Voroshilovgrad Read online

  “What’d I tell you?” a concerned Kocha asked, running over to his trailer. “Get over here. She’s on the phone.”

  “Herman!” I was standing there holding the warm receiver to my ear. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I said, trying to sound convincing. I don’t think it was working. “I saw our competitors yesterday. We had a chat.”

  “Uh-huh.” This clearly wasn’t news to Olga. “I don’t know what your little chat was about, but they’re trying have the station shut down, Herman.”

  “I’ll be right over.” I draped my headphones around my neck and running out onto the highway.

  The familiar Jeep was parked outside her office—Nick was in the driver’s seat as usual, giving me a completely unruffled look, as if to say, “Oh, it’s you, I didn’t even notice you left.” I waved and stepped inside. Olga was sitting at the table in her yellow-rimmed sunglasses. She was wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt with some political slogans in Polish. Her orange bra was peeking out from underneath. Two chubby ladies with perms and skin-tight dresses were sitting across from her. These bitches were well over the hill, but they hadn’t lost that youthful spark, that Young Pioneer spirit that seeks the joy and inclusion that come only from collective labor. Now they were breathing heavily in this oppressive heat, reminding me of two robust Spanish women, fanning themselves with accounting ledgers.

  One of them had a perm the color of cigarette ash; she was wearing massive bronze earrings that dangled like medals from a general’s coat, and enormous coral beads were wrapped around her neck. She had squeezed her flabby, sweaty body into a dark, ancient dress, which was stretching every which way, tracing her every bulge, and her powerful, work-worn feet were jammed into slippers. Now she was holding a ledger in one hand and a pencil in the other; she’d stick the latter in her perm from time to time, probing intently for something. Her friend, drooping just as much from the heat, had a copper-colored mop, tinted red by the sunlight, neatly arranged on her head. She wore big emerald stones in her ears, like the ones used in bus station mosaics, and though she didn’t have any beads on her neck, her skin there folded into a few hefty layers concealing amber droplets of bitter female sweat. She was wearing a multicolored sundress dating back to the Soviet days, peppered with images of tropical flowers and herbs, and she too was wearing slippers. She looked more alert and reproachful than her counterpart; her sharp shoulders were twitching, causing her dress to tighten in some areas and loosen up in others, like a sail flapping in the wind. The women turned toward me as one, with identical hostile looks on their faces.

  I greeted them, giving Olga an inquisitive look. The women introduced themselves, albeit unwillingly. The ash-colored one’s name was Angela Petrovna—she had a heavy and languid voice, and her expression as she spoke was obviously accusatory, yet somehow hard to read. The other woman, the copper-colored one, spoke anxiously and unintelligibly, as though with a mouthful of rocks, introducing herself as Bgalinda Bgedorobna. Clearly she meant to say Galina Fedorovna, or something along those lines. I thought of her as Brunhilda Fedorovna, and from then on my mind refused to give her any other name. Why Petrovna, not Fedorovna? Maybe I wanted to give them the same thing because they were so similar as to be indistinguishable, like two half-sisters—both women had acquired some valuable experience, some experience that they weren’t planning on sharing with anyone.

  “Ah, good thing you’ve finally decided to show up,” Olga said, not looking remotely happy to see me.

  “I had to catch a ride,” I explained to all present.

  The two ladies watched me coldly and implacably, Angela Petrovna twirling her pencil in a predatory manner, Brunhilda Petrovna puffing up her flabby neck like a cobra.

  Olga briefly filled me in about the problem at hand. As far as I could gather, it all boiled down to the fact that Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda hadn’t retired when they were supposed to, so now they had nothing better to do than mess with me. Like funeral keeners, these two signified death, forecasting interest rate hikes and mounting utility bills. I tried getting to the bottom of things, but it was a struggle, since Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda Petrovna’s voices had a debilitating effect on me, making me depressed and wistful. I could only glean one thing from our conversation—they had been sent by the tax service, and the social security fund, as well as the sanitation department, and the veterans’ association too, in addition to the independent small business owners’ association, and, finally, the housing department. It turned out that we were in deep trouble—my downtrodden private enterprise had owed the government an exorbitant amount of money for years, and it’d be best for all concerned, it seemed, if I simply hung myself, liquidating my business before doing so, and transferring all my worldly wealth to the fearless retirees. Angela Petrovna did most of the talking, spinning a web of confusing accounting jargon around my head. Brunhilda Petrovna rolled colored marbles anxiously along the roof of her mouth, periodically interjecting with such linguistic mutants as “betirees,” “bygenic,” or the utterly incomprehensible “balfolcol bovelment,” so I could never quite get to the bottom of things. Olga persisted, trying to explain something to the women and taking some papers out of her drawer. She was saying that things weren’t actually that bad, that all of our documents were in order, and that there weren’t any legal grounds for banishing me to deepest layer of hell. But Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda Petrovna paid her no mind, waving Olga’s arguments away with their ledger books, holding their ground by citing some amendments or other, reading aloud choice excerpts from some recent decrees, and pointing out inconsistencies in our tax forms. All of Olga’s attempts at easing the pressure applied by these two passionate, sultry Spanish women were to no avail—the old-timers were clearly spurred on by their own wailing as they exhibited their vast knowledge of both the criminal code and accounting standards. At some point, Olga stopped trying. This caused the Spanish women to pipe down as well, though they went right on glaring at us. I got the sense they were waiting for me to react. I decided I had to say something:

  “Listen,” I began, in an exceedingly conciliatory tone, causing my voice to take on an emotive note that was unusual for me. “Maybe we can smooth this all out together? Huh? We’re all grownups here, aren’t we?”

