Drown My Head by Yuri Mamleev

“Kolya, Kolya...” Prokhorov looked at me. “Everything in life and death is so simple, but we complicate things, try to invent things... In Kizhi, I met this one old man who told me a very funny story about the time he encountered his dead sister... But keep in mind, this thing with Tanya is far more complex... She is an unusual being...”

“Enough, Viktor. I understand everything. You don’t have to say anything else. Let’s have a drink, instead. I hope you’ve got more than a half-liter here.”

And we tied one on so monumentally, that rarely had such a sight been seen. Prokhorov even pissed his armchair. The Komsomol secretary, a fleshy woman named Zina, was hardly able to drag us out of the office and into the bushes and grass in front of the District Committee offices. But once she’d left us there, we slept until late in the night. The summer-esque warmth was a small mercy, as was the fact that no one disturbed us. The paddy wagon for drunkards usually gave the District Committee offices a wide berth.