How the Cossacks chose their wives

My twenty-first birthday caught up with me in carriage No. 8 of the passenger train "Moscow – Dnepropetrovsk". Oh, that number "8". It's been following me like a bathhouse leaf my whole life. And to this day, it's unclear whether it brings me happiness or sorrow. I don't believe in the magic of numbers, but still, it ("eight") is extremely "clingy," and that's a fact.

Let's start with the elementary, paranoid-tinged, but nonetheless real, facts. I was born in the "eighth" month of my mother's pregnancy, and it happened precisely on August 26th. That is, 26.08. One "eight" reveals itself immediately, the second hides in the sum of the digits "2+6". I grew up

in my parents' apartment, which is in building No. 8, and, of course, following the laws of the genre, the apartment itself has the same serial number.

In the "eighth" grade, during a judo training session, I got a triple (Thank heavens it was only "triple," and not... well, you get it...) fracture of my left arm. By a devilish twist of fate, an X-ray could only be taken on the "eighth" day after the injury, when the bone healing process was in full swing. It would have been fine if not for the mistake of a negligent traumatologist applying the cast. The bone wasn't set in its natural position. This unfortunate oversight led to a displacement of the broken section by a whole centimeter on both sides.

After the examination, it became clear that surgical intervention was unavoidable. As a result, the full recovery phase dragged on for more than four months, instead of the initially predicted four weeks. And even after that, for a whole year, doctors recommended (though, let's be honest, forbade) putting any load on the arm. All of this, combined, put a definitive end to my wrestling career.

To not stray from the theme of "sacramental eights" in my life, I'll add a few more arguments. On the door of the dorm room I lived in until my fourth year, the inscription "448" was proudly displayed. Not only does this three-digit number end with an "8," but again, performing a simple mathematical operation with the first two digits, we get "4+4" and what? Correct, "8". Many joyful, even fateful, events happened in that room, and not a single significant negative one. This allows me to think that not everything is so bad in my relationship with the "little eight."

Let's move on. My passport number starts and ends with "eights". My first car, completely unplanned, turned out to be a VAZ – 2108. And it was wrecked (again, unplanned) on the eighth of August. That is, "08.08". And also... well, enough tediousness and the fruits of an inflamed imagination. I could lay out a ton more such conclusions, but that's not why we're here. If you set your mind to it, you can "tailor" arguments and events to fit any number. Probably, I just like to consider "eight" "my number," that's all.

So, my twenty-first birthday, as mentioned above, I celebrated on the road. The development of events on this day, at first, didn't inspire me at all. At the "Russia – Ukraine" border crossing, our valiant "border guards" got to me. Or rather, one "border guard". Quite young, with a warrant officer's shoulder straps. I was smoking in the vestibule and heard him ask the conductor if there were any "foreigners" in the carriage. The conductor, without thinking, "sold me out" with a sweet soul. He pointed out the seat, the bunk, and even my "full name," checking the ticket data he held onto until the final destination.

The "warrant officer" immediately ordered him to find me and, accompanied by my passport, escort me for a "heart-to-heart talk" in his own "conductor's" compartment. The "master of the railways'" wish was promptly put into action, and within a couple of minutes, I was closing the sliding panel of the worn-out door behind me. The customs officer sat with an important air at the table, diligently creating an appearance of his own significance, peering into the folder opened before him.

He knew I had a citizen of Uzbekistan ID on me and anticipated a quick "haul." What he would find to pick on. They always find something if they want to. And there, by the way, there was nothing to look for. It was enough to glance at the temporary registration page. Beyond the legally permitted three days, I had stayed in the "white-stoned" capital for two more. Not a mortal sin, of course, I could buy my way out. But I really didn't want to part with my "hard-earned money."

I was in the Russian capital in transit. Returning from my parents after the holidays. Of course, I could have bought a ticket to Dnepropetrovsk right away and left on the day of arrival. I could have, if I hadn't been met at "Domodedovo" by the "Uzbek Muscovites." That's what we called the guys from our hometown who were studying in Moscow among ourselves. My best friend Mishka commanded the welcoming delegation, so the airport meeting smoothly turned into a prolonged drinking session. And after it became known that Lizka Morozova (known to you, Dear Readers, from the series of stories "Divide and Conquer") had broken up with her boyfriend and was "available for rotation," the drinking session instantly transformed into a five-day binge.

