– Will you tell us?
– No. Bad memories.
– Terrifying?
– Well… no, just bad. Not for this sun. That cloud gone. And the beer is tasty. Some other time.
– Well… then Petrovich.
– And what is wrong with Petrovich?
– How did you get to know him, for real.
– As a matter of fact, he took me for the first mission. I was a “Yazov contractor”. And he was one of the best scouts, this Senior Ensign. And I happened to join his group.
– And did it go?
– Few of us survived. (Mockingly.) In fact.
– It just got stuck in my head. Talked yesterday with one muscovite over the phone.
– But you are yourself a muscovite.
– I am a troubler.
– In life, it seems you are a troubler. But the one who haven't been in the Zone. You are a magacitl341, this is who you are.
– Blinchuk also hasn’t been to the Zone.
– Blinchuk is a fisherman.
– I was prohibited by the Father.
– But what a liar you are, a fantast! The Father and Yana were dead a year before you! Or two…
Already habitual moment of my triumph. I am doing it not for the first time, and it always works brilliantly. Thank you, the Father. It is difficult to amuse a tracker. But I can. I am getting out moleskin from my bag, from moleskin – a grey envelope with typographic contour for stamp, in which letters S and A inscribed very ingeniously in five strokes. From envelope I am taking out the letter of the Father, addressed to me. Passing it over to Fenimore. The letter is short, he swallows it in a seconds. Shockingly he is cursing in the form I cannot translate in acceptable lexicon. Who, which, whom. To correct. He’s returning me the paper, stares at me, giving me back the can.
– Wow.
– Here it is, for real. Am I a magacitl?
– Okay, okay. The beer is yours, all what is left. Take it.
– Thanks. Zhenya-Turanchoks passed me this letter. Am I a liar?
– That’s already over. Over. You killed me and decided not to revive, left me as it is. And the Father. What a monster he was! The only survivor, what do you want… I was acquainted with him even before the Zone. He used to work in the hospital at the Ten, as a senior TB laboratory assistant… or a chief assistant … a Head of the laboratory, this is it! I stayed at the hospital for a long time in autumn of eighty-six, I broke my arm meanwhile there. And it was difficult not to notice him. Two meters tall, looking as a hybrid of Goga and Magoga. And since I'm a drawer, a calligraphist, so they asked me to make him some kind of a poster for the laboratory. And he happened to be a great guy. Alcohol, food, music. Call mama. And then we met already in the Zone. He recognized me straight away, rushed to me and hugged, almost dropping his Yana. She looked about ten then.