Mesopotamia Read online

  “You don’t have a sleeping bag?” she asked. “All right, I’ll give you a mattress. And here’s the kitchen,” she said, steering me into the next room. There was a stove there . . . and nothing else. “Well, that’s about it. You won’t actually be needing any of this,” she said, referring to the kitchen. “There’s a pizzeria around the corner, just so you know. Here’s the shower,” she declared, carefully stepping over the puddles. “I’ll give you a towel,” she added. “Hmm . . . what else is there? Oh yeah, internet and utilities. You woke me up, so I’m kinda out of it.”

  We carried a large mattress with watercolors, playdough, and lipstick smeared all over it from her apartment into my room. Dasha had a slim body and a pleasing voice. “It’d be nice to sleep with her on this mattress. After all, why not?” I thought. “All you gotta do is make the right impression. It sure looks like she’s single. She gets up at about noon and walks around the building in her PJs. She’s definitely my type,” I thought, looking at how lithely she was bending over the mattress to wipe it clean. “I just have to take matters into my own hands,” I thought as I hurried off to the shower.

  She ran over to my place again in the afternoon and said she had some stuff to do. She brought over some sheets, left me a set of keys, and told me that anything I could find in her fridge was up for grabs. Well, there was nothing in there but a head of cabbage—it was fresh, though. She was wearing a sand-­colored suit that made her look a tiny bit heavier than she actually was, but those high heels of hers were so flattering they more than made up for it—Dasha was an older, self-­assured lawyer with her bra showing through her snow-­white shirt, a battle-­ready haircut, sloppy makeup, and some serious coffee breath. She was talking so much and so loudly that I didn’t even realize she’d left until she was outside.

  I was kicking myself. “Just chill, it’s not like she’s never coming back. What could she be doing today? Maybe . . . going to a trial . . . or . . . I don’t know . . . questioning some witnesses or identifying some bodies or something. She’ll rip yet another unfortunate soul out of death’s claws, sign all the necessary papers, and head home, to see me. Just don’t let this one get away, seize this opportunity, and ride this wave of happiness rushing down the apartment hallway.” In the evening, somebody changed the air like hotel sheets, turning the foliage dark and the window glass pink. Light grazed the floor and the bare walls; voices and children’s laughter resonated beyond the trees. I felt the urge to follow those voices, walk among those trees, touch women’s hands in the gloom, and catch the hefty green moons slipping off the branches under their own weight.

  “How should I play this? Just how should I play this? I could go over to her kitchen, like I wanted a bite to eat. I’d keep my cool, announce I was hungry, and gruffly declare that I’d make us a meal. But I’d ask her to help out. Strong and silent, that’s the key. I could show up with no shirt on—let her see my tan. I could show up barefoot. Nah, that’s no good. She’ll figure out what I’m up to and say, ‘You might as well have shown up naked.’ Okay, then . . . how about sandals? That way I won’t have to mess around with any knotty shoelaces. Yeah,” I nodded, giving myself a pat on the back, “that’ll be perfect. I’ll ask her to get me some spices from the top shelf—some cinnamon, cardamom, or pepper. And as soon as she reaches for them I’ll come up behind her, calmly (keep your cool, man), and touch her legs. Like I’m giving her a boost. When she feels my warm hands on her skin, she’ll know exactly what to do. And then I’ll help her down off the chair, lay her down on the table, and start undressing her. Gotta get over there while she still has her suit on! She’s been wearing it all day, she’s gonna wanna get out of it—no, she’ll help me pull off her jacket and anxiously hike up the skirt clinging to the warm curves of her hips. Only then will I step out of my sandals.”

