Preferance with Polunin

— The Leash: My friends gave me a leash, but Chicha (a poodle mix, shorter than a boot) hated it. If we put it on, she’d plant her feet and refused to budge.

— The Brave Protector: She thought the whole world belonged to her. She’d approach huge dogs, bark incessantly while looking back to make sure I was behind her, but if the other dog barked back, she’d vanish in a flash and end up in my arms, from where she’d continue barking even louder.

The Heartbreak:

My car was her signal. She could recognize the sound of my engine from 300 meters away. Until I pulled up, she’d sit on the windowsill, whimpering and scratching at the wood in anticipation.

But my wife, Tamara, didn’t bond with Chicha; she wasn’t a «pet person.» She started pestering me to give the dog away. Who takes a grown mutt? For a month I suffered, and when the ultimatum finally came — either the dog goes or… well, it was «either/or» — I drove Chicha to the Aragvi restaurant and let her go. My heart was bleeding.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. In the morning, I went back for her. I searched everywhere, called her name, asked the watchmen, but she was gone as if she’d vanished into thin air. For a long time after, whenever I drove past, I’d stop and hope… but she never appeared. I’ve never owned a dog since. I feel such guilt toward Chicha that even now, I cannot forgive myself.

«You’ll Even Confess to Killing Kennedy!»

I wasn’t just a witness to the events described below — I was an active participant. Two phrases from that time are etched into my memory, phrases that could have led to tragic consequences.

The first was barked at me by a KGB officer: — «You’ll confess not only to stealing the gold but to killing Kennedy as well!»

The second was one I said myself: — «The thief isn’t the one you’d suspect right away; it’s the one with «Honest’ branded on their forehead.»

It happened in the early 2000s. Naturally, the names have been changed. A woman named Meri Vasilievna called me, claiming a recommendation from mutual friends. She wanted to meet about selling her apartment through my real estate firm.

Real estate agents differ from taxi drivers in one key way: taxi drivers know every street and house, but agents know the streets, the houses, the layouts of the apartments, and exactly who lives inside them.

The apartment was in a prestigious, elite building — six rooms, about 200 square meters, taking up the entire floor. It had a unique feature that made it one-of-a-kind (I’ll skip the details to keep the people involved anonymous). Meri asked me to sell it quietly, through «private channels,» without ads or «tourists,» because her husband, a KGB General, was away and she wanted no publicity.

For a week, I brought high-end clients. Meri, the typical wife of a high-ranking Chekist, couldn’t help but spill «details» about the neighbors — calling them thieves, informants, and prostitutes. I had to spend a few evenings drinking tea with her just to convince her to stay in the kitchen while I showed the place. Her housekeeper, Vera — a relative of Meri’s late son’s wife — baked delicious buns and served tea, mostly keeping to herself.

Eventually, my pool of wealthy clients ran dry, so I teamed up with a colleague from another firm. His broker, Merab — a lovely man, a doctor by profession who worked in real estate to support his family — brought a potential buyer. While Merab showed the client around, I kept Meri in the kitchen. The client liked the place, especially the two large semi-basement rooms. We left in high spirits; he promised to buy it after showing it to his wife.

That evening, Meri called. Her voice was like a thunderclap: — «Yura, all the gold is gone. I left my jewelry box on the vanity in the bedroom. Now it’s empty. Get here now.»

Half an hour later, I was looking at an empty malachite box. Meri had already decided: the thief was the «bearded guy» from the other firm. She wanted his address so her husband’s colleagues could «shake the gold out of him.»

I tried to reason with her. Merab was a doctor, an intellectual. Even if he were a thief, he wasn’t an idiot — nobody steals gold from a KGB General’s house during an official viewing. — «Thieves don’t look like thieves, Meri. If they did, no one would let them in. The real thief is the one with «Honest’ branded on their forehead.» — «Well then, you stole it,» she joked, «because no one would ever suspect you.»

The next morning, two «wardrobes» showed up at my office — two huge, menacing security officers from «The Office» (the KGB). — «Let’s go. Show us this bearded suspect.»

