Mesopotamia Read online

  Once they were outside, she persuaded him, with considerable difficulty, that this wasn’t the time for a scenic drive through the countryside. “All right, fine, but where are those waitresses of yours?” he asked. Their first stop was across the street, a place run by Turks, where he trudged through an endless love song, teaming up on the karaoke machine with some blubbery, mustached, glistening old woman, and then trying to tip one of the customers. All the patrons at this establishment were Turks, so figuring out who was an employee and who was a customer wasn’t too easy. Then Olia dragged him from one shady establishment to another. They popped into all the burrows and basements she could possibly think of—paid the Arabs a visit, of course, stopped by the Vietnamese joint, naturally, became best buddies with the guys who worked at the McDonald’s (they were used to this kind of thing by now), enjoyed a few rounds, arms intertwined, with the staff of the TB clinic, tried to order some champagne at Health, the local sauna, though their efforts were thwarted, reminisced about their respective childhoods in a dark basement across from the synagogue, and looked for escorts at a family restaurant where they were cleaning up the aftermath of a children’s birthday party—he spilled a milkshake on his lap and kept trying to scrub the stains out with herbal liqueur. He asked for written directions at the pizzeria, and caught some cognac fumes back at the Georgian joint, because every other place was closed by then. They had live music, and he performed some Irish folk dances, getting in the waiters’ way and driving her into a joyful frenzy.

  Sometime after midnight, they wound up in front of his apartment building, and he said, firmly, or at least that’s how it sounded to him, “You’re not going anywhere. You have to stay with me. That’s how it’s gonna be.” He made a convincing case, so she didn’t even bother objecting.

  “Okay. If that’s how it’s gonna be, then go ahead and show me the way, because I’m beat. I’ve been lugging you around all night.”

  He turned around and walked ahead, derailed by the July darkness and listening to the whispers in his own head. He kept talking and talking, so she wouldn’t lose him in the night and drop back too far, so she’d gravitate toward his voice, moving along and sticking by him. He said that he wanted to see all her boyfriends’ girlfriends, duke it out with the boxers, and trounce some valets. He said that he’d have a talk with her girlfriends and figure out who they slept with and what promises they made before doing so. He said that he knew everything there was to know about boyish haircuts, black dye, and drained teachers, implied that you couldn’t hide anything from him about her attitude and behavior, stated that he absolutely had to kiss her shop teacher and drink with her homeroom teacher, dropped menacing hints about blood flowing too close by, questioned the veracity of her countless stories, and wrapped things up by holding forth about precious suitcases in other people’s houses, demanding that they be brought to him without delay—he just couldn’t give it a rest with those suitcases, discoursing on them with laughter and anxiety. He went on and on, thinking, “Just don’t look back. Just don’t stop talking. She’ll gravitate toward my laughter as long as I keep walking and talking; she’ll be forced to listen as long as I have something to say. She’ll get to the end, she’ll hear me out, and she’ll stay with me tonight. After all, she has to know how this is gonna go; she has to wait for this night’s culmination. Just keep talking and don’t stop.” He strode powerfully—more or less—over to his apartment building (gotta give him that!), flung the door open, stepped into the darkness with a sufficiently carefree air about him, ascended the steps laboriously, fiddled with his keys slowly, and didn’t turn on the light (he was thinking ahead!); speaking and not looking back, passed down the hallway, kicked off his shoes, walked to his room, peeled off his shirt, and plopped down onto the bed.

  She waited outside for a little bit. Once she’d heard the door of his apartment squeak shut, she exhaled and left.

  He woke up early, in his own bed. He was surprised to discover a McDonald’s flier in his pocket. Herbal liqueurs had seeped through his skin and there were blots of dried soy sauce on his shirt. Somebody called him from work and said their clients wanted to have a meeting. He thought for a bit and decided it’d be best to reschedule. Then he thought a little more and decided against rescheduling anything, but he took one look at his shirt and reconsidered yet again.

  Olia started texting him in the afternoon, when he had begun to feel better.

  “What was that stuff about suitcases?” she asked. “How are you hangin’ in there? You didn’t mug anyone, did you?”

