLE MIKEY

On the following morning it turned out that Chika's alcohol had not cured the headache at all, it only relieved the symptoms for a while. Cardan was not functioning adequately. Some urgent action needed to be taken. It took a moment for his somulent brain to recall the last day's events, whereupon consciousness was upon him again. "That really was a bit too much booze yesterday," Cardan thought painfully. "You have to keep on spinning!" his inner voice urged him. He got to his feet, his head was throbbing. After drinking a mug of cold water and washing his face, he went to look for another gullible simpleton.

Meanwhile, Michael, called Mikey, was speaking to a self-taught TV repairman called Miner. This IT specialist moved from Donbass to our region, where he had worked in the coal mining industry. That is why he had such a nickname.
“Come on, show me your TV set,” Miner said, holding a tool bag with a flashy display.
“Come in, over there, in the corner,” Mikey pointed at an old TV set. Make yourself at home. Do you need anything?”
“Nothing yet.”
"Just the other day I managed to fix a Japanese television. I'm sure it will be a cakewalk with this one. This is the old model. I know it like the back of my hand."

The Miner opened the back cover of the TV set and began checking the printed circuits with an ammeter.
“Yes-yes. Not here, not here, uhu-uhu-uhu-uhu,” he muttered into his nose. “Well, well, well, everything is clear to me now: it's not here either uhu-uhu-uhu-uhu. So, we checked over here, now let's go over there. So, what do we have here this time? It's absolutely obvious that it's not here, uhu-uhu-uhu-uhu.”
It might have elapsed half an hour, or even an hour or two; Mikey lost track of time. Miner could not put his thoughts together and come up with something more meaningful. His words started sounding unconvincingly, totally without rhyme or reason. Wild horses could not seem to drag Miner away from his work. Finally, Mikey could not take it any longer and broke the ice, “Maybe we'll have a drink now?”
“Do you have something?” Miner wondered incredulously.
“Yes, I do.” Mikey hit the nail on the head.
“OK, you've broken me down.”
One shot, two shots, three shots and the bottle got empty.
“You know, I need to go home. I'll come back tomorrow to give it a finishing touch.”
“With all due respect, I'd rather you didn't. I'll take it to a town TV repair shop. There`s a very serious breakdown, I think. I am sure it can be fixed only there.”
“Even if I couldn't detect a faulty part, then you'll definitely need to take it to the TV repair shop,” Miner agreed.
`It`s nice when someone else is honest enough to say it.`

Mikey led Miner into the street, said goodbye to him and lit a cigarette. The scorching sun shone mercilessly at his head, forcing him to urgently find a cool place. Mikey moved closer to the fence and, squatting down, found shelter from the unbearable heat in its shade. "And how could I trust such a woeful repairman? He turned out to be so smooth with his talk, which must've led me astray: "I! I! I! I can fix any TV set"... It's a reward for my gullibility. Trust everyone but cut the cards," Mikey`s head was boiling with bitter thoughts. He shut out the thoughts that tormented him and pressed his lips together, looking around.

Up ahead in the distance a man's silhouette appeared that was approaching him in a confident gait. In a minute or two it was already possible to discern in him a cheerfully inspired face of Cardan. Greeting Mikey, Cardan struck up an amicable conversation, “What are you doing here? Are you hiding from the scorching sun?”
“Yes, It`s too hot today. Guess what,” started Mikey dejectedly, “Miner came by just now to fix a TV set, spent two hours, trying to identify the problem but couldn't do anything about it."

“If you asked me, you shouldn't trust him. He is an awful repairman, let alone he is a liar. He hasn't been able to fix a single television successfully yet. He just drops by the villager's, bragging about his technical expertise. Fumbles with electrical appliances until someone treats him to a drink and a meal, only then he goes home. He would get what he's up to, even if he had to resort to some open trickery."

The reality of what Mikey had just been through was setting in. “Boy, I'll tell you, I swallowed the bait too. He had a composure, self-confidence that was so remarkable so I fell for it. I wish I had never asked him for help. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. Or else I would run into trouble with him again. Once you meet someone, start trusting him, and then you realize that he is a crook. After a while you meet another one that strikes you as an honorable man, but at the end of the day he fails you too. I`m getting tired of this circle of life. You know, I've got a terrible headache because of him now.”

"Here`s the thing. You ought to be more careful in your choice of people you deal with. You should trust only those people who have withstood the test of time. Miner absolutely has no compunction about taking advantage of others' misfortune. Look, don't beat yourself up about it, OK. My head is also heavy after yesterday`s party,” Cardan smoothly brought the conversation to another topic.
Mikey had a sense that he was giving him his undivided attention.

“Listen, Cardan, I`ll give you some money now. You`ll nip to the shop and buy a bottle of vodka. We`ll have a drink and mull it over.” Mikey wanted to complain to a sympathetic man and to make a clean breast of the pent-up indignation.

“Great idea. You literally read my mind. If you give me the money, I'll be back in half an hour. It just a hop, skip and a jump away from here. A driveshaft is spinning, so the car is running. Everything in this world is always in the flow of perpetual motion."
“That's wise. I've noticed that phenomenon either. So, while you`re away, I'll make some chips and lay the table.”

There was no such willpower that was able to disguise the excitement in Mikey's eyes as if he was about to have the time of his life. His mind was overwhelmed with the expectation of upcoming fun. "Don't waste your time by talking to anyone on the way. Buy vodka and come running back. Come on! Get a move on!"
 
"Give me a break. I'm not as unreliable as Miner. I'll never let you down. I'll pull it off in a blink of an eye."

Cardan left to buy alcohol and Mikey zealously went about making a snack. He peeled some potatoes, heated a frying pan, splashed a little sunflower oil into it. Sizzles! Wow, yummy! It made his mouth water. "Maybe one bottle is not enough?” a thought flashed in Mikey`s head. “It's obvious that with such a snack, we`ll probably be able to finish off even a liter of vodka. I was definitely wrong. I should`ve given him more money."

The smell of frying potatoes spread around the kitchen. `Cardan will come any minute soon, I need to get a move on.` Mikey took out cucumbers and tomatoes from the fridge, cut them into slices, added an onion, sprinkled it with some salt and seasoned it with sunflower oil. Then he put the salad and chips on the table and sliced some bread - the snack was ready. He sat down on a chair and began admiring the dishes cooked by him. For a complete set only vodka was lacking. "Cardan will be back now," joyful thoughts filled Mikey`s head with delight. Although half an hour had already elapsed, Cardan was not back yet. Mikey went out into the street and began to peer into the distance - no one. He started twiddling his thumbs impatiently. Then he sat down vehemently. Got up. Paced up and down the street in front of his house. But Cardan was not likely to show up any time soon. An hour passed by, then another. There was still no sign of him. "Goodness, where is he?" Mikey mumbled plaintively. The situation was getting out of hand. He could not believe that Cardan didn't keep his end of the bargain and tricked him so cruelly.

"I didn't see that coming," he thought. The realization of his mistake began to sink in. It started nagging at him with increased intensity.
"What am I supposed to do?" he murmured wretchedly.

Finally, his patience has run out. "If he's not going to come to me, I'll come to him. One way or another, he's going to pay for it dearly." Mikey got bent out of shape with annoyance. "I won't allow anyone to play games with me," he squeaked and quickly started down the street in search of Cardan. After a short while, Mikey ran into him. He was walking home drunk and singing,
“Love me, do not love me;
I'm still young, after all.
Time will come - you`ll fall in love with me.
But, darling, It will be too late.”

Mikey lost his temper. He got enraged with a fury and rushed for his prey like a rapacious predator with all his might.
“So, there you are! Where's the bottle? Where's the money? You`re a swindler, you've decided to make a fool out of me?!”
Cardan realized that he would be beaten and went towards the approaching aggressor, hopelessly grasping at straws. Falling to his knees he embraced Mikey's legs with his arms and began to exclaim plaintively, "Oh, my dearest, oh, my nearest Misha! Oh, my little one!" I'll give it back! I'll give it back! I'll work it out - I will! Sorry! Sorry! I had a horrible headache! I could not resist the temptation!
I'll give it back! I will give everything back to you! I did it inadvertently! I'll make it up to a penny!”

Never had Mikey been so infuriated, nor had he ever been begged for mercy so pathetically. His heart was crushed. Anger, like melting snow, dripping from a warm hand, changed it`s physical state. Compassion and pity gripped his heart. It was clear to  him that Cardan did it against his will. His conscience was as clean as a whistle. His intentions were completely different: they were good. It must've been the devil's work.
“Well, let's cut it to the chase. When will you give it back?” He demanded soothingly.
"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I will make up for everything!”

As luck would have it, things got messed up and Cardan did not pay off his debt neither the next day, nor any another one... Mikey could not wrap his head around it. There was something weird about him that he was not capable to comprehend. This thing seemed to be repeating itself over and over again. He had an inkling that it was in the cards and there was nothing he could do about it. All of a sudden it came to him as a revelation. He clearly realized that his credulity to people had led him astray ferociously. At first he refused to face the obvious, but slowly, grudgingly he accepted his fate. His brain was short-circuited for a minute. Was naivety part of his nature? Was it iradicable? Would he ever grow out of it? Then he simply came to accept the truth as one acknowledges that an arm or a leg is a part of one's self, sighed and whispered angrily through his clenched teeth, like a dog with the tail between its legs, after being given a kick, "Story of my life! I didn't even anticipate that Cardan would turn out such a creep. Oh, that frigging swindler! He won't get away so easily next time! That's for sure!"


THE EDIBLE SAWDUST

You can incessantly philosophize about the meaning of life, teach others how to reason out because problems are more visible when they are not yours. A satisfied and successful man looks at a miserable wretch, who has nothing good in his life except alcohol and condemns him, comparing him with himself. But if someone took away from such a smart man his physical attractiveness, family, job, money, friends and throw him into beggarly conditions, what would happen to him? Will he continue to be proud of himself, looking into the mirror when he would be despised and ostracized by everyone? Or, maybe, he will be able to improve his financial situation in the village, where there is neither a decent job, nor an opportunity to earn enough money to buy something more than a little food and some clothes. Who should he talk to if he does not have family? He comes home in the evening and again - boredom, loneliness, sadness. Try as he may to mingle with his village fellows, he reaps only contempt in return. He can`t help having a drink or two of vodka time and again because life seems to be starting to get better for him when he is tipsy. He finds peace and amusement in alcohol. It is hopelessness that makes a person get drunk and forget about his problems.

It's easy to judge others. But what exactly such a righteous one has done himself to improve life of people in the Ukrainian village? I beg of you to stop preaching to others. If you cannot help them with anything, you`d better keep silence and mind of your own business.

"And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"
(Mat. 7.3)

When a village baby is born into a poor family, the mother and father do not have enough time to raise their child properly because they work from morning till night. There is a dilemma: either you stay at home and look after your child, causing your family to starve, or you go to earn money and your child runs wild. At school such a child learns badly: he must help his parents about the household and he does not simply have enough time to do his homework. When he leaves school, his parents have no money to send him to university. So what remains for him is to wander around the village, or to find a job in a big city. But nobody needs him there, unless as a manual worker. Such a migrant worker very often works at a construction site, pouring concrete floors and carrying bricks in his hands for the masonry. And again the same hopelessness, the same terrible conditions, the same binge drinking. Do not the above scenarious sound grim and depressive? They certainly do. On the bright side, he is a lucky one, who gets married: in the family he finds his haven. Such a person gradually settles down. Thus he finds his meaning of life, taking care of his wife and children. But if a village man did not get married, he would be lost. Such men often become drunkards; they waste themselves because of such terrible life. Many of them end their lives tragically. It is only for a while that alcohol gives peace to a desperate soul. It usually happens that it is not hard work that pushes people into the grave prematurely, but most often a lack of socially active life. Where are the previous mass festivities, sports competitions, when the whole village gathers for entertainment? .. Where is the former honor? Where is the opportunity to excel at the workplace and get respect in society? Let them give a person an opportunity to feel his importance and value, not only for himself but for others as well! Let them create conditions for individual manifestation in favor of society! Let them give a chance to a man to reveal his talent, show his physical abilities, patience, diligence, rewarding him with public respect! Let them finally give him an opportunity to earn for a piece of bread! Only then will such advisors have a moral right to preach to the others how to live. According to the laws of nature most of us have similar strengths and weaknesses. Our behavior is the internal reaction of our brain to external circumstances - and nothing else.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged; for with what judgment ye judge, such shall ye be judged; and with what measure ye mete, so shall they also be measured to you." (Mt.7.1).

The life of Cardan goes on as usual. Is it possible that a Ukrainian will sit back at home in front of a TV set, even at weekends? Never! He is always piled up with home chores - even if there is nothing to do he comes up with something. Ukrainian people are distinguished for their diligence: they love work for the sake of work and will not stay idle without a serious cause.

Cardan climbed the stairs to the attic of his house. In the morning, as usual, he had a hangover. It does not matter whether it is a weekend or a week day, you have to keep spinning and always be on the move. He found a pile of sacks covered with a thick layer of dust because of a long storage time. Then he picked up the upper one - enough. With a languid effort he overcame the way back. "Oh, again this frigging hangover" he squeezed a complaint out painfully. "It was too much booze yesterday". "Too much, too much, too much ..." a pulsing echo in his head continued complaining. He headed for a saw mill and stuffed the sack with sawdust. Then he went to the pig farm. Near the warehouse he collected several handfuls of grain fodder and filled the top of the sack with it, carefully covering the sawdust.
 
