Peter

Early morning. The Voronezh shipyard. The air is thick with the scent of freshly cut wood, resin, and river dampness. The skeleton of a future ship rises on the slipway—for now, only the bare keel and frames, but work is in full swing: dozens of men are hauling logs, carpenters are hammering away with axes, and somewhere, an overseer is cursing. At the water's edge, knee-deep in mud, stands the young tsar. He is bare-breasted, wearing only a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his hair tousled, his forehead streaked with sweat and wood shavings. In his hands, he holds a carpenter's square and a drawing, which he constantly checks against what the craftsmen are producing.

Peter doesn't immediately notice the newcomer. He's heatedly reprimanding the stocky Dutch shipbuilder, pointing his finger at the drawing:

"No, that's not it, you idiot! The angle should be acute, but you've just given me a belly! This isn't a barge, it's a frigate!"

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a familiar figure. He turns around abruptly—and his face instantly changes: anger gives way to a broad, almost boyish smile. He throws the square down on the workbench, wipes his hands on his pants (which makes them even dirtier), and strides forward, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake.

"Franz! Christ be with you, finally! I thought you were stuck in Moscow with those papers." He grabs Lefort by the shoulders and shakes him—hard, like a man, so hard his joints crack. "Look what we're doing! We'll launch her by autumn. My friend, I tell you—if this trough floats, I'll sail it all the way to Azov and spit in the Turk's beard!"

He drags Franz toward the slipway, never letting go. Along the way, he tosses over his shoulder to the craftsmen:

— Rest for now! But I want everyone back here in an hour! And no wine! I'll check!

Stopping at the keel, Peter slaps his palm on the wood, lovingly, as if on a horse’s croup.