USSR.
So I came, did my job.
I was met by this guy from Initial Correction,
he says, what are you doing tonight?
35 miles to the city - let's
drink with the 'fours'?
Why not? We took two liters of vodka,
canned food...
The territory there must be like half of Moscow.
We arrive.
There are different departments around,
We went into this huge building,
where the 'fours' live.
- All 'fours' and all twins?
- Yes.
Sure. There are around 300 of them there.
Jagged bricks sticking out of the walls.
They're all dressed horribly,
of course. In rags, dirty.
He says lets go to dept 32.
The 16-year-old girls are there - all 'fours'.
So we went in.
They look at us.
We poured some vodka for them.
They come up, four of each.
We drink.
The first one, the one with the biggest tits -
four of them too - tears my shirt,
and right on me!
The guard comes in,
And says: What the fuck're you doing?
Can you imagine?
So we were kicked out.
I practically lost my job.
That's not a flying saucer, eh? That's a story!
There was this other time,
Not in the Krasnoyarsk slum, in the Pushkin one.
We came there with this guy.
We weren't really boozing,
we were there for work...
We come to this building,
full of blacks,
All 'fours', and all men.
If you worked in the institute for five years,
you have to pass this test:
You're thrown in with these niggers, on your own.
All twins, all 'fours', and all blacks,
They have to fuck you...
That's it, shut up!
What do I owe you?
Okay, here.
What assholes work in the president's
administration.
You quarrel?
It's just late. Everyone wants to sleep.
Except me.
220 rubles. 150.
220.
Here.
Let's go to this place.
- What place?
- It'll be good there.
- How's that?
- Like this?
- Tomorrow'd be better.
- Now is better.
Tomorrow's better. I can't now.
And tomorrow I can't.
Hey, Volodya, at least finish your story.
What?
What'd you do there with them?
With those 'fours'.
The 'fours'?
I was joking.
You made it all up?
Yes.
- Everything?
- Everything. From the start.
I'm a piano-tuner.
- Fuck! You hear that?
- What?
All that crap.
Siberia, or something? He's a hunter?
Go back to sleep.
Just bring me mineral water and a main course.
We have a large selection of main courses.
What's your special?
Our special -
is young round piglet with apple radish. Superb.
- What kind of piglet?
- Round.
- Ground up or something?
- No, that's the breed.
- What breed?
- Round piglet.
- What are they, overfed?
- They're perfectly round.
A piglet can't be round.
What do you, pump them up?
- No. They're born that way.
- Where?
The 'Kommunarka' state farm.
They've been sending us round
piglets for two years.
Listen buddy, I sell meat seven years,
and I never heard of them.
Take a look in the kitchen.
Sasha,
this gentleman here wants to look at the piglets.
This is the musicians' room.
I'm a musician.
The musicians have left.
Obviously, not all of them.
- You a drummer?
- I was a pianist once.
- And I was a person once.
- And now?
God knows...
Sometimes I wake up,
look at myself in the mirror and think:
Who is this? What is this?
And you don't like what you see?
That's not the point
- if I like it or not.
People can have strange tastes...
The point is that
- there's no name.
Who has no name? The reflection?
The person.
This here is a turtle.
And this is glass.
And this is the floor.
And they'll always, always be
turtle, glass and floor.
Nothing else. They've already been made.
Finished.
But we - not yet.
And we could easily become anything or anyone.
That's why a person doesn't yet have a name.
Actually, I'm Volodya.
So what?
In just half an hour you could
become a stray dog.
Or a rag, that a nice girl
uses to wipe her feet on.
Or just a piece of live meat.
That's not true.
You can decide not to turn into a dog,
or rag. Or a piece of meat.
There's always a choice.
Suicide?
Yes. But that's just a palliative.
A