movies, gaining experience from the sights and sounds. And when he sensed suspicious glances – «he's prowling around, seeking out a thief; there are plenty of hooligans now» – he would cautiously retreat, imagining himself as a protagonist of a detective story. There was something elusive that drew him to the market.
One Sunday, as he strolled along the rows, he heard a sudden commotion behind him – shouting, whistling, and cursing, as if a wave of chaos was approaching. From a distance, Mark had witnessed such occurrences before. As he turned around, he saw a boy emerging from the sea of people, pushing him, and then disappearing into the crowd. Mark could have apprehended the hoodlum, but for an instant, their eyes met, and he found himself frozen. Following closely behind was a policeman, shrilly whistling, and a short while later, a panting, bewildered, heavy-set citizen arrived.
The scene played out as a typical occurrence in the market. Mark noticed that no one else in the crowd seemed bothered, and life resumed its normal pace. Nevertheless, the weight in his pocket felt unusual, prompting him to reach for the source of the heaviness.
Once out of the crowd, he ducked into the first alley to examine the «foundling» – a costly cigarette case. «What should I do? Should I go to the authorities?» he pondered, feeling perplexed. He couldn't understand why he refrained from apprehending the thief, a blueeyed, attractive young man who appeared to be around his age. There was something in the thief's gaze that halted him – perhaps slyness, as if they were comrades sharing a secret, or an undeniable, composed seriousness. Mark was certain that he wasn't going to take any action. Was it compassion, a sense of camaraderie, or maybe fear of the consequences, knowing the ways of the local public? Whatever it was, fear wasn't what he felt.
«Discard it! Toss it away and forget it,» his self-preservation instinct whispered, urging him to make the sensible choice. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he secretively stashed the cigarette case under the mattress at home. A surprising thought crossed his mind: «This is my first secret…» Strangely enough, within the friendly Maretsky family, secrets, even when they surfaced (mostly about the boys' mischief), had a tendency to be revealed swiftly.
He hadn't yet decided what to do with the stolen item, but from that day on, every time he passed through the market, he searched for the pickpocket. Mark couldn't help but wonder if the thief had been caught on that ill-fated morning. Nights were spent restlessly, cursing himself for unwittingly becoming an accomplice.
A week or two later, while leaving the house, Maretsky nearly collided with the blue-eyed pickpocket.
«Sacha,» the unpunished thief introduced himself briefly, extending his hand.
Mark introduced himself and shook the grubby, five-fingered hand. Surprisingly, a sense of relief washed over him – he saw a way out of the delicate situation.
«Why didn't you report me? I could've been caught,» the pickpocket inquired, studying Mark with unabashed interest.
«I had second thoughts,» Mark admitted, realizing that he indeed had.
«Well, I'm grateful,» the pickpocket remarked jokingly, extending his gratitude. «Where's the item? Did you get rid of it already?»
«You're insulting me! It's right there, waiting for you. Let me get it for you.»
When the item was returned to its rightful owner, Mark finally breathed a sigh of relief. Sacha inspected the cigarette case and expressed his dismay:
«Oh, what a waste of effort. And it was such a serious gentleman.»
«What's wrong?»
«I don't believe it's gold. Well, I might get a few pennies for it, at least.»
As they strolled together towards the square, Mark couldn't help but ponder how this newfound acquaintance defied the stereotypical image of a street thief. Sacha was a blond, well-built but notably thin young man with delicate features and an exceptionally smooth way of speaking. Something about him didn't quite add up.
Nevertheless, that day marked a significant turning point for Mark – unexpectedly, he had found a friend.
The more Maretsky got to know Sacha, who happened to be a year younger than him, the more he understood why he hadn't reported him. Sacha Voisky hailed from Tver, born to an officer in a destitute noble family and a former maid. He recounted his life with a subdued demeanor, devoid of any emotion.
«The last time I saw my father was in 18. He returned from active duty, from the war. It was barely a week, and then he left to fight again, this time against the Bolsheviks. He assured me he'd be back soon, said they wouldn't last long,» Sacha paused for a moment. «But you see how it turned out… He vanished, and I haven't heard from him since.»
While such a narrative was sadly common during those times, it remained no less tragic. His mother was left grappling with desperate attempts to find work. Eventually, she fell in with a lover, a shadowy figure who elicited persistent disdain from the young boy. This new «father» coaxed them into relocating to Moscow.
Once in Moscow, the stepfather engaged in dubious dealings in the Sukharevsky market and soon got carved up, right in front of Sacha's mother. Since then, as his newfound friend recounted, she had been «a bit out of sorts,» and Sacha took on the role of the sole breadwinner.
Despite living in different worlds, the two young men shared much in common: their curiosity and hunger for new experiences led them to seek out and discover the wonders of the big city. Although Sacha held some disdain for Moscow, he acknowledged its abundance of attractions – movies, theaters, museums, and the plethora of newspapers and magazines. Their mutual passion for reading connected them effortlessly. Mark undeniably lagged behind Sacha, the latter being reared under the vigilant guidance of his father from his tender years. And Mark admired Sacha's remarkable memory; he could remember the contents of all the books he had read and could even quote from them. They often exchanged books, though it seemed that Sacha had somehow acquired some rare volumes from the Sukharevsky market.
By that time, Mark had been toiling at the brickyard, having joined the school of the working youth, and he convinced Sacha to do the same, persuading him that his intellectual prowess warranted pursuing higher education at an institute.
«Are you kidding me? You want me to become part of the working youth?» Sacha sadly protested.
«Well, first you'll have to get a job at the factory. I'll ask around. I think Baruch has a brother-in-law at the candy factory. I'll also ask my foreman. But it might be tough for you at the brick factory,» replied Mark.
«I'm not afraid of hard work. But don't you see? I'm disadvantaged!» argued Sacha.
«What kind of nonsense are you talking about? Nobody here knows about your father,» Mark playfully jested. «And besides, why would you consider yourself disadvantaged? You have everything.»
«What do you mean, 'everything'?» Sacha slyly squinted and tapped his forehead. «What about this?»
«That's exactly what I'm saying! You've got a brilliant mind!» Mark emphasized.
«Maybe we should seriously give it a try,» Sacha finally conceded.
Mark was delighted; it seemed he had successfully convinced his friend. However, Sacha's shenanigans did not hold much appeal for him. Besides, the New-Sukharevsky market, with its orderly rows of stalls and vigilant guards, was a far cry from a place he found enjoyable.
Meanwhile,
