Starting a new life. Opening a new page. To begin everything anew—from a clean slate. Differently, humanly. So that there is enough to live on at home. So that his beloved wife does not have to choose between buying fruit for their child or paying the rent.
The train car swayed and jolted rhythmically. About a hundred kilometers remained until Moscow. The heat was unbearable—outside the train window, the scorching summer passed by. And the sun, as if on purpose, mercilessly invaded the compartment with its rays precisely on the side where Aslanbek sat.
1.
Packing his things? But what did Aslanbek have with him? All his belongings unpacked on the train consisted of the remnants of food his beautiful beloved wife Leyla had given him. A plastic bottle from a cheap and overly sweet lemonade.
Aslan unscrewed the cap and took a few more sips. Outside the window, the scenery of scorched earth—the aftermath of forest fires—passed by. He had heard something about them in the news back home. But he could never have imagined it like this. It seemed as if a war had passed nearby. Scattered blackened charred logs. Bare earth. In rare places, grass broke through the gray ash. A new life, Aslanbek thought. Things should get better for him too. Everything will be fine.
Misfortune had also played a fateful role in his destiny. A neighbor had died. This winter, while working in Moscow, he fell from a roof while clearing snow. He left behind three children—everyone in their hometown had large families. And when it came to arranging the transport of the body, they called him, Aslanbek. Because the neighbors didn’t have a phone. It was then, solving all these issues, that he met Valera. A fateful coincidence. And also—Aslanbek himself didn’t know how, but he found the courage to ask if there was any work for him too. Valera promised to think about it, and a couple of weeks ago, he called.
Gradually, the scene of the fire outside changed to summer cottages. Wooden birdhouses built before the country turned into what it is now. Here and there, people hunched over their gardens. Just like back home, thought Aslanbek.
He took a few more sips of the sweet soda and thought that it was enough since drinking it made him even thirstier. With nothing else to do, he started packing. He placed several small bags, the ones left from the food his wife had given him for the journey, into one large bag. After a moment’s thought, he also put the unfinished bottle of soda there. He took out his travel bag and placed it next to him. Nothing heavy: another pair of pants for work, a couple of T-shirts, and a windbreaker in case it got cold. And old sneakers he didn’t mind getting ruined. That was basically everything he had with him.
Before leaving for Moscow, he had to borrow money from acquaintances for the ticket. He left everything he could with his wife and child. And now, a new life awaited him—for their sake and his own happiness.
Everything will be fine, he reassured himself. Aslanbek was born in a small town in a large family. And now, having gotten married and with his first daughter born, he believed that soon everything would get better. When he returned, he would have money. And his home would eventually be filled with the same joyous children’s laughter that he remembered from his childhood in his parents’ house, where he grew up. For this future, he boarded this train…
Aslanbek looked out the window, lost in thought. It seemed like just now—he was hugging his wife, holding his little daughter, Aygul. Saying goodbye to them. And heading to the station. Neither of them wanted to let him go. And two-year-old Aygul even tried to run after him.
Meanwhile, as the train approached the city, life outside the window was improving. It became richer and even luxurious. Gradually, huge brick mansion-like houses appeared. Like a layer cake, Aslan thought. Such a huge contrast—devastation nearby and these buildings here. He wondered what lay ahead.
After a while, the suburban buildings were replaced by block high-rises lined up like a row of soldiers—poor but uniform—on both sides of the train. The only difference between them was the various ways the balconies were glazed, making them look even more pitiful.
For a moment, it grew dim in the train—it had ducked under a wide tunnel of the MKAD bridge and entered Moscow. As they approached the center, the surrounding world transformed. It seemed the buildings grew taller. Advertising signs flashed by.
The passengers in the train became livelier, sensing the imminent arrival. Aslanbek didn’t remain indifferent—he had been holding his well-worn travel bag next to him for fifteen minutes already. The number of railway tracks around increased more and more. Endless rows of stationary cars—postal, freight, passenger—stretched on the right. The train slowed down, passing numerous switches. Finally, it came to a complete stop, hitting the bumper post at the end of the line.
2.
