Mesopotamia Read online

  It was unclear how seriously Mark was supposed to take that, but he nodded just in case. On the way out, the headphones guy gave him a sympathetic look.

  He stepped outside and mulled over that whole odd exchange for a while. He went to the 24-­hour grocery store across the street and bought some frozen fish. He came back out and stopped dead on the sidewalk. He went back inside and bought some boxed wine. He left, then he went in yet again. He picked up another box, thought for a second, picturing Kolia’s yellow face, then put it back. “I’ll just make her some fish and get out of there,” he thought. When he showed up at Kolia’s place, his cousin was running around the apartment in a short light dress, trying to clean the place up. Mark noticed the striking resemblance between her and her mom—dark hair, bright clothes. Happy to see her cousin, she hugged him giddily for quite a while. She smelled like children’s shampoo. Then she tossed the fish into the kitchen sink to defrost and told Mark it’d be ready soon.

  “I’ll whip something up in no time. I just gotta figure out what’s edible around here and what we should steer clear of, you never can tell with Uncle Kolia.”

  She rooted around in the fridge for a while, fishing out chunky bags of milk, hard as set cement, pieces of meat the color of dirty shoes, and jars of dubious preserves that looked like witches’ seasonings, tossing it all in the trash can, poking around in the kitchen drawers, standing on a chair to reach something on the top shelf, and calling Mark over so she could pass him some sugar, honey, and sea salt. He walked across the kitchen and gawked at her from below—in his eyes, the light filled up with sea salt, and what he saw brought tears to his eyes. Nastia loaded him up with sauces and preserves, rummaged around in the kitchen a bit more, plopped everything down on the table, and tried making some sense of what she’d pulled out of Uncle Kolia’s hoard. Mark came out of his daze and started taking the kitchen knives away from her.

  “Run along now. Go read some comic books or something while I get dinner ready. Then I’ve gotta get back to the shop.”

  “Do you even know how to cook?” Nastia asked.

  “Yeah, but not very well,” Mark answered, thinking back to when he mixed up some wallpaper paste for his buddy at the shop and nearly burned the whole building down.

  “I’ll teach ya,” Nastia suggested, taking everything out of Mark’s hands again. “It’s pretty straightforward. It’s all about the spices.”

  She took out the fish and vegetables, herbs, some dark-­red powders and crushed roots, mixing and mashing, mincing and sifting, then tossing everything into a large pot that soon started boiling and taking on colors Mark had never seen before. He stood behind her, thinking about Kolia, remembering what his uncle had said about trust, and trying to figure out what he meant by it. He was unsure of how to act around his cousin, and he considered just leaving, but the thought of Kolia made him stay put. To keep his mind off his uncle, he asked Nastia where she’d learned to cook so well, which turned out to be a long, involved story. Nastia grew up in a seaside town, between the factory and the port, where she lived in the workers’ dormitory with her mom. Nastia didn’t have a dad, so the neighbors would take care of her whenever her mom rushed off to work.

  “Our neighbors were real witches,” Nastia said. They taught her how to use all kinds of dubious seasonings to make food that was nutritious . . . but not always edible. She remembered countless flavors and smells both fair and foul, fowl hanging dead in the kitchen, and the cold basement inhabited by slugs and packed with autumn vegetables. One time the neighbors accidentally locked her in that basement. She sat there until her mom came home in the evening.

  “Ever since then, I haven’t been afraid of the dark, not one bit.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark, either,” Mark said, thinking back to the time when he wound up spending the night in this apartment. Kolia had set up a pull-­out bed in the hallway and lain down on his sofa, struggling to fall asleep, tossing and turning, muttering and waking up when it squeaked like an accordion. Mark listened to the racket Kolia was making, timing the intervals between his screams; then he suddenly dozed off. He woke up, lifted his head, and immediately saw Kolia, who was standing in the kitchen by the window, stark naked, staring intensely into the black and lemon night. The moonlight made his skin green and his skull shiny. His breathing was heavy and predatory. He stood there, unmoving. Then he turned around and headed back to his room in the dark, not paying any attention to Mark. His heavy, wary steps squeaked on the hardwood floor like the first snow under the paws of a zombie hunting for prey.

