Voroshilovgrad (21 page)

I was starting to feel uneasy.

“It looks like you rub them the wrong way,” Olga said, sorting through some papers.

“Could that put the business in jeopardy?”

“You betcha. Herman, if those old vultures get a hold of you
somewhere in town, you could be in some real deep trouble.” Her voice was grim.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean they'll cook up a sexual harassment case. Come on, use your head,” Olga said, tucking away her papers. “Well, now we're getting audited. Those hags are going to come in here every day and try to get me to shut down your business.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Herman, I'm an accountant. I'm going to do what I'm paid to do, so don't you worry.”

“But it's no coincidence that they started this audit today.”

“Ya think?” Olga took off her glasses and sized me up. She looked a bit tired.

“I talked with the corn guys' representative yesterday.”

“With whom exactly?”

“Nikolaich—the small guy. He's their representative.”

“Small guy?” Olga asked.

“Yeah.”

“That little shit . . .”

“That's the one.”

“He's their computer guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he's the guy who fixes their computers.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“I'm afraid not. I guess they aren't taking you very seriously. I would think about that if I were you.”

“Huh, imagine that, he does computers. He seemed like a decent enough guy to me.”

“In any case, we've got problems.”

“What exactly is the main problem?” I asked.

“Let me explain.”

We had a boatload of problems, of course, but one above all. As far as I could gather, we didn't have any copies of the minutes from the oil depot's workers' association meeting. My newly acquired property belonged, in fact, to that oil depot, and not to my brother or me. It seemed my brother didn't care too much about paperwork. He just wasn't that kind of person—generally, he did business by using his connections and his fists, so it didn't come as much of a surprise that he was missing some important documents. Clearly, the sanitation department ladies had been briefed on this weak point before they were sent into the enemy camp. According to Olga, all of our other documents were in good shape; our licenses, on the other hand, might actually cause some trouble, so we needed to do something about them fast. I had no idea what we should do. “It's all very simple,” Olga told me. “We need to get ahold of the former director of that oil depot—he's a pillar of the community, just so you know . . . we'll convince him to backdate a copy of that fuckin' rotten minutes form.” She sat down and started dialing him up.

I walked over to the window and peered out. The black Jeep was still parked outside—its tinted windows were rolled halfway down, and I could have sworn I saw Nick and Brunhilda Petrovna in the throes of a passionate make-out session in the front
seat, as Angela Petrovna sat in the back and poked them with a sharpened pencil.

After making a few calls, Olga ascertained that things would be even more complicated than she'd assumed. It turned out that our pillar of the community didn't actually live in the community anymore. He had moved to a medical facility by the salt lakes that were a few dozen kilometers away from here. We had no clue what condition he would be in, what kind of treatment he was getting, or even whether there was any scientific basis for him being out there in the first place. In short, we didn't know what we were getting ourselves into. I found myself remembering the harsh tone that goddamn computer guy had tried to take with me the day before. And then, as I was remembering the old ladies' unfriendly stares in turn, a bitter and unsettling sensation overcame me—for the first time since my arrival at the station, I really wanted to go home, back to my white-collar job, back to my mundane routine as a party functionary. I regained my composure quickly, though.

“Well? Ready to go?” Olga asked.

“Where to?”

“To visit the director. Where else?”

“Do you need me to be there?”

“Not really,” Olga replied, “but in this particular case it'd be better if you came.”

“I feel like a real capitalist. I've got interests to protect now. I feel like George Soros.”

“Quit your blabbing. I'm trying to think here,” Olga said, getting ready to go.

The road flowed up and down the green, sun-plastered hills and valleys. The asphalt was falling to pieces, so we were driving cautiously, taking our time. I held onto Olga firmly, her T-shirt flapping in the wind; she didn't seem to care. We passed a few bars scattered along the way. Black, dusty trucks were out in their parking lots with some kids and prostitutes, weary from the extreme heat, sleeping inside. Olga looked around with a severe and concentrated expression, but she only stopped to ask for directions once, from a prostitute. The woman didn't even get out of the truck to answer—she just pointed the way with her bare foot. As we were climbing yet another hill, Olga stopped and looked apprehensively to the south. “It might rain,” she said, uneasily, before we forged on.

A bit later, a vast pine forest stretched out before us.

