Burya polov

Or, an effeminate Russian boy's story

Chapter One: First day of school

It was only the start of the week for Zhenya, who had been watching some television, and trouble was already brewing for the poor lad. For starters, he just ran out of psyllium, usually mixed with a glass of hot water before breakfast. His hair was a mess. He was home alone. He had just recently returned from a trip to Sochi, and needed time to readjust to his climate. However, none of that compared to his biggest worry: school. Today was his first day of school, and it was something he dreaded more than even the most reclusive of students his age. He reluctantly switched off the television and washed his face, combed his short black hair, and brushed his teeth from the comfort of his bathroom. Today’s breakfast consisted of a bowl of buckwheat porridge and a glass of water slightly diluted with the remaining psyllium. Having diligently washed the dishes once his meal was over, Zhenya hurried back into his room to check whether he had all appropriate textbooks prepared for school. His school was gracious enough to have published time tables for each class, so that he could have gone shopping for supplies on time. Closing his blue bag with a single pink stripe across it, he believed it was time to leave. Thankfully, his commute to the Buninskaya Alleya metro station was just five minutes long, and he spent no longer than a minute anticipating his ride.

Zhenya was looking out the window, standing up, aboard the Moscow Metro. If there was one thing that the Soviet Union did right, it would be public transport, he joked in his thoughts. Getting from point A to point B, and having to return to point C because of a forgotten umbrella was as easy as counting to three, which coincides with the number of fully operational circular metro lines. Not to mention, the metro had fourteen more lines, with one more being under construction, and two more yet to be conceived. While pondering the wonders of this quite complex metro system and the ones inspired by it, his train arrived at his first transfer station—Ulitsa Starokachalovskaya—where he switched lines from 12 to 9 and continued his journey deep into the heart of Moscow. After he crossed the Moscow river and drove through the Kremlin, his train stopped at his second transfer station, that of Chekhovskaya, where he relocated to line 7 and briefly rode west until the very next station before he emerged from the underground. He quickened his pace and came to school in around five minutes. A tall concrete building stood before him, and the display at the entrance indicated that it was almost eight o’clock. Just in time, he whispered.

The boy walked past each student without drawing much attention to himself; it was when he climbed a flight of stairs and entered his classroom that it began.

“Hoho!” a familiar voice echoed. “If it isn’t our”—he extended his index and middle fingers and bended them twice—“boy, Zhena!”

Zhena. He said it! What prompted this undoubtedly burly man to call him like that? Had he noticed the heart-shaped keychain attached to his bag? Was it because it was pink? Would he ignore Zhenya if the keychain were blue, or if there were none at all?

“Please don’t call me that, Filat,” Zhenya directed his gaze at the man; “especially not like that.”

Zhenya’s seat was close to the window, which allowed the sun to shine upon his fair complexion. Sadly, there was no sun on that day. The first class of the day was History, and he took out an appropriate notebook for it: it was pink yet again. It seemed as if Filat had an organ which allowed him to sniff out pink-coloured objects within a 100-metre radius—because no sooner had Zhenya taken it out of the bag than Filat appeared right in front of him, and snatched it.

“Hey now, Zhena,” he began, “we already went over this. You don’t just steal other people’s textbooks like that. You’re supposed to be a good Samaritan and give it back. Let’s see to whom this notebook belongs…”

“Um,” Zhenya said, “that’s mine, actually.”

Filat stared at his textbook, then right back into Zhenya’s brown eyes and his unusually pronounced eyelashes. It should be noted, however, that no makeup was applied to his face.

“This notebook? Yours?” he shook his head. “Prove it!”

“Open the first page.”

Proof appeared before his eyes when he opened the notebook, written in Zhenya’s pretty handwriting, but which Filat considered girly. And the owner of the notebook was indeed Zhenya. He closed the book and let it fall back on Zhenya’s table.