They wouldn’t listen to explanations. They sat me and Merab in a car. The atmosphere was suffocating. One of the officers leaned toward Merab: — «Look, Merab. We don’t want a formal investigation. But if we go to the basement for an ’interrogation with prejudice,» you’ll confess to stealing the gold and killing Kennedy. Just return it now, pay a fine, and no one has to know.»

Merab, panicked, tried to deflect: — «Why me? Maybe Yura and the owner staged the whole thing!»

I nearly choked. The «method of elimination» I had run the night before didn’t seem so clever now that I was being accused. However, when the officers found out the buyer was a high-ranking Member of Parliament, they hesitated. They gave Merab a summons and dropped us off.

I sat in my office, playing Lines98 on the computer to calm my racing mind. Suddenly, a «Stierlitz-level» idea hit me. I printed out a fake «police statement» and headed back to Meri’s.

Vera, the housekeeper, opened the door. — «Did they find the gold?» she asked eagerly. — «Almost,» I replied. «The big boys are on it.»

Over coffee, I spun a colorful yarn about how Merab had been smirking and acting tough with the officers. — «You were right about him, Meri,» I lied. «He refused to talk until a formal case is opened.»

Then, I pulled out the paper and read it aloud: «To the Head of the Police Department: I, MP Fridion Sozvanidze, request an interrogation of the five people present. Since high-ranking figures are involved, all participants have agreed to give testimony under hypnosis. Under hypnosis, a person’s will is bypassed, and they will reveal exactly where the gold is hidden.»

I pointed to the bottom: — «The MP, Merab, and I have already signed. We just need yours and Vera’s signatures to proceed.»

I hadn’t even finished the sentence when Vera turned red as a beet. She threw her hands up, claiming she’d left an iron on at home, and bolted out the door.

Meri was speechless. — «Did you see that? Was it Vera? After twenty years?»

I finished my coffee and admitted there was no MP statement and no such thing as a «hypnosis interrogation» without a legal case. It was a bluff.

The next day, the «Christmas miracle» happened. Vera «found» some of the gold inside a duvet cover while cleaning. When she saw Meri’s skeptical look, she broke down. She had stolen not just the jewelry, but also money from a house sale they hadn’t even missed yet. She claimed she did it for her grandson, fearing that if the apartment were sold, the «outsider» (me) would take everything and leave the boy with nothing.

The story ended like a fairytale: Meri called Merab to apologize, the deal went through, and everyone ended up with their money.

Operation Furniture

Once, a little, stout man with a pockmarked face came to my real estate firm. He played the part of a simpleton, claiming that his relative — a famous violinist — had left for Germany on a five-year contract and asked him to rent out her apartment. He specified that it should ideally serve as both an office and a residence for a wealthy local businessman. We went to see the place, and I was simply breathless. The large three-room apartment was packed to the brim with antique furniture. I wouldn’t say it was furnished with great taste, but the value of all those various antiquities was certainly no less than the value of the apartment itself. It was stuffed like an antique shop. Only one thing stood out — there were no «Rembrandt or Renoir» paintings — but otherwise, it was a complete set, ready for filming a movie about the life of the French bourgeoisie.

— Aren’t you afraid to rent out such unique pieces of antiquity to someone?

— Are you kidding? I can’t wait!

— I wouldn’t risk it, what if… well, anything can happen!

— My dear Yura, we have different tasks. You get a percentage from the lease and risk nothing; I, however, risk a lot, but I will also earn significantly more than you, — «Sancho Panza» smiled. — You just find me the client I need — preferably not a foreigner — and after that, it’s my problem.

Ten days later, the apartment was rented as a private office by a young businessman who spoke both Russian and English fluently. We drew up the contract in due form, and the firm received its commission — one month’s rent.

I learned the rest of the story a week later.

There were three brothers: one owned an antique furniture store, the second was a traffic cop, and the third held a high rank in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Once, furniture had been stolen from their relative’s rented apartment. They could never find the thief, so they decided to set a trap.

They filled one of their apartments on the second floor with antiques from the store, placed advertisements about the rental everywhere possible on behalf of my firm — even on television — and began to wait. When a client came to meet me, they were «accidentally» stopped by the traffic cop on their way out; he checked their documents and, with a salute, let them go. The data flowed to the brother in the Ministry.

