​Vitalik and foreign policy

Having read, almost to the point of intoxication, various news and comments about all sorts of sanctions and anti-sanctions, about all sorts of Olympic doping stories, about hacker penetration into other people's elections, as well as about symmetrical and asymmetrical responses and other realities and phantoms of our current foreign policy life, for some reason I... then I begin to remember some long-ago events, not too significant, to put it mildly, seemingly infinitely far from today’s socio-political urgency and certainly not comparable in scale to the alarming and absurd spirit of our time.

Private, almost everyday events that would not be remembered under other circumstances. But such events are remembered in the same way as a poet remembers rhymes that came from incomprehensibly, floating into the net he cast.

Well, at least this.

Mid-seventies. Celebrating the New Year in the apartment of one of my then friends. Everything is as always. Drinks, snacks, flirting, funny stories, mutual love banter. Things are gradually moving towards singing. In any case, the owner’s hand is already reaching for the guitar.

But it was at this moment, at about three in the morning, that suddenly there was a sharp, terribly alarming and persistent ringing of the doorbell. “Actually, I’m not waiting for anyone anymore,” the owner said, shrugging his shoulders, and went to open the door.

He returned not alone, but accompanied by some unknown young man. “This is Vitalik, my classmate,” the owner said with some melancholy and tension in his voice. “We haven’t seen each other for nine years.”

Vitalik entered, smiling strangely and at the same time holding his left hand raised, from which blood was vigorously gushing.

Everyone, of course, perked up. First aid kit, bandages, iodine. The hand was somehow bandaged. They were seated at a common table. They asked what was the matter.

“Yes, I was kicked out of one company there, bitches! — Vitalik readily reported. — I celebrated New Year there. The owner didn't like something there. He says that there is something wrong with his wife and me. Well, they kicked me out, in short! Well, I left, of course. But he didn’t just leave. I went outside - and the apartment was on the first floor - and there was rust on the window from outside! The window was fucking broken. Well, and here’s the hand too. And here he came! I remembered that it seemed nearby. Happy New Year, by the way."

The feast fell into some stupor. Only the forks were knocking on the plates, and someone’s muffled voice was barely audible, saying: “Can you pass the salad?”

Vitalik got used to it very quickly. He poured himself a full glass of vodka, drank it in one fell swoop and began to get to know everyone. When it was my turn, he said: “I heard, yes! You are a poet. I know. I’m also a poet at heart.”

After which the proud thesis about the pure poetry of his soul found its confirmation in the consumption of a truly poetic amount of all those drinks that his hand, free from a glass, could reach. The same one, bandaged.

At some point, this “poet at heart” suddenly turned pale, and he vomited quite violently and profusely right on the table. By the way, someone’s trousers were also damaged. Looks like someone's skirt too. I’m not even talking about the table, that’s already clear.

They somehow grabbed Vitalik by the arms, took him to the bathroom, from the table, as best they could, they erased traces of the physiological activity of his rebellious body, somehow washed something, wiped something, but, of course, restored his original splendor no longer succeeded.

They somehow continued to drink, but they ate with quite understandable heightened alertness.

They talked somehow, but for some reason quietly. They completely forgot about singing songs. Are there any songs here?

Vitalik reappeared from the bathroom. He was still slightly pale, but he was already smiling, and for some reason it was merciful and somehow even condescending.

He, who managed to become the unconditional center of everyone's attention, was given strong tea and asked about his well-being.

At some point, his health apparently improved to such an extent that he turned to me and very languidly, not without some theatricality, said: “Lenya!” “Leva,” I corrected him. “It doesn’t matter - Leva, Lenya! Lenya! Maybe you could read some of your own?”

“No, I’m kind of reluctant,” I said. “What are you afraid of? — Vitalik said slightly irritated. - Read it! Are you writing some kind of shit? Don’t be afraid, I’m kind today.”

I didn’t have time to react because the owner of the house beat me to it. He stood up from his seat completely silently and, overcoming his generally recognized intelligence and all the centuries-old ideas about hospitality, took his former classmate by the collar and led him towards the hanger.

“Okay, okay, I understand everything, I’ll leave on my own,” Vitalik said, obediently walking into the hallway, “I see that I’m in the wrong place.” I see that there are only Jews here! What should I do here!

And he left, slamming the door as expected.

There was a certain silence at the table, as it happens in such cases. Then, when somewhere in the depths of the landing the entrance door slammed loudly, someone alarmingly remembered the “small bang on the window from the outside.” But he was immediately reminded that we, in fact, were sitting here not at all on the first or even on the second, but, frankly speaking, on the ninth floor. So this is unlikely.