“But why? Why this notebook in particular? Listen, nearly all boys and even girls in our class have notebooks with blue in them. What are you trying to accomplish here? You wanna be unique? Well, you already are… unique-ly peculiar! Everything about you screams ‘I’m a girly boy’. Your voice, your clothes—thank God you’re not a crossdresser, too—the notebook I just held, that stupidly soft face of yours, your height, your weight, that keychain you got on your bag”—ah, he noticed—“and who knows… I wouldn’t even be surprised if you had a flower garden in your room”—damn, he was right—“I think you should lay off the computer for at least a month. Western propaganda has brainwashed you into thinking it’s OK to not be a man. Well guess what, Zhena? Just because you look like a bitch doesn’t mean you have to act like one! Besides, girls only wanna be led by a man, not the other way around. You can ask pretty much any girl in class—nay, the whole school, and they’ll tell you the same answer!—with variations, of course. Let me help you become the man of every girl’s dreams. I happen to have connections with a business all about this concept called ‘being a man’… ‘manning up’… ‘re-masculinising yourself’… man-powerment—oh, you get the picture”—he pulled out a business card from his phonecase—“because believe it or not, all you have to do to become a real man is to stop watching that Western propaganda, and start working on yourself—”

“Ahem.”

Filat turned around and saw that the History professor had just entered the classroom, and that every single student, including Zhenya, was on their toes.

“Back to your seat, Filat,” the professor ordered.

In the blink of an eye, Filat disappeared from Zhenya’s bench and sat at his.

“I didn’t tell you to sit down.”

So, he stood up again. The professor gazed long and hard around the classroom, ensuring that all students were standing up.

“All right, you can sit down now.”

But it was only Filat who sat down.

“I said, you can all sit down now! This lecture is going to take a while…”

The professor asked Filat to approach the blackboard and write the name of the lecture while he had the honour of writing it down in the black-covered markbook as the first lecture of the school year. He quickly regretted his decision to assign Filat to this task—his handwriting left a great deal to be desired, and other students could hardly read it. Instead of asking Zhenya to rewrite it like he usually would, the professor took matters into his own hands before facing his students and beginning his lecture. Somewhere in the middle of it, Zhenya sensed that he had to urinate, since he generally consumed plenty of water, and asked the professor if he was allowed to leave the classroom for a minute. While Zhenya had gone to the toilet, Filat threw an eye at his pink textbook, and gestured to two students in the bench in front of Zhenya’s to fetch it. Without hesitation, the boy lifted the notebook from his table and passed it under the bench to those in front of them. The same process continued until Filat eventually obtained it. He raised his hand and asked if he could open the window for some fresh air. He swung the window open and, looking around him and still holding the book, slid it over the window’s edge and into the great outdoors. Whether someone below caught it or not, it did not matter to him; he just returned to his seat and followed the rest of the lecture, and students were none the wiser.

Soon, Zhenya reappeared. Picking up his pencil, he was to continue writing notes when he noticed that he was instead writing on his bench. Where did the notebook run off to? He had it open right there. He checked his bag—he might have put it back. But why would he? History class was not over just yet. There have been a couple of notebooks in his bag, but the pink one was not one of them. Shrugging his shoulders, he ripped a piece of paper from one of his other notebooks, but it was at this moment that he caught Filat and his classmate snickering at each other. He knew what was up, but he was not going to make such a fuss about it. He would surely get his notebook back later.

During lunch break, he ate some rice which he had made the day before. He was almost all alone, and Filat went outside to eat, so he enjoyed his meal without any hindrances. Some time later, his class had homeroom with their computer science professor, a squat woman who was thirty-something years old, with a bright smile and even brighter hair. Once she logged her class in the markbook, she suggested forming a circle in front of the blackboard to discuss what each student had done during the summer holiday. They went in alphabetical order, starting with a girl named Agata, who visited some relatives and made a trip to Helsinki. Some boy, Daniil, had a similar kind of holiday, but instead of Helsinki, he visited a couple of cities in Germany, including Berlin. When it was Filat’s turn to tell his story, he almost went all out, but the professor urged him to hurry up. He explained that he had travelled to Japan, and even got each student a souvenir—mainly postcards and magnets. Zhenya was not going to get anything when Filat spoke:

“Of course, I even have a little gift for Zhiiii… Zhenya over here”—the temptation to use his other name in front of the class supervisor was too strong, but he resisted.