Finally, «the stars aligned,» and I was told they agreed to rent to the latest client. Three days later, the «businessman» pulled up a truck to the house and began loading the furniture. He told the neighbors he was bringing in office furniture and returning the old pieces to the owner. Even the neighbors helped load the furniture, including «Sancho Panza’s» own son.

Following the loaded truck all the way to the city of Gori was an inconspicuous, old green Moskvitch.

That night, police raided the businessman’s warehouse in Gori. By morning, two trucks arrived in Tbilisi with furniture from two different apartments. As for the businessman, after some bargaining, «Operation Furniture» cost him a couple of hundred thousand dollars and his freedom.

A Bluff Worth a Life

In April 1996, we decided to quietly travel to Moscow to surprise my mother-in-law and sister-in-law — we were going to get married in a church, not in Tbilisi, but at the Yelokhovo Cathedral in Moscow (at the time, it was the main cathedral in Russia).

I ran a real estate brokerage back then. My firm, «Savane,» was located on the second floor of the «Tsekavshiri» building. Those were dark, lawless times. Racket was semi-legal; tax, fire, and health inspectors were rampant; and criminal brotherhoods cruised the city in Mercedes cars armed with Kalashnikovs. There was no protection except staying out of their way.

A few days before our flight, we had a successful deal — a large apartment was sold. On the very last day before we were to leave, we finalized the paperwork and received our commission. Around 6:00 p.m., we were about to head home when six men with assault rifles burst into the office. They forced everyone onto the floor and demanded the full amount of money from the apartment sale.

As these «gentlemen» with grim faces explained, the apartment we had sold had been «written off» — meaning it had been seized by a gang from the owner for debts. According to them, the sale was a scam I had orchestrated personally. The only thing they achieved by racking their bolts and pressing rifles to my temple and chest was the return of the commission I’d earned — and causing one of my employees to faint.

I asked them to let my staff go — one woman and two men — and keep me until the issue was resolved. They searched everyone, verified the safe was empty, and realizing the bulk of the money wasn’t there, they let the staff go to avoid a scene with their families. They warned them: «Call the police, and we won’t go easy on your relatives.»

Once we were alone, they turned the pressure on me. — «Alright, we let them go so you wouldn’t lose face. Now, give us the money!» — «You have what I earned from the deal. For the rest, look for the seller.» — «Do you think we’re idiots? The owner of the apartment is in prison.» — «His brother sold it through a power of attorney.» Four of them immediately bolted out of the office; I heard tires screeching outside. — «Can I call home? My wife and I fly to Moscow in the morning to get married in a church. I don’t want her to worry.» — «I don’t think that’s going to help you!» — «Better I call her. She’s a woman; she might panic and call the wrong people.» — «Give us your address instead. We’ll pay her a visit in the morning.» — «Are you saying that because you’re actually brave, or because you’re holding a rifle?» — «Look at this brave guy! I’ll shoot you and be done with it!» — «Let’s settle this like men. We’ll measure our ’manhood.» Whoever’s is shorter gets shot. Whoever’s is longer gets to go have fun in the morning!»

The guy slammed the muzzle into my mouth, breaking a tooth. I felt a chill — I realized I’d gone too far. — «Are you crazy?» the second thug jumped up. «What, are you scared? Come on, show him!» The first guy pulled the rifle back, confused. There was a moment of stunned silence. I spat out the broken tooth and wiped away the blood. — «Calm down,» the second one laughed. «You shot him without even pulling the trigger! Look at Merab, he’s gone pale. He earned it! Merab, put the gun away if you’re not willing to measure up.» He roared with laughter again.

It was about 9:00 p.m. I called Lika, told her I had some minor issues and might be home late, and told her to keep packing. Merab was still seething; his wounded pride was boiling over. — «Tell me where the money is or I’ll shoot you like a dog,» he muttered, though he stopped waving the rifle.

