Voroshilovgrad Read online

  The large yellowish red sun crawled along above our heads, rubbed against the roof, sprung over to the nearby hill, then pushed off to the west slowly, dragging its rays along behind it, which drifted like seaweed being pulled out into the open sea. It was already about three—we were crawling along the dirt roads, circling up and over the green fields, and trying to catch a glimpse of the gas towers on the horizon. The driver supposedly knew the way. Everyone knew these parts quite well, after all, so for a while nobody was paying attention to where we were relative to where we were trying to go. The driver was urging our bus confidently up yet another hill, plowing between the thick, cool grass, dodging blackthorn bushes and pits hunters had dug to catch animals. It was getting hotter out; dust was floating in through the bus windows and settling on the passengers’ shaved heads—while the driver got progressively angrier and more anxious, goading his vehicle along the road toward some emerald city but getting lost along the way in the infinite, ominous landscape stretching out around us. The sun was blinding, and some birds landed on the roof of the Ikarus when it was stopped at yet another intersection—still no towers in sight. A few minutes later, Injured got up, stood at the front by the driver, and started directing him, peering out the windshield nervously. That didn’t help either, though—we were just moving through space with nothing promising on the horizon, space that just continued, without any coordinates, just grass and corn, dust and gas—the gas our rivals had been hunting so doggedly all these years. Yes, sitting in that Ikarus among my drowsy friends, in that deadly silence, I could sense the gas, somewhere down there with the groundwater—I pictured it filling up all the cracks and crevices, moving along underground channels, bursting to the surface at midnight and igniting, burning the sky like grain alcohol burns your throat. The gas was the only thing anchoring this place in the vast emptiness all around us, maintaining the delicate balance between something and nothing. That’s what came to my mind. The gas, like spring water, was looking for a way out, forcing its way up through wells and out of old foxholes.

  In the late afternoon, the driver stopped on a flat stretch in the valley and refused to go any farther. Injured let him be, since we really needed to get our bearings. The team, feeling listless and doomed, started seeping out of the Ikarus, which was as hot as the inside of a microwave by now. The Balalaeshnikov brothers took out a two-liter bottle filled with grain alcohol. I looked at Injured, wondering, “Are they actually going to start drinking? What about the game?” But Injured glared at me and was the first to take a swig. The rest of my teammates had already flopped down on the grass—they didn’t even want to talk anymore. The driver stayed on the bus, since he must have felt he was to blame. It was quiet and sultry, although the heat was gradually subsiding. The sun was rolling farther and farther away, making our shadows long and forlorn. Swallows were flying around above the grass. The Balalaeshnikovs took out another bottle of grain alcohol. I went over to Injured.

  “Injured,” I said, “give me a boost.”

  At first Injured didn’t understand what I was getting at. Then he walked over to the Ikarus and leaned up against it. I hopped onto his back and stood on his shoulders, holding on to the side-view mirror.

  “Fuck man, be careful up there,” Injured said a few seconds later, without much conviction.

  I still had to hop a bit in order to make it onto the roof, given how short Injured is. I swung my leg onto the mirror, hauled myself up, and crawled on top of the bus. And maybe I had a good idea just then of how a fish feels when it’s been thrown into a frying pan—the euphoria of having survived the journey is quickly overshadowed by a certain degree of discomfort. The roof was covered in a thick layer of dust and was burning hot. I stood up.

  “Hey, Herman,” Ravzan yelled, standing on the ground below. “Wait a sec, I’m coming up, too.”

  “Oh, me too,” Shamil chimed in.

  “Me too, me too,” Barukh said, getting all excited.

  They picked themselves up out of the warm grass and clambered onto the roof like lizards. Shortly thereafter, the four of us were still standing there, trying to catch sight of a road, or at least something vaguely resembling one.

  Long, hot rays of light streaked down crookedly from the west, burning the grass and cornstalks. Our shadows were sprawling out in the evening sun, like grease stains on wrapping paper. The sky overhead hadn’t gone entirely dark yet; it glowed ever so slightly, like water in an aquarium. There was a haze was hanging on the horizon, as if there were invisible bodies of water out there it had evaporated from. It was hard to make anything out—those last, long sunbeams were cutting through the glistening air, whiting out the image. Once my eyes began to adjust, though, I could sort of see a dull, light-blue background, tinged by the evening darkness, peeking through the glare. From this distance, at this hour, whatever I was seeing looked like a huge concentration of light made solid—light that had piled up on itself, that had grown, hoisted by some strange frames that cut through the air vertically.

