Voroshilovgrad Read online

  I got up early, realizing that I’d blown my opportunity to turn back, and that there was absolutely nowhere else for me to go. It just seemed impossible to walk out into the sunlight that was pouring abundantly into the room and leave this place behind. I could have done it at night, I thought, but not now. Which made things a lot simpler, in a sense—I got up, trying not to wake Kocha, and started getting ready. I put my tank driver pants on and found a pair of heavy army boots under the bed—they were worn, yet quite sturdy. I figured some tougher footwear was in order if today’s engagement was going to be as bloody as I expected. I pulled on a T-shirt and went outside. I found an iron rod in the pile of scrap metal out back. I picked it up it, estimating its weight. “Just what I need,” I thought, and set off to face the unknown.

  The unknown was running late, however. After tanning in the chair for two hours I was feeling sleepy and hungry, thought I was trying not to think about food—any solider will tell you that you shouldn’t eat right before going into combat. That was roughly the state of mind I was in when I slipped into a sweet morning sleep.

  The air popped open right next to me, letting in a strange, hot, and heavy draft. It felt as though it was rising from somewhere deep in the earth. Its heat ate into my dream, and there was a moment when I thought I’d escaped, pulled myself together and fled, returning to real life. Even after waking up, this feeling still lingered—the sunny, torpid feeling of being on the road, and a smell like flame and ash, sweet but tinged with menace. Without even opening my eyes, I understood what was going on, knew what was I’d find standing in front of me, exhaling this hellish air when I did at last look around. Heavy and hot like the air in September, parked in front of me, right by my chair, was a bus. An Ikarus model. That smell is unmistakable—it lingers in the air when someone’s been resurrecting the dead. It was parked, with its engine turned off; the windows were tinted so I couldn’t see what was going on inside, although there most definitely was something going on. I heard muffled voices and nervous breathing, so I got to my feet and tried to look inside. That was when the door opened. Injured was standing on the steps. He was wearing a white and blue Argentinian national team jersey and he looked at my army boots, quite perplexed.

  “You’re gonna go in that?” he asked.

  “Well, uh . . .” I answered, trying to hide the rod behind my back.

  “What do you need that thing for?” Injured asked, seeing it and looking even more perplexed. “To keep the dogs away?”

  “Just because,” I said, getting flustered and tossing my weapon into the tall grass.

  “Okay, then,” Injured replied, and, stepping off to the side, he nodded, seemingly saying, “Come on, hop in.”

  I greeted the bus driver, who nodded apathetically in reply, then climbed the next step surveying the inside of the bus. It was dimly lit—at first I couldn’t even make out who was sitting there. I held my place for a second, then tramped over to the aisle by an empty seat and watched Injured as he came back aboard; he surveyed the bus, submerged in twilight, then waved sheepishly, greeting the passengers of this sepulchral vehicle. That was the signal: the bus exploded into cheerful whistling and shouting, and somebody yelled out:

  “Herman, my boy, what’s goin’ on!”

  “Herman, you magnificent bastard!” some other voices chimed in.

  I smiled cautiously, yet warmly, just in case I actually knew these people, even though I still had no idea what was going on. Injured came over and shoved me lightly, and a bunch of friendly embraces broke my fall. Only now could I discern the faces of my fellow passengers—they were all there: one-eyed Sasha Python; Andryukha Michael Jackson with the dark-blue onion-dome churches tattooed on his chest; Semyon Black Dick with his bitten-off ear and his right hand with all its fingers sewn back into place; Dimych Conductor with his tattooed eyelids; the Balalaeshnikov brothers, who had always gotten by with one cell phone for the three of them; Kolya One-and-a-Half Legs with his Hitler mustache and his bald spot painted white; Ivan Petrovich Fodder, his head boxlike from getting busted-up too many times; Karpo Disc Grinder, who was holding a disc grinder; Vasya Negative with his bandaged knuckles; Gesha Accordion; Siryozha the Rapist; Zhora the Sucker; and Gogi Orthodox were sitting there too. Pretty much all the stars of the Meliorator ‘91 club—the dream team that ripped through every rival from here to the Donbass on their way to the championship. They were the elite athletes of this particular sunny valley. They were all sitting there, right in front of me, thumping me on the back, messing up my hair, and laughing, their gold and metal teeth flashing in the darkness.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked after the first wave of excitement had subsided.

