Voroshilovgrad Read online

  He marched straight at the little circle of his tormentors, who were still congregated around the bus stop, by their car, celebrating their easy victory. Obviously, they weren’t expecting a return visit from Ernst, let alone the whole expedition. Ernst bolted toward them and smashed the fuck out of their windshield. The locals panicked and hit the road, deciding it wasn’t advisable to mess with those lunatic archaeologists.

  The air was equatorial, warm and thick, and the sun’s yellow reflection was swimming in the water like oil in a frying pan. Suffering from a lack of stimulation, they asked the old Greek captain for permission to disembark. The port’s thousands of bars, coffee shops, and pubs greeted them. They walked down Clarke Quay, but not for long. They stopped at the first pub, where three Chinese whores fell right into their laps: two regular ones, and a really young one—a girl, not a woman. It was the girl who set off Nikolaich’s eternal anxiety; he knew that in Singapore you could get away with doing just about anything to anyone, but not with minors. His stinginess was acting up too, despite his best intentions, and was just about to get the best of him when his crewmates managed to calm him down. Nikolaich wanted so badly for them to accept him, he wanted so badly for them to like him, it was bound to happen, and happen it did.

  Nikolaich was already loaded on rum. After the pub, they all—sailors and prostitutes both—got in a taxi and headed to Chinatown, passing through numerous teeming city blocks before winding up, somehow, in a shady apartment. Someone produced some awful Chinese vodka, and that’s where Nikolaich’s recollections of the evening got fuzzy; they kept pouring him more and more, laughing and patting him on the back, so he eventually just let himself go. One of the prostitutes was fat and had a booming voice. She sat on the floor yelling something incomprehensible and kept hiking up her short, red dress. The next woman was skinny, with big breasts that sagged piteously, distracting and intimidating everyone. And the third, the youngest of them, was quiet and sad; she stood by the window where the hot glare of the streetlights tinted her skin gold. She wore her hair short, which made her look even younger, like a girl just going into high school. She had too much makeup on her face, but Nikolaich liked that about her, since it gave her a childish, endearing, and approachable look. She was wearing a short, red shirt with shoulder straps, a tiny emerald-colored skirt, and bright pink stockings. She had on a pair of light sandals that flapped whenever she took a step. Her shoulders were covered with a thin, soft down, and there was a tattoo portrait of Jesus on her right shoulder blade, although Nikolaich assumed she was a Buddhist. She had pouty lips and a long, thin neck encircled by a leather collar with metal studs. That collar just drove Nikolaich wild; he kept bobbing around her, desperately trying to strike up a conversation, racking his brain for the few nautical terms he knew in English, and all the while his shipmates were egging him on, saying, “C’mon boss, be a man. You’re one of us!”

  Finally, he went in for a kiss. Her breath had a bitter and acerbic scent to it and a lingering taste of fire and ash. She was a good and eager kisser. So they made out for a while, there by the window—nobody had ever kissed Nikolaich like that before. And after a few minutes of this, the sailors went wild, hooting and hollering and pointing at Nikolaich, who was quite excited as well as flustered. He didn’t pay attention to what they were shouting, at first, but gradually it dawned on him that it sounded as though they were saying “C’mon boss, fuck that boy’s brains out! You’re already sucking face with him, now take him by the balls and give it to him!”

  The other prostitutes were cracking up; the fat one was rolling around, her head banging on the floor hysterically. Even Nikolaich’s schoolboy with the Jesus tattoo enjoyed a light and scornful laugh; however, he wasn’t about to let Nikolaich go, not for anything, and the sight of him clinging to the mortified second officer sent everyone into fresh hysterics. Nikolaich, who’d sobered up instantly, felt absolutely drained, unable to move an inch—he wanted to sink deep down into a pool of murky, warm water where nobody would ever be able to find him.

  And it has to be said that it really worked. The older guys quit sending him to the store for booze. They even developed a kind of restrained but sincere liking for him. He had gained their respect. Everyone now realized that he wasn’t on the bottom of the social food chain anymore, that he wasn’t totally hopeless when it came to getting along with people, since he’d had the guts to stand up against the locals all by himself. Most importantly for Ernst, Asya realized it too, although she was the last person anyone expected to notice.

