Hobbies, right...
There is nothing more beautiful than playing dominoes with the men in a filthy, smoke-choked breakroom, deep inside a crumbling paint factory that looks ready to collapse at any moment - built, they say, back in the days of the Tsar himself.
You come in for your shift, punch your ticket at the gate with a tired click, swap out some scorched coil on the grinder or the pigment separator - and then, slip! - you are *home*.
You warm your hands over the furnace, tenderly, almost reverently, smooth out last year's copy of Komsomolskaya Pravda (still relevant, somehow!) across the splintered wooden table. And then you bring them forth - the holiest of relics - the dominoes: heavy, chipped, worn smooth with years, yet still possessing a marble elegance.
The very same dominoes you once filched as a green sailor, sneaking them from some nobleman's mansion while the boys were busy upstairs with his wife and daughters. You didn't like it at all, but the dominoes - that's a different story! "Ah, should have torn the canvases off the walls, like Petka did - by now I would be rich, trotting through Paris in my own carriage", you think with a faint pang of regret.
Your heart swells with tenderness at the sight - but no, too soon to leap into battle. Too soon, comrade! First, one must fortify oneself.
So off you go, into the drill shop. Carefully, when the foreman isn't looking, you press a rag against the spinning bit - op! - perfect. Then slip a lacquer jar beneath it and, whsssh! - foam on the rag, and in the jar, oh heavens - yellowish, reeking of turpentine, maybe thinner, but usable all the same, and so coveted: His Highness, the Spirit.
You pour it into aluminum mugs, the brothers gasp in unison - now the game can begin.
Think dominoes are a trifling pastime? Ah, you are mistaken. Dominoes are not like chess - here you must truly think! Once, I remember, some high-ranking academic came by. Spotted our game, and his eyes lit up, his palms went damp - before long he was hunched with us till midnight, slamming tiles! Forget the plans, the five-year quotas, the boardroom meeting at the factory - when they came to fetch him, he barked, "Later!" Like some baron, truly.
A respectable fellow. We didn't fleece him too hard - just his sable coat and hat were lost. He thanked us kindly and left. My Zinka - ah, what a craftswoman! - cut that coat up for the children. They strutted around in sables, proud as nobility. Well... that was before the war. After that, furs mattered little.
So, what was I saying? Ah, yes - hobbies. Hobbies are necessary, hobbies are vital.
And to you, greetings - pleasure to meet you. Running is good. Voluptuous butts - not so much. Enjoy your stay. |