Voroshilovgrad Read online

  The prints dating back to the mid-’60s were dominated by two girls, faintly similar, yet completely different. The older girl had black eyes with a serious and focused expression and wore a peculiar medallion around her neck, while the younger one was always looking off to the side, wearing goofy ribbons in her hair—they made her look funny, yet somehow more feminine—paying no attention whatsoever to the photographer. I immediately recognized Tamara and Tamila. Various adults—men and women and the close family in which they were lucky enough to grow up—were always bunched around the sisters, clustered behind them, off to the side, or up above. Someone seemed to have chronicled every step of the young girls’ lives—preschool (the hideous furniture of Soviet educational institutions, the teacher spilling out of her sun dress, New Year’s decorations, dances, games, and the painful hopelessness of singing in a choir), picnics outside the city (animals and sunflowers, the sun on the lake, and children’s shrieks that had developed along with the pictures themselves), vacationing at the beach with their parents (sun-battered landscapes and color photographs faded like flags left out in the summer heat), school (uniforms fit for prisoners, state holidays, poetry readings, their first big exams, friends suddenly sprouting up inside the frames); and the girls changed gradually from picture to picture, coming to resemble their current selves more and more, becoming who they were now, today, in this life, this time: fully mature and thoroughly embittered.

  During their school days, Tamara was always surrounded by girlfriends: she would be standing there in the center of the shot, arm in arm with one of them. If she was alone, she would have a self-assured expression on her face or be holding a bouquet of flowers, her book bag, or something more substantial. She was mature and looked older than she really was; by the time she was in high school, she had the fully formed body of a young woman and wore jewelry that the administration clearly frowned upon, without ever managing to ban it outright.

  Tamila was just the opposite—a timid little girl, a late bloomer of sorts, even in the pictures taken during her last few years of high school. She never took the ribbons out of her hair and she wore oversized sweaters, and worn-out shoes—she always stood off to the side, in the corner, trying to slip out of the frame unnoticed.

  Judging by the murky faces, blurry hair, and rushed movements, the pictures that followed clearly hadn’t been developed professionally. Tamara wore her white lab coat; occasionally, I’d recognize familiar buildings and scenery, and if I wanted to I could even recall where I was when it was taken and what I was up to. Over time, the number of male faces increased. At first there were some community college guys who barely looked old enough to shave, wearing short, black jackets and holding tape players, then came male classmates in the same white uniform that Tamara wore. Eventually there were more and more men, mature and established ones. They stood by their Volgas, wearing light dress shirts and heavy black suit jackets; they ate in restaurants, drank cognac, wore digital watches and brightly colored ties, and displayed gray, stone-cold expressions and battle-worn fists. All the men flocked around Tamara, standing still just long enough to project themselves into these pictures and become part of her past. Tamara always looked light and stunning, despite the hideous haircuts that were fashionable back in the ’80s, and wore long coats and short, nearly nonexistent skirts, or else tight dresses and light-colored sandals that she took off and held in her hands as she stood on the hot, summer asphalt. She had deep and brash eyes, a tender yet dismissive smile, and a body that drove all the men wild—all the professors and truck drivers, thieves and Communist Youth League leaders, budding capitalists and alcoholics who hung around her, trying to make it into one of her pictures at any price.

  Tamila, who by this point was starting to look more like a woman, would occasionally make an appearance, but she was still overshadowed by Tamara. There were hardly any pictures of them together. That was probably how Tamila wanted it, but who knows. Generally, Tamila had her picture taken with adults—her parents, teachers, and other men and women, God knows who they were to her. In one print, she was standing in a park that resonated with the abundant sun and greenery of summer, between two rotund women who were squashing her between them, so Tamila simply evaporated among their flashy dresses. I took a closer look and, to my surprise, recognized Angela Petrovna (her thick, ash hair spiked up, her piercing gaze, and heavy, autumnal breasts) and Brunhilda Petrovna (her hot, copper-colored curls glistening in the sun and her hips protruding out of the disappearing fabric). Then I came across Kocha and Injured (the hardened gait of a young thug and the supple torso of a star forward, respectively), Sasha Python, Andryukha Michael Jackson, and a multitude of other friends, acquaintances, classmates, neighbors, relatives—an endless throng of faces, portrait and profile, shadows from the past, from every moment of my life, every moment of my memory. And a surprised Tamara, squinting with pleasure, her hair black like tea, wearing no clothes at all, half-submerged in the nighttime waves; or else wearing a formal suit at various award ceremonies, wearing sweaters and jackets at work, holding umbrellas, sunglasses, and bags during trips, celebrations, weddings, and funerals—she was always standing right in the middle of the action.