  “What are those things?” Shamil asked, pointing at the light’s nearly indiscernible masts.

  “Towers,” I said.

  “You’re right, they’re towers,” Barukh answered and started laughing gleefully.

  By the time we finally got there later that evening, the sun had sunk behind the corn plantations; warm air was rising slowly, and the atmosphere was serene. The gas guys hadn’t bothered to wait for us, and had apparently decided that we’d effectively forfeited the game, if their bonfire in the middle of the field was any indication. All huddled around the flame, they were boiling some sort of stew in big pots. Behind them, I could see the towers reaching upward, and the dirty eighteen-wheelers and trailers parked along the perimeter of the field. German shepherds and sheep were roaming around, coming up to the fire and eating food out of the gas guys’ hands. There was still some lingering daylight, so the bonfire wasn’t as impressive as it might have seemed without those last rays of sun playing around it. The gas guys were sitting on the trampled soccer field and cooking their lamb. They looked like Tatar Mongols resting up after conquering the gas towers of Kievan Rus. Upon seeing us up and brake hard between the eighteen-wheelers, the gas guys tensed, picked their Tatar-Mongolian butts off the ground, and waited silently to see what would follow. Almost all of them were short; almost all of them had buzz cuts, and most of them were shirtless and wearing tracksuit bottoms. Many of them had gold teeth, some of them had crosses around their necks—none of them had tattoos. They wore identical hostile and suspicious expressions.

  “Well, here we are,” Injured said, stepping out of the bus with his briefcase in his hand.

  We piled out of the bus after him and ventured across the field, sticking together in one big group. The gas guys were heading toward us. Eventually, we came face to face. The gas guys were spitting on the grass and glowering at us. Our crew was cracking their knuckles menacingly. The dogs were standing off to the side, barking fiercely. Finally, the gas guys’ boss, a short-legged, golden-toothed tough guy wearing a white T-shirt and blue tracksuit pants, broke the silence:

  “Scram!” he yelled at the dogs, and they trotted over behind the eighteen-wheelers rather reluctantly. It got quiet.

  “Hey, ball guys,” Injured said.

  “We’re the gas guys,” the boss corrected him, making a big show of being offended.

  “That’s the same fuckin’ thing,” Andryukha Michael Jackson said, and all of our guys nodded pleasantly, as though to say, “Yeah, it is the same fuckin’ thing.”

  “You’re late,” the boss stated, rather sharply.

  “And your point is?” Injured asked.

  “You’ve already forfeited the game,” explained a guy with glasses and scars on his stomach, clearly their accountant.

  “Who says so?” Injured countered.

  “The Federation,” the accountant answered again, quite boldly.

  “What federation?” Injured looked at him. “Federation of Ball
Guys?”

  “The Federation of Gas Guys,” the boss corrected him, again.

  Our team laughed heartily, but insincerely. The boss waited for the laughter to subside, then continued.

  “Injured,” he said, “quit waving your dick around. You were late for the game.”

  “So now you’re not going to play us?” Injured was unruffled.

  “You’ve already forfeited the game.” The boss sounded less confident this time.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Injured said, putting on the pressure. “Are you going to play or what? Are you too scared to play us?”

  “We’re not scared!” the boss shot back. Clearly, Injured knew what buttons to push.

  “Yeah, that’s right, we’re not scared!” said the accountant, backing him up.

  “Then let’s play already,” Injured replied.

  The boss turned to face his guys. They huddled up, whispering to each other, their foreheads converging. Eventually, the boss turned back to us.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll play you. We’re not scared, but you were still late!”

  “Take it up with the Federation.”

  That settled things; it was time to play.

