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I think it’s time to tell you about San-Sanych the Tractor Operator whose true name is Acerola Orinon Kisshot Heart And Blade And Other Words From The Dictionary but neither he nor anyone else knows this. And if I were to tell when exactly that time came then it came with that other time, the time to wrap up with the introduction and proceed to the chapter one in which I have yet no idea what to write.

So, potatoes. As a child I really liked mashed potatoes. Mom cooked those rarely as I grew up in the family of god damned otakus and we were living off almost exclusively off rice, having sushi rolls more often than pelmenis, but every time we had mashed potatoes gosh was I happy. The fondness for potatoes I have carried through all my adolescent life and when I grew older I always took a kilogram or two of it every time I visited a store.

This summer we have went to "potato camp". Getting ahead of myself I’ll tell that although the event was so named, we were to dig the beet-roots. In the post-USSR countries "potato camps" are any events which involve free student workforce arriving at the plantations. Therefore the name absolutely does not reflect the meaning.
Dropping off the train, we have arrived at the potato depo which, contrary to it’s name, nowadays hosted beet. This is where I met San-Sanych. He was lying on the roadside, drained of all his powers. If I left him like that he’d die. I have brought him half a liter of vodka, he drank that and got better, and since then I bring him half a liter every day which relieves me of a part of my pay and feeds his powers. For that, he had agreed to consider me his master.
"I’m a specialist", San-Sanych Oreola Atseon etc introduced himself, "I specialize in tractors. If you ever find a tractor, call me. Any services: banishing, taming, using forgotten roads to drive home. I will be especially grateful if you find my own tractor."
Once we met his own tractor but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, first half of the day we were digging beat and then sit down for lunch. Almost untouched fields of beet were exerting emotional pressure on my mind.
"Wanna potatoes?", asked my college co-ed named Fedya MONKEY. I frantically nodded. Fedya extended his hand, offering me a beet.
Beet. Also called "the russian peasant’s potato". Before at the middle of 19-th centure the potato plants brought to Russia by Peter the Great finally gained in popularity, in villages they raised beet. So it’s nothing strange to confuse the two. That’s why I had no suspicions that time and simply declined the offer. Fedya MONKEY then gave beet to Tanya SNAKE instead.

Ad break. In the blu-ray version of this short story here will be an additional absolutely unnecessary erotic scene with Tanya SNAKE. We assure you that although she’s a SNAKE, she retains all the important traits of a normal woman.

Next day when we were taking a break sitting amidst the buckets, Fedya THE MONKEY approached me again:
"How it’s going?", he asked, leaning against his shovel, "How much potatoes have you dug?" And looked straight at me.
In that moment I understood.
I got it.
I saw.
His eyes were glittering with madness. He looked at me like a possessed. He needed potatoes. Only potatoes, nothing else would do. Unfortunately, this field hosted only beet and there was nowhere to get potatoes from, but I have caught these words in my throat, choking, and instead replied cautiously:
"Well…"
"Where is it?", asked Fedya and I have immediately felt that it was a question I could not refuse to answer.
WHERE IS IT?!
Fedya’s words ringed in my ears, gleaming with its tones of madness. Shovel in his hands trembled, ready to shoot up into the air and fall crushing onto my head once I as much as tried to worm my way out of answering. Where is it? How the hell should I know, this is a beet field.
"There", I nodded, pointing to the sacks of beed. Fedya slowly raised his head and looked far into distance.
"Good", slowly, approvingly he nodded. Sweating profusely I waited but Fedya THE MONKEY decided not to check on the contents of the sacks. He turned around deliberately and toddled away, dragging the shovel behind him. I almost sighed with relief but then he stopped.
Silence crept in. Fedya did not turn my way. I waited with bated breath, looking at his back.

"Today we will eat it", Fedya said in a sly voice and everything inside me cringed.
"Eat what?"
"Potatooeees".
Fedya turned around. On his face was the wildest of all the wild, the maddest of the mad expressions which I’ve ever seen:
"It will not vanish till that time, right?"
With this, he left.

"San-Sanych, we need potatoes!!"
I stormed into the abode of my only local acquaintance who could have helped in this situation. By the way, San-Sanych Celeron Chocopie abided in a school building. In a deserted school building. In the basement of a deserted school building. In the dirty stinking basement of a deserted and crumbled old school building. In a carton box. He was an artist, all around talented person and unemployed.
"Calm down", he silenced me with his hand, "Explain yourself".
"We need potatoes NOW!!"
"Point by point please."
"One: We. Two: need. Three:…"
"Enough, cancel point by point"
I told him everything about the madness of Fedya THE MONKEY, our conversation and how if there’s no potatoes on the table by the evening something horrible will happen. And where would you get potatoes amidst the endless fields of beet, which we are to dig up by the end of this week by the way?
"Maybe there’s a village nearby? Perhaps some of the villagers grow potatoes? We could hurry there and trade something, anything for potatoes, to calm down Fedya…"
But any hopes I might have had had been severed as if a rope by a swing of an axe when San Sanych pronounced:
"It’s no use"
"No use, why?!" I uttered.
"No use", San Sanych has repeated, "Because this is not about potatoes."
I could only blink.
"What’s it about, then?"
– Beet.

