Voroshilovgrad Read online

  “Hey,” the punk said, eager to get at Tamara. “Give us your phones.”

  Tamara let out a frightened squeal.

  “Take it easy,” I said, intercepting his hand. “She doesn’t have a phone on her.”

  “You lookin’ for trouble, tough guy?”

  “Are you?” I asked, sticking my hand in my pocket and grasping the electric scissors.

  The punk could see I had something in there. He decided not to risk it.

  “Fine, whatever you say. What about you? You got a phone on you?”

  “You wanna search me?” I asked him.

  “Fuck that. I don’t need your shit,” the punk replied. “Vlad!” he yelled over to the chubby guy, “all clear over here.”

  “Well then,” Vlad replied. “Shall we?”

  He gave Seva’s cell to the punk and took the lead. We followed him, leaving the Volga empty and open out in the middle of those black, well-trodden pits. I started walking, thinking to myself, “Phone, please don’t ring, please, don’t ring.” The dog sniffed each wheel, his fur soaking up the October sun.

  We passed the garages, went around the combines, and found ourselves next to a big cinder-block warehouse. There were a few more farmers hanging around by the door. Seeing us, they all started talking at the same time.

  “Well Vlad, you’ve got some hostages?” shouted one of them, tall and bald and wearing a long leather jacket.

  “Let’s lock them up in the garage—the rats will have a feast,” suggested another farmer, short and wearing glasses and a heavy, leather cap, domed on top and with a visor; it made him look like a sunflower.

  “What about just burying them out in the cornfields,” a third farmer, wearing a leather jacket and some crappy jeans, chimed in.

  “All right, all right,” said Vlad, who was evidently the voice of reason around here. “Is Kotovsky in?”

  “Yep,” went the lanky guy.

  “How’s he been doing?” Vlad asked warily.

  “Fuckin’ shitty,” the sunflower guy answered.

  “He’s been hurting,” the crappy jeans guy confirmed.

  “Well, we’re gonna go see him anyway,” Vlad said, shoving them aside and opening up the doors to let us in.

  This was clearly their headquarters. The wallpaper was nailed on, but it was drooping down or peeling off like in many places, like flags lowed to half-mast to mark some tragedy. Up against the walls were long benches covered in old rugs and goatskins, and there were more farmers sitting or lying on them, as though they were anticipating something, hoping to hear some good news. Winter clothes such as pea coats and furs were heaped in a corner. A small window let in too little light, and the room was full of the harsh yellow hum of electricity. By the far wall, across from the door we’d come in, there was a desk cluttered with papers and disposable dishware. A guy with sharp, unshaven features and a strange, contorted smile was sitting behind it. He had a leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders and a knockoff Armani sweater underneath. Other farmers, one of them wearing an artificial leather jacket and the other a heavy leather police officer’s hat, hovered over him. There was no way he could be a cop, though, because his fists were colored with blue prison tattoos. When he saw us, the guy’s face contorted even more. Vlad ordered us to stand by the door and headed over to the desk. The farmers were watching us from every direction, just in case we tried to pull anything.

  “Kotovsky,” Vlad said, fiddling with the rod as he spoke. “We caught them down by the garages. They say they were on their way home from church. They’re Shtundists. They were coming from over by the border.”

  Kotovsky looked at us apathetically.

  “Grisha,” he said, “you see what these Shtundists are up to? We gotta take ’em out.”

  “No fuckin’ way, Grisha,” the man in the artificial leather jacket disagreed. “We’ll get busted. Let’s take them over to the garage and keep them there for a bit. Maybe then they’ll start talking.”

  “Start talking about what?” the tattooed guy asked. “What do you want them to tell you? We gotta take them out and torch their car.”

  “Grisha,” the man in the jacket continued stubbornly, “why the fuck should we go around torching cars? You guys are a bunch of fuckin’ clowns. Let’s keep them in the garage until tomorrow, and see if they start talking then.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” the tattooed man insisted.