It was only now that Aslanbek truly began to get nervous—what if no one came to meet him? After all, he had never seen Valery. They had only spoken on the phone a few times. Where would he go if things went wrong? He had no money for the return journey. Nowhere to live, and nothing to live on if things went wrong. Where would he go if things went wrong?
But everything turned out well—as soon as he stepped out of the train car, a broad-shouldered man of about thirty-five approached him.
– “Aslanbek, is that you? I’m Valera!”
– “Hello…”
– “Let’s switch to informal speech right away, alright? You described yourself perfectly on the phone—I recognized you immediately.”
Aslanbek and Valera left the platform, descended into an underground passage to cross to the other side of the station square. Aslanbek was dazzled. He had never seen such a crowd of people and stalls with all sorts of cheap Chinese trinkets gathered in one place. Watches, glasses, rags, souvenirs, toys. His eyes blurred.
They exited the other side of the tunnel and went to another station—Yaroslavsky. Aslanbek knew that he was going to work on the construction of a suburban house. They bought tickets and passed through the turnstiles to the commuter train. The needed train arrived quickly. They sat by the window, and the houses of the big city flashed by once again. About half an hour later, the train ducked under a wide bridge of the ring road—and they left Moscow.
Aslanbek already understood that the people around him were as simple as he was. Those who lived outside the city. Maybe many of them spent a third of their lives on the road—in such a commuter train. Indeed, this city was a layered cake, with a sweet filling in the middle. And a harsh, and sometimes literally burnt, crust on the edges.
When they arrived, it was already evening. They got off at a station lined with blue tiles. And descended into a dirty and smelly underpass beneath the railroad tracks. Then the road went through a pine forest, dotted here and there with random brick buildings. Anything goes, thought Aslanbek. But the owners of these houses, unlike their taste, do have money, so it’s probably possible to live here. Even on his way to Moscow in his compartment, he had already assessed that Moscow and the Moscow region were endlessly being built. Which meant there was work here. And anyone who wasn’t afraid of hard work would definitely find a job. Would feed his family. Would live decently.
About fifteen minutes later, Valera led Aslanbek to a newly erected green fence. Just behind the gate stood their construction trailer. And a bit further ahead—a house under construction. About one and a half floors were completed.
– “Well, here is where we live and work. What do you think?”
– “Great! When do I start?”
– “Rest today. Tomorrow we’ll start. For starters, you’ll be a laborer—we need hands to pass bricks, mix mortar. Can you handle it?”
– “Of course!”
– “Then let’s go, I’ll introduce you to our guys.”
They entered the living quarters. In the foreground was a homemade table, knocked together from boards. Two men sat behind it, and a third lay with his head almost in his plate.
– “How’s it going here? Everyone, meet Aslanbek.”
– “Welcome! I’m Tolya, this is Sergey. And this is Andrey Viktorovich, but he’s already asleep.”
Later, Aslanbek learned that Andrey Viktorovich was their neighbor. Once a respectable person, a director of a large Moscow store. Now retired. His wife didn’t particularly welcome him because of his frequent drinking. So he came here—to sit quietly without her with the simple workers. To talk about life.
Also in the room were Lenya and Rinat, but they didn’t drink, so they sat aside. In total, there were five in the crew, not counting Valera. But Valera had to go out often for materials, to talk to the owner.
Aslanbek was invited to the modest table. They gave him a plate and served him pasta with stew—what they had. They offered him a drink, but Aslanbek refused. Because he was tired from the journey, but most importantly, he didn’t want Valera to think he drank. Instead, he gladly poured himself some tea.
The evening flew by in conversations about where everyone was from. Aslanbek learned that his co-workers were just like him. Almost all had wives and children. Who stayed at home, like his beloved Leyla and little Aygul. That everyone tried to send them what they earned. And today’s small celebration was arranged by Andrey Viktorovich. Who had nowhere else to go, so he brought his bottle. But even he didn’t stay long—with his wife coming to take him home, scolding him along the way, around seven o’clock.
Everyone went to bed early, as the next day was a regular workday. They showed Aslanbek his bed—a rusty iron bunk that appeared here from who knows where.