  “Don’t think so,” he answered. “But I couldn’t tell you, honestly.”

  “You were scaring me with all that talk about suitcases,” she texted. “I was sitting on a terrace wrapped in grapevines talking of music and astronomy with my girlfriends, observing the birds, and struggling to fall asleep. Not even rum could do the trick.”

  “Her life is so interesting and mysterious,” he thought, as he slowly recovered from the previous night. “So many unexpected and mystifying things happen to her every night. What kind of life does she lead? Who are her friends? How many of them does she have? She probably gets along just great with them; they love her and they always have something to talk about. They reminisce about their travels and adventures, wild parties and nights of lovemaking, seacoasts and the damp underground passageways of the city. They talk of love and betrayal, show off their new jewelry, and tell each other of their latest triumphs; their pockets are stuffed with cash and train tickets—they’re always willing to skip town and dissolve into space, bursting toward the sun and escaping their fatigue and melancholy. I’d just die to have all of that,” he thought bitterly. “I’d just die to have a chance to live like she does, easy, uninhibited, and inventive—I’d just die to not depend on anyone, indulge my every desire, experience real love, real passion, know that everything in my life is up to me. What have I seen in my life? Have I ever been in mortal danger? Have I? Have I ever been madly in love? Have I? I’ve never even slept with a waitress before. There was the restaurant owner’s daughter, sure, but I’ve never slept with any waitresses, ever!”

  The restaurant owner’s daughter was his first wife. It just kinda worked out that way—they met at somebody’s wedding, then went to somebody’s wake together, celebrated somebody’s birthday, and rang in the New Year in somebody’s apartment. They slept together somewhere along the way and just kind of got used to each other. She suggested they get married, and he went along with it. Her dad gave him a Volkswagen as a wedding gift. Honestly, he’d rather have just taken the Volkswagen. It’s a shame that he had to give it back after they got divorced.

  The next day, he dragged Olia out to the countryside in the late afternoon. He talked to her about his job and told her some funny stories from his past, cracking himself up in the process. It was around eight when she asked him to take her home. Over the weekend, he invited her to his place. She turned him down, suggesting they just meet and chat somewhere in town. Once again, he told her some stories, trying to get her to loosen up. She’d make offhand comments, not always understanding what he was trying to say, but listening courteously. The next week was a busy one—he’d get off work a little after nine and call her up; she’d say that she couldn’t meet that night because she was going out, staying with a girlfriend, or having some people over. They agreed to meet on Friday. They met. He kept blabbing about something or another, explaining what he thought were simple things in a convoluted manner, made some passionate reassurances, and kept stubbornly repeating himself.

  “All right, fine,” she conceded. “Let’s go to your place. You can show me your suitcase collection.”

  She abstained from drinking, so he had no idea what to do. She asked him about his work; he started talking but quickly realized how sad he sounded.

  “I shouldn’t have dragged her here,” he thought, growing more anxious. “I look like an idiot. And I’m acting like an idiot, too.” Feverish thoughts raced past hi
m—what tricks do I have up my sleeve? What should I suggest to get her out of here? Where should I take her to kill some time? Olia walked over to his bookshelf and picked up an adventure book.

  “Do you have any kids?”

  “Kids?” he repeated, surprised. “Nah, no kids for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dunno,” he said, getting even more flustered. “Nobody wanted to have kids with me, and I never gave it much thought myself. That’s just kinda how it went. You’re probably asking because of the books. They’re mine, from when I was a kid. I’ve been meaning to throw them out, but my mom asked me to keep them. It wasn’t too easy to get your hands on good books in the Soviet days.”

  “I know. Our elders read those books. That’s for the best, don’t you think? Boys should get used to bad literature when they’re young, because that’s precisely what teaches them how to be real men, be the top dog.”

  She took a book off the shelf and sat down on the floor, holding it. He sat down next to her.

  “I was hung up on that as a kid,” Olia said. “I thought, ‘Huh, they all seem to be reading the same books. Maybe it’s not just a coincidence, maybe there are a lot of important things I just won’t get unless I read them too.’ But I read all of them and I still didn’t get it. But then later on, as I interacted with them, watched them mature, came into close contact with them, fell in love with them, I always saw things that seemed to come straight out of those books—­something in their conversations, their behavior, and the dumb things they did. There aren’t that many things that bring us together.”