But, a gift from Filat? That was a first for Zhenya. Usually, when he came back from summer vacation, Filat would make up some half-baked excuse as to why Zhenya did not receive anything from him. So what did he get? A postcard? A magnet? Or maybe, just maybe, a shiny…

“…pair of chopsticks!” Filat at last announced. “But they ain’t your mama’s chopsticks—they’re made in Japan. Here, buddy!”

Filat aimed for Zhenya’s lower body, where he chucked the pair of red, presently conjoined chopsticks, although they dropped on the ground, whilst Zhenya gave him a sour smile. Clearly, the boy had put too much trust in the man.

“Now, now, don’t you smile at me like that! I’ll have you know,” Filat said, “that I spent ₽2,500[1] on these!”

He had spent that much money on him! Zhenya took up the chopsticks from the ground and admired them. Well, they did look unusually pretty, so much so that eating with them would constitute a criminal offence.

“Thanks for your… generous… gift.”

“You’re very welcome! Make sure you repay me…”

“With more of your suffering!” Zhenya finished the sentence in his head. The smirk upon his thank-you was too obvious.

Sometime around two o’clock, the bell rang for the last time. He survived. Barely. But his pink notebook was nowhere to be found; he even went to check where the windows of his classroom were. He was going to give up his search when he heard some voices in the back:

“Hey, hey, wait up, Zhena!” a girl shouted after him.

He turned around as soon as his nickname was uttered. And there it was: his pink notebook, dangling in the girl’s arms. From the distance, the girl only seemed familiar, but now she definitely was familiar. She too got a kick out of teasing those younger, and smaller, than her, and Zhenya fit both of those categories quite snugly.

“Oh?” she continued. “I got your attention pretty quickly. Don’t tell me this notebook I’m holding is actually yours!”

“Just check the first page if you’re that sceptical,” Zhenya replied.

“I don’t think I will. Why should I? A boy like you shouldn’t be buying girly notebooks in the first place!”

“What I buy is none of your business, whether it’s girly or not.”

Zhenya gradually came up to her, determined to reclaim his rose possession, but just as he was about to lay his hands on it, the girl hoisted it upward.

“Oops, try again!”

She cast the notebook down, only to raise it above her head again. She repeated this procedure any time Zhenya got close to snagging it from her.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Or else?” the girl teased. “You gonna cry?”

“Oh, you’d hate to see me cry.”

“Come on, BOY, it’s just a silly little notebook—”

In one fell swoop, Zhenya plucked the notebook out of her hands. She wanted to retaliate, but since Zhenya got what he needed, “the little trickster”, as the girl had called him, excused himself and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. He still had no idea who that girl was, despite knowing her, for lack of a better term, for at least two years, and could only remember her by the colour of her hair, which was dark blue. So recognising her again should still be as simple as putting Statesman’s political opponents in prison.

Having finished school for the day, Zhenya grabbed a drink at some grocery store by the metro station, where he subsequently caught a ride back home. Indeed, Zhenya’s high school days were unlike the comics of Japanese origin which he read from time to time. The only excitement which transpired was when Filat spoke to him, or when he was slightly late to school due to railway maintenance and had to use his most hated means of traversing Moscow—the bus.

After about an hour, he was right back in Chernevo, and therefore his cosy apartment. His father was in, watching television and not doing much else.

“Would you like me to prepare some pizza?” he asked after he had left his school appurtenances in his room.

“Sure,” the father said, plain and simple.

Zhenya rummaged through every drawer, attempting to uncover all ingredients for the dish. Flour. Milk. Sugar. Salt. Extra virgin olive oil. Or was it olive pomace oil? As expected, the only ingredients which were missing were all toppings. His father passed him his credit card and he whispered the PIN code, just in case. Then, it was off to Pyaterochka[2] to do the shopping. He purchased tomato paste, several slices of ham and mozzarella, oregano, a pack of figs and a bag of psyllium—although the last item from his shopping list was not to be used for the pizza-making.

Back home, Zhenya dirtied his hands kneading dough for the two pizzas, and all toppings were laid on the kitchen table. The room predominantly smelled like ham, with a hint of freshly cut figs.

“What are you using figs for?” his father asked.

“For the pizza, of course.”

“Figs? On pizza?”

“Yes, and it’s actually pretty good.”

