- -
- 100%
- +
— Maybe it wasn’t me! — I said sadly, realizing how stupid that sounded. — Oh sure, a doppelgänger or a twin brother, right? Only I know you don’t even have a brother, let alone a twin!
I was silent. What could I say to such absurdity? — Let him go, — Merab told the guys. — He didn’t hit me then, so I won’t now. But I’m taking the watch back — even if it’s not mine. They stripped the watch from my wrist and let me go. — Try to never cross my path again. I never thought you’d become a thief.
Case Two: The «Casanova» at the Bus Stop
In the mid-70s, during my third year of university, I got married. My days of skipping lectures came to an end — or so it seemed — because I was now the breadwinner, and skipping meant losing my stipend. Consequently, my health «deteriorated» rapidly; I still skipped, but now it was «out of necessity» due to illness.
One evening, while I was stuck in bed with a fever and a sore throat, my sister Tanya came to visit. She was unusually agitated — her face was flushed and blotchy, and she couldn’t keep her hands still. Usually, she was calm, almost sluggish. Before she even fully entered the room, she erupted: — Sick, are you? Fever? But this afternoon, you «dog,» you were perfectly fine!
For me, knowing my sister, this was as shocking as seeing my wife (who could barely do the breaststroke) enter a cross-Channel swimming marathon. I braced myself. My wife, however, decided to jump right in: — Tanya, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Let me get you some coffee. — To hell with your coffee and your «Yura»! I’ve spent my life covering for my brother, protecting him, and for what? He’s grown up and look what he’s doing! I would never rat him out to his wife, but I won’t stay silent now. He’s not just a womanizer; he’s a jerk!
My wife’s ears perked up at the words «dog» and «womanizer.» — Well now, Tanya. How did this «baobab» tree upset you? Was he out with a girl?
Tanya looked at me with such a scorching gaze that I felt like a rabbit before a cobra. — I might regret this later, but I’m saying it now! Today, during my break, I went to the grocery store. On the way, at the bus stop, I saw this idiot — Tanya pointed at me — with some vulgar girl. As I walked by, Yura looked at me, his own sister, as if he wanted to lure me into bed! I couldn’t stand it and walked up to him. Go on, tell me and your wife: what did you say when I said hello?
I nearly choked. What could I have said to my sister at a bus stop in the city center when I hadn’t left the house in two days? — Tanya, have you lost your mind? What girl? What bus stop? I’ve been sick in bed for two days! Tamara has been treating me! Tanya’s voice hit a high pitch: — You think I’m an idiot? Were you wearing a mask? When I said hi and asked when you started wearing that «airport» style cap, you — you bastard — called me a prostitute in front of that brat and told me to get lost! When I asked if you were in your right mind, you said if I didn’t vanish, you’d strangle me!
My wife looked at me, then at my sister. She knew I hadn’t left the room, so she began to think Tanya had finally snapped. — Tanya, you must have been mistaken, — Tamara tried to calm her. — Think about what you’re saying! He’s my brother, I’ve known him for 20 years! It’s easier to mistake a parsnip for a carrot than to mistake Yura for someone else!
Tanya walked over to me, felt my forehead, and seeing I actually had a fever, calmed down slightly. — Open your mouth. Let me see your throat. Strange. Tamara poured her coffee, and Tanya murmured: — And that cap… when did Yura ever wear caps? Wait! That guy had a gold tooth somewhere on the side! Ugh, such a resemblance is just magic. I obviously got the wrong guy. It’s a good thing he didn’t actually hit me!
Case Three: The Grapes of Wrath
In Soviet times, Georgia was one of the most Russian-speaking republics. People would switch between languages mechanically. We’d use Russian for technical terms (since there’s no Georgian word for «garage») and Georgian for «profound» insults. Georgian profanity is far more multifaceted and offensive than Russian; it’s an art form that often leads to knife fights.
One day, my wife and I were coming out of the metro and decided to buy some grapes. We approached a makeshift stall — about 30 crates and a scale. The seller was a loud, mustachioed «Mimino» type. He refused to let people pick through the crates, shouting that he wasn’t going to pay for the leftovers out of his own pocket.
