Preferance with Polunin

Intuition

In May 2006, my wife and our six-year-old son, Georgi, were at a concert. Suddenly, Lika called and told me that Georgi had stomach pains and spasms. I arrived immediately. We decided to go to the nearby children’s hospital. The pain and spasms were periodic. In the ER, they examined him: his temperature was 37.8° C, there wasn’t much pain during palpation, his tongue was moist, but the blood test showed an elevated white blood cell count. They diagnosed him with appendicitis.

I disagreed. They called the surgeon on duty — it was already evening by then. He was categorical: an emergency operation was needed because complications could arise by morning.

I voiced my doubts regarding the symptoms. He had never complained before, he wasn’t pulling his right leg, and the pain was exactly in the center of the abdomen, as my son described it. They laughed at me, saying that symptoms in children are different from adults. I still refused to give consent, and they allowed me to take Georgi home after I signed a release, on the condition that I return in the morning for a consultation with a panel of surgeons to make a final decision.

Georgi was given a fever reducer; his temperature dropped, and the night passed relatively quietly. But at 6 a.m., the abdominal pain started again. Ever since he was little, Georgi was very precise when explaining his condition to doctors — he pointed specifically to his stomach. The pains were again periodic with spasms, and the fever returned.

At 10 a.m., we arrived at the hospital. A new test showed an even higher white blood cell count. A panel of three surgeons diagnosed him with an «acute abdomen» and insisted on immediate surgery for appendicitis. Things just weren’t adding up in my head. My own appendix had been removed, and I remembered the sensations; my older son, Denis, also had his removed after an attack. I expressed my doubts to the doctors again, only to be told once more that in children, everything happens differently. Denis was 8 when his appendix was removed, and I clearly remembered his attacks: the pain was prolonged and less sharp, localized in the lower abdomen — unlike Georgi’s — and most importantly, he had been pulling up his right leg. Georgi didn’t have that symptom at all.

I decided to take the child to another children’s hospital. A friend of mine worked there as a surgeon — and in our world, «blat» (connections) is everything! They also called a panel of four surgeons. Three agreed with the diagnosis from the first hospital, but upon learning that I had refused surgery there, they were less categorical. They sent me to a private diagnostic center for a full abdominal ultrasound.

The ultrasound lasted an hour. They couldn’t find the appendix at all, but they found some «neoplasm of unknown etiology.» After the phrase «neoplasm of unknown etiology,» Lika was in a near-faint. The conclusion was that the nature of the growth could only be determined through surgery. Immediate operation required!

With the photos and the diagnosis, we raced back to the hospital. On the way, Georgi clung to Lika, crying and telling us to say our goodbyes to him!

At the hospital, the surgeons spent a long time scratching their heads over the ultrasound report. When I mentioned that Georgi had eaten a meat patty with buckwheat that morning, the «neoplasm» suddenly took on a very «concrete shape.» Then Georgi remembered that the day before, after school, his grandmother had fed him some «street» pizza. Our friend, the surgeon on duty that day, suggested admitting Georgi to the surgical department for detoxification — to pump his stomach and put him on an IV — and making a final decision about surgery in the morning. I won’t describe the ordeal of the IV and the stomach pumping, or the toll it took on everyone’s nerves, but by morning, everything had returned to normal.

The fever broke, the pain stopped, and at 11 a.m. the next day, we arrived home in perfect health!

If I had agreed with the surgeons instead of my intuition, Georgi would have had his appendix removed, while the pain from the food poisoning would have continued through the post-operative period. What would have happened then, only God knows!

Manych

In Rostov-on-Don, on Engels Street, diagonally across from the Intourist Hotel, lived my Rostov uncle, Izya — my grandmother’s nephew. He lived in a pre-revolutionary building, in an attic space converted into a communal apartment.