“But enough about pizza with anchovies…”

The boy’s hands stopped moving about the dough for a split second. Anchovies? On pizza? Well, if his father liked such an unorthodox combination, then surely he would indulge in a delicacy with much, much tamer toppings. With all of them equally distributed on the two pizzas, Zhenya baked them at 200°C for about twenty minutes, after which he served them on two large plates and cut them into eight pieces. Having presented his pizzas to father, Zhenya sat opposite of him, and the man asked for a prayer before the meal.

“Father,” Zhenya began, “hallowed be your name, your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who sins against us. And lead us not into temptation. Bless our food which we will eat. Amen.”

“Amen,” his father said while crossing himself.

And so, lunch was served. His father first took a bite out of a slice with a thinly sliced fig. Much to his astonishment, the contrast between the savoury ham and cheese and the slightly sweet fig, while not stark, was indeed noticeable and, not to mention, delicious. It made his beloved anchovy-topped pizza look like a meal served as prison food instead of in a restaurant with a Michelin star.

Having licked their plates clean, the one and a half men stood up from the table. The father fell onto the couch to watch a hockey match unfold, and Zhenya opted to wash the dishes before putting his purple jacket on and going for a walk in the neighbourhood. As it was September, the air was not quite as cold. In addition, the walking provided him with plenty of heat in itself while gazing into numerous high-rise buildings surrounding him, most of them white. He happened upon a chemist’s shop where he got himself a small bottle of face-cleansing gel which contained some chemical called salicylic acid. He read on the Internet how it could help him with his blackheads issue, primarily present on his nose. They did not stick out due to lack of social interaction, but because of spending so much time in front of his mirror he could not help but clearly notice them. Slipping the bottle into his bag, he left the store and walked back to the Chernevo pond—yes, his very own pond—where the breeze tickled his cheeks, some ducks swam in the water, and he watched his reflection in the pond below as he stood at the wooden pier. It was true that he had an appearance of some little girl—hence his somewhat disparaging nickname, Zhena… So what? He would grow old in a couple of years, as all humans do, and his face would lose a lot of its magic. Why not just enjoy his youth, not caring about anything or anyone who opposed his looks? Why not even dip his toes into some light make-up, just to spite these people? Well, maybe spiting his father was not such a good idea. Even the mere thought of pronouncing his eyelashes any further would result in him being labelled as a homosexual, which Zhenya was not.

The day which followed had him doing a similar routine to the day before, but this time he allowed himself to wake up slightly later, since classes began at 8:50 instead of eight. He brushed his teeth, washed his face not only using water and soap but also the gel he bought, ate his blini[3] with smetana[4], and combed through his bag to make sure he was ready for school. Before leaving, he lifted a yellow vase from his window, with a little red poppy sprouting from it. He also packed a spray bottle containing some water. Finally, he walked to the metro station to wait for his train.

The ride was, as always, ordinary. Transfer once, transfer the second time, leave the train at the stop which immediately followed. Now seated comfortably inside his classroom, Zhenya placed his vase by the window and sprayed a few drops of water on it, attracting Filat who suspected that the spray was some kind of perfume. And there he saw the poppy by the window.

“Bringing a flower to school today, aren’t we?” Filat initiated.

“Cry about it,” Zhenya said, shifting his gaze between the man and his poppy. He felt strangely exhilarated as he said it, but his face was as blank as a canvas. “You like it?”

“It’s small,” Filat replied, “just like your testosterone level.”

“You should be a stand-up comedian. I could never come up with a joke like that.”

“But it’s not a joke.”

“Probably because it’s not funny. Humour is subjective after all.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a young girl who pushed Filat aside with the power of a sledgehammer wielded by a middle-aged man accused of doping at a boxing match.

“Did you just say you brought a flower?” she asked. “May I see it?”

“Sure,” he said as he held the vase in front of the curious girl, and looked away; “it’s not that special, though.”

“But it’s cute! What is it called?”

“It’s a poppy,” he said, turning back. “Felt like it needed more sun to… encourage photosynthesis.”

“Haha, right! And where did you get it?”

“There is a flower shop not too far away from here. Actually, there are three of them within the school’s vicinity, but I go to one close to the zoo garden.”

“Sounds good, I’ll visit it after school!”

