Mesopotamia Page 18

  “He’s fine. They’re going to start taking in the harvest soon. He’s all worried.”

  “I can imagine. What else is there to worry about in the sticks?”

  “When’s the last time I talked to a woman like that, especially at night?” he thought to himself, sitting there, carefully shifting the sleeping Alla’s legs into his lap. “I guess it must have been with taxi dispatchers. But sitting next to a woman, rubbing her feet, stroking her calves to warm her up—I couldn’t tell you the last time I did that.” He sat there, his head resting up against the wall. She’d conked out quickly, holding his hand for a bit and then letting it go; he’d risen to his feet and walked over to the window, glanced at the neighborhood—quiet and empty—faintly illuminated by the streetlights, and then come back to find her already sound asleep. He sat down carefully, leaning back against the wall. Her hand pushed through a dream and grabbed his, then released it again. For some reason, Yura thought of that one especially long and harsh winter, when all they had left in the kitchen was black tea and there was no use thinking about anything else, so they didn’t. Life felt easy and endless; he was so young—his bones weren’t so brittle and his heart wasn’t so threadbare. Alyona took their financial woes in stride.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said. “You’ll be making money once you start filling arenas. We’ve got time.”

  They bounced around for weeks on end, sleeping on friends’ floors and drinking on rooftops in the winter. “Those were our glory days,” Yura thought. Everything came so easy when they were first getting started, and only their thoughtlessness and carelessness kept them from shaking the big, wide world down for everything that rightfully belonged to them. “We should have beaten and squeezed every last penny out of life, we really should have,” Yura thought regretfully.

  Who knew that everything would change so hopelessly and pass by so quickly? Alyona came down with pneumonia in early March; she was out of commission for a while. They ran out of money quickly and had no way to get more. They didn’t have any medicine at home. They ran out of food, too. All the friends they’d been gallivanting around town with night and day had disappeared, evaporating into the icy, lilac twilight. Alyona started feeling even worse; she couldn’t get out of bed for a few days, lying there, buried under all the blankets and jackets they had in the apartment. He sat next to her, holding her hand, like he was doing now in the staff room, holding on and feeling her body temperature rising, heat roaming around under her skin, flames scorching her from the inside. She wasn’t griping about it, though; she merely asked him to keep holding her and not let her go. He kept holding her, never letting her go, up until the second she got better. Where did all of that go? How could all of that be forgotten? How could all of that be lost? He thought back to the last time he’d seen her—a few years ago, when he gave her a present to pass on to their little Mashka. Then he regretted the whole silly idea—her black, drained eyes, exhaustion and desperation, vulnerable, exposed neck, and icy fingers. No earrings or watch. Nothing to talk about, nothing to ask about. The weakness we harbor inside ourselves, the weakness that we cling to, kills us. It devours us from the inside like a virus—it keeps us from making the right decisions, from sticking by our loved ones—it makes us feel doomed, although we aren’t really. Yura could feel himself dozing off. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have to kick the door in” went the thought that capped off his day.