  Ernst remembered their last night there, at camp, when her skin was already as cool as an autumn night, absorbing the sand like bread soaking up milk. They made love for the first time, trying to make up for all the missed days, high tides and low tides, cyclones and anticyclones, sunny afternoons and foggy evenings. They didn’t even take off their clothes—she just unzipped the fly of her jeans and let him in, and he felt, much to his surprise, how easily and deeply you can enter a woman. He could see her bra through her shirt, glimmering in the moonlight like a seagull, while the wet Crimean sand clumped in her hair and shamelessly infiltrated her clothes.

  It wasn’t just what happened. Just about anything could have happened, especially after so much drinking. What mattered most was that he had genuinely liked it. He couldn’t get that damn Chinese boy’s soft skin and long legs out of his head. Sometimes Nikolaich would dream about him and sometimes it’d keep him up at night. That’s what he couldn’t forgive his shipmates for. And even after so many years, after he’d long ago quit and started a new life, after he found himself working for Mr. Pastushok—fearing him and not daring to show his fear—he couldn’t forgive his crew for the shame and, worse, the nightmarish excitement they had made him feel that night.

  And that’s when Ernst really put it together, that the most important thing is to not back down, and to view everyday problems as givens that will inevitably appear and then just as inevitably disappear again. The most important thing is to not be afraid. Well, and preferably have a spade ready.

  And now, standing there in front of them, he was going through it all once more—the port, the pubs, and the underage transvestite. He felt the humiliation of it again—he couldn’t seem to rid himself of that feeling. That’s how it had always been, hadn’t it? All of his attempts to do things the right way had ended poorly. Just like now. Everyone had ditched him: the gray-haired man took off into town to complain, and the penal battalion was gone too. Just the Gypsies were left, but they were laughing at him too, at his petrified expression, his stupid-looking camouflage outfit, all of his attempts to look competent and decisive. They were humiliating him like everyone always had, backing him into a corner, beating him with sticks, refusing to give him a chance to fix things.

  Not that it was all about the spade, mind you. What matters is that the guys had seen all of this as they were growing up and observing their parents’ and older friends’ behavior. It’s pretty simple—stick together, keep outsiders out, and protect your land, women, and homes—then everything will be all right. If it’s not all right, it’ll at least be fair.

  Nikolaich, like a rat stuck between metal fuel tanks, was giving them a look filled with fear and hatred, thinking that they had gone too far this time and that they simply hadn’t given him any other choice.

  Because nobody has the right to come onto your turf and take your women and homes away.

  Because, really, he’d done everything right. It wasn’t his fault it never panned out. It wasn’t because of the camouflage outfit, he could’ve worn anything else, after all. And it wasn’t about the Makarov pistol that he had borrowed from the security guard especially for the occasion, and was now keeping in his pants pocket, feeling its heavy, cumbersome metal against his hip.

  It’s just that when you grow up with all of that, when it starts molding your consciousness at an early age, certain things are easier for you to take—you don’t let them get to you. There’s the life you l
ead, which you can’t compromise, and there’s your death, which you’ll always have time for, so there’s no sense in rushing it.

  They reject you, not even trying to find common ground, because you’re an outsider, and there’s nothing that can ever bring you together.

  Those things are right, understandable—they’re constants. People have always lived like that and so they’ll try to teach their kids the same things.

  Because only sharing life and sharing death can bring us together.

  “What’s the deal, ya little wimps, cat got your tongue?”

  The tractor drivers hopped down on the ground, landing stiffly, and started shouting happily, greeting Injured, Pasha, Borman, and even me, like we were long-lost relatives, although I’d never seen them before. Arkady and Prokhor greeted the drivers back, laughing and treating them to a free smoke. Nobody was paying any attention to Nikolaich, who was standing off to the side with a stupid grin on his face. Even Ernst had forgotten about him by now, and the drivers then went over and greeted Ernst as though he too was a long-lost relative, because he essentially was. I I’ll never forget the look Nikolaich was giving Ernst; there was something heavy in his eyes, something that gave me the chills.