  Nastia poured her concoction into two bowls, went into the next room, took a seat on the rug, and set her food down. Mark followed her, carrying the box of wine. It blew up in his hands when he tried to open it—wine was everywhere, sousing the rug, seeping through its thick surface, touching its lines, and ruining the symmetry of its patterns. Mark came running back with some napkins and practically started licking the damn thing clean, but Nastia stopped him.

  “Relax. I’ll get the stain out later. I know an ancient Indian secret for cleaning synthetic Chinese rugs.”

  “Is that right?” Mark asked incredulously. “How’d you learn that?”

  “A lot of foreigners would stay at our dorm—mostly sailors and amber merchants. They even taught me how to read. I learned Esperanto first, actually. Russian came later. Do you know Esperanto?” she asked, fixing her hair and straightening out her dress.

  “Yeah, but not very well,” Mark answered.

  Then he thought back to when Kolia had to settle a dispute with some Poles the family was doing business with, which meant Mark had to conduct lengthy negotiations with them by telephone, in English. Kolia was touting him as their in-­house interpreter, even though he didn’t speak it all that well, and the Poles spoke it even worse. Mark could hardly understand them, and what he did get didn’t please Kolia one bit. He stood next to his nephew, glaring at him, his expression cold and detached, constantly asking him questions, getting frustrated, which made Mark panic, so he understood even less. Finally, Kolia grabbed the receiver from Mark, gave him a real piece of his mind, and proceeded to negotiate with the Poles himself. He showed Mark the phone bill afterward, as though it were a list of the sins he had committed as a child. “It’s all about trust,” Mark thought. “Duh.”

  They seemed to have forgotten about their meal—Mark was just sitting there, remembering all the troubles he’d known in his life, thinking about the times he’d been too heedless, about when he’d trusted people, and about how hardly anyone trusted him, which made him feel even more troubled and unsettled. “She really does look like her mom . . . and my mom, too,” he thought. “All the women in our family are alike—they talk so much that you can’t get a word in edgewise. Then they think you’re not listening to them.” Nastia had curious eyes and a tender face, just like his mom. She dressed lightly, too, seemingly unafraid of drafts and unfazed by the cold, and she could find the right words just as quickly and enunciate them just as loudly and clearly, too. “I wonder what her dad was like,” he thought.

  Nastia got pensive and sad—her cousin was sitting on the bloody rug, immersed in his own thoughts and paying no attention to her. Or at least he was acting like it. She told him another story.

  “I was really young when I fell in love for the first time. Everybody in my city falls in love really young, especially the women. He was about ten years older than me, just like you.” She touched Mark, but he didn’t pay any attention to that either, he just hunched his shoulders. “That’s why it didn’t pan out. I was very upset. I started thinking this was my punishment for falling in love so young. Long story short, I just up and got braces.”

  “How come?” Mark asked, confused. “Is she for real?” he thought to himself. “Trust.”

  “To repent,” Nastia explained. “So I wouldn’t be tempted to kiss anyone. I didn’t kiss anyone for two years. Two whole years. Well, that was until I took those things off. But once I too
k them off . . . ,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “What?”

  “Now I kiss everyone,” Nastia answered.

  “Everyone?”

  “Yep, everyone.”