  They had to lock the doors overnight at the warehouses where they slept, to fend off the drafts and stray dogs. Packs of them were keeping watch outside, hiding in the frosty mist of the railroad yard, scurrying down the sidings, heads held high, howling into the cold Bucharest sky. Winter came early that year; hoarfrost lay on the wires and apple branches. Bonfires heated up the warehouses quickly. They burned cardboard from the train station or hay found in freight trains. Their animals stood, still and obedient, day in and day out, waiting for their food. The horses were spooked by the nighttime howling of the dogs, seemingly anticipating their death, which might come at any moment. Every morning, the local government would send them delegations from various churches or members of Parliament; acrobats and hypnotists would emerge from the warehouses and bargain with them at great length. But no command was ever given to send the circus troupe back home, so they kept guarding their props and grazing their tame beasts, occasionally launching brazen raids on food storehouses in the suburbs, stealing crops out of the fields, and returning to their warehouses with fresh provisions for themselves and their animals. They slept, curled up between lions and foxes, quenched their thirst with chicken blood, and made animal sacrifices, entreating the heavens to send them blessings and good weather. The locals resisted as best they could, desperately trying to protect their emporia and household treasures. Finally, given the sheer volume of written complaints—some anonymous and some signed collectively by the workers of local enterprises—the management of the train station put their necks on the line for the circus, allocating them a few economy-­class sleeper cars. Shortly before Christmas, they loaded up the animals and their requisitioned goods and the train headed east. The cars were laden with women’s fur coats and Turkish carpets, crates of oranges and glossy synthetic coats from East Germany—a real find! The worst thing was that the animals kept multiplying, causing a serious discrepancy between their actual and documented population; the border guards grew anxious, railroad workers scattered back to their homes, and people shut the gates of their roadside towns, as if the plague were coming. Eventually, they were let through. They traveled for ages, traversing the Carpathian Mountains, getting delayed at small stations in Eastern Galicia for weeks at a time, exchanging their East German coats for sheep’s milk cheese, and stubbornly pushing forward, homeward, to a place where nobody was waiting for them any longer.

  Lying on a top bunk in the train, wrapped in a carpet, feeling birds’ wings rustling and snakes’ wise hissing, occasionally picking eggs out of nests and soothing the troubled sheep, playing cards with the trapeze artists and catching cheerful macaques as they raced between the cars, Valera could only think about one thing—he had to get back, return to the city that was waiting for him, nestled between the two rivers, up in the hills, open to the sky, buried under blue snow. You have to go back because there’s no happiness on the road or common ground among outlanders. Everything falls into place at home: the timing is good, and everything feels right. You always have to return, otherwise what was the point of venturing away in the first place? Everything rests between the rivers and everything—­everyone’s stories and loves—starts here. The sojourner’s alcohol fire trickled from lung to lung, leaving indelible marks, flashing and disappearing, vowing to return someday and serve as a constant ­reminder.

  In the morning, Yura came back to the ward and packed his things, nodding at the young guy, as if to say, “Let’s go have a chat.” He was reluctant to step outside; they stood by the window.

  “Hey,” Yura started, “I’m getting out of here, and I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us.”

  “What do you mean you’re getting out of here? You haven’t finished your treatment.”

  “I’ll finish it somehow,” Yura assured him. “Don’t be goin’ berserk in here, all right?”

  “Whatever you say,” the young guy assured him right back. “It was my own fault. I just snapped.”

  “When are they putting you back on the roster?”

  “There’s no roster to be on. The sponsor disbanded the team and sank all his dough into some hotel.”

  “Gotcha.” Yura didn’t know what else to say. “What now?”

  “Don’t know,” the young guy said. “I’ll finish up school . . . well, maybe.”

  “Sounds good. My old man’s still riding me about not finishing school. I can’t blame him, either. Why don’t you write down my number? Call me up if you need a studio.”

  “Will do,” the young guy reassured him yet again.

  Yura quickly made a d
eal with the doctor, who obviously had misgivings, saying that was just not how things were done around here, that they were breaking the rules, that it would be unsafe and detrimental to his health. “All right, fine,” he conceded. “But I won’t be held responsible. Just make sure you come back for your pills.”

  He caught Alla in the hallway. They stepped outside, turned the corner, and found a sports bar. There were a few Arabs sitting there, watching replays of yesterday’s soccer game. The bartender was talking with someone. A waitress came over—boyish haircut, attentive gaze. Yura asked her to turn it down a little. The Arabs protested, but the waitress coldly told them to give it a rest. Yura sent a thank you at her back; she turned around and nodded faintly, seemingly expressing her support.

  “Why don’t I give you my number?” Yura said.

  “Okay,” Alla consented quickly.

  He took her cell and punched in his number, just in case.

  “Will you call me?”

  “I will.”

  “Are you sure you won’t forget?”

  “I won’t.”

  “All right, looking forward to it.”

