ALONE WITH THE ENEMY Mikhail Samarsky
If you turn Friday into a day for self-examination, you might not even notice the traffic jams.
Veniamin Bagin had been talking to himself for nearly two hours, without worrying that the people in the neighboring cars might think he was mad. These days, talking to yourself is nothing unusual. There are gadgets for everything. Sometimes you see someone walking down the street, apparently chatting away to himself, and then you look more closely and notice an earpiece and a tiny microphone clipped to his shirt.
But Venya's case was different. He had decided to give himself a good talking-to—and a little praise while he was at it.
“Well, brother, congratulations! You've done well. Two weeks is a respectable stretch, though it's hardly enough to say you've kicked the habit for good.”
“Hmph!” snorted his inner voice. “Why all the camouflage? Can't you hear how false it sounds? ‘A bad habit!’” it repeated sarcastically. “Call it what it is: quitting the booze.”
“All right, have it your way,” Veniamin agreed. “Alcohol is alcohol. It doesn't change the point.”
“Oh, but it does,” his inner voice objected. “Alcohol is what ladies drink. And a ‘bad habit’ is what gentlemen have when they enjoy a glass of dry red wine with dinner and smoke a Cuban cigar before bed. What you've got is a drinking problem. You're an insatiable pig. You swill vodka until you black out.”
“Easy!” Venya snapped. “Not swill. Used to swill.”
“We'll see,” his opponent smirked. “However much you puff yourself up, two weeks is nothing.”
“Well, excuse me,” Veniamin said irritably. “For me, it's quite an achievement.”
“Some achievement! What a thing to be proud of!” his inner voice sneered. “Let's see how you're doing in a year, and then we'll add up the results. It's a little early to celebrate.”
Bagin barely noticed when he reached the barrier outside his building. He parked, went up to his apartment, and stepped into the hallway humming a tune. He took off his outdoor clothes and headed straight for the kitchen. But when he opened the door, he started. A man was sitting there, sprawled insolently in Bagin's very own place.
“Who are you?” Veniamin asked, his mouth falling open. “How did you get in here? Who gave you permission to be in my apartment?”
“Venya,” the uninvited guest said with a dreary grin, “have you completely lost your mind? Take a good look.” He waved a hand in front of his own face. “Don't recognize me?”
“Well, your face does look familiar,” Bagin faltered. “But… what are you doing here?”
“Same as you. I couldn't have got here without you. Wherever you go, I go. You were the one who wanted to talk to me. You spent more than two hours chatting with me in the car.”
“So it's you, you bastard!” Veniamin gasped.
“Now, why am I a bastard?” His inner voice shrugged. “We're friends, aren't we?”
“What sort of friend are you? You're a provocateur!” Venya cried in desperation.
“Well, that's a fine thing to say!” The visitor shook his head. “What have I ever done to you, you idiot?”
“Instead of encouraging me, you started whining about how two weeks wasn't long enough, how we'd have to wait and see, and all the rest of it.”
“Don't you get enough hypocrisy at work?” his inner voice countered. “You all smile at one another while you're ready to tear each other's throats out. Do you want me to lie through my teeth as well? Or would you rather hear the truth?”
“Well, I suppose I'd rather hear the truth,” Bagin admitted gloomily. “There's certainly enough dishonesty in life already.”
“There you are!” The man smiled. “There's no need to react so badly to my remarks. Everything's fine, Veniamin! You've held out for two weeks. Splendid. But you do understand the problem, don't you? You can't do without alcohol altogether. Just look how irritable you've become, how quick-tempered. You were rude to the boss today. Good thing you caught yourself in time, or you could have been fired. Why did you stop drinking in the first place? So you wouldn't lose your job. Right?”
“Not just that. I want to get married, start a family, live like a normal person. Do you understand?”
“I do. But you can't go on living with nerves like yours. You need something to settle you down.”
“What are you getting at, you swine?” Veniamin exploded. “What do you mean, ‘settle me down’?”
“Just that it's Friday. You could have a little something… wet your whistle. You're already croaking like a wild boar.”
“But what if I feel awful tomorrow?” Venya wondered aloud.
“Then don't drink too much.” Bagin Number Two smiled. “And even if you overdo it a bit, what's the harm? You've got two days off ahead of you. You can sleep it off, drink some kefir, eat a little sour cream, and recover. Everything will be fine.”
“No,” the first Bagin answered firmly. “Better not start at all.”
“Oh, come on!” The visitor beamed. “Don't buy a big bottle. Just get a quarter-liter…”
“As if you don't know what happens,” Venya said. “Once I've got a little vodka down me, one bottle won't be enough. Especially with a supermarket”—he nodded at the floor—“right downstairs. All the vodka you could ever want! They sell it until eleven.”
