that stuck-up teacher voice, which drew a strong, hard line under my love for this teacher and the whole subject of Russian literature. I hate it.
But hatred, I'm sure you will agree, is a bad feeling, and later fate decided to play a little game on me: my wife Maria is a Russian Language amp; Literature teacher. Yes, yes, very funny… But years later I learned about Russian postfixes, some parts of the speech and some other little things. That said, I still can't manage phonetic from the third grade, which our daughter Anfisa has already mastered. Indeed, language is not my strong point.
2000. More Pushkin
Then, Ms. Irina Borisovna went on maternity leave and she was replaced by a trained specialist. She was so awful that I can't even remember her name. Ms. Valentina, was it? At the end of the ninth grade, in five lessons in a row I was asked a question in literature class. It was on the subject of the great genius Pushkin. In the first three lessons, I answered questions about him with all that I could remember from the textbook, no worries. But then by the fourth lesson I began to struggle. Some people weren't getting any questions, I was being tortured ever time! The fifth time came and it started to drive me mad. For all five answers I got five points out of five, again, no problems. But wasn't there such a thing as too much Pushkin per pound of flesh?
I was asked a sixth time, and I publicly refused to answer.
«Don't you know?» asked the teacher.
«I know, but you've already tortured me enough. Why do I have to answer every time?» I replied.
«Right, so, obviously, you don't know. Two points.[15]»
During the break, I came up to her to find out what she wanted from me, but she shrugged me off, did not listen, and said that it was impossible to change the grade she's given me. This brought my marks down, and I would be awarded a 4/5 for the term. F**k you… I thought to myself, leaving in silence. Pushkin, Pushkin, Pushkin… I get it, he's our national treasure. But you'd have thought someone else would have written something better by now…
Chapter 6. 1995. First Money
1995. Beer bottles
Pushkin, lifts, and grammar – I had bigger fish to fry. A real man needs money. A lot of money. For… crisps, chupa chups, and a little later for the collectable Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers.
Сheburashka[16] beer bottles were the answer to our meaningless summer existence and the absence of any pocket money. It made us a little more confident and even more grown-up. It was fun.
First of all, we had to know where to look for these bottles: stalls, bins, bushes and pubs. We were a valiant eco-squad scouring the whole neighbourhood. Sometimes even wouldn't even let one bottle split our grasp; we'd sit and wait for someone drinking a bottle to finish it to the end before giving us the empty glass.
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