— Lyuda, I’ve got someone sitting in the car; I picked up another one off the “tovarnik” (drugstore). A kid, about ten years old. He says he’s riding with his father. He bit me, that little brat. Sign here. — Didn’t he tell you his name? — asked the woman to the man in uniform. — No, well, what can I say… He spits and gives you wolfish looks. I just don’t understand how you cope with them; you have these stray little beasts here… — Why call them beasts, Smirnov? It’s you who sees them as animals. They’re ordinary children. Although, truth be told, their childhood is over. Imagine your parents left for work and never came back. Can you imagine? What would you feel? — I don’t know. It would be scary. — And that’s exactly the fear and despair they feel—beyond anything you could ever imagine. All right, I’ve filled out the documents. Bring it in. — Lyud, shall we go to the movies today? — Smirnov, have you lost your mind? You’ve been divorced three times and have five kids from different marriages. — It’s just, it’s so boring… — And when you’re bored, you start nitpicking at your kids?! Maybe you should start collecting pins or stamps? All your salary is already going to alimony. — It’s just, Lyud, you’re such a good woman. You don’t have your own children. You work here in the foster system with other people’s unwanted kids. — Shut up! Bring it in!
A strange pair entered the room: a stout lawman whose uniform was piled up in layers from the creases, and a small, fair boy with blue eyes. The boy wore ragged clothes. He was dirty, with scrapes on his face and a poorly cut fringe. The policeman was literally dragging him by the hand. The boy resisted, twisted his arm, and screamed: — Let me go, I’m not going to stay here anyway! — Who did you just call that, you little brat?! — roared the policeman. — Smirnov, you sure have a rich stock of curse words, — Lyudmila remarked wryly. The woman and the boy exchanged glances and smiled. — Lyud, here he is, nimble. He bit me about five times, you little scoundrel. Looks like you might have to get him more shots for rabies. — I’ll bite you again, fatty! — hissed the boy. — Who did you just call fat, you brute?! — Smirnov swung his arm. — Stop, Smirnov! Marquis Fatty is a character from a Jules Verne book. Haven’t you read it? Passepartout and Fatty—the two main characters who circumnavigated the globe in eighty days, — said Lyuda.
— Ah, of course I’ve read it. I just forgot. Alright, I’m off. The movie’s still on. Bye, Lyud. — Bye.
The woman and the boy were left alone in the room. After the “Marquis Fatty” closed the door behind him, laughter burst out in the room. Both laughed. Through his laughter the boy said: — Well, he’s stupid! You’re awesome! — I’m very pleased that you, young man, address me informally—thus ranking me as a friend. But I’m older than you, and I’d appreciate it if you addressed me formally. It’s up to you, of course. — Sorry… I mean, sirs. — I’m Lyudmila Petrovna! And what is your name!? — Picasso. That’s my nickname. — Are you good at drawing? — I’m a psycho. Well, and sometimes I draw. I’ll run away eventually anyway. — And I’m not keeping you. Go on!
The boy walked toward the door. Lyudmila mused aloud: — So, it’s late autumn now. Winter is coming soon. The place you’re heading to—the journey is long, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken the train. I suggest you rest here. Wash up, have a proper meal. In warmth. And in the summer, if you wish, you can leave. The boy stopped and said: — Magadan. I have to get there. — I see. — They’re supposed to release my dad in the spring. — Right. — You could even let me live with you. Oh, by the way, Pasha! — What, Pasha? — That’s what I’m called.
At the social rehabilitation shelter in a small town, Pavel liked it. After a couple of fights for leadership, he became one of “them.” They fed him and clothed him well. But most importantly—Lyudmila Petrovna bought him paints and paper. In her office, after lunch on weekdays, he would draw for an hour. At first, he drew landscapes, then he began drawing portraits of his caregivers, his friends. Then suddenly he became nervous, hid his work, and for several days refused to draw. Lyudmila suggested changing the subject. Pasha flatly refused, showed his unfinished work, and began to cry. Lyudmila hugged him and closed the office so that no one could enter. In the portrait, a young woman with high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes was depicted. Through tears, Pasha said: — That’s mom… — I understand, dear, you’re her spitting image. — She abandoned me! She… — Shh. — What did I do wrong? Lyudmila Petrovna, I can fix everything, can’t I? — Of course you can. When you grow up, you’ll surely find her. Pasha, you know what—I have a good acquaintance. He’s an artist. How about he takes lessons with you twice a week? You could express all your feelings—joy, sadness, love—in your paintings. — I’ll draw dad…
— Lyuda, are you out of your mind? Not only do you spend your own money buying him paints and paper, but you’ve even hired a drawing tutor for him? — Will you take it or not? In a week, I’ll pay an advance. — Lyuda, I don’t like this. As your friend, I will always support you, but there are other children too. — Nin, understand, he’s somehow special. When he draws something, you look at it and start laughing like crazy. It’s as if he infuses something into his paintings. He truly knows how to convey emotions, doesn’t he? Look, the painting is titled “MOM.” Lyudmila took out her phone and showed a photo of the drawing to her friend. Within five minutes, the two women were crying and embracing.
Spring came. Lyudmila was signing documents in her office when, unexpectedly, a security guard named Egor burst in. — Lyudmila Petrovna, Picasso is missing. They had searched everywhere. He hadn’t returned from lunch. His belongings were gone. — Oh… He went to Magadan. — After everything you did for him?! — Egorushka, he tried to do it…
Lyudmila felt terrible. Sometimes you have such a mood when your heart is heavy and everything seems bleak. Of course, she would lie down to sleep and feel better in the morning, but the scratching on her heart was unbearable. That damned Magadan… She approached the door of a large private house. The door was not locked. “I forgot to close it again, idiot,” thought Lyudmila. In the kitchen, sitting on a chair, was the blue-eyed boy. — You ran off to Magadan? — I went… but then I remembered “Fatty,” — they smiled. — I met my art teacher near the station; he sells paintings there. He told me that you pay for each lesson. Why is that? — Because you have talent. — But I’m nobody to you? A stranger? — That’s not true—you know it yourself! — Let’s do it this way. I’m an honest kid. I’ll do all the chores around the house, fix the porch, repair the fence—and maybe whitewash it too, whatever I can manage. And next summer, I’ll go to Magadan. Deal? — One condition. — What’s that? — You have to paint me.