Izya often visited us in Tbilisi. I was fond of this man; he was something of a «loser,» but he was the kindest soul who could spark a conversation with anyone nearby in an instant. He struck me with a trait that seemed to be a complex of those «unsuccessful» Jews who couldn’t hide behind a Russian surname like «Sidorov.» When the subject of nationality came up, instead of saying he was Jewish, he would call himself a zhid (a slur).

In Tbilisi, Izya would often use this word about himself, which utterly bewildered his listeners. In Georgia, that word wasn’t used then, nor is it now; antisemitism as such is virtually non-existent there. Izya was always surprised when people, after hearing him say zhid, would simply ask, «Oh, so you’re Jewish?» Because in Georgia he felt like a Jew rather than a slur, he didn’t just love the country — he adored it.

One day — and such is life — we received a telegram saying that Izya’s mother had passed away. I immediately flew to Rostov. The funeral for Grandma Rachel was a somber and strange affair. Their «apartment» was at the top of a spiral staircase so narrow that a coffin couldn’t possibly be carried down. We had to carry her out through the neighbor’s apartment to reach the main stairs.

The cemetery in Rostov shocked me. In Tbilisi, cemeteries usually consist of family plots for three to six people, with benches, trees, and small tables for remembrance. In Rostov, the graves were exactly the size of a coffin — rows upon rows of two-meter plots with no greenery or fences. It felt stark.

It was summer, and to ease the heavy feeling of my ten-day stay, Izya decided to take me fishing on the Manych River.

Izya had a cousin in Rostov named Misha, who lived with his family in the Nakhichevan district. Misha was a die-hard fisherman. He and his buddies often took their motorboats out for the weekend. We arranged to join them. There were about ten people in three boats. Misha and his crew left a few hours before us, as we got delayed, and we headed out in the evening.

I had never traveled by river in a motorboat before; it was like a fairytale. Compared to the Kura River in Tbilisi, the Don was incredibly wide, with fabulously green banks dotted with little houses or campsites with bonfires and the sound of guitars. Ships scurried past at dangerously close range. There wasn’t a single mountain to be seen all the way to the horizon. I was stunned by this unexpected beauty!

And when, at sunset, a massive red sun began to sink directly into the Don, a mesmerizing scene unfolded. Endless flocks of birds, flying from the fields to their nesting grounds, gracefully crossed that giant red orb. It was an overwhelming beauty for someone seeing such exotic landscapes for the first time.

I was neither a fisherman nor a hunter; I was going more as a tourist. But I had to prepare like a pro. Near the Manych, there was a fish farm that, as «bait,» seemed to breed «Michurinian» mosquitoes — monsters that could bite through clothing. Izya had an ointment, some hellish concoction that the mosquitoes avoided like the plague. The trick was to smear every bit of exposed skin.

We arrived at the meeting point after dark. We couldn’t find Misha and his friends, so we decided to camp and look for them in the morning. We moored, ate, and slathered ourselves with that foul-smelling but life-saving ointment. We lay down on a pile of branches and fell asleep.

When I woke up, my head was ringing like a cathedral bell. Below the horizon, I could see nothing because my gaze hit my own upper lip — it was swollen to an absurd size. Apparently, while smearing my face, I’d missed my lip. It throbbed with pain. Izya laughed; I tried to. We drank tea from a thermos, ate some cookies, and set off to find Mikhail & Co.

We found them instantly in the daylight. The boats were at the shore, and the men were on the bank. They were all dead drunk. Those still asleep were the lucky ones; those awake were suffering through agonizing hangovers. Of a whole case of vodka, only five bottles remained. They made excuses, saying they hadn’t touched our share, and quickly threw together a «feast» of canned sprats in tomato sauce and a slab of lard — minus the bread, which they’d forgotten in Rostov.

Since I don’t drink and Izya wanted to show me «real» fishing, he limited himself to a quarter-glass of vodka and a non-kosher piece of lard. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a grunt so loud the sleeping men stirred. It was clear the rest of them would just spend the day nursing their hangovers, buy some fish at the pier on the way back, and return home claiming it as their catch.

