The Life of the Village of Goluboye

THE LIFE OF THE VILLAGE "GOLUBOE"

or how non-traditional sex helped in a particular locality

Part 1.

We lived in our village peacefully and happily. And what was there for us to divide, when out of a thousand households in the village, less than a third remained. When some smart person in the leadership of the former Soviet Union declared a list of unpromising villages, our village Goluboe ended up on this list and the villagers, the more far-sighted ones, began to move to neighboring towns or district centers, leaving their property to the mercy of fate. The houses stood boarded up and leaning. The remaining enterprising residents slowly dismantled the abandoned little houses for

firewood or for other needs.

The village had indeed become unpromising. First they closed the school, then the medical station, and after some time they stopped delivering bread.

Thank God, at least cooperatives were allowed. And a resident of the proud Caucasus, Rezo Bablyoev, who appeared from nowhere, opened a food stall with the proud name "Mercury". That's where the local residents started buying bread and pasta, leaving their pennies saved from their pensions at his cash register.

Thank the Lord, there was still electricity, and the first local channel, broadcasting from the district center, was shown on TV.

And then one day I receive a summons demanding that I appear before the head of the district center. Of course, I could have just wiped myself with that summons. But I, having been elected Chairman of the village council several times in the past, am accustomed to discipline, and I went to the district center on my antiquated "Ural".

The secretary kept me marinating in the waiting room for a long time, saying that the Head was busy. But after about an hour and a half, she let me into the office. Naturally, I was nervous, as I had done before when I held the position of Chairman of the village council. But seeing my former fellow villager and classmate Vaska Petukhov coming out to meet me, I stopped being nervous and even without timidity shook the extended authoritative hand.

Petukhov had grown coarse and fat, you could immediately feel it, a man in a state position and if he distracts himself from state affairs for trifles, it's entirely for the benefit of the cause. He ordered tea from the secretary, and we sat down at a separate small table.

— Well, tell me, Timosha, how's life in our Goluboe? I just haven't had the time, you understand, to drop by.

— What is there to tell, Vasya. You probably know everything yourself. There are less than a hundred people left, and mostly old folks at that.

Private trade is in the hands of a person of Caucasian nationality (here, within the walls of a state institution, I tried to express myself politically correctly, usually we all called Rezo "black-assed" among ourselves). Well, and the road to the district center couldn't be worse.

My story about my native village agitated the sensitive Vasily, he stood up and began pacing around the office. The man cares about the task entrusted to him, but apparently his hands don't reach everything. Vasily got so upset that he couldn't bear it and, taking a bottle of cognac from the cabinet, poured the fiery liquid into two glasses with trembling hands, and as a snack he took out a saucer with lemon slices.

— Come on, Timosha, let's drink to our native village and remember those who are no longer with us. – We drank, standing without clinking glasses.

Having calmed down a bit, Vasily sat down at the table again and took a sip of the cooled tea.

— Yes, Timofey, our enemies are hindering us from building the bright future of capitalism, — he said bitterly.

— They hindered us from building the bright future of socialism before too, Vasya, — I replied. – But we survived.

— Back then the West hindered us, but now internal enemies have appeared, — Vasya informed me.

— But didn't Comrade Stalin shoot all the internal enemies? – I asked.

— He shot them. But now new enemies have appeared. Have you heard anything about gays and lesbians? – he asked quietly.

I nodded, although I had a very vague idea about them, as there were no people of such nationalities in our village.

– So they are the ones hindering us. – Vasily poured more cognac into the glasses, the trembling in his hands had subsided.

— There is a struggle against them going on at the highest level now, — and Vasya raised his index finger to the ceiling. – Do you understand me? – I nodded again, although, to be honest, I understood poorly.- Every province, district, city reports upwards about the fight against these degenerates, and soon we will defeat them. Of course, it's not the year 37 now, no one will shoot them or imprison them, but we will strangle this phenomenon once and for all, unless there are other orders on this matter.

— So, what do you want from me, Vasily? – I asked in bewilderment, what relation I have to this sacred struggle.

— I have such a request for you, Timosha. To head the society of gays and lesbians in your village. – I looked at him in surprise. – You understand yourself, in our district center there are no such renegades yet, but the provincial leadership demands reports on the fight against them. So we consulted here, and I decided that the village of Goluboe is the most suitable place for their center. And the name of the village corresponds. We'll place you in some position, so you can get a salary. That's de jure, but de facto you will be the chairman of the community of gays and lesbians in our district with headquarters in the village of Goluboe.

— Well, think for yourself, who else can I rely on in such a matter, if not a friend, — said Vasily, pouring cognac into the glasses. – So, let's drink to the success of our cause, — he stood up, clinking glasses with me, and we drank.

— And one more thing. – He went to a massive safe and, opening it, took out a package and handed it to me. – Here is the symbol of their movement – a rainbow flag, — Vasily handed it to me with such disgust, as if it were a viper. – Hang it over your hut so everyone can see that your house is the headquarters. Gather people, explain what's what, make lists of active members of your community.

