Send the mattress and springs jumping out of sync, floorboards laid by your granddad screeching, tits-and-ass in action, and all that jazz. By George, I softly and warmly cheer this epicurean pursuit and people indulged in it.
But why should you do it in the night? When people are sleeping!
Mind that the walls are thin! As if it is not meager reinforcement and the concrete of Semipalatinsk on top of it, but a straw mat. One can hear everything.
And it would be a different matter if I were sure it was coition that woke me up between two and three in the night. But I was not.
It looked like in a German porn movie: a woman shrills, a man roars, but it all mixed with thumps as though someone cannons against a cupboard head first, and I am not sure whether they yentz or somebody is being killed?
Right at the moment when I decide that something gory and unlawful is going on behind the wall and it’s time to beat with a mop and shrilly threaten to call the constables, male and female cries turn into the symphony of lusty passion.
The man hideously bellows at that, like an ox, which lost its way, whereas the female rants like a whore that shitted on herself, but I cannot bring myself to it and violate my principles interfering at such moment.
However, as soon as I step away from the wall, against which I pressed my ear and a three-liter jar hastily washed from the remains of musty pickled tomatoes, I suddenly hear: wham! As if someone hits the cupboard. And the female now does not shriek lasciviously any more, but something like “help!” or “my aunt!”, or even “murder!”
Crack! – another head-butt at the cupboard. The female screams, then – bang! – as though the man hits her with the flat of the palm.
She goes hysterical, whereas he grumbles something allegedly in Russian but with accent of lowlifes (I imagine his Neanderthal forehead) and thus incomprehensible.
The female also shrills in response as a wounded Lenin.
I must confess that I finally grew into acting as an ordinary citizen: I angrily knocked at the wall. First with my slipper and then with bicycle pump, if I recall correctly.
Then I mustered all possible sternness and, making-believe I am police captain Zheglov from the famous movie, who asks the Hunchback to surrender, pronounced in a loud voice in the still of night: “Attention, please! Tenants next door, you are strongly requested to stop the noise you are producing! You are preventing your neighbors from sleeping!” After a moment’s thought, I added a totally silly thing: “they go to work tomorrow!”
Phew! I still feel shabby about it. First thing, the voice did not sound as sternly as I intended: more like a meager solitary firecracker, and then it was the devil rebuking sin. I was champion in boozing with my cronies and laughing like mad, ignoring the warning knocks on the heating grid batteries, and now pretended to be a pampered princess. Look who is talking of preventing! If you are so delicate, change Mitino for another district and don’t moan.
And also “they go to work tomorrow”. Who’s going to work? I am in dry dock for about ten years, did not earn a dime in the fields or rolling mills and talk of work. And then again, Sunday had started two or three hours ago.
The noise behind the wall ceased for a while. Then swinging blows were heard and the female shrieked again and after that plunged into helpless sobs interrupted by a pillow, judging by the dull sound.
I imagine that the man stands above her and lectures her, meaning something like “we are not to blame: life is hard”.
And then once again – crack! – the head against the cupboard. And new swinging blows.
Followed by sniveling and very loud farting, as if God himself sought relief, and finally someone seemed to move furniture: perfect time for that.
After that, the sound of shuffling feet and light switched on.
The female had already calmed down, only snivels occasionally. More flip-flap is heard and a snuffling, silly man’s voice: “Want some yogurt?”
Female’s whoopee follows, so gleeful, as if it was not her to have been thwacked and she never tasted anything better than yogurt.
It is already so absurd at three in the morning that I spit at my straight shooter’s endeavor and knock the pad, no matter what.
Let them even kill each other and break the cupboards and dressing tables with their heads: I don’t care a fig. What a plague, indeed!
It’s after three already, the cocks will soon be crowing. Begone, evil spirits! I am in a magic circle.
Incredible chomping sounds break out behind the wall: as though someone really slurps yogurt, and there’s a pail of yogurt, and the slurper is the size of hippopotamus.
I lie down and plan to fall into sleep.
Outside the window, there are totally black houses of our neighborhood cut through by the line of yellow street lamps on the Pyatnitskoye Highway with rare cars scurrying along.
I am sleepy but inexplicably cannot cork off. As if I left something undone and it now irritates like a mosquito.
Then, on a vague impulse, I get up, go to the kitchen and open the fridge.
I contemplate sausage, cucumbers, which should share the same fate as tomatoes, lard, three eggs and… yogurt. A tiny container. It was left by the girl, who spent the night with me.
Thus, I stand naked at the open fridge door, in the mysterious light, refracted through the violet bowl, which shielded the lamp, open the yogurt, quickly eat it with the first available teaspoon without feeling either its taste or curative action of prebiotics, fling away the empty plastic package, and shut off the door.
In five minutes, I already snore, like Saint Paul, and see a dream.