  The gas guys put out their bonfire, put away their pots, and readied themselves for battle. Our driver wound up being the referee. The gas guys only had twelve players, including their accountant. Just like the apostles. You could say their bench was fatally short because their accountant, whom they didn’t let play due to his poor vision, was their only sub. Anyway, the gas guys spilled out onto the field, leaving their accountant on the bench. They looked so much alike that we had no hope of telling them apart. The boss put on a pair of women’s leather gloves and assumed his position in goal. Injured gathered us together and put his briefcase down at his feet.

  “All right, guys,” he said, “focus on trapping the ball cleanly. Got it?”

  “Got it, Injured,” Vasya Negative answered for all of us.

  “Got it,” the Balalaeshnikov brothers confirmed.

  “Got it,” I added.

  Injured had the tall, skinny Semyon Black Dick play goalie. Semyon ran over to the goal, sprang up, and started hanging from the crossbar. The Balalaeshnikovs were supposed to be playing defense. The rest of our players assumed their usual positions. Injured told me to play up with him. Karpo Disc Grinder and Vasya Negative, who weren’t included in the starting roster, trudged dejectedly off the field, joining the rest of the backup players behind our goal. Karpo waved his disc grinder threateningly, while Vasya flopped down onto the warm grass, placed Injured’s briefcase under his head, and fell asleep as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The captains faced off in the center. The driver was bobbing around by them, holding a heavy, old-school leather ball.

  “Injured, here’s how it’s gonna be,” the boss declared. “No brawls on the field. Save your complaints for after the match.”

  “Whatever you say, whatever you say,” said Injured, who apparently saw no point in objecting.

  The last glimmers of reflected sun were dying away. We had to get a move on. We kicked off.

  The game got off to a rocky start. The gas guys were lethargic, possibly due to the meat they’d been eating, so they weren’t moving up the field. On the other hand, the Balalaeshnikov brothers were all jittery for some reason—they’d wind up and completely miss the ball. Also, they were constantly getting in each other’s way and arguing with the referee. Five minutes in, Ravzan whiffed again, and got hit upside the head by Shamil. The referee blew the whistle, but couldn’t think of anything better to do than giving the opposing team a free kick. He even wanted to card Shamil for unsportsmanlike conduct, but Ravzan himself stood up for him, saying that it was a family affair. He advised the referee to keep his distance. One of the gas guys took the free kick, the ball slid along through the thick grass and slipped past someone into our goal, which by the way was probably a total fluke. The gas guys started celebrating—the dogs roared in reply to their triumphant cries and their sheep bleated too. This elation was short-lived, however—on the very next possession, Injured ran halfway down the field and smashed the ball past the boss, who had timed his jump pretty poorly. He tumbled awkwardly back into his goal and got tangled up in the net like a big catfish. It took both teams to help extricate him. Gradually we started up again. The gas guys doggedly refused to attack—our guys opted for positional play, and as soon as one of our opponents got the ball, we’d knock him off his feet and run over to the referee to contest the call. Our referee didn’t exactly have the best eyes—he couldn’t see the ball at all in the twilight, so he’d just take our word for it. Shortly afterward, Injured scored again. It was rather unexpected—it was so dark by now that one of the gas guys mistook Injured for one of his teammates and so lost control of the ball; scoring from twenty meters out was a matter of pride for Injured. We took the lead. At this point the gas guys finally got into the game and went on the offensive, leaving their goalie alone with some hungry sheep whimpering by the goal. Injured scored his third goal in a blistering counterattack. He just came running all the way back to our goal, stole the ball from the gas guys, dribbled it down the whole field, burned past the goalie, and careened straight into the pack of sheep, carried by his momentum. Right after that, the Balalaeshnikovs knocked over three guys inside the penalty area—Ravzan took down one guy, while Shamil handled the other two. The referee had the gas guys take a penalty kick. They scored. Injured was pissed, but he didn’t want to sub out the Balalaeshnikovs. Basically, it looked like we were all just getting in his way. He faked out the boss and scored two more times before the end of the half; however, Semyon let two goals whiz by him. If there were a commentator, he would have remarked that the fans must be loving this high-scoring game. The accountant was the only one in the audience, of course, but to be fair, he was clearly soaking it up. During halftime, the home team drove their eighteen-wheelers closer, started up their engines, and flooded the field with their headlights. The field looked like a stage, bright and ready for a show, and the German shepherds’ eyes and the accountant’s glasses were shining through the darkness. Injured gathered us around, crouched down, and put his briefcase down in front of him. He took out a bottle of grain alcohol, and sent it around the circle. Everyone was looking at our captain with deep reverence.

