Notes

Vodka is unusually bitter today. It burns my fingers through the edge of the glass and makes my throat cough. What kind of a stinker is this? Who had the brains to put such poison on the table? Oh, if Klim had seen this intrepid idiot, he would have told him off personally. And he'd make him drink the whole decanter! Ugh!

The glass which had been thrown off the table clattered against the floor with a sickening clang. The rattling sound made my head buzz. Or did it rattle, because it always does? I wonder who or what is torturing him today with another auditory hallucination. Maybe the bells will tear his eardrums, or the damn laughter? One such devil. There he is, sitting on the other side of the table, smiling into his mustache and not knowing what's wrong. And really, what's he got to be sad about? You just keep laughing, swallowing wine in stacks, so that your face gets all groggy and glistening. You walk down the dark corridor, and this face is making light for you, and whispers something lingering, disgusting, long-awaited in your ear.

Won't let anyone touch it. Like an exasperated lion, it bows its mouth and screams, sometimes in a ghastly, inhuman way, to frighten it away, but lets you. And caresses under your hand, growling beastly good. There is no trace of those rough waving, and immediately you are not some unnecessary Voroshilov, but the very Klimushka. And calls you in drunken ramblings, spitting bileful nastiness in your direction, mingling with gentle gusts and affectionate words. Softly, the devil, but in the end it's all the same harsh.

But it's all so quiet, inaudible, as if to himself. Now thou art a scarecrow in his garden, which he himself hath made. Laugh at this ridiculous white-haired something, slap him on the shoulder with all your Georgian stupidity (and there's plenty of it, be sure), interrupt him at half a word. Who is this Klim, that he dares to open his mouth? No one, ugh! - And he's far from being a fart. And he is far from being a duck. He contains all the power of the Soviet country, all its horror and fear. The majesty of the vilest and the holiest in one mustachioed, rude face. Covered with smallpox pits, tight deep wrinkles on dry weathered skin. And all this sullen realm is crowned by brown, almost yellow eyes. No, not eyes. Eyes, a step into which is the unknown, madness, agony.

He looks. He stares and won't let you go, as if he is mentally shackling you in a tight vice, leaving you no chance to escape or to make the slightest movement. Just seconds ago, he was laughing at you with a stupid joke, and now... In his customary, automatic gesture, he adjusts his thick mustache, smirks sweetly and drills you with his persistent gaze. Why these shouting pointers, followed by a long, cold silence. Why does he play with Klim like he plays with his dog? Ha! And he allows it. And glad to such a game, because this will go for lack of another. Really glad, somehow madly and stupidly, to the ridiculous laughter of a young courser whose knee is persistently tugged by someone's paw, in a stupid attempt to lift the skirt.

And why did he do that to him?

He deserved it. No, he really deserved it. You're useless, Klimushka the fool. Who needs you, Luhansk locksmith? Only that cobbler's son. Only for him you mean something, so you have some weight and a human core. He's a long way from humanity, but yours is always with you. You're a rare thing, which he always leaves lying around, wherever he can, and then in a panic looking for you. Worried, grieving without your nice wooden edges.

And again you are in his hands. Again you fool your sick head with a tale of gentle touches, searing kisses, to the redness of your skin's grip. Tonight, at midnight in Moscow, in a drunken stupor you take rough fingers on the soft mattresses, squeeze your head into the pillow and make you suffer a couple of languid moans. You might even end up screaming.

Koba. Yours. Yours, yours, nothing else! You can only grasp his wrists, squirm under his steely caress and whisper this cherished, so sensitive and intimate "I love.

I love. I love. Love.

Hate.

But how I love ...

My body shivers. I never shook as much under the whistle of the machine gun as I did under his kisses. Torn, wet, with the scent of Georgian vineyards and fucking vulgarity. And each one was branded, clumsy but desirable. Wanted or not, he gives them to you as the greatest generosity his... Heart is capable of? Of course the heart! You alone know that beneath the thickness of skin and ribs, somewhere there, in a corner, beats a very real heart. You hear its frantic rhythm, when you manage through the wheeze of breathing and the rattle of your lungs to touch its chest and listen for a second.

Punch. Punch. Another punch.

In the same rhythm he squeezes all the juices out of you. It drains you of all your strength, as if every time it is your exhausted cries of a broken voice, flying into the humming space of the room.

With your fists clenched tight, you endure and enjoy being mercilessly beaten out of you. And you love it, Klimushka, you always have, and you always will, until one of you plays the box. While he's ripping you apart like a cow, you're grinning blissfully at the pillows with your contented face, swallowing every bit of air, because it's breathing this vile, beloved, nauseatingly beautiful monster as well. Your monster. Your Koba.

Until the sheets are soiled in the viscous mark of semen, until his rough fingers squeeze your curls to the point of pain, and until the lingering growl ravages your eardrums, it's not over. And it doesn't have to. You are needed now more than ever! How good Voroshilov Klim, when he is needed, how tolerant! And even a little happy.

And that this need ignites as quickly as it extinguishes, he's happy about that, too. After all, he will do so for want of another.

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)