A New Year story

It was 4 p.m. The sky had already got dark, but the snow was still glistening in the moon light. Snowflakes were raising from the asphalt, and little by little, spinning in the street lamp’s light, were vanishing in the sky. The cars, lining in the big traffic jam, were humming in the town. Citizens were freezing with cold on the stop station, waiting for their transport. And stray cats had long ago corrupted the trash can in front of the big supermarket, hoping to find some leftovers. The vibrant light of the garlands had already been gleaming in the windows of the many-storied anthills. Somewhere it was blue, somewhere red, and somewhere it was flickering with rainbow color. In one of such flats (if it could be named a flat, rather a place, where the human life was registered), a simple light was on. The lamp had for a long time been reminding by its gleaming, that it should be changed, but the owner was always ignoring this imaginary problem. There was a smell of coffee grounds, cheap noodles and a cat forage in the flat. Only a shabby Hofmann’s book and a cheap mayonnaise, generously poured on the hot noodles, created at least an expression of a New Year atmosphere in this apartment. Fenir Ergibaev, whose real name was Vladimir Germanovich Lopuchov, was sitting at his desk, glaring with a hate at his laptop. On the table, except his electronic friend, was also Fenir’s favorite mug, which had already been covered with a tea plaque and had a kind inscription written on it: “To the best author of 2016 from Rubki”, and a small book, which had a hero, created from a passionate love of an orc and an elf on the cover. The single book, which he had written, and the one, that was feeding his insatiable desire to continue his creation work. Lopuchov’s face was flashing. For how many days he was sitting at his work place, while all his made-up lines went to nothing, as the author considered them to be a total balderdash. The editors required new stories, but he only postponed, saying: The inspiration is a guileful thing, and during New Year it’s flying away to the Drunkenland. And like any man, it needs time to be recovered. Lopuchov wasn’t a poor, who worked for half-kopeck coins. He was from a cultured family. All were creative people, who even got famous all-round the country, but only for a blink of time. Now Volodia was alone. And step by step he was going down from the middle-class to poverty. Whatever he did, it was a great success, but only at start. Then he was getting bored and switched to another one. The writing was one of such things. Lopuchov got a nice education and was well-read, as he had done nothing but reading lately, so his speech was wise but blank, and all his thoughts were gradually turning into the mess, from which nothing good could appear. And even now. He had written some thoughts in the decrepit computer, waiting to put it all together. But words didn’t want to form even phrases, so Volodia gave up, closed his laptop and went outside. The new Year was coming. And he had nor delicious food, nor family, neither inspiration. Lopuchov felt as if everything inside of him was filled with emptiness. Even the humming of the city couldn’t suppress his depressive thoughts. He didn’t care for anything, just to find an inspiration, then he would write a story, which would bring him enough money, and after it he would handle it. The entire route to find an inspiration took twenty minutes — from home to a shop, from a shop and then wherever. After buying a bottle of cheap champagne on the last money, he went wandering around the dark town. The street lamps weren’t only lightening the snowy road, but an enchantingly-unpleasant Lopuchov’s physiognomy. His greasy hair was fluttering from a strong wind. Sitting on a bench and opening the bottle, he began greedily swallowing the liquid. Suddenly a stranger with a short white beard came up to him, wearing a cap for eight-year-old children and an old leather coat. According to his state and his clothes one could deduce, that a real hobo was sitting next to Lopuchov. “Your friends don’t share with you?” Snarled the man, while corking up the bottle in the emphatic manner. " What do you want? I’ll put it straight: I don’t have money, everything is on the credit card. If you want to robber, do it, I have nothing anyway.” “Oh, brother,” The voice of the hobo became a little bit sober, and was filled with some interest. “Are you tired of life? Well, it’s not something new. Now everyone is tired of it.” “Yeah, even I. It seems, as if the life has left me to the mercy of the fate, I can’t write a story, nor build a relationship…” “It’s useless to complain,” Said the homeless. “I don’t complain, just establish.” “If you didn’t complain, you would be sitting at home, drinking with your boon companion at least.” “Grandpa, do you know the most or what? I don’t just drink; I receive… An energy, " Even during the conversation his thoughts began to form a mess, coming out as an utter nonsense. “So under my bridge are just Buddhas in person, " Grunted the man. “Well, one shouldn’t be sad on New Year’s Eve. Even if everything is bad, you should always look for something positive. For example, me: you refused to share a bottle. And what I do? It won’t do me any harm, even do some good. I’ll cure my body from alcohol, so it means I’ll have all chances to live through this New Year.' “Sounds depressing,” Vladimir noted. “But truthful. Or for example, you can’t do something, it means God saves you for more important things. If the important would be painful, it means, that the happiness would double in the end.” “And what your happiness will do to me? It won’t give me money.” “Or it will. The most important is to believe in miracles.” “Yeah, yeah, of course…” “Don’t doubt. I’ll tell you as an experienced person, everything in this life doesn’t happen just by occasion. Everything happens thanks to a miracle. Even your drink, gurgling in the stomach, will bring something new and useful.” “Diarrhea?” “You’ll see. My task is only to guide. Um, yeah. What a pity, that people don’t understand: for the ones who believe in miracles… The fairy tale is never over. But I hope, at least you’ll understand.” With these words the beard man got up and went in the unknown direction. After a few minutes he disappeared completely, as if he hadn’t been there at all. The hobo’s words suddenly find its place it the mind of the listless author. Miracle happens to everyone. And only in Russia this rule applies to everything, even to objects. But anyway a small sprout of the new plot was growing in the author’s head. He’ll make up a story about a drunkard, who decided to follow the way of Don Quixote and gradually find a life philosophy. He decided to take home by bus, as his frozen half-drunken legs refused to pull him somewhere. He wanted to get up on the count of three, but he felt as if everything got heavy inside. The look was slowly moving along the dirty urban snow, heavy coats, passing by cars. He didn’t even notice his eyes began to close, and after that Lopuchov felt asleep. He awoke in some strange flat. It wasn’t his house. It smelled different. And the atmosphere was much nicer that in his apartment. Lopuchov thought for a second, he had died. He heard a noise. Turning his head, he saw someone’s fluffy muzzle at the door. It was samoyed. The dog was steeping with his paws on the clean floor, coming to Volodia and began licking his unshaved face. Lopuchov shrieked back at once. “Oh, you’re finally awake. I’ve thought to pick up a corpse,” After that he heard a light laugh, as if the bells were ringing. After opening his eyes completely, he saw a girl in front of him. She couldn’t be called a beauty, her hair was messy, and she wore a gray sweater, pajama’s pants and slippers, which looked like Cheburashka. “Where am I?” The only phrase Lopuchov could say. “Don’t worry! You’re in my flat. I was going home from work, and saw you falling down from a bench. I thought, you didn’t feel well, so I brought you here.” “And why you didn’t call the ambulance?” “It’s practically impossible. Especially during the period when people blow the petards and put fingers into the bottles.” “Agree, that’s a reason.” “By the way, I’m Zhenya,” The girl said. “Volodia.” “Nice to meet you, Vladimir, how do you feel?” “Pretty shitty.” “I didn’t hope for another answer. You can stay here for now. I’ve put the kettle on.” “It’s a little bit awkward. I have my own home and a cat…” Samoyed barked at the last word, as if saying: 'Mind your language! ' Lopuchov jumped up in surprise. “Galahad, no!” Zhenya shouted. “Don’t get afraid. Gal is kind, but doesn’t react well on everything, connected with cats. If you want, I can take you home.” Lopuchov refused, saying, he needed to be alone. He wanted to find inspiration. “So you’re an author?” “Sort of.” “Well, now you can’t get off. I’ll pick you brain about everything. I’ll take you to a bus stop, and walk with my dog as well.” He had nowhere to retreat. So he just silently agreed. During their walk they shared with each other different thoughts and emotions, which they had in minds. It appeared, that Zhenya was studying journalism and dreamed of writing stories about love and adventures. She shared a lot of her ideas with Lopuchov, from which the author dropped his jaw. He couldn’t imagine so much things to splash in the young girl’s head. “Oh my God, that’s amazing. What don’t you want to write?” “In fact, I’ve everything written already. I want to publish, but I’m afraid to show off. Maybe they’ll mock at me.” “But you have marvelous ideas indeed. There is so much philosophy in them…” “There’s a chance people won’t understand it correctly. Excuse me, but I don’t like my works, though I’d be happy to see them in some collection, before really good stories. If you want, I can send them to you. So you could read and criticize.” It was settled. Coming home, Lopuchov turned on his Laptop and opened emails, Zhenya didn’t lie, she actually sent some of her stories. After he had read all of them, his heart skipped a beat. It was just awesome. And everyone definitely had to read them. While reading these stories, Lopuchov inspiration suddenly appeared. The fog disappeared from his head, and all thoughts stitched together. Zhenya’s work induced him to writing. He had been writing the entire night. Then night turned into day, and day turned into weeks. Finally, putting the hands away from a keyboard, he settled back and soulfully shouted: “Yoo-hoo!” Finishing his work, he laid on the sofa and in a few minutes began to snore.