Aslanbek lay down. When everything quieted down, he felt truly sad. How was his beloved Leyla? More than anything in the world, he would like to go to her now and hold her close. To feel her body through her velvet robe. And then—to love her all night.
And how was his little two-year-old beauty Aygul without him?.. She was probably already put to bed. And now, sprawled out, she was fast asleep, having long pushed away her pillow with her tiny hand…
3.
The new day started early, as it did for many who earned their bread through hard work. Washing up with cold water from a miracle-surviving, rusty, and leaking garden faucet. A quick breakfast of leftovers from dinner. And then to work.
Valera gathered his things and went off to buy bricks. The previous morning, they had calculated with the owner that they were clearly short. Anatoly and Lenya were the bricklayers. Sergey, Rinat, and Aslanbek were assigned as laborers. A small cement mixer started up, whirling a mix of sifted sand and cement.
Aslanbek prepared the mortar and, along with Sergey, carried it in a barrow to Anatoly, who was doing the bricklaying. On the other side of the building, Rinat and Lenya were doing the same. So from both sides at once, step by step, brick by brick—the house was growing. The sun was scorching, and perhaps that was what made them work quickly: they wanted to take advantage of the good weather. Despite any construction intricacies, it was better to work in the heat than in a drizzling rain.
The day dragged on slowly. Row by row, minute by minute, brick by brick. And time and space were also divided into parts: every now and then, a brick needed to be split and a quarter, half, or three-quarters of it handed over. For this purpose, a piece of sturdy steel corner was fixed aside to break the bricks against.
Anatoly turned out to be a philosopher and said about this, “Just like in the Bible: a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them. And for us—a time to break them!”
About once an hour, the workers took a break to smoke. And even then, only in turns—either it was time for Aslanbek, Lenya, and Sergey to prepare a new mix or bring more bricks, or they could smoke when everything was ready, and the bricklayers Rinat and Lenya were doing their job.
Lunch time came only at five in the evening—it was too bad to waste time before that. Such good days for a builder, as they had then, were a great fortune. On the improvised kitchen, they boiled water. Brewed “plastic” Chinese noodles. There was plenty of bread. They ate almost silently—because everyone was too tired for small talk. As luck would have it, Valery arrived with the construction client in the middle of lunch. Following them was a huge truck loaded with bricks. There was no crane—the owner had economized on that. What could be cheaper than the labor of migrant workers?
Everyone except the owner stood in a line and began unloading, passing bricks from one to the other. They had to be quite dexterous because the client stood nearby, smoking and swearing at each brick that fell and broke.
– “Don’t worry so much, Viktor Nikolaevich, halves are also needed,” Valera reassured him each time.
“That Viktor Nikolaevich is a bastard,” thought Aslanbek.
When the truck was half empty, depending on how you looked at it, because it was still half full, another problem arose. The owner walked around the construction site with a leisurely gait, and his picky eye did not miss that the bricks slightly, but still, differed in shade from those used earlier.
– “Damn it! You bought the wrong bricks! Let’s load them back up!”
At that moment, the workers had one desire—to cement him right there. For a good hour, the usually calm Valera, losing his temper, explained that different batches would still differ from each other. That for the color to match completely, they should have bought it all at once, not in two rounds. No arguments worked.
– “Alright, Viktor Nikolaevich, let’s say we load the truck back up. We get to the warehouse. There still definitely won’t be the same shade as yours. And then what? You’ll just pay twice for delivery—the truck won’t go back and forth for free. We’ll load and unload it. What else can we do? But you’ll pay twice…”
– “Fine, damn you,” greed, not reason, finally prevailed.
Only by eight o’clock was the job done. The truck driver was let go. Reluctantly, Viktor Nikolaevich paid for the unloading—by their agreement, it was paid separately. Then, for another half hour, they decided where to place the bricks that differed from the rest, on which side of the house it would be less noticeable. And the owner left.
The workday ended. Hands and feet ached from fatigue. Blisters formed on the palms. But Aslanbek knew: today he earned his first money in this city. It was hard, but it was possible to live.
