Voroshilovgrad Page 23

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  Early fall mornings—late stars, golden grass, and the air drying out and hardening like fresh sheets hung out in the frosty air. In the mornings, everyone would be busy with their own work. Hardly anyone would pay any attention to us—they’d pack up their Jeeps like fishermen loading up their boats before heading out into the bountiful eastern waters. Women would come up to the presbyter, whisper some tender words in his ear, and he’d chuckle a bit, giving them printed hymns, pencils and scraps of paper where he’d written his phone number. Seva looked tired—he hadn’t exactly been practicing temperance the night before, despite all the presbyter’s exhortations. Today his entire body seemed to be exuding contrition. Tamara, for her part, anxiously bombarded me with questions: where had I wandered off to, who could I possibly have made friends with out here, why had I let everyone get worried sick about me. I told her that despite having spent the night God knows where with God knows whom, I was thinking about her the whole time. Tamara wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t too happy either. She took a seat in the car and slammed the door, causing flakes of rust to flutter off like snow from a fir tree.

  It was time to go, and the head of the friendly smugglers’ association wanted to see us off. We were all standing by the Volga—Seva was already at the wheel, warming up the engine, when the newlyweds came out of the house and headed over. They were truly glad they had been afforded this last opportunity to thank us for yesterday’s reception. In fact, the groom took out two champagne bottles filled with homemade cognac that he had somehow stuffed into the pockets of his formal wedding pants, placed them on the hood, and tried to convince us to stick around and continue celebrating. I declined his offer, taking a seat next to Tamara. Seva joined this impromptu extension of the party, although he didn’t shut off the engine, because he wanted to preserve the illusion that we were indeed about to part ways any minute now. The presbyter was glad for the delay, since he liked the smugglers’ company—probably because they were attentive listeners and provided him with a constant flow of alcohol. The groom now took a Finnish knife and a few heavy onions from his pockets as well, spread them out between the bottles, and started dicing the ripe vegetables furiously. At one point, he went a little overboard and stabbed the knife into the hood of the Volga. The driver was mesmerized by the groom’s slicing and dicing—he just stood there, not saying a word, taking occasional swigs from one of the bottles of cognac.

  “When are we going to get moving?” Tamara asked wearily.

  “What’s your rush?”

  “Herman, I want to get home already,” she answered with a sigh.

  “We’re going to get moving soon,” I reassured her.

  Then: “How’s life treatin’ you?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Fine,” I said. “How’s it treatin’ you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” she said. “I just wanna know how you’re holding up.”

  “Well, I’m doing just fine, just dandy.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Tamara said, and turned away, toward the window.

  We finally headed out about an hour later.

  Seva got into a grove. He said he knew the way by heart and getting us home would be a snap. The first obstacle was this big hill. It took forever. The Volga kept stalling and rolling back—at which point the locals would surround our clunker and push it till it got going again. Eventually we managed to crawl out of the valley and started bouncing along a dirt road studded with bricks, red and firm like pine roots. Some time later, we stopped.

  “We come out down here, right?” Seva asked us, doubting himself.

  “You sure about that?” I asked. “This doesn’t look right to me.”

  Tamara sighed anxiously; the presbyter waved his hand listlessly, seemingly saying, “It shall be as God wills it. Go wherever your heart desires. If need be, we’ll start gathering the harvest and they’ll find us eventually.” Seva took his advice, listened to his heart, and veered onto another gap in the corn that only faintly resembled a road. He stepped on the gas and we moved into the cornfields, where we lost ourselves. Dry leaves rubbed up against the bumpers, tangled around the windshield wipers, and crept in through the open windows. The cornstalks were crackling grimly. The smell of warm death permeated the fields and found its way into the car. We all flew up in the air when we hit yet another pothole. Tamara’s hand landed on mine, but she pulled it away quickly. Maybe even too quickly. I tried taking it back, but she snatched it away decisively and wiggled as far away from me as she could manage. The journey was long, slow, and hopeless. Typical for a ride through cornfields.

  But we weren’t lost. Seva, perhaps accidently, perhaps intentionally, got us out of the golden thicket, and we found ourselves on the right road. The only problem was that we didn’t know which way to go. We thought for a bit and then turned right, following the sun. Nobody was talking. Tamara’s sighs got more dejected with each passing mile, while the presbyter kept trying to get the radio to work—the problem being that our antenna, out of its depth, was gasping for signal in those rolling hills, like a scuba diver with an empty tank. Seva, seeing the presbyter struggling, leaned toward him to start flipping the dials too. It seemed that he had completely forgotten about the road, only casting an occasional lazy glance at it . . . before, of course, desperately slamming on the brakes, responding to some half-seen movement up ahead. I flew into the front of the car. The presbyter had slid under the seat. Tamara let out a piercing cry somewhere above me. It was Tolik, standing in the middle of the road, his hand bandaged and yesterday’s Milan jacket over his shoulders. He stood there, smiling at us like we were old friends.

  “Hey Herman, you guys asleep at the wheel?” he asked after I’d gone over to talk to him.

