ПОЧЕМУ СОВЕТСКИЕ ВОДИТЕЛИ БОЯЛИСЬ ЭТОГО ЗАБЫТОГО МАРШРУТА

In '92, everything was done through barter and coupons, but for this trip they offered me cash—and I, fool that I was, was delighted. The money was in my inside pocket, right next to my heart, four folded bills, still warm from someone else's hand. I counted them twice. Yaroslav Bortnik, forty-four years old, twenty behind the wheel, and I counted them anyway. Not because I didn't believe it. My hands were just used to checking. The bills were crumpled, having been in many pockets, their folds soft to the touch. I folded them in four and pressed them with my palm through my jacket. The warmth of someone else's hand had already gone, leaving only mine. It was a strange caress—from money. For twenty years I had carried other people's cargo for government paper, for coupons, for promises. And here I was holding something alive to my heart. The motor depot stood at the edge of a logging village, where the asphalt ended and nowhere began. The yard was overgrown with dry weeds. The gate hung by a single hinge. The control room shone with a single yellow window—dim as a cooling ember. A chill fog lay still, motionless. There was no wind at all. The kind of windlessness you get in late autumn in the north, when the air seems frozen and awaits the first snow. The air smelled of damp bark, frozen earth, and rotting sawdust—whole drifts of it had piled up here over the years, gray and compacted. It crunched underfoot. It wasn't snow yet, but this very hoarfrost that had coated the grass and puddles with a thin crust overnight. I walked along the side of the car and, out of habit, kicked the ramp—it was springy and held. I walked around the car, as I always do before a long journey. I inspected the belts and tugged at the awning latches. Everything was in place. Everything as it should be. A dry frost had formed on the windows of my car. Not frost from my breath—just a dry, stinging film, like salt. I wiped the windshield with a rag. Then I wiped it again, even though there was no dirt there anymore. Habit. The rag scraped against the glass with a dry sound, and that sound was the only one in the entire yard. No dog, no voice, no knocking. It was so silent it was deafening. I could even hear the cooling metal creaking under the hood—quietly, as if the car was resting after the journey and talking to itself. My car is a red tractor-trailer after a major overhaul. The cabin is the color of ripe lingonberries, the awning over the trailer is pulled tight, the belts are new. The engine had been rebuilt a month ago, and it rumbled smoothly, without a knock or a glitch. I knew this car down to the last bolt. I knew where things would creak over bumps, knew how it settled under a load. I trusted it more than people. People let me down. Cars didn't. Over twenty years, I've learned this for sure. People promise and don't pay, swear and forget, smile in your face and lie. But iron is honest. It breaks when it's worn out, and lasts when you take care of it. I took care of mine. I changed the oil early, didn't skimp on good tires, and gave the wheels a spin every evening. And it reciprocated my loyalty. The announcer droned on on the radio. About vouchers. About how everyone is now a co-owner of a great country, about the price of bread, which had risen again. The voice was cheerful, but the words were empty. I listened with half an ear. Such were the times. Everyone was waiting for something, and no one understood what. It was a hungry autumn. Whatever was available in the stores was unaffordable, and the only cheaper items on the shelves were cans of seaweed and birch sap. Tamara hustled as best she could, stretching my paycheck, salting, drying, and storing for the winter. I brought back what I could barter along the way. A sack of flour on the highway was worth more than gold, and no one had ever seen the wealth promised by the state. Co-owner of a country. I chuckled to myself. Co-owner of an empty pocket. The cargo was ordinary. Boxes, covered with a tarpaulin, the documents in order. The client was found through a third party—an acquaintance of the dispatcher, whom I didn't really know. The official route was a detour, along a major highway, an extra two hundred kilometers. But here they offered a shorter, more direct route, along an old winter road. And for cash.