  The ash-colored lady squinted at me formidably, while the lady the color of copper launched lightning bolts out of her aging eyes.

  “What do you mean?” the ash-colored lady asked me slowly, like a professor during an oral exam.

  “Bha?” went the copper-colored lady.

  “Herman,” said Olga, frightened by my brashness, trying to rein me in.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I cut her off, getting frustrated. “People can always find common ground, can’t they?” I asked. And then I added, for some reason, “Couldn’t we smooth things out?”

  “You’re completely out of line!” Angela Petrovna shouted, or tried to shout; she was raising her thick voice as though it were a rock she was rolling up a hill. Brunhilda nodded along with her. “Who do you think you are? Maybe that’s how you do business UP THERE! Maybe that’s how you talk UP THERE!!!” Now her voice had reached the peak, and was about to crash down the other side—and there it went, barreling down the hillside, leveling everything in its path. “Do you even realize what you’re saying? You think this is some sort of a joke? UP THERE it’s a free for all! But HERE you’re on our turf!” She turned to address Olga: “Ms. Volkova,” she said, “I won’t stand for this!”

  The old ladies rose haughtily to their feet, said their contemptuous good-byes, and disappeared out the door. They vowed to return tomorrow.

  I was starting to feel uneasy.

  “It looks like you rub them the wrong way,” Olga said, sorting through some papers.

  “Could that put the business in jeopardy?”

  “You betcha. Herman, if those old vultures get a hold of you somewhere in town, you could be in some real deep trouble.” Her voice was grim.r />
  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “I mean they’ll cook up a sexual harassment case. Come on, use your head,” Olga said, tucking away her papers. “Well, now we’re getting audited. Those hags are going to come in here every day and try to get me to shut down your business.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Herman, I’m an accountant. I’m going to do what I’m paid to do, so don’t you worry.”

  “But it’s no coincidence that they started this audit today.”

  “Ya think?” Olga took off her glasses and sized me up. She looked a bit tired.

  “I talked with the corn guys’ representative yesterday.”

  “With whom exactly?”

  “Nikolaich—the small guy. He’s their representative.”

  “Small guy?” Olga asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That little shit . . .”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’s their computer guy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s the guy who fixes their computers.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m afraid not. I guess they aren’t taking you very seriously. I would think about that if I were you.”

  “Huh, imagine that, he does computers. He seemed like a decent enough guy to me.”

  “In any case, we’ve got problems.”

  “What exactly is the main problem?” I asked.

  “Let me explain.”

  We had a boatload of problems, of course, but one above all. As far as I could gather, we didn’t have any copies of the minutes from the oil depot’s workers’ association meeting. My newly acquired property belonged, in fact, to that oil depot, and not to my brother or me. It seemed my brother didn’t care too much about paperwork. He just wasn’t that kind of person—generally, he did business by using his connections and his fists, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise that he was missing some important documents. Clearly, the sanitation department ladies had been briefed on this weak point before they were sent into the enemy camp. According to Olga, all of our other documents were in good shape; our licenses, on the other hand, might actually cause some trouble, so we needed to do something about them fast. I had no idea what we should do. “It’s all very simple,” Olga told me. “We need to get ahold of the former director of that oil depot—he’s a pillar of the community, just so you know . . . we’ll convince him to backdate a copy of that fuckin’ rotten minutes form.” She sat down and started dialing him up.

  I walked over to the window and peered out. The black Jeep was still parked outside—its tinted windows were rolled halfway down, and I could have sworn I saw Nick and Brunhilda Petrovna in the throes of a passionate make-out session in the front seat, as Angela Petrovna sat in the back and poked them with a sharpened pencil.

  After making a few calls, Olga ascertained that things would be even more complicated than she’d assumed. It turned out that our pillar of the community didn’t actually live in the community anymore. He had moved to a medical facility by the salt lakes that were a few dozen kilometers away from here. We had no clue what condition he would be in, what kind of treatment he was getting, or even whether there was any scientific basis for him being out there in the first place. In short, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. I found myself remembering the harsh tone that goddamn computer guy had tried to take with me the day before. And then, as I was remembering the old ladies’ unfriendly stares in turn, a bitter and unsettling sensation overcame me—for the first time since my arrival at the station, I really wanted to go home, back to my white-collar job, back to my mundane routine as a party functionary. I regained my composure quickly, though.

  “Well? Ready to go?” Olga asked.

  “Where to?”

  “To visit the director. Where else?”

  “Do you need me to be there?”

  “Not really,” Olga replied, “but in this particular case it’d be better if you came.”