  While he was gone, the food in his kitchen had gone bad, even the canned stuff, and his flowers had dried out, neither of which was much of a loss. Yura milled around his apartment, turned on the electric kettle, took a shower, walked from room to room wrapped in a towel, leaving wet tracks on the linoleum, passing the mirror, and glancing at it—a veiny, battered, and scarred body, sparse hair, busted-­up nose, resilient boxer’s chin. He’d gotten pretty skinny, but not dangerously so. Missing finger on his left hand—the reason he quit playing guitar. Burns on his right leg. Dry, chapped skin. An angry, self-­assured gaze. Same old, same old. Not much had changed over the past twenty years. He thought of Alla, took out his phone, turned it on, and started waiting. It rang five minutes later. Black Devil’s number popped up on the screen. Yura hesitated for a split second, then jerked it up to his ear.

  “Hello,” he said.

  THOMAS

  Everybody needs a good job, but nobody likes employers. Everybody hates paying taxes, but the first guy who actually suggests evading them gets put in jail. So what can liberate us? Well, maybe faith can liberate us, but that’s about it. More often than not, religion is precisely what brings atheists together. Generally speaking, it’s speculators and socialists who feed off of religion, so all the rest of us can do is pray. And make sure we balance our books. Thomas had those thoughts whenever he was struggling to set up meetings with potential clients, talking to them forever and waiting for them just as long. “What’s the point of setting up a meeting in the first place?” he thought, disgruntled. “What’s the point of checking and rechecking addresses, making sure my watch is accurate, and getting all anxious? Nobody shows up on time, nobody wants to pick up their feet, nobody keeps their word. Business is a crapshoot, you work for money then your money works for you, and we’re all abandoned and lonely in this world—everybody needs love, everybody needs attention, and everybody needs a good job.”

  Thomas ran a small chain of mobile coffee stands (those brightly colored gas vans parked outside university campuses all over the country), managed poorly trained employees (students attending those same universities, who parked themselves at the controls of the gas chambers and sold brown poison in little cups), worked hard, and couldn’t stand freeloaders. “There’s so much work to be done in the world,” he would say to his staff. “How can you just not have a job?” He had seriously high turnover. He didn’t even have time to learn his subordinates’ names. Nameless, they disappeared.

  This time his clients suggested meeting at a restaurant. Over the phone they said it was nice and cozy, and that it’d be empty in the morning. Thomas knew the place they were talking about; it was two blocks from his apartment. He’d occasionally drive by that shady joint and see the owner walking down the street in his pink kimono and talking on his little girly cellphone. “Well, all right,” he thought. “That place’ll do.” He arrived well in advance and parked, only to find that the restaurant was closed, and it wouldn’t be open for two more hours. Thomas called his clients.

  “Oof, is that right, it’s not open yet?” they asked, surprised. “Well, wait for us somewhere around there. We’re running a bit late, but we’ll be there soon.”

  Thomas took stock of his surroundings. Empty street. Sunny July. There was a sports bar next door. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he thought. He’d been there a few times, he knew the owners and the bartender. One of the owners was doing some time for first-­degree murder (he ran over his brother-­in-­law, but claimed it was an accident—first he hit him right outside his house, then he supposedly went back to administer first aid and wound up backing over him), so the convict’s wife was struggling to keep the lights on at their business and cover all the legal fees. The bar was in a cold basement. Downtown Kharkiv, next to the metro, right on the way to some university buildings, always loads of students around. Painted walls, two plasma TVs. A pirate flag hanging under the sign outside. The patrons were a motley crew—college juniors and seniors who had afternoon classes, so they could bum around in the bar all morning, Arabs who weren’t always allowed into classier establishments on account of how they looked, and a few neighborhood alcoholics who’d mosey on over in time for the second half of the evening’s soccer match, since paying bar prices for two halves’ worth of drinks would impose an unacceptably heavy financial burden. The bartender’s name was Anton; he served drinks, waited tables, and called the police if things got out of hand. Thomas would say hello, and he’d always just nod in response. A man of few words who never seemed to be in a hurry, he kept track of everything, meticulous when he added up tabs and genteel when he handled the alcoholics. He had a weird fashion sense, though, sporting orange shirts with green jeans, or white dress shirts with short shorts, or ripped sweaters with striped pants. Oh yeah, and he wore earrings in both ears, rarely shaved, and almost never smiled. The customers thought the bartender was a fag. The bartender held the same opinion of them.

