Voroshilovgrad (10 page)

I took out my own card and handed it over. His read, Assistant to Member of Parliament Marlen Pastushok.

“Where are you headed?” Nikolaich asked.

“Don't know,” I said, “home, maybe.”

“We'll give you a ride, it's along the way. Nick, let's go.”

Nick . . . so the driver's name was also Nikolay. Maybe that was one of the prerequisites for getting hired in this
outfit—non-Nikolays need not apply. Anyway, I saw an old Makarov pistol with notches on the grip lying brazenly on the seat next to “Nick.” And I thought to myself, “This sort of cavalier attitude toward handling weapons might well get someone killed.”

“The door,” Nikolaich barked.

“What?” I asked blankly.

“Close the door.”

I did, and the Jeep tore off into the bushes. Nick was driving headlong, paying no real attention to the road in front of him, as though relying on a compass. We plowed through the playground, looped around the disco where I first had sex, hopped the curb, then landed on the main road. But Nick wasn't going to take the easy way out—he spun the car into a dead-end side street paved with cracked bricks instead of asphalt, dragged us through a construction site, soared over a ditch, and pulled out onto the highway. All the while, Nick had been listening to some heavy guitar-based music—Rammstein, or something along those lines.

“Are you hiding from someone?” I asked Nikolaich.

“Nah, nah, it's just that Nick knows all the shortcuts around here.”

We rode on for a while without speaking. Then Nikolaich cracked:

“Nick!” he yelled up to the driver, though Nick couldn't hear him over the music. “Nick, fuck man! Turn those fascists off!” Nick turned around rather grumpily, but he did turn the music off.

“Mr. Korolyov,” he said.

“Just call me Herman,” I told him.

“Sure, sure, of course,” Nikolaich said. “I'd like to have a talk with you.”

“Okay, so let's talk.”

“Okay, let's.”

“I don't mind.”

“Excellent! Nick!” Nikolaich shouted. We had just driven onto a bridge. At the sound of his name, Nick hit the brakes, halfway across, then turned the engine off. Silence.

“Well, how do you like it in our neck of the woods?” Nikolaich asked, as if we weren't parked in the middle of a bridge.

“It's fine,” I answered hesitantly. “I have to admit, it's good to be back in my old stomping grounds. Aren't we going to go any farther?” I asked, looking out the window.

“Nah, nah,” Nikolaich reassured me, “soon we'll take you wherever you need to go. How long will you be in town for?”

“Don't know,” I said, starting to get anxious. “We'll see how things play out. I'm sure you know my brother's gone . . .”

“Yeah,” Nikolaich interjected, “Mr. Korolyov and I . . . I mean Yura, had a professional relationship,” he said, finally making eye contact.

“That's good,” I said rather feebly.

“It's excellent,” Nikolaich agreed. “What could be better than a professional relationship?”

“Don't know,” I admitted.

“You don't know?”

“I don't.”

“I don't know either,” Nikolaich said. A milk truck pulled up behind us. The driver honked. I saw another driver pulling up behind the milk truck. “Nick!” Nikolaich shouted.

Nick hopped out of the car and walked over to the milk truck.
Then he jumped onto the running board, stuck his big head through the open driver's side window, and said something. The driver shut off his engine. Nick hopped down onto the asphalt and walked over to the next car.

“Herman, what I'm getting at is . . .” Nikolaich continued, “You're a young, energetic guy. You have a lot of ambition. I'd like to establish a professional relationship with you too. What do you think?”

“That would be excellent,” I agreed.

“I don't know if Olga told you, but we're interested in purchasing your business. You understand what I mean?”

“I do.”

“Well, it's good that you understand me. Your brother and I couldn't reach an understanding.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know, we couldn't sort out all the details.”

“Well, when he comes back, you'll sort them all out.”

“When's he coming back?” Nikolaich asked, really starting to scrutinize me.

“I don't know. Hopefully soon.”

“And if he doesn't come back?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . it may play out that way.”

“Don't be silly, Nikolay Nikolaich,” I said. “It's Yura's business—he'll definitely come back. I'm not planning on selling anything.”

A line of cars had formed behind us. The drivers coming our way in the other lane were stopping and asking Nick if everything was all right. Nick would say something, and the cars would just take off.

“Don't get anxious,” Nikolaich said in a conciliatory tone. “I realize you aren't going to sell your brother's business to someone you hardly know. I completely understand that. Think it over—you have some time. We weren't able to reach an understanding with your brother, but I hope with you everything will work out the way it's supposed to. You've only got one option. Your business is failing—I know that for a fact. I see where your brother is coming from; he really did build his business from the ground up. But a business needs to keep growing, you got that, Herman? Take the money and split it with your brother. That's if he comes back. Think it over, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Promise?”