Beet.
I walked a village road returning to base, and considered the words of the tractor operator. This state farm, "The path of capitalism", had been founded in 1965. The year Americans had reelected Lindon Jonhson and Leonov made the world’s first spacewalk. Back then, this state farm had been called "The path of communism" and they grew potatoes there. Fifty years has passed since then.
What do you think they had been growing here in those fifty years?
"Po", I stuttered, "Potatoes?"
"Potatoes"
"Is that so."
The fields around teemed with beet. It’s clearly recognizable shrubs hovered over the earth as far as the eye could see. There could be no doubt that this year there hadn’t been a trace of potatoes here.
"Then there had it gone?! What happened last year? Where did all this beet come from?" – I pointed from the window.
"Where from? You tell me, and meanwhile I’ll solve your problem with Fedya."
"You’ll get potatoes? You said that’s pointless. Where would you find it in this bumfuck nowhere, anyway?"
The tractor operator shook his head.
"Who do you think I am?? Tonight we’re gonna eat potatoes, that much I guarantee you."

Ad break. In the blu-ray version of this short story here we’ll have an entirely unjustified erotic scene with Maryana SNAIL which haven’t even been mentioned before.

And just like that the time had been nearing the dinner and there had been no news from San Sanych. Our four-man team gathered around the fire over which a pot had been perchd, in which the water had been being brought to boil. Fedya sat to the left of me and with each passing second I grew more and more scared.
What if San Sanych hadnt found potatoes or couldn’t make it in time? What would Fedya do if no potatoes are brought? There should be enough of us to hold him down but what psychological trauma will we inflict?
"Potatoes", muttered Fedya, looking in my direction, "I love potatoes".
I do, too, but not the the extent that I go mad!
Finally the water started boiling and Fedya turned to me. Madness has distorted his features; his hand gripped the fork so hard steel screeched.
"Well", he said quietly and threateningly, "Bring the potatoes".
I gulped. Two of my other friends had stayed silent, looking at me expectantly. Had he conspired with them?

Ком встал у меня в горле. Два других товарища молчали, выжидающе глядя на меня. Он их подговорил?
– С-сейчас, – пробормотал я, лихорадочно озираясь и ища спасения в сгущающейся темноте, – К-Картошка… Да-да, картошка.
И в этот момент, когда я уже думал, что придётся драться.
Из темноты выступил Сан Саныч.
В руках он держал картошку.

Она была как раз такой, какой и должна была быть – круглой, красной, с длинным хвостиком снизу.
Она была нарисована на листе бумаги.
Лист этот принадлежал книге, толстой, страниц в 600 – очевидно, тому из какой-то энциклопедии.
– Я говорил, что наш колхоз пятьдесят лет растил картошку? – спросил меня специалист по тракторам. Я кивнул.
– Я тебя спрашивал, что случилось?
Опять кивок.
Насмешливо, по слогам, тракторист ответил:
– Ни-че-го.
Над изображением картошки в книге, которую держал в руках мой знакомый тракторист, крупным шрифтом было напечатано название энциклопедической статьи: СВЁКЛА.
– Картошку здесь растят до сих пор.
– Но погоди…
Я смотрел, ничего не понимая, на статью "СВЁКЛА", под которой красовался рисунок картошки.
Свёкла…
Картошка…
Свёкла…
Опять картошка…
Сан Саныч ткнул коротким толстым пальцем в раскрытую страницу, прямо в рисунок овоща, из которого мама всё детство делала мне сладкое пюре:
– Это – СВЁКЛА.
Он нагнулся и вытащил клубень из одного из мешков, в которые мы вот уже два дня сбрасывали выкопанные бугристые желтоватые плоды:
– Это картошка. Ты, пацан, умудрился дожить до своих лет и их путать. Чему вас там в городе учат?
И тут я вспомнил, как мама, открывая кулинарную книгу, говорила папе:
– Корица, кориандр – кто только названий повыдумывал! Да я картошку от свёклы не отличу!
– Ха-ха-ха-ха! – смеялся папа.
– Ха-ха-ха-ха! – смеялась мама.
Они и вправду не отличали картошку от свёклы.
И неправильно научили меня.

Бип, бип, – набрал я на следующее утро номер на своём мобильнике.
– Привет, мам. Я просто звоню сказать, что картошка – это на самом деле свёкла. А свёкла – это картошка. А вы с папой идиоты. Тебе всё понятно?
– Ха-ха-ха, ты раскусил нас? Это ещё ничего, вот когда ты узнаешь, что…
– Тихо! Не говори ему!
– Папа, не перебивай! Что, что я узнаю, мам?!
– Ничего-ничего, не волнуйся. Кстати, когда у тебя выпускной?
– Я УЖЕ В ИНСТИТУТ ПОСТУПИЛ!!
– Ага, значит, ловушка 52 не сработала…
– Это была ловушка 152.
– А мне кажется, 52.
– 52 это про то, что сморкаться надо в занавески.
– СМОРКАТЬСЯ ДЕЙСТВИТЕЛЬНО НАДО В ЗАНАВЕСКИ, МАМА!!
– Ха-ха-ха, эта ещё в порядке!
– ХВАТИТ НАДО МНОЙ ИЗДЕВАТЬСЯ.
В притворном гневе я бросил трубку. Из-за моей спины, точно из ниоткуда, возник тракторист Сан Саныч, и я воспользовался этим, чтобы у него уточнить – просто на всякий случай:
– Сморкаются ведь в занавески?
– Если в гостях, то да, – кивнул Сан Саныч.
Ну слава богу, хоть с этим не обманули.