  “Guys, remember, clean touches,” Injured said, and then again: “Clean touches.”

  We all took a swig and nodded. The Balalaeshnikovs were standing off to the side arguing about something, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  The same dynamic continued into the second half. Siryozha the Rapist, who subbed in for Python, tried calming the Balalaeshnikovs down—he yelled at them, told them to push up the field, told them to pay closer attention, started playing their positions, and generally just got in their way. Trying to clear the ball, he wound up slamming it into our own goal. He asked to be subbed out after that. Karpo Disc Grinder took his place, but his contribution wasn’t especially meaningful either. The game drew to its logical conclusion—the gas guys had dropped back; apparently, they were quite satisfied with a tie. Our team had run out of steam and couldn’t get a decisive advantage. Injured was trying his best to crack the gas guys’ tough defense, but you can’t stop a column of tanks with a bayonet, and one player can’t break past eleven angry gas guys six times in a row, even if that player is Injured.

  The game should have already ended, but the referee, squinting and straining his weak eyes, just couldn’t make out how much time had passed, so we played at least five minutes extra. Everyone had already started peering over at the bus parked off to the side, black and nearly invisible in the night, trying to figure out whether we’d be able to escape in one piece. It seemed as though even Injured had resigned himself to a tie. During the last possession, Semyon punted the ball into the opposing team’s half—Andryukha Michael Jackson trapped it, burst past two gas guys, and ran down the field. He was almost one-on
-one with the goalie, but at the last second, one of the gas guys kicked the ball out of bounds—we were set to take a corner kick. Both teams bunched up by the boss’s goal. Even Semyon ran all the way up the field, sliding off his goalie gloves. Injured went over to take the corner. He chipped it up with his weak left foot, and the ball, following some implausible trajectory, curved into the gas guys’ penalty box. It bounced off of one of them and his teammate dropped it back to the boss. The boss kicked the ball with desperation, and it whizzed up like an artillery shell, bouncing off my head and into the goal. I didn’t even see how it all happened because I had my back to the goal. We had won the game. The exhausted gas guys collapsed on the ground; the boss wiped off some sweat and tears trickling down his cheeks; our guys hoisted me up on their shoulders and ran across the whole field to our bench. The referee, fearing the gas guys’ wrath, led the way. Injured brought up the rear, limping along with a satisfied grin. The German shepherds came running along after him, howling morosely into the dark skies that not even the eighteen-wheelers’ headlights could pierce.

  Joy filled our hearts, joy and a feeling that justice had prevailed—everything played out the way it was supposed to. Who could have doubted that we’d come out on top? This journey could only have ended in triumph, so nobody was particularly surprised. I shook my friends’ hands, relishing this adventure, which had ended so well, and genuinely surprised that so many years had passed and yet everything seemed to be returning to how it was—everything was behaving according to the laws of motion again. This thought calmed me and wound me up at the same time: it was this kind of joy, precisely the joy of recognition and the joy of returning that I’d been missing all these years . . . since our last match, really. Immersed in those thoughts, I spotted the gas guys out of the corner of my eye, moving toward us, slowly but surely. They had already started to recover from their defeat. It looked like they weren’t planning on letting us go so easily. I exchanged glances with one of my teammates, and he too noticed their approach. Our triumphant cheering cut off all at once. Our guys started walking toward the gas guys. The teams faced off. Of course, that’s how it was always going to go down. Even the accountant was coming at us, though he didn’t have his glasses on. Evidently he didn’t want them to get broken, so he had to grope blindly across the field. The gas guys stopped, breathing heavily. Our guys halted too. Their headlights were directed right at us, blinding us and making all our shapes seem transparent, barely visible, as though we were ghosts standing in the middle of the field, trying to settle things with other ghosts. Gold teeth and tattooed crosses flashed periodically in the electric glare. The boss took a step forward.