Voroshilovgrad (28 page)

She caught her breath, collecting herself, then grazed her lips across my cheek before disappearing into the hallway. I stood there for a bit and then went out too. I walked over to the front door of the apartment and opened it a crack, peering through to the stairwell. It was packed, same as before. I joined the throng, and nobody noticed me coming back, but then Kocha unexpectedly popped out of the apartment behind me—I was taken aback, but he didn't seem to notice, grasping my hand firmly and dragging me down the stairs. I submitted, following behind him and thinking about how to tell him about what had just happened. We stumbled out into the street and Kocha stopped.

“Kocha,” I said, fumbling for words, “I ought to tell you, I kind a wound up . . .”

“Whatever, buddy,” he whistled back jauntily. “Just chill man. Go home, otherwise you'll drink yourself to death. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“I just wanted to tell you . . .”

“Forget about it, buddy,” Kocha replied. “It's not like you can tell me anything I haven't heard before. You better get going before those alcoholics in there get hold of you again.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Thanks, man. It's a damn shame what happened to Masha.”

“Everything's dope,” Kocha answered in a severe yet candid tone. “Mom's already walking down the yellow brick road. She's long gone,” he added and disappeared back inside.

I turned around and headed home. The sand underneath my feet was wet, and the city's buildings were dark, as if they were
filled with black paint. I walked along, trying to remember everything I could from that night after the game. The more distance I covered, the more distinct my memories became. I remembered the women's frightened and slightly hysterical voices begging us to stay put, not to go anywhere, not to venture out into the darkness lit up from the inside by electrified evening air. I remembered Tamara running up to us and standing in Kocha's way, flat out refusing to let him pass. I remembered how she fixed her dress discreetly, how she was scrutinizing me, how I immediately realized that she had seen everything, that she'd noticed me but wasn't the least bit scared I would go and tell Kocha everything. The fact that she didn't even feel awkward around me hurt the most—I was upset with her, but there was no way I could have said anything. Most importantly, I remembered that light: the yellow, thick light coming off the lampposts, and the anxious silhouettes carrying on about something, trying to come to a decision. Who was there? I remember my brother, and Kocha of course, and someone else too. But who? Kocha was trying to convince my brother to give him the knife, but my brother was just standing there in some kind of stupor, and it seemed like he wasn't listening. All he could do was wipe the blood off the blade. The fragments came together and I could see it—Kocha finally grabbing the knife out of my brother's hand, cutting himself in the process, and then tossing it far away into the darkness. And then Kocha walking somewhere with two policemen, as Tamara tried to stop them, shouting that Kocha had nothing to do with it and they should let him go. The last thing I could remember was her standing there by the broken glass, her head in her hands, her rings shining silver against her thick black
hair. Now I saw the morning sun cropping up in the sky and the mulberry trees all around me starting to soak up the darkness, like sponges soaking up the black soda that had spilled all over the sky.

10

“Where have you been?!” Katya shouted, dressed in her long raincoat and baggy athletic pants, standing beside the catapult. She wouldn't budge, as though afraid to step outside the cover of the fog that had descended on the station. “They killed her!” she shouted.

“Who'd they kill?” I asked, horrified.

“Pakhmutova! They hanged her!”

She wouldn't budge, as though afraid to leave the cover of the fog that had descended on the station. Everything in the area looked as though it was dissolving into the damp air. I turned off the highway and walked up to the gas pumps as she let out a terrible cry.

It had taken me a long time to climb the hill, peering into the morning murk all the while, in search of passing cars that might give me a lift. By the time I had made it out of town, it was already getting light outside. The remaining darkness had settled on the bottom of the valley like silt. Here on the hill, the air had filled up from the inside with white fog. It was so opaque that I didn't see Katya until she was right in front of me, both palms pressed to her face. She went on shouting hysterically, her frightened eyes bulging at me as though I was the one who'd hanged her dog.

“Where is she?” I asked. Katya continued shouting, ignoring
me. I grabbed her by the elbow, trying to shake some sense into her. “Are you even listening to me? Where is she?”

“Over there,” Katya said, after a moment, gesturing vaguely.

I pushed her aside and strode into the fog, but I couldn't see a thing. It was as though a brick wall was stretched out behind the catapult; all I could make out were some trees and part of the trailer out back.

“Are you listening to me? Where is she? Show me!”

“She's right over there,” Katya said, pointing up.