Filat wished to continue teasing the boy once the girl returned to her seat, but the arrival of the Russian language professor stopped him in his tracks. In fact, Filat had a day-off from this laborious work because Zhenya was outside during all breaks, including lunch time. His poppy gained plenty of exposure to the sun, and it might have grown three sizes that day.

After he tidied up the classroom where he had his last period for the day, he went out. Not, however, before he was ambushed by a group of students—in fact, the same one from the previous day.

“What a coincidence seeing you here!” the girl greeted.

“You were literally waiting for me…”

“Now, I’ve heard from someone that you’d brought a flower to school. A FLOWER! Let us see it!”

“Sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”

“Aww, don’t be shy now…”

Snapping her fingers, she ordered her goons to grab him by his arms while she slipped her hand into the plastic bag and removed his flower vase from it.

“Ooh! A very nice flower… not really. Is this a poppy?”—Zhenya nodded—“why, it’s the most common flower out there! And you’re taking care of it in a pitiful vase! In school!”

She raised it above her head. Zhenya might have been sure what was about to happen. And it did—suggesting that he took up a “manlier” hobby such as football, the girl whom Zhenya did not know yet hurled the vase to the ground, removed the flower with a little patch of soil, and departed, leaving him with the remains of his labour, which he picked up upon being released. He resisted the urge to shout something at the girl, not only because he did not know her name, but because she was long gone from his sight. Zhenya walked out of the school yard and towards the metro stop, stopping by to discard the remnants into the trash can. Suddenly, a door swung wide open. The trash can was conveniently placed next to the flower shop which he frequented. Indeed, behind the door, Faina revealed herself.

“Hold it!” she shouted. “Don’t think you can just throw away that soil! It’s sacred, I’m tellin’ ya!”

She removed the burden from his hands.

“Wait, somethin’ sharp is in here. What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” he replied.

“In that case, why not tell me? There’s not much traffic today.”

The woman led him into the flower store and closed the door behind them, and Zhenya related his story thus far.

“I know I’m not supposed to make such a fuss about it, but…”

“No, I get it. I’m sorry about that,” she replied. “I don’t even know what’s their deal with you bringin’ a flower to school.”

“Well, I just wanted my poppy to get some sunlight…”

“I guessed so, but be careful next time. Too many people think that growin’ flowers is a feminine hobby. Oh, welcome!”

A customer, a young girl, walked into the store, and Zhenya and she waved at each other.

“Hey, you know her?”

“Well, she’s a classmate…”

When he turned around, he noticed that the girl was gone. Did she leave already?

“Ah, it must be the price,” Faina said as if she knew what he had been thinking; “not much I can do about that, I’m afraid. You were sayin’?”

“That was uh… a girl from class who asked me about the poppy today.”

“Is that so? And you told her to come here?”

“Well, if she wanted to.”

“Huh. And then she just leaves. A customer she is!”

Shrugging her shoulders, she faced a flower vase on top of her desk.

“By the way,” she said, “some new flowers arrived today. I think you’ll like this one in particular.”

She moved the vase in front of Zhenya. It was an African violet, a saintpaulia.

“Some of these species are nearly extinct! Could you believe it!? What’s up with other people tramplin’ over such beautiful flowers!? I ordered these over two months ago, and they’ve finally arrived… Now, they’re called ‘African violets’ because they grow in… wait for it… Africa! Specifically, in Kenya and Tanzania. The locals call it Dug… Dough… Dughulu… shi… Douglas-she… however that’s pronounced, and the Germans initially called it Usambaravile… fal… veilchen, because they are commonly found in the Usambara Mountains. This flower is very sensitive to temperature changes, and the leaves lose some of its colour when you splash it with some cold water! It can be anywhere from six to sixteen centimetres tall, and—”

“I think that’s enough flower trivia…”

“Hey, the one with the leaves is actually cool!” she pushed the vase toward him and smiled. “So would you like one?”

“Sure. How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“Approximately…”—she counted on her fingers—“zero roubles.”

“Seriously? You’re giving it to me?”

“Well, you are the most frequent customer of my establishment, so it’s only fair that I get to treat you every once in a while. Plus, didn’t those guys tell you poppies are super common?”