That didn’t suit us. We went fishing. We had no gear except rods. Between the two of us, Izya was the «expert,» only because he’d been on a few of these drinking-trips before.

We stopped about 20 meters from the shore. I was at the stern, Izya at the bow. A boat passed by with two fishermen using a device to slap the water, making a loud «gulping» sound. Izya said it was a lure for catfish, but I suspect that sound scared away every fish for miles. We moved further away and then… it started!

The moment I cast my line, the rod bent. A shiver of joy and surprise ran through me. I thought I’d caught that very catfish the others were lure-calling! I yelled at Izya to get the net and yanked the rod with all my might. Out of the water flew a five-centimeter goby — the tiny fish famously sold in tomato sauce. The little squirt fought so hard to escape that it gave the impression of a massive catch.

Izya was catching shemaya. I must have hit a nest of gobies because, in two hours, I caught over fifty of them. That was all I caught. We were so engrossed that we didn’t notice a large passenger ship bearing down on us. It honked desperately. When we turned around, we gasped — it was only 30 meters away. Rowing was useless. I could have jumped and swam, but Izya was older and swam about as well as an axe, so I stayed in the boat to save him if needed. The ship passed so close that the bow wave simply tossed us out of its path. We escaped with a scare and some choice curse words. That was enough fishing for the day. Back on shore, Izya dug out a stash of cognac, and we finally relaxed.

When we got back, it turned out Uncle Misha was a much «luckier» fisherman than us. His catch was not only heavier but included sterlet, which was illegal to catch. My gobies were fried and… given to the yard dog. It was a pity, as that was my first and last catch.

Even though those days were tied to mourning, Uncle Izya did everything to ensure I remembered Rostov for more than just a sad time. The beauty of the Don and its banks was etched into my memory so deeply that the following year, my wife, my friend Lyonya, and his wife decided to spend our vacation in tents on the Don.

Unfortunately, the story of that vacation on Alitub Island — full of adventures and nervous clashes of personality — was lost, along with a hundred others, due to unforeseen circumstances. I’ve managed to restore a few small ones, like the story «The Ghost,» but many are gone forever.

The Ghost

Many people feel fear when listening to ghost stories, but when a ghost actually appears — holding an axe and speaking — the fear isn’t just panic; it’s the kind of terror that puts you on the brink of a heart attack.

Right after graduating from the institute, two ordinary students — Lenya Konkov and I — found ourselves as newly minted engineers: jobless, penniless, but married. We decided to organize a high-quality vacation with minimal expenses. Since I often visited my uncle in Rostov and had seen the beauty of the Don River firsthand, I suggested we go camping there in tents.

This incident happened at the very beginning of our journey, when the four of us were still full of energy and high hopes for the trip.

I don’t know what the streets in Rostov are called today, but my relative lived on Engels Street, diagonally across from the Intourist Hotel. It was a pre-revolutionary building. During the Soviet era, the attic had been converted into a communal apartment with paper-thin walls and all the «charms» that come with it. My uncle’s room in that attic was barely larger than a suitcase, so it was impossible for all four of us to sleep there. However, his neighbors, Volodya and Valya, whom I knew from previous visits, had gone to the seaside on vacation. Knowing I was coming with friends, they left us the keys to their room and their squeaky «proving ground» of a bed, where the four of us could settle in for the night.

We spent the whole day wandering through Rostov’s shops, stocking up on a month’s worth of supplies: canned goods, soup packets, grains, condensed milk, rusks, and God knows what else. We ended up with two backpacks, each weighing about forty kilograms.

That evening, with our legs aching from fatigue, we sprawled out on the «proving ground.» The bed was indeed wide — evidently a pre-war family project. This venerable piece of furniture creaked mercilessly at the slightest movement. In that partitioned attic, the acoustics were like an opera house. Because of this, when Valentina and Volodya tried to «improve the country’s demographics,» they usually put on opera records. If the music stopped playing for too long, the neighbors would start worrying… wondering if they’d fallen ill.