A lot of lonely old women live in the village because the men die early there from hard living conditions. They are often left alone in this cruel world with nobody at their side to taken care of them. Finishing their morning chores, they run to the local shop.

One of such old women usually runs into someone on her way, who is as lonely as her, and starts chattering and discussing rural news. The tongue goes talking without restraint - never mind, a man cannot live without communication with the others. They would talk, they would chatter on end, but, unfortunately, they are in a hurry: household chores are waiting for them. A vegetable patch, a potato plot, a cow, pigs, geese, chickens - and why so much of everything for an old woman? "It is essential to have a big supply of food! It is a good way of escaping starvation," such a hard-working woman usually answers.

The echo of the experienced famine of 1932-33 for many decades inculcated a panic fear of hunger in our minds. Sometimes you may ask a village woman in order to satisfy your curiosity, "Why do you store dry bread in sacks on the stove so long? It will perish before you know it; mice will surely destroy it?!”
"Uh, you don`t know, son, what famine is," she usually answers in a drawling voice. "If hard times come, I will have a sack of dry bread and not die of hunger," she will explain lugubriously.

And it is impossible to convince her that there will not be any hard times now, that there will be no such famine any more. You will ask her to have a rest, have fun, watch TV, but no, you cannot change her mind. Stalin managed to bring the country, which used to be the breadbasket of Europe, to the point of starvation. It seems that for a very long time thereafter, the fear to die of hunger will torture our minds.

These days a starvation to death is not a hazard anymore. Over time our fear of it has abated to a certain extent. We no longer dry bread. But we buy bags of salt, sugar, flour, grain to have it in store, just in case. We do not starve but we made a cult of food and our tables are laid with sumptuous dishes when we receive guests. The point is that, nowhere in the world you will find a country where the entire people were being destroyed by artificial famine. Fear of starvation in some cases forced people to eat "their own kind."

You cannot go on talking for too long: it is impossible. You simply cannot afford to waste time on petty things.

The old women trudge to their households. The work cannot wait: the potato plot must be weeded, the cow is mooing - she must be milked urgently, the pig is squealing - it must be fed. Noise, moos, grunts, quacks, barks - a usual home environment. So, she quickly milks the cow, feeds pigs, geese, and chickens - silence. The chickens are full and happy, grazing about the yard: cluck-cluck, cluck-cluck. All right, it's time to run to the garden. Life goes on with no change day by day, until death stops such a strong, willful, and energetic woman. There is no power in the world that can break her will for work except the grave.

Suddenly someone knocked at the gate.
"Excuse me lady, do you need grain fodder?" she heard Cardan`s enticing voice.

A few minutes later the gate opened and an old woman came out into the street. Years had beaten her face, littered it with wrinkles, taking away the former freshness. Hard work had bent her formerly slender posture.
“And how much do you want for it?" She asked incredulously.
“A liter of vodka and it will be yours. I`m almost giving it for free. If you take it, I'll bring you one more sack, first thing tomorrow morning.”
Well, she put two and two together and decided that it was not the time for second thoughts.
“OK. I will fetch an empty sack now and you will put the grain fodder into mine.”
“It`s unnecessary. Take it with the sack. If you have a scanty supply of them, I'll bring you a couple of sacks tomorrow for free.”
“I have no other choice but to take it," the old woman decided. There is nothing to be done: the cattle and poultry must be fed.

The deal was struck. Cardan, satisfied with the outcome, set off with a bottle of vodka; the old woman went to make evening food for pigs. She took a handful of the grain fodder and hooked the sawdust with her fingers. She delved in deeper. No, it could not be real sawdust. She just couldn't believe her eyes. Deeper and deeper she kept rummaging, but she could find nothing but sawdust. Then she knocked over the sack to the ground, shook out its contents. Sadly, there was nothing but sawdust. "Oh, that scammer! Oh, that hustler! Oh, that thug!" the old woman`s curses started pouring at Cardan.

Finally, after an extensive complaining, she stopped cursing, sat down on the threshold of her house and sighed for the last time, "Oh, bastard!"

The next morning she went to do some shopping. She told about Cardan's trick to all her friends. "How could you trust such a swindler? Don`t you know how many people he has cheated in the village? Drive him away if you see him again! Do not let him come near your home!" they advised her.

In the morning Cardan woke up with the usual state of pain in his head. "Can it be the other way around?" he thought. "It simply means that yesterday was a successful day. It would be nice to have a drink today as well. The more the merrier." He took another empty sack from the pile in the attic and walked to the sawmill again. Filling it with sawdust he returned home. Then he grabbed his last sack of grain fodder from his own stock under his arm, loaded both sacks onto the bicycle and went to execute his new plan.

He loudly knocked at the gate.
“Excuse me! Do you need grain fodder?!”
A few moments later the door opened and an old woman went out into the street. Horrible swear words fell at Cardan. It turned out that the old woman had heard about his yesterday's trick near the shop in the morning.

“Get away from here, so that even your spirit will forget the way to my house!" she waved him off with a hand.
“It was not my fault,” Cardan began playing dumb. “It was the other way around. It was I, who was cheated by my co-workers. They gave me a sack of grain fodder to trade for alcohol and handed me the sack with wooden shavings. I didn't see that coming. Had I but known, I would have never done that. I have just brought my own sack of fodder to her. The misunderstanding has already been settled.
“Do you think I will believe you so easily?"
The old woman fetched an empty sack from the yard with a bucket.
“Put bucket by bucket of the grain fodder into another sack while I'm watching.”
The woman's face lit up with a huge beam.
“Wow! That's fantastic! There is nothing but grain fodder! No sawdust, no wooden shavings.` Her righteous indignation wore off. `Hold on for a minute, I'll bring you a jar of vodka.” she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The old woman went into the house. Meanwhile, Cardan took out the hidden sack of sawdust and put the sack of grain fodder in its place. The old woman came out with a liter of vodka. The deal was struck. After a while Cardan returned and retrieved the sack of grain fodder from the bush, loaded it on the bicycle and rode home.
 
In the evening all the neighbors heard the curses pouring at Cardan; they were with no end and no limit. Finally, the old woman got tired of interminable swearing, kicked the sack with her foot and whispered, "Oh, bastard! You`ll get what`s coming to you some day!"


UKRAINIAN HALLOWEEN

The most essential holidays that Ukrainians observe are considered to be New Year's, Christmas, Easter and everyone's birthday. One can add to this list of the most important events of the year the day of remembrance of the deceased relatives, or as some people call it - All Saints Day or simply Ukrainian Halloween.

A great majority of the young people try to move to town from the village in search of a better life: they leave it to make money in the city, get married, enter educational institutions… After that, they try to hook at least at something in the city to make it their home. Having served in the army, some of the young men stay on for an extra term there, signing a contract. A person, who has seen other, more civilized living conditions, is no longer in a hurry to return to his father's household.

Usually on All Saints Day most of the people, who had left the village and live in different parts of Ukraine and even abroad, come to the place where their loved ones are buried in order to honor their memory if they have a chance. This is the day when you can meet your former classmates and old friends, who left the village many years ago.

Of course, it is not every year that they can afford such a trip. Many of them live hundreds and even thousands kilometers away, and such a long journey takes precious time and requires travel expenses. But one day there comes a moment in life when an irresistible desire to see the native land, meet friends and former classmates, talk with them about their fate, achievements, forces them to see their hometown. They are ready to spend time and money just to feel emotional enjoyment of the warm memories from the past.

A certain man, who has not visited his native land for decades, is looking at the familiar houses, trees, people; the same road, the same forest, the same Cardan is passing by. Oh, goodness, what an interesting man he is. How would the local people amuse themselves if not for his tricks? Very few people take offense at him. He is a nice guy, just a joke of a man. It is even hard to imagine how much variety he has introduced into boring rural life! There were moments when people in the village laughed for months, talking about his tricks.

There is the house in which the man grew up, a bench in front of the fence, his former neighbors ... It seems to a person that he is really in the past. The most pleasant moments spent in these streets come to mind and warm his heart and soul.
      
On All Saints Day weather is usually warm and sunny, adding to the nostalgic reverie bright and warm touch. From all outskirts of the village people flock to the local cemetery. This is the only day of the year when you can see so many familiar faces. It is quite difficult to recognize some people who have not visited their village for a long time: they have grown up, changed, acquired a certain importance...

Some of them have arrived with their children. But the facial features that they inherited by the genes from the father and mother give out their ancestry. A local elderly resident will take a look at a running boy and recognize in him the features of his father and grandfather.
 
The cemetery is being gradually filled with people. They gather around the graves of their deceased relatives. They bring alcohol, sweets, cookies... First of all, they fill a glass with alcohol and put it on the grave, gently pressing the bottom of the glass into the soil for a firmer hold. They put sweets next to it and also decorate the cross with them. "His soul is now with us. We do not see him, but he watches us and takes part in our conversation. It's a sin not to treat him to some alcohol too."

They cross their hearts and have a drink; their heads start spinning, the tongues loosen. They recount incidents from the lives of their late relatives, talk about their deeds, achievements, interesting moments of their lives. Everyone knows that one must talk only about good things connected with the deceased or to remain silent. "Well, fill one more glass with alcohol - we must have three drinks today. You cannot have more than three shots, fewer than three too - it is a big sin. There's already a priest coming up; you must give something away: money or some sweets," remarks a kind man. The priest serves the service and walks toward another group of people. The villagers are tipsy, inspired by the recollections, which seem to have no end and no limit.

Cardan has also come to honor to his late relatives.
"Cardan, come over here," one friend of his calls him up. "Here`s a glass of vodka, drink and honor my father and mother."
"Let them rest in peace," he says sympathetically, crosses his chest and drinks.
Then the man fills one more glass with vodka for Cardan again.
"Well, well, well, one drink is a sin. You must have three shots," the man reminds him. So, one down, two more to go.

Cardan crosses his heart again. "Let earth be down to them," and has the second shot, then the third one. You cannot have more than three shots - it`s a sin. What type of figure will you cut if you get drunk on such an honorable day; you ought to have respect for people. Otherwise, tomorrow they will condemn you. There will be rumors around the village that you got drunk even on All Saints Day - it is a horrible shame. Cardan chats with the man, then with a couple of other villagers and goes home. In the evening all the people go out of the cemetery, leaving some sweets and filled with alcohol glasses on the graves.
 
Cardan, like no one else in the village, was glad that night was approaching. "It's time," he thought and strode toward the deserted cemetery - a place where only grown-ups go in the nighttime, and do whatever grown-ups do. In the gathering twilight he saw the graves decorated with flowers and sweets. The goal was quite clear: he would go to the cemetery, pay honor to the deceased and leave this dreadful place before the total darkness comes around. The plan was impeccable: nothing was left to chance. "And what is there to be afraid of? Has anyone ever arisen from the dead?" Cardan had not believed in fairy tales since he had been a child. A brutal reality had taught him to perceive life as it is.

He approached the first grave, gently lifted the glass of vodka that was pressed into the ground, crossed his chest, “Let earth be down to them,” and drank it. "There is nothing frightful here,” he reassured himself. “Dead people can't hurt you, it is the living you should be frighten of. No one who died has ever returned from the other world." The surrounding graves triggered his imagination, but he shook his head to dispel the gloomy pictures from his head. Then he picked up a few cookies from the cross and had a bite to appease the alcohol reaction in his stomach and continued to conjure up soothing thoughts. After that, he walked to the second grave and went over the same ritual. Then to the third, fourth - it began spinning in his head, the afterlife thoughts moved into the background.

Cardan was so absorbed in his ceremony that did not even notice how quickly he got drunk. He continued to search for glasses of vodka like a mushroom hunter foraging for mushrooms in a dim dense forest.

Here`s another one, here`s one more, here`s one again, and then he lost count of the drinks he had had. His consciousness failed him and he passed out.

Sad but true, it turned out that Cardan was not the smartest guy in the village. Gray was not a simple guy either. Like two ships coming towards each other, they gradually shortened the distance between them for an imminent encounter; one of the ships cast the anchor and drifted halfway - Cardan fell asleep near a grave and was in a sepulchral slumber. He simply got excited and lost count of the shots, succumbing to the temptation of an easy binge. He was dressed in black and looked no different from the nearby abandoned graves. Cardan, hearing someone's steps, began flailing his arms, trying to get to his feet to see who was there and grabbed Gray`s ankle, who was wandering among the tombs. Even before he had time to realise what had happened, frightened Gray started out of the cemetery. His head was throbbing wildly, his heart was thumping with terror, his legs could not handle his fast flight. A huge tree, that stood in the way of his movement, stopped his rapid progress. Suddenly, he was thrown back by a dreadful blow of the encounter with the tree. Falling on a grave, he, like a gymnast, in an instant, found himself on his feet again and rushed off. He did not see double now as a result of intoxicating alcohol effect but three times double because of fear. The barrier made up of the tomb crosses encumbered his fast movement. Once more he bumped into something, fell, jumped to his feet and continued the race. Again and again trees, crosses, grave fences hampered his way out. It seemed to him that he did not run out of the cemetery but the graves surrounded him and wanted to catch him in their embraces. At last he managed to escape the graveyard. Running a hundred meters beyond it, Gray stopped and squatted. He was stiff scared of what he had experienced and trembled as if from freezing cold. "And why did I run away?" he thought in absolute puzzlement. "After so many years of wondering and hoping that it might be possible to contact someone who died long ago. No! What am I driving at? That simply couldn't be. That's only in the films. Now, slow down and get back to earth.

