One night in the life of a Muscovite

I am ashamed to write about myself, but this story is painfully typical for our Fatherland and its capital.

Old Moscow house in the center. The windows of the apartment overlook a small courtyard, bordering on the possessions of the House of Friendship of Peoples on Vozdvizhenka. A year ago, they began to break one of the wings there - right under our windows. Dust, roar, but you can endure, because at night they made noise episodically and not so much that all the time - an hour or two, no longer. And then suddenly it broke. In the last two weeks they have been working around the clock, and the noisiest work is done at night. Dump trucks enter the yard one by one, and the excavator loads them with construction debris. An iron beam slamming against an iron body - it’s not just that you lose your usual, eternal sleep. Finally, on one of the nights, having languished until dawn, he could not stand it - he called the police. The girl politely questioned everything and announced that the information would be passed on. Half an hour has passed - the cannonade does not subside. “You are a fool,” I think, “a fool. So they will run to provide you with silence. He got up, pulled on his pants and went ... not even to fight with the builders - he knew that it was a rotten thing - but to take out his anger on them. Rich forged gates on the right side of the House of Friendship, behind them is a booth, in it is a hefty bull in uniform, of the most good-natured appearance. Obviously not a private security guard, since there are two lieutenant asterisks on shoulder straps, but you can’t make out what kind of military service, especially in the dark. “When will this disgrace stop,” I repeated this phrase in different ways for about five minutes and dried up. The lieutenant was all attention and sympathy: "Yes, many complain." "Then do something!" “What are we, we protect.” I was on the tail, but still found: "Call the foreman or chief." The little one spread his hands sympathetically. “At night, what bosses, there are only hard workers.” - "And who at least produces the work, you can find out?" - with this question, the last steam came out of my boiler, so if I were a lieutenant, I would not answer. But he condescended: "Presidential Administration." And I moved on my way. Turned around the corner, and there was a police car. Two sergeants with machine guns stand next to her and listen to the rumble of the construction site. "Are you on call?" I rejoiced. “Yeah, but we can’t find how to get there.” I helped the police and now I'm standing in front of the wrought iron gate again, but this time at the head of a whole army. "What are you doing there," - menacingly, as a person who is behind the law should say, the policeman turned to the guard. He waddled up to the gate, and I saw that my sergeants somehow suddenly deflated. “Yes, everything is in order, guys, they have already finished for today,” the lieutenant rewarded the juniors with a radiant smile and, making sure that they had no more questions, disappeared into the booth. The thunderous impact of a steel beam on the body of a dump truck served as a signal for our retreat.

“Sorry, these are FSE officers (Federal Security Service), we can’t do anything here,” the sergeant, throwing the machine gun behind his back, extended his hand to me in parting. With a feeling of guilt he shook one and the other. I did not believe, but they came and did what they could.