  At that point, Mark finally realized what she was getting at. “Trust,” he thought, and kissed his cousin. He was really going for it, but he had no idea what was compelling him to do such odd things. He hadn’t forgotten, not for one second, whose apartment this was and whose rug he’d just soused with wine. He hadn’t forgotten, not for one minute, Kolia’s heavy gaze and dry voice; he remembered where Kolia hid his knives and sharpeners, his threatening voice over the phone, his gray-­brown face swelling up with anger, the veins bulging in his neck, his hoarse breath, the smoke and fire billowing out of his wide nostrils. He remembered, he was scared, but he couldn’t help himself. Meanwhile, Nastia couldn’t quite figure out what had gotten into him. She liked how clumsily he was kissing her, and how he smelled, but as soon as he touched her dress, as soon as he crossed the line, she slapped his hand warmly, tenderly pushing him away, emitting a short, admonishing shriek, and Mark tumbled back, but he immediately recalled all the blood and wine that had been spilled in this building, all the ashes and golden sand that had been flushed down its toilets, all the deaths and insults its walls remembered, and he touched her face once again, caught her hands, deprived her of her clothing. Nastia laughed and resisted; she was saying something, and he even answered her, without really processing her questions. At one point, she even started to regret that she’d gotten her braces taken off, because he was so persistent, this older cousin of hers, with all his fear and trust. She grabbed his short, fair hair, pulled his head back, and looked him straight in the eye. Then he pushed her hand away again and muttered something to distract her while he shifted closer. She let him do just about everything, not stopping him, seemingly waiting for some signal. When that signal that only she could hear rang out, her elbows dug into the rug and her whole body arched as she slipped out of his arms and scurried away into the darkness. Mark caught his breath, calmed himself down, and then went for her again. That went on for a few hours, until she finally ran out of patience, and he hastily laid her down, unresisting, on the synthetic Chinese rug.

  “What will I say to him? How will I be able to look him in the eye? He’ll figure everything out as soon as he sees me. I won’t even have to admit anything. He’ll rip my throat out,” Mark thought, “or break my legs—one at a time—or stomp my ribs in, or scalp me, or gouge my eyes out and leave me to beg for alms in the streets. I’ll sit there on the warm asphalt with my McDonald’s cup, asking for spare change, but he’ll take it all from me at the end of the day and dump it into his capacious pockets. But first he’ll tell his sisters—Zina and my mom—and they’ll finish me off, doing what he wouldn’t dare do—they’ll deprive me of my manhood. Literally. They’ll cut my private parts off with a pair of garden shears. What’s my mom supposed to say to this? What does my mom usually say in these kinds of situations?” Mark thought for a bit but couldn’t come up with anything. Well, he couldn’t recall any situations quite like this one. Clearly, his mom would side with her niece, try to calm and console her. They’d sit there on Kolia’s rug, trying to figure out what to do with Mark first—hang him in the hallway or quarter him in the kitchen. “Well, it’s my own fault. I got myself into this mess; nobody made me drink with her on the rug, nobody made me listen to her stories, and nobody made me . . . well, come in her,” Mark thought. He was holding Kolia’s breakfast; he looked exhausted, his gaze was weary, and he had a few fresh scratches on his neck.

  Kolia received him gloomily, nodded wordlessly as he snatched his breakfast, looked at the fish Nastia had prepared, clearly suspicious, and sniffed the herbs mistrustfully.

  “Fish? She knows I can’t have fish.”

  Something had clearly gone down. Kolia had apparently been showing the other patients who was boss—the gentleman promptly brought him and Mark two teabags, the factory worker passed him his heating wand, and the headphones guy turned toward the wall submissively. Kolia sat on his bed, looking at something behind Mark, so he could neither meet his eyes, nor look away.

  “Markster,” Kolia said, starting to put the pressure on, “children are not always born out of love. Sometimes their coming into this world is random and unplanned. Then their lives are full of hardship and adventure—but mostly just hardship.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Mark thought in a panic. “Has he really figured everything out already? Why isn’t he stomping my ribs in yet?”

  “Hey sleepyhead, what’s the deal?” Kolia asked, finally looking at him.

  “I was up all night,” Mark explained.

  “Well, obviously you were up all night if you’re sleepy,” Kolia said. “How come you were up all night?”

  “I had some work to do.”

  “Good, I’m glad you’re keeping busy.”