“I swear,” I answered, hoping to wrap this conversation up and get traffic moving again.

“Well, sounds like a deal,” Nikolaich said, kicking back in his seat. “Nick!” he yelled.

Clearly in no hurry, Nick casually sat down in the driver's seat, started up the engine, and we headed out. A whole column of cars followed suit. We crossed the bridge, crested the hill easily, and veered off toward the gas station. Nick slammed on the brakes as soon as we pulled in. I opened the door. Kocha and Injured were soaking up the sun, sitting in the chairs by the booth. They exchanged a look full of surprise when they saw me.

“Well then,” Nikolaich said as I took my leave, “I'm glad we've already found some common ground.”

“Hold up,” I said, as if I was trying to remember something. “What would you do if I were to turn you down?”

“Do you really have a choice?” Nikolaich asked incredulously. Breaking into a wide grin, he added “Okay, Herman, I'll stop by in a week. Have a good one.”

Kocha had unbuttoned his overalls down to his chest; he sat there tanning a body as withered and pale as some dusty relic. Injured was wearing a foppish snow-white dress shirt, meticulously ironed black pants, and polished, pointed shoes. He looked like a farmer who was marrying off his only daughter. Both of them were glaring at me disapprovingly—Injured's eyes were burning right through me as he ran a finger over his mustache, and Kocha's glasses flashed in the sun, making me think of a dog baring its glinting fangs.

“Herman, what was all that about?” Injured asked.

“Did they rough you up?” Kocha added.

“Are you kidding? Nobody laid a finger on me. We just had a talk, and then they dropped me off.”

“They're your new buddies?” Injured asked grimly.

“Uh-huh. We're good buddies, all right. They want to buy the gas station.”

“Herman, we know,” Injured said.

“You already knew?” I asked. “That's just great. How come you didn't tell me?”

“You didn't ask,” Injured said, a bit offended.

“What was I supposed to ask you?”

“You weren't supposed to ask us anything,” Injured said grumpily.

“That's just what I thought.”

“Well, what did you think?” Injured asked after a short pause.

“I don't know. I think that 50k for this heap of scrap metal
is a good price.”

“You call that a good price?” Injured asked, getting up and sticking out his large gut.

“I'd say so.”

“Sure, sure.” Injured was mulling something over, examining the pointed tips of his shoes, “Herman, watch it,” he said eventually, “if you screw up too many times you'll be sorry. So you figure the easiest thing is to sell all this shit, do you?”

“It could be,” I agreed.

“It could be, it could be,” Injured repeated, before turning around and walking over to the garage.

I flopped down on the chair next to Kocha. He was hiding his eyes behind his glasses and looking up at the sky. Heavy clouds had begun moving in, and now they were drifting along over the hill, nearly beaching themselves on the booth's lonely pole like overloaded barges coasting in shallow waters.

“Here,” I said, giving Kocha the vitamins. He inspected the bottle, holding it up to the sun.

“What's this?” he asked suspiciously.

“Vitamins.”

“For my insomnia?”

“For your insomnia.”

“Who makes them?”

“A Dutch company. You see those hieroglyphs? That's Dutch. They put shrooms in there . . . you know, the white ones, so you'll sleep like a rock.”

“Thanks, Herman,” Kocha said. “And don't mind Injured. So what if you sell the gas station? It wouldn't be the end of the
fuckin' world.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

A leather ball flew out through the open garage doors—it landed heavily and rolled down the warm macadam. Then Injured emerged from the dark garage. He wasn't even looking at us. He came up to the ball, chipped it up with his polished shoe, moving pretty easily for a guy his weight, popped it into the air, and started juggling just as easily with his left foot. His movements were easy and effortless; he sucked in his stomach adeptly so the ball wouldn't hit it as he kept it afloat, occasionally heading it or tapping it with his shoulder. Kocha and I froze, observing these miracles of motion. Injured still had it—he'd hardly even broken a sweat, though his eyes were a bit red from exertion and his breathing slightly labored. And there was his stomach, twisting and turning and always seeming to get in the way, despite his best efforts.

Three trucks pulled in off the highway as the performance continued. The drivers hurried over, greeted Kocha, and joined in watching Injured.

“Injured!” one of them yelled, clearly dying to play. “Pass!”