  “Well, how are you guys doing?” the drivers asked Injured with an affected tone of exuberance. “Sasha, my fuckin’ God, how the hell are you?”

  It seemed as though they wanted to hug everyone there, pull them up close to their sailor’s shirt and robe, respectively. Our guys appeared to be happy to see the drivers, but they didn’t look as jubilant about it.

  “Nicky, is that you?” Pasha was talking to the guy in the sailor’s shirt, “fuck man, who the hell are you working for?”

  “Come on, Pasha—you know I’m a decent guy,” said the one in the sailor’s shirt. “That motherfucker over there,” he said, pointing at Nikolaich, who continued smiling awkwardly, “put us up to it. How could I have known this was your turf?”

  “You knew perfectly well,” Injured replied severely.

  “Injured, c’mon,” whined the guy in the sailor’s shirt. “Honestly, we didn’t know. We wouldn’t do a thing like that to you guys . . .”

  “All right, all right,” Pasha conceded reluctantly, “just pick your friends a bit more wisely next time.”

  “Yeah Pasha, like I’m friends with those guys?” Nicky said, nodding at Nikolaich.

  “You never know,” Pasha answered.

  “Guys, don’t be like that,” the driver said anxiously.

  “Everything’s fine, just quit your bitching,” Injured told him.

  “Thanks fellas, thanks a lot,” Nicky said.

  Then they told us how they got here. They said this was the first time they’d met Nikolaich and would certainly be the last. They thought they were just going to do a routine job, and it was only once they’d gotten to the airport that realized just how deceitful and dishonest those two fags, Nikolaich and the gray-haired man, really were—saying that it was a good thing the gray-haired man had booked it on out of here, because otherwise they would have turned their buckets on him. Because they’re decent guys and wouldn’t sell out for the money Nikolaich and the gray-haired man were offering them. Well, and they wouldn’t have sold out for more, either.

  Injured didn’t bother listening to their story. He stepped back and took a seat on the hood of the black Mercedes. He looked satisfied and lethargic, and seemed to be basking in the sunlight, as though he was trying to savor these last few hours of day, store them up in his memory. I sat down next to him.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Injured replied.

  “What if they wind up coming back?”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Injured answered calmly. “Let ’em come back. You know, your brother was never afraid of them. What can they actually do to us, anyway? They can try to buy you out. But nobody can buy you out unless you want them to. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what I thought. But that’s not what they think. Ah well, who cares,” he said, changing the subject. “What’d little Katya have to say?”

  “Dunno. Haven’t read her letter yet,” I said, surprised by his question. “I’ll tell ya once I get around to reading it.”

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  Nikolaich finally came to his senses around then, deciding it was time to hightail it out of there.

  “Hey!” he yelled at the drivers.

  They looked over at him simultaneously, but immediately lost interest, pointedly turning back toward our crew and continuing to tell them their tall tales.

  “Nicky!” Nikolaich yelled again, his voice trembling.

  “Yeah?” the guy in the sailor’s shirt answered, peering over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” Nikolaich barked succinctly.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Nicky answered just as succinctly.

  Pasha and Borman exchanged a glance and continued talking with the drivers, pretending everything was just fine.

  “Nicky!” Nikolaich exploded. “I’m fuckin’ talking to you. I said, ‘let’s go’!”

  There was a new note in his voice that forced the drivers to wrap up their pleasant conversation, say good-bye to all of us, and shove off toward the tractor. Nikolaich waited as they waltzed on over to their steel friend, kicked its heavy tires, and climbed into the cab. He was observing the rest of us out of the corner of his eye, tracking our movements. The veins on his skinny neck were bulging. There he stood in his camouflage outfit—ready to take his resentment out on the first person to cross him.

  Nicky tried starting up the tractor. It sneezed and spat up some fluid, shuddering and stalling, utterly exhausted. Nicky ducked out of the cab.

  “It won’t start!” he yelled at Nikolaich.

