You're reading: Jake Rudnitsky: Antifreeze-November 25, 1999

Editor's Note: Another in a series of Antifreeze columns by Jake Rudnitsky, a former Kyiv Post staff writer now working for Bloomberg news service in Moscow.

Vodochka. Light of my fire, fire in my throat. Vo-doch-ka. My sin, my stomach….

To most foreigners, she is simply vodka. Her detractors call her poison. 

Horilka, say Ukrainians. 

But for me, she will always be my vodochka.

Her slight curves, diminutive neck, the way she twists in my hands, her sturdy stance. Ah, the trials of unrequited love, lust not sanctioned by society.

When exactly do we become alcoholics? 

It is a loaded question, of course — where should we draw the line?

I am partial to Ukrainians’ typical answer — only when your first couple drinks start to put you over the edge.

With this logic, I will never become a true boozer, as the longer I am here, the more I seem to be able to drink. Now, a night of light drinking introduces enough of my beloved into my system to have killed me a year ago. 

 But, if alcoholism is not about tolerance, I might be in trouble. 

If, according to conventional Western wisdom, alcoholism is related to frequency, I hope that my parents never read this column. 

It’s gotten to the point where 50 grams at lunch is just part of the meal. And 100 is a legitimate way to warm up in November. (I wonder how much it will take in January?)

Gone are the elaborate ceremonies that accompanied my drinking in the distant past.

I needn’t psych myself up for a shot; no more fidgeting, telling myself that it won’t be that bad or it will soon be over. No more gulping down a liter of juice after every shot.

Now I just exhale and bottom’s up. 

If there is something to chase it with, it’s a bonus. If not, I just take a deep breath.

My problem with vodochka, (not that I have a problem), is rooted in her clarity. Other strong drinks provide some sort of acknowledgement that they are in fact glorified hemlock, they are misty or tinted, tainted by some corrupt coloring. 

However, vodochka presents herself like water — like purity. Her transparency, somewhere deep in my subconscious, is associated with all things soothing, re-hydrating.

Ah, glorious transparency. Ukraine cries out for transparency — in elections, tax laws, privatization. But my vodochka alone provides me with the elusive ideal.

No matter that the spirits are apparent with a single sniff, the visual illusion of clarity offered by vodochka overpowers any hesitation. Like a mirage in the desert, vodochka promises to quench my needs. She demands my attention, my affection; vodochka, with her crystal clarity, fools me into believing she is, like water, elemental.

Somehow she convinces me that I must drink to restore my precious bodily fluids. I never ask for vodochka, but can never turn her down. Our passion is tumultuous — after a blissful night, she punishes me in the morning.

With every shot, I chase after that revelation of transparency promised by the lucid liquid. Always just out of reach, I drink more and more, hoping to somehow convert the unclouded drink into a tangible effect. 

The more she fogs my vision, my mind, the more reliant I become on the sobriety of vodochka’s clean spirit.

Indeed, this clean spirit offers insight into the tradition of interminable Ukrainian toasts, the ones that begin with a raised glass and end sometime the next evening. They are, more than anything, a chance for each of her sweethearts to reflect on the untainted promise of her clarity. The raised glass filters light through our tormenter, promising undeliverable goods; the toast drags to extend that brief glimpse of her transparency.

And, while she taunts my irrationality with her pure spirit, at least I am comforted by our co-dependency. After all, if I didn’t drink her, she would be impotent.