By the time it was my turn, the crate was full of «trash» — crushed berries and unripe stems. I asked him to open a new crate. — Hey, kats-o (man), who is going to buy this? Am I supposed to take it home? Take this, and I’ll throw in two good bunches from the new crate. Don’t hold up the line! — he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
He didn’t know my character was worse than his. I stood my ground and monotonically demanded a new crate. The line behind me started grumbling. I gallantly offered my spot to a complaining lady, saying I’d wait. After ten minutes of standoff, the seller lost it. He grabbed the small hatchet he used to open crates and shrieked: — Either take what’s there or get out, otherwise, I won’t be responsible for my actions! I’ll kill you!
— I think it’s better for you to open a new crate with that hatchet than to rot in prison, — I replied coolly. — And it’s not certain who will crack whose skull first. Though I doubt you have a brain to crack! Are you really going to spend the rest of your life on a prison bunk over some grape mush? I spat through my front teeth for dramatic effect. My wife was frozen in terror, her philologist’s mind already envisioning Crime and Punishment.
The confrontation was at a peak when a second «Mimino» appeared. He rushed over and whispered frantically into the seller’s ear. The hatchet vanished. The seller’s eyes returned to their sockets, and a forced smile appeared on his face. The second man turned to me: — Batono (Mr.) Georgi, forgive this fool! He’s still «green» — he grew a mustache but no brains. We’ll fix everything!
The first man opened several new crates and filled two bags with the finest grapes. — Respected Georgi, forgive me, I didn’t recognize you! Here are your grapes — it’s a gift, no need to pay. Come back anytime, dear friend!
I didn’t bother telling them I wasn’t «Georgi.» Yuri and Georgi are practically synonyms anyway. My wife spent the walk home looking at the grapes, then at me, wondering if I led a double life. — Don’t push it, and you’ll live! — I grunted as we entered the house.
Case Four: The Mirror Image
In the mid-70s, I was riding a bus in the sweltering August heat of Tbilisi. The asphalt was melting under the tires. I was sitting over the rear wheel, sticky and miserable, when a guy leaned over me, gripping the handrail. He was practically lying on me.
I moved away and looked at him. I was about to say something «pointed,» but I stopped. His face was incredibly familiar. A guy about my age. I felt like I knew him well, but I couldn’t place him. My fixed stare caught his attention, and he looked at me with the same intense interest. We rode for one stop, taking turns glancing at each other, both clearly trying to remember where we knew this face from.
When the bus stopped, the guy got off. He walked around the bus, knocked on my window, and smiled — revealing a gold tooth on the side. The bus pulled away, and only then did it hit me: that was Georgi. My doppelgänger. And he had just realized the same thing.
We never met again. I often wonder what would have changed if we had talked. Two opposites from different social worlds. His path crossed with my loved ones and led to trouble for me — I wonder if the reverse ever happened to his friends?
As Yuri Nikulin used to say: «It just wasn’t meant to be!»
Wolf Messing
In 1968 or 1969, Wolf Messing performed in one of the halls on Leselidze Street in Tbilisi. I was still a schoolboy then, and my teacher brought me to the show. She simply happened to have an «extra ticket» and suggested I tag along.
Before that, I had seen a performance by another artist of that genre named Strakhov — I don’t recall his first name, unfortunately. But that was a show built on sleight of hand, where «random» people would walk up and suddenly find someone else’s watch in their pocket, or various mathematical tricks. Strakhov was bursting with energy; he was fast, and before anyone could process what was happening, the «next dish» was already being served.
Messing was the complete opposite of Strakhov. At the time, I didn’t just know nothing about Wolf Messing — I hadn’t even heard of him.
Our tickets were near the very back of the hall, where the view wasn’t great. Being a spontaneous person, I simply walked down and sat in the aisle on the floor, not far from the stage. A woman rushed over to send me back, but I told her I had terrible eyesight and had lost my glasses on the way there. Apparently, she took pity on me.
On the stage was a man well into his years, with a weary face. He demonstrated standard acts of hypnosis and suggestion, as well as feats involving the body’s hidden resources. He also had numbers that were quite unconventional for a typical stage hypnotist.
