The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa”. Michael Ouzikov

set his sights back on Oleg. «It’s on one of these stations that you must work, brother. That is, just live there a little. You know, just survive. We’ll visit you every three months, check if you still eat your food. And the longer you last, the better chances you have of getting back to the world. I have to say, you’re looking much better than yesterday. Yesterday, you were the bottom of the barrel. Today, you’re something else, aren’t you?» He laughed, «You’re a casino chip! Six powerful, serious, and respectable citizens made a bet on you, brother. I’m one of them. You’re not doubting my integrity, are you?»

      Oleg had only one pestering thought on his mind. What fucking station? What fucking North Pole? If I don’t get a dose in one minute, I’m going to kill myself! The bald Liverpool supporter named Aleksey Potapov stared at him for another half-minute and then slowly opened his mouth, «And now, we’ll stay here while you go prepare for your winter vacation in the Arctic. Here’s a little keepsake from me… the guide to your mission.» Potapov ripped out the page with the article about the Soviet polar stations from the magazine and tucked it in the back pocket of Pervushin’s pants. One of the «crimson blazers» then gave the same hind pocket a strong and confident slap, signaling Oleg to head for the door. His other hand seized Oleg’s elbow with an iron grip.

      When Oleg was taken into the corridor, Potapov called the «crimson blazer» over. The goon turned around, relaxing his grip for a moment. This was enough for Oleg to pull away and break free from the hold. Oleg rushed to the window, knocked the high, storefront-like window with his head, rolled on the warm and sparkling iron roof, and thundered down into the rose bushes. He fell on his back. There was no pain, there was no sound. He frantically breathed in the garden odors – wet grass, smoke from the leaves, the smell of apples from his childhood. And then he lost his consciousness. The radio hanging around the Uzbek’s neck was airing the weather forecast. «Tomorrow, September 9, Moscow will face freezing rain and north-easterly wind, with a possibility of black ice on the roads…»

      CHAPTER 15

      21° 20» 70» N

      86° 80» 81» W

      Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico

      December 15, 1971

      The thin black hen, clucking energetically, went into the half-open door of the hut in full confidence that the mystery of the sacred act of laying an egg will now happen. The hot sun rose, announcing a new day – it was time for the birth of a new life. But in a corner of the hut, in the hen’s sacred straw bed located, lay something big and strange. Something that was completely covered by a frayed colorful blanket was breathing softly and snorting. The hen did not tolerate these unexpected circumstances and unceremoniously jumped on top of the sleeping assailant. Diego felt a strange movement on his belly and gave a startled jump. The hysterical screams of the fleeing bird brought his mind back into the young day. He wasn’t scared at all and quickly remembered the previous evening, sweetly stretching out like a kitten after the long sleep. He got up and went out of the hut. His hands were resting on his belt. Diego looked carefully at the native village which was drenched by the sunlight of the early day.

      The old, dry man with an ashen face was sitting in front of the bonfire at the edge of the glade, as if waiting for Diego since last night. He looked like he was dozing, his disheveled head bowed down to his chest. Diego stretching once again, smiling at the discordant twitter of birds. In obeyance to his rumbling stomach, Diego headed towards the weak smoke that curled over a strange, shapeless clay oven.

      Without saying anything, a short and wide old woman who was cooking at the stove gave Diego a clay bowl and filled it yellow corn and few small pieces of fried chicken using a big wooden spoon. She gave the boy a smaller spoon and motioned with her hand towards a small table with a pair of improvised stools near the humble dwelling. Gobbling up the breakfast, which was delicious despite its simplicity, Diego looked up and discovered that a dozen curious black eyes were watching him with great interest from the bushes behind him. He was surprised, but still finished his breakfast, brushed off his knees from falling motes and left the shade of the trees to go to the «town» square.

      Soon as he came out of the grove, Diego stopped short. About three dozen villagers looked straight at him. They all had dark skin, the color of cocoa powder. All of them were very thin, and many of the adults were lacking teeth. Their legs were crooked or swollen. The children hid behind their parents, some gnawing on corncobs, and looking suspiciously at this strange boy. The bare breasts of the unclothed women sagged down to their bellies. The men’s colored loincloths hung dejectedly, barely covered looked what looked like dried pea pods. Some mothers held their infants wrapped in towels, but not one of them cried. There were as many dogs as people in the village – they were also skinny and bow-legged, but none of them barked. The only sounds in the crowd were dry coughs here and there and nothing else.

      Directly in front of the crowd, in the same position as last night, an old skinny man with a scar on his face was sitting, still as a rock. The silence began to bother Diego, so he put his hand on his chest and bowed awkwardly. The old man raised his hand and a few teenagers from the crowd came forward, still holding gnawed cobs in their hands. One of them suddenly struck Diego in the chest with this cob. Diego froze still with both his arms up in the air.

      How long he was in that position, Diego himself didn’t know. He only woke up when someone gently touched his shoulder. Two brazen boys approached Diego from the side and started sputtering something in their language. Diego smiled stupidly – he didn’t want God-knows-who to knock him out in this God-knows-where village. One of the natives suddenly poked Diego in the chest, right in the «Granada School – Buenos Aires» inscription on his t-shirt. «Argentina?» he asked. Diego just nodded, being somewhere far away in his mind. «Foot-ball?» continued his stranger-friend. Diego nodded again, knowing that the magic word «football» may perhaps be the only straw that can convert hostility into friendship. Another local gave a toothless smile, gave Diego a friendly push to the shoulder, took out a small round object from behind his back, and threw it at Diego’s feet. A crowd of boys approvingly shouted, waved, and clapped their hands. All over sudden, a group of children, no older than nine or ten years, jumped out from nearby bushes and surrounded Diego.

      The game somehow began itself. After the kids poured into the field, shouting, and jostling their arms, they quickly divided into two teams without much thinking required. They pushed Diego into one of them. Immediately, goalposts were put in place in the form of two coconuts, shaped not too differently from that strange, black ball. Diego committed himself to the game from the first touch of the ball. If only his classmates could see him now! He was so tired of their constant ridicule, whether of his plumpness or his bowed legs or his slowness or his inability to do different tricks with the ball. None of them knew how much effort he gave and how much time he spent trying to improve! He spent hours in his room, trying to master the technique – but nothing worked. That’s why he was usually placed as a secondary defender at best, but more often – put on the bench. But where did all his clumsiness go today? He felt nimble, almost rubberlike, as if he could do whatever he wanted with the ball! And the ball seemed to stick to his feet. Full of happiness, Diego was flying across the field with invisible wings.

      It was in this condition – fully absorbed by the game and happily shouting something to his new teammates in some strange language he was picking up on the spot – that Diego was found by his father, who reached the village by following a barely visible road. Beside him sat the amusing native man who found Diego yesterday in the woods. Last night, when the boy fell asleep, the man got to the construction workers and immediately found the search party headed by Diego Sr. Through a local interpreter, the man reassured the anxious father that his son is in perfect health. However, he also said it would be better to pick the boy up tomorrow because it is dangerous to move through the bush at night, and there would be no point. Although his father was eager to go retrieve his son right away, his colleagues calmed him down, and the native man said that he would stay overnight in the construction workers’ village. And now,