  “I’m telling you,” the man in the artificial leather jacket insisted just as strongly.

  “Listen,” the presbyter tried interjecting, taking a step forward before a farmer grabbed him by the collar, as if to say, “Don’t interrupt when farmers are talking business.”

  “Kotovsky,” the rod man volunteered, “We gotta do something. Soon enough their friends are gonna go looking for them, and they’ll definitely be coming by our place.”

  “All we gotta do is take them out,” the tattooed guy said, clenching his fists, making the ink on his fingers stand out even more.

  Kotovsky sighed heavily. The guy in the artificial leather jacket, knowing what was going on, opened up one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle. The edge of Kotovsky’s mouth grazed the bottle, and he attempted to pour some vodka down his gullet through a funnel. The alcohol started trickling down his face, however, and none of it seemed to go down his throat. After another sigh, Kotovsky kicked back in his swivel chair, giving the bottle back to the man in the jacket.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the presbyter asked Vlad.

  “He’s hurting,” he answered coldly. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Paralysis?”

  “You’re paralysis!” Vlad said, in a schoolyard-comeback tone. “They busted up his jaw. Can’t you see that? We had a run-in with your Shtundist clan over by the border. Someone thumped him real good with the butt of a sawed-off.”

  “I even know who it was,” I thought.

  “Give me a sec,” the presbyter said, and took off for the desk once again. The farmers tried holding him back, but the presbyter fended them off: “Hold your horses!” he barked. He outmaneuvered Vlad, who looked dumbfounded, easily pushed past the tattooed guy, and leaned over Kotovsky, who stared up at the presbyter with a doomed expression on his face but maintained his tough façade.

  Seeing this, the farmers on the benches all stood up, gravitated toward the desk, and readied themselves to rip the presbyter to shreds if he dared harm a hair on their dear Kotovsky’s head. Vlad wanted to pull the presbyter back, but Kotovsky raised his hand and Vlad stopped, keeping his rod at the ready.

  The presbyter put one hand on Kotovsky’s head, leaned in, and touched his busted jaw delicately with the other. Kotovsky trembled slightly. Vlad seemed to be trembling along with him.

  “Does this hurt?” the presbyter asked Kotovsky. The latter moaned faintly. “The thing is,” the presbyter continued, “people don’t even know what their bodies are capable of. We consider the body a fixed entity—something given to us at birth that we can’t change. Consequently, we view any ailment as some sort of irreversible disaster that takes away the most important thing in our lives—harmony with oneself. However, the body is an instrument in the Lord’s hands. The Lord calls forth magnificent sounds by pressing invisible keys. Like this.” The presbyter pushed hard on Kotovsky’s jaw, which clicked and fell into place. Kotovsky didn’t know what hit him.

  The presbyter stepped aside and took a self-satisfied look at his handiwork. Kotovsky touched his jaw sheepishly, opened his mouth, and started inhaling greedily. Absolutely mesmerized, the farmers’ glances shifted back and forth between the presbyter and Kotovsky.

  “Listen,” the presbyter said, giving them no time to come to their senses, “I wanted to say something to you.” He turned toward us. “You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

  “Father,” Seva replied, dumbfounded. “What about you?”

  “I’ll catch up, don’t you worry,” the presbyter repeated, more assertively. “Go back to the car.
”

  I made for the door. The punk, standing behind me, peered at Kotovsky inquisitively, but the latter nodded apathetically, as if to say, “Whatever. Let them go. Quit it with all the tough-guy shit.” Leading Tamara out with me, I went back into the open air. Seva followed us. As we were leaving I noticed the farmers forming a tight circle around the presbyter. I would have darted back inside, but the presbyter was watching us leave, calmly and graciously, encouraging us to keep going. The punk squeezed through the doorway with us. Flustered and irritated, he didn’t bother answering the other farmers’ questions as he led us back to the Volga.