  “Or,” I was getting all excited, “I could show up and ask her for some little domestic thing. Like soap. Nah,” I shot down my own idea, “then she’ll figure out what I’m up to. No soap. A toothbrush is way better. I’ll show up at her front door in sandals, with no shirt on, and maybe with my shades on too. I’ll ask her for a toothbrush (keep it strong and silent, man), I’ll be like, ‘I forgot mine on the train—I was too busy helping all those women, carrying toddlers out onto the platform, and evacuating decrepit old people.’ The toothbrush will probably be in her bathroom. And when she walks across the room in her suit I can slide on over and stand right behind her, and one whiff of my deodorant will do the trick. She’ll freeze up, anticipating my next move, knowing exactly where this is going. Then I can touch her clothes, feeling her receptive body tremble, and I’ll remove her jacket without saying a single word and help her slip out of her skirt, so she’ll be standing there in her white shirt and colorful panties, like a naughty schoolgirl. I’ll bend her over the sink—it will glisten like crystals of sugar—so she can look in the mirror and see all her wrinkles smoothing out and her pupils dilating with joy, fevered desire consuming her as she gasps for air. And I won’t even need to take off my sandals for that.”

  “But that’s not all. Not even close,” I was really getting worked up now. “There’s so many ways I could play this. I could show up with my computer and be like, ‘I can’t get on the internet. What’s your Wi-­Fi password?’ Maybe she’ll be sprawled out on the bed, too exhausted after a long day of questioning witnesses to take her suit off. She’ll be lying on her stomach (you know she’s the type that sleeps on her stomach) and watching television, preferably on mute. I could walk over, stand between her and the screen, and ask for the password. Just keep it strong and silent, man! ‘You know, I don’t remember anymore. Let me see your computer. I’ll get ya all set up,’ she’ll say, patting the sheets next to her. ‘Pop a squat, you’ll be online in no time.’ And then I’ll calmly (calmly!) plop down next to her. Just make sure to kick off your sandals! And when she starts fiddling around with the laptop, I could help her, put my hand on top of hers gently, like it was purely accidental, and look into her wide-­open eyes intensely, confidently. And then I’ll wait for her to figure everything out and put my lagging computer off to the side—I wouldn’t even have to do much—she’d hop right on top of me, taking off her jacket, yanking down the zipper on her skirt, biting my sun-­tempered skin (if I didn’t have my shirt on) or gnawing on its fabric (if I was still wearing it). Just gotta keep it strong and silent, be tough but fair, unstoppable and grateful.”

  With those thoughts racing through my mind, I fell asleep. Swallows flew over me in my dreams, describing menacing circles, but I wasn’t scared.

  I happened to wake up as she was coming back, sensing her footsteps more than actually hearing them. The front door squeaked open and then she stamped her way up the worn stairs, hitting the rails with her palms, resting between flights, peering down the stairwell, then finally pushing on. She was taking an eternity; I had time to chase all the swallows away, bolt over to the bathroom, wet my hair (everything had to be just right), and sprint to the stairs, coming face to face with her. She was staggering, holding a bottle of champagne in each hand. Dangling precariously from her right pinky, her jacket was dragging along the steps behind her. Her shoes were stained with grass and encrusted with sand, and she was smiling drunkenly—Dasha was enchanting.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, surprised. “No slippers? Aren’t you cold?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. Tough and reserved—keep it going. “I heard you come in.”

  “Were you waiting up for me?” She laughed.

  “I wanted to give you your keys back.”

  “Wanna have a drink?” Dasha asked.

  “Champagne?” I made myself sound as tough as humanly possible. “Sure, you oughta have some company.”

  She tossed her jacket on the floor, sat on it, and gestured for me to join her. It was painful to look at her skirt—everything was right out in the open. I sat down next to her, my bare feet feeling the nighttime chill coming off the floor. “I shouldn’t have put m
y shirt on,” I thought. “I could’ve given her a real good show.” Dasha grabbed the bottle and began struggling to open it, shaking it and gnawing off the foil. Finally, it burst open; Dasha squealed but then composed herself quickly.

  “Cheers,” she said, taking a swig. The champagne soused her, running off her lips, under the collar of her snow-­white shirt. Dasha handed me the bottle brusquely and started undoing the buttons, wiping the liquid off her skin. I was in a real state watching how delicately and fastidiously she touched her own body.

  “Drink up.”

  “How was work?” I asked with an air of importance.

  “All right. I have a stressful job. My clients always have one problem or another. But how can you work with people that have so many problems? They need a therapist, not a lawyer. What are you planning on doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m just gonna settle in first,” I answered, deciding to play my cards close to the chest for now. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Kiss me? That’s rich. Find yourself a girl your own age! All right, that’s a wrap.”