I frankly "didn't give a damn" about registration in a foreign country, being in a continuous "drunken stupor." And when I finally got tired of "pouring down the drain" and came to my senses, it was too late to do anything. All permissible deadlines had expired, and I would have been fined on the spot anyway. However, there remained a chance that I could leave Russia without a thorough document check. Border guards often walk through the carriages and slap stamps in passports, practically without looking. It doesn't always happen, but it does. In my case – no luck. So I had to try to divert the "warrant officer's" close attention from my ID. How to do this became clear after the customs officer's first word.

– Have a seat, – the man in shoulder straps allowed me, – where are you coming from and where are you going? Passport.

– And who might you be? Documents, please, show them. And why, all of a sudden, are you being so familiar with me? Or do you think there's no recourse for your rudeness? – I theatrically protested the unjustified familiarity.

The warrant officer looked up at me in surprise, his eyes full of bewilderment.

– Warrant Officer Shevchuk, – he said cautiously and handed me his "credentials", – I didn't notice when I was being famil... (stumbled)... famil... (stumbled again)... fam-il-iar (he pronounced the ending syllable by syllable and blushed in shame).

I didn't even expect the "border guard" to fall into a verbal "knockdown" so quickly. Essentially, I hadn't even managed to say anything yet, and he was already "toasted." Apparently, he was still very "green" and "untested." He had picked up some cheekiness from his comrades, but how to apply all this in practice and not get flustered – he hadn't fully grasped.

– You, Dear Warrant Officer of the Customs Service Shevchuk Pavel Anatolyevich, are being both familiar and using "ty" with me, and you invited me for an unclear conversation. When I get to Dnepr – I'll complain about you. I have enough connections – don't doubt it – I turned on the "guy with connections."

– What complaint? About me? For what? – the "servant of the law" began to fuss.

– Well, for what? For abuse of official position. Let's not be disingenuous. You and I understand perfectly well why you called me into a separate room. You need to "cut" some money from me, and I'm not going to give it to you. You'll start being rude to me, maybe even threaten to kick me off the train. That's what I'll complain about you for. And by the way, I still won't give you any money. On principle, I won't.

Pavel Anatolyevich almost choked, trying to prove to me that I was mistaken, and he had called me to the compartment only because it was more convenient for him to work that way. He was in the right condition for me to offer him a chance to redeem himself. I said that if I was mistaken, I was ready to apologize and "part ways peacefully." I opened the passport to the page I needed and handed it to the "serviceman." He was glad to get rid of the "hemorrhoid" that was me as soon as possible and immediately stamped the departure stamp on a free spot on the page. We sincerely thanked each other for understanding, and I departed to my place, thinking with relief that the saved money could now be spent on celebrating my birthday with a clear conscience. Apparently, "eight" is, after all, a lucky number for me.

There was no doubt that the money would fly away like birds in autumn that evening. My closest friends had informed me via SMS since morning that they would meet me off the train. This meant that after the meeting, we would go as a crowd to the nearest dive, where I would "treat" to the full width of my soul. And my soul is Central Asian, read, very wide. Anticipating such a turn of events, I stretched out on my upper bunk and slept all the way to Dnepropetrovsk. Considerable strength was required for the night's revelry. I was unlikely to get any sleep in the next twenty-four hours, I know my friends.

A whole gang of already not-so-sober comrades was waiting for me on the platform. After a diverse spectrum of handshakes, greetings, and friendly hugs, our noisy group spilled out onto the station square and distributed ourselves between two taxis. The Dagestani Azar, sitting next to the driver of our car, commanded to go to "Chibis." The car's interior exploded with friendly laughter. The whole comedy of the situation was that "Chibis" was located near the bus station, which was no more than a five-minute walk away even on foot.

– Azar, don't push it, what the f*ck "Chibis"? We'll pay for two hundred meters like it's two kilometers. Are you a millionaire? Or are you f*cking a millionaire's daughter? Let's go somewhere farther already, since we're seated, – suggested the Russian Andryukha, who had come to study in Ukraine from distant Tyumen.

– Then to Shevchenko Park, let's go (this was said to the driver). We'll drink there at a summer cafe and pick up some chicks. Sanya ("Dagen" turned to me halfway), you have no idea how much "young meat" is in the city now. More freshmen have arrived this year than ever. Girls – whatever you want! Black, white, brown. And even orange (with a fake Caucasian accent, though Azar spoke Russian excellently).

– There are plenty of them every year. Both black, and white, and "orange." And I shouldn't be the one telling you about it, – I shrugged, – chief, let's go, don't wait for this clown (Azar knows I'm joking) to finish talking (I pat the driver on the shoulder). If our "Kazan" starts babbling about chicks – you won't be able to shut him up. And time is passing. It's already nine o'clock.