As was customary in the crew, part of the common earnings went to common needs, like food and other essentials. Everything was arranged very simply: they worked together. Lived in one house, which served as their construction trailer. They had one old refrigerator where they kept food when they had it. Anyone could take as much as they needed, remembering the others. No one forced anyone to do anything. As Aslanbek later learned, those who didn’t accept these simple principles of life were simply cast out. Or rather, no one drove them away—they just couldn’t live without the support of their comrades in such a society. So, they had no choice and left on their own.
– “We had one guy here once,” Sergey told him once. “The owner delayed payment. There was nothing to eat, we made scrambled eggs—one egg each. We put the pan on the table. And he started wolfing down half the pan in one go. We didn’t say anything to him. Just when it came time to carry bricks, we took the barrow. And he was told to lift them to the second floor without it—if you eat for two, you work for two! In short, some people don’t want to do anything but want to make as much money as possible, and easier, at the expense of people like them, at our expense. So we parted ways. Though no one drove him away—he left on his own. Seems he turned to banditry—maybe he’s in jail already.”
A sad story, thought Aslanbek. But it had little to do with him—he came here to work. To send something home to his beloved wife and daughter.
After work, two of them went to the store for groceries. But there was a trick to this. Exactly at this time, at the end of the working day, other people also gathered at the local store to earn money. In uniforms. Naturally, almost none of the workers had proper registration. So they were already waiting—to fleece them. And if they were very lucky, to squeeze something out of the construction owner as well.
This time, Anatoly volunteered to go and took Aslanbek with him. Fifteen minutes later, they were there—about fifty meters away stood a shabby one-story house, obviously built back in Soviet times, but decorated with bright signs of our century. A police UAZ—white with blue stripes—was parked nearby. Anatoly and Aslanbek decided not to take the risk, deciding to wait on the side by the roadside. And they were right. Two policemen came out of the store, escorting two newcomers, obviously construction workers by their clothes. They put them in the car. Next, a third officer emerged from the door with a suspiciously jingling bag. And they all left together.
– “Well, not us this time,” Anatoly noted indifferently.
– “And what would have happened if they stopped us?”
– “We’d pay and go on. These guys probably had little money on them. It happens…”
The shopping was simple. A few loaves of bread. Plastic soup. A dozen eggs. With some money they had managed to earn, a bit of the cheapest sausage. It was clear that Anatoly wouldn’t have minded buying something to drink—but he didn’t because tomorrow he had a tough workday ahead.
Dinner passed quickly. Everyone was tired. Valera asked Aslanbek how he was doing.
– “Everything’s fine. This is what I expected.”
When Aslanbek lay down in bed, he had no strength left even to think. He just fell asleep.
4.
The routine settled in. They woke up in the morning and built. They had lunch and built again. In the evening, they ate dinner and collapsed from exhaustion. There were no weekends. No holidays either. Nearly a month passed this way. The house was almost finished to the roof. The time for settlement had come. Any day now, the owner was supposed to bring in another crew, specializing in roofing.
Then one day, a police van pulled up to the house in the middle of the day. Two officers—a lieutenant and a sergeant—stepped out. They knocked insistently on the gate. There was no point in not opening it. Inside the fence, work was in full swing.
– “Prepare your documents! Registration, work permits?”
Aslanbek already knew that to work in this country, one needed a permit from those who didn’t actually want to work themselves. But hiding was pointless. Everyone had passports. Registration was worse; only two had it. Two others were Russian citizens. But they knew even that didn’t give them the right to move freely within their own country. And work permits cost money, so no one had them. The simple men also understood the absurdity of needing a paper to sell their labor.
– “Alright, quickly grab your things and get out,” commanded the lieutenant. For some unknown reason, the sergeant almost helped them pack their bags, fortunately, they didn’t have much stuff. It seemed they would come back here anyway.
But arguing was pointless, so all six of them loaded into the van and headed to the local station. They were met by a cage installed in the corner opposite the duty officer, popularly called the monkey cage. A shabby bench and walls. Stale air.