The director was undergoing treatment at an old, timeworn sanitarium. According to Olga, he was practically being held there against his will, because what the old guy really wanted was to go on being a productive member of society. According to Olga, he'd led a heroic life, and had a reputation for being quite the
curmudgeon, so she warned me that he might have a problem with me. This didn't exactly put my mind at ease, but we'd come all that way—I had to have a talk with him.

The forest was sparse around the sanitarium. Salt marshes stretched out along the perimeter—the sick, the humiliated, and the insulted were swimming in them. We drove through the gate and turned toward the main building. Olga parked her scooter and went ahead. I fell in behind her, watching the patients. There was something unsettling about them. They looked at me mistrustfully, stepping back, whispering among themselves, and pointing their long, skinny fingers at us. The salt marshes gave off an odd smell—a mix of silt and brimstone. The receptionist recognized Olga, nodding happily and informing her that Mr. Petrovsky was in an especially bad mood today; he'd been acting up all morning: hadn't touched his breakfast, had made a scene at lunch, and was refusing to go to the bathroom. Basically, he was being a real pain in the ass—just like yesterday and the day before that. They told us to be careful and not turn our backs on the old-timer. Wishing us luck, they slammed the window down. Olga headed down a hallway, and I tried to keep up, glancing at the patients peering out of the procedure rooms. The walls were lined with odd medical posters warning about the dangers of overheating in the sun, catching hypothermia in the water, and having unprotected sex. Unprotected sex was depicted as something like an act of trespass against God, an offense that would get you excommunicated, and stoned at Party meetings. Posters like that make you want to swear off sex altogether.

Mr. Petrovsky's ward was on the second floor. Olga knocked
on the door resolutely, opened it, and stepped into the room. I collected myself and followed suit.

“Hello, Mr. Petrovsky! Hello, my dear!” Olga chirped, addressing the old timer lying in the bed by the window, giddily running up to him and kissing him on his shiny, bald head.

“Olga, my sweet little butter crumpet, hello there,” Mr. Petrovsky extended his slobbery lips, trying to land on her cheek. He gave me the suspicious look I'd come to expect around here. “Who's this snot-nose you brought along?”

“Herman,” Olga answered, “the businessman.”

“Hello.” I stayed put by the door.

“Businessman?” Mr. Petrovsky asked skeptically. “Well, to hell with him. Tell me how you've been doing,” he said, turning to Olga.

Olga started telling him about their mutual friends, about the state of the stock market. Meanwhile, I was sizing the old-timer up. Mr. Petrovsky was alert and energetic, with a little twinkle in his eye. Saggy gray curls sprinkled his predominately bald head; dirty, shaggy eyebrows crowned his face, and his nose was hooked. When Mr. Petrovsky spoke, his dentures made a predatory clicking sound somewhere inside his skull. He was lying on the unmade bed in his suit, a snow-white, starchy shirt poking out over the top of a jacket festooned with union member badges and Hero of Labor medals. Incongruous rubber beach sandals stuck out at the bottom. The whole ensemble made him look like William S. Burroughs being admitted to the Writers' Union. A big, busty nurse was sitting on a chipped, dark blue stool beside the director. He called her Natasha and treated her like utter garbage, not
seeming to care that we were watching him do it. Natasha clearly knew her place in the party hierarchy, however; she would hand Mr. Petrovsky his metal mug of rum, fill his silver hookah with tobacco, swat away the moths hovering over his bald skull, rub down the geezer's feet with French perfume, and take his adult magazines away from him as needed. She performed all of these duties without speaking a single word, or even looking directly at her charge. He wasn't the only man in the ward, though: there were two other patients there to enjoy the show. One heavyset fellow was lying across from Mr. Petrovsky, panting profusely. His bulging eyes were fixed on his venerable neighbor, absolutely fuckin' floored by his brazen attitude and willingness to break the rules. This one was wearing a modest outfit—striped hospital pajamas and warm soccer socks—and was holding a newspaper over which he'd cast the occasional apprehensive but curious glance at Natasha. The ward's third inhabitant was stationed closer to the door, exhibiting no signs of life. Judging by the smell, I'd have guessed he had died roughly three days ago, although I might have been off by a couple of days.

Meanwhile, nervous shuffling and whispering could be heard down the hallway—some of the other patients were standing at their doors, frozen and suspicious, trying to catch bits of our conversation. I didn't like this one bit—I wanted to escape from this crematorium as quickly as possible.