  My traveling companions were still in the car—Tamara was crying, pretty shaken up by the near miss, while Seva was characteristically impassive, and the presbyter was whispering some hymns about submariners and pilots to himself.

  “Tolik,” I said, seeing the reflected sun floating across his glass eye, “what are you doing dicking around in the middle of the road? We could have run you over.”

  Tolik merely cackled in reply. He had corn silk stuck in his long hair and his bandaged hand was bleeding.

  “What’s up with your hand?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said nonchalantly. “I was out shooting yesterday, and my piece kicks like a mule, it nicked my hand a little. I came back in the morning, but you were already gone. I taped up my hand and headed out to look for you.”

  “But why?”

  “Herman, the thing is . . . well, let’s just say it’s good that I caught up with you guys. We gotta talk.”

  “You couldn’t have just called?”

  “I don’t have any fuckin’ bars out here,” Tolik said, seeming more and more restless. “You know that!”

  “What’d you wanna talk about?”

  “Your soccer player friend called.”

  “Injured?”

  “Yeah, Injured. He was trying to get hold of you. At first he called her,” Tolik said, nodding in the direction of the car, which I assumed meant Tamara. “You don’t have a fuckin’ phone. Well, and you guys had already left. So, he called me, asking for you.”

  “Couldn’t he wait for me to get home? Did you tell him we’d be back in the evening?”

  “I told him, Herman. He said it’d be best for you not to come back for a few days.”

  “What do you mean ‘not come back’?”

  “I mean, don’t go home without calling him first.”

  “What happened at the station?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Actually, he said you should give him a call. Then he’ll tell you what’s up. Just make sure you call, all right?”

  “All right. You got a phone?”

  “Well, yeah. But, you know, I just don’t have any bars out here. Come over to our place.”

  �
��To your place?” I asked, with a wince. “They’ll gonna start drinking again,” I said, nodding toward the car. “Let’s figure something else out.”

  “You’re the boss. He wants you to call him ASAP. He said you’ve got some problems.”

  “Damn. Where else can you get reception around here?”

  “You can drive over to the farmers’ place,” Tolik said after a second’s thought. “Just don’t tell them you know us.”

  “And where do they live?”

  “Over there,” he pointed out into no-man’s-land, “on top of the hill. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe you can take us there?”

  “You think I’m fuckin’ nuts?” he said, laughing. “Anyway, I’ll see ya.”

  “See ya,” I said, shaking his hand and heading back to the car.

  “Hey,” he called out behind me before I made it more than a few steps. “This for you,” Tolik said, coming up to me and handing me an odd-looking object. “Electric scissors. Top quality, Bosch ones. There’s no warranty on them, though.”

  “Thanks. I don’t need any warranties. I’ll have them blessed instead.”

  “Good idea,” Tolik said, waving to everyone and disappearing into the shifting haze of corn.

  “What was that?” Tamara asked.

  “I don’t really know how to break this to you,” I began, speaking to the presbyter more than her. “Long story short, I’ve got some problems on my hands. I have to make a call.”

  “Okay, go for it,” Tamara said, taking out her pink Nokia.

  “There’s no reception here. That’s part of the problem.”

  “And it can’t wait?” the presbyter asked.

  “It can’t wait, Father,” I assured him.

  “What now?”

  “Let’s head up to the farmers’ place.”

  The presbyter remained silent for a bit, engrossed in his thoughts.

  “Well, all right,” he said finally. “Let’s go if we’re going.”

  We turned around and headed up the hill. The sun rolled out in the opposite direction.

  A deserted and disquieting landscape, churned by tractor wheels—dry, black earth, low-hanging skies spread out like a map of a theater of war, garages facing east like churches and their grated windows facing west, paralyzed combines, and the remains of agricultural equipment, muddy and red as beef. There wasn’t a living soul in sight—no farmers, not a single person. What looked like a jackal but was probably a dog came around the corner of one of the buildings, ran across black earth saturated in fuel oil, sniffing assiduously. Then he quickly darted back, startled by something. He looked around and ran off in the other direction. I figured there must have been someone standing around that corner—somebody who had knocked that jackal-dog off course.

  We pulled into a bumpy, black-smeared lot, and Seva shut off the engine. It was quiet. Spooky. It seemed we’d wound up somewhere we weren’t supposed to go. I held Tamara’s Nokia in my hand and flipped it open. A shape flashed in front of the car, but we couldn’t get a good look at it.

  “Someone’s out there,” Tamara said, frightened.

  “Maybe another dog,” Seva suggested.

  The presbyter, possibly already regretting that he had agreed to take this detour, remained silent. The Nokia reported that there was indeed reception up here. I tried to remember Injured’s number. “But how could you remember it if you never knew it in the first place?” I asked myself. And then, “Look, what are you getting so worked up over, anyway?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw other shadows scurrying from one garage to another. Evidently, Tamara noticed them too.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said quietly.

  “Just give me a sec. Could you dial Injured’s number for me?”