That day, Wolf Messing spoke about his performances in… India. I don’t know why India specifically, but he told a story about how he could instantly count the number of cows grazing past a train window. Right there in the hall, he demonstrated this skill by instantly counting the number of audience members who stood up; it took the rest of us about ten minutes to verify the count.
Messing also conducted searches for hidden objects belonging to people in the audience. I knew for a fact it wasn’t a setup because I was the one who hid his handkerchief. Messing chose me for this task — likely because I was sitting right there on the floor near him. I hid his handkerchief in the inner pocket of a man’s jacket. The man was sitting somewhere toward the back of the hall, and most importantly, by the time Messing began his search, I myself was unsure exactly which man I had given it to. Messing took me by the hand and, without asking a single leading question, simply walked straight to the spectator and retrieved his handkerchief.
However, the next act left the deepest impression on me. Messing threw a small ball into the crowd. He tossed it far into the hall, and it was hard to aim at anyone specific since many people tried to catch it. The person who caught it was supposed to write down a request — something they wanted Messing to do. A boy about 12 or 13 years old caught the ball, but he didn’t know what to ask for, so his mother wrote the wish instead. Messing walked up to the woman and signed her concert ticket. That was exactly what had been written on the piece of paper.
Messing left an indelible impression on me that day.
Preference with Polunin
The late eighties, Daugavpils, Hotel Latvia. During one of my business trips there, Vyacheslav Polunin — the world-famous clown — was on tour. When I saw him in the hotel, I was stunned. It was mind-blowing: he was right there, within arm’s reach, with his iconic shock of hair (not white back then, but dark). He walked and talked exactly as he did on stage. Most importantly — his room was right across from mine!
At nine in the evening, grabbing a bottle of chacha I’d brought from Tbilisi, I knocked on his door. A young, attractive woman appeared, her face a silent question mark. I decided to go on the offensive:
— Are you Madame Polunina? — Hardly! — she replied. — Did I get the wrong room? — You got the wrong city! — Are you joking? — What is it you want, anyway? — What are you — the KGB? — I shot back. — Hardly! — Then you’re nobody! — I’m Lyolya. — I’m Yura. — And to what do I owe the pleasure? — You owe me nothing! — What’s that in your hand? — Chacha!
She turned toward the room and shouted: — Slava, I think this one’s for you! From the depths of the room, a voice drifted back: — If there’s chacha involved, he’s definitely for me. Come on in!
That was it. I was in Polunin’s room — the legendary «Asisyai» himself! — This is from Georgia, — was all I could manage. The reality was exceeding all my expectations. Props were scattered everywhere, the room was thick with smoke, and in the center stood a table where a game of Preference was being mapped out.
— Do you play Preference? — he asked me. — I’ve never tried it on stage, but at the table — yes, — I tried to quip. — Sit down then, you’ll be our fourth!
The third player was some humorist writer; I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember his name. I can honestly say I haven’t had that much fun in my entire life as I did during that night of cards. I can’t recall specific lines because I was in a near-constant trance, weeping with laughter. Anyone who knows Preference and remembers Polunin’s «Telephone Conversation» skit can imagine the bidding done in that style. It was a wild, non-stop improvisation.
Not wanting to be outdone, I immediately switched to a thick Georgian-inflected Russian. Like a «Knight in the Panther’s Skin,» I fought for the misere. To show that there are no cheapskates in Georgia, I even bid without taking the blind! I won the bid but was swiftly punished and sent «up the mountain» with penalty points.
The alcohol did its job too. It was merry, soulful, and felt completely natural. We played until three in the morning. Slava gave me a large poster with an inscription: — «To an artistic Preference player, from a Preference-playing artist!» He even invited me to the show via the stage door.
How tragic that when I left Daugavpils for Riga at 6 a.m. the next morning, that poster remained hanging on the hotel room wall.
The Dancer
The next day, when the tour bus arrived, Lyolya invited me along as if I were one of their own. The bus was packed with musicians, dancers, and props. It was a loud, boisterous ride. Polunin was their god and king, but without a hint of arrogance; the girls swarmed around him — he was their idol.
