A letter to an old friend

[Carys]

Shmatko slowly shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the man who had entered. The light from the window fell in such a way that Vadim's figure was at first only a dark silhouette against the blinding whiteness. But the voice, that emphatically formal greeting—he would recognize it among a thousand.

“Zdraviya, Comrade Colonel.”

Shmatko's voice was hoarse from long silence. He did not try to stand up or salute, but only nodded slightly toward the chair by the bed.

"Come in, Vadim. Or, excuse me, should I now address you as ‘Comrade Paper Tsar’? With all due respect. Have a seat. Be careful not to knock over the bowl of porridge—they say it has a mind of its own and a nasty temper. Just like me."

He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. His eyes, dull and tired, slid over his guest's face, searching for traces of time and power in familiar features.

"I appreciate you coming. I see the reports and secretaries haven't eaten you alive and spat you out yet. Although, judging by the delay in your letter, they came close. Never mind. I've managed to make friends with the walls in four days. They're very talkative, by the way. They told me all about the local antiseptics and the sad stories of the guys who lay on this bed before me."

Shmatko raised himself up on his elbow, and his voice, which had sounded like a tired whisper before, suddenly took on a harsh, almost familiar tone.

"You know what? Let's get out of this white tomb. I know a place in Zvyozdny Gorodok. The Bar ”Blade”. The vodka there is so good it would make a colonel talk. The beer is thicker than the philosophy in these hospital brochures. And the best part? It doesn't smell like antiseptic and defeat. Khalid runs the place. He's a former penal battalion soldier. He's as tough as an armored hatch, but if you drink his vodka without complaining, he'll take you in without asking any questions. So, what do you say? Or are your new epaulets welded to your chair?"

---