behind-the-hill. But it does not work. It won’t work because over there the power is in hands of invisible, invincible other-Siders and They since long pushed forward the slogan “Bureaucrats of the World get Globalized!”… Your read your Pynchon more attentively, not only passages about generative orgies and scatological excesses…
– Fuck you! You’re still here? On-duty detail! Take the motherfucker to the clink!
My the small kitchenette provided a lofty crow’s nest of a good vantage point to observe the big-big world about it. And in that same kitchenette, I felt the need for some sort of a plan to say my gentle “good-bye” to Konotop…
~ ~ ~ The Postscripts
The decision to part with Konotop became irreversible when I saw that everything was repeating itself… Over again I walked along a tunnel cut thru the stratum of night darkness with batteries of floodlights on the pylons in the classification yard over my usual short-cut marked by the dim glitter of railheads in the dampish rows of tired tracks.
The tunnel was higher and wider than the galleries in the mine "Dophinovka" and, unlike to the scanty pair of narrow gauge rails, the mighty tracks were bifurcating, multiplying, flowing alongside each other crammed with freight cars, cisterns, platforms with all sorts piled up, covered and uncovered, overall and small, cinched and loosely poured, stuff. Clanging at the railway points, the rolling cars rolled down the hump in strings, in pairs, singly, to find their way in the bowl and, with the pitched screech of wheel chocks, come to a halt at their destinations. The classification yard has no weekend breaks. On and on sounded the round-the-clock rumbling, clanging, screeching, shouts from the loudspeakers reporting about the numbered tracks and marshaled trains. Yet, all that went on in a tunnel, in one huge tunnel. Would the roof withstand the weight of the night?
In that autumnal, like in lots of other nights, darkness I crossed the railways following the all-too-well-learned network of service paths, bypassing the maze of the stilled trains and dodging the cars rolling down the hump across my route to the ever open wide breach in the wall around PMS-119. I cringed in anticipating disgust at the mud and puddles lurking in that hole which was already at a stone throw because I now walked already alongside the meter-tall letters in the inscription on the concrete wall. Made with ever-black tar over the light gray concrete of fencing by the assured strokes of a brush in the hand of master, it advised the passengers on trains that passed by in the daylight: "Konotop – the city of nondrinkers!"
The floodlights from behind transfixed my moving shadow over the calligraphic graffiti. The closer to the hole, the smaller the size of the silhouette with swaying hat brims until all of it got swallowed by the pitch-black darkness in the breach… The time machine is a nice invention, yet if you can't afford it try traveling the time on foot. Now, following my disappeared shadow, I'll get in such medieval swamps and darkness that…
"Sophocles! Aeschylus!"
Hell! Seems like I’ve taken a too wide stride and glided by down to the antiquity, ain't I?
"Aeschylus!"
A black shadow about 20 meters from the breach roared hoarsely in the muddy darkness of the PMS backyards. Mine? No, this one shorter and plumper. And in a leather cap, the coat's also of leather. "Why pulled up? Who called you? As if you may have the slightest notion of Sophocles."
"Right you are. I never went deeper than Aristophanes."
He hiccupped and, slightly rolling but resolutely, stepped in my way. "Who are you?" demanded he with the hooch on his breath.
"A passer-by. And what brought you here?"
He seemed to miss my question. "Sophocles… Aeschylus.." he kept echoing softly. "Yes, yes… Aeschylus… Aristophanes! And who else?!"
"Well, there also is some Euripides."
"Right! Euripides!" cried he out with tears in his voice and then again devotedly groaned out, "Sopho-ocles!"
We stood to face each other like Sancho Panza and Don Quixote meeting after the separation. Sancho gave out a despondent sob and dropped his head. The peak of the leather cap pecked me in the bridge of the nose. Damn it, Sancho! Look out! My visor’s up…
"I'm an artist," he plaintively imparted, raising his head. "They gave me 2 months here…" Another nod with the pesky peak…
I see, 2 months from Narco-2 for eradication of all alcoholic inclinations. And now I also knew whose masterpiece in tar was out there. Eh, Sancho, Sancho!. Anyone would turn a drunk if there's no one to talk to of Sophocles!. Armfuls of pearls and no one to scatter them before… No, no, no! I do have to leave…
…to go there, beyond the horizon, to the faraway—as childhood—seashore by the smooth azure waters, and a mighty sacred Oak tree with its hollow for whispering into it the quotations hardly needed by anyone along with the names of sages forgotten ages ago…
The plan was perfect. But what about the details? For instance, where to? Well, firstly, it should be some warm place, enough of frostbites for me, and secondly, it has to be provided with the sea and mountains. The Crimea, whose mountains are not that tall, does not fit, besides, it's taken up by Olga, maybe…
The finger slides over to the next sea on the map… Yeah? Okay, to Baku then. What’s the difference?.
Getting my vacation from the Construction Workshop Floor at the "Motordetail" plant, I also applied for dismissal. Yet, before moving away I still had one unfinished business on my hands. It was my promise to the 3 strangers at the station restaurant to visit the city of Lvov…
The closer to Lvov the slower the train traveled along the slopes of the Carpathian Mountains with dark tall Fir trees, yet in the late evening it still arrived at its destination… In the automatic storage cell, I left my briefcase in which, besides the hygienic necessities, there also lurked a gray cap of