Stately, beautiful, yet wiry dancers moved back and forth. By evening, I was practically a member of the troupe — the banter and the teasing felt familiar. When we went for dinner, I already knew many of them by name. Approaching a girl named Tanya with large, striking eyes, I asked simply:
— Want to come to my room? — My husband is calling at 11. Does midnight work for you?
Just like that. At 11, the husband; at midnight, me. — I’ll find it myself, — she said. — I noticed your room this morning. You have a Caucasian accent. Are you Georgian? — No, I’m Russian. — Well, I left my Russian at home! — I’m from Tbilisi. — Georgian-Russian, then. Good. I’ll come after midnight. Don’t forget the champagne.
At midnight, Tanya arrived. She was slender, about my height, with small breasts but enormous brown eyes and a short haircut. I’d had many different women in my life, but never a professional dancer. My mind was racing with fantasies of splits, bridges, and whatever else flexible dancers can do. But what Tanya did next eclipsed all my fantasies.
She simply said: — I’ll show you what I can do, and you make sure I enjoy myself.
I think we were both very satisfied.
Dzhibo
I had an Armenian neighbor nicknamed Dzhibo. I never knew his real name, as everyone in his family called him Dzhibo. He was a good man, kind, but… unlucky. We were great friends, even though we were completely different people.
Dzhibo spoke six languages: Russian, Georgian, Armenian, Azerbaijani, Kurdish, and, as I later found out, all of them only orally. I loved his unsurpassed sense of humor, his friendliness, openness, readiness to help, and his passion for music and machinery.
He drove a KamAZ truck. I often tagged along with him on weekends out of boredom, and it was always interesting to chat with him. Once, as we were driving somewhere, we decided to stop by his garage first so he could collect his wages. To my utter surprise, instead of signing the payroll sheet, he simply marked it with a cross — and this was at the end of the twentieth century! Apparently, my shock was written all over my face, because Dzhibo smiled and said:
— I spent my time traveling with my father, helping him; there was no time for school. It doesn’t really get in my way. Of course, I learned to write my last name in block letters, but it’s just easier to put a cross.
We were almost the same age. Since he was always behind the wheel, he rarely drank, much like me. However, unlike me, once or twice a month he would «shoot up» to forget himself. When he got married, his lovely wife bore him three daughters. On the fourth try, they finally had a boy; he looked normal, but as it turned out later, he was a bit «touched» in the head.
Dzhibo often went to Russia to work as a long-haul trucker. He would drive for six months, and the family lived for a year on that money; he even managed to buy out his KamAZ.
Once, seeing me come home from my job as an electronics engineer, he asked me to look at his TV, saying it was showing everything in green. After eating, I went up to his place with my toolkit, turned on the TV, and saw that the screen was… red.
— Are you colorblind? You’re mixing up green and red… — I joked, knowing he was a driver. — Well, yes, I’m colorblind. So what?
After a pause while I processed this, I asked: — How on earth do you drive a truck? How do you tell the traffic lights apart? — Give me a break! I’m colorblind, not an idiot! I see the light is on, and I know perfectly well that the red is on top and the green is on the bottom. And why the hell does the traffic police torture poor people with those tests? A tenner in the right pocket during the medical exam, and you’re not colorblind anymore!
I recalled my friend who was blind in one eye but, also for a tenner, managed to see with both.
One day, some repairs were needed on his KamAZ. On his day off, Dzhibo called a mechanic friend to the garage and took his son to the amusement park. The mechanic worked on the truck’s chassis near the house for a long time, but when Dzhibo returned, the man was nowhere to be seen. His tools were in the cabin, but the mechanic was gone. Dzhibo assumed he had stepped away, got into the truck, and… drove off to check the work.
Who could have known that his friend had fallen asleep in the shade under the KamAZ? It was a horrific situation. I knew both men, and there was no doubt it was a fatal accident. However, the friend’s wife declared in court that Dzhibo was under the influence of drugs and had run over her husband on purpose to avoid paying him. People’s souls held a lot of filth even back then. Dzhibo was sentenced to one year (everyone understood it was a tragic accident), but the money it took to get only one year left the family destitute.
