Mesopotamia Page 15

  “The people I saved.”

  The next morning she patched up the knee of his jeans, fed him breakfast, and rubbed some kind of solution on his scratches, the old ones and the fresh ones she’d given him the previous night.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Mark answered, feeling fire entering his skin.

  “Yeah, whatever you say. There’s no need to lie.”

  Peering out of his third-­story window, Kolia caught a glimpse of Mark—it was like he was waiting for him. Mark gathered his thoughts and then entered the hospital. He ran into a patient in the hallway; there was something curious about him. He was standing by the doors tensely, thinking about something. It looked as if he’d run away from someone, but he could no longer remember who exactly. Some interns latched onto him, some elderly visitors bumped into him, and some mistrustful patients in their ragged gowns sidestepped him. He was holding a white suit jacket in one hand and a big paper bag in the other. He saw Mark and promptly stopped him.

  “Got any smokes?” he asked. His voice was weary, yet unyielding.

  “Nah,” Mark answered. They stood there for a bit, looking at each other.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You got this,” the patient said finally.

  Mark thanked him.

  Once again, he could tell that something had gone down in the ward—the headphones guy had disappeared, leaving only an unmade bed in his wake, and the gentleman was hastily tossing his things into some black bags, refusing to engage with anyone. Kolia eyed him with disgust, and the factory worker eyed Kolia with caution. Mark laid out some yogurt and milk in front of Kolia, but he didn’t even look at them, immediately pursuing a harsh line of questioning—What’s going on in the city? Do you have any news? How’s your mom? How’s work? He asked if the boss had been riding him, if he wanted to quit, and what he was planning on doing with his life if he did.

  “Why don’t you want to quit? You always have to be thinking about these kinds of things,” Kolia said. “Life can really wear ya down. We’ve gotta have each other’s backs, we’re all one big family—aren’t we? In our family, the men have always run the business together,” he said through gritted teeth. “Nobody’s ever even thought about bailing, you got that, Markster?” He didn’t ask about Nastia, but Mark could sense that it was her he wanted to know about more than anyone else.

  “Well, that’s fine,” Mark thought, deciding he had nothing to worry about. “He won’t do anything to me—he doesn’t have the guts.” Kolia continued questioning his nephew, looking him straight in the eye, until Mark, brimming with hatred and anger, couldn’t take it anymore—he met his eyes and studied him. Kolia looked right back at him, trying to extinguish the fire in his eyes, all of his dark weight bearing down on the kid, but Mark didn’t buckle under the pressure, he stayed strong and kept resisting. At some point, Kolia started drifting, looking somewhere behind Mark’s shoulders, barking something at the factory worker, and changing the subject to his antibiotics. Mark sat there facing him, pressing his palms against his knees; this was a Kolia he had never seen before, his skin yellowed like an old photograph, his gaze extinguished—he was old and crooked, hapless and broken, stale and uncertain, sick and hungry. Mark was even starting to pity him. “But why the fuck should I?” he thought.

  “What kind of meds are they giving you?” he asked. Kolia thought for a bit, evaluated the situation, and spoke in a calm and conciliatory tone.

  “They’re giving me the right kind, Markster. It’s just that treating me is like taking a guy down off the gallows and trying to patch him up—he’s not gonna be in the best shape, there’s a limit to how far therapy will get you. How’ve you been holding up?” he asked, squinting.

  “I’ve been feeling all right,” Mark said, without giving his answer much thought.

  “What’s with the marks on your neck?” Kolia asked casually.

  “I cut myself . . . shaving.”

  “I see,” Kolia said, nodding. “Do you shave every day now? Don’t go slitting your throat. It’s a good idea to have somebody around who can administer first aid. What if there was nobody there to help?”

  Kolia’s cold, wolflike eyes fixed on him once again. Mark got up, said a curt goodbye, and promised to give everybody Kolia’s regards. Standing at the intersection, he could feel his eyes on him.

  “What could he possibly know about business?” Mark griped that evening in Kolia’s bathtub. “He can’t even open a new vegetable stand.”

