Voroshilovgrad (2 page)

The next morning, I went up to Lyolik in the office.

“Lyolik,” I asked, “well, are we going?”

“Do we have to?” he moaned. “Are you for real? My car is old, God forbid it breaks down along the way.”

“Lyolik,” I persisted, “my brother will completely overhaul your car. C'mon, be a pal. You don't want me to have to take a bunch of trains, do you?”

“Well, I don't know. What about work?”

“Get the fuck out of here with that shit! We have the day off tomorrow.”

“I don't know,” Lyolik said again, “I'll have to talk it over with Bolik. If he doesn't load us up with work . . .”

“Let's go talk to him now,” I said, and dragged him into the next cubicle.

Bolik and Lyolik were cousins. I'd known them since college.
We were all history majors. They didn't look related; Bolik was hip: skinny and clean-cut; he wore contacts and it seemed like he even got manicures. Lyolik was pretty ripped, but a bit on the slow side. He wore inexpensive business casual clothes, rarely cut his hair, and wouldn't spring for contacts, so he wore glasses with metal frames. Bolik looked slicker, but Lyolik looked like a simple guy you could count on. Bolik was six months older, so he felt responsible for his cousin; I guess he had some kind of older brother complex. He came from a respectable family. His father had worked for the Communist Youth League, then he made a career for himself in some party or another, got elected head of the regional government, and eventually wound up joining the opposition. During the past few years he'd held some office working for the Governor. Lyolik, on the other hand, came from more humble origins. His mom was a schoolteacher, while his dad had been slaving away in Russia since the '80s. They lived in a small town outside of Kharkiv. Lyolik was the poor relation, so everyone loved him, or at least that's what he thought. After college, Bolik immediately went to work for his dad, while Lyolik and I tried to make it on our own. We worked in an advertising agency, a newspaper that ran free ads, and in the public relations department for the Nationalists' Congress. We even tried our hand at working in a bookmaker's office, which then shut down in the second month of operation. Then, a few years ago, Bolik, concerned about our aimless drifting and thinking back to our carefree college days, invited us to work with him at the regional government office. Bolik's father had registered a few youth organizations under his name, through which various grants were funneled, and small but steady amounts of money were laundered. So that's how we got our start. Our work was strange and unpredictable. We edited speeches, held seminars for up-and-coming leaders and workshops for election observers, constructed political platforms for new parties, chopped wood at Bolik's father's country house, advocated for the democratic process as guests on TV talk shows, and laundered, laundered, laundered the dough being funneled through our accounts. The title on my business card read “Independent Expert.” After a year's work I bought myself a souped-up computer, while Lyolik rewarded himself with a beat-up Volkswagen. By this time, we'd moved into our apartment. Bolik often stopped by our place, sat on the floor in my room, picked up the phone, and called up prostitutes. You know, standard stuff for a model employee trying to climb the corporate ladder. Lyolik didn't really like his cousin, or me for that matter, but we had already roomed together for a few years now, so our relationship was easy, perhaps even close. I was always borrowing clothes from him, and he was always borrowing money from me—the only difference being that I always gave back his clothes. He and his cousin had been up to something for the past few months—some sort of new family business. I decided not to get involved, since it was party-sponsored and who knew what that would lead to. The loans were one thing, but I had a stash he didn't know about, a wad of dollars stuck in a volume of Hegel. In general, yes, I trusted them, but I realized it was about time to start looking for a straight job.

Bolik was sitting in his office, working on some documents; folders containing the results of some surveys were spread out on the table in front of him. Seeing us, he clicked over to the regional government website in case we peeked at his screen.

“Hey there, you two,” he said cheerfully, like a real boss ought to sound. “Well . . . How are things?”

“Bolik,” I started in, “we want to visit my brother. You know him, right?”

“Yea, I do,” he said, examining his fingernails.

“We don't have anything planned for tomorrow, do we?”

Bolik thought for a bit, took another look at his nails, and abruptly hid them behind his back.

