Almost all the girls tore their eyes away from their admirers to glance at the newcomer. There were all kinds of the girls in the bar: short and tall, cow-looking and well-built, brunettes and over-burnt blonds with the small moustaches under their upper lips. The girls were expensively-dressed with gold earrings in their ears and gold rings, one after another, on their sausage-looking fingers, their gold teeth shining, like of a shark. They put a lot of money on them, yet somehow they looked cheap.
It seemed to me that everyone knew this guy in the bar. The barman became a little worried, frowned slightly, his elongated face stretched even longer. He caught the stranger's glance and smiled back, widely but insincerely. By then men in the bar looked tense while the `ladies' part revitalized. The girls were murmuring quietly trying to hide their curiosity.
The guy looked intimidating. He was very tall, broad-shouldered and athletic; his light brown hair was combed back. He had smart blue eyes and a tough mouth. I would say he was handsome in spite of his heavy-square chin and a menacing look.
"He must be a short-tempered person," I thought.
He looked swiftly around the small semi-lit hall and chose my table - the place opposite me was empty. I had just ordered my beer.
The guy, rocking slightly, went over to my table. I noticed that all the guys there had the same rocking walk, as if they were all used to walking on rocking boat decks, all were sailors.
"Is this place free?" the guy asked me.
"Yes, it's free."
"Waiter!" he clicked his fingers, moved his chair carelessly and fell into it.
The waiter, a nimble chap, his bow tie on his shot neck, his thin black moustache was under his cheerless long nose, came straight away.
"What would you like?" the waiter bowed hastily.
"You know, Semochka, two beers for me and my friend," he nodded towards me, "and cigarettes," he added.
"I've' just ordered my beer. Don't worry!" now I felt awkward.
"Don't bother! I'll pay!" and he made a regal gesture with his hand towards me, "You are in Odessa, guy! Do you know what that means?" He extended his big and wide hand to me, introducing, "Oleg".
His palm was rough to touch.
"Gleb," I introduced myself too.
"Where are you from? Surely, you are not a local. The accent is not of Odessa. You are a Muscovite, aren't you?"
"No, I am from Tomsk".
"It's Siberia, I know, far away from our place!"
"Yes it is. I've never been to the Sea."
"You are seventeen, aren't you, not more than that?"
"Twenty," I added a couple of years. "What about you?"
"I am twenty-seven. Divorced two days before, was so stupid," he said, slapping his forehead with a loud pop. "Do you see? I married after I had just retired from the army. All girls are whores, don't marry!"
I kept silent, didn't know what to answer.
The waiter brought us our beers and cigarettes.
The guy, obviously, was in mood to speak. The bar grew quiet, listening to him.
"I am a painter," Oleg said, staring at me suspiciously. "I guess, you are a student, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," I admitted, stumbling. I felt my cheeks turned red.
"Educated, know-all, that means," the guy frowned, lifted his mug and studied my face sternly.
Two girls sitting opposite us, brightly-dressed and looking like Christmas trees, giggled loudly.
"Shut up, women!" the instant Oleg snarled these words girls stopped laughing. "She was also educated," he added.
"Who was?"
"My former wife, she had graduated from a teachers college. And I am a painter. Do you see?"
"No, I do not, so what?"
"Yes, I asked her too, so what? Don't be silly, guy, don't marry. Girls are bitches. All of them!" Oleg repeated it with great conviction.
He dealt with beer quickly and requested more... vodka. The waiter brought vodka for him and for me. I drank. What could I do? Could I tell him that I kept healthy way of life? I felt if I said it I would lose my face in front of that guy, Oleg from Odessa.
"Just imagine," admitted Oleg after the beer and the second glass of vodka, "I am a painter. She is a teacher. And she whitewashed all the walls in our house after me."
"Why?"
"You've got it right!" he cried, "I asked her the same question, why?" Oleg pounded the table with his fist. Mugs and glasses jumped and jingled. "She wanted to turn everything at home her way, bitch! Look at me. What do you think, I am a big man?
"Yes, of course, you are not little." I smiled.
"She is thirty cm less than me - pipsqueak - and was impudent enough to start beating me. It sounds like a joke, doesn't it, ah? She was always the first who wanted to fight, barging into me, like a tractor, her big tits forwards. She deserved a good thrashing, but there was our son between us. "Dad, don't hurt my mummy!" he would say. How long could I contain myself? Why was she, bitch, climbing up on me with her funny fists? She thought she was educated!" Oleg spitted out, with scorn in his face. "Why did she marry me if she didn't consider me worthy her? Do you see, Gleb? When she was studying in her fucking college I was painting someone's cottages to earn money for the life! Maybe I am more intelligent than she is. I write poetry, Gleb, would you mind listening to something, right now, ah, guy?"
I agreed obediently.
However, the next instant he already forgot about the poetry.