  She got up, grabbed her jacket, stuck the unopened bottle in my hand, and went to bed.

  What did I do wrong? Where was the error in my calculations? Was it the shirt? Or the sandals? Or maybe even my sunglasses? Everything should have played out differently. I should be lying in her bed right now and she should be lying next to me, gazing tenderly and languidly into my imperturbable eyes. Instead, I’m standing here in the kitchen holding a bottle of champagne in these hands that I don’t know what to do with. What’s she up to right now? Yeah, I knew it—she’s walking around in the kitchen, too, feet pattering on the other side of the wall. I placed the champagne on the floor and pressed my ear against the wall. Now she’s walking over to the window and opening it; all the twilight critters, all those moths and bugs, come rushing at her, so she shuts it quickly, walks over to the cabinet, takes out some dishes, tea, sugar, a mug, spoons, and saucers. All that metal jingles harmoniously; she puts it on the table right behind me—just an arm’s length away, just one breath away—turns on the gas, places a kettle on the stove, sits down, gets up again, walks over to the window, opens it back up, and takes out her lighter. “Damn, she’s smoking.” She anxiously puts out her cigarette, exhales the smoke from her lungs, shuts the window, takes her phone out of her jacket pocket, checks for missed calls, and abruptly tucks it away again. The kettle starts whistling; she ignores it for a while, stands up, looks tensely at her side of the wall, in my direction, turns sharply, shuts off the gas angrily, sits down at the table and forcefully sweeps all the dishes and spoons into the corner. Now I can’t hear her anymore. What’s she doing? What’s she doing over there? She’s crying! Suddenly, it hits me—she’s crying! She’s sitting there and crying! Yeah, she’s sitting there, all alone in her empty apartment, sobbing inconsolably, choking on her bitter tears after choking down a bedtime dose of bitter nicotine, and there’s nobody there, nobody at all, who can listen to her weeping and ease her pain! Nobody besides me! Struck by this epiphany, I spring to my feet, knocking the bottle over—it tips to the side, slowly and mutely, like a freight train loaded with oil, and starts rolling along the scrubbed, cold floor, its squeaking violating the surrounding silence. She tenses up, there, on the other side—now she knows what’s going on; she goes quiet and listens hard. The rolling bottle hits the wall and stops. I go quiet, too, standing still and listening to her silence; she holds it, knowing I’m here, that I can hear everything, that I’ve figured everything out.

  It was a little before eight when she unlocked my apartment with her set of keys and shouted from the doorway.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  She sped down the hallway, poked her head into the bathroom, shot a probing glance at the kitchen, and barreled right into the room where I was sleeping, naked, as usual, so I finally gave her a good show.

  “Ooo.” She sat down next to me and touched my shoulder. “Whatcha got there?” she asked, examining my tat. “Is that a dog?”

  “It’s a dragon. It’s not finished yet, that’s all.”

  “Nah, that’s no dragon. That’s a dog. Look, here’s its tail. It’s a wiener dog.” She touched my dragon again, sending waves of fire across my skin—but she hopped off the mattress before I could deliver a good comeback. “Come on, get dressed,” she ordered. “I want to show you something.”

  I put my clothes on in a hurry. I’m generally a pretty confident dude, but after the wiener dog, I wasn’t in the mood to argue with her. Dasha opened up the balcony door, stepped outside, stood there, and waved. “Come on,” she said, “what’s the holdup?” There she stood in her white hotel robe. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had apparently slept that way, so it looked like an array of vegetables a chef had selected with exacting skill for the soup of the day. I walked over gloomily.

  “All right,” she said, looking around. “Let me show you the neighborhood and then you can go back to sleep. Look,” she began, making room for me on the balcony. “You see that?”

  I peered down. There was so much sunlight that it blinded me and blurred the objects near the ground. My eyesight came back to me almost instantly, though; things regained their shape and colors grew fuller. Greenery and heat were ushering out the month of May—fresh air was lying on the rooftops and pooling between the apartment blocks. Schoolkids were running down the street, a few other people were zooming around, and a street sweeper stood on the corner, his vest flashing orange. “Today is no ordinary day,” I thought. “Today is something like a holiday.”

