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By Dmitry Dobrodeyev
A SAILORS` SHELTER
In the late 70s the port of Novorossiysk in Russia was entered by the cargo ship `Ivan Netchayev`. Sailor Steve Bezrodny (in Russian this family name means `of humble origin, without kith or kin, homeless`. - АП) descended her gangway. After the customs examination he made for the city. Where to go to in the city for a sailor? To the sailors` shelter!
The sailors` shelter `House for sailors` was a place where homeless sailors lived between sea voyages and, like all such facilities, it was a bug-infested building with a several dozens of tringles - the single rooms for three sailors each, with squeaky beds on the metal springs, meagre pillows, smudged bedsheets and bedside tables without handles. The local community that lived there consisted of the heavy smokers, drinkers, foul-mouths and dirty fellas.
Steve was unusually lucky that time, he had no roommates in his cabin #5. He took off his striped vest of a sailor carefully, `cuz there were 14 reels of the labels of the world`s brands wound around his full-muscled trunk. The local clandestine undertakers stuck them onto the consumer goods of their own production, mainly T-shirts and the jeans.
Steve switched on his cassette tape recorder bought abroad, pulled out a bottle of the red portwein and drank it straight from the bottle. At last he felt that everything was at their right places, he is on land, the big city rumbles behind the open window, it`s high time to enjoy the life.
After feeling in his pockets with money, he went outdoors to spend time over drinks in the bar of the nearest glass-faced restaurant.
He was called by a girl in the street, a slender and must be stylish one once she wore the caproic raincoat.
-Have you got a butt?
Having bought a bag of liquors, he and the girl, a prostitute Mama-san, came back to the sailors` shelter. Then followed drinking, disjointed accounts and a squeal of bedsprings.
The sailor was too drunk and could not finish, he`d been tormenting the body of the permanent girlfriend of all the ocean-going sailors in the shelter for more than an hour. After that they were lying in the bed beside each other and smoking cheap stinky cigarettes. Inside of the full-muscled trunk of the sailor there arose an emotion similar to tenderness. He said, `Wait, I`ll be back!`
Having pulled out more money from his bag, Bezrodny stepped downstairs and went to the street. There was darkness outside. He could find out no portwein and therefore he bought vodka from a taxi-driver. After that he came back to the cabin #5. There was none inside, he saw only rumpled bedsheets and cigarette ends. Where`s on earth is Mama-san? He pushed the door of the next cabin and saw the girl in the arms of Gaziyev, the sailor of the Caucasus origin from the ferry `Semyon Veseliy`.
-Stand from under!
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While pressing the pillow to his belly Gaziyev ran out of the cabin.
Being beside himself with a rage Bezrodniy squeezed the neck of Mama-san with his hands. When he came to his senses, he exclaimed:
-Hey, what is with you? Just say something, I beg you!
But the girl kept silence. The strong arms of the sailor covered with tattooes moved and bent the dead body in vain. The sailor couldn`t stop blinking all that time.
There were only a bar of chocolate and spare knickers in her plastic bag.
Bezrodniy opened the window wide, mechanically lit the cigarette and having thrown back his head howled to the Moon as a wolf.
THE END
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