1
At 2 p.m. on July 14, 2015, the clock turned back.
Not everyone’s clock, of course. Just my clock. I had been loafing about on the second floor of our house, fiddling around with my smartphone and expecting Marinka to text me. We had defended our thesis five days earlier, and both Marinka and I had spent the whole week moving happily about the city, pleased and fulfilled. On that day, she made up her mind to go to Kirov – her hometown – for the rest of the summer, and we agreed to meet in the afternoon and talk it over.
It was already 2 p.m., but I had not heard from her. She wasn’t picking up the phone either.
I could hear my dad’s low-booming voice from below. He was yelling at someone on the phone.
I dialed Solomatina again. She was out of range. Great. I dragged myself downstairs. My dad was still shouting, through his laughter, at one of his managers.
“Mikhalych, we have democracy in this country, but I have tyranny. Remember? What kind of amateur performance is this?”
I was waiting for him to finish telling off Oleg Mikhailovich, and planning to pester him again about finding me a job.
My dad smiled through his beard. A cunning look came into his eyes; he was squinting at me without looking away.
“Do you remember that summer? Eight years have passed…”
I had to respond,
“So what? I do remember… Dad, what do you want?”
A long time ago, when I was about eight years old, I took a pen and paper and started writing a story about our dog Lizka and her adventures. Then I showed it to my parents. They praised me, and I can remember being very happy with myself because I had managed to finish what I had started and found my readers. Euphoria! The excitement of a little person and goose bumps.
“It’s not what I want, my boy. It is what you want, I guess… You have been going on and on about the car dealership in Volokolamka…”
It was true. I had been going on about it. On and on. Two weeks before I defended my thesis and now, free and ready for a job, I had been nagging my dad to make me a manager at one of his Audi dealerships. He was dead set against it and I could not understand why. He resisted for two weeks or even longer, taking into account that I had started my negotiations before defending my thesis. Now it seemed the ice had finally been broken…
“Will you give me a job?” I asked.
“I will. On one condition,” he answered.
“What is that?”
“Make me a present. Write a story about that summer. Do you remember it?”
It would be better to say nothing. Or say no. But I did remember that summer very well.
“Who do you take me for?” I smiled. “I am not exactly Maxim Gorky…”
“I know. That’s why I am asking. You used to be good at it.”
“In elementary school!”
“So what? Let’s cut to the chase. You’ve got six weeks till the end of August. If you do it, I’ll make you Gena’s assistant.”
I got quiet for a moment. Gena, or Gennadiy Andreyevich, was the managing director of the dealership, and such an appointment would be a five-step jump.
“Fine,” I agreed. “I can try.”
“Deal,” my dad smiled, extending his big hand to me.
I shook it in silence. Then I dragged myself upstairs.
2
Solomatina called me back in an hour. She babbled,
“Yurik, I’m sorry baby. I guess I can’t make it. My plane leaves in three hours. I am running around like crazy. Presents, this, that…