  “Yeah, true. There really aren’t,” he said. “Even the books we all read don’t always bring us together. You know, as a kid I never had any friends. I’d hang out with the kids my parents wanted me to hang out with. We had nothing to talk about when we were alone in my room. We’d sit there, staring at the fish in my aquarium. No books could bring us together.”

  “You know, I . . . ,” she started talking about fish. And about other animals she and her friends would find out on the street and bring home. And about their parents who’d toss all those dogs, hedgehogs, and reed cats back out on the street, causing their children such distress that they would break down and cry. And about her older brothers and sisters who left home and started making their way in the world. And about how she wanted to be like them, how the rhythm and inner workings of their lives, their journey to independence, fascinated her. And about her girlfriends’ personal problems, her guy friends’ real, manly problems, complex relationships within families, and the convoluted structure of love triangles. By then, it was already past 3 a.m.; Thomas was hanging in there the best he could, but as soon as she started talking about those triangles, he took the book out of her hands without a word and started peeling her T-­shirt off, still not saying anything. She was surprised and tried to get up, but he held her arms and pulled her toward him.

  “What’s all this? No, just don’t,” she said. But that merely riled him up even more. “Just don’t stop,” he thought once again, seizing her shirt. She tried objecting again, gently pushing him back, but when the fabric of her shirt ripped in his hand she erupted and kneed him right in the groin. Thomas emitted a shriek of despair and crashed to the floor. She crawled back, breathing heavily, fixing her boyish hair, and gradually regaining her composure. He eventually composed himself, too, lying on the ground and lacking the resolve to get up.

  “How you doing over there?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Fine,” Thomas said, still not getting up.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard,” she assured him.

  “No biggie. It happens,” he answered, nursing his injury.

  “Well, I’m gonna get going, all right?”

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  “I’ll walk,” she assured him. “Get well soon,” she added, obviously referring to her own handiwork.

  He waved energetically, as if to say, “I’m good to go, it could’ve been worse.” As she was leaving he turned toward her and asked,

  “You remember how you texted me about music and astronomy?”

  “Astronomy? What about it?”

  “I don’t know. Just something about astronomy—and rum, and birds.”

  “You’re making stuff up now,” she said, laughing heartily. “All right, get better. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He waited after he woke up in the morning. He waited after he got to the office. Then he couldn’t take it anymore and dialed her number. She didn’t answer. He called a half-­hour later, then started texting her, then called once more. Now a bundle of nerves, he decided to stop by the bar to have a chat. Lacking the resolve to get out of his car, he called Anton first.

  “I’ll be right out,” he said.

  He came out five minutes later, walked over to the passenger-­side door, took a seat without shutting it, and glanced at the pirate flag as though he was concerned that somebody would slip out of the front door unnoticed.

  “She didn’t show up today,” Anton said, not even looking at Thomas. “I think she and her brother are butting heads again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Anton said, after a short pause. “She has a brother. He’s a real prick. They have different moms but the same dad. He used to live somewhere up north, and then he came back about five years ago, when her folks died. You know, the older brother watching over her, blood relatives . . . all that jazz. He’s always on her case. Everybody was telling him all sorts of stuff about her, so now he’s not letting her out of the apartment. Was she at your place last night?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Thomas lacked the resolve to deny it.

  “Uh . . . well, he might not let her out anymore.”

  “She’s not a kid.” Thomas was stunned at this turn of events.

  “You should see this guy. He has cuts and scabs and scars all over, from head to toe. And he doesn’t have a single hair on his body, not even on his head.”

  “Did you sleep with him or something?” Thomas snapped.

  “I slept with her.”

  “Huh?”

  “You really don’t get it, do you? I slept with her. Just so you know, I like her. I don’t give a flying fuck that she used to be a prostitute. Half of my old classmates are prostitutes now and the other half are jealous of them. I started chasing after her back in high school. I even started working out to get her attention.”