  Nastia sat on the edge of the tub in her gym shorts and a tight-­fitting top, holding some dry towels, smiling and listening to her cousin.

  “He can do anything he puts his mind to,” she objected. “He just got taken for a ride.”

  “He just can’t do anything at all! He can’t even play cards.”

  “Everyone knows how to play cards. Even I do.”

  “Yeah, sure you do.”

  “Wanna play?” Nastia got up, tossed him a towel, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Mark wrapped the towel around his body and left the bathroom, leaving wet tracks behind him. Nastia sat down on the rug, deck of cards in hand. “Well, now I know exactly what to do,” Mark thought, remembering how ridiculous Kolia acted whenever he played.

  “All right, let’s go,” Nastia said, smiling.

  He lost three times. He was furious. Then he lost again, ripped the whole deck up, and went over to the kitchen. Nastia waited for a bit, then followed him out of the room.

  “Hey, Mark, don’t be so angry. You never had a chance anyway. I know all the tricks. I trained at the circus.”

  “For real?” he asked, turning toward her, thinking that might give him sufficient grounds to accept his defeat.

  “Yep,” Nastia assured him. “By the way, I know some other tricks, too. I can read navigational charts, just like Saint Sarah.”

  Lying next to her, distinguishing her every movement in the dark, Mark thought about how his mom slept the same way—pieces of clothing scattered around the bed, the alarm clock wound to a cold ring, the whole world forgotten. There she lay, not regretting a thing, not lamenting a thing, leaving all those tormenting nighttime thoughts to restless neurotics like Mark. He sifted through all the words he’d heard over those past three nights with Nastia, all her stories and promises. He made some calculations, tried to develop a plan, found some unexpected arguments in his defense, and searched for some level-­headed answers. In the morning, the planets aligned—it’s all up to us; our hearts dictate everything. No despair, no fear, and no excuses.

  Through the sleepy reverberations and morning turbulence, he felt that there was suddenly more light, and someone’s breath, muted and hostile, growing and growing until it filled and ruptured the morning void.

  “Mark!” He hopped up, flipped over in the air like a cat, landed on his knees, sprang to his feet, slammed into the alarm clock that hadn’t gone off, stepped on a plate of leftover pasta, knocked over some wine, spilling it all over the bedsheets, bumped into Nastia’s suitcase, sending her maxi pads flying, and grabbed a pillow to cover at least some part of his body.

  “Mark, you son of a bitch!” Kolia was an ominous figure in the doorway, wearing rumpled white pants and a yellow cycling shirt, his olive black skin pumped full of antibiotics and poisons.

  His shout woke Nastia up, and she poked her head out from under the sheets. Recognizing her, Kolia froze, surging forward in rage, leaving his bags of hospital things by the door. Mark’s reflexes were fast enough, but just barely—that bought him a split second, long enough to regroup, turn around, and tear through black hallways and dusty rooms toward the kitchen, with death at his heels. Kolia hopped over the suitcase, slipped on the pasta, banged into the wall, and then went flying in the other direction. Mark was stomping barefoot across the hardwood floor in the kitchen. Kolia got up and ran over to the closet—for his shotgun, what else? Mark ripped off the makeshift velvet curtain and tried opening the
window, to no avail. Kolia had fallen behind, but not for long. He was going to catch up and start stomping Mark’s ribs in. Mark retreated slightly, but there were heavy, frantic footsteps behind him. Mark looked back and saw Kolia feverishly stuffing shells into his Izhevsk over-­under, intoxicated by the hunt. Mark hopped onto the sill and rammed his knee through the window. The glass shattered like ice in March. He jumped forward, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “He won’t do anything to me,” he assured himself as he ran down the street. “He doesn’t have the guts.”