– Oh no, brother, this year it's different. You'll see for yourself, – Azar had the last word.

My Dagestani friend was a notorious ladies' man, which earned him the nickname "Kazan." The play on words requires some explanation, so I'll clarify.

The thing is, Azar cooked amazing pilaf. It was the signature dish of his kitchen arsenal. However, it was also the only serious dish listed in his "cookbook." I don't recall him ever cooking anything else truly substantial. Scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and pasta don't count. But his pilaf was truly magical, that can't be denied. Azar even bothered to bring a huge cauldron from Makhachkala. He said that only in a real cauldron from his homeland does pilaf turn out so tasty. Partly, that's why he got the nickname "Kazan" (Cauldron). But to a greater extent, he owed his "moniker" to the eponymous (in truncated form) existing in our society, thanks to the greatest lover of all times and peoples. Of course, I'm talking about Casanova.

And this comparison is no exaggeration. "Kazan" could easily "pick up" ladies of any age and interests, regardless of their social status. I've seen in his bed both young students with a couple of pennies to their name and mature "business ladies" in expensive cars. Many were simply amazed and wondered how he managed it. Many wondered, but I knew. The Dagestani's popularity among women was aided by natural magnetism (incredible male charm, if you will) and a resemblance to Jason Statham (I swear to God I'm not lying).

Add to that a great sense of humor, healthy audacity in communication and dealings with women, as well as unbridled sexual energy, thanks to which Azar, during carnal pleasures, brought his partners to an unconscious state. I always have thought and still think: if he had gone into the porn industry – he would definitely be in leading roles. Not everyone is given the gift to f*ck so inspiredly, skillfully, and tirelessly. That requires a special talent. And fate supplied him with this talent very generously.

"Kazan" was the oldest in our company. A whole chasm of seven years separated me from him. Azar had managed to serve in the army and live for several years in St. Petersburg, working in a "slightly gangster" structure of his older brother. He came to study not of his own free will, but by the will of that same brother, who believed that at least someone in their family should have a higher education. If it were up to "Kazan" himself, he would have gladly stayed in the "northern capital" of the Russian Federation, where, according to him, "he lived quite sweetly even without higher education." But in their culture, it's not customary to argue with older brothers. If they said go – then you need to go.

And he came. He came to, on the very first day of his stay in Ukraine, start a drunken brawl with another newly arrived foreign student and end up in a police station. That "other newly arrived" turned out to be none other than your humble servant. Azar and I didn't like each other from the start. From the first minutes of acquaintance, his Caucasian arrogance and desire to establish his own rules "on the foreigner floor" irritated me. What outraged him about me was my reciprocal unwillingness to dance "to his tune" and my openly dismissive attitude towards his imaginary "authority." I'm "no pushover" myself. I "didn't give a damn" who he was in St. Petersburg and what gangsters he rubbed shoulders with.

As a result of the daytime verbal altercation, that same evening we had a serious "scuffle" on ethnic grounds. I won't go into details, I'll just say we were both wrong. We said shameful, "black" things to each other, for which I'm still ashamed to this day. It almost came to a knife fight. "Kazan," at least, ran to his room for a Dagestani (illegally imported) dagger, but the guys, sensing trouble, hid the cold weapon "away from sin" in time. So everything ended with the traditional, in such cases, mutual brawl, and the equally traditional police squad, called by the frightened watchman.

In the morning, they let us out safely, having taken an unspecified sum of money from each. Before that, they had a "disciplinary talk" with us, crowned with a promise to "feed us batons" even more heartily next time and "pass the case higher." Returning to the dorm, I crashed to sleep, and in the evening, a solemn ceremony of smoking the "peace pipe" took place. Our mutual acquaintance (later becoming a mutual friend) Zhenya took it upon himself to mend relations between us and, credit where it's due, succeeded in this difficult matter.

Azar and I talked civilly, offered each other mutual apologies, sealed the deal with a handshake, and went to the nearest cafe to strengthen the shaky alliance. As strange as it may seem, after the first 100 grams of "white" vodka, we found many likable qualities in each other that negated the negativity that had irritated us a day earlier. And after another "hundred grams," we "shook hands" again and swore eternal friendship. We keep our word to this day and remember the first day of acquaintance with a smile.

I could tell a similar story (though not so brutal) about each of those friends who met me off the train on my twenty-first birthday. But their functions that evening were limited to friendly communication and creating a festive atmosphere. Azar's