A month after Dzhibo was imprisoned, his father died. He had been working as a taxi driver in his old Volga until the very end to feed the family. A short while later, his mother passed away too. His father, Vazgen, and his mother, Nana, were very kind people; all the neighbors loved them, including me.
In the mid-nineties, I got married for the second time and moved away, leaving the apartment to my first wife. I only met Dzhibo a few times after that. He was a different man. Broken, he had grown a beard and no longer joked. The last time I saw him was at a bus stop; I picked him up in my car, and we went for a beer. We sat in a khinkali house, and Dzhibo — with temples greyed beyond his years, unkempt, after a bit of beer — suddenly said:
— Yura, you’re a great guy. The neighbors respected you, and I was proud to be your friend. Even though we are completely different people — you have a university degree and I can’t even write — we were bonded by a man’s friendship.
I patted his hand: — Dzhibo, what are you talking about… We’ve always been friends, and we always will be.
And then Dzhibo said something that stayed with me for life, and every time I try to process it, it makes me shiver:
— You know, I feel like I’ve lived someone else’s life, and I never got around to living my own.
We drove home in silence; heavy thoughts were spinning in my head. When we reached his house, Dzhibo looked at me and said softly:
— There weren’t many bright spots in my life; you were one of them.
He got out of the car. A hunched old man, broken by life, entered the building.
Later, I accidentally learned from a mutual acquaintance who worked at a gas station that while Dzhibo was in prison, his eldest daughter had gone down a dark path, and the final blow he couldn’t bear was his wife’s cancer.
Dzhibo sold his KamAZ so the family would have some money for a while and… he took a fatal dose of drugs.
I cried. I felt so very sorry for him.
Business: It’s Not the Price Tag, It’s the Pocket
Germany was reuniting, the USSR was collapsing — and finally, in the early nineties, my ten-year-old son and I made our way to Germany.
My eyes were darting around so much from the sheer abundance that I couldn’t focus on any one thing. For the first two days, I just wandered through the shops in a daze. Right away, I felt that all the pretty salesgirls had a soft spot for me — they were smiling so openly, with such hints of interest. Later, when I saw one lovely salesgirl smiling even more radiantly at an ugly dwarf who was buying trousers, I started to suspect something was off. In the Soviet Union, a salesgirl wouldn’t even smile if you gave her a compliment and a bar of chocolate. Something was wrong here; surely these beautiful girls weren’t such idiots that they’d just smile at an ugly dwarf for no reason. By the second day, I looked closer and realized: those smiles were «glued on.» You can’t fool us Russians with cheap tricks! That’s when I pivoted to commerce.
Since we had changed very little money, we naturally had to shop in the little backstreets filled with tiny stalls run by Poles or former Soviet citizens. I was walking down a street with an endless row of shops the size of a large suitcase, all carrying almost identical stock. I was amazed by the stupidity of the sellers. In one shop, a watch cost 12 marks; right next door, the same watch was 7 marks. All their business was like that. I couldn’t help but laugh.
We bought some hot dogs. Munching on them, I said to my son: — These people are crazy. Who’s going to buy a watch for 12 marks if you can buy it for 7 right next door? — Papa, — he said, — they’re competitors. They don’t go into each other’s shops and they don’t know each other’s prices.
After eating, we stepped into the shop where the watch cost 12 marks. It was run by a former Soviet guy. Deciding to do a good deed and save him from bankruptcy, I said in a friendly tone: — My dear friend, it’s none of my business, but you probably don’t know that in the shop next door, the same watch is only 7 marks. You’ll go broke! You people shouldn’t have driven the Jews out of Germany back in the day!
The seller suddenly slid open a small window and shouted to the neighboring shop: — Fima, get over here quick! We’ve got a civilian here teaching me commerce and worrying that without us Jews, Germany will go extinct!
I stood there, totally confused. What did Fima have to do with anything? Fima walked in and offered me a cigarette. — What’s your name? — Yura. — And your son? — Denis. Fima took a keychain from the counter and gave it to Denis as a gift. — Yura, — he said, — when will you Russians finally understand that business isn’t what’s written on the price tag in the morning, it’s what’s in your pocket in the evening?