***

Three hours left till New Year. Zhenya was busy, making Olivier salad, while Gal was walking around her, eager to get a wishful piece of sausage. Unexpectedly the doorbell rang. Zhenya, wandering, who could come to her on New Year’s Eve, opened the door. Lopuchov was standing at the threshold. “Hello, Volodimir!” She happily exclaimed. “What brought you here?” “You know, some miracle did. I decided to share some nice news with you. Could you imagine my new novel became a great success and I can afford to spend New Year without caring about money.” “Really? My congratulations!” Cried out Zhenya, inviting her guest inside. “But there’s also something. It’s for you.” Lopuchov held out a tiny box, which said: “Everything comes out of a miracle”. Opening the box, she saw a small book. There was a strange name on the cover — Eugenia the Unknown. And a line from Ergibaev below: “Now is renowned”. And from behind were different phrases of the famous Russian authors: from Grishenkov to Cheshirko. Everyone said, how brilliant these stories were. “New Dovlatov,” Some wrote. “Amazing,” Said others. On the bottom of the box a paper was laying, which said, that the editorship 'Progress' wants to cooperate with the author and offers a two hundred thousand fee. Zhenya looked at Lopuhov, while her cheeks were blushing at once. “What is it?” She asked. “Congratulations, your stories have become a bestseller. You are famous now.” There was a lump in Zhenya’s throat. She couldn’t believe in her happiness. “Happy New Year, Zhenya,” Said Fenir and hugged her fatherly. Tears were coming out of girl’s eyes. She couldn't believe, that everything had changed so suddenly. She pressed herself to Lopuhov and gave him a gentle hug. Happiness overwhelmed her. And trust me, magi had nothing to do with it.