  The sun had set on the other side of the garages, its harsh, farewell glare reflected in the moat of black fuel oil around us. We walked over to the car. Seva popped open the hood and started taking stock of the damage as Tamara took a seat in the back. I flopped onto my seat too. The punk was standing next to Seva, evidently not knowing what to do with himself anymore.

  “Are you sure they aren’t going to do anything bad to him in there?” Tamara asked quietly.

  “Don’t you worry,” I said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Thanks for sticking up for me,” she continued. “I was so scared.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The punk came over to Seva and started poking around under the hood as well. I took out Tamara’s phone while he was otherwise occupied. I flipped it open and found the last number dialed. I hit the green button, and it began to ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Injured, it’s me. Can you hear me?” I was trying to keep quiet so the punk wouldn’t catch on.

  “Herman,” Injured said. “Speak up.”

  “I can’t talk any louder. What’s going on back at the station?”

  “Herman,” Injured shouted, “they came around looking for you this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. They weren’t the police, I can tell you that. They were in civilian clothes. They came by in the morning and were asking tons of questions.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said that you’d gone to see your brother, and I didn’t know when you’d be getting back.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “They said they’d come by again, and that they really needed to talk to you. Then they drove down into town, Herman.”

  “So what should I do now?”

  “Stay away from the station. I think they’ll be coming back soon. It’d be better for you to go someplace a few more days. Lay low until it all blows over.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Dammit Herman, you can go anywhere you damn well please!” Injured snapped. And then, “Okay, okay. Sorry. When are you supposed to be getting back?”

  “Don’t know. Late tonight sometime.”

  “Give me a call when you’re getting close,” Injured said. “Get them to drop you off by the tracks and walk over to the train station. I’ll be there waiting for you. I’ll bring you your dough and your passport.”

  “Thanks, Injured.”

  “Don’t mention it.” And his voice clicked off.

  “What was that all about?” Tamara asked.

  “Just some problems at work,” I said.

  Time seemed to be dragging on, as though catching on all the garage roofs and agricultural machinery on its way past. It was already dark, and the air was brisk. I was almost nodding off when I saw the dog, wagging his loyal tail, run out from behind one of the nearby structures. Behind him came the presbyter, taking powerful strides behind the animal, and after him a pack of farmers followed. The presbyter reached the car and waved to everyone. “Let’s go!” Seva said cheerfully. One of the farmers came over and gave him back the car keys. The farmers all looked a bit confused, actually—shifting from foot to foot, coughing awkwardly, not saying anything.

  Seva slammed the hood shut and walked up to the punk.

  “My cell,” he said decisively.

  The punk was getting a bit flustered.

  “Gimme my cell,” Seva repeated.

  The punk cast a sweeping glance at his friends. Failing to rally any kind of support, he took Seva’s cell phone out of his pocket sheepishly. Seva took back his property, got behind the wheel, started the car up, and put the pedal to the metal, taking a victory lap around the farmers before rolling out of their greasy settlement.

  Once we were in the clear and the cornstalks were rattling against the sides of the car again, I leaned in toward the presbyter.

  “You doing all right?” I asked.

  “Yep, everything’s just fine,” he answered cheerfully.

  “What were you guys talking about for so long?”

  “Ah, nothing really,” he said lightly. “About the roads we must walk. About the divine providence that guides us along our journey. But mostly we talked about the latest agricultural reforms.”

  “Nah, for real—what were you actually talking about?”

  “Herman, your time will come—you will find the answers you seek,” the presbyter told me, taking a Zippo lighter out of one pocket and a clean handkerchief out of the other. He wrapped the lighter carefully and tucked it away into his pocket.