  By the time he made an appearance, I’d reached one of the last few prints; Tamara was already a mature divorcee, much more attractive and intelligent than she’d been before her wedding, as is often the case. Her eyes were a bit weary, her face a bit puffy from chronic insomnia, her movements had slowed down a little and she seemed to have acquired a mild sort of melancholy, as though anticipating that, though he’d left her life, he would eventually come back. And then, there he was again, a constant presence, overwhelming her. He went everywhere with her, upstaging her in the photographs, trying to squeeze her out of the frame, which was a first. And yet she seemed perfectly fine with this new arrangement—judging by her face, at any rate. Maybe she needed his protection, or just his presence, as though she was willing to yield space in her own life to him, viewing it as a given, a necessity. They were always together, sharing each place, moment, shot. Sometimes Tamila’s despondent face would crop up, over to the side, as though caught in the same photo with them against her will; and every time she appeared, she looked somber, and slightly pained, as though blinded by the sun.

  And then something must have happened, since the man vanished as mysteriously as he’d appeared, and without any images suggesting why he might be absent. Then everything ran together in the last pages, there were some old girlfriends, other familiar faces, some houses, someone’s funeral, various cities, winter landscapes, but Tamara herself was gone, save for the occasional rare appearance. It was as if she’d decided to avoid having her picture taken, as though she didn’t want anyone seeing her during those years. Only at the very end of the album were there a few relatively recent pictures of Tamara and Tamila. They looked much the same as ever—worn out yet sultry, incredibly similar yet totally different—but now they were sticking together, literally: their arms entwined, always leaning on each other, their hair and clothing pressed together, looking into the lens attentively, intelligently; keeping their eyes fixed on you. They were odd women, I thought, with a past as black as their eyes; when they looked at you, you felt they were looking at you alone, and you in turn saw them and nobody else.

  When she came home in the middle of the night, when I heard her from inside my dreams, jingling her keys like Saint Peter searching for righteous people up and down the city streets, stepping into the room where I was sleeping, still dressed and still clutching her photo album; I could see her, could see how she moved, how she looked in her skin-tight outfit, her hair blowing in the wind like a flag, even in my sleep . . . So when she stole timidly across the dark room and stopped by the bed, hovering over me, watching me a while in the dark before eventually deciding to pry the album out of my grip, I was able to intercept her hand and pull her toward me without opening my eyes, and she submitted to the darkness I was pulling her into. Once her lips f
ound mine she started kissing me greedily, holding nothing back. She had been waiting so long for this moment, dwelling on it, so it was bound to happen. She didn’t even bother getting undressed, she just pounced on me still wearing the long jacket that covered up her heavy sweater and long dress. Her hair was falling in my face, blacking out the dim light setting the night into motion. Running my hands up her legs, I felt thick socks going almost all the way up to her knees, and then there was nothing else—no stockings or anything, which rattled me for some reason. I felt all of her at once, all of her weight and weightlessness, felt the warmth of her skin and the slightly damp panties that she slipped out of gracefully, continuing to kiss me, stepping out of them in just a few efficient motions, leaving them to dangle on her left calf, then she slid her hand down toward my jeans and quickly took care of them too. She started riding me, her hips clenching me powerfully. Occasionally she’d lean in, kissing me with abandon, gasping for air, and then drawing back again, causing her hair to spill down onto her shoulders. Her face and neck glimmered in the dark, while her hands pressed firmly down on my chest, as though she was pushing me away or rejecting me, but, lacking the willpower to hop off of me, she could only bounce up and down, her gray jacket swaying like a sail in the wind and her rings catching on my shirt buttons. Her kisses smelled of strong tea and booze, and her clothes felt rough against me, contrasting with the softness of her skin; her teeth were sharp and her nails were bloody and predatory. Her hands slid underneath my shirt, leaving long, painful streaks on my back that glowed in the dark like electric wires. She screamed as she was about to finish, looking at me as though surprised. Her movements became jerky and painful; I got the sense that she was looking past me, moving automatically now, like a sleepwalker. I kept moving with her, keeping pace, staying with her, following a new rhythm with her, and we reached its finale together.

  She lay down next to me, exhausted, and I ran my fingers through her hair for a while, not knowing what to say. More precisely, not knowing what she wanted to hear. She fell asleep after a bit, breathing warm air onto my shoulders, but when I let my fingers graze her cheeks, she quivered and sat up in the bed, looking fearfully at my face, as though trying to figure out who I was. She sprang out of her bed, dashed toward the door. Her panties were still dangling on her leg, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Tamara.” I got up and followed her.

  She ran through the living room and disappeared into the bathroom. I tried going in after her, but the door was locked from the inside. I leaned against it to listen and heard her turn on the water, sit down on the floor—her back against the door—and start crying. “Tamara,” I called, “open the door.”

  She didn’t reply. The running water made her crying sound far away, made it almost inaudible.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning in toward the gap between the door and its frame. “What’s going on? Just tell me. Did I hurt your feelings somehow?”

  But she flatly refused to answer my question, so I started banging on the door, because I didn’t want to leave her all alone in there. Leaving a woman in that kind of state all alone in a room by herself would have been an irrational and short-sighted decision; she was probably pretty lonely in there, so I was convinced I was doing the right thing by continuing to bang on the door. Suddenly, she turned off the faucet.

