Mesopotamia Read online

  On Friday, she stopped by in the early evening, running straight to my apartment and tossing her purse on the couch—business cards, notebooks, and her contact case spilled all over the floor. She paced around the room, consciously trying to avoid my eyes, talking about the heat wave that had hit the city, about the birds that kept her up at night, and about the water shortage. I tried to stop her, but she stuck her hand out rather forcefully, as if to say, “Stay right where you are,” and then she got to it:

  “Listen, Romeo,” she said, examining the wallpaper, as if she was trying to find an error in its pattern. “My friend is getting married tomorrow. She invited me to the wedding, but I don’t have anyone to go with. Why don’t we go together?”

  “To a wedding?” I tensed up.

  “It’s right around the corner,” Dasha replied quickly. “I already got her a gift.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “He’ll stay home,” she said harshly.

  “Well, count me in.”

  “Just make sure you wear something decent,” Dasha told me, grabbing her purse and vanishing into the hallway.

  In the morning, she was standing outside my door—with the kid, obviously. Just my luck. She said that the nanny was sick, that an ambulance came for her neighbor last night, and that her friends were all being audited today, so there was nobody to look after him. Her face was a little swollen from crying, so she’d put on some big sunglasses. The kid looked at me triumphantly. A knock-­off Rolex—a nice one, though—was sliding around on his wrist.

  It would have been better if I hadn’t gone, obviously. Who was dragging me there? Well, I knew exactly who. She was the one dragging me there. Wearing her black dress and carrying her little black purse, she was walking ahead of me, pulling the kid along and casting despairing glances in my direction. I was lugging the present (something made of glass—porcelain, at best), unable to take my eyes off her smooth gait, off her feet gliding across the warm, cracked asphalt; her body moved under that black dress as though the wedding had started already, as though the holiday had started already, and we should be celebrating right here, amid the acacia and linden trees, beneath the blue June sky, in this city that she’d told me so much about, in these streets where everyone greets her by name. I’d known her for less than a month, but I’d already gotten used to her hasty movements, her combative tone, the comforting warmth of her hands, and the bitter cold of her eyes. This summer will be long, the sun will be hot, my delights will be dubious, and my suffering hellish. This story will have a happy ending that nobody in it will live to see.

  The wedding was held at one of the bathhouses in town, which didn’t surprise me one bit—I’ve seen stranger things. One time, my friends got married in a high school gym, right under the basketball hoop, which was romantic, in a way. Here too was a hidden, mysterious place—car repair shop to the left, pharmacy to the right, and wedding tables in the middle. A metal gate with Olympic rings welded on it had been flung wide open; once inside, the guests found themselves in a large, open area with a decorative fountain in the center, which was flooding everything like a busted fire hydrant. This place didn’t seem to have a name—I guess they couldn’t think of one that would be appropriate for such a romantic establishment. The guests had parked all around—the newer, foreign-­made cars were closer to the bathhouse and a few battle-­hardened Zhigulis were parked out back. Under the morning sun, between the pharmacy and the black hubcaps outside the shop, the guests seemed particularly grand. They’d walk through the gate, look all around, and greet their friends. Meanwhile, servers were running, relatives were arguing, children were yelling, and there was a lot of sun. Dasha pushed her way through the crowd—everyone was glad to see her, stopping her, bending down to talk to the kid, and shooting appraising glances at me. I used the porcelain as a shield. I liked the look of the bride—about Dasha’s age, petite, short, dyed red hair, weary eyes, cigarette constantly in her mouth, light-­hearted smile—it was as if she was saying, “You can wait a little longer; it’s not like you’re gonna start without me.” Sneakers poked out from under her dress. Dasha whispered back and forth with her for a while, dragged the kid over (to no avail, he bolted and crashed into the fountain without saying hello to anyone), and then brought me over too, introducing me as a relative of hers. The bride lunged forward to hug me and favor me with her tender nicotine breath; then the groom strolled on over—although he was older than me, his suit, which had clearly been tailored at the last minute, made him look like a high school senior going to prom. He had sharp features and gelled hair. His gaze was heavy, and he practically wasn’t even talking to his bride-­to-­be, never calling her by her name, as though he was afraid he’d get it wrong. He was hiding behind his friends, who had formed a tight circle to protect him from any unwanted conversations. A lot of them had shown up in warmup outfits with the logo of some team or other on them; most of them were wearing sunglasses. I made a big show of taking mine off. Dasha dragged me away from the soccer guys almost immediately, telling me to go find Amin, which I did.

  “Come on buddy, let’s get back to the party,” I said.

  The kid didn’t say anything, but he went with me. As soon as he saw his mom, he started whining—“I wanna go home, I don’t wanna be here. I want some water. I don’t wanna meet anyone new. I want love and I don’t wanna share it with anyone!” I tried my best to keep him entertained, but Amin made a big show of turning his back on me and started bawling even more determinedly, putting his wounded mother down with one last shot to the head. Dasha pretended everything was fine for a while, but eventually she couldn’t take it anymore—she walked away and dove into the crowd. The kid walked away, too, diving in the other direction, but what really got to me was that damn porcelain.

  The guests were milling around outside, going into the bar, popping out of dark hallways, waiting for something and talking among themselves. I recognized John, the upstairs neighbor. He was standing next to some heavyset, diabetic-­looking friend of his who was already a few drinks deep, making him look even more sickly. Older men wearing fastidiously ironed dress shirts and important-­looking women with brightly colored makeup were mingling. Two guys who looked like taxi drivers—one of them was wearing a leather jacket and the other one had a bunch of prison tattoos—pushed their way through the crowd. “What an odd bunch,” I thought. “It seems like they should be at the train station waiting for the morning express to come in, not at a wedding.” Suddenly, I saw Dasha. She was leaning up against the wall, holding a glass of wine that couldn’t have been her first, laughing and hanging all over some little runt of a guy. He had a bloated, olive-­colored face, squinty eyes, fat lips, a stale white dress shirt, and expensive shoes that he didn’t bother to keep clean. He kept trying to touch Dasha, leaning in to give her a friendly pat on the back, reaching for her hand, chuckling and excitedly shouting something or other. Dasha was pretending everything was just fine. Or maybe everything really was just fine. She wasn’t looking in my direction, just yelling something back at Squinty Eyes and patting him on the back to rein him in, but she’d occasionally step to the side or back into the shade ever so slightly, as though that dude’s breath stank. When he touched her leg right above the knee, either jokingly or accidentally, although he did it quite firmly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked over to them.

  “Oh, Romeo.” She feigned pleasant surprise. “I’d like you to meet Kolia.”

  He extended his hand, not even looking at me.

  “Hold this,” I said, handing Dasha the porcelain. She was taken aback by my brusqueness, nearly dropping her gift, catching it rather awkwardly, and propping it up on her knee. Then Kolia finally acknowledged me. I took his big, damp hand, and he gave me a limp and reluctant shake.

  “I’m Romeo,” I said. “It’s very nice to meet you. Dasha has told me so much about you.”

  “Like what?” He seemed puzzled.

  “All sorts of stuff.”

  Kolia
got all flustered and squirmy, patting me on the back damply and reluctantly, then disappearing down the hallway. She gave me a viciously disappointed look, threw the porcelain under one of the tables, and started berating me. She said that she was so sick of us, the kid and me, that we were a couple of nitwits, that we couldn’t act our age, that she always had to break up our fights, and put up with us. But she wasn’t made of steel, she could only take so much (she started crying, as if to demonstrate); she needed to be alone for a while, and she’d tell us when she wanted to see us again. In other words, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

  “John,” she yelled over my shoulder. “Got any smokes?” Shoving me aside, she grabbed our neighbor, who was charging ahead too, and led him away. The diabetic dude followed them. I lost it, but all I could do was head off in the opposite direction. It was a good thing the wedding party was all sprawled out.

  “Where is your faith in yourself? Where is your joy, where is everything you’ve searched for in this world full of sun?” I asked myself. While the festivities continued outside, while dust rose and touched the soft blades of grass, green as salad, I was sitting in the bar, watching some damn sitcom. It wasn’t worth going back out because I’d have to socialize, explain myself, and find some way out of this mess; I’d have to avoid locking eyes with her, make a point of not looking at her, and pretend I didn’t see her. And right there, in the warm, early twilight, out of nowhere, a cowboy materialized—in addition to the hat, this character was sporting a light jacket, colorful shorts, and worn-­out flip-­flops. As soon as he noticed me, he detected all the sadness in my eyes and insisted I join him, saying, “Come on, man, whatcha doing bumming around here? The action is in the domain of the cold pools, in the sector of the water rides, in the black squares of the steam rooms, there among the hellish vapors!” He dragged me away because “you have to get into the spirit of things, you just can’t waste this glorious day of celebration.” He was a blisteringly fast talker, greedily devouring consonants and skipping between half-­finished thoughts. His cowboy hat kept slipping over his eyes, sweat was pouring down his forehead, the anticipation was soaking his sideburns, but as soon as he led me through a few secret chambers to a massage room I immediately realized that it had been worth the struggle. All the action was right here—the instant we came into view, a group of fiery, naked bodies darted toward the cowboy, acclaiming him, rubbing up against him with gratitude, and they rubbed up against me too; when it was women I was happy, but when it was men I was seized by a disquieting feeling and the desire to clock one of them, which got worse by the minute. The cowboy took a fat, scented parcel—something precious, something wrapped up in a tabloid—out of his pocket, and everyone went wild; they hoisted him up and carried him out through the doors, right to the gates of hell. Then I lay down on the massage table in the room, looking at the cold pool electrified by bright lights reflecting off its green surface. Beautiful, naked women strolled by, smiling affectionately, and dignified-­looking men wrapped in shaggy towels looked at me anxiously as they passed, seemingly trying to decide if I was one of them or just some interloper. Time meandered on, slipping by me and making my presence here even more random and devoid of purpose. When everyone had passed by me, left, and come back again, the cowboy reappeared, carrying a tray of cognac and lemon, forcing me to drink as much of it as I could—and then a lot more.

  “When else are we gonna drink together, man?” he yelled. “I’m getting the fuck outta here man—Ukrainian airlines—before ya know it, I’ll be halfway to fucking Timbuktu! No stopovers for me! Tomorrow, man! Out of invisible terminals! Down secret air corridors! Dodging all the customs agents, not declaring my jewels or my assets! Crusading through all the duty-­free zones! Two days from now,” he yelled with sloppy enthusiasm. “I’m gonna be sitting with a bunch of legit people somewhere out by Philadelphia (Philadelphia, man, the city!), with a bunch of bigtime stockbrokers (yeah man, brokers!), drinking some real kosher cognac, not this fucking swill!” He was screaming now, throwing back glass after glass. “Nah, no more of this shit for me.” When the naked bodies spilled out of the hot room, headed over toward the cold pool, and hoisted him up once again, I decided I’d had enough.

  I left the room and went back to the bar. The night had settled on the grass outside, the dishes were rattling, the women were arguing, and the singing was dying down. Somewhere behind me, a door creaked open. I looked around, catching a glimpse of the bride’s dress. Someone shut the door. I stepped through the side exit. I was just about to head out when I suddenly saw Amin. He was standing there, up against the wall, sobbing. Kolia was looming over him, holding the Rolex. The kid was whimpering, reaching up for his watch.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, walking over.

  Kolia looked up with a start, but he calmed down as soon as he saw it was just me.

  “Hey sonny boy, everything’s all right,” he said, narrowing his eyes even more. “I bought this Rolex off him fair and square, but he keeps bellyaching ’bout something.”

  “He didn’t buy it.” Amin started bellyaching again, still reaching up and trying to get his watch back.

  “So what’s the real story?” I asked.

  “It’s mine. I bought it,” Kolia said coldly. “Run along now, sonny boy.”

  “Listen up, you fuckin’ fag, give the kid his Rolex back,” I demanded.

  “Come again?”

  “I said give him his Rolex back.”

  “Sonny boy, what’s your deal?” Kolia finally opened his eyes all the way and looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.

  I cut him off with a powerful punch to the solar plexus. Kolia doubled over, but stayed on his feet, trying to take a step back. I jumped on top of him. The door behind me burst open, and cheerful voices, invigorated by anger and excitement, spilled outside. I was slammed onto the asphalt before I even knew what was happening, taking a few hits to the kidneys and a few hits to the spine; it’s a good thing I managed to cover my head in time. Then it all stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I tried to get up, but somebody’s shoe was pinning me to the asphalt. Kolia was standing over me along with three or four guys. I didn’t know them, but they seemed to know him quite well, that’s for sure. Kolia couldn’t decide whether to finish me off or leave me there. Then he finally let me go.

  “Prick,” he said in a conciliatory tone, spitting off to the side and heading back to the bar. The rest of the gang filed in behind him.

  I got up. My leg was killing me, and my shirt was a total mess. The kid was standing next to me, badly shook up. The Rolex was just lying there on the asphalt. I picked it up, handed it to him, and then rested my back up against the wall. The door opened once again. Dasha ran outside, saw us, and walked over. Wobbling a bit at first, she regrouped quickly and regained her balance. She looked at the kid’s teary eyes, saw my shirt, ripped to shreds, and then started yelling.