Chances are that it was a human being. I was planning on having a good feast, but someone beat me to it. Some drunkard must have been sleeping among the graves when I stumbled on him. It all happened so spontaneously, so quickly that I did not even have time to realize what it was. Should I go back and get to the bottom of this? No, I think I'd better go home. It's enough for today."

Slowly, taking a breath, Gray headed for the village. It was growing darker and he couldn't see a thing around, but he was not afraid of anything anymore. Indeed, he panicked inadvertently: everything happened so unexpectedly. He acquired the former composure, although he was flustered and upset, and thought demurely, "There`s a lot of vodka on the graves left untouched. What a pity that so much alcohol is going to be wasted!"

Speaking of Cardan, he did not even intend to flee anywhere. He continued to sleep quietly among the graves, and in the morning, waking up, he drank "to peace of soul" of one of the deceased, then of another one and walked over to Gray`s,  who was still sleeping. He waked up his friend, who was lying in bed in a sweet morning slumber. Both of them, trying not to give out their yesterday's adventure, spoke on abstract topics and glanced at each other time and again! Both of them guessed who was at night at the cemetery but none of them wanted to confess first. Finally, their oblique glances cut into a straight line and Gray, whose curiosity got the better of him, asked with a wry smile, “I assume there's no question that you were at the cemetery last night.”
Cardan smiled back. “Would you be surprised if I hadn`t been there?”
"Great minds think alike, don't they?"
Suddenly they both burst into a loud, uncontrolled laughter ...

On the following day the rumor mill buzzed full-bore that Cardan had been seen walking out of the cemetery early in the morning. Several women gathered in front of the local shop and started gossiping about Cardan's latest adventure. They were chit-chatting and laughing when one of the women, who had been among the victims of his previous tricks, turned red with anger and cried out, "I understand that there's nothing criminal, but what a sinner he is!" Which brought the conversation to a moment's silence.

THE HILARIOUS RELATIVES-IN-LAW

Gorbachev's appointment as the First Secretary of the USSR Communist Party and then the subsequent Chernobyl disaster are considered to be the starting point of the countdown of the Soviet Union demise. Meanwhile, one by one all sort of goods began to gradually disappear from the shops around the country. Intensive struggle against drunkenness led to a partial shortage of alcohol supply and a rise in prices of alcoholic beverages. In small towns and villages sausage became a luxury item, or, rather, an invaluable commodity, for the purchase of which one had to go to Moscow or Kyiv. People wondered where the soap, washing powder, tobacco products, sugar and the rest of the goods had got to? Everything seemed to have disappeared into thin air. There were only salted sprats, canned fish, margarine, mineral water and bread on the sale. However, some people seemed to know the cause of it all. Rumor had it that the food was rotting in warehouses. That it was done with a tacit acquiescence of the government on purpose. But what kind of purpose such a large-scale deficit was being created for no one knew.

And how could they comprehend it? Taking into account the fact that the villagers worked from morning till night in the fields of the collective farms and gathered the same amount of agricultural produce as before, giving everything away to the state, some ulterior motive was definitely underway. Some government officials were likely responsible for the shortage of goods. "Where has everything gone to?" people kept repeating the same question time and again.

The biggest shock was the stoppage of payment of wages. Pensioners were the only ones, who with a long delay but, at least, received scanty amounts of money. They literally became the richest inhabitants of the village, as the agricultural workers worked on the record. The delay in wages has reached up to five years. Then it became clear that the collective farm would not pay off its debts to the workers. Farms, created for decades, were dismantled for construction material and the arrears were paid off to a certain extent. Money had become as rare as the goods on which it could be spent. Although, there was a silver bullet to temporarily solve that issue. Alcohol took the place of the medium of exchange. Even teenagers knew in the village how much vodka one had to trade for a particular service. Either one worked for free or took vodka for his help. Refusing to help was almost impossible - everybody in the village was as close as a relative. They might have taken offense and spread rumors around the village. There is no doubt that a bad reputation is like tar: it sticks easily but it is washed away heavily.

At the local culture club there used to be art amateur groups and a choir. It's not a secret that the Ukrainians are a singing nation. They cannot live without songs, dancing and fun. Each holiday the local choir gave a performance, sometimes it took part in district town song competitions. On special occasions huge festivities were arranged by the local authorities, such as scenic performances, sports competitions, different contests in strength and dexterity. On the central square there was a tall pillar. One, who could climb to the top of it and tear off a numbered token, won a prize. Such a person was considered the most agile one in the village and had respect of the local residents.

The village was able to live cheerfully. Every day a new film was shown in the cinema. A wedding ceremony and seeing off of young recruits to the army parties were held one by one - such events gathered dozens and even hundreds of guests. The tables were simply piled with food and alcohol.

Having his fill of sumptuous dishes, drinking, singing, dancing a guest got too tired for that kind of carry-on now, he needed to give a respite to his body.  But how was that possible? A week later someone invited him to a party again. Yes, life was good, and it was fun to live. And where had that all gone to? While in the big cities only structural changes had occurred and a number of cultural and entertainment establishments had only increased, which preserved cultural development, the collapse of the economy was, in a full sense of the word, a tragedy for the village. Public values began dying out. The village shifted from the position of a collective community to a lower level of orientation on social values - to family ones; each family lived by their own rules. The goals and tasks that had united the workforce in a common pursuit of personal and public well-being were a thing of the past. Such changes disunited people, made them angry, hostile and desperate.

During the initial years after the proclamation of Ukraine as an independent state, collective farmers continued to work in the former Soviet conditions. Although, money was not still paid for the work, the track record was maintained and the workers hoped that, at least in their retirement, they would receive a pension. Armed clashes in other regions of the USSR forced some people, who had left the village, when the Soviet Union was at its flourish, to return to their places of origin.

One of such refugees was Sucker's family. They left Azerbaijan, sold their apartment in Baku, and built a two-story house in their father's village, which decorated by its unusual modern design the unattractive, dilapidated street. Sucker`s family included three more brothers and the father, who was a retired officer. Two elder brothers got married and left their newly built house. They got jobs as mechanics at the local tractor facilities and seemed not to regret leaving Baku at all.

Sucker stayed to live with his father and a younger brother, who was soon recruited to the army. The family began living a normal rural life. They planted potatoes, bought a cow, and furnished the house. Having received psychological stress from moving from another country, from urban conditions, they quickly restored, to some extent, the lost material wealth and adopted a rural way of life.
 
But as Comrade Lenin said, "Being forms consciousness." They could not keep up their individual principles for a long time; the local society put new challenges for them. In the long run, they became like the rest of the inhabitants. The youngest brother went to the army to repay his debt to the homeland.

When Sucker got married, his family increased by a bunch of new relatives. The girl's parents were without a care in the world. Their only concern was obtain alcohol by any means. Every single day the relatives-in-law paid a visit to their relative-in-law who had a decent pension after many years of service as an army officer. They supported him morally, helped him about his household, kept him company at a bottle of vodka: in general, they diversified the life of their relative-in-law, adding some colorfulness to his gray existence. Over time, a number of visits increased; even the decent pension was not enough for booze anymore.

"We must do something about it," the relatives-in-law decided. They saw Cardan confidently walking along the street. He was a medium height man with a benevolent, sympathetic and sincere expression on his face; he always inspired hope with his open mind. Light gray eyes encountered an audacious look of any person without blinking; thin lips spoke encouraging and soothing words. His chest, constantly exposed forward, and his unbuttoned jacket inspired untamed boldness. It seemed that his whole look said, "You can rely on me." He was a glib talker, an easy-going person, always emotionally responsive to other people's grief.

"This is the man we need," the relatives-in-law agreed. "Hey, Cardan, can you help us straighten some things out with a sale of a motorcycle? Petrol is expensive, spare parts cannot be bought anywhere, you know, everything is in short supply now. It only stands and rots in the garage."
"You know it yourself how deeply I respect you. If it were someone else, I would give it a second thought. What concerns you though, I'm always ready to give you a hand."
"That sounds logical. We must help each other out."
"Motorcycle you say? I think I can handle it. I'll find you a buyer. It`s very bad that a good thing is perishing. Someone had better repair it and put it to a good use.”
"If you help us sell it, we will not leave you in trouble, we will pay you decently. You know what they say: you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. "
Soon Cardan found a buyer and the motorcycle "went from under the gavel."
Unfortunately, the money gained from its sale was soon squandered. And again the question arose: what was to be done next?

"Listen, relative," the relatives-in-law came to a conclusion, "what purpose do you need the garage for? By the way, it is always empty. You haven`t got neither a motorcycle, nor a car. Why do you need it in the yard, it just stands there in vain? Doesn't it sound logical?"
"Yes, you`re right. You can`t argue with logic," he agreed wisely.

They dismantled it for building material and Cardan helped them sell it. "What a good man Cardan is, he always comes to the rescue, he never refuses to give a hand," the relatives-in-law often talked to each other, sitting at a drink. "What would we do without him? How quickly he reacts. How beautifully he can approach people. He seems to be able to sell anything to anyone."

As soon as the money gained from the sale of the garage was spent, the relatives-in-law came across the same question again: what was to be done next?

Then they dismantled the iron fence and sold it to a scrap metal collector. While they were drinking and carousing, they did not notice how the summer flew by.
"Look, relative, why do you need a cow? There's no hey in your shed. What will you feed her with? We must sell her, or else she will starve to death. Doesn't it sound logical?"
"Well, even if I wanted to beat logic, I couldn`t. That`s indisputable," he agreed sagely like a philosopher.

They sold the cow. The whole winter they drank and caroused and when spring came around the relatives-in-law asked their relative-in-law, "Why do you need a cast iron stove top on the stove for the summer? Let's sell it. When the winter comes around, we will buy a new one. Doesn't it sound logical?"
"Yes, it does. You`re right again. It`s definitely according to logic and can`t be beaten. The reason is that I simply don`t need a stove in the summer," the relative-in-law agreed nonchalantly.
"Cardan, can you find a buyer for the cast iron stove top?" We will pay you well if you help us," they suggested.
"Well, let's keep an open mind about it. How am I supposed to find a buyer for a second-hand stove top? Firstly, it must be shown, only then someone might buy it."
"Fair enough. Take it. You'll find a buyer faster with it," the relatives-in-law conceded.
 
Cardan loaded the stove top on a bicycle and went to look for a buyer. However, on the way he came up with an insidious plan. He hid the stove top in a bush and moved to the nearest house.
"Excuse me," he called out, knocking at the gate," do you need a cast iron stove top for the stove?"
A minute later the owner of the house came out to Cardan.
"You're saying a stove top. How much?"
"A liter of vodka."
"Where is it?"
"If you give me vodka, I'll bring it to you straightaway."
The man`s brow furrowed with suspicion.
"Eh, Cardan," he said, "I am not the one, who can be taken for a fool so easily. First, produce me the stove top, and then I will pay you for it. You know the drill."
"Let me break it down to you logically," Cardan started explaining it in a philosophical way, taught from the relatives-in-law, "how can I take something from the people if I do not pay for it?  Knowing my nature, they will send me back to you."
"Yes, you`re right, it sounds logical. I would not trust you either. Hold on! I'll be back in a jiffy."
The man went into the yard and a few minutes later he came back with a liter of vodka.
"Don`t you try deceiving me! You know me well! If I catch you lying to me, you'll be history. I`ll give you such a beating that you`ll never forget it!"
"I know, I know! If it weren't you but someone else, then, maybe, I would make a fool out of him. But I know that such tricks will not go down with you".
"That's right, Cardan, I see that you know it." His face brightened smugly.

Later, the things happened exactly according to the logical principles.  Never again neither the relatives-in-law, nor the man himself saw neither the bottle of vodka, nor the stove top anymore.

The deceived man, seduced by an opportunity to purchase a necessary thing for his household for a meager price, was beside himself with anger for a while. How could that have happened to him? He couldn't understand it. He had never received such merciless blows from his fate in his lifetime. Anger did not leave him neither at night, nor in the daytime. "Oh, bastard," he thought, "if you only get into my eyesight, I'll shake your soul out of you." The man went running to look for Cardan in the village but he simply disappeared like a ghost. "He seems to be very scared. He must have holed up in a secluded place somewhere, waiting for the trouble to blow over. That creep knows that I will not leave it like that," he consoled his vanity.