  Thomas came in and said hello to Anton, who just nodded in response, as usual. “Damn,” Thomas thought. “He always greets me like he was hoping to see someone else.” The bar was hopping, though it wasn’t even noon yet. The Arabs were huddled around the plasma screen in the corner. They apparently didn’t have enough money to fly home for their summer vacation, so they’d decided to spend their days down here in the basement. They were watching a replay of yesterday’s match, sizing Thomas up: tall, slouched, dressed in an inexpensive yet neat suit and a sloppy tie—what he lacked in skill he made up for in determination—with a new cell and an old, spring-­wound watch. They went back to their game. Thomas was glued to the screen, too, until he realized that he’d already seen this game, and he knew how it would go. He walked over to Anton and started chatting with him. A girl—long legs, dark jeans, white blouse, boyish haircut, nails painted black—popped out of the kitchen, greeted Thomas like they were old friends, took some glasses of juice out of Anton’s hands, and brought them over to the couple sitting by the door. Thomas’s gaze followed her and then settled on the couple. The man was anxious; it seemed like he was itching to smoke, but he couldn’t light up inside. He took a cellphone out of the woman’s hands and started entering something—slowly—he was missing a finger on one hand. The woman sitting across from him was anxious, too. Finger-­wise, she was good to go, though. The girl brought them their juice and was about to turn around when the man sitting at the table clasped her arm gently and said a few words. She nodded, picked up the remote from the next table over, and turned down the volume on the TV. The Arabs squawked anxiously, but she responded briefly, silencing them instantly. “Man, she really showed them!” Thomas thought.

  “What’s her deal?” he asked.

  “She’s a waitress,” Anton answered reluctantly. ‘“Her name’s Olia. First week on the job. I just can’t keep up by myself.”

  His clients ca
lled back again and asked where he was.

  “In a bar, watching soccer.”

  “What’s the score?” his clients asked.

  “The final score or the score right now?”

  “We’re stuck right before the bridge. How do we get to the bar?”

  Thomas started explaining, but then Olia came over.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said to Thomas. “They’re doin’ road work over there. Tell ’em to turn left before the avenue, up there in the hills, and then right. Gimme the phone,” she said, taking it out of Thomas’s hands. She explained everything quickly, rattled off a few street names, listed a few landmarks—some stores they would be driving by, the school, the army recruiting office—gave the phone back, went over to the Arabs, and spoke to them at length about something or other. The Arabs looked concerned, but they didn’t act up. Her calm demeanor surprised Thomas; when he thought of waitresses, he thought of drama. The Arabs seemed to really be berating her for something, but as soon as her hand grazed one of their shoulders, they turned mute immediately. She leaned toward another one of them to ask a question, and he started objecting and making excuses. Without even realizing it, the others started observing them closely, their attentive glances leaving hot trails in the air behind them, striking sparks against the ozone layer as they studied her face, catching her movements and listening intently to her insults.

  The clients called back about fifteen minutes later.

  “We’re gonna have to take a raincheck,” they said. “There was a pileup on the bridge and now they’re waiting for the cops.” They apologized and asked for an update on the score. Thomas said goodbye to Anton, then waited for Olia to come over, in the hope of saying something to her, but he got all flustered and tongue-­tied, so all he could manage to do was extend his hand like this was the beginning of a business meeting. She started laughing and shook it, and he, unable to contain himself, hugged her in a slightly awkward yet exceedingly friendly manner, his hand softly gliding down her back but not exceeding the bounds of propriety. Thomas was beyond flustered when it turned out that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her blouse. He scrambled outside, found his Fiat, sat down in the driver’s seat, waited for a bit, and then dialed Anton’s number.