the most final
concluding work

And at last, the curator without glasses, the curator of non-feminine gender, the curator of the fourth group was Roma Gourevitch. He was also a Jew, as any of all other Gourevitches I've ever met, or as that same Bliznuke, only older and balder. And he was constantly busy with debating or talking to some or another one, completely involved and steaming with enthusiasm…

Once I had to retake a test on the subject he taught. The affair was to be settled in the Old Building, of course. Making sure that he got out of the New Building in the right direction, I went to the Old Building and waited for his approach. 10 minutes later I grew worried and combed thru the 200 meters of the asphalt path between the Old and the New Buildings. He had just reached the corner of the New Building, stopping every counter moving teacher for an animated discussion. I returned to the position by the Old Building but this time got seated on a bench under the giant Birches. 20 minutes later, he could be spotted by the big sad bust of Gogol. Good fellow, Roma! The half of the distance over!. Yet, do you have much of a choice when the teacher is late for the appointed retaking of the test you failed at the first go?

It took Roma 62 minutes to get over that f-f..er..I mean, flimsy 200 meters, but I'm sure that was not the limit of his knack for loitering. For all that, I bestowed him with the handle "ebullient slacker". His official appellation contrôlée was "Roma-Phonetist" though because he was distinguished against the rest of teachers at the English Department by the purest pronunciation of the sound "th". It was he who read the texts about the Parkers family on the tape-recorder for the students to parrot them in the booths of the Language Laboratory. No wonder he was referred to as "Phonetist"…

Besides the Phonetics, we were taught lots of other subjects, different and necessary. Take, for example, the Comparative Lexicosemantosurdographosemasiology – your tongue would go to pieces before you manage to pass the exam. That Comparative Lexi…well, whatever…ology was studied under a hereditary teacher. The dynasty broke off at her because she was a retired virgin and chastely buttoned her teacher’s raincoat with a huge safety pin up to the fold in the dried-up skin under her chin.

She was an irreplaceable pensioner because it was her, who wrote the textbook on the subject. A skinny paperback pamphlet from the institute printing house with the smeared typeface authored by…well, it's embarrassing…the name was such…with some whistling sound in it…or maybe hissing?. Anyway, her name was shorter than that of the subject… Yes, I remembered! Shakhrai she was! (And it's not a handle, faith! Some Ukrainian last names do make you think before you jump.)

If during her lectures she allowed herself too much, sort of, walking along the aisle between long desk rows, say, how do they stick down my comparatively smeared pearls into their notebooks? – there was nothing easier than putting her in her proper place. Undo your shirt on the chest, 2 or 3 buttons, and stroke wistfully and gently your hair on the solar plexus. That's all. The hissing wanderings got safely blocked and till the break bell, she would be sitting at the teacher desk like a nice little girl, staring at her plan of the lecture which she knew by heart… I do adore virgins.

Zhomnir once said that after even the briefest talk with her, he got an itching desire to take a bath. Well, tastes differ. I do not remember if I took a shower after the exam on that most Comparative – well, how-you'd-call-it – at which I also had to scratch my chest…

And all those were our specialization subjects, apart from general ones lectured by teachers from other faculties and departments. And each lecturer fancied themselves a Don Corleone extorting due respect, like, he or she made me an offer I couldn't refuse and returning to the student hostel I would immediately plunge into the study of their subject… Yeah, as soon as I'm back to the Hosty!

The only one who evoked sympathy in me was Samorodnitsky, for some of the philosophies because he lit a cigarette at his exam. Openly so, imposingly, and, with all that, in a good manner – he took from his briefcase an ashtray with a lid and shook the cigarette ash off into it.

To that examination, I came from the Hosty and started driving some kind of a fool improvising from a lamppost, possibly from some different philosophy. But he suddenly got interested, sat upright, and put me 4. He said that I needed to change the Department, and he would see to it, but soon after he emigrated to Israel…

So, I was practicing at the school of the sugar factory at the station of Nosovka (20 minutes by a local train from Nezhyn in the Kiev direction) and Zhomnir was in charge of our group of trainees.

Early in the morning, we went there from the high platform of the Nezhyn station – the team of 10 students from different groups and Zhomnir in his teacher’s raincoat and dark blue beret, gripping his briefcase with cave-in sides.

Before the practice, my mother sewed me a jacket. It looked like a geologist anti-encephalitis jacket but from a thicker tarpaulin of green color. I liked it, especially the color of so a Robin-Hoodish hue…

The most vivid impression from the practice was left by the football match between the sugar factory team and that from the locomotive depot of the Fastov station. The game in the championship for the Cup of the Trade-Union Committee of the South-Western Railway took place on the school football field. I went out of the school building for a break between the classes and got stuck.

It was a warm and sunny September day. On the green grass of the field, some 20 men were chasing a single ball, and a separate mujik ran in their wake and whistled with shrill trills. The crowds of fans were represented by, firstly, a grim man in black overalls and, secondly, me. I start the count with him because he was the first to stand by the field edge, and he was a more intent watcher – it took me a while to go under the trees behind one of the goals for to stuff a joint. On coming back, I left a respectful distance between me and the other fan not to tease his sense of smell with vain hopes or odd reminiscences. I just stood in the sun and enjoyed the championship match.

A sharp sting in the neck threw me from high. I recoiled, slapped the wasp, looked back and saw Igor Recoon sneaking up from behind with a guileful grin.

I hid neither the joint nor the smoke, "Igor, when you have any questions come up openly and speak easy."

He effaced the smile and said, no, he was just so, and then hurried to the school where sounded the long bell for classes.

A young errand-boy arrived on his bicycle with a bag-load of doping for the local bozos in the field. They jogged, and gulped, and passed the bottles to each other to furiously rush to attack.

The right halfback of the visiting team passed the ball to the central forward, who went to the corner of the penalty and with a slight but accurate blow rolled the ball into the bottom left corner of the goal. "Goal!" shouted the striker together with the rest of his team.

"No!" roared the local slobs.

Jogging back to his half of the field, the striker came across a wall of 3 locals. "No goal!" they howled at him.

"As if I argue," answered he bypassing their line, unable though to suppress his contented smile.

There was no way to prove anything because the goal had not any mesh and the referee at the goal moment was looking up in the sky together with the bottom of the bottle handed to him by a local footballer.

I approached the first half of the match-watchers, and put a direct question, "So, was it a goal or what?"

The mujik in overalls surly nodded. I rejoiced that the truth, even though mutely, was still present in this world, at least among the working class.

The match for the Cup of Trade-Union of the South-Western Railway ended in a draw, 0:0…