Far below, struggling through the jumble of boulders, the Vycha River streamed noisily. This small but turbulent river, this place, held many childhood memories. Some thirty years ago, here, he spent his childhood years in the like company of delinquents.

“Robert, time to go home!” the stern voice of his mother, who stood where the taxi now idled, calling for her son echoed as a memory in his ears and sent a warm wave to his heart. “How many times do I need to call you?! Hurry up! Let’s go home!”

His mother, a short woman with long, raven hair, dressed in a pink dress and white sandals, stood on top of the hill near the road holding a red bike and waited for her son to collect his belongings and come up to her. The wind ruffled her dark curls, while she vainly tried to cover her eyes from the sun and tame her hair disheveled by the rush of wind.

Robert… Said with the emphasis on the final syllable, as the French would pronounce it. Only his mother called him like that. For others he was simply Robbie or Bobba, which Robert really did not like.

Robert would reluctantly but quickly get ready, go to his mom, and together they would go home, carrying the bike together.

This river was almost the only joy in summer for local kids, where they could do something useful and fun: fishing and swimming in its tumultuous waters. In summer the huge boulders perched on both banks of Vycha became watercolor paintings from the dozens of big and small woolen carpets local villagers laundered, leaving them flat against the stones to dry under the scorching rays of midday sun.

The river was small. Some places could be forded by merely stepping on a string of slippery stones. In wider places, deep vortices formed, mostly behind lone boulders. And if the boulder was big, the vortex could run very deep.

In places, thick dry snags stuck out of the river, clinging to the rocks and growing into the brown silt. Bleached white, they resembled mammoth tusks rising over the water. Branches floating downstream from the mountain passes would often become their victims.

Despite the cold, ice had yet to form on the river, continuing to flow in a lively black stream between the thick, snowy white banks of the river.

Robert’s mind took him back to his childhood, when he first crossed the river as an eight-year old boy, wading, and then climbing to the top of a flat boulder warmed by the sun, where he felt very proud of his deed.

Robert pulled out a bottle of vodka from his coat and took a few gulps.

His thoughts slipped further back, immersing him in memories.

The first time it happened was on July 15, 1982.

On that day, Robert’s family gathered at a large table to celebrate his twelfth birthday.

It was a hot summer day and the air smelled of roasting bitumen. The scorching sun melted the road, turning the asphalt into a viscous mass that clung to the rubber of bicycle and car tires and to the soles of shoes. This odor was forever associated in Robert’s memory with the sensations of a hot summer.

There is a big, round, chocolate cake adorned with brown and red cream flowers on the kitchen table. On top of the cake, written in uneven letters, was the inscription: Happy Birthday – 12 years. Robert loved chocolate sponge cakes, but most of all he loved cream roll cakes, which were sold at the store near his house.

Little Robert always asked himself: why do people buy round cakes for a birthday? Why can’t they buy several roll cakes, place them on top of each other and present them to the birthday boy? And without inscriptions – the letters seemed silly, were not tasty for some reason and, in his opinion, totally unnecessary.