A week passed by, then another one. The anger started abating, gradually changing into a state of bitterness. He began to feel sorry for himself, to seek excuses. The cheated man could not accept the fact that he was not actually the smartest, the most wise person in the world. However, he found an excuse for his misfortune. As it turned out, he accidentally trusted Cardan, haphazardly succumbed to the temptation, inadvertently paid him before he received the stove top; and these things he did despite the fact that he was aware of Cardan`s tricks and scams and knew what that man was capable of. Therefore, he could not make a slip because of his foolishness, which means he made a mistake by sheer chance.
 
A month later the man managed to meet his abuser. Cardan faced him with a confident and sincere look. Such an honest and childlike innocent expression on his face lit in him a spark of a benevolent disposition towards his offender. Over the past month, his anger, resentment, and desire for revenge had almost come to nothing, but in order to save his reputation, he pounced truculently on the malicious hustler. His outrage reflected off of him like X rays off of lead. No penetration whatsoever. Cardan countered his arguments with irrefutable logic. He smoothed things out by managing to lay out in small details why he had failed to bring the stove top and return the vodka, where he had gone to, who he had spoken with, what had prevented his actions, who had prevented them: one thing led to another and the whole situation was reduced to mere chance.

"Cardan explained himself so clearly, put everything together so beautifully that it was hard not to believe him. Of course, in the back of my mind I knew that he was lying, but for some strange reason I wanted to accept his arguments," the man told his fellow villagers later in order to justify himself. He forgave Cardan for the fact that he became the victim of his scam because it turned out that everything happened by mere chance and no one was to blame for anything.
 
This time Cardan got away with it. He was used to living on the edge though. He could not live a normal, peaceful life, like most people did. So it was in his nature to run into trouble and to worm his way out of it.

The relative-in-law together with the relatives-in-law went on selling unnecessary things in the household. Iron beds were sold to a scrap collector - it was more logical to sleep on the floor. Logic was not observed in the storage of food in the fridge - for that purpose was a cellar. The same news is written in the newspapers as shown on television, so a TV set was unnecessary at home. It was as comfortable to sit on chairs as in armchairs and on sofas, so they occupied useful space in the house.

Ultimately, the heart of the old officer could not stand such terrible illogicality and he passed away to the "other world". The relatives-in-law moved to his house to live with their daughter and son-in-law. Everything, which was possible to sell, turned out to be unnecessary for the household. A couple of years later they passed away to the place of "eternal peace", where they were expected by their relative-in-law. One of the four brothers moved to Russia, where his wife was from. Soon his three brothers emigrated to Russia as well.

One day they got together and decided, "Why do we need a house in the countryside, in which no one lives? Let's dismantle it for building material and sell it. Doesn't it sound logical?"
"Yes it does," all the brothers agreed in unison.

Now on the spot where the beautiful house used to decorate the entire street, only wind wanders. In bad weather it rushes over a hillock of the remaining debris of bricks and slate. As a rightful lord he felt his strength, grew stronger and rushed through the village, sweeping away dozens of rural homes. People did not know where everything had gone to, but the answer was quite obvious: it had been the fault of the evil wind of change.


THE ELECTRICITY INSPECTOR

"Look, Cardan, I'm confused as to why people blindly believe you. You certainly have a way with them. Even though you deceive them endlessly and, in a literal sense of the word, spin a yarn, they continue to fall for your tricks," Gray wondered with an expression of perplexity on his his face. "If you were elected to the government, you would squander the whole country." What a good thing it is, that you live in a godforsaken village and don't have an opportunity to develop your adventurous talent. With such dexterity can you wrap people around your little finger, that Ostap Bender himself would envy your skills. You surely would make a difference, at least for yourself, if you were given a chance. This world is not fair. One man has a fortune, another one ekes out his existence. And the odds are growing by day. One shouldn't miss out on it, if he wants to pinch off from the pie."

"We all have what we deserve in this world. I have got my fair share among little people. Playing a trick on someone is my second nature - almost like breathing. You know what they say, be silly, be fun, be different, be crazy, be you. Because life is too short to be anything but happy! It's as simple as that."

"Agree to disagree. As far as my nature goes, I wouldn't miss my chance for the world," Gray added complacently.

"Believe me, Gray, there are con men who are much more agile than me. In my life I have learned a lot of tricks from them, especially from politicians!"
"I'd have thought that this is your inborn talent. It comes so naturally to you." Gray still refused to believe that it was a matter of experience.
"It's vitally essential to spin and always be on the move and other things will be added unto you," Cardan gave his words a prophetic tone. "For example, you are sitting around, complaining and doing nothing to get your spirits up by having a drink, but the car, by the way, is being moved only when the driveshaft (cardan in Ukrainian) is spinning. Unlike you I have picked up some useful tricks while I have been making my ends meet."
"Well, it's easy for you to say so because you seem have more experience than the rest of us put together." Gray expressed genuine admiration.

Cardan pondered the situation for a moment and then said, "I guess you have no way of knowing what it takes to become a good swindler. This time you will take the lead in our next scam. We'll go check the serviceability of electricity meters."

"OK! You are the one who calls the shots here", Gray said submissively.
There are only few old women in the village, who know you by sight; you are not native by birth here. As for me, even local dogs can recognize me easily".

They went to Gray`s house to get changed. They needed to create a uniform that would make him look like an inspector, checking the electricity meters. Cardan put a mink hat on Gray`s head, bending his ears like wings for conspiracy. A raincoat added him a touch of a professional appearance. He stepped back, looked at Gray with an appraising glance and concluded, "There's something missing." Cardan opened a table drawer, carefully studied its contents, trying to find something else for the full impressiveness of the businesslike appearance. His vision got blurred: so many things were there: threads, needles, buttons, scissors, spoons, forks, knives, can openers, screwdrivers, pliers - a whole set of necessary small items for the household. Finally, he exclaimed, "Yes, this is exactly what we need! This is the icing on the cake!" and he pulled out old glasses in a rough brown plastic frame from the drawer. Gently and carefully cleaning them from the age-old dust, he put them on Gray`s eyes, adding some weight to his ears, which were already encumbered by a huge hat, giving them even more of the conspiratorial appearance. "Listen, Gray, If I didn't know what you are, I would get scared of you myself," Cardan supported him with a compliment. "In this outfit you definitely won't be sticking out like a sore thumb."
"Cardan, tell me why are you always using proverbs?"
"Proverbs contain common knowledge. People hardly ever go against common sense, so they rarely argue with me either."
"Fair enough."

From an old clerical journal they cut out pieces of paper that they intended to use as fine tickets. When an inspector comes in, people do not even look at what they are given because of fright; since Soviet times they have become accustomed to preventive punishment.
   
It was the last month of autumn. The nights were long and the days were short. It darkened early. The power always cut out between six and eleven in the evening. They had an hour before the blackout. The lit windows of the neighboring houses became visible in the distance. A bright light, glowing from a window of the house of a lonely old woman beckoned to them. They approached the fence silently; the gate was locked.

They climbed over the wooden fence and approached the house. Cardan patted Gray on a shoulder.
"Go ahead and make it count! I will be hanging around here and will play along in case anything happens that is out of line. You should act coolly and professionally. Watch every word you say. Remember you never know with women."

"I'm hoping that will be easy," Grey said excitedly.
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into. It's not a walk in the park, but I'm sure you'll pull it off."

They finally got around to doing what they had come there for. Cardan knocked on the window with an appalling drumbeat. "Excuse me, could you open the door, please," shouted Gray and nearly frightened himself with his stentorian voice. "We check electricity meters," he repeated authoritatively and again knocked on the glass, this time more fiercely. Cardan moved to the side to hide in the darkness. Gray stepped onto an already illuminated porch and unceremoniously broke into the opening door, pushing the old woman aside.

"Why didn't you open the door immediately? Are you stealing electricity? I wonder what you have to hide from an electricity inspector?"
The frightened old woman did not know what to respond. She was totally lost for words. She could explain it away as a precaution. Everyone kept their doors latched those days. Instead she began to stammer, "First, I heard you knocking just out of the blue, then ran stumbling to the door, unfastened the latch as fast as I could. Maybe hesitated a little. Sorry."
But the "inspector" did not want to listen to her explanation.
"Where is the electricity meter?" He asked threateningly.
The old woman led him into the house and pointed at a black box. "Over there," she said in a tremulous voice.

Gray pretended to inspect it, spelled out a few numbers and sat down, taking hold of his head.
"Oh, my goodness, it smells of a prison sentence," he whispered it with his eyes bulged, startled by the seriousness of the violation. "I can't put my finger on it, but there's something suspicious about the meter. It looks like it's been tampered with. Perhaps you'll have heard already that a few people were fined for stealing electricity in the neighboring village yesterday. The things are looking pretty grim for them now."

There was a moment's silence as the gravity of the situation settled in.
"Oh, my goodness, I have nothing to do with it. I haven`t touched it in my lifetime. It must have broken down," the old woman`s pleas for mercy came pouring like a summer shower. She almost fainted; her legs buckled underneath her, but she quickly landed on a stool. Suddenly she realized that succinctness was what was going to stop her getting into more trouble, so she went for brevity even though her tone was mutinous.

"Okay. For the first time, I`ll write out a ticket of 5 hryvnias fine (it was the price of a bottle of vodka in those days)," he scribbled something illeginble with pen on a sheet of the clerical paper and added, "and 5 hryvnias for repairing the meter. It's spinning too fast. Could I have a screwdriver or a knife, please?"
The old woman handed him a knife. She seemed close to tears, the dreadful inconveniences pushing her near the edge. She glanced at Gray now and again, her face suppliant, thinking there might be something more sinister behind the apparently simple request.

Gray began demonstratively to pick in the measuring instrument with the appearance of an expert. He put the tip of the knife into one slot, then into another one, pushed on it, pulled at something, knocked on the left side, then on the right one, slapped the top with his hand a couple of times, then put the knife back into the slot and applied some pressure again. He turned his face around, distorted from the laborious effort, to the old woman and looked at the dial again. For a moment she was scared that he had become unpredictable again. "It's meticulous work - some might say dangerous. Everything is alright now. It`s spinning like a new one. You have to pay me 10 hryvnias."

The old woman was ready to part even  with a larger amount of money, but the guys knew when to stop. Cardan often repeated to Gray, "Don't bite more than you can chew. It's better to get a little - but every day, than a lot - but only once." Grabbing the money, Gray headed for the door.
"No hard feelings, lady. I'm just doing my job. Take care of the meter so that it doesn't spin too fast anymore," he admonished her, raising a warning finger as he was leaving the house. She would have asked whether he would report the incident to the police, but she couldn't bring herself up to put the question. Instead she smiled apologetically, hiding behind the smile the extent of her fear. Her mind running a mental mantra - this will soon be over. Gray walked outside. Excuses and words of gratitude were heard from the old woman behind his back.

The gate was sunk on its hinges and touched the ground. The old woman unlatched it and pushed it open with her shoulder. She thanked him wholeheartedly, probably with the intention of keeping out of harm's way, said goodbye and scurried back into the house. Grey walked out into the night. Cardan awaited his disciple impatiently. "Wow, man! Perfect timing! That was awesome! That was absolutely amazing! You really outdid yourself. Haven`t I told you that it’s important to spin and always be on the move and other things will be added unto you," he repeated his unshakable motto again and shook Gray's hand vigorously. "You swept me off my feet. Now you`re a full-fledged swindler," he praised his smart apprentice for his dexterity.

A few months later the old woman encountered Gray in the village. There was something familiar about him. All at once she recognized him as her recent night visitor as he turned his face to her. She was told that he was not an electricity inspector, but an ordinary villager. She was going to pounce on him and give him a good scolding. To avoid trouble Grey turned to flee and disappeared around the corner of the street and never again got in her sight. After multiple futile efforts to see him and sort it out, she eventually gave up. Put her hands to her head and sighed, "Oh, swindler! You will be punished some day. What goes around, comes around."

      
THE CRUEL WINTER FISHING

Cardan is one of those man who never loses faith, never backs down. His life is full of excitement and adventure. Time and again he feels like he has seized on luck and firmly holds it in his hands. The desired goal is achieved and there is nothing left for him to strive for. But a constant hangover in the morning is a demonstration of an eternal unattainability of such a cherished aim. He understands the futility of his efforts to solve the problem once and for all. The question arises: what for? How would he live if there were no longer a goal in his life to which he should strive and constantly spin around? Thus one day gives way to another, year by year life fades away. How it would be gray and boring, if not for adventure, accompanied by perseverance, desire, faith in his strength, cunning and resourcefulness. Some people think that it is a pleasure to feel that you are smarter than others, providing that you manage to conceal your arrogance, outwardly always remain friendly, sympathetic and benevolent. However, such a social attitude requires great inner concentration, will, and inexhaustible energy. It is hard even for Cardan, let alone any one else.
   
Winter has come. Life in the village has slowed down. There are only a few people in the streets: the rest of them stay at home. It`s hard to meet anybody in the village to talk to and to catch up on local news. One ought to go to the shop - only there he can come across someone.

Winter is the most difficult time of the year. And not only for cold weather but also for the lack of communication. And what would people do in the village without television - the only entertainment in life. They know the background of many state politicians. They know who has got an expensive car, luxurious house, huge apartment, beautiful wife and everything in-between. They are interested in what the politicians do, what kind of positive change they promise to bring about, what sort of change is good for the country and what is bad, what a candidate they should vote for, and what a candidate they shouldn't... Sometimes you listen to such a rural political expert and marvel at the abundance of information that he has got about our politicians. Of course, here credit is given to television: it is truly a window to the world. For a great number of people this is the only way to stay sane. Once I was put to shame by a humble villager. He appeared to have been much more well-versed with the most recent political developments of our country than I, who was an inhabitant of the capital city.