  “So, that’s the school,” Dasha said, pointing at the building across from us. “I didn’t go there because I only moved here three years ago, but just so you know, some freaky stuff goes on over there. The principal often spends the night in her office, but not by herself—she has visitors . . . a car with diplomatic plates. They blast Italian pop music all night and stick their heads out of her office window to smoke. She has a red nightgown, just so you know. That’s the beauty salon next door,” she continued, pointing. “Those girls give each other nail extensions all day. They go outside for smoke breaks, take a seat on the bench—you see that bench up against the wall—whichever of them just got her nails done has to have her girlfriend pluck the pack out of her pocket. Then they sit there like owls digging their claws into the wooden bench. Check it out sometime. There’s a real shady restaurant around the corner—every morning the owner walks around in a pink kimono, talking to somebody on his little girly cellphone. A little farther back, there’s a sports bar where a bunch of Arabs watch the European soccer leagues. A while ago some Vietnamese guys opened up a seriously gross buffet—I’ve never seen one of them eat any of the food they make. Next to the Vietnamese joint, in the alley, there’s a sauna that’s just a front for a brothel—something to keep in mind . . . There’s a vacant building next to that; bums hang out there in the summer months—kinda neat. Local artists have their studios next to the bums—make sure you keep ’em straight. And there’s a TB clinic across the way. So, what else do we got?” She looked to the left. “There’s a publishing house over there. I suspect they hide documents for companies that do under-­the-­table accounting—fresh packages of paper come in at dusk and corpses wrapped in Chinese rugs go out at dawn. The city fathers have a mansion a bit farther down—it seems like their mistresses are living out their days there. Sometimes I see them on the back porch—not the city fathers, obviously—their mistresses, drinking their tea mixed with rum. The youngest lady is about seventy or so.”

  “You serious?” I asked incredulously.

  “I’m dead serious. By the way, she has a red nightgown, too. She’s always just standing there, drinking her tea. Her rum tea. They just put up a new apartment block over there, but nobody wanted to move in at first. It was too pricey. So some construction workers lived there for a bit—they unrolled their sleeping bags, cooked meat on open fires, and rummaged around in the warehouses for something go
od to eat. I’m tellin’ ya, they lived like a band of partisans. Down around the corner, there are a few convenience stores, but they’re always closed for some reason. Nobody really knows what kind of business they’re actually running. I’ve seen some young women go in there, but I’ve never seen them come out. There are some houses on small lots at the bottom of the hill—there’s nobody living down there—but hey, there’s nobody dying, either. There are tons of trees. Everything’s in bloom this time of year. On the top floors, the lights are always on at night, and there’s generally some kind of business—maybe a Xerox place, or a notary, or a place where they make headstones—on the lower floors. There’s a gas station and some auto repair shops down the road—and the river, too. The army recruiting office is right below us,” she said, leaning down. “I know a couple of secretaries who work there . . . it’s a real tough job, it wears you down. Have you served yet?”

  “No,” I answered reluctantly.

  “I see, well, last but not least, there’s our building. All right, take a look.” She leaned so far over the balcony rail she nearly fell, but I grabbed a flap of her robe just in the nick of time. “Two Armenian guys live on the first floor. Ya smell that cologne? They’re goin’ heavy on it. They’ve told everyone they’re brothers, but I don’t buy it. You see the windows and the antenna? Anfisa lives there, she’s a journalist—well, she’s the weather girl. If she invites you over just don’t go. You won’t be in there five minutes before her mom starts asking if you’ve set a date for the wedding. So don’t go there unless you really need to know if it’s gonna rain. There’s an empty apartment on the second floor. The old owner—he was a big hunter—had a shootout with the cops. Vendetta!” Dasha shouted giddily. “I was just moving in when he was trying to fend them off. He used to be an artilleryman. He’d been mending clothes for a few years before that. He kept his gun loaded, though. Nobody moved in after him. It smells like death down there. Across the hall from the artillery guy’s place there’s Hutalin—he’s a Communist and a real dickwad.”