  Then he dozed off as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  The air was as black and stony as anthracite coal. Our headlights flushed the road with thick, golden rays; foxes were running out of the fields, their eyes giving out a brief, frightened twinkle before fading dejectedly away. As for Seva’s eyes, he kept them fixed on the crumbling road, and the presbyter was still snoozing peacefully in the front seat next to him. Gradually, I felt Tamara’s hand slide up my leg. I looked at it—Tamara’s hand, I mean—but she turned away and started staring intently out the window. It was as if she wasn’t even in the car, as if she wasn’t the one riding along with us, as if it wasn’t her hand moving resolutely to undo my belt and buttons, to slip underneath my T-shirt, as if those weren’t her rings burning my stomach with cold and danger, and as if those weren’t her long, sharp nails touching my skin, scaring and exciting me. I tensed up, though the men in front seemed entirely oblivious. The infamous Tamara, on the other hand, hadn’t forgotten a thing—she remembered all her old tricks, clutching me and inching up my leg, slow and steady. Her hand held me firmly, not letting me exhale or relax at all. It was as though she was afraid I was on the verge of breaking loose and escaping from her. I heard her breathing and felt her hand shaking, either due to fatigue or to the mounting tension. But it kept moving, continuing to perform its mechanical work and pouring all of its energy and tenderness into its task. She still wasn’t looking at me—she was searching for something in the darkness; she saw something out there. She was with me, yet she also somewhere far away; I couldn’t reach her, couldn’t tell her to keep going, to maintain her rhythm no matter what. I wanted to tell her to push on for just a little longer—then she’d be able to rest. But every time I wanted to tell her to keep it up, she’d seem to freeze, as though on purpose: to catch her breath and then let some hot air out of her lungs. Those few seconds were just enough for me to cool off. Then it’d start back up again; she’d have to start all over again, continuing her exhausting act of love. Her rings had warmed up. Now she was moaning almost inaudibly; she turned to me at last, staring at me for what seemed like ages. This was it—this time there was no stopping her, because we had to put an end to all of this. How much longer could we hold out? We had to put an end to this, otherwise we would die from exhaustion and desire. A moment before putting an end to it, after she felt that she’d reached her goal, she laid her hand gently over my mouth, so that nobody would hear me. After that she ran her damp hand along my stomach in a sweet caress, breathing softly. Then she turned back to the window to observe the falling stars that lit up the dry corn.

  3

  To my left I could see the dark wombs of the railroad sheds, pumped with blackness pure as oil. Lampposts sliced through the gloom, filling the air with sparks that
flew in every direction, lighting up the windows and the metal components of the trains. Railroad sidings stretched out to my right, leading to dead ends in grass that was yellow from the diesel and tracks that were black from the smoke. Apartment complexes started a bit farther down—a kingdom of alcoholics and petty crime. I could hear some loud music mixed with dogs barking and locomotives roaring. A train loaded with Donbass coal rolled on by, heading north. The air smelled of rain and wet stones. I put the collar of my jacket up and headed down the tracks, escaping the industrial zone and moving toward where the station’s lights burned in the darkness.

  Injured was sitting in his car parked by the station sleeping soundly, his head cocked back. I hid behind some trees, scampered by, and then hopped in the car. Injured woke up and looked at me with obvious interest.

  “What’s with the getup?” he asked.

  “This suit? It’s Kocha’s.”

  “Get changed,” Injured advised me. “I brought you your stuff,” he said, pointing at the back seat. “Here’s your passport and dough. The Donetsk train will be leaving in an hour. Take the economy-class car—there’ll be more people there.”

  “And where am I going?”

  “Get off at the last stop, I guess. My brother will meet you in Donetsk. Tell him you’ve come to pick up the car. Just lay low this weekend.”

  “Injured, what do I have to hide out for, anyway?”

  “Do you know what they want?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. So it’s time for a little weekend getaway. And hey, I’ll get a little break from you, too.”

  “Where’s Olga?” I asked, ignoring his jab. “Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

  “She doesn’t,” Injured said. “I asked her.”

  “Maybe we should tell Kocha’s relatives?”

  “What could they do? Herman, this is some real serious shit. At least I think it is. People don’t just go around torching gas tankers for kicks, and with one of us in it, no less.”

  “All right then,” I agreed. “I’ll ride in the economy-class car. I’m gonna get changed, okay?”