In winter the days are short. It hardly gets dark when the whole family runs to the television. Each of them takes a seat in front of the blue screen; they hold their breaths, worrying about the characters of their favorite soap operas.
"Switch to the fifth channel," shouts someone of the family, a fan of politics, "the news is already on."
"Switch back to the soap opera," demands an impatient lover of romantic films as soon as the news is over.
Man is so created, that he has an inborn feeling of caring for others. So he cannot live without worrying about broken lives of unhappy people. In fact, he does not really have to help anybody or give money away to the destitute - it is totally free. So it's impossible to keep such a sufferer away from other people's sorrow. It seems to be pleasant to worry about other people in your head when you do not have any real obligations.
"Switch back, there is a political debate," insists an armchair politician.

A fan of love dramas wants to continue watching the film and she reproaches political experts for being heartless. "We have a heart. We worry about the whole of Ukraine," they exclaim.

Finally, the majority wins and the TV set is switched to another channel to watch the debate. It turns out that here the development of events is no less intense, than in the soap opera and even the fan of amorous affairs is involved in a political discussion. The promises of the politicians are pouring like milk and honey from heaven for the miserable. They promise to control the prices, to raise the pensions and salaries, to rebuild the factories, to revive the agriculture. The viewers absorb sweet information with dropped jaws. Gradually, they become adherents of one or another party; the whole family is divided into two camps: one is for an accession to Europe, the other one to Russia. Heads of the audience are heated with arguments, which leads to a confrontation in the end. Noise, screams, family squabble. At last they splash out their emotions, pout their lips at one another and go to bed with revolutionary thoughts. At night the most ardent armchair politician dreams about how he speaks from the rostrum, how he waves his arms, and how he directs the rebellious crowd to restore justice. Encouraged by the speech of the young promising orator, people are building their own new world, razing the old one to the ground.

Cardan had been prowling around, trying to turn something up. His collar upturned against piercing wind. His legs got stiff, his eyelids got covered with hoarfrost and his body began trembling as if from a horrible fright. He stamped his feet in an attempt to keep warm, "Yes, it wouldn't be bad to have a spin around and get warm," he thought, observing the working process of the farmer's family in the yard over the fence.

The work was in full swing. Cardan overheard some snatches of conversation about the lack of fodder. He waved his hand and cried out, "Excuse me! The miller has sent me to you. He is fishing on the local pond. It seems that the devil himself made him go fishing in such a horrible weather. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes now. He begged of me to go to you and ask for a bottle of vodka. The rumor mill spilled out that you need fodder for your cattle. He will make it up to you by grinding a sack of wheat into flour. You can approach him any time and he will be happy to see you and help you out," said Cardan, trembling with cold.

"You say he'll grind grain into flour. Yes, you're right! That offer might come in handy. There're so many things you need for your household and these days they aren't easy to come by."

It stands to reason that the farmer could not refuse the miller in such a dire situation, when it is so freezing; and it would have been foolish to miss out on the opportunity to use his services. But truly, it was a practical decision, a smart business move. For a sheer smallness of soul and a hog trough behavior there was no one like him in the village. Cardan was aware of his weakness, so he took advantage of it.

The man rushed into the house shining with joy. A moment later he ran out to Cardan with a bottle of vodka. There was something undeniably odd about him. The idea of his missing out on the bargain was preposterous.
"Here you are. There's also a snack in the bag. And tell him that tomorrow I'll drop by the mill with a sack of grain."
He gave Cardan grateful yet dismissive smile.

Cardan grabbed the bag and melted discreetly away. He felt a pleasant burn of the alcohol in his stomach and uttered his famous words, challenging, it seemed, the frost itself, "It's vital to keep spinning around. A driveshaft (cardan in Ukrainian) rotates - the car is moved."

The next day the farmer loaded a sack of grain on a bicycle and rode to the mill. With an important gait and a benign look on his face he approached the miller. “Did Cardan bring you a bottle of vodka and a snack? As agreed, I`m here with a sack of grain to grind." He smiled complacently.
The miller was caught off guard to the point of stammering for an answer.
"What the heck are you talking about? What the frigging vodka, what the grain, what does Cardan have to do with it?"
"Doesn't yesterday's fishing ring any bell with you?" the farmer reminded him.
The miller was taken by surprise. "Never in my life have I gone fishing in winter," he exhausted his vocabulary with the last expression and was able to add nothing more.
The man was ready to bark back, but kept his temper.
"Oh, my goodness, he has cheated me!" a belated awareness of his unforgivable blunder was driven home to him.

Never before had he been humiliated so deeply, nor he had suspected that he might be so vulnerable. He was totally embarrassed by his mistake because he was used to respect. People had always listened to his political wisdom. He had always been in the thick of things and given his wise advice to others who they should vote for. He had always been on the horse: magnificent and proud. Now he was absolutely crushed. His greatest fear was that nobody might take him seriously and listen to his political advice anymore after such a dreadful slip. He felt like running away from the mill, fleeing from an indelible disgrace that crept up so unobtrusively.

The farmer furiously loaded the sack of grain back onto the bicycle and rode home clenching his teeth with cold and anger. He was at his wit's end. The same words were reverberating in his head, "Oh, swindler! Oh, bastard! Oh, con man! How can people be trusted after that? No sooner you have a pity on someone and help them out, than you immediately run into trouble. I won't leave it like that, I'll have my revenge one day. Somehow Cardan should be punished. I've seen murder committed for a lot less. If you let them get away with one thing, there would be no end to it. Next time I will be more cautious," he consoled himself and gave the bicycle a go, pushing harder on the pedals.

A cold wind blew into his face, which pleasantly cooled the hot, filled with thoughts head of the naive farmer. Why now, on a snowy afternoon, when everyone was full of Christmas spirit? He was offended and ashamed of the fact that he, such an excellent expert in politics, was taken for a fool like a child. And by whom? By stupid Cardan!

The snow cracked rhythmically under the wheels of the bicycle, constantly interrupting sad thoughts and acting distractedly. Finally, the farmer managed to acquit himself completely for his peace of mind, "Everything happens for a reason." An arrogant grin twisted his face. "Never mind, next time I'll be smarter. I will have the upper hand some day. Experience is the best teacher."


OH, MY GOODNESS, IT MUST BE SAND

One must take into account the fact that the Ukrainian people have been through too much sorrow during the course of their history: the revolution of 1917, which brought about the civil war, the collectivization, the man-made famine of 1932-33, the repressions, the World War 2, the post-war famine, the communist regime - and this is only an insignificant part of the suffering in the context of the whole history of the development of our people. We are still struggling for independence, preservation of the Ukrainian language and culture; our anthem reflects the idea that we are still on the path to becoming a nation.
 
We do not have a common clear vision of the goal and the means to implement it yet. Meanwhile, other European nations have passed the period of their national formation, our country still lives with the ideas of the 19th century. Today's challenges dictate other reality. Developed countries conquer new markets, improving the quality of their products. They aggressively wage a new commercial war, in which, unfortunately, we are still losing.

Some people mistakenly believe that the reason for our drawbacks is alcohol, drugs, laziness etc. However, they forget one simple truth - there are no causeless reasons. If you prohibit the sale of alcohol and do not change the living conditions, the effect of stress, received by the human psyche from the cruel reality, will be directed inwards and begin to destroy the body. Then the question arises: what is more harmful for a person: stress or alcohol? Logical dilemma suggests that the lesser of the two evils is always preferred. Stress leads to heart diseases; it destroys immunity and opens a way for the development of cancerous tumors. Excessive abuse of alcohol has devastating consequences as well.

A great number of people know how to balance between the two fires. At a glance, it may seem that they are strong-willed and easily cope with difficulty. No, they simply do not feel an enormous social pressure, since they are adapted to it one way or another. If they have many problems and do not relieve the tension with antidepressants, drugs, alcohol or religion, they direct the destructive forces of the psyche to self-destruction of the body. The problem of drug and alcohol addiction has a common cause - social pressure, which pushes a person into a blind alley of devastation. If society lacks moral ideals and focuses only on material well-being, it makes it very difficult for a person to achieve an honorable success in an external cruel world, where everything is subjected to money.

The moral fulfillment is internal; it depends on the effort that the person directs toward himself and to each individual it gives an opportunity to manifest himself in society, to show his usefulness and significance, provided that society evaluates such actions by giving them an incentive. Therefore, the focus should be on morals, not money. A child who grows up away from guiding moral principles, who has not been accustomed to moral duty since childhood, evades from school and family responsibilities and escapes social pressure, leading a carefree life. However, when he reaches adulthood, he enters into an adult reality, where social conditions become paramount. He has to restrain himself, exerting efforts on the psyche. And from time to time, or constantly, he removes the accumulated heaviness from the soul by means of alcohol or drugs. Therefore, to effectively fight against alcohol, they need to change the living conditions: rooting out the cause and stop insensibly struggling with the consequences. Enough! That's all there's to it. We should steer away from sad thoughts.

Love can change people for the better. It inspires, gives energy for noble deeds and provides meaning to impoverished existence. This happened in the case of Cardan as well. One day he went to a young widow to offer some services and, having grown fond of her, helped her for free. His chest began to breathe deeply and enticingly. His lungs did not keep up with the rhythm of the inner beat and he gasped from the lack of air. Cardan's brain no longer worked as before, something seemed to have clouded it. He began to do things he had never done before: he helped the widow free of charge. In the long run, such noble actions of Cardan inculcated sympathy in the widow; a strong man's hand was felt, which led to a mutual desire to live together. Cardan significantly reduced his consumption of alcohol. Family concerns dragged him into their whirlpool up to the neck. His thirst for alcohol greatly abated. But emotions, excited by love, gradually began to fade away. Family commitments began pressing on him. The lack of money led to quarrels, which day by day only precipitated the approach of a rolling avalanche. It did not take much to fall off the wagon for him. He started drinking again. Little by little Cardan began to resume his adventurous pranks. In order not to spoil the reputation of a family man in his village, he moved to shake down some people for alcohol in the neighboring one for a change.
 
Right now he was flying blind in the dark with no actual plan, just movement. He noticed how Colorado beetles were being sprayed with pesticide on the collective farm field planted with potatoes. Along the road he saw a garbage dump, thrown out by some irresponsible villager. It was not an ordinary dump, there was more to it than met the eye. Precisely as he anticipated there was indeed something of value in its contents. A thought crossed his mind that money lay on the ground, he just had to pick it up. Suddenly, he came up with an idea and set off to give it a quick fix. He managed to find one liter glass jar. A hundred meters off the road was a stream. Cardan walked toward it; carefully washed the jar and filled it with water, taken from a puddle on the field. The water was stagnant and it stayed in the sun for quite a while after a long-lasting rain and changed its crystal-clear color to yellowish-muddy. He lifted the jar against the sun to examine its contents more closely. “Something's wrong”, he thought. Taking a handful of sand from the ground, he dropped it into the jar and shook it around. The sand whirled, lifting a column of a whirlwind in the muddy water. "Bingo! This is exactly what I need," he whispered. Suddenly he was an the move again hurrying to the nearest household probably more out of the muscle memory than anything else.

It was obvious at first sight that the potato plot, adjoining the house, was in a deplorable state. The Colorado beetles were devouring the plant tops, threatening to leave the owners without a harvest. The vegetable plot belonged to a lonely old woman, who stood in the yard; she was watching her land attentively with her eyes protected from the dazzling sun by her hand. Cardan realized that the situation was a win-win.

He walked into the yard, carrying the jar in front of him with the concoction of his own making. He paced quickly, panting with haste, as if he got a wild hair; his wide-open and worried eyes gave him the appearance of a gypsy, leading away a stolen horse. To his mind, if a deal was not struck spontaneously, it was not worth having. Cardan often acted on the spur of the moment.

“Do you need pesticide for the Colorado beetles?” asked Cardan, catching his breath. “Look, the tractor is spraying potatoes on the field. I came to you from there. We have a little leftover. If you need it, I can trade it for alcohol.”
She called back the dog, which was bouncing towards Cardan and gave him a quick once-over. He stayed where he was. He had always been suspicious of big dogs since one had jumped up and nipped him on his first visit to one of the old women.
"And, how much do you want for it? We`re always strapped for money here.” She gave him a tight little grin.
“A jar of pesticide for a jar of vodka.”

The old woman took Cardan's concoction, raised the jar against the sun, scrutinizing it meticulously. A sliver of doubt sliced through the curtains of her mind and caused a flash of hesitation.
“And, who are you?” she asked incredulously.
“Don't you keep up with current events, lady? I'm a young agronomist from the neighboring village,” Cardan answered with utmost importance.
“Isn`t it sand at the bottom of the jar?”
The old woman shook the contents time and again.
“Let me get this straight. This process is called crystallization. The poison is fresh, so it is in a state of granules. You'll take a stick, stir them with it, and the granules will dissolve. So it's not worth the worry,” Cardan explained the procedure to her.
"I assure you as a professional that the difference is absolutely night and day between the pesticide that you can buy in a local marketplace and the one that I am offering you. This pesticide is a real treasure. In this day and age and for this price it's a real steal. I have tested it several times myself. The results are remarkable. And that's all there's to it."