  The bus went silent for a second, but then a loud roar broke over my head—my friends, exchanging looks, laughed heartily and took great pleasure from looking at my bewildered mug.

  “Herman!” Gogi Orthodox yelled, “Hey buddy, you’re too funny! You’re a riot!”

  “Herman, you’re too funny! You’re a riot!” the Balalaeshnikov brothers echoed, kicking back in their rickety seats. “Bro, you’re too funny!”

  Then the rest of them chimed in, bellowing and patting me on the back some more. Sasha Python even choked on his Camel, while Siryozha the Rapist was laughing so hard he was crying right on top of Vasya Negative, who didn’t look too happy about it. Zhora the Sucker was pointing at me and laughing, as was Karpo Disc Grinder, who was waving his disc grinder around in the air, demonstrating that he was ready for battle. Then Injured came up behind me and placed his hand calmly on my shoulder. The gang piped down.

  “Herman, do you know what day it is?” he asked. Someone burst out laughing again, but he was promptly smacked on the back of the head, which quieted him right down.

  “Sunday,” I answered, not quite getting the picture.

  “Exactly,” Injured replied. “Exactly. So what does that mean?” he asked, looking around at our friends.

  “IT’S GAME DAY!” they chorused.

  “Got it?” Injured asked me.

  “Got it,” I said, without actually getting it. “I thought you guys stopped playing years ago.”

  “Well, we don’t really play much anymore,” Injured replied, “but today, Herman, is a special occasion. We are PLAYING today. More importantly, we’re playing against the GAS GUYS today!”

  Once again, the whole team roared excitedly.

  “So, come on, bro,” Injured said, pushing me along, “Have a seat. We need you today.”

  I walked down the aisle, sank into an empty seat, and took a look around. Meanwhile, we were setting off, the bus rattling along the battered asphalt, dodging numerous potholes, and finally crawling out onto the highway. Not knowing which way to go, the driver braked.

  “Hey, pops,” Vasya Negative yelled up to the driver, “put some music on!”

  “Come on, pops!” the Balalaeshnikov brothers backed him up cheerfully. “Let’s get some music up in here. Let’s hear some music!”

  “Come on, guy,” Gogi said, bellowing along with the chorus, “let’s hear some music!”

  The rest of our team started buzzing too, demanding music. When the cranky driver turned around, he was bombarded by old, ripped T-shirts and soccer socks, crusty with dried sweat. He couldn’t take it any longer, so he popped in some AC/DC, circa 1981, and their terrible guitar licks sent us back into a black pit, back to nowhere, from death to birth, closer to God and the devil who were sitting in the back of this boiling bus and singing along with the rest of us. Then the Ikarus jerked forward abruptly, and the players fell back into their seats, yelling happily over the speakers, pulling off their striped vests and sweaters, taking their jerseys with stenciled numbers out of their big athletic bags, looking for their black athletic briefs, bandages, shin guards, all their gear, moving around in the darkness, knocking heads, and falling back into their seats when the bus would hit yet another pothole.

  “Hey, what about Herman?” asked the youngest Balalaes
hnikov brother, Ravzan.

  “Oh yeah, what about Herman?” Everyone suddenly remembered that I’d need gear too, and started rooting around in their bags once again.

