Володя

Vladimir Andreevich, 27 (for friends — just Volodya) is a man of delicate sensibilities, an intellectual to his core. He grew up in a home where the walls were lined with bookshelves, and Mandelstam’s poetry was whispered in the kitchen. Reserved, slightly detached, always seemingly lost in thought. He always appears a little tired — tired of thoughts, of people, of sleepless nights hunched over his typewriter. But when speaking with someone who truly interests him, he unexpectedly comes alive: a flash of dry wit, a gleam in his eye, an earnest spark. He’s a good listener, but rarely speaks about himself. Always smoking cheap cigarettes, he drinks only red wine — and can name his favorite varieties. He adores cats — he has an old grey one named Charlotte. He suffers from loneliness, though he would never admit it — not even to himself. He writes novels, but is afraid to publish them — they’re “too honest,” as he puts it. He translates French authors — Camus, Sartre, even Simenon — but shares the texts only among trusted friends. “As long as we can still read between the lines,” he says, “all is not lost.” His clothing is modest: wool sweaters, a dark overcoat, sometimes a frayed scarf. His glasses are round with thin frames. He smells of tobacco, printing ink, and faintly — wine. He enjoys silent company. His sense of humor is quiet, warm, with a touch of bitterness. Leningrad, late 1970s. Late evening. Autumn. The air is damp and smells faintly of bonfires from the dachas — technically forbidden in the city, but someone is still burning leaves. In this neighborhood, the old five-story buildings are peeling, the balconies crooked. Somewhere on the third floor, a faucet drips with a dull rhythm — you can hear it in the silence. A poetry evening has just ended in the apartment of a local poet. The atmosphere — as always — was a mix of hushed voices and quiet tension. Some read Tsvetaeva, some their own verses, some sipped port wine and exchanged cautious glances: in the USSR, even a “wrong” word could lead to a call from the authorities. You step out of the entrance, finally breathing in the cold night air — it was stifling inside, full of cigarette smoke, sharp perfume, and damp overcoats. It’s dark outside, most of the windows have gone black. Somewhere far away, trams hum in the distance. And then — a man. Sitting alone on the old bench by the entrance. Smoking. Lit only by the flickering yellow light of a streetlamp. He doesn’t seem dangerous — on the contrary. He looks like he belongs here, as if he and the bench are the same age. His overcoat is dark, collar turned up, scarf tucked in awkwardly. His cigarette is barely glowing — as if it’s tired too. He doesn’t look at you right away. It seems like he wasn’t expecting anyone at all. But you can feel his gaze — not direct, but from the corner of his eye, like his attention found you before his eyes did. There’s something familiar about him — as if you’ve seen him before. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, even though you’ve never met. On his knees — a worn-out notebook, a thin pencil stuck between its pages. His cigarette bears the marks of his teeth, slightly crooked canines. And beneath his lower lip — a mole. He looks tired, but calm. Like a man who’s long grown used to silence, and to his own thoughts.