I realized I had bluffed and won. My «equipment» is perfectly normal, and if women loved me, it was for my skill rather than my size. I also realized the second thug — named Okro — was somewhat rational and could be talked to. — «I sold the apartment because legally it was clean,» I said. «You ’claimed’ it, but only in words. Did you even put a sign on the door? How was I supposed to know?» — «All the neighbors knew! That’s how we found you. They said Yura came and sold it on the sly.» — «Then why didn’t they tell me the apartment couldn’t be sold? I know them.» — «They gave you up because we punched the neighbor who was supposed to be watching the place!»

Okro sent Merab to get some food. — «So,» Okro said when we were alone, «is it really that big?» — «No, it’s ordinary.» — «I said show me!» I did. — «It’s normal. But next time, I wouldn’t recommend gambling like that. It’s like Russian roulette with three bullets out of six. I believed you from the start because most people wet themselves when faced with six rifles. But you…» Okro laughed again. «You offered a measurement contest!»

The phone rang. Okro picked up, and as he listened, he slowly raised the barrel of his rifle. A bead of sweat ran down my spine. This is it, I thought, looking for something to hit him with. Then the door opened and Merab returned with food. — «Good thing you didn’t shoot Yura,» Okro said. «They found most of the money.»

The realization that the danger had passed hit me, and my legs began to shake. The adrenaline ebbed, and fear finally showed its ugly face. — «They said not to hit you, but not to let you go yet. Let’s eat. Hey Merab, Yura showed me his ’gear.» Good thing you didn’t bet against him.» Merab smirked: «Can’t you tell just by looking at him that he’s a gambler?»

They drank vodka and ate bread with sausage. I ate too. The gang spent the whole night racing across the city and managed to recover almost the entire sum; the sellers had only spent 10,000. Around 3:00 a.m., the boss came in. — «They told me you didn’t act like a coward. You’re flying to Moscow at noon to get married?» — «Yes, the flight is at 12.» — «We lost 10,000, but because you didn’t lie and didn’t flinch, that’s your reward — you actually get to go. You were a hair’s breadth from a hole in the head. But your commission stays with us to cover the loss! Okro, take him home.» — «Thanks, I have my car.»

They left. I took a swig of the remaining vodka straight from the bottle and called Lika: — «Put the kettle on, my joy. I’m coming home.» I got home at 3:30 a.m. At 12:00 p.m., we were on the plane to Moscow. I slept through the entire flight.

A Series of Stories from Student Life

1. Don’t Believe Your Eyes

During my first year at the institute, Technical Drawing was among our general subjects. In our very first class, we were assigned an «album» — a standard set of drawings: circles, ellipses, projections, and an isometric view of a simple part.

In high school, I didn’t have shop class; instead, I attended a school with a technical drawing focus. So, while others were sawing wood, I was drafting. I was good at it — I even won several school Olympiads. I drafted with inspiration; I loved my work to be not just accurate, but pristine. If I made a mistake, I’d rather redraw the whole thing from scratch than use an eraser. There were no visible construction lines, and certainly no compass punctures in the paper when drawing ellipses. When it came to isometric views, I even added shading. I truly enjoyed the process. The only problem was the lettering — I hated it, and my handwriting was atrocious.

I finished the album perfectly. The isometric view with shading was flawless — there was absolutely nothing to find fault with, except for the captions, which stuck out like a sore eye. But it was what it was.

Watching the instructor criticize my classmates, I looked forward to his reaction to my work. Since my name was last on the roster, I was the last to submit. Mentally, I had already prepared a little speech about how well drawing was taught at my school and how anyone could achieve this with patience and practice.

But what I heard from the instructor was something I couldn’t have imagined in my worst nightmare.

— None of you can draw worth a damn, of course — he began — but I can see effort and a desire to do well. However, there is one «smart guy» among you who thought that if a professional did the work for him, he’d kill two birds with one stone. He forgot one thing: his work is being graded not by a gym teacher who can’t tell a prism from an enema, but by a draftsman who knows the difference between a student’s work and a professional’s.

He jabbed a finger at my album: — There are no construction lines for the centers of the ellipses, no compass holes. I’ve seen plenty of «artists» who traced drawings over glass, but even they poked holes to try and fool me. But I’ve never seen a fool quite like you. If you had at least traced it, I might have given you a «C» for the effort. This is an «F.» To fix it, you’ll bring a new album to the next class — one you’ve drawn yourself.