  Mark spent the day at the shop, nursing his knee, lying on the couch, and listening to the voices coming in from the street. He looked at the furniture scattered around, touched the old wood, and took in the smell of aging. “Most of the people who owned these things left a long time ago,” he thought. “Something drove them out of this city, compelled them to leave their homes behind, pass through the fortress walls, get across the river, and dissolve into space. What was it that led them to that decision? Maybe it was all their misfortunes and failures. Maybe it was their need to be understood. Or their inability to endure the city’s climate—clouds and rain blanket the sky half the year and its black flames scorch you for the other half. Some bolted after inner peace. Some wanted to rid themselves of it. The voice of faith beckoned some. Others fled, sensing danger. Why didn’t they stay?” Mark thought. “What were they lacking? Inner peace? Confidence? Love?” Mark imagined how long it had taken them to reach that decision, how many setbacks they’d faced, and how much disillusionment their souls had imbibed. Some of them could only gather the strength slowly, and the process was especially painful for them, while others ventured out swiftly and effortlessly. Some people couldn’t admit to themselves for the longest time that they were indeed ready—ready to give up everything they’d accumulated over the years and willing to move forward, beyond the river, into the darkness, among strangers. They had to make tons of arrangements, set all kinds of things up, find secondhand dealers and movers, say goodbye to their friends and relatives, take only the essentials, and shed everything superfluous. Furniture was superfluous. You don’t set out in search of a better life with your own furniture. You leave it here to molder and die. Maybe I could flee and move forward. Maybe I could just bolt too, start anew, find my place in life, and claim my own territory. I might wind up in the big cities, live among the other refugees, look for my big break, test fate, and bounce around from place to place, forging on toward a blessed land where the sun will never set, where the raindrops will spare my house, and where the earth will be soft and the bread sweet. Of course I could,” Mark thought. “But what about everything I’d have to forgo? What about Mom? What about Kolia? I don’t like the idea of staying behind with them, but I like the idea of taking them along even less. What’s more important?” Mark thought. “Finding a new place for yourself or leaving the old one behind? It’s a good thing we always have a choice, that it’s always up to us.”

  Nastia came by in the early evening. She was wearing a long, colorful, ankle-­length dress and a see-­through shirt. She was trying to act serious, though she couldn’t quite pull it off. She saw Mark’s swollen, bloody knee and got started on treating it. He took it like a man for a while, then he erupted with a scream. Then Nastia lay on top of him, as though taking cover from the evening heat, lying there and comforting Mark, lying there, piecing him back together, not letting him break down into hot chunks of clay. Mark was quieting down gradually and had even started to doze off when she spoke.

  “Come with me. Leave everything and come with me.”

  “What am I supposed to do when we get there?”

  “You could do just about anything. I can teach you to cook, if ya want. I can get you a job at the port, if ya want. I can have your kid.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep, or I could not have a kid. I can interrupt my pregnancy. I can start it up again. I can put spells on spiders and scorpions. I can forge signatures.”

  “Well, I definitely won’t be needing that.”

  “We’ll live at my place. You’ll help me take care of my grandpa.”

  “Since when do you have a grandpa?”

  “It’s a long story. He’s really old. My mom wanted to put him in a home, but I felt sorry for him, so I started looking after him. He drools a lot when he talks. But he says some wise things that are worth listening to. So, whaddya say?”

  “Nah,” Mark said after thinking for a bit, “you’d better move in here. And bring your grandpa with you, too.”

  “Whatever you say,” Nastia answered calmly. “It’s your call.”

  She left in the morning, trying not to wake him up. She did, though. Kolia came by in the early afternoon. He brought oranges. He sat there in silence for a while, clearly wanting to ask something, but then deciding against it. Finally, he suggested Mark start working with him. Mark thought for a bit and then agreed.

  YURA

  The deceased looked even worse in death than he had in life—gray hair, sunken eyes, pointy nose, sharp wrinkles on his sour face. His Adam’s apple had protruded, his fingers had elongated, and his nails had turned blue. He had been silent for two days, apart from occasional coughing fits that would rip his chest apart from the inside. Then even the coughing was gone. He lay there, breathing slowly, like a fish that had been caught but not yet soused with cooking oil. His heart stopped shortly after noon. The young guy crossed the room, bent over the deceased, and examined him with great interest. One could have thought that he was studying the patterns on his hospital gown.

