Letters home

Every week I buy two phone cards for Talas: 200 roubles each, 18 minutes each. The calls: Sunday to mama (10 minutes), Wednesday to Aigerim (8), then aunt Saule if there is something left. The minutes finish before the stories.

Someone in the brigade says there are cheaper cards in the metro near the Kazan station, from a man who sells them on a tray. I tried one. It connected to Kazakhstan and I spoke for three minutes to a lady who said "Who are you?" I said I am Erkin. She said she is Gauhar. We both said sorry. 200 roubles.

Lyublino, 8 October. The crane and the first snow.

Snow in the first week of October, melting by noon. Nikolai Fyodorovich the foreman looked at the sky and said, "Now it starts." The Tajik boys took photos with their phones, they had never seen it so early. I did not take a photo. I have seen worse in Iyık Janyl in March, but there we had a stove.

New helmet from the company, yellow. The old one went to Sherzod, who says it is lucky.

24th August, the Feast, and I was on the 14th floor tying rebar. In the evening I went to a Russian church near the metro and lit a candle. It is not the same: the candles are thin, nobody sings like at home, the priest looked at me strange because I crossed myself our way. But God hears in Moscow also, I think.

Mama, kiss the cathedral door for me. Aigerim says there are many pilgrims this year because of the UNESCO.

The site at night from the 9th floor. The crane light is the only star.

Six beds in a metal cabin, three on top, three on the bottom. I have a top. Next to me sleeps Sherzod from Namangan, he talks in his sleep in Uzbek, I understand half, and it is always about the money. Under me Mahmud, who snores like a lorry. In the corner a small electric heater that we are not allowed to have and we have.

It is hot in July like a tandoor. We sleep with the door open and the mosquitoes enjoy it. Not a complaint. A description.

Mama, you asked what I eat. The answer is soup. The Russian cook on the site, Zoya Pavlovna, makes borscht in a big pot, 20 roubles a plate, with sour cream and a piece of black bread. The Tajik boys call it "red soup" and eat two plates. I ate three today. I am a normal man.

Once a week Mahmud makes plov in the bytovka on the electric plate. The rice is long, not our short one, and he does not stir it, but we do not say anything because he is so happy making it.