I stood there, completely stunned: — You’re mistaken. I’m just that good at drawing.

The instructor showed my drawing to the group and sneered: — Oh really? You drew it yourself but had a professional do the lettering for you?

— No, I did the lettering too. You can see it’s poorly done.

— Young man, are you sane? I can see you did the lettering — it looks like a chicken wrote it. But you didn’t do the drawing; that’s as clear as two plus two!

— No, you’re wrong. I did both.

— Don’t push me! — he snapped. — Bring a new album next time, take your «C,» and we’ll have a friendly laugh about this failure. Sit down, I’m being generous today.

Then, in front of everyone, he tore my album to pieces.

I didn’t sit down. My confusion had turned into pure rage: — How about we sit down and draw right now? Let’s see who does it better and faster.

The instructor’s jaw dropped: — Not only are you a liar, but you’re arrogant! You know perfectly well I won’t compete with you. Instead, I’ll have you draw an isometric view of a pipe coupling from life right now, and then I’ll kick you out with a failing grade to teach you your place.

The whole group stared at me as if I were insane, walking straight into a noose. A sheet of paper and a metal coupling were placed on the desk.

— You have one hour. Either I give you an «A» and excuse you from the rest of the course, or you’ll labor here like a slave for the rest of the semester.

As I drew, he kept mocking me, offering his chair for comfort or asking if I could find the compass in my set. The group laughed. I was laughing inside too, knowing I’d never have to see this «peacock» again.

After a while, his comments ceased. All that could be heard was a quiet: — Don’t believe your eyes… I’ve never seen a person write like that and draw like this. No one will believe me when I tell them.

There was no shading on the final drawing, but there were no compass holes either. The instructor kept his word: he gave me an «A,» excused me from class, and apologized to the group. By then, I wasn’t even angry anymore.

2. And I Thought He Was an Alcoholic! (Translation)

I’ll tell you about a funny situation I had with Nikolai Nikolaevich Yushkov, who taught us «Electrical Machines.» Nikolai Nikolaevich was a graduate of the Imperial Saint Petersburg University; he knew his subject brilliantly and never raised his voice at students. He dressed almost as if he were at home — it seemed like he just swapped his slippers for shoes and walked straight to the institute. He never «terrorized» anyone during exams or term projects, but he demanded real knowledge. His sophisticated appearance and fatherly way of speaking automatically ruled out any possibility of a bribe.

In every group, there are students who excel at making friends but don’t exactly shine when it comes to writing papers or passing exams. We were assigned a term project on electrical machines, and I ended up writing and drafting three of them at once: for myself and for two buddies — Kolya and Irakli.

There were no issues with Irakli’s project; it looked nothing like mine. But Kolya was a problem because his assignment was identical to mine, save for a couple of initial parameters. Since the projects were almost clones and I had done both, we decided that Kolya would go to Yushkov first, and I’d find a way to talk my way out of it later.

As expected, Kolya and Irakli defended their projects without a hitch. Nikolai Nikolaevich even praised them, not expecting such good work from them, and gave them both «B’s» since they declined to answer the extra questions required for an «A.»

Finally, it was my turn.

Let me make a quick digression: as I mentioned in «Don’t Believe Your Eyes,» I drafted like a god — no compass punctures, no visible construction lines. And that’s exactly what got me caught.

When Yushkov saw my project — identical to Kolya’s but with a perfect drawing — he immediately «figured it out.» My drawing was flawless, while Kolya’s was «normal,» complete with compass holes and construction lines (after all, I didn’t want to give Kolya a professional-grade drawing since he couldn’t draft to save his life). The professor concluded that Kolya had done the work and I had simply traced it over glass.

No arguments could move him. I couldn’t exactly tell the professor that I was the one who did Kolya’s project.

— Young man, — Yushkov said, — because you at least took the trouble to copy it, I’ll give you a «C.» But if you persist in lying when the truth is plain as day, I’ll give you an «F.»