“I guess they did.”

“So, you should be takin’ care of a more uncommon species, such as this saintpaulia! Just make sure you do it at home from now on, alright?”

His gratitude expressed through a slight smile, Zhenya lifted the saintpaulia from the table and considerately put it in his bag. As he hardly had any friends aside from Faina and his father with whom he lived in Chernevo, he had no choice but to catch the next metro back home.

His father announced that he was in the mood for some shchi[5]—the green kind, to be exact. Another trip to Pyaterochka was imminent, and it was there that he purchased some spinach, an unusual but certainly not uncommon ingredient for this soup, alongside some other greenery like sorrel and spring onions, which made for a tasty dish indeed. It was also inside this store that he noticed an anomaly—the oil aisle was especially packed to the brim with generic bottles containing oil. And yet the price remained the same. Was this connected with edible oil rain on Sunday, right before the start of the school year, which he barely avoided while returning home from a brief shopping tour? And had some people not reported that their taps produced a mixture of tap water and said oil? Where had he read that article, some state-owned media? Hopefully not.

“Made any friends yet?” his father asked during the meal.

“Still stuck with that guy,” was Zhenya’s reply; he did not regard Filat as a friend quite yet, but he thought him harmless enough not to classify him as a mere classmate. “Acquaintance”, he believed, was the right term.

“And no girlfriend yet, I guess?”

Zhenya shook his head.

“You’re on your way to become gay,” he remarked, like many parents when their somewhat grown-up offspring (specifically male) is still friendless; and, in the Dmitrievich household, being gay was a cardinal sin, even worse than pride. In fact, this was the case in many households across Russia, thanks to Statesman.

Once their meal was over, father did what any sensible, and nourished, person would do: switch on the television after sinking into the couch. News were broadcast at that moment, and Zhenya had a small peek at what was happening in the country. Great, another war was being waged by the government, he thought, and at once expressed his wish to take a walk. While putting on his purple tracksuit, he stared at the saintpaulia which was gifted to him. It really was a beautiful flower. But still, he missed his poppy. He hoped that those goons did not just trash it somewhere, and was instead given a new home to thrive in. With that view, he went out.

Strolling by the pond, Zhenya recalled his father’s words from several months back: “you should’ve made some friends by now”, or, “it’s much easier making friends in one’s youth”. He was right. Time flying like there was no tomorrow did not help the young lad at all. But he was a young lad nonetheless, when making friends was as easy as simply being classmates. Actually, being classmates would automatically lead to being friends. But in adolescence, he could enjoy the same film as his friend to-be; the two could have the same favourite food; they could even have the same fashion sense, the same idol, the same niche interests… and yet, those were barely grounds for a lasting friendship.

He thought further, maybe it was his interests that pushed away even the most feminine of girls away from him (and boys, but we do not need to say why). After all, he was keen on the latest fashion trends, and often went to his favourite thrift store in hopes of finding men’s clothes bordering on the feminine or the “most masculine” women’s clothes. Not only that, but his skincare was also immaculate. Seldom any boy his age could boast such gentle, pure, and hydrated complexion. But girls, in his head, believed that he was making skincare into some kind of competition where the winner takes home a brand-new set of Neutrogena cosmetics. Except Neutrogena is not sold in Russia for the foreseeable future. Nor is L'Oréal.

After making a lap around the pond, Zhenya stopped by the kiosk to treat himself to a strawberry chocolate bar. At home, he tuned in to a reality show about tomboys which, excluding commercial breaks, lasted around an hour. With those, one and a half. As for dinner, he heated the pizza from yesterday. Before clocking out for the day, he made sure to treat his new saintpaulia with some water from the spray bottle. He sighed as he snuggled underneath his blanket. It was going to be an uneventful Wednesday, he supposed, like most of his days were.

What he did not know, however, was that the fast approaching Wednesday he believed unremarkable would be anything but…

END OF CHAPTER

Footnotes:

[1] Russian rouble. For reference, ₽100 = €1.02. Therefore ₽2,500 = €25.50.
[2] Actually Pyatyorochka; the letter e is actually ё, which is pronounced “yo”.
[3] Pancakes.
[4] Sour cream.
[5] Cabbage soup.