Udovenko’s Beer Hall was one of the most dangerous places in Moscow to visit. Its clientele consisted of the hopeless of the proletariat, thieves, robbers, murderers, and of course the defenders of the Soviet state – soldiers, including a few officers. Besides a range of alcoholic beverages, such as stale beer and cheap vodka with a vicious aftertaste the establishment featured prostituted women of whom most were older and clad in filthy clothes. The clients often took their pleasure with them in the restrooms stalls, while a few who wanted more privacy, used the cheap hotel located a block to the north. The stink of the place was quite horrible and the few visitors who arrived sober had to brace themselves before continuing in when they had involuntary halted in the doorway. During imperial days, the place had been furnished with stained pictures of war heroes, now in these new times, the same frames, now hanging under soiled red banners, held stained pictures of prominent Bolsheviks.
A band of steady red army customers had as usual occupied the table placed in the middle of the hall. Most of the time, if anyone was sitting there when the soldiers arrived; they conceded inferiority in the beer hall’s pecking order and got out of their way. Sometimes there was a brawl, which they loved, and they always won. This they owed to no small extent, to the extreme fighting skills of Lieutenant Yevgeny Kartaphilov. Despite the Russian name, no one could mistaken him for that ethnicity – with his strongly accentuated Semitic features, the curly jet black hair and his short height and light frame, he looked the image of some ancient Arabian horseman, if one disregarded his Red Army uniform, which most of the time was in need of washing. That night, there were twelve of them and except for the new recruit, the young Nikita Sidorov, they new each other well. If anyone led the group, it was Kartaphilov, but he rarely exercised his leadership beyond steering them into whatever mischief caught his fancy that day. Now they sat smoking, drinking vodka and playing cards, while exchanging glib comments. Kartaphilov had just returned from the stalls where he had fornicated with one of the prostitutes. Something that could be quite provoking was the fact that he looked bored most of the time – even now, with flushed cheeks from the sex, quite intoxicated and winning the last two rounds, he looked bored. Sidorov, a short and muscular man with a broad mean face, had developed a pattern since being a boy, he pounced whoever stood out or was odd in a group to win safety for himself. Kartaphilov’s foreign looks and his maddening attitude enraged Sidorov and having already drunken way too much he chose to ignore the fact that he was about to challenge an officer. This was off duty he reasoned and all the more glory for him when he showed this little fucker who was boss.
While Sidorov continued to get worked up, they played another hand. Kartaphilov played masterfully and won once again. The others cursed and bet more money in vain hope to win the next time. ‘I say you’re fucking cheating. No one is that lucky.’ The others looked at him with shocked surprise evident on their faces which then turned into amused grins and they leaned back in their chairs as if to enjoy what they expected to be entertainment. Kartaphilov’s left hand played with some of the dirty ruble notes he had just won. His eyes locked on Sidorov, ‘Excuse me?’
Sidorov already felt uncomfortable, but he couldn’t back down now, ‘You’re a little cock suckin cheater, and I want my money back.’
Kartaphilov rose from his chair, ‘Really? Why then by all means, come and get it. Pry them from my life…less…hands.’ He grinned like a mad man. Sidorov lept at him, throwing himself over the table - bottles, glasses, ashtray and money flying all over the place. Kartaphilov moved to the right and laughingly watched Sidorov fall over the table down onto the floor. ‘Who’s the cock sucker now, eh?’ Kartaphilov didn’t look bored anymore.
The young man got in his feet fast and turned and lunged at Kartaphilov who parried with his left elbow and then locked his attackers right arm before smashing his right elbow in an upward arc into his opponent's nose. Sidorov howled in pain and Kartaphilov released his right arm and then followed up by striking him hard in the throat. The young man staggered backwards trying hard to breathe but only producing gurgling noises.
‘Have you had enough?’ Kartaphilov waited patiently until his opponent finally managed to draw in some air into his lungs and nod. ‘Well, that’s just too bad’, he moved in and managed to deliver one blow to Sidorov’s gut and one to his face before he collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Not entirely satisfied, Kartaphilov kicked his opponent a couple times before turning to the others, beaming, ‘where were we?’
The other soldiers arranged the table and chairs again and a waitress hurriedly brought new glasses and bottles of Vodka. The crowd returned to its rowdy normalcy and the only person bothering to check on Sidorov was the closest pick pocket. Kartaphilov soon looked bored again.