"Waiter!" he cried. "Bring us more vodka! A couple days before, you hear me, guy, I met a woman. She was from Siberia too, like you. I don't remember well what town she was from, either Simbirk, or Kamarinsk. She was about fifty, not less than that, a natural blond, plumb and pretty. She resembled Ida from this TV soap opera, from these American Riches, who have been crying on Russian TV for years. You must remember. The same duck-looking nose like of Ida, yet already getting on in her years. Though, you couldn't tell that she was so old. She was really well-preserved, looking much better than other women of her age. Her name was Mila, if I remembered it right. We met with her on a table tennis court. You know, we have table tennis courts in the each courtyard of our town. I used to play table tennis a lot when I was a boy. It was my best friend's grandpa, who put a large table in the middle of our courtyard, pulled a tight net, and we, the children, had got the table tennis court straight nearby our houses.
Ah, yes, about this woman. She appeared to be a good player, plumb but nimble, agile, submitting sharply, a neat woman. And I said myself, why not? Oh, hell, she was not so young, you are right, so what? That was even better - no need to worry about her possible pregnancy, since she had already got her menopause.
She brought me into her neat room that she had rented for a month. I was not divorced yet and felt even satisfied with the first betrayal to my wife. We made love with her only one night - the whole night. She even confused me a little, this woman, making sex with such an ardor, as if she was a young girl. Not like my wife at all, because... my wife was a bastard. I mean, she was never fucking for joy, always haggling over her cunt, nagging me, like a saw, why didn't she get married with Peter? Peter's dad bought him a car. Peter's dad thrust him into the Trade Institute. Peter was educated now. He graduated from the Trade Institute. Peter'sdadarranged him agoodwork. Peter was a manager of the jeweler's. Why got she marriedwithapainter, fool one! She forgot that Pet'ka hadn't wanted to marry her. I couldn't bear when she started to quarrel, insulting me, turning the air blue and remembering all my previous sins. Usually, we began from reproaching each other and ended with the battle, our boy always crying between us. My son told me once: "Dad, you are bad. Uncle Pet'a plays chess and you don't. Mummy said we don't need such a father." Understand, what was she doing? Ah, what is your name did you say?"
"Gleb".
"Gleb? Ah, Gleb! What are you thinking about it, Gleb? Was my wife a bitch?"
"Yes, she was," I agreed. "But what happened with Mila then?"
"Who is Mila? Ah, yes, remember, Mila. I slept with her that night. The following morning I saw her crying. Why was she crying? It turned out that she had been divorced for about fifteen years and all of fifteen years she got by without a man. She admitted. Forgot what a man was like. Then I was. And unfortunately, the next day she was leaving. What else could make things worse? Would I grudge for this woman fucking? What do you think? Let's have sex as much as you want, I would tell her if she didn't leave. She was crying so bitterly. I've even got heart cramps, yet didn't understand anything. "Did you likethe fuck?" I asked. "Oh, yes, it's was very good!" she answered and stroked my hair so tenderly, in such a mummy's way! Why? Where is the justice in this fucking world, you can say? So that. My wife has never stroked my hair so tenderly, like this. It didn't happen ever once, apparently she got marred me without love. A half year older than me. I was twenty one; she was already twenty one and a half - spinster - didn't want to stay unmarried any more. Peter was looking for a bride from the same crap circle where he was from. He got married someone very ugly and bony, like a skeleton; there was nothing to look at. But her father was well-merited procurator.
"Is your wife beautiful?" I asked, raising myself slowly to get my beer.
But Oleg gave a wave with his hand, protesting. "Stay still, I'll get it!" he bent down over my mug, stood for a while, then took the mug with both his hands and pressed it to his chest with an incredible tenderness. "When I got married, she seemed to me so beautiful. But now, I feel like throwing up if I just catch a glimpse of her. And I didn't tell everything, this daughter of bitch cheated on me with Pet'ka. Didn't she deserve thrashing?" he said yet again with bitterness.
"Oh, she did." I agreed. "But why was Mila crying? Didn't understand," I shook my head. The bar was slightly rocking now, like a boat deck, for some reason.
"Why she was crying? Listen, I've just explained it, haven't I? No? Well, she enjoyed it, do you see? How would she do without a man since now, just imagine it? Where is the justice? And on the whole, she divorced, lived till fifty, and only now, with me, learned to enjoy sex. Had nobody fucked her well, with all the heart, like me? Hadn't she found a suitable cock? Who the hell knows? And my wife... the question is would she also learn something by her fifties? Ah? What are you thinking about, guy?"
"I think, Oleg you know what. Now, give me my beer back, right?" I asked.
But Oleg pressed the mug to his chest even stronger, splashing beer onto his shirt. "I love her!" he said suddenly. The next instant his face burnt with hatred and he pushed the mug away sharply. The mug rolled furiously across the table, banged the floor, but didn't break down - its glass was too thick. It spun and rumbled, shooting by with a buzzing noise and splashing the rest of my beer around the floor.
Oleg sobbed, slumped down on his chair and dropped his head on his hands, "I love this bitch!" he repeated.
"How can you?" I asked.
"So I can! Who the hell knows, how?" Oleg breathed in heavily. Then he stood up. "Well, let's go home. We help you, don't worry. Or, you may spend this night at my house. I don't live far from this place."
I stood up too. And found out that I couldn't stand on my own feet, as if I forgot how to do it. My feet were sliding apart. How didn't I take notice of when I got so drunk?