— Vasya! What people, what active members? We only have old men and old women.

— It's nothing, Timosha. They are old now, but in their youth they led a very active lifestyle. Do you understand me? Don't let me down, — he asked. – Yes, — he said thoughtfully, — there will be expenses. – He took a wallet from his back pocket and, opening it, began rummaging in it. For lack of Russian money, he handed me a hundred American rubles and told me to exchange it at an exchange point. – And don't be stingy, Timosha, you'll get more. Attract the public.

With a sense of responsibility for the assigned task, I left the district administration. But before going home, I visited the district library and asked to read articles about those very degenerates whom I would now have to lead. The girl librarian was embarrassed, but brought me two magazines.

After reading the articles about homosexuals and lesbians, I now understood who they were and with a feeling of deep satisfaction I went home, having first exchanged the American money for our rubles and bought four bottles of vodka, cheap candies and gingerbread.

I decided not to tar my own hut and hung the rainbow flag over the village council, fortunately the key to the barn lock remained with me. Several people immediately gathered, wondering if the authorities had decided to change the state flag. Since I still had authority as a former chairman, I ordered two elderly twin sisters, the Zamaraikins, to tidy up the village council, as I was calling a meeting for the evening.

Grandfather Nikifor came running, who had been elected chairman of the collective farm several times before.

— Timoshka, what kind of meeting will it be? Are the authorities planning to restore the collective farm? – The old man still cherished a secret dream of restoring the collective farms and, of course, he, as an experienced person, would be called upon again to be chairman.

— Come in the evening, grandpa, you'll find out, — I said. Then I remembered grandfather Nikifor's story about how in the memorable times of Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev's rule, he publicly tore into grandfather Nikifor, as the collective farm chairman, for low milk yields and the failed corn plan.

— He almost poked me in the ass with a corncob, — grandfather Nikifor used to tell.

"Here," I thought, "is the first candidate for active gays since the Thaw."

I began compiling lists of homosexuals and lesbians. The first was headed by grandfather Nikifor, who was had by Khrushchev at a party-economic meeting. In the list of lesbians, the first were the Zamaraikin sisters, because during their stormy youth they loved to let student construction brigade members live in their hut, from whom, according to various sources, they had five children between them, now living in different cities of our vast homeland. Although the very fact of having children spoke of their traditional orientation. But the sisters agreed to be the first lesbians in the village. Apparently, they liked the foreign word itself.

But the bathhouse burned down long ago, some are no more, and others are far away. Whoever needs to, let them check. With that, I concluded the first meeting of non-traditional sex enthusiasts.

And a week later, a minibus came along our impassable roads, with a TV presenter from the local channel, and she made the first report about our village and the village society of enthusiasts of non-traditional relations.

On the orders of Vasia Petukhov, a telephone line was installed to our headquarters, and Vasia himself expressed his deep gratitude to me. Now the district administration has someone to fight against on the pages of the local press.

Now I'll tell you how our village got its name. Before the revolution, there was the estate of General Golubov here. The peasants burned the estate itself when the slogan "Peace to the huts, war to the palaces" was taken up, although it could have made a good school or hospital. But the village continued to bear the name "Golubovo". The Bolsheviks, to eradicate the memory of the general, renamed the village to "Goluboe".

Now, in light of the unfolding events, the name was the most appropriate. Now we began to be visited by provincial, and even capital journalists and television crews. I and my activists posed in front of photo and television cameras against the backdrop of the former village council with a fluttering rainbow flag.

From the district center they sent a brief historical note about our village. It turns out that gays of all stripes and lesbians hid in our village even under Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich the Quietest. If my memory serves me right, he actually fought against the Old Believers.

Accredited foreign journalists also began frequenting our village. I told the history of the village, starting with Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, and grandfather Nikifor, without mincing words, described how Nikita Sergeevich raped him, for clarity the old man showed a last year's corncob. Thank God, at least he didn't take his pants off. Young translators, blushing from Nikifor's folk expressions, tried to translate all this nonsense into English, German and other European languages. The journalists nodded in agreement, as many still remembered Khrushchev's "Kuzka's mother".

The Zamaraikin sisters vied with each other to tell how they lured young milkmaids and cattlewomen into their nets, discouraging them from traditional love.

Since there were no public catering establishments in the village, and the entire journalistic brethren wanted to have a bite to eat, the proud son of the Caucasus Rezo Bablyoev immediately built a diner out of plywood and colored slate called "Golubki" ("Doves"), where dishes of Russian national cuisine were served: shashlik, lyulya-kebab and kharcho soup. As for alcoholic drinks, Rezo served only local moonshine, supplied to him by grandmother Serafima, who in Soviet times worked as a librarian.

Life in the village, if not better, became at least more fun. In the spring, when everything had dried, Vasia Petukhov ordered a new road to be built from the district center to the village with asphalt pavement and markings according to European standards.

BERLI.