  “Herman, everything’s fine,” she said firmly. She wasn’t opening up the door, though. “Go to bed. I’ll be out soon.”

  “Okay,” I answered, taking a seat on the floor to wait.

  She turned the faucet on again, rearranged some things, rattling around for a while, muttering to herself, then turned off the faucet a second time, opened the door quietly, saw me sitting there, and took a seat next to me without saying another word.

  “I hope your feelings aren’t hurt,” she said, touching my knee. “I just get emotional sometimes.”

  “You all right now?” I asked.

  “Yep. I’m all right. You okay?”

  “Let’s go to bed,” I said.

  “Give me a sec.” She took a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket, lit one of them, and started kissing me, and her kisses tasted like tobacco and toothpaste; her skin was salty from her tears and her hair was as wet as a fisherman’s net.

  “I didn’t want to tell you,” she said. “You’ll probably leave if I tell you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Are you going to leave?” she asked.

  “I won’t, don’t worry,” I assured her.

  “I just know you’ll leave,” she said. “Well, I’ll tell you anyway.”

  “Could ya just tell me already?”

  “Your accountant . . . something happened to her.”

  “You mean Olga?”

  “Yeah. Injured called me and told me to tell you. Now you’re going to leave. I just know it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. She’s in the hospital.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I don’t know,” Tamara said quietly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Could you be a bit more specific?” I asked anxiously.

  “What are you yelling at me for? All I know is that she’s in the hospital. Injured told me to tell you. He said he’s gonna pick you up in the morning.”

  “Let me have your phone. I’m gonna give him a call.”

  “Don’t call him at this hour,” Tamara protested wearily. “Wait till morning. He’ll come by and give you all the details.”

  “Well, what if it was something really serious?”

  “Wait till morning,” Tamara repeated.

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tamara asked.

  “Well, your accountant isn’t in the hospital.”

  “I just knew you’d ditch me for her. She’s young and you like her.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, I can tell,” Tamara said. “I really thought you’d stick around, you know? Since you’re already here and all. But now I can see that’s just not going to happen. I’m too old for you, isn’t that right?”

  “What are you talking about? You’re crazy.”

  “Yep, I’m way over the hill,” Tamara said. “No need to make any excuses. I’m doing just fine. I wasn’t really counting on anything. Do what you want to do, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Still distraught, though calmer, Tamara finished her cigarette and put it out right on the floor.

  “I wanted to ask you. That tall, dark-skinned guy in the photographs. Who is he?”

  “The tall guy?”

  “Yeah, the tall one.”

  “Arthur,” Tamara answered. “Tamila’s husband.”

  “Tamila’s?” I asked, surprised. “I thought he was your husband.”

  “Well, then he was my husband. At first he lived with Tamila, and then with me. He loved me a lot.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “He was murdered,” Tamara explained. “About ten years ago. They wanted to take his business away from him, but he wouldn’t give it up. So, they blew up his car with him in it.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “But that was so long ago,” Tamara said.

  “What about your cousin?” I inquired. “Are you on speaking terms?”

  “Yeah, she forgave me. She loved him a lot too. We only truly bonded after he died. It’s funny how things work out. So,” she asked after a long pause. “Are you going to see her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth would have been even worse.

  6

  The sun blinded us awake and Injured was charging through the apartment like a guy who knew exactly what his time was worth and exactly what he could accomplish with it. There was fresh air nestled into his leather jacket as though he had come carrying scraps of an October morning in his pockets. He gave me a hearty good morning, as if to say, “I’m glad to see you st
ill in one piece,” then went over to the kitchen, filling the tiny space with his body, moving between the table and dishwasher, so tight a squeeze that his jacket squeaked, and peered out the window.

  He had called Tamara a little past midnight, asking if I was at her place, if everything was all right, and said he would be stopping by in the morning. Now he was sitting down at the kitchen table with me, letting the wide, crooked rays of sunlight tint his skin gold and copper. He looked us over, first taking in Tamara, who was still half asleep, standing in the corner, before getting down to business with me:

  “You know,” he said, “it’s a good thing you didn’t wind up going all the way to Donetsk. They picked my brother up a few days ago. I had no fucking idea what was going on. I kept calling him, see? And some cop kept picking up. At first I thought maybe my brother had dumped his phone on someone again, or that he’d lost it somewhere, or something like that. But actually, they’ve been keeping him at the station for three days now. His wife called me yesterday and said everything was fine, that I had nothing to worry about, that he’s doing all right . . . he’s still got a healthy appetite, his own lawyer, and they’ll be letting him out soon.”

  “What’d they get him on?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell ya,” said Injured. “Last year they got him on his annual tax return—he wanted to file it a year early to save time. Before that they got him on bribing a government official. He’s in the cell phone business, you know.”

  “He works for a carrier?”

  “No, he sells phones,” Injured explained. “Used ones.”

  “Stolen ones, too?”

  “Sure, that comes with the territory.”