Warmth. Nourishment. Safety.
(Coconuts - Silver Lights)
The frost was crackling outside the hut. Simon involuntarily shivered. Even the stove full of firewood did not give him confidence. The pleasant smell of pine trees mixed with the warmth of the stove, creating an inexpressible atmosphere of comfort and safety. Simon felt at home here. Because this was his home. His old house, the Syracuse house.
"Do you recognize the hut?" A familiar, husky voice was heard.
The boy looked around. Everything remained as he remembered it on his last day in Volsinia. On that memorable day, all six families had lost their dons, and the country had lost the weed that drank its juices. Simon remembered gazing longingly at the room that had become his home for those two years, hanging a heavy lock on his door, then sending the key to the Tiber.
But here he is again. In a dilapidated hut on the edge of town. Revenge was done, and the cabin remained. The boy ran his fingers gently over the oak table, feeling the ribbed, hand-turned wood. Then the white-stone stove that had saved him in winter caught his eye. At one time the lad had gone to great lengths to have it repaired.
At last he turned to the speaker. The sly old wolf, was sitting at the snow-white window, squinting his eyes slyly. There was a full bottle of Stolichnaya in front of him.
"It's a long time since you left her..." His voice sounded muffled, as if through the water. Simon guessed right away what was going on.
"It's good to be back here. Even if it is in a dream."
"You've taken care of all your business. There's nothing keeping you here anymore. Not even your thoughts. So why are you here?"
That was clearly a lead-in to something. The cunning wolf did not mince words, as Simon remembered very clearly. So he sat down at the table, looking at the vodka.
"No, Simon, let's not do that." Either he saw the boy's look, or guessed his wish not to speak sober, and pushed the bottle away. "You'd better listen to me carefully."
"Yes, I do. Speak." The guy sharply replied with a slight challenge.
Outside the window the frost was crackling, which Simon hated. He immediately stopped expecting anything good from the conversation, the suspicious surroundings dispose him to do so. The abandoned hut, the white field of snow outside, cutting off the room from the outside world, and, of course, Makarych.
"Why do you keep bullshitting?" The question sounded more like an accusation in court. The man folded his palms under his chin in anticipation, and stared at his interlocutor sideways.
"Is bullshit my job?"
"Yes."
The interlocutors fell silent, staring gloomily at each other. The silence was broken by the wolf:
"That's not what I wanted for you. Why do you think I taught and trained you? So that you could make a name for yourself, get rid of all the Syracuse crap. Instead of me."
"I never had a chance." Simon grinned angrily. "A man can come out of corruption, corruption cannot come out of a man. You want an example? Look at the rich dudes from the mafia. They were fuckheads, they are still fuckheads."
"Really?" He asked his interlocutor naively. "So I took you as a son for nothing?"
"Yes." Simon sighed heavily.
"Until you get the Syracuse corruption out of your head you'll be a fucking alcoholic, unneeded sucker." Makarych was a reproach. "No friends, no job, no girl, maybe. Is that what you want?"
They were silent again. It got cold. The blond stood up, found wood in the darkened corner, and tossed it into the stove. The fire glowed dimly, providing more warmth than light. In the same corner the lad saw a nightstand with some black thing on it.
"Instead of work, this," Makarych, squinting, nodded at the nightstand. Simon looked closely. The black thing was a telephone.
"It's not instead of a job, it is a job."
"A shit-cleaner's job, I take it?" Bile and reproach oozed from every word of the papa-wolf. "The shit-cleaner you despise so much?"
"Well," Simon scratched the back of his head, trying to justify himself, "It's not exactly mercenary. I'm a lone fighter, and the phone is just for tips..."
"And money?" The lad could not find the answer, and with undisguised anger looked at the awkward interlocutor.
In a hut in the middle of the forest the phone rang. Makarych grimaced, evidently fighting the acute urge to throw something at it.
"Wait." The man gestured for the lad to stop. "Let me finish talking." Simon complied and sat down on the bench in front of the table, whereupon Makar continued. "What, do you live to kill your former comrades in misery, with all your skills and ambition? Fucking hell, Simon."
"What ambition?" Blondie grumbled angrily. "How is that fundamentally worse than a regular job? Like a deliveryman."
"That's just not why people go to Lungmen," wolf spat. "Do you really want to be on someone's service, and not a good one as well? A psycho motherfucker mowing people down at somebody else's behest? Ha? No boy's gonna shake your hand, no woman's gonna let you touch her." After a short pause, he added, "If they find out."
"In reality you were a much nicer person to talk to." The boy looked at the stove door, which cast a long shadow.
"Are you taking offense at the truth? You are strong and clever enough to be independent. And yet you are dependent." The bottle clinked softly. "From someone else's mind, of course. That doesn't sound like you."
The wolf's chatter was beginning to bore the lad. He walked resolutely to the nightstand and took the phone in his hands. Then defiantly turned to Makarych. It is time to end it.
"So what do you want from me?"
"For you to think. About many things. Preferably sober."
Simon grinned. "You don't have to ask for the latter. I can't think about life sober."
"But you will have to, Simon, you will have to." Makarych muttered menacingly, and suddenly grabbed a bottle of vodka from the table, then jumped up and threw it into the fire!
The dream ended with an explosion that shook the hut, giving Simon a migraine and an acute desire to get drunk to forget what had happened, and a thundering, "I am disappointed in you, Simon."