  “I know she likes boxers.”

  “What do boxers have to do with it?” Anton asked, agitated. “Her brother likes boxers. Whatever, what am I even telling you this for? I’ve always had a thing for her. Then just when things are finally getting going, her brother comes back.”

  “And?”

  “And he broke my nose. Look here.” Anton turned, his face now in profile. “Even the bridge is busted up.”

  Anton had clearly shaved that morning, but he might have been in a rush, or maybe he just wasn’t used to doing it that carefully—there were cuts on his neck and stubble faded into his jaw line. The collar of his stale shirt wasn’t starchy, and the earring Thomas could see had become darker over the course of time. Right now, what he wanted more than anything in the world was to hide out behind the bar and not let anyone in. “He can do that when I’m good and ready,” Thomas thought resentfully.

  “Do you have his number?” he asked.

  “Why would I?”

  “Do you know where he could be?”

  “Maybe,” Anton answered, reluctantly. “At his place, his garage, over on the other side of the river,” he said, pointing down the hill. “You know those garages?”

  “Yep.”

  “He has a repair shop there. The one with the dog skull nailed to the wall—that’s his place. But do you really need the hassle?”

  Thomas didn’t answer. Anton waited a bit. Someone’s head poked out of the bar—fearful eyes, unkempt hair, dark skin. Anton bolted, nodding goodbye and
disappearing inside. Thomas left his car parked there, descended the hill, crossed a bridge, passed a factory fence, and stepped into a maze of garages, laid out in rows like storage units.

  Clay, there was so much clay, it looked as though they were getting ready to burn something on a bonfire, as though nothing ever grew here and the dead came here at night to quench their thirst by imbibing dry, thick lumps of clay. Black tires, half-­buried in the ground along the road, an unending white brick wall blanketed with Bible quotes—the clay gave way under his feet, and the scorching sun shone overhead, newspapers and dead cats lay in the grass, and the smell of hell and river water hung in the air. A rusty gate arm blocked the entrance, and the security guard’s booth stood off to the side—broken glass, pocket calendars, random pamphlets, a taped-­together length of hose, the door wide open, and black blood that had eaten into the cement floor. The security guard wasn’t there. Thomas hesitated, then peered inside the booth. The security guard smoked terrible cigarettes and didn’t bother stepping outside to do it. He probably couldn’t wash the smell of tobacco out of his clothes. A path made of crushed asphalt ran up ahead; rows of white brick garages stretched out to the left and right. Thomas thought for a second, then hung a left, walking past metal doors and glancing at heavy padlocks lining the sides of the path. Scrap metal was lying by the walls here and there; some startled birds flew by overhead. There was nobody around, and eerie silence prevailed. Thomas sped to the end of a long straightaway, ran up against a brick barrier, turned right, reached the next row of garages, noticed a side alley, and turned down it. He got to the end and turned right again. The garages stretched out ahead of him, without end and without hope. “Where is everybody?” he thought. “There has to be somebody around here.” He stopped and listened hard. Little lizards were scurrying through the charred grass, swallows were rustling under slate roofs, the wind was blaring, whipping through the frames of the metal doors, as if it were alerting the drowsy city that unseen enemies were approaching. A flash of color blazed by somewhere far up ahead. Thomas darted forward, realizing that it was somebody in a colorful shirt whipping around the corner. Thomas ran to that corner, barreled out into the next row, and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s back as he walked quickly past the garages, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and gray pants, his bare feet in sandals. He appeared to be holding some heavy metal object. Thomas was nearly at ease and was thinking about chasing down the stranger; however, the man suddenly ducked into a side passageway, so Thomas dashed forward, in a panicky frenzy once again. He ran, turned, reached a narrow tunnel, sprinted down it, high walls on each side of him, pounding the crushed bricks beneath him with his polished dress shoes and stomping on empty cigarette packs and used condoms. The man wasn’t getting any closer; somehow, he managed to stay ahead, his shirt flickering in and out of view and his feet knocking stones flying. No matter how much Thomas accelerated, the gap between them wasn’t closing. Finally, Thomas decided to go for it, and yelled: