Warmth and Soulfulness

1

The pre-holiday champagne-and-tangerine bustle had begun. In the last week before the New Year, Cord and Dia intensified their preparations for the celebration—decorating the apartment, looking for gifts for friends and specific ingredients for the celebratory dinner (one of these, for example, turned out to be pink pepper, which was required by Dia for preparing lightly salted coho salmon).

And while wandering around the store with his wife, Cord came up with an idea:

"Listen, what do you think about giving our Fiddler's homeless things that are necessary?"

Dia was delighted with the idea. So, on Saturday, December 25, together with Fiddler, they dragged a bunch of trunks with necessities under the bridge. There were new warm blankets, clothes, books, sweets, cigarettes, alcohol—in short, everything that had been asked for, which surprised Fiddler.

The reaction of the camp dwellers had to be seen! The women cried and hugged Dia, the children squealed with delight, and the men shook Cord's hand so zealously that they almost dislocated his shoulder.

***

The closer the holiday got, the more peaceful Cord felt. He completely stopped worrying about work, Familiar, and the uncaught Villain, and enjoyed the anticipation of New Year's gatherings with the friends.

Only one thing slightly stung his conscience: he would meet the New Year without Force for the first time in twelve years. Cord comforted himself with the thought that now he had a new life with his girlfriend. Sad as it was to realize, he and Force had parted ways. However, such is life.

It was a little more upsetting that Sky and Peace would not be with them, either. They decided to get to know his parents: it looked like everything was serious about them.

***

On the evening of December 31, there was a knock on the door. On the threshold stood a huge Father Frost with a thick gray beard down to his waist, wearing a blue fur coat and a hat, trimmed with snow-white fur, and a sash with embroidered silver patterns on it. He gripped a silver wooden staff with a sickle moon at the top in his right hand, and in his left, he held a voluminous blue bag thrown over his shoulder.

"Hello, everyone! Hello, my dears! Father Frost has walked for a very long time to see you! And he is tired. How will you welcome him?"

"Grandpa, Grandpa!" said bowing Cord. "We'll welcome you with a verse!"

"A veeerse?" the fabulous guest feigned surprise.

Cord took a solemn pose.

"Hello, Father Frost,

With your cotton beard!

Did you bring us gifts,

You, old pe…?"

"Co-ord!" Dia exclaimed, outraged.

There was a burst of laughter. A smiling Fiddler emerged from behind Mort.

"I knew you would react with that poem!"

"Well, what else did you expect from me?" winked Cord.

***

There were still two hours left until midnight, but the friends decided not to waste time and started their festive dinner. In addition, the duck that Dia had been baking would be ready soon, which meant that they would not have to have a long pause between salads and the dish of the evening.

An hour later, only bones remained of the bird, and a smile played on the faces of the drunken friends (even Dia drank a glass of wine).

"Well, will we wait for the New Year, or will we start giving gifts?" the girl asked with a sly smile.

"As long as we're not too drunk, I think it's better to do it now," agreed Cord.

So, the time had come for surprised exclamations and heartfelt thanks.

Fiddler, unexpectedly, received warm clothes: a polar fox fur hat from Dia, gorgeous fur mittens from Mort, and a "polar explorer's set"—a down jacket and semi-overalls, suitable for wearing down to minus 40 degrees Celsius—from Cord. The friends looked at each other and laughed: none of them agreed with each other, although Fiddler still did not believe it.

Mort received a bottle of cognac from 1902 from Cord (he specially ordered it in an elite alcohol store), and Dia, embarrassed, handed him a paper package:

"I know you are a biker, but I am not very knowledgeable on the subject, so…"

Unfolding the package, Mort could not contain his exclamations. It was a gray jacket with a wolf's head in the middle of the back.

"I tried it on myself," Dia blushed, "and I did the picture according to the instructions."

"You are a true friend! You could not give a biker more! The men will be envious!"

Mort solemnly handed Cord a bottle of excellent eighteen-year-old whiskey. Dia exclaimed:

"To you, Cord, I will give myself!"

"Hey! You're mine anyway!" Cord protested playfully.

"But, but!" Dia shook her finger. "There is one thing…"

And again, they all laughed.

"It was actually a joke of mine," Cord reprimanded his wife, "but nevertheless, here's my present for you!"

It turned out to be the professional film camera that Dia had dreamed of.

"Well, I," said Mort, "I thought about this. You will have a child, won't you? And he will need somewhere to sleep. So I made a Christmas tree cradle."

Mort showed off his bag. Inside it, tied with twine, there were wooden parts for a future crib.

"I'll put it together for you later," promised Mort. "Tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow."