“You have the day off tomorrow,” he replied.

“That means we're going,” I said to Lyolik, and turned toward the door.

“Wait up,” Bolik said, and I turned around. “I'm going to come along.”

“You sure about that?” I asked, a bit incredulous.

I didn't want to drag him along. I could see Lyolik tightening up too.

“Yeah,” said Bolik, “Let's all go together. You don't mind, do you?”

Lyolik kept quiet, clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

“Bolik,” I said, “why would you want to go?”

“Just because,” he replied. “I won't get in the way.”

I figured Lyolik wouldn't like the idea of going on a trip with his cousin along—his cousin who was constantly monitoring him, who didn't want to let Lyolik out of his sight even for a second.

“But we're shipping out really early,” I said, trying to put up some last ditch resistance. “At five or so.”

“At five?” Lyolik asked incredulously.

“At five!” Bolik exclaimed.

“At five,” I repeated, and headed toward the door.

I figured I'd let them sort it out among themselves.

In the afternoon I called Kocha again. Nobody picked up. “Maybe he's dead,” I thought to myself, and then realized that I actually hoped it was true.

In the evening, Lyolik and I were sitting at home in the kitchen. “Hey man,” he piped up, all of a sudden, “you think maybe we could just stay here? Maybe you can call them again?” “Lyolik,” I said firmly, “we're only going for one day. We'll be back home on Sunday. Chill out.” “You chill out,” Lyolik retorted. “Okay,” I said.

But what's okay about all this? I'm thirty-three years old. I've been living on my own for a while, and quite happily, too. I rarely see my parents and have a good relationship with my brother. I've got a completely useless degree. I've got a dubious job. I've got enough money to support the lifestyle I'm used to. It's too late to get used to anything else. I'm more than happy with my lot. If something's not going to make me happy, I don't bother with it. A week ago my brother disappeared. He disappeared and didn't
even warn me. I'd say my life is just grand.

The parking lot was empty, which made us look a bit suspicious. Bolik was running late. I suggested we take off, but Lyolik insisted on hanging around for a bit. He went in to get coffee from the vending machine, and struck up a conversation with the security guards who lived right there in the large, well-lit supermarket. The bright and airy morning gave the display cases a yellow tint. The building resembled an ocean liner resting on the rocky bottom. Every once in a while, a pack of dogs would run across the parking lot, scornfully sniffing the wet asphalt and lifting their heads proudly toward the morning sun. Lyolik sprawled on the driver's seat, smoking one cigarette after another and anxiously calling his cousin over and over. They had been talking on the phone a lot lately, exchanging muttered accusations and complaints; whatever pretense to mutual trust they'd maintained till now seemed to be falling away. Lyolik ran into the store one more time for coffee, only to spill it all over himself, leaving him to painstakingly clean himself up with wet wipes and curse his cousin out for being late. That's how it always went with Lyolik—he was uncomfortable year round, either sweating buckets or shivering and sniffling; he was uncomfortable behind the wheel and equally uncomfortable in a suit. His cousin made him feel tense yet had sucked him into another dubious business venture. I told him to keep his distance, but Lyolik wouldn't heed my advice. The possibility of making an easy buck mesmerized him. All I could do was sit back and watch
their shady transactions, taking comfort in the fact that I hadn't let myself get wrapped up in this new scheme of theirs.

I went into the store for coffee, chatted with the security guards, and treated the dogs to some chips. It was time to go, but Lyolik just couldn't leave without his cousin.

He tore around the corner, helplessly scanning his surroundings while shooing away the stray dogs. Lyolik beeped; Bolik saw us and ran over to the car. The dogs trotted along behind him, tucking their ragged tails between their legs. Bolik opened up the rear passenger door and hopped in. He was in his usual suit with a green and noticeably wrinkled dress shirt underneath.

“Bolik,” said Lyolik, “what the fuck?”

“Goddammit, Lyolik,” said Bolik, “don't say a word.”