Naum quickly put his magical watercolor deeper into a large black folder he always carried around, but more for the show, since he rarely sold anything here. Furtively looking around, he made his way through the crowd and showed up at a table close to Andrey. Andrey swiveled and placed a mug with a foam cap in front of the artist, who was still crazed with his unexpected wealth.
Naum took a royal sip and stood there for a while, blissfully savoring the first sensations. Only then did he turn to the student and ask him:
“Well, Physics, can you do that?”
Andrey laughed:
“You are a lucky man, Naumushka. You’ve made a killing!”
Naum looked offended, which made his already brown eyes completely dark:
“He wanted to buy my ‘Rain on the Arbat’.”
“And yet he didn’t! He just felt sorry for you!”
Naum took another sip of beer and winked at Andrey:
“Well, physicist, I see you seem to be popular.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrey jumped up, looking around the lilac twilight of the hall.
“Oh, yes,” said Naum, pointing his unshaven chin at a dark corner, “Over there. He’s been looking at you for half an hour.”
“Come on!” Andrey stared at the stranger. He was dressed in a simple suit of a worker from the Moscow suburbs. On his head was a cap with a hard visor, breeches of an army cut were tucked into not too new, but neatly polished cowhide boots. A sturdy jacket over a clean, ironed shirt. In appearance about thirty, thirty-five. His face was unfamiliar.
To Andrey's surprise, the stranger intercepted his interested glance, smiled, and winked at him. His smile was kind and open. Andrey involuntarily smiled back. Naum eyed the student warily.
“Be careful with him,” the artist whispered hotly in Andrey's ear. “What if he is one of them?”
Naum vaguely waved his hand in the air, portraying these unknown people. Andrey only grinned condescendingly: the alarmist character of his friend was well known.
From somewhere inside the mess of smoke and beer fumes emerged the figure of a lean peasant with a mint in his mouth and an empty mug in his bony hand. Looking for buddies with dog-like eyes, he bleated:
“Splash a little something in the mug of a venerable participant in the heroic defense of Sevastopol! My throat’s on fire, it’s unbearable!”
Andrei gave by him a scornful look and turned away, and Naum glanced askance at the 'hero' and half-whispered his advice:
“Kindly get lost, Timon. My pal here, his uncle died at the ninth battery. Guys like you, who were rats in the rear, he kills in the alleyways. With his bare hands, no less.”
Timon's eyes widened to the size of a five-dollar coin. Grabbing his mug, he disappeared into the tavern's haze. Naum nudged his comrade with his elbow:
“What are you thinking about, good fellow?”
“I’ll get my diploma tomorrow or the day after. Then what? Distribution? In all likelihood, they’ll find me some hole in Upper Pupinsk, beyond the Urals. In that case, I can kiss all my dreams goodbye…”
“Oh, that.” Naum savored another foamy sip. “What did you expect, brother? That Moscow will greet you with open arms? There are enough engineers here.”
“And then some.” Andrey butted his stubborn head against his mug. “But I still hoped for the best, so to speak, all these five years. Yes, and the last course washed my head, so…”
"And why?” his pal laughed. “From what has accumulated in it over the past four? No, the rumors that you’ve been laying about this winter have been going around even here, in the Pit.”
“So what?” Andrey jumped up, shaking his blond locks. “That diploma is still almost with distinction!”
During the argument, the two did not notice as the stranger picked up his mug and moved closer to their table. Behind a heavy beer and a newspaper with his leftovers a little to the side, he listened with interest to their conversation. At some point, Naum glanced around and spotted him.
'Hey, comrade, we didn't invite you to our table,' he grumbled. The stranger flashed a broad smile:
“So? This spot wasn’t reserved, so I can sit here if I want.”
Andrey grabbed Naum by his sleeve and said:
“Come on, Naum, the comrade is right: in the pub and the bath, everyone is equal.”
“Indeed! I can get you a beer. How about that? We can drink and get to know each other at the same time.”
“Beer is good,” the artist said, as he tempered his anger with forgiveness.
“Great! Why don’t you take this,” he pulled Naum’s right hand closer and shoved some money into it, “and get a couple of chervontsy, and a beer for each of us. Oh, and ask old man Theophanes for a crawfish. I’ve heard he keeps a couple of buckets in the back. Tell him to get his shit together.’
“Right, like he’d listen to me,” said Naum with a crooked grin. He loved crawfish but didn’t want to deal with Theophanes. All the Countertops admired him for his cool temper and his enormous fists.
“Just tell him the Cat is begging and begging. I’m sure he won’t refuse,” the stranger said. “But you’ll need to hurry, or they’ll close and we’ll have neither crawfish nor beer!”
Despite glancing over his shoulder every so often, Naum went to the counter to confront the formidable Theophanes. The stranger leaned in closer to the recent student and raised his mug:
“Good evening, so to speak.”
Andrey looked at him gloomily.
“I don't drink with strangers in public places.”
“Oh!” the newcomer laughed. “Well, let's get acquainted. Kotov is my surname, common enough, of course, but I'm so alone, young and handsome. You can call me the Cat. The whole Arbat and Zamoskvorechye call me that.”
Andrey chuckled:
“Experienced, then. You from the thieves?”
The stranger shrugged.
“It depends on what you call a thief… So, in a way.”
Andrey shrugged his shoulders.
“Sounds complicated. For me, it’s easy: I’m Andrey…”
“Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, twenty-two years old, worker-peasant from the Chelyabinsk province, graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Engineering.” Noticing the astounded look of the future physicist, he shrugged his shoulders. “Have I got it wrong?”
“On the contrary, and this is disturbing,” Andrey muttered. “Will you surprise me further, or should we immediately part ways?”
“Why run, Andrey, if I’m here for you?” The Cat took a sip of his beer and looked cheerfully at his new acquaintance. “Don’t make your eyes round, boy. I'm not a devil from a snuffbox! Let's get some fresh air, and we’ll talk. I know more about you than just your origins. I can tell you about your mother, born a noblewoman. To her parents attracting the disfavor of the authorities, she married a metalworker and taught physics at a school. This is where you got your thirst for science. Your father, Grigory Kuzmich, perished in the war, buried near Rzhev as a senior sergeant, order-bearer and hero. Just like your uncle, who really died near Sevastopol. And his brothers, who almost reached Berlin. I also know about your three escapes to the front and your successes in that English entertainment, which we call boxing. Easy now!” He raised his hand when he noticed Andrey putting his hand in his pocket. “Piggy don’t bother. First, because I’m here strictly on business. My knowledge of some things should make you uneasy, on the one