  Zhora the Sucker tossed me a jersey, as damp the blankets they give you on crumby sleeper trains. Then Andryukha Michael Jackson slipped out of a pair of athletic briefs, revealing another pair beneath, and gave the extra one to me, as though he was parting with something he truly cherished. Sasha Python, his one eye flashing, took out a brand-new pair of soccer socks and tossed them to me. “Come on, Herman, get dressed,” everyone was shouting. “We’re going to fuck those gas guys up, fuck them up real good!” I slipped out of my tank driver getup and put on my uniform. The jersey was oversized, and I looked like a boot camp trainee in my athletic briefs—I couldn’t have cared less, and yet, just the same, I felt as though something was missing: I didn’t feel quite ready for the game. I looked underneath the seats in vain, as if that would help me understand what was going on.

  “Guys!” Ravzan yelled out again. “He doesn’t have any cleats!”

  “Ah, that won’t fucking do,” the guys agreed. “Yeah, you’re right. Give him a pair of cleats! Somebody give him a pair of cleats already!” they all entreated each other.

  But nobody had an extra pair of cleats—not Sasha Python, not Semyon Black Dick; not even Andryukha Michael Jackson, who had peeled off another pair of black briefs and gave them to the oldest Balalaeshnikov brother, could help. Disappointment consumed us. All of their planning had come to naught—what use would I be without a pair of cleats? It’s not as though I could take the field in my boots. I looked at Injured and threw my hands up, apologizing for my shortsightedness. The rest of the team looked at Injured, evidently waiting for a miracle, hoping he’d be able to feed the whole team with only five loaves of bread and give all eleven starters magical cleats that would lead us to a decisive and indisputable victory. Injured felt the tension; he must have realized how crucial this moment would be. It might very well undermine our team spirit, dampen our bloodlust, so he bent down and picked up a tattered briefcase, like the ones Young Pioneers, engineers, and officers carried in the ’80s, balanced on one leg in the aisle, put it on his knee, and opened it up—taking his time—and pulled out his old spare pair of Adidas cleats, the same ones he’d worn fifteen years ago. The team looked at them in mesmerized awe. They were, indeed, Injured’s gold cleats. They were patched up with fishing line in a few spots and missing two spikes. The leather reeked; the juice of all the grass that had worked its way into these shoes had been eating away at it for fifteen long years of retirement. Injured handed them to me and said:

  “Herman, here, these are for you.”

  The team cheered its captain with a roar of brotherhood and camaraderie. I took the cleats and sat down.

  Meanwhile, the bus was flying down the highway. A sharp, prickly ray of sunlight was poking through the windows, making my friends’ eyes light up hungrily and giving their skin the blue tint of drowned corpses. The Balalaeshnikov brothers were getting changed right in front of me. The younger brother, Ravzan, had a cat’s head tattooed on his left shoulder, a woman burning in a bonfire on his right hip, and then some sort of demon being stabbed with a sharp knife on his left hip. The cat, which was supposed to look fierce and self-reliant, I imagine, looked rather harmless and thoroughly domesticated; possibly because Ravzan had put on a lot of weight since getting the tattoo, so the cat had stretched out along the whole length of his upper arm. As for the woman in the bonfire, she looked like our high-school chemistry teacher. The middle Balalaeshnikov brother, Shamil, had a few stars, like the ones on cognac bottles, tattooed on his chest, below his left nipple. The words “There is no God but Allah” were written in a gothic font below the stars. The oldest brother, Barukh, also had stars, crosses, and crucifixes scattered across his skin, while an eagle carrying a suitcase in its beak was depicted over his abdominal area, which was supposed to symbolize Barukh’s predilection for attempting to escape from wherever he happened to be incarcerated. It looked just like Injured’s old briefcase. I looked more closely at the rest of my old friends, their bodies battered by hard lives and the fists of their rivals. The black markings on their backs, chests, and shoulder blades stood out in the bright sun, skulls and sickles, women’s faces, and incomprehensible cyphers, as well as skeletons, Virgin Marys, gloomy curses, and lofty quotations. Semyon Black Dick’s tattoos were the most minimalist—his chest just read “Adolf Hitler is my God,” and his back boasted “The thief in law rules the prison.”

