"Viktor Pelevin. Generation P (fragment, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

DRAFT PODIUM

As soon as the Eternity had disappeared, Tatarsky found himself in the
present. It turned out that he knows almost nothing about the world that
had formed around him during several last years.
It was a strange world. It didn't change much visually, only maybe more
beggars had appeared on the streets and everything around: houses, trees,
benches on the streets - had somehow suddenly become shabby and old. It
wasn't possible to say that the world had changed its essence either, just
because now it didn't have any at all. Some kind of scary uncertainty
ruled everything. Despite that, the flows of Mercedeses and Toyotas rushed
along the streets, with brawny fellows inside, absolutely confident in
themselves and in whatever was going on. There was even some kind of
international politics if to believe the newspapers. Meanwhile, the same
mugs everybody were nauseous of for the last 20 years were showed by the
TV. Now they were pronouncing those very things for which they used to
imprison others, except that they were much braver, resolute and radical.
Often Tatarsky imagined Germany of 1946 where Dr. Goebbels would
hysterically scream about the abyss into which the fascism had dragged the
nation, the former Osvencim commandant would head the comission for
locating and punishing Nazi criminals, SS generals would simply and
clearly discuss liberal values, and East Prussia governor who finally had
seen the light would head the whole clique. Obviously Tatarsky did hate
Soviet Power in most of its manifestations but he couldn't understand
anyway, was it really worthy to exchange the Evil Empire for the Evil
Banana Republic, the one that imports bananas from Finland. Although,
Tatarsky never was too much of a moralist, so the problem of survival was
much more important for him. He had no ties or acquaintances that could
help him, so he used the most primitive approach: he was hired as a
salesperson to work in a commercial kiosk not far from where he lived.
"Imagine some kind of ugly iron 'box' 2x2x2 meters, packed with wares like
liquors, cigarettes, gum, candies, etc. Usually these are located in long
rows in the streets."
The work was simple but nervous. It was dark and cool inside the kiosk,
like in the tank; a tiny window connected it to the outer world, only big
enough to push a bottle of Champaign outside. A mesh of thick iron bars,
roughly welded to the walls protected Tatarsky from possible troubles. In
the evenings he used to give all earned money to an aged Chechen with a
heavy golden ring. Sometimes it was even possible to get some money over
usual pay. The newbie bandits would approach the kiosk from time to time
and demand money for their 'roof' "protection" with breaking voices.
Tatarsky would send them over to Gussain tiredly. Gussain was a skinny guy
with the eyes, always 'oily' looking from opiates he was taking, he
usually lied on a mattress in a half-empty wagon that terminated the row
of kiosks, listening to the sufian music (SP?). Except the mattress, there
were table and a safe in the wagon. The safe contained lots of money and a
sophisticated model of Kalashnikov with underbarrel grenade-thrower.
Working in a kiosk (he did that for a bit less than a year), Tatarsky