On Saturday, they gathered again at Oleg's place. A small CRT television flickered commercials into the otherwise dimly lit room. Oleg and Aljovich sat on the couch. Palmer had settled leaning on the kitchen table. Oleg's Soviet-era apartment was small and modest. His furniture consisted mostly of a couch, a dining set for four, a TV stand and a concrete-colored plastic carpet covered by a rug which was slightly the wrong size. A few cabinets and closets lined the sides of the room. But soon Oleg might be able to move to something bigger, and better.
Oleg held a lottery ticket firmly in his hand. 1, 4, 5, 9, 18, 20, and 26. On the other hand, he fiddled with his phone, from which a headphone cord went to his left ear.
-It's about to start, Aljovich broke the seemingly eternal silence. Palmer glanced at Aljovich. Oleg sensed Palmer's irritation. In his opinion, Aljo talked way too much and especially saw too little. The broadcast started to tear with noise and the image started to fade.
-C’moon not now, Oleg huffed and rose up to give the tv a couple of light smacks. The image cleared right up.
-Is this normal? Palmer asked.
-Yeah it does this every now and then. I should buy a new one, Oleg puffed and everyone fell silent again. The lottery had begun. Oleg adjusted his earphone and pressed play on his phone to set off the Alexey Omelchuk's magical compositions. The music slowly lulled the entire room under its spell, just as it had lulled Oleg to sleep only five days earlier. The host read the numbers one after another, and one by one, they matched his ticket. 4, 9, 5, 18, 1, 20 and 19. All but the last number. Oleg glanced at his notebook, where the last hastily written number 19 underlined the week-long suspense.
-It works! We're rich! Aljovich jumped up as the last number came.
-Gentlemen, this is just the beginning, Palmer smiled and stood up to shake Aljovich’s hand. A visible joy of success sparkled behind his glasses. Oleg turned off the music and stared at his ticket. Aljovich babbled about how he would treat them to lunch and then fix their car or maybe buy a new one straight away. All while starting a phone call. Palmer thanked him and announced that he had to go and report the results further.
-We'll continue the experiments tomorrow, Oleg. And Aljo, don't drink too much today! Alcohol interferes with the experiments, and we need you too, Palmer said, smiling and straightening his collar at the door.
-Yes! I'll take care of him. See you tomorrow! Oleg said, smiling at Palmer. Aljovich was already finishing the call he had started with his cousin. They would meet him at the restaurant. Aljovich tried to persuade Palmer to join them at the door, but after he politely refused several times, Aljovich finally wished him a safe journey back to the city. Oleg’s lips curled into a slight smile as he wandered to his wardrobe. Of the three hanging garments, he chose the best one. An old dark suit. The very suit he had worn when he graduated from university all those years ago. Oleg wiped dust from the shoulders. The scholarship had been just a half a point away. Memory stung Oleg like a hornet. Half a point. Such was the difference which had sidelined him into fourth place. Knocked him off the path of success. Forced him to return home from the capital. To rot in this old Soviet town. But now. Finally. He was back on the path of success. A path that would lead him back to the world's spotlight. And to glory.