The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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Granted, the hiding places were pretty scanty, yet playing the game was interesting all the same. You holed up in one of the enumerated spots and, keeping your breath under a tense control, listened to the “it’s” cautious steps before… off you rushed! to win the run to the big sofa in the children’s room from where the “it” started their search, and assert your being the first by taps on the big sofa’s armrest and your loud yell, “knock-knock! that’s for me!”, so as not to be the “it” in the following round of Hide-and-seek.
Yet, one day Sasha managed to hide so successfully that I couldn’t find him, he just disappeared! I even checked both the bathroom and the storeroom in the hallway, although we had a standing agreement to never hide in there. And I felt thru each of the coats on the hanger-board behind the cloth curtain in the hallway.
Then I opened the wardrobe in the parents’ room with Mom’s dresses and Dad’s jackets hanging in the dark warm compartment behind the door that bore the big outside mirror. Just in case, I checked even behind the wardrobe’s right door though there was no room for hiding in the compartment filled with the drawers for stacks of sheets and pillowcases, except for the one at the bottom where I once discovered the blue square of a seaman collar cut off a sailor’s shirt. And, wrapped into it, there was a dagger of a naval officer with spiral ribs in the yellow hilt and the long steel body tapering to the needle-sharp point hidden in the taut black scabbard. A couple of days later, I couldn’t keep the temptation back and shared the great secret with the younger ones. However, Natasha casually shrugged the news away and answered that she knew about the dagger all along and even showed it to Sasha…
And now Natasha, with happy giggles, was following my vain search and after my frantic cry addressed to our absent brother that, okay, I agreed to be the “it” one more time, only let him go out from wherever he was now, Natasha also yelled instructing him to sit tight and quiet, and not to give up. I ran out of patience completely and refused to play anymore, but she suggested that I leave the room for a moment. Returning from the corridor, I saw Sasha in the middle of the room pleased and silent, and blinking bemusedly at Natasha’s report how he climbed the fourth drawer in the wardrobe where she piled socks over him…
At times there happened exclusively family games at home, with no neighbors taking part…
Merry laughter of several voices was heard from the parents' room, I put the book aside got up from the big sofa and trotted over there.
"What’s the fuss?" asked I envious of the mutual mirth.
"Checking the pots!"
"How’s that?"
"Come on and have a check!"
I was told to sit on Dad's back and grab him by the neck while he was firmly holding my legs. So far, so good, I liked it. But then he turned my back towards Mom and I felt her finger rooting my ass as deep as the pants let go.
"This pot is leaky!" announced Mom.
Everyone laughed and me too, although I felt somehow ashamed…
Another time Dad asks me, "Wanna see Moscow?"
"Wow! Sure!"
Coming from behind, he puts his hands over my ears, tight, and lifts me up above the floor by my head squeezed in between his hands.
"How now? D'you, see Moscow?"
"Yes! Yes!" scream I.
He puts me back where taken and I do my best not to hide the tears from the smarting pain in my ears flattened against the skull.
"Aha! Got fooled! It's so easy to fool you!"
(…much later I figured out that he just was repeating the practical jokes played on him in his childhood…)
In the course of the Hide-and-seek with Sasha’s disappearance, when checking the cloth wardrobe in the hallway, I noticed a bottle of lemonade stuck all by itself in the narrow cleft between the wall and the wicker chest. Lemonade then was something I adored in earnest, that carbonated nectar had only one annoying feature— it disappeared so too fast from my glass. As for the discovered bottle, it obviously was stored for some holiday and then just forgotten about.
I did not care to remind of it to anyone and the following day, or maybe the day after the following day, taking the opportunity of being home alone, I pulled the lemonade from behind the chest and hurried to the kitchen. Still in the corridor, my impatient fingers felt some slackness in the bottle cap, I tore it off and clapped the bottle up to my eager lips… Half-way through the second gulp, I realized that the lemonade was not somehow not quite it, but quite not it at all. Reversing the bottle to the normal position, I saw that after the holiday it was filled with sunflower oil for storage.
It’s good that no one witnessed my attempt at drinking sunflower oil, except for the small white box with a red cross on its door, the hoard of first-aid kits, unknown pills and dark glass phials, fixed up in the wall between the cloth wardrobe and the door to the storeroom, and also the black electric meter just above the entrance door. But they were not to tell anyone…
My next gastronomical misconduct was filching of a bun freshly baked, which Mom took out from the electric oven “Kharkov” together with a bunch of others and spread them on a towel over the kitchen table.
The round brownish backs gleamed so tempting that I violated Mom’s order to let them cool off little bit before the all-out tea party. Sneaking into the empty