  “I feel like a real capitalist. I’ve got interests to protect now. I feel like George Soros.”

  “Quit your blabbing. I’m trying to think here,” Olga said, getting ready to go.

  The road flowed up and down the green, sun-plastered hills and valleys. The asphalt was falling to pieces, so we were driving cautiously, taking our time. I held onto Olga firmly, her T-shirt flapping in the wind; she didn’t seem to care. We passed a few bars scattered along the way. Black, dusty trucks were out in their parking lots with some kids and prostitutes, weary from the extreme heat, sleeping inside. Olga looked around with a severe and concentrated expression, but she only stopped to ask for directions once, from a prostitute. The woman didn’t even get out of the truck to answer—she just pointed the way with her bare foot. As we were climbing yet another hill, Olga stopped and looked apprehensively to the south. “It might rain,” she said, uneasily, before we forged on.

  A bit later, a vast pine forest stretched out before us.

  The director was undergoing treatment at an old, timeworn sanitarium. According to Olga, he was practically being held there against his will, because what the old guy really wanted was to go on being a productive member of society. According to Olga, he’d led a heroic life, and had a reputation for being quite the curmudgeon, so she warned me that he might have a problem with me. This didn’t exactly put my mind at ease, but we’d come all that way—I had to have a talk with him.

  The forest was sparse around the sanitarium. Salt marshes stretched out along the perimeter—the sick, the humiliated, and the insulted were swimming in them. We drove through the gate and turned toward the main building. Olga parked her scooter and went ahead. I fell in behind her, watching the patients. There was something unsettling about them. They looked at me mistrustfully, stepping back, whispering among themselves, and pointing their long, skinny fingers at us. The salt marshes gave off an odd smell—a mix of silt and brimstone. The receptionist recognized Olga, nodding happily and informing her that Mr. Petrovsky was in an especially bad mood today; he’d been acting up all morning: hadn’t touched his breakfast, had made a scene at lunch, and was refusing to go to the bathroom. Basically, he was being a real pain in the ass—just like yesterday and the day before that. They told us to be careful and not turn our backs on the old-timer. Wishing us luck, they slammed the window down. Olga headed down a hallway, and I tried to keep up, glancing at the patients peering out of the procedure rooms. The walls were lined with odd medical posters warning about the dangers of overheating in the sun, catching hypothermia in the water, and having unprotected sex. Unprotected sex was depicted as something like an act of trespass against God, an offense that would get you excommunicated, and stoned at Party meetings. Posters like that make you want to swear off sex altogether.

  Mr. Petrovsky’s ward was on the second floor. Olga knocked on the door resolutely, opened it, and stepped into the room. I collected myself and followed suit.

  “Hello, Mr. Petrovsky! Hello, my dear!” Olga chirped, addressing the old timer lying in the bed by the window, giddily running up to him and kissing him on his shiny, bald head.

  “Olga, my sweet little butter crumpet, hello there,” Mr. Petrovsky extended his slobbery lips, trying to land on her cheek. He gave me the suspicious look I’d come to expect around here. “Who’s this snot-nose you brought along?”

  “Herman,” Olga answered, “the businessman.”

  “Hello.” I stayed put by the door.

  “Businessman?” Mr. Petrovsky asked skeptically. “Well, to hell with him. Tell me how you’ve been doing,” he said, turning to Olga.

  Olga started telling him about their mutual friends, about the state of the stock market. Meanwhile, I was sizing the old-timer up. Mr. Petrovsky was alert and energetic, with a little twinkle in his eye. Saggy gray curls sprinkled his predominately bald head; dirty, shaggy eyebrows crowned his face, and his nose was hooked. When Mr. Petrovsky spoke, his denture
s made a predatory clicking sound somewhere inside his skull. He was lying on the unmade bed in his suit, a snow-white, starchy shirt poking out over the top of a jacket festooned with union member badges and Hero of Labor medals. Incongruous rubber beach sandals stuck out at the bottom. The whole ensemble made him look like William S. Burroughs being admitted to the Writers’ Union. A big, busty nurse was sitting on a chipped, dark blue stool beside the director. He called her Natasha and treated her like utter garbage, not seeming to care that we were watching him do it. Natasha clearly knew her place in the party hierarchy, however; she would hand Mr. Petrovsky his metal mug of rum, fill his silver hookah with tobacco, swat away the moths hovering over his bald skull, rub down the geezer’s feet with French perfume, and take his adult magazines away from him as needed. She performed all of these duties without speaking a single word, or even looking directly at her charge. He wasn’t the only man in the ward, though: there were two other patients there to enjoy the show. One heavyset fellow was lying across from Mr. Petrovsky, panting profusely. His bulging eyes were fixed on his venerable neighbor, absolutely fuckin’ floored by his brazen attitude and willingness to break the rules. This one was wearing a modest outfit—striped hospital pajamas and warm soccer socks—and was holding a newspaper over which he’d cast the occasional apprehensive but curious glance at Natasha. The ward’s third inhabitant was stationed closer to the door, exhibiting no signs of life. Judging by the smell, I’d have guessed he had died roughly three days ago, although I might have been off by a couple of days.