"And one more thing, friends," blurted Cord. "I want you to always be in touch with us, so take." And he handed Mort and Fiddler boxes with new pagers.

"Wow!" exclaimed Mort.

Fiddler turned the box thoughtfully in his hands.

"You know…" he said. "I've never been given anything as useful as you gave me today. But I… I don't have money, as you know, so…"

"Fiddler, it's okay that you are without a gift!" Dia tried to console him.

"No, no, I'm not talking about that." he shook his head. "I have a gift. It's just… Well… Here."

Fiddler put a red cloth bag filled with something angular on the table.

Cord and Dia exchanged glances. Mort reached out for the bag and neatly untied it.

"There are cookies!" he said, surprised, looking inside.

"Yes, these are… Wow… Cookieswithwishes," rattled Fiddler and became the color of a ripe tomato.

Dia curiously pulled one out of the bag—large, square, and about half the size of her palm.

"Are they edible?" Cord asked.

"Cord!" Dia said with displeasure. "That's so impolite to ask!"

"It's all right," Fiddler reassured her, "the question is reasonable. Therefore, I need someone's opinion, because I had to bake them in a homemade oven. Try one."

Mort immediately grabbed a fortune cookie and eagerly stuffed it into his mouth.

"Yum, goody!" Mort said with appreciation.

"Hmm," Cord smiled and also tried one. "Indeed, delicious. Where did you learn to cook like that?"

"Wait, wait!" Dia exclaimed. "Did you eat them with the pieces of paper?"

"With what pieces of paper?" Cord and Mort asked at the same time.

"Well, aren't the wishes written on pieces of paper and then put inside?"

"No, I didn't do that," objected Fiddler. "There are wishes underneath, carved out with a needle."

"Underneath?" Dia took a cookie from the bag and turned it over. "Loyal Friends," she read and grinned.

"Wait, what about mine?" Cord turned over his half-eaten cookie. "Lo…" he read.

"Lo…?" Dia said in surprise.

"Love, probably," Fiddler smiled. "That was the first wish that came into my head. The most unoriginal, but—"

"Thank you!" Cord said. "No, seriously. I always want love!" Dia jabbed him conspiratorially with her fist.

"Listen to mine," muttered Mort, pulling out a new cookie. "Less fu— Uh-huh…" Mort glanced sideways at Dia. "More smart people in your life," he paraphrased.

"Oops," Fiddler smiled apologetically. "I did not think that you would read them aloud, and on some of them, I did a little fooling around. Sorry, Dia."

"No, everything is great!" Dia giggled. "And now you!"

"Me?"

"It's bad if everyone has wishes, but you don't. Get one out!"

"Okay." Fiddler covered his eyes and put his hand into the bag. "Warmth and soulfulness," he read.

"Yes, man," said Cord, "this is the most sincere gift that I have ever been given."

Mort and Dia agreed with him.

***

The clock was approaching midnight, which meant it was time to turn on the TV and listen to Tsar's congratulations. After him they would show the clock counting down the last minute of the year.

Cord distributed poppers to his friends.

Five seconds… Four… Three… Two… One!

And the friends almost simultaneously pulled the strings on their poppers, heralding in, with a rain of confetti, sparkles and streamers, the beginning of the new year of 1994.

"I think we need to take a picture of all this!" Dia tried unsuccessfully to shake the confetti off her hair, laughing.

Mort, with a serpentine hanging from his left ear, nodded in agreement and took it off with his hand.

Cord went to get the film and a stack of books while Dia was sorting out the camera.

"Oh, there is a self-timer function here! Gorgeous!"

Cord put the stack of books on the table. Dia put the camera on it and told everyone where and how to sit, but the first photo failed: the girl had overdone it with the flash. However, on the second attempt, she set everything up as it should be and set the timer for ten seconds.

"Cord, can you press the button and come running in time?"

"Of course!"

All the friends stood in the right places. Cord pressed the button and hurried to spot but stumbled and fell.

This moment was imprinted forever: Mort laughing loudly, Dia giggling and squinting, and finally, Fiddler standing with an intelligent smile.

And in the center in front of all of them—a laughing Cord, who had fallen on one knee and whose hands were outstretched, but had not forgotten to look into the camera.

And everyone covered in sparkles, streamers, and confetti.

2

The holiday, however, was not a happy one for everyone.

The tactical investigator was drinking wine alone and watching a stupid New Year's Eve concert on TV, in which artificially happy celebrities sang vulgar parodies of world hits.

His ex-woman was fucking a stranger at her friend's party. She didn't even know his name; the only thing that mattered was that he had a dick.

And in the forest outside the city, despite the night, shots could be heard.