She was reluctant to go to the market and to waste money on pesticide, so she finally fell for it. Cardan, satisfied with the deal, made himself scarce. He disappeared like a ghost. The old woman began to prepare the pesticide quickly stirring the "granules". Five minutes of painstaking work produced no visible effect. Ten minutes - the number of the "granules" did not decrease at all. She lifted the jar and directed it against the sun. "Oh, my goodness, it must be sand," she muttered and continued to stir the “granules” again. Half an hour of laborious effort did not yield any results. "Oh, my goodness, I swear, it must be sand," the frustrated old woman said her guess aloud."I have to give it a little bit more stirring before I call it a day," she thought. Nevertheless, it did not work out; all of her endeavors went pear-shaped.
“Let it stand until morning; perhaps the granules will dissolve by themselves.”
 She put the jar aside.

On the following day, first thing in the morning, the old woman went over the procedure once more – no results. A sense of impending frustration began to settle deeper in her head.
"It boggles my mind that the granules can't be dissolved. How could it be?" She said perplexedly.
She couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to heat it up on the stove. "That might do the trick." But she thought better of it. Finally, she couldn't take it any longer. Overwhelmed with anger and frustration, she decided to get it over with and poured the contents of the jar on a wooden board, felt the “granules” with her fingers, sniffed them - no smell. She touched her tongue with the wet finger and finally realized that all the moments of doubt that she had experienced crystallized into a shocking reality. "It rather tastes plain. It must be innocuous stuff. Oh, my goodness, it's definitely sand and water." She wanted to add some other guess, but the words got in the way. Oh, that swindler! He won't escape God's punishment!" she desperately forced out bitter words for the last time.


THE RESURRECTED PIG

The Ukrainian villagers tend to wake up very early. At six in the morning almost all the adult population is already on their feet. Even if you have a terrible hangover after a late night`s party, you have to get up and work. If you got sick, you would not stay in bed, because the cattle need caring. Come hell or high water, it is practically impossible to get away from work even if you can barely stand on your feet from the illness that has taken away all your strength, you need to get up and take care of your household. There is no one to rely on: everyone has their own worries.

Family life has brought Cardan an additional burden on his body. He gets up at five in the morning, half dead - half alive from a murderous effect of alcohol, takes a scythe and goes to the field. After five minute's hard work under a scorching sun he takes shelter in shade, drinks some water from a three-liter glass jar and continues mowing further.

After a few days the hay dries up – he needs to have it delivered to his household. He gets it taken home by tractor and begins to put it in the barn. His wife passes her husband weighty pitchforks of hay to the attic of the barn, Cardan distributes it evenly across the corners, trying to lay up as much of the hay as possible in one place. The heat in the attic is so unbearable in the summer that Cardan gets totally soaked wet with perspiration from head to toe in a moment. The sweat flows down the forehead into the eyes, burns like fire, eats in, drips from the nose as if from a spring icicle heated by the sun.

Cardan quickly grabs the shirt that he has put off, wipes his face off and continues to lay up and pound the hay. Three minutes later his eyes are flushed with sweat again. He picks up the shirt but it is already as wet as a mop rag. He wrings it out of the moisture, wipes off his face and dashes "into the battle" again. The hay sticks to the wet body, small particles penetrate into intimate places; it prickles, it is unpleasant, awful, but the work has to be done, otherwise there will be no fodder for the cattle in the winter.

At last the work is over, he has a few drinks of vodka, gets rid of his physical and moral tension and goes to bed. Next morning he gets a new assignment from his wife. Cardan sees rest only in his dreams.

Winter has come and brought severe frosts - firewood needs delivering. Cardan finds people for help; he is unable to cope up with it by himself - the logs are too heavy. They go to the forest by tractor. Some good dry trees stand here and there in the woods. They are tall and thick; one can hardly hug any of them around. They fell it, saw it into parts, grab one log together – no, it is too heavy to lift. Once more they saw each log into two parts and then put them on a pile.

Now they can have a drink of vodka. The fire is crackling; a piece of pork lard is being fried on a stick. Alcohol warms their insides, their heads become slightly dizzy and a pleasant conversation makes the hard work easier.
"OK, one round of drinks down, one more to go and we're done." Cardan points out vehemently.

The next day he needs to search for transport to deliver the logs from the woods. Cardan finds someone to help him. The guys are eager to get some booze, so they assist him to load the logs onto the trailer and then unload them at delivery.

This is how people live in the village, providing mutual assistance to each other; the gratitude for help is alcohol and a heart-to-heart conversation. A human organism can hardly sustain such strain for a long time; there are many a villager who early join the other world. They cannot transfer their skills to the younger generation because the birth rate in the village is very low. Nurseries are being closed, schools, first aid medical offices are being transferred to the district centers or villages with a larger population. It is necessary for villagers to learn skills of managing their households for themselves for the lack of instructors, learning the trade by the rule of thumb.

One day at four in the morning there was a knock at the window of Cardan`s house, waking him up earlier than usual.
"Who's there?" he asked, pacing over to the window.
"Open the door. I`m your neighbor. I need to talk to you."
"Oh, gosh, how hard it is to get up so early," thought Cardan and went to open the door, carrying a heavy head with pulsating temples on his shoulders.
"Come on, come inside, don`t let the cold in."
The early guest quickly ran past Cardan into the warm room.
“What the heck has happened?” asked Cardan in a dissatisfied voice, stroking the top of his head.
“The pig is dying, it should be slaughtered before it's too late, so that we can avoid a worse-case scenario. I wondered if you'd care to give me a hand if it's not too much trouble?”
“Of course! I think I can swing it!" Cardan exclaimed, feeling the opportunity to get a drink and get rid of the hangover.

After explaining to his wife such an early visit of the neighbor, he heard compelling advice from her, “Go and help them! It chills me to the bone just to imagine how they can work it all out by themselves. If anything bad happened to us, who would we turn to? Will you be able to handle it, though?”
“Of course, I'm a grown-up man. It`s not for the first time that I'm going to slaughter a pig. It's as easy as pie. I'll pull it off,” Cardan calmed his wife down with unceasing assurances.

At the neighbor's the whole family was already on their feet; the kitchen utencils were being prepared. Cardan could hear the sounds of banging cupboards (rump-thump!), rattling containers of tin and glass (ding-ring!), shuffling and sorting a collection of metal pots and iron pans (ruzz-shuzz!). The housewife was rushing around the household, submerged in the preparation. The neighbor led Cardan inside and invited him to the table.

"Let`s have a drink of vodka for bravery," he suggested.
"Fine with me!" Cardan supported him instantly.
The drink really hit the spot. It greatly increased Cardan's confidence. He felt happy, in a tipsy, emotional way.

"Have you ever slaughtered pigs? Will you manage?" Asked the concerned housewife and gazed down at him with an expression of intense expectation.
“I know why you're so anxious. If I were in your shoes, I'd be as worried as you. I assure you that I'll handle it perfectly fine. I have stabbed a lot of them in my lifetime. When I was in the army, I was occasionally sent to a slaughterhouse to do some butcher work. I helped to supply meat to the regiment. I got the hang of it there," he lied.

In fact, he knew the process of slaughtering pigs only theoretically. He decided that the knowledge obtained from the stories of his friends would help him cope with such a trifling thing. To his mind to fail in this matter seemed an unlikely scenario.

“What happened to the pig that you decided to slaughter it so suddenly?”
“It doesn't eat anything. We are afraid that it will perish. We`d better do it now, or it will be too late. And then the invested money and labor will go down the drain. The idea is quite unsettling for us." The thrifty housewife explained.

It was still quite dark outside. Straw was littered all over the place. They arranged an extension cable with a lamp and illuminated the yard - the place for cruel activity was ready.
"Watch me! I`ll show you how it`s done," recommended Cardan and braced for whatever was about to come out of it. "It's not for the faint of heart."
"I could probably remember how to do it if I put my mind to it."
"That would be a useful skill."
"Fair enough!"

Cardan got a self-made knife for slaughtering hogs. The pig was lured out into the yard. The host scratched it behind its ear; it calmed down, grunted but sensing the unskillful actions of the butcher, burst out with a deafening yelp.
"Here goes nothing," Cardan mumbled and threw a knife quickly under its left leg and plunged it up to the very hilt, according to his idea right into the heart.

The curtains of the house windows were closed immediately; frightened children, watching the dreadful scene, ran away from the gory spectacle and buried under the blanket. A few snowflakes melted on the glass from their warm breathing and slid to the frame. The housewife took refuge in the adjacent room and sobbed. She gave so much time for the care of the pig that she got used to it as if to a member of the family. Now her "four-legged friend" was leaving this world. "Well, for what it's worth, this is life, there's nothing to be done.

We all will go out there sooner or later," the housewife reassured herself with comforting thoughts.
The butchers, having managed with the pig, went into the house to relieve the stress.
"You were right. I saw your experienced hand,” the happy man praised Cardan. “Your reaction was as quick as lightning! Such a blow! I just caught a glimpse of a flashing blade! One, two, three - and it was finished!"

Cardan had extremely acute situational awareness. He always reacted quickly when there was a drink ahead of him. He acted on autopilot. Everything seemed to happen by itself. He did not even strain himself; the inner will guided his hands, legs, and the brain itself. He completely trusted his inner guidance that more than once disentangled him out of trouble, more than once rescued him in a difficult moment. He relied on it this time either, and it brought him the desired result again.
 
Butchers relieved the stress by having a few shots.
“Well, let`s have one more drink. Then we`ll go out and do some butcher work. It's cold outside. I think that alcohol will warm us up a bit.”
No sooner had they refilled their glasses, than the frightened housewife burst into the house in horror. Her hands turned up in a gesture of shock.
"The pig's gone! It is nowhere to be found! Someone has stolen it! Call the police!"
"Do you have any idea where it might be?" the man asked Cardan in a tremulous voice.
"Anybody's guess is better than mine," mumbled Cardan.

The great experts of cattle slaughtering ran out into the yard. Nowhere! One of them went around the house, another one dashed into the street, then into the barn. Finally, they found the pig in the garden, lying in a deep snowdrift. The situation was ludicrous. Even to Cardan it came as a shock. That was kind of magic. He was absolutely dumbfounded. He could not even imagine a worse-case scenario.

"I've heard that it takes some time for an animal to die completely. A body may stay alive for a few minutes after the heart has stopped beating," Cardan justified himself.
The neighbor listened in astonishment to the outlandish explanation. "Oh, you're a big liar!” he thought. “And how well he bragged, "I, I, I… I know, I know, I'll do it!" In a pig's eye he did. He probably did not get it right into the heart." But he said nothing, hardly suppressing his internal discontent. He was well aware of the fact that anger was a futile and exhaustive emotion. Besides, the odds were against him to make any rash remarks and to lash out at Cardan. After all, there was no one else to turn to - all the experienced men in the village had died; and as the saying goes, it's better a small fish, than an empty dish.

It goes without saying that in the village like this, it doesn't take long for one man's secret to become every man's rumor. Soon the story about the resurrected pig and Cardan the butcher became a talk of the town. The villagers had a good laugh. But there is nothing to be done. You cannot win all the time.

He would not be a rural butcher if the necessity did not make Cardan develop the skills, necessary for survival. This is the way things are in the Ukrainian village.

"Something just came up and I have to take off," lied Cardan.
The man packed a bag and paid Cardan for his assistance.
"Next time you run into trouble, you know who you may ask for help. I'll come flying to you."
"Yes, I will. Thanks!" said the man and thought that he would probably do that when pigs fly over the moon. He had a little headache because of the incident. The neighbor knew that he would have made things worse for him by coming down hard on Cardan. So, he kept his mouth shut and his face a mask of neutrality. He put his hand to the chest, turned around and whispered into the darkness, so that Cardan could not hear him, "Liar!"


PROSECUTOR

And so the winter passed by in constant care of the homestead. Spring, and then summer, added even more chores. This time Cardan's wife decided to buy coal to heat the house. There is a lot of fuss with firewood and it's practically the same worth of money.

“If we're going to use coal next winter, we need to mend the stove. The furnace might not be able to withstand intense heat. If it falls apart when the temperature drops below freezing, then we will get into trouble. I'm going over to my sister's for two weeks, so while I'm away you will remake the stove and go to the regional center to buy a truckload of coal,” she instructed her husband, giving him the necessary amount of money. Cardan was a real trouble for her. At the back of her mind she had a niggle of anxiety about him, and she wasn't sure what she could do about it. That is why she was unwilling to leave him alone.

The sunlight, breaking through the window curtains, awakened Cardan from a sweet slumber. There was an unusual silence in the house. No one moved or hurried; no one forced to work and no one urged - the master of the house. "I need to switch on my inner motivation. I have to keep on spinning around," thought Cardan.