After a more thorough check, a few hours later, they released Valera—he was the only one with all his documents in order. Leaving, he promised to contact the owner and sort everything out. Surely the owner wouldn’t leave them there, especially when they had already finished all their work on his site.
They were released in the morning. Valera met them at the entrance. It seemed he had sorted everything out by paying a ransom. But for the first time, Aslanbek noticed, Valera’s face was blank.
– “I couldn’t reach Viktor Nikolaevich. He’s nowhere to be found. And the house is locked. Even our trailer and the gate—I had to climb over the fence… Maybe something happened to him…”
There was nothing they could do and nowhere to go. But even in this situation, Valera knew what to do. He led his crew to some acquaintances who lived and worked just one station away. True, they had to walk because, after the police visit, none of them had any money. Except for a few coins, which were better kept—just in case. Because none of them knew what would happen next.
5.
When they arrived, they were met by the same kind of men who had come from all over the country and beyond. Anatoly remarked to Aslanbek, “Nothing surprising because Russia, at least the building part, is divided into two categories: crews like ours, which were called different things at different times. Sometimes gangs, sometimes communes. One thing is certain, almost everything around us is built by their hands. The other category is those who are used to hiring and commanding. To robbing and writing their rules and laws so that they themselves don’t have to do anything, damn them!”
Their colleagues fed them what they could. They provided a place—cramped, but no offense, as they say. Of course, it was all temporary, but everyone understood that they could find themselves in a similar situation.
– “Does this happen often?” Aslan asked his comrades.
– “Just at the beginning of the summer, we worked for a whole month. Everything seemed to be going well—we poured the foundation, started building,” explained Valera. “The owner looked respectable, important, like a minister. Then, just like that, the police came, sealed everything they could—including our trailer. Turns out, they arrested him. For bribes. They say they caught him red-handed. But really, what’s surprising? Where else would a normal person get money for such construction?”
– “I wonder how he’s doing there, such an important person, in the slammer,” Sergey snickered.
– “They probably have their own prisons and camps—for officials. They won’t put each other in general cells. They’re the same—they could get caught too. Their state is run by officials,” Valera cut him off.
Long days of another life began. Because there was no work for a while. Every day, either all together or in groups, they walked around the village offering their services. Orders were sparse and, as a rule, temporary—one, maybe two days at most. Digging here, doing something there. In short, the heaviest and least interesting work.
Valera was genuinely worried about Viktor Nikolaevich—he didn’t wish him harm. Besides, there was still hope that they would be paid at least something for the work they had done. And then one evening, Valera came in completely furious.
– “I found out where that bastard went!” he blurted out from the doorway.
– “Where? Did the cops take him too?”
– “As if! Turns out, he’s a cop himself!”
Now everything fell into place. There was absolutely nothing they could do. What happened was a common setup to avoid paying them. They were picked up that evening by his colleagues. Everyone was silent because there were no words.
6.
Valera got lucky. An old acquaintance called him and offered a job. There were no other offers, so Valera moved to the city to work on an apartment renovation. He decided to take Aslanbek with him—because he was the hardest worker and also because Aslanbek was the most silent and willing to endure anything just to send money to his family, his beloved wife, and daughter.
The preparations were quick. They loaded the rusty beige pickup with a tool bag and a couple of travel bags with their belongings.
Aslanbek experienced traffic jams for the first time. He had never seen such a flow of cars that seemed to stand still for hours on the road to Moscow. The trip took at least a quarter of a day, even though they left early.
They were met by Oleg, a young entrepreneur and an old friend of Valera. They entered a modest and very small, cramped two-room apartment. It was evident that Oleg had inherited it—there hadn’t been any renovations for at least twenty years. Old Soviet wallpaper, a peeling ceiling, and a cast-iron bathtub covered in rust stains, with some chipped tiles.
“Well, Valer, how long will it take to get everything in order?”
“Let’s put it this way, Oleg, I’ve known you for a long time, so I won’t beat around the bush. I could promise a cosmetic renovation in a month, but realistically it will still take about two.”
“Valer, can you finish in two months? My wife is due to give birth in three months. I’d like to bring her home to a renovated apartment. And to let the paint smell dissipate, you know…”
“We’ll definitely finish in two.”