  “Don’t tell me about—just do something about it already!” Nikolaich said, feeling mocking glances pelting his back.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Nicky asked indignantly.

  “Do something!” Nikolaich yelled at him. “Fix it!”

  “With what? My fuckin’ dick?”

  Our guys started laughing. Pasha practically fell over, right on top of Borman, and Ernst folded in two, like he had just taken a punch in the stomach. Arkady and Prokhor started cracking up too, as the spectacle continued.

  Not even Injured could contain himself, letting out a string of chuckles from his position on the hood. “Alrighty then,” he called to the drivers. “Let me see what’s up.”

  “Don’t!” Nikolaich said, putting his hand out, seemingly as a warning. “Don’t come any closer!”

  Injured stopped, then called out, “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” And then he kept on walking.

  “I told you not to come any closer!” Nikolaich repeated hoarsely. It was like his vocal cords had all dried up.

  “I’m just going to take a look,” Injured said dismissively, still approaching the tractor.

  “I told you not to come any closer!” Nikolaich cried out hysterically. Then his sweaty hands pulled a Makarov with some strange markings on the grip out of his pocket.

  Everyone shut up and stood still, even though, in Nikolaich’s hands, the pistol somehow looked like a toy. I think nobody believed it was a real Makarov. Borman even gave a scornful snort, but after exchanging a glance with Pasha, he realized what was going on. The wind picked up from time to time, carrying some bitter, autumn smells along with it.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Injured asked, quiet but stern. “Put the piece away, okay? I just wanted to help.”

  “Don’t come any closer,” Nikolaich repeated, pointing his pistol awkwardly at Injured.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Injured asked again.

  “Hey, you prick!” Pasha shouted. “He said put the piece away!”

  I think the word “prick” set him off. Everyone had been pressing down on the coiled metal spring deep inside him too hard, he had been containing himself for too long, and finally th
e spring snapped, destroying every failsafe and kicking an internal mechanism into motion. As soon as Injured moved again, taking a microscopic step forward—a shot ripped through the air. Injured grabbed his side. One of our guys immediately dashed toward Nikolaich, hitting the Makarov out of his hands onto the warm asphalt and knocking him right on his balding head. The other guys dashed to help Injured up. He drooped in their arms. They set him down on the asphalt alongside Nikolaich. Pasha unbuttoned his windbreaker, exposing the bullet wound; someone ran for the first aid kit while someone else frantically called an ambulance, the tractor drivers hopped back down onto the ground and hovered around, trying to help somehow, and Ernst was yelling anxiously at me, explaining something and pointing somewhere in town, and I was answering automatically and agreeing with him, although all I could really do was stand there and look at the dark blood seeping out from underneath Injured. I kept repeating to myself the same two questions: “Did he really die? Is he really gone?”

  What was it that happened, all those years ago? It was in August, late August, with its hot evenings that cool down slowly like trucks parked at a rest stop. It was one of our last years of high school. We’d already developed more than a few bad habits, and were running with the wrong crowd, and though we were all grown up we still spent our long evenings down at the river like a bunch of kids. There wasn’t a whole lot to do in town at the time—not that there is now, either. I don’t remember anymore why we decided to hoof it all the way out to the bridge. Generally, we’d hang out on the beaches where the water was shallow and the current wasn’t strong. But everything was particularly charged that August night—the water was particularly dark and deep, we were particularly carefree, and the sun seemed to swing by particularly fast. We were rushing toward the bridge to get there before nightfall. It was a rickety wooden bridge. We climbed up the railings and dove unhesitatingly into the water, over and over, the water that was dark yellow from the sand. And when the darkness under the bridge thickened and turned to lilac ink, we started getting dressed, pulling our clothes onto our wet bodies. After everyone had gotten dressed, putting on our shoes as we were walking away, Gea, who was only in our class for a year, told us, “Wait up. I’m gonna take one last jump.” Nobody objected, so he slid out of his T-shirt, which he had just now tugged over his wet shoulders, hopped up onto the railing, and dove off into the yellow and lilac-colored void.