Vodka, Girls and Record Players
Published in Issue #29 Translated from Hebrew by Yaron Regev subscribe to unlock the full storyIt all started when Sergei, Mr. Gold, and I were sitting together at the bus station on Ben Yehuda Street talking about life, love, and the long journey home.
Ben Yehuda Street is long, and everyone knows it has a beginning – but does it have an end?
“Sergei,” I asked, “where does Ben Yehuda Street end?”
“How should I know?” Sergei protested.
“Well, you’ve lived here for ten years, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been drinking too much for at least nine of them,” Sergei gloomily admitted. “Now I couldn’t even tell you where I parked my car.”
“Sergei, old friend,” I said sweetly. “You don’t have a car.”
Sergei’s eyes widened in surprise.
*
My name is Alex, but you, my friends, can call me Sasha. I was born in Moscow, the world’s fourth biggest city. There I grew up, studied, found a job, married, divorced, got fired. Then I dug myself deep into my bed and stayed there for a while, staring at the cheap paper moon pinned up in the sky over Moscow.
While I wallowed in bed, a lot of my friends emigrated to that holiest of all lands: Israel. So one day I climbed out of bed, got on a plane, and when I got off it I was in Tel Aviv, the city that never takes a break. Not exactly ideal for someone like me who prefers his breaks to never end.
I was sure that here in Israel I’d get rich, find a young model who would love me for my great sense of humor and have all the papers write about me: Sasha, the mysterious oligarch, and Putin’s close friend.
I was a...
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