“Excellent. Then we’ll stay with my mother-in-law for now. But it’s not easy, so we really need to finish on time.”
They agreed on the terms and decided to start tomorrow, heading out today to buy materials to begin work quickly. Valera and Oleg left for supplies, while Aslanbek was tasked with moving the old furniture to the center of the rooms and covering it with pre-prepared plastic.
Aslanbek finished quickly—about an hour. With nothing else to do, he approached the window. Outside, life was bustling: a seemingly endless stream of cars, mostly gray and black and clearly not cheap, moved slowly. People in bright clothes hurried along the sidewalks. “I wonder what they’re all doing in the middle of a workday,” Aslanbek thought. A green park stretched out nearby, with couples in love and simple loafers sipping beer on the benches. Further away, workers were repairing the sidewalk—another crew like Valera’s. Truly, everything here was built and created by people like us, Aslanbek thought.
There was a knock at the door. It was Valera and Oleg. They brought a whole truckload of materials. The evening was busy with unloading and carrying everything up to the third floor. But they got some money right away—Oleg paid for the unloading and carrying.
Late in the night, Oleg left after giving final instructions. Valera and Aslanbek went to the store to buy some food. They had very little money—they both wanted to send at least something home. So they bought the bare minimum.
To Aslan’s surprise, the store in the evening had a whole line of workers like them. Everyone’s choices were almost the same: many loaves of bread, the cheapest sausage for those who were lucky and doing well, plastic Chinese soups, cheap pasta, and similar items.
“Aslanbek, be careful. This is Moscow,” Valera said on the way home, “there are plenty of Nazis, or whatever they’re called, skinheads. I’m Russian, they don’t bother me. But it’s clear you’re not from around here. If you see them, avoid them—our guys have had problems. Especially don’t get involved if they’re in a group—they’re real beasts. They only roam in packs because they’re cowards alone. You know, any worker can handle a thug who’s never held anything but a can of booze. But unfortunately, they act quiet when alone… and the cops don’t bother them much, unlike us.”
“What did we do to them here? We come, work, build…”
“Exactly. They don’t want to work themselves. They should attack the dealers who bring us here. The owners of utility companies who hire migrants to pay less. Or someone like Viktor Nikolaevich. It’s because of people like him that someone ends up in a desperate situation and turns to crime…”
“People are different… I think there are bad apples among Muscovites and among us. Everywhere…”
Tired, they quickly ate and lay down to sleep on the remaining furniture—a torn old sofa and a separate mattress, probably left by the previous apartment owners.
For many nights, as he fell asleep, Aslanbek saw his beloved wife and daughter. How are they? When will he see them? Worrying thoughts wouldn’t leave him. Only deadly fatigue made him fall asleep each time because a new hard-working day awaited him in the morning.
As Oleg asked, they started from the farthest room in the morning. Work went well, and soon the walls throughout the apartment were stripped of old wallpaper. Valera, being more experienced, did the final plastering of the walls, while Aslanbek did the preliminary work.
Within a few days, the ceiling was covered with guides for a drywall ceiling. By the end of the week, the first of the two rooms was almost finished.
A bolt from the blue struck when Oleg unexpectedly arrived.
“Valera, Aslanbek, I have problems.”
“What happened?”
“You see, I have a small printing company. Only five employees—we print business cards, brochures, leaflets. And now the tax office is after us. I have no idea why. Maybe we printed something the authorities didn’t like, or something else—I don’t know. It’s clear they can find fault with anything. Our system is set up so that if you pay all the taxes, including all these damn funds, nothing is left. The system is such that not everyone pays, only those who get caught. I guess I got unlucky.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Valera, I’m an honest man, I can’t not pay you and Aslanbek, I’m not used to that. It seems my business is at least temporarily over. So let’s stop where we are, and I’ll settle up with you. Then we’ll see. I don’t know if I can pay later.”