  “Why don’t ya take out a magnifying glass while you’re at it?” Yura suggested.

  “Why don’t you?” The young guy got all offended. “What should we do?” he asked. “He’s gonna start decomposing.”

  “He’s just skin and bones. There’s nothing there to decompose. Just leave him,” Yura answered.

  Yura figured that whoever told the doctor about the deceased would have to help carry him out, so he opened a National Geographic from last year that someone had brought him, and stumbled upon a piece on the fauna of Mesopotamia. “Mesopotamia . . . what’s that? Something to do with water. Something made out of stones and sand,” he thought. The fauna of Mesopotamia was hardly having a bad time of it, according to the article, at least. Most of the livestock belonged to the monasteries; the locals sacrificed animals to express their appreciation to the gods for the bounty they bestowed and pay off their debt to heaven. The word debt made Yura anxious, so he put the magazine off to the side. Dozing off, facing the wall, he heard the young guy shuffling around the room, circling the deceased. We gravitate toward death—especially someone else’s.

  He woke up in the early evening and peered out the window. Dark trees, early twilight, the beginning of July. The young guy was sitting on the next bed over, his eyes fixed on the corpse.

  “Are we actually gonna sleep in the same room with it?” he asked, seeing that Yura had woken up.

  “Sleep in the hallway then,” he suggested.

  But the young guy just shrugged his shoulders, clearly spooked. The young guy’s name was Sania. He wasn’t all that young, as a matter of fact—about twenty or so—he just looked inexperienced, especially compared to those who’d already died here. He was scrawny, yet fit, constantly biting his nails, making his fingers pink and raw. He had long black hair and a fractured shinbone—a soccer injury. When he got to the hospital, the doctors suggested a full examination, as per standard procedure, and an X-­ray revealed that something was up with his lungs. Sania said it was all the stress that had worn him down. He’d been receiving treatment full time for about a month now, but he couldn’t get used to the clinic. His mom would come to visit him. His friends on the soccer team would send their regards. This was apparently his first inpatient care experience. He was scared of dead people. Now here he sat in his soccer shorts and red T-­shirt, veins standing out in his forehead from the tension, probably imagining what he’d dream about tonigh
t. Yura couldn’t take it anymore, so he threw a shirt on, stepped out into the hallway, and found the doctor. He had hit it off with the doctor right away, partially because the doctor didn’t like any of the other patients here either. Who would like all those goners, constantly trying to spit out their pills and sneak alcohol into the wards? Yura nodded; the doctor rose to his feet laboriously and stepped out of his office. He was proper and rather friendly, yet much too lethargic for a man his age. He mostly kept company with the patients, and he could have easily passed for one of them, if not for his snow-­white coat and the thin, gold-­framed glasses resting on his pudgy face.

  “Well, where am I supposed to put him?” the doctor said, stepping into the ward, sliding his chubby hands into his coat pockets, and nodding at the deceased. “It’s only till tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we should carry him out into the hallway?” the young guy suggested timidly.

  “Oh, great—then we’ll have people stepping on him all night. All right, lights out.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” Yura said, bumming a cigarette from one of the goners in the hallway and slipping out the back door. He took a seat on the edge of the fountain and found the lighter he’d stashed there. July nights are so short you can hardly finish your cigarette.

  The fountain was in the middle of a large open area between buildings, across from the main entrance of the TB clinic. It was littered with last year’s leaves and cigarette butts. There wasn’t any water in it—never had been. The yellow building poked through the trees; the windows on the first floor were dark. Yellow blots of light ran down from the second floor, where the wards were, treacherously offering asylum to moths, only to snatch them out of the night’s hands. The goners were getting ready for bed. Yura wanted to stay there, out in the night, but he stubbed out his cigarette and headed back inside. The young guy had waited up for him, and he tried to strike up a conversation, but Yura blew him off and plopped down, right on top of the National Geographic. Offended, the young guy hid under his blanket, casting despairing glances at the corpse, and Yura thought that the deceased’s soul might be lying right beside it. There they lie, all cramped, like a married couple that didn’t spring for a double bed.