“Couldn't we have just one little bottle? You've got some lovely caviar in the fridge, pickled cucumbers, mushrooms. Think about it. That's a magnificent spread to go with a drink! What are you afraid of? With food like that, you won't even have a hangover.”
“You think so?” Venya asked plaintively.
“What's there to think about?” His inner voice spread its hands. “I'm certain. We'll get a little bottle and drink it quietly, calmly, without rushing. Remember how wonderful it feels? You have a drink, and all your troubles fade away. You sit back and enjoy yourself. Switch on the television, watch Yakubovich. It's Friday—Field of Miracles is on. Well? Shall we go?”
“All right, let's go!” Bagin finally agreed. “But just one bottle.”
“Just one, of course, my dear fellow! What would we need two for?”
Bagin went to the coat rack and slowly put on his coat and cap. Then, in a flash, he stripped them off again, flung them into the corner, and returned to the kitchen. His guest followed.
“I've remembered something,” Venya said with a heavy sigh. “The doctor told me that during the first month it's important not even to taste alcohol. Otherwise all the effort will be wasted.”
“Oh, give me a break!” his inner voice giggled. “Why drag the doctor into it? We're not going to tell him anything. He'll never know. Some authority you've found—a doctor! Do you think doctors don't drink? They're always telling people how harmful alcohol is, and then they drink like horses at a watering hole. Come on, be honest. Have you ever met a doctor who didn't drink?”
“Fine, but we're talking about my health now, not alcoholic doctors. Do you understand that?” Bagin Number One raised his voice.
“Don't shout. What could one little bottle possibly do to your health? Are you really that weak?”
“I want to be rid of this shit once and for all!” Venya shouted. “Can you understand that? What are you trying to push me into? I know perfectly well it won't stop with one little bottle! I want to be a free man. Independent!”
“What sort of freedom and independence is that, if you can't even have a drink? You've let some doctor frighten you.”
“Nobody's frightened me,” Veniamin replied, staring at a spot on the floor. “It's not fear. It's willpower.”
“Don't make me laugh, brother. Willpower? What are you talking about? Where's this willpower of yours? On the tip of your tongue? Come on, get up. Let's go to the shop. Feel what it's like to be independent. Why deny yourself a pleasure? You want a drink, don't you? Say it!”
“I do,” Venya admitted with a nod.
“There you are! That's freedom and independence. If you want a drink, pour yourself one and drink it!”
“All right, you've talked me into it,” Veniamin finally agreed. “Let's go.”
Together they left the building and headed for the supermarket entrance. The automatic doors spread open like wings, and out lurched a man, blind drunk, clutching two bottles of vodka.
“Hey, fellas! Want a drink? My treat…”
The man stumbled and fell backward, somehow managing to save both bottles in his hands. Bagin grimaced and stopped. His inner voice gave him a shove in the back.
“Why have you stopped? Come on, brother! Be brave!”
Veniamin entered the supermarket and went straight to the liquor section. He found a quarter-liter bottle of vodka and carried it to the checkout. After paying, he stepped back outside.
The drunken man was still lying in front of the shop. Just then a police car with flashing lights pulled up. Two officers got out, helped the man to his feet, and guided him into the car.
Bagin headed toward his building. Halfway there, a disheveled woman of indeterminate age approached him. She reeked of alcohol.
“Darling,” she said, “could you spare ten rubles? For food.”
“Come on, mother,” Bagin said. “What food? Admit it—you want another drink.”
“Well, a drink's a sacred thing, of course,” she replied, “but I need something to eat, too.”
“I'll buy you some pies.” Veniamin pointed toward a nearby bakery kiosk.
“Will you give me the money instead?” the woman managed to ask.
“No, I won't give you money. You're drunk already. What would happen next?”
His inner voice came back to life.
“Forget this homeless woman. Let's go home. Why are you wasting time on her?”
“Shut up!” Veniamin snapped at him.
“Well, to hell with your pies, then!” the woman laughed insolently. “Eat them yourself, you tightfisted bastard! Miser! Wouldn't even spare a poor woman enough for a drink. To hell with you!”
“I'm telling you, let's go home, have a drink, and relax,” Bagin Number Two droned on.
“I'm a miser?” Bagin cried. “I'm a miser?”
He pulled the bottle from his pocket, raised it high above his head, and shouted, “Look at this!”
Then he smashed it against the asphalt with all his might.
The woman almost fainted.
“What the hell are you doing, man? Are you sick?”
“Yes,” Veniamin said. “I am sick.”
His inner voice froze in amazement. After a few seconds it spoke.
“You've gone mad, my friend!”
“No,” Bagin replied. “I don't want to talk to you anymore. You're not my friend. So please, be quiet. Today I realized that you are my real enemy. You'll destroy me. If you want to become my friend, I insist that you don't speak to me again until the end of the year. That's all.”