“Oleg, if needed, we can wait…”
“It’s not like you don’t know, Valera, that half of the money I received went for rent for our office and location. Now I have nothing to pay those parasites who do nothing but lease spaces. I always wondered what connections you need in the government to get your own place…”
Valera, of course, knew how business worked. Any store owner was not a businessman but a poor soul working like them, giving most of their income to officials and their relatives. Any construction company was nothing until they got government contracts through bribes, which they didn’t even have to fulfill.
But this didn’t change the situation: everything came to an end. The work was over. They were lucky that Oleg, an old acquaintance, was a decent man and paid them for what they’d done.
They had one day to pack. Valera decided to return home to his native city. Aslanbek, this time, decided to change professions. He had visited the store several times and met his fellow countrymen working there in a utility company as janitors. The pay would be less than in construction, but at least it was something.
The farewell was brief. There was no conversation that evening. Valera simply drank. He hadn’t done that in years. But his good nature and patience had finally run out.
“What a rotten country,” he kept saying, “you work all your life, do good for people, and all for what? To die in complete poverty. I have a son and a daughter. What awaits them? The same thing. Absolutely the same.”
“It’s like this everywhere,” Aslanbek tried to calm him, “there’s probably no place yet where you can live normally. At home, it’s even worse. No jobs, no money. Nothing to feed the family.”
In the morning, Valery left for the train station to leave this strange and cruel city, even if only for a while. It didn’t matter how—by train, if there were tickets, or by intercity bus. Home, where his family awaited him. To rest a bit, to start again. In an endless cycle. Valera knew, he felt he was a hamster on a wheel, unable to break free. Unless something happened on a national or even planetary scale.
7.
Autumn covered the city with yellow leaves. They were everywhere, a sea of them. People littered the streets with cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and everything else. Everything cleaned up in the morning could be cleaned again by evening. Step by step, sweep by sweep, Aslanbek cleared his assigned area. In these moments, when his hands worked like a pendulum, his mind either shut off or he had time to think about his own life.
For two months now, Aslanbek had been coming to this street from a musty room in a vacated house where local utility services housed migrant workers. They paid little, but if you lived frugally, you could send at least something to your family.
The broom smoothly slid across the asphalt, gathering piles of autumn leaves and other debris. “How are my beloved Leyla and little Aigul? Did they get the last transfer? Do they have enough to buy food? I wonder if the baby has grown, if she remembers me,” Aslanbek thought.
The work was simple and monotonous, allowing him to immerse in pleasant memories, dream of home, recall his childhood, and think of his beloved family.
Suddenly
, a sharp shout brought Aslanbek back to reality:
“What are you doing here, you scum?! Why the hell did you come here?”
The best option would have been to run, but there was nowhere to retreat: he was surrounded by young men in sportswear, jackets, and military boots. None of them looked strong or even sturdy, but as Valera had warned, they were in a pack.
“What did I do to you? If you want, work here yourselves! Your officials and bosses bring us here, blame them!” Aslanbek tried to explain.
But they didn’t listen. The next moment, he was kicked in the thigh—not too hard, but the kind of kick martial arts enthusiasts try to perfect in their yard.
Aslanbek took his last chance—he punched the nearest one in the jaw and tried to break out of the closing circle. But it seemed the attackers expected this and pounced on him from all sides, hindering each other.
Sharp pain pierced Aslanbek’s right side below his ribs. The next moment, he heard a panicked shout from one of them:
“You cut him!”
“Let’s get out of here!”
They vanished into the courtyards as suddenly as they had appeared. Aslanbek was losing strength. He put his right hand inside his jacket, pulled it out—it was covered in blood. Gradually, Aslanbek sank to the ground. Everything blurred around him.
Everyone knows they will die someday. Maybe deep down they believe there is something after death. Many believe in God, thinking that in their final moment, a saint or angel will descend to support them and lead them away.
Aslanbek’s head dropped onto the cold, scratchy asphalt. He did not see the Almighty. In his final moment, a little girl ran towards him—his two-year-old beautiful Aigul. She stretched out her tiny hands and softly whispered as only children learning to speak can, quietly and gently, with a breathy tone: “Daddy!..” “Daddy…”
Aleksei Sukhoverkhov (c)
