автограф
     пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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December 11.

The night was not so good to me and instead of plunging into sound sleep—the lot of blessed bodies—I got stuck in oozy insomnia.

At 6 in the morning, a major missile attack broke loose from all the quarters. Severe bombardments repeated in every two-three hours today.

At 9 sharp I was in the Editorial House to fill in the forms for my employment.

There chanced to be only Ms. Rita, Secretary of Chief Editor. Her another position is that of Acting Personnel Director when not making coffee for Boss and his visitors.

Hardly had we started the action when a close round of
AlazanALAZAN —
     a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994.
blasts prompted her to apologize and take a hasty leave for home.

I stayed alone in the building and because Renderers' Room was locked, I remained sitting beside Boss' office door in Rita's office-kitchen-anteroom.

At twenty-past-ten, Wagrum triumphantly pranced in.

Did I not know?

An audiocassette sprang out of his pocket.

See now?

The recorded interview he made the day before with a Deputy of the USSR Supreme Soviet on a visit down here.

Max in his office? (Let him know what a champ of a reporter works for this paper.)

A sad pity! No fanfare to manifest the hero's arrival.
AlazanALAZAN —
     a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994.
booms made Boss sit tight home.

Such a trifle as the key to the Renderers' doorlock was missing from Wagrum's pocket. Very likely, left home. (A rising star of journalism has more important things to think of, right?)

He zipped out, and I—fed up with idling in the frigid anteroom—set off for the Town Military Commissar's to report an omission in my military papers that Ms. Rita had tracked down when looking through them.

At the TMC I was met by Oleg Pronchenko in full uniform with major's insignia. The stink of the perfumes he wore reminded me that yesterday's military broad-wife, boldly painted and ready to agree.

He chose not to recollect our casual acquaintance and just abruptly indicated there was no one there.

OK, I ain't in no hurry and tomorrow is as good a day as this one.

On coming home I asked our neighbor lads, Romah and Arthur, for help and brought a door from our Site to fix it in the underground compartment sheltering my family.

The doorless entrance to the compartment did make the room to look like a primeval cave.

Then Sahtik took me for a little walk in search of the current whereabouts of Arega, the Senior Librarian at School 8.

The lady in question kept the key to the school library where Sahtik, a Librarian, had installed our electric heater under her work-seat.

Robic, Arega's lover and her husband's bosom friend, cut short our quest by fetching the heater from his house's basement.

In the ensuing shoptalk about their school affairs, Robic and Sahtik had noticeably sad looks.

I stood by wondering if it was because of unconscious libido field between them. Desire is sad.

Then the three of us—Sahtik, me and the heating device—returned home and (borrowing a trite expression from poets in days of yore) 'veiled the Olympus' summit with a golden cloud'.

Scholarly speaking, one may with sufficient accuracy state, that in the case of perfect sexual adjustment even wartime conditions cannot impare the performance.

Another of the missile attacks tried to precipitate us but in vain.
We reached it in a dignified manner and with the maximum pleasure attainable, mingling our final grunts with the hilarious yells of the folks pouring in to shelter in the underfloor cellar beneath our bed.

Half an hour later fixing up the door to the Underground compartment and then the live wires for the heater I was as sloppy as never before.

Now it's five to eleven with an antiphony of
AlazansALAZAN —
     a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994.
and cannon bangs measuring the time outdoors.

When coming back from Underground, I met Sahtik's brother in the street.
Aram was making for his mother's house he currently lives in.

A solitary pedestrian through the darkness and cannonade.

We shook hands as Brethren from the same Order of Lonely Hearts.
He also sleeps at home alone having left his wife and children someplace amid the town in her father's shelter.

Good night, Aram, my brother-in-law.

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