  The team gradually quieted down. Everyone was waiting, anticipating the impending battle and asking themselves whether they were really ready to do it again—outdo themselves, give it their all, keep playing through the pain, and fuck the gas guys up. Meanwhile, the driver slowed down and veered off the highway onto a pothole-ridden asphalt road that disappeared over the nearby hills. I peered out the window, looking for some familiar terrain. When was the last time I was here? Fifteen years ago, in the spring, I was riding with the same crew, but back then my friends didn’t look like tattoo-parlor zombies—they were younger, but just as rough. How many times had we driven along this road, looping up and down the hills, trying to reach the gas guys’ cursed and forgotten land? How many years had the gas guys been camping out there like polar explorers huddling on the ice?

  They showed up here in the late ’80s. It turned out that there were natural gas reserves out there where it was driest, in the dry, black soil between rivers—where the Soviets hadn’t ventured, out where the paved road trailed off. A large cohort of gas guys from somewhere by the Carpathian Mountains was sent here; they were supposed to get down in the trenches and start pumping gas for the Motherland, figuring out the logistics as they went along. Like Gypsies, they arrived in a long caravan, coming down from the northwest and crossing the Dnieper River down by Kremenchuk. They lived in trailers hauled by heavy, swamp-colored military eighteen-wheelers. They brought a whole field kitchen with them too. Finding themselves surrounded by endless fields, the gas guys were taken aback by the vastness of the black soil and all-pervading absence of anything living. They weren’t in the Carpathians anymore. They stayed put, of course, because the country needed gas, but gas eluded them like a legion of mujahedeen, luring them deep into the sweet blue steppe, toying with them, teasing them, but never letting itself get cornered. In the early ’90s they put their search on hold for a while. Shortly thereafter, a new government boss took control of the land, ensuring that the gas guys’ colony would be kept intact. Initially, the locals were wary of the gas guys—whenever one of them came into town in one of their eighteen-wheelers to buy some bread or go to the movies, gangs of locals would lie in wait for them, ambush them, and beat the shit out of them. They’d get kicked out whenever they ventured into our discos, too. Still, you have to give the gas guys credit—they adapted to their new habitat, began only coming into town in larger groups, and managed to hold their own in their periodic brawls with the townies. From time to time, some of our local gangsters considered burning down their trailers, along with their gas towers, but the police advised our boys to leave the gas guys alone, especially since they reported directly to the ministry, meaning they got their orders straight from Kiev.

  They also formed a soccer team pretty much immediately. They set aside a spot between their towers, amid those sun-scorched fields, and they crushed every other team that passed through. They not only played dirty, but were fearless—nobody dared lock horns with them. Nobody, that is, besides us. We held our own against them, and if we lost to them on their turf then we would most definitely get them back when we played at home. Our encounters were more than just games—they were a matter of principle. The gas guys would drive their silt-caked trucks into our city like a battalion on a reprisal raid, looking to level everything in their path. They were so accustomed to trouncing everyone that if the opposing team put up any meaningful resistance, they’d leave the stadium in a hurr
y, making for the steppes where they would vanish into the blue haze of ghosts and natural gas. Sometimes they’d start fights right on the field. Whenever something like that happened, the ministry in Kiev would call our regional politicians and berate them hysterically. Eventually, the gas guys went off the grid; they hardly ever even bothered to set foot on the highway. When they were first sent here, they got periodic deliveries of movies and library books (they used to roll their cigarettes with the latter); but after the towers changed hands, a helicopter started coming by to drop canned food and tabloids: management was concerned with job satisfaction, after all. The majority of the gas guys had grown accustomed to the loneliness and the homogenous landscape. After all, they had no home to return to—and is returning from nirvana really even an option? I had no idea what kind of lives they had been living in the years since I left home. It was very odd; everything seemed to be coming full circle, turning back—back to nowhere, back to emptiness.