During a previous visit, the elderly neighbor, Dusya, while bumming a cigarette from me in the hallway, remarked to the air: — «As I see it, both Volodka and you listen to the same aria at Valentina’s. I listen to Lensky’s aria, too, but her version is sung by Kozlovsky, while I prefer Lemeshev. It’s clear Valentina knows men better than she knows opera.»

We lay there chatting, and when we turned out the lights, the creaking began to remind us of ghosts. Naturally, you can’t really sleep with four people on one squeaky bed, so Lenya and I started telling scary stories. Our wives were already squealing with fright. We tried to outdo each other, recalling bone-chilling tales from Poe, Chesterton, and Roald Dahl — along with plenty of our own bloody inventions. The girls were practically whimpering, but Lenya and I kept ramping up the horror. When our repertoire was exhausted, I began to improvise:

— «Imagine,» I whispered, «that we’re lying here and suddenly the door creaks open and a real ghost enters the room.»

Everyone pressed themselves against the headboard, their imaginations firing.

— «The ghost will be a woman with disheveled hair, wearing a white nightgown. In one hand she’ll have a candle, and in the other…»

My wife pleaded: — «Yura, please, stop! It’s scary! What if a ghost actually appears right now?»

But I was on a roll: — «And in the other hand, she’ll have a large kitchen knife to slit all our throats!»

A tomb-like silence followed. In that silence, we distinctly heard the door creak. It slowly began to open, and a sliver of candlelight pierced the darkness.

We froze in terror; I personally lost the power of speech. The door kept opening, inch by inch, until a woman in white appeared — disheveled hair, a candle in one hand, and an axe in the other!

In the flickering light of the candle, paralyzed by inhuman fear, we stared at each other for about five to ten seconds — seconds that felt like an eternity! The spell was broken by Marina’s scream as she dove under the covers. The ghost slammed the door shut, but a moment later, it opened again, and a raspy voice asked:

— «And who might you be?»

While I was trying to swallow the lump in my throat, Lenya «sang» out: — «We’re not locals, we’re guests…» and began to cross himself like a madman.

The ghost stepped closer, illuminating us with the candle. — «Yura, is that you?»

My heart nearly stopped. — «Did you forget about the arias?»

And then I recognized her: it was Dusya, the opera lover and fan of Lensky’s aria, the neighborhood cat-lady. With her hair down, I hadn’t recognized her at all.

Dusya flipped the light switch by the door. In the bulb’s glow, the axe instantly turned into a rolling pin, and the ghost became a sweet old lady in a nightgown.

It turned out that since we had arrived late, Dusya hadn’t seen us come in. Hearing noises from the neighbors’ room and knowing they were at the sea, she decided to investigate. That Dusya had some heart — she nearly sent the four of us to the next world.

The next morning, while we were having breakfast in the communal kitchen, my wife asked: — «What arias were you talking about last night?»

Dusya glanced at me and smiled: — «Yura, lying in that bed, reminded me of Hermann. I was talking about The Queen of Spades.»

In Memory of Chicha, the Mutty-Girl: Forgive Me, Friend!

In my childhood, we had a cat named Vaska and a female cat named Murka — my grandmother’s favorites. I don’t remember them as kittens, but as they grew up, Murka became the most desired cat in the neighborhood, and Vaska acted as her «pimp.» In the spring, they’d put on such «concerts» near our house that if you didn’t know they were cats, you’d think someone was torturing children and call the police. The neighbors demanded that Grandma get rid of them. Usually, «March» would pass and the concerts would be forgotten, but when Vaska started stealing delicacies from the neighbors’ tables for his Murka, their patience snapped. An ultimatum was issued:

— Either Grandma gets rid of Vaska and Murka herself, or the neighbors poison them with strychnine!