  What was he talking about? Mark could feel himself starting to sweat profusely. What was he hinting at? As soon as Kolia reached for his food, Mark tried to wipe off those first beads of sweat dripping down his face in one swift motion before they could betray him, but Kolia lifted his head lightning-­fast. He saw everything. Mark felt blood rushing up toward his throat, then even higher. He sat there in front of the dark and heavy Kolia, sweating bullets and blushing deeply. All he could do was keep sitting there, not knowing what to do with his hands or how to conceal the scratches on his neck. Kolia, gaze still fixed on him, rooted around in the bag, took out the fried fish, and started gnawing on it wordlessly, without even looking down. Sauce clung to the edges of his mouth and green flakes of garnish stuck to his chin; his eyes were all bleary and his face had swollen up. “He can’t eat fish,” Mark thought. “Maybe I can’t either.”

  “How’s your mom?” Kolia asked, chewing. He chewed slowly and methodically, the way conspirators chew up codebooks to confound their enemies.

  “Fine,” Mark answered reluctantly. He was absolutely convinced that he’d already been exposed and sentenced.

  “Fine?” Kolia asked incredulously, continuing to masticate the fish with his yellow incisors. “Tell her to give me a call.”

  Mark nodded.

  “The women in our family have always known how to make good fish,” Kolia said, scrutinizing his nephew. He spoke quietly, but Mark had no doubt that everyone in the ward could hear him—even the headphones guy. “Fish takes time. The women in our family have always had time. Nobody has ever pressured them. I’ve never pressured them. I’d advise you never to pressure them either.”

  “I didn’t.” Mark’s answer said more than he meant it to.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, then.” Kolia tossed the rest of the fish back into the bag, had Mark hold it, took a towel out from under his pillow, carefully wiped his face, took the bag from Mark, and stuck it under his blanket. “There’s no need to pressure people,” he continued. “There’s no need to lie either.”

  “I’d better get going,” Mark answered. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  Nastia was waiting for him, sitting barefoot on the steps. When he came over toward her, she got up, turned around, and disappeared behind the apartment door. Mark hurried after her.

  She awoke in the middle of the night, moved his arm away gently, so as not to wake him, got up, opened the suitcase on the floor of Kolia’s bedroom, found some pills, and took them with a sip of wine. Mark woke up and touched her skin. Nastia shuddered, but calmed down quickly; she turned toward him. Lying on his stomach, he rested his chin on her lap, considering her suitcase, reaching out to touch her things. “It’s all up to us,” he thought. “We can make it happen, if we want. I can’t change anything now. This is how it’s gonna be.” He took out some books and started leafing through them. They were chemistry textbooks and detective novels. They typically use poisons in detective stories, so they’re basically chemistry
textbooks too. He picked up pieces of clothing she had worn, feeling how coarse the fabric was. Nastia didn’t object. Then he picked up an icon. It depicted a female saint. With a dark face and bright clothes.

  “Who is she?” Mark asked.

  “Saint Sarah,” Nastia said.

  “What kind of name is that? Was she Jewish?”

  “Uh-­uh, she was Egyptian,” Nastia answered, from out of the darkness. “She saved a boat with some important people on it.”

  “So what do you have her for?”

  “I got her at camp. Ages ago. When I was a kid, I mean. My mom would send me to a Catholic camp.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she had to send me somewhere for the summer. She wouldn’t keep me in town, she was afraid I’d run away. We didn’t have the money for a regular camp, so Mom let the Catholics deal with me, and they gave me Sarah as a going-­away present. You see that writing at the top?”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Well, besides all the stuff about Jesus and the church hierarchy, it says that the greatest danger is hidden in rivers . . . but the most reliable protection is down there, too, because rivers separate friend from foe and partition light from darkness; they protect us from immediate threats and unexpected turns of events. All you have to do is hug the shore and be ready to administer first aid when you’re out there on the water. Can you swim?”

  “Yeah, but not very well.” Mark didn’t want to think about the time he and Kolia took their fishing nets out to the reservoir and he tumbled into the black rift of the water. Kolia had to fish him out and resuscitate him with alcohol, cursing him up and down all the while.

  “I worked as a lifeguard for a bit,” Nastia said, seemingly picking up on Mark’s train of thought. “I administered first aid.”

  “To who?”