I looked up. There was Pakhmutova, swinging over my head in the foggy mass, hanging from the pole. She looked like a flag raised for a state holiday. I went over and tried uncoiling the metal line. It was taut and resilient; the wet metal cut into my fingers but I managed to loosen the knot. I carefully lowered the dog onto the ground and leaned over her. Katya was behind me, whimpering now. I finally got the knot undone. The line had dug into her neck—bloody clumps of fur were still clinging to the metal. I set her down on the asphalt. Katya couldn't muster the courage to come any closer, so she stayed where she was, staring at her dead dog.

“How did you find her?”

“She'd been missing since yesterday,” Katya answered. “I was looking for her all night. I came over to the highway a few times, then decided to check at the station again, because she runs over here all the time. But she wasn't here. No one was here. I decided to wait for someone. I sat on that thingy over there,” she said, pointing at the catapult. “I couldn't see anything in the fog. Well, I fell asleep. Then I opened my eyes again and saw her. I thought
I was dreaming.”

She was crying again. I hugged her and felt how sweaty she was in her heavy raincoat. I tried calming her down, but she went on crying and whimpering, burrowing her face into my shoulder. She wasn't listening.

“Let's move her someplace else,” I said finally. “We have to bury her.”

Katya stepped back obediently and sniffled, waiting for me to pick up the dog. Pakhmutova didn't turn out to be too heavy—after all, she was really getting up there. The last few years seemed to have sucked out any excess weight. I carefully carried her over to the trailer. Katya followed me without a word. I took the path along the side of the trailer, where the grass was particularly thick and cool, and lowered Pakhmutova onto the ground. She looked almost happy, lying there in the cool grass. Katya was still crying. I hugged her again and took her back over to the trailer. I opened the door, stepped in ahead of Katya, drew her in, and sat her down on the couch. Then I went to make some tea.

Strong and sweet tea—it burned her throat and fogged her vision, ignited her from gullet to heart, making her cry even more bitterly. Then she put her mug on the floor, off to the side, and started kissing me, wrapping her hands around my neck. Her raincoat was hampering her movements; she looked comical and awkward—the two of us started sliding it off. She jerked suddenly, kicking over her mug, which gave the air a sharp, minty scent. I kept taking off her clothes, working methodically; she was wearing different colored socks—maybe she got dressed in a hurry to go looking for her dog, who might very well be coasting down
the yellow brick road at that very moment, I thought, falling in right behind Jesus and Masha. Then I tried peeling Katya off me for a second, just long enough to slip out of my own clothing. Her expression became serious when she let me in. She was consumed by this new activity; it was a task she performed calmly and conscientiously, but not too meticulously, like a schoolgirl who does all of her homework because she likes the teacher, but not his subject. I saw she had a tattoo on her calf. Odd that I'd never noticed it before. I could hardly see it. It was as if the rain had nearly washed it all away. She rolled me over on my back and got on top with a carefree bound, rocking the couch and goading the old odors of dust and love out of it. Occasionally, she'd get caught up in her own thoughts, dropping onto my chest and starting to cry again, but crying contentedly, without commentary, without complaint. When she was done, she used my sweaty T-shirt to wipe away her tears.

“Now I'm definitely getting out of this place,” she said and started rooting around in my pockets.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Don't you have any smokes?” But no, she didn't find any. Then she pulled the yellow-rimmed sunglasses out of my jacket, put them on, and fell back onto the pillow by our heads, gazing up at the ceiling.

It was already late morning, and incredibly bright outside. The
fog had drifted off somewhere toward the river, and it now looked like it was going to be a dry, sunny day. Our clothing was heaped together on the floor; the room smelled like cold tea.

“Where are you going to go?” I asked.

“Odessa,” Katya answered, “to live by the beach.”

“What are you going to do there?”

“Go to college.”

“And what do you want to do when you graduate?” I asked, like a helpful upperclassman.

“I'll be a prostitute,” Katya said, and laughed. “Why are you asking such dumb questions? What about you?” she asked. “When are you leaving?”

“Never.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'll open up a barbeque joint. It's a sure thing. Maybe you should stick around here with me?” I suggested. “We'll get married and all.”

“You're a goof,” she replied, very amused. “They'll take you out too, any day now, just like Pakhmutova.” She was crying again.

“Please, don't,” I said, trying to comfort her. “You're wasting your tears anyway—I can't see them through those sunglasses.”

“It's a good thing you can't,” Katya said, and fell asleep as though on cue, her head resting against my shoulder.

“It's a bummer she's leaving town,” I thought. “Although I guess it'd be much worse if she stayed.”

The lethargic afternoon sun was hanging high up in the sky, but I still couldn't get to sleep. It was as though I were fighting some unknown force, trying to stay on my feet as long as possible, waiting for the crucial turning point in our fight. And, you know what—the crucial turning point did in fact arