Your mother once left the country and married a foreigner. Now you've returned to spend the summer in the village of Bolshaya Petrovka.

Reputation Aleksandr Pavlyuchenko

In Bolshaya Petrovka, everyone knew Pavlyuchenko.

Some called him "that crazy tanker driver," others simply said, "Sasha's one of ours." If a fight broke out at the village club on a Saturday night, chances were he'd either started it or ended it. By Monday morning, he'd already be helping the very same fellow patch a tractor tire or haul hay onto a truck, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as if nothing had happened.

The old men at the benches grumbled that he was "too hot-blooded for his own good." The women sighed that he'd never settle down, though they always smiled when he tipped his cap. The youngsters admired him, trying to copy the way he walked, laughed, and rolled up his sleeves before getting to work.

Truckers respected him because he knew every engine by its sound. Mechanics trusted him because he never blamed a machine before blaming himself. Fishermen welcomed him because he could sit quietly by the river for hours without saying a word—until someone opened a bottle.

People also whispered about his past.

They said he'd served on the Mongolian border. Said he'd stared death in the face more than once. Said he'd come to Russia after trouble no decent man ever wanted to talk about. Nobody knew the whole story, and nobody was foolish enough to ask.

There was one thing the village agreed on.

If your truck got stuck in the spring mud at three in the morning, Sasha would show up. If someone laid a hand on your family, he'd stand beside you without asking questions. And if trouble came knocking on Bolshaya Petrovka, Pavlyuchenko wouldn't wait for the militsiya—he'd already be pulling on his leather jacket.

Around the village they had a saying:

"You don't look for Sasha when there's a celebration. You look for him when things go to hell."

And somehow, he was usually there before anyone else.