Injured glanced at him, and kicked the ball in his direction. The driver stepped on it, took one slightly awkward touch, and booted it as hard as he could back to Injured. Injured trapped it and then clamped it between his legs. The drivers could no longer contain themselves, and they all bolted toward him, howling like wild animals. It was on. Injured spun away from the drivers' embraces and did circles around his opponents, forcing them to fall and trip
over each other—holding onto the ball all the while. The drivers were charging at Injured like dogs going after a sleepy bear, but they were utterly hopeless. They started smacking each other in frustration, clearly trying to assign blame. Injured was starting to get short of breath, so he dropped far back on the macadam strip. He'd been kicked in the shins a few times and now was limping a bit. Smelling blood, the drivers pressed their attack with fresh vigor. Injured faked out one of them out, causing him to ram his head into his teammate; both dropped to the asphalt like bowling pins. The third driver ran over to help them up. Injured caught his breath and looked over in our direction.

“Herman,” he yelled, “get in here—it's three against one, ya know . . .”

I dashed over onto the strip. Injured passed the ball to me; I took possession and carried it across the “field.” The drivers too were running out of steam after circling a few times, so they stopped, rested their hands on their knees, and tried catching their breath. Their tongues lolled like the tongues of corpses, or tickets poking out of trolley machines. I stopped, waiting for a response from Injured. He motioned toward the drivers, as if to say, “Let them play a bit.” I booted the ball to the tallest guy; he was standing the closest to me. Elated, he dashed for the ball, turned around, and hammered the leather sphere as hard as he could. The ball shot into the sky, slicing through the air and seemingly brushing against the clouds before disappearing into the grass behind the macadam strip. The drivers' spirits were nearly broken, but after a brief team meeting, they decided to venture off into the thicket. Injured and I followed them. Even Kocha got up. We moved into
the dust and enveloping warmth like African hunters trying to lure lions into the open. The ball was sitting somewhere in the brush; you could hear its muffled growling, its faintly beating leather heart. We advanced cautiously, trying to catch a glimpse of it—occasionally we'd call out to each other and have a look at the sky, where more and more clouds kept rolling in.

It all reminded me of something—men wading warily through waist-high grass, pushing the blades back, gazing fixedly at the texture of the plants around them, listening to the sounds coming out of the brush, goading skittish animals out of the foliage, slowly crossing an unending field. I'd seen this before. Tense backs, silhouettes standing still in the twilight, white dress shirts shining in the darkness.

When had I seen it before? Back in 1990, I think. Yeah, 1990. In the summer. We'd just won a home game against Voroshilovgrad. Injured scored late in the match. It may have been his best game ever. We were at a restaurant called Ukraine, over by the park, across from the fire station. It was evening, and we were celebrating the victory: our players as well as local gangsters, women wearing fancy dresses and men wearing white dress shirts or track suits, waiters—budding capitalists, all of us, sitting together with all kinds of crooks, hot waves of alcohol breaking over our heads. It made me think of when we'd dare each other to run into the sea at night: a bittersweet, black wave washes over you and then you run back out onto the beach, no longer a boy, but a man. Boxes of vodka; an endless table seating everyone you know; loud, crappy music; blue, damp twilight shining in through the window; drenched trees; voices blending together and reminding you of
the rain; men and women talking, the overwhelming feeling of approaching some precipice with hot, unbearable drafts rising from beyond to take your breath away and make your pupils dilate, the underlying sensation of invisible vessels pumping the whole world's blood. Suddenly, there's the sound of shattering glass amid all that golden shimmering, and the air burst into a million crystal pieces—some Voroshilovgrad fan had tracked us down, and he threw a brick through the restaurant window. The dark blue night poured into the room, chilling our blood and knocking our spinning heads back into sobriety. Next came a short silence, followed by general movement, angry voices, everyone suddenly bursting with courage, loud shuffling through the doors, more broken glass, the stomping of shoes on the wet asphalt, white dress shirts standing out sharply as men sprang into the lilac-colored night, female silhouettes by the window peering anxiously into the darkness. Gangsters and capitalists, soccer players and the neighborhood crew—all of them spilling out through the darkness and combing the wasteland beyond the park, chasing their invisible quarry toward the river, refusing to let it get away; an odd pursuit full of excitement and joy—nobody wants to fall behind, everyone stares into the overwhelming darkness of the summer, ducking around and trying to catch a glimpse of the enemy. Distant electric lights burn beyond the river as if yellow-green suns are burying themselves in the grass; we want to lure them out, so they can dissolve the surrounding darkness—it's thickening like blood, hot blood shot into an internal combustion engine by the effort of our breathing.