  Somebody was standing behind one of the combines. I could feel eyes on me.

  “Come on already,” Tamara snatched the Nokia out of my hand and started looking for Injured’s number.

  “I just saw someone back there,” the presbyter said, nodding at the rearview window. “Now he’s gone.”

  I checked. Nobody. Except the dog again. He was leaving the area, crossing the lot. He clearly knew better than to come back in our direction.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, leaning toward Tamara.

  “It’s ringing,” she said, apparently relieved. “Here.”

  I reached clumsily for the phone, but wound up knocking it right out of Tamara’s trembling hand. It went down somewhere between our feet. I leaned over to try and fish it back out.

  “Herman,” I heard the presbyter say. His voice had gotten strange.

  Finally finding the cell, I looked up and found everyone staring apprehensively at the rearview mirror. Four men were standing silently behind the car, keeping a close eye on us. I shut the cell phone and stuffed it into my pocket. Tamara squeezed my elbow, gesturing for me to follow her gaze. Three other men, also quiet, also examining us intently—as though trying to read the tiny names etched into the stone marking a mass grave for fallen soldiers—were now standing right in front of the car. The dog too was back after all, hunched over, scowling, behind them. Well, I got the picture. It smelled like we were in some deep shit. Fuel oil, too.

  The farmers looked like a biker gang—beards, dirty looks, and implicit threats. Some of them were decked out in black tracksuits and leather jackets; others were in camo and leather dress shirts. One guy had a red bandana, another was wearing sunglasses, and a third farmer wore a tattered sheepskin coat over his bare chest; yet another, who seemed to occupy a position of prominence, standing out in front, was holding a rusty metal rod, tossing it between his big, meaty hands. After a few moments of this, he suddenly wound up and slammed the rod into the hood of the Volga. Metal rang like church bells on Easter. Seva hopped right out of the car in reply; the presbyter followed him, neither of them even bothering to shut the doors behind them. Tamara yanked firmly at my sleeve, hanging on for dear life.

  “Calm down,” I told her, feeling for her cell phone in my one pocket and the Bosch electric scissors and old screwdriver in the other. “Just calm down.”

  Seva was standing across from three farmers, trying to say something. They were eyes him scornfully, like a pack of predators. They weren’t so much listening to him as waiting for a reason to mash him up and mix him in with the fuel oil.

  Seva eventually managed to stammer out a question to the farmer with the rod:“What do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

  “I do what I want,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather pants.

  “Well, what the fuck are you wrecking my car for?” Seva asked, trying to sound stern.

  “Well, I could wreck you instead,” the farmer answered, stepping forward, his fat belly gradually edging into Seva’s personal space. Two other guys moved to positions on Seva’s left and right.

  “Hold on there for just a second.” the presbyter said, seemingly waking from a trance.

  The three farmers threatening Seva stopped and spared the presbyter a glance.

  “There’s no reason for violence,” he continued in a conciliatory tone. “We were just on our way back from a wedding. I’m the presbyter. We decided to stop by your place to . . .”

  “You’re a presbyter?” the farmer in leather asked. “Where were you coming from?”

  “From over there,” the presbyter said, pointing to the east, “from the border.”

  “There aren’t any churches over there,” the fat guy said, tossing the rod from his right hand to his left.

  “You don’t need a church to get married,” the presbyter replied.

  “You Baptists or something?” the leather one asked.

  “Shtundists,” one of his friends suggested.

  The farmers’ faces got even grimmer.

  “Fine,” said the guy with the rod. “Let’s go have a talk with our agronomist. You’ll tell him all about your church.”

  “Actually,” the presbyter said, still trying to be as diplomatic a
s possible, “we have to get going. We don’t want to keep our friends waiting.”

  “Hey,” the rod man replied, “they can wait a bit. Now you’re going to have a talk with our agronomist. Got it?”

  “All right then,” the presbyter said feebly.

  “Do you have any phones on you?” he asked.

  “Huh?” went Seva, sounding rather dense.

  “Give us your phones,” the rod man barked.

  “You’re not for real, are you?” Seva asked. It was all the resistance he had left in him.

  The farmer’s reply was to grip the rod with both hand and strike Seva with it right in the stomach, folding him up like a lawn chair. The presbyter was about to dash over to help him up, I think, but one of the farmers cut him off. I bolted out of the car to help, and Tamara slid out behind me, but we were immediately surrounded by the four men who had been standing behind the car. A short, young farmer with some sort of punkish Mohawk, wielding this season’s tire iron, was standing closest to us. I stopped, making sure I was between him and Tamara.

  “Give us your phones,” the rod man ordered Seva once again.

  Seva took out his cell and handed it over. One of the farmers hopped in the Volga, took the keys out of the ignition, and put them in his pocket.

  “Now give us your phone,” the farmer said, pressing the rod up against the presbyter’s chest.

  “I don’t have one,” the presbyter replied timidly.

  “How do you keep in touch with your congregation then? And check them, too,” he told the punk, pointing at Tamara and me.