He got up, washed his face, did the necessary house chores, had a bite, and began to take the stove apart. Attaching a chisel to the clay seams between the masonry and tapping it with a hammer, he carefully started separating bricks one from another. ”At the household everything will come in handy. Why should I throw useful things away?” It had never happened that something had turned out useless for Cardan. He took the bricks outside, found a place for them in the yard and neatly put them into a rectangular pile. Then he placed a slate sheet on top of the bricks, protecting them from a harmful effect of rain. Some positive shifts became quite apparent. The stove is dismantled – half of the work is done.
 
It was lunchtime. Cardan fried his bachelor eggs and bacon, cut off a slice of bread and began eating. Suddenly, he stopped dead. "Something is missing,” a troublesome thought was circling in his head. "Of course, how is it possible for a husband to remain at home without control of his wife and not to have a drink? Someone would probably be bored and tormented by solitude? But it is not like that with me! I'm not the one of those soldiers who rush towards tanks with grenades!"

Taking the necessary amount of money, allocated by his wife to buy coal, he nipped out to the shop, bought a bottle of vodka and got home. "Now it feels like life is getting better," his inner organs sprang to life. The stomach became pleasantly warm; and the fried eggs turned into something heavenly. Life really got better for him. Loneliness was not as frightening as before but, on the contrary, it turned into a wonderful pastime. The trips to the shop acquired a regular frequency. Regarding the food, even boiled potatoes became something out of this world. A week passed by - half of the money was spent. "Stop!” Cardan said. “I have to buy at least half of the coal."

He took every ounce of willpower to jerk him out of that mindset. After taking a day's respite, he went to the district center on the following day. There was a brand new pub called "777" opposite the bus station. Cardan passed by the magic number and instantly caught it in his memory. The farther he moved away from the bar, the quicker its resounding grew in his mind. "Seven, seven, seven. Seven, seven, seven," drummed in his head. He stopped as if he had hit an invisible wall, made a U-turn, and with quick steps and short dashes he headed for the fabulous place. The room inside was illuminated by dim romantic light; fascinating music was playing. He felt as if he was in a different world when he entered it, a world to which he aspired. "I'll drink a glass of beer and that'll be enough,” he consoled himself. "You have to try everything in life at least once, so that later you would not regret painfully for the aimlessly spent years," the famous words from Ostrovsky's book How the Steel Was Tempered came out of the recesses of oblivion in his memory. Cardan did not even notice how he switched from beer to wine. He knew that you can raise the degrees of alcohol but not lower them, so the wine was followed by cognac, and then - a total blur.

He woke up at the bus station in a cold sweat. "Money, where's the money? Have I really squandered everything?" He searched his pockets and at last found some banknotes. The trembling hands sorted out the money carefully, neatly stacking them in a wad. He counted them again and again and did not believe his eyes. There was not enough money for the coal. Neither for the half of it, nor even for the quarter. Cardan knew from experience that there were no desperate situations with no way out. On the bright side, there was enough money to pay for the delivery and the rest was a matter of cunning. He had to move the needle in his favor, no matter how difficult the task was. "When the driveshaft is spinning - the car is rolling. It's important to be on the move!" inspiring thoughts lit a spark of hope in his mind.

This was Cardan's moment of decision. He could go back home or he could give himself a chance to put things right. He got up from his chair, stretched himself, straightened up, and walked to the coal base "to mine coal."

If a person makes a plan for swindling someone else out of his possessions, he commits a premeditated crime; but if the deception happens spontaneously, accidentally, then this is just a way of life. Cardan always played it by ear. He did not think up his scams in advance, he was not a criminal; his inner guiding system did it for him without involvement of his brain power, and his conscience was clear from the burdens of sin.

"Could you please tell me where your boss is?" He asked the security guard, standing at the gate. Having received the necessary information, Cardan walked straight to the office of the chief at his peril. The office assistant announced that the director was busy and he had to wait a couple of minutes in the lobby.

At last the room was free of the visitor and our adventurer entered the office of the strict manager. He cut it to the chase and started without blushing, "We need a trailer of coal. Unfortunately, we are in dire financial straits now. Let's arrange barter. I work as a chief mechanic at the tractor facilities in the nearby village. I can offer you any spare part from my stock.”

The manager was definitely not in the whole zone right then: he had been rattled by the previous visitors with petty problems. His thinking was blurred. Cardan's last words hit the spot. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the equipment was not updated, spare parts were very hard to get and at the coal base, just as elsewhere, were the same problems - worn-out vehicles. The director plunged into a deep thinking. It was not so easy to make a choice when so many things were needed. Before he could even begin to unravel what Cardan really meant, he clutched at the straw not to miss out on the opportunity and went the whole hog by naming the most important, in his opinion, spare part, “A fuel pump to the Belarus tractor.”

No sooner had the last syllables of the tractor's name left the mouth of the speaking director, than Cardan started his usual, tried-and-tested tactics without losing a beat, “Will do! Everything is going to be alright! I will prepare a fuel pump for you as soon as I get to the tractor workshop. Consider it done.”

He recited the address of the tractor facilities and added,"Ask Prosecutor, every "dog" knows me there.”
“Then, is it a deal?” the director extended his hand to Cardan. "Go, look for a truck. In a few days I'll come over to your place for the fuel pump." He wanted to add something else but couldn`t get a word in edgewise. Cardan got carried away and started showering him with promises.
“Done deal!" He shook the manager's hand. "You can rest assured, I'll keep my end of the bargain. First thing tomorrow morning I'll get it arranged, so when you arrive it will be oven-ready for you to pick up,” he was already closing the door behind him and still bombarding him with sweet promises that made the head of the satisfied chief spin from the successful striking of a lucrative deal.
"I'll finally get my broken tractor fixed. What a relief," he thought.
 
Cardan went to the village to find the driver, who was called Dog because of his passion for fantasy and constant lies. Speaking of him every one ended his story with the words, "He lies like a dog!" Meanwhile, Dog was delivering food to the field for the workers engaged in harvesting. It was time for them to have lunch, so the collective farm workers gathered in shade near the forest, waiting for the truck with food.

A grass snake, tired of coolness and dampness, slithered out on the edge of the forest to bask in the sun. He lay quietly on the grass, enjoying the sun's rays and did not know that the place, he took a liking to, would also be chosen by the workers. One of the drivers, unaware that the place was already occupied by the creeping dweller of the forest, nearly stepped on it. He quickly flinched aside in fright and told his colleague about an unpleasant encounter. As it turned out, his colleague was not afraid of reptiles at all. He caught the grass snake and wrapped it around his arm.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” asked his colleague a worrisome question. “What do you need it for? Drop it!”
"Look, Chicka's coming to us. Now we will teach him a lesson not to constantly ask for cigarettes. Let's smoke to whet his appetite. And we'll do it like this..."
He took off his jacket, hung it on a branch of a tree and carefully put the grass snake into a pocket.

"Oh, guys, could you spare me a cigarette?" Chicka mumbled a request, which was a habit developed by him over many years.
"Take it over there, in the pocket of my jacket," the prankster pointed his finger at the ominous bait.
Chicka flashed like lightning to the place indicated and quickly put his hand into the pocket. In the blink of an eye he seemed to be pierced by an electric shock; he instantly withdrew his arm from the pocket and gasped with fear, “There...”
The men burst out laughing. Chika stood all white with bulging eyes and outstretched arms. He tried to add something else but could only utter, sobbing with a lack of air, “There ...”
Finally, the laughter of his colleagues brought him back to life. Realizing that it was a practical joke, he waved his hand and scornfully exclaimed, “Damn you all, fools!"
Enraged at his offenders, he stepped aside, boiling with anger and resentment.

Meanwhile, three hunters with shotguns over their shoulders came out of the woods and approached Chicka.
"Have you seen a dog around here?" they turned to him.
"Wait a little bit, in a few minutes we are having lunch and he will be delivering food for us," Chicka said.
At that moment Cardan arrived on a bicycle.
"Have you seen Dog?" he asked Chicka a similar question.
"Oh, and you're looking for him. These people are waiting for him either. Hold on a bit, he will be coming with food in a few minutes."

The hunters stood in bewilderment, looking at one another.
"Wait, guys," one of the hunters finally said, "a four-legged dog with a tail and it can bark. Did you happen to see it? We were hunting wild ducks at the swamp nearby and lost him."
Eventually, the realization of his mistake came home to Chika.
"Oh, why did you not say it right from the start," Chicka grumbled with displeasure, "that it is a four-legged beast with a tail and it can bark? It happens that we call our driver who delivers lunch for us like that. How did I know what kind of "dog" you meant?
"That`s an unusual coincidence," the hunters chuckled, turned around and went on to look for their four-legged friend.

Finally, Dog arrived by truck. In the body of the truck there were four tanks. In one of them was soup, in the second one – mash potatoes, in the third one - meatballs, and in the fourth tank – apple beverage. The cook, who arrived with Dog, began to pour the soup into the plates, which tired and hungry workers took to the already selected shady and grassy places for the convenient eating. Those who ate up the main course stood in line with empty plates for the second one. Cardan approached Dog and agreed on the delivery of the coal. "Be carefull and use a plastic cloth not to get the truck dirty. You understand that I deliver food for the workers," the driver warned him.

The coal was delivered. There was a lull for two days. The director of the coal base solved urgent problems. On the third day he went to Prosecutor to pick up the promised fuel pump. He arrived at the tractor facilities and started to search for the chief mechanic.
"Have you seen Prosecutor?"
"No, I have not," the repairman answered him in bewilderment. "And who is he?"
"Your chief mechanic."
"We do not have a chief mechanic by the name of Prosecutor."
The director of the coal base did not believe what he heard. Was he deceived? He could not trust the first worker so easily: he could be mistaken. In despair, he began running around the area of the tractor facilities and kept asking the same question, "Have you seen Prosecutor?" No one had the faintest idea who Prosecutor was. He went into the director's office and received the same response as from the repairman, "We do not have any mechanics by such a name. Someone must have given you a bum steer."
 
The words died, strangled by the lump in his throat. The head of the coal base could not believe in his oversight, "How could it have happened that I was cheated so easily?" It was throbbing in his temples, his chest was hot. He rushed in search of Cardan across the village, stopping all the people on his way and asking one and the same question, "Have you seen Prosecutor?"
“Who is Prosecutor? We have not seen and do not know him," they answered in astonishment. “You'd better ask the head of the village, he knows all the people here.”

The drowning director of the coal base clutched at the straw and headed for the village council.
“Excuse me! Do you happen to know who Prosecutor is?” he asked the head of the village and told him about the incident.
"Prosecutor, Prosecutor and who is this Prosecutor?" the head mumbled it again and again. “Prosecutor, Prosecutor and who is this Prosecutor? Cardan or what?” finally, the conclusion came to his mind by itself.
“I'm not trying to show a hen how to lay an egg. But if you are the one, who has arranged the delivery of the coal to him, then you will not be able to give the case a legal move. He did not steal it,” explained the head of the village. "Go to him and try to settle it."
"Oh, I swear that I will give him the most uncomfortable time when I get at him." He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation.

The head of the village told him how to find Cardan's home and led the frustrated director to the door. He was utterly shocked by what had happened to him and was desperate to settle things right as soon as possible. "I`m not surprised he can`t keep it streight. Cardan really did a number on him," thought the head of the village, seeing off the departing simpleton.

Cardan was not at home then; and it was not possible to find him the next day and on the following ones. He holed up for a while. It was not healthy, putting his head under a fallen axe. The director of the coal base realized that once away from his immediate surroundings, he was in alien territory. His chances to turn the situation in his favor were quite slim. He was reluctant to make a big issue of it. Finally, he gave up; scolded himself for his gullibility and said through his clenched teeth, "Oh, that duplicitous swindler! Next time I'll be wiser," he hissed through his teeth.

The storm abated and Cardan returned home. "My wife must come back any time soon. I have to complete the stove." He prepared clay for mortar and began to lay bricks. Suddenly the door opened and the tired wife came in. She took a look around and he noticed a flash of anger in her eyes.
"Oops,is it me or you haven`t finished building the stove yet?" she exhaled.
“Oh, come on, darling, you`re blowing it out of proportion. I`m trying to fix it. Can`t you see that there are some visable shifts here. Try as I might to finish it, I just didn't have enough time for that. It's the thought that counts, isn't it?” The whipping husband justified himself.
His wife looked at the work that he had just begun and then exclaimed furiously, “Here you you go again! I will give you such a blow now that there will be some visible shifts in your head instead! What did you do for two weeks?! Come on, finish it quickly!”
Cardan, realizing his guilt, continued to work silently.
"It's good that you have bought coal, otherwise you would regret it," the half satisfied wife gave a frightening threat but this time a little milder.


THE OLD WOMEN'S CURSES

In the course of time Cardan fell into his usual habit of constant adventure and binge drinking. An old dog failed to pick up new tricks, so to speak. He could not live a quiet life of a decent family man and the marital relationships came up to the brink of precipice. The family life was approaching a disaster. Meanwhile, there were a lot of rumors about his tricks in the village. The number of naive people had greatly decreased: everyone knew about the insidiousness of the cunning swindler. "Ah, well, you'll be cheating again," the old women said. "We won't have anything to do with you," was heard from the men. Cardan was like a hamster in the wheel, he was running in it as fast as he could, letting his talent off "the leash". He put blood, sweat and tears into it but his attempts just flopped. There was no way of assuming that he wasn’t able to cut it out any longer, he just needed a short break. The turmoil has to come down a little. He simply was the talk of the town and there was nothing to be done about that. His tricks were the favorite topic of any conversation, even among school children. When they ran into him in the street, they pointed their fingers at him and laughed. He was a local star for them, a great con man, almost as smart as the famous Ostap Bender.

At noon several women got together near the shop and started vividly discussing the latest rural news.
"Guess what," said one of them, "yesterday Cardan rushed into my house with a saw in his hand and hurriedly, as if he had been doing something important, said to me, "Quickly, give me a liter of vodka! A trailer of firewood is being delivered to you! Look, look out the window!" I took a look. Indeed, a tractor with the firewood went past my yard. "Come on, get a move on; we're in a hurry! We are preparing timber for the collective farm, the guys wanted to get warm and sent me to you! Let's settle it quickly! I have to run back to help them unload the trailer!" I paid him and started waiting. Five minutes passed by but the tractor didn't show up. I went outside – there was nobody there. I waited for half an hour longer – silence. Well, I guessed the bastard took me for a fool again. Oh, my dear, God will punish him one day! I swear he will be punished for such tricks!”

“Just the other day he comes to my house and says,” continues the second woman. "We are delivering manure to the collective farm field. The guys decided to get warm and sent me to you. Quickly, give me a liter of vodka and I'll run back! I'm in a hurry. They are waiting for me! The tractor with the manure is already on its way!"
“I paid him, hung on for a little while, then went out to the garden - no one. I went out into the street – nobody there. I waited, and waited, and waited – no tractor, nobody. Oh, that swindler, oh, that bastard! Just for the record, heaven will punish him one day for his tricks. Oh, he'll be punished!”

"My husband went to the district center to buy some furniture," the third woman began. He met Cardan there and told him about his plans because of his naivety. Later Cardan came running to my house and said, "Has your husband returned from the district center?"
“No,” I answered.
“I helped him to load the furniture. He said that if I came back late, my wife would pay you for it. So give me a bottle of vodka."
“Well, I paid off. My husband came back home and couldn`t understand what I was talking about. Then I quarreled with him because of that accursed Cardan. I hope he will not escape God's punishment. Mark my word, one day someone will play such a trick on him that he will remember it till the day he dies!”

"He sold me salt instead of sugar," the fourth woman added. Suddenly, the women's curses started pouring like a torrential shower.

Cardan's reputation got a serious beating, he had to rehabilitate it somehow. He realized that he needed to take it down a couple of notches and to actually fulfill a few of his promises and to weather the storm. You cannot eat your cake and have it. He was going to regain the trust of some simpleton and when he lost his vigilance, Cardan would make a move by a chess horse. He always played for keeps and that required patience and perseverance.

Such a simpleton, in his opinion, was approaching Victoria. He got his nickname for his passion for poking fun at others. Rumors about his playing pranks on the fellow villagers spread far beyond the village. Cardan knew about his experience in pulling practical jokes but ventured "to play with fire" and give it a shot. He was used to rolling with the punches and made up his mind to draw on his own experience to get out ahead. He decided to take advantage of his hospitality to make things work and leave him with nothing. Victoria was good at his craft: Cardan could deceive old women, Victoria knew how to make fools out of men. Admittedly, he wasn't going to be another ball in Cardan's juggling act. Nobody could say for sure, who would get out ahead this time – both of them were experts of the highest degree. Victoria invited Cardan over to his place. They had a few drinks, talked about their lives and said goodbye to each other.

The prankster knew that there was no need to hurry things up, and as a cat, stalking a mouse, patiently awaiting at the hole until it loses vigilance, so he expected a favorable moment for the realization of his intention. The great deceiver of old women, in his turn, like a sparrow, eating food put out to chickens, outstayed his welcome. One day he lingered at Victoria`s table longer than usual.

Magical effect of alcohol and a pleasant conversation brought him off guard. The host filled and filled his glass with alcohol and the guest drank and drank. The party was getting into full swing. The prankster realized that it was time to make a move. He intentionally touched the mug of water standing on the table, which fell into Cardan`s lap and moistened his trousers in an intimate place. "Oh, you're soaked wet. I'll lend you some dry clothes. You can get changed in the adjacent room. Otherwise, people might say that you wetted yourself like a baby," Victoria offered his help benevolently. Cardan went into the adjacent room to get changed. Taking advantage of Cardan's absence from the table he emptied a flask of castor oil into the salad. He could not forgive Cardan a trick that he played on him back in the day. One day Cardan traded him an ax for vodka and managed to leave Victoria's home with the vodka and the ax. After that he had been plotting for revenge on Cardan for years. Their friendly party dragged on for three days because Cardan could not stay away from the toilet for more than a few minutes. He had a terrible diarrhea.

Cardan's wife rushed to look for her husband all over the village. "He is nowhere to be found. Where has he got to? A couple of times he spent a night elsewhere but not three days in a row," she lamented. She walked around the whole village but her husband seemed to disappear into thin air. As it turned out, no one had seen him in the village for three days. Finally, she was suggested that she should check at Victoria`s. Rumor had it that he had been there recently. Cardan's wife came to check it out there. "If he is not here," she decided, "I'll call the police and inform them that he went missing."

The door was locked and the window curtains were drawn. She walked around the house, trying to find an opening between the curtains. In the end she got lucky. She found Cardan closed in the outside toilet. Her hands began to pound at the door. "Open the toilet! Open it, you bastard! Where have you been all this time?" she cried in frenzy but the door was not opened to her.
"I have a horrible diarrhea. I can't walk. Can you ask someone to help me get home because I won't be able to do it on my own," he explained the situation to her; tears running down his eyes.

Finally, she ran to the neighbors, so that they helped her take her husband away from the cruel prankster. Victoria, sensing trouble, quickly assisted Cardan to get out of the toilet, led him out into the street and sat him down on the bench in front of the yard. The great deceiver of old women underestimated Victoria. That was his fatal mistake. He could neither sit, nor stand, nor, especially, walk after such a friendly visit to him. The men came running. They took Cardan under his knees with their hands, putting his arms on their shoulders and carried him home.

Thus ended the party arranged by two lovers of a game of chance. Nobody knows what really happened there. It is a common thing here that someone might blurt out some nonsense with his black tongue and the rumors would spread all over the village, then it would turn out that it was just slander. Therefore, I don`t want to fantasize here and say that it was really so as well. But people in the village laughed and reiterated, "There's definitely God in heaven. How deservedly he punished Cardan! This man could deceive almost anyone in the village, and who could imagine that he was himself tricked like a child.”

His wife could not get Cardan under her thumb, so she broke up with him and returned to her mother`s. Cardan, having spent a couple of weeks in bed, recovered and got outside. "Either my intuition failed me, or it all happened because of the old women`s curses," he mumbled but quickly cast aside the sad thoughts. He hoped that ignoring the incident would make it fade away. People will gradually forget about it if you don't make a big deal of it. "Am I going to sit around and spin my wheels? Am I going to keep to myself for the rest of my life? One ought to be always on the move! When the going gets tough, you have to spin twice as fast to set things right. Cardan (driveshaft) is spinning - the car is moving." He flung his coat over his shoulder and straightened up, raised his head high, and went out and about to face the world.

Inadvertently, I have recalled the words from the Ukrainian cartoon There Lived the Dog, "And Cardan began living as before, even better; forgotten were all his past troubles - all forgotten."

While I was writing this book, I got lucky to bump into Cardan. One morning, when the sun just started to rise over the tops of the trees that were growing in the distance, he dropped by my place, tuning into the rustle of the awakening nature. “What a great piece of luck,” I thought. I couldn't have been happier to see him if he'd been Santa.

“Do you need honey mushrooms?” he extended demonstratively a full bag in my direction. I accepted the weighty load.
“Wow, such beautiful mushrooms!” I sniffed in the forest flavor of the honey mushrooms. “Your agility never ceases to amaze me. How can you get up at the break of dawn and go about your things so early in the morning?” I expressed genuine interest.
"An early bird catches the worm. You have to be always on the move. Cardan is spinning – the car is running.”
“Yes, it is important to keep spinning,” I agreed. The deal was struck and he left.

Once more he swings by half an hour later.
"So, what kind of worm has the bird got this time?"
“Do you need some fish?”
“Yes, I do. You never seem to lose your touch.”
"I'll bring you some more tomorrow morning," he promised.
"All right, I will be waiting for it," I played along with a benevolent smile.
And this time I paid him for the fish.

A bit later he shows up on the scene for the third time.
"Wow, look who's here! You always get your timing right."
"I've just thrown a net; I'll bring you some more fish, first thing tomorrow morning. I came here to say to you that I didn't forget about you, or else you may think that I got drunk and fell asleep. I was wondering if you could give me some money, and at the dawn, as soon as I pull out the net, I`ll come to you straightaway."

There was no doubt that he was lying. However, it was done so beautifully, the process was depicted so meticulously; he did not leave anything to imagination. He described to me the net that he threw, how he got into the water, what kind of fish were there; he told me everything to the minutest details.

"You know, I can make a fool out of anyone but you. He looked sly for a moment as if he had outsmarted me in a game of cards."
“I've been meaning to ask you if it's true that when you served in the army near Moscow, you traded 100 trucks of sand for booze?”
“Yes, it is, Andrey. I was sent to a Kazakhstan regiment in the middle of nowhere to serve up the rest of the term as a punishment.”
“Have there been many interesting things in your life?”
“Oh, Andrey, I've been through thick and thin. Some day I will tell you all about it. Do you happen to need a used bicycle?” he brought the conversation back to business.
I noticed that he started pushing all of my buttons because I gave him a lot of rope.
"No, thanks! This time I'll take a rain check," I responded vehemently.
"You do like to play things pretty close to the chest, don't you?"
"It's a trick of the trade." He excused himself.

I wanted to ask him some more questions, but didn't have a clue how I can overcome his resistance to divulge his personal secrets. Anyway, pretty much everyone in the village new his biography and they would gladly share it with me. So it was not a big deal that I couldn't wheedle out more details of his life: a man would not saw off a branch that he is sitting on. He just kept promising that he would help me do any work about my household when I asked him. I listened attentively to him and was thrilled that there were such funny people on earth. One might have called him a liar, a swindler, a con artist, but every one who had ever met him, somehow, deep inside wanted to be deceived. Otherwise, why did those people, who knew his deceptive nature, always fall into the same trap? There must have been a kind of inner attraction in that man, some kind of purely human charm ... Like a child is forgiven for his mistakes because of ignorance and a lack of experience of life, so Cardan got away with his tricks because you wanted to see him again, to listen to him, to have a laugh, to enjoy life. It's as simple as that.

Honestly, it was one of the most exciting conversations that I had had. I enjoyed every single moment of it. It was a win-win situation. Although, I had a slight edge over him, since he did not suspect of my playing along. Eventually, I just could not resist his charm and fell for his promises. Against all better judgment I paid him upfront for the fish, even though I suspected that he was lying to me. But he laid out the things so nicely, so vividly painted his actions, so sweetly promised that there was nothing to be offended of.

I stood by my home, looking intently at Cardan, who was walking away in a quick and confident gait. Sad and warm thoughts filled my head: so much enthusiasm was in that man, so much ostentatious virtue towards people, so much life! He seemed indestructible, endowed with more energy than anyone I had ever known. Of course, he was not infallible, he had quite a few flaws. For what it's worth, he was a jolly good fellow. The kind of which is considered to be larger than life these days.

He was able to inspire a person with hope, even if it was temporary, that the world was not without kind people; he was able to lighten people's mood by talking to them, to fill the boring and monotonous routine of a rural worker with rainbow colors. Probably for those positive emotions, received after a conversation with him, he was always forgiven.

"Wow, and what a nice, funny guy he is, just a joke of a man!" I stood and reiterated these words in my mind, which aroused a friendly smile on my face, while Cardan was disappearing around the corner of the deserted street. Even if he had taken advantage of anyone, he would have been forgiven for that. All this water under bridge now. Then I came to realize why some people long for the Soviet Union times. There was nothing attractive in those squalid conditions, that oppressive regime, that hard labor in the fields for a pittance. They miss their youth that passed by, the people they knew, the dreams that they had. Definitely, those were the moments that they would always remember. I reminded myself that only those people can be successful and happy, who can draw conclusions from the past, but always look into the future. All that water under the bridge now. So I dropped my reverie and went on with my home chores.

Nowadays Ukrainian villages are dying out. I remember how a few years ago I visited one of them. Life was boiling there: people planted vegetables, kept cows, went to work. There are some dilapidated houses dispersed here and there now, and only wind blows through the ruins, - the evil wind of change. There was their own "Cardan" in that village either, so as in hundreds of the similar villages that have remained only on the map of Ukraine. There were also some men that were in the habit of stealing the show, who were the life and soul of the party. One might write thick volumes about them, but, unfortunately, nobody remembers them now. This is exactly the reason why I decided to save the memory of Cardan and the stories of his tricks that amused people in the village, smoothing their rugged and gray days for dozens of years.