It was a plot straight out of Hop-o’-My-Thumb: a parent leading children into the woods so they might survive on their own. Grandma stuffed the cats into a sack, boarded the No. 10 tram, and took them to the marketplace. She shook them out (figuring they’d find food there), sighed, did her shopping, and took the tram home. Imagine her surprise when the «sweet couple» was already sitting by our door, bellies sagging from a good meal, looking up at her with pleading eyes. After that, all experiments ended — the neighbors surrendered!

Regarding Dogs:

My grandfather loved dogs, but in our communal house, even the cats were looked at sideways, so a dog was out of the question. Grandpa found a loophole: we’d go around feeding all the local chained dogs. There was Sharik, the black dog belonging to the stadium watchman, and the fearsome Buyan, a Caucasian Shepherd that Grandpa especially liked. Buyan guarded the yard of the Paramilitary Training center. The head of that place was a tanker, Colonel Malyshev, our neighbor. He used to give us kids rides on a T-34 tank across what is now the Physical Education Institute stadium; I still remember his gold-toothed smile.

While I loved Sharik, I was terrified of Buyan and usually played with him from behind my grandpa’s back. One day, when Grandpa wasn’t home, I volunteered to take a bowl of borscht with a bone to Buyan. When I got within fifty meters of his kennel, Buyan lunged, snapped his chain, and charged. I saw his eyes and, paralyzed by fear, dropped the bowl and thrust my hands forward. I remember it like it was yesterday: Buyan clamped down on both of my thumbs. I don’t remember screaming, but apparently, my cries saved me. Uncle Vanya Malyshev shot the dog with his TT pistol right then and there.

Lord, where is the world heading? A few weeks ago, I met his son, Zhenya, at the Navtlughi market. He was selling… old bolts and taps, while reading Arthur Hailey’s Airport. We talked about old friends, but it was hard to look each other in the eye. Back then, I had to endure 40 rabies shots in the stomach. As it turned out, Buyan had actually gone mad. You can imagine how I felt about any dog taller than my knee after that.

Enter Chicha:

In the early 80s, living with my first family in Vazisubani (a residential district in Tbilisi), I walked out the door for work and found a tiny, shivering puppy — a little white ball of fluff. Naturally, I brought it inside, gave it some milk, and… it stayed. My eldest son was about five then, and he was beside himself with joy. We named the dog «Chicha» — don’t ask why, I already get enough teasing from a friend who shared the same nickname. I’m no dog trainer, but this dog amazed me with her intelligence and devotion.

If we were home, Chicha behaved like a lady. But the moment we left her alone, the apartment looked like it had been hit by a Mongol raid. Her favorite spot was the bed, with the bedspread crumpled on the floor. She enjoyed her comfort so much she often didn’t even notice us coming home. When she finally heard a shout, she’d scramble off the bed, press her head to the carpet, tuck her front paws under, and crawl toward us, wagging her head back and forth like a broom. Then she’d flip onto her back as if to say, «Go ahead, kill me!» Of course, we’d just smile.

We watched TV together; she’d lie behind my knees, resting her muzzle on my legs, seemingly engrossed in the plot. But if I whispered «Chicha,» she’d instantly scramble up to join me on the pillow. I have a sea of stories about her:

— The Sugar Trick: I’d hold half a sugar cube in my teeth, Chicha would take the other half, and we’d stay like that until I snapped my fingers. Only then would she swallow her piece.

— The Duet: She «sang» to Denis’s accordion — long, mournful howls that could make you cry. If Denis stopped playing before she was done, she’d walk up to the accordion and continue howling and barking at it.

— The Circus: She loved jumping through a hoop made by my arms and would press her chin to the floor after every jump.

— The «Guard»: She was fine with neighbors unless they tried to take something — be it a potato or a cup of sugar. Once, she even pulled the skirt off our neighbor Keto, who then told everyone we were training our dog to strip women.

— The Watchman: If we were all asleep and someone approached the front door at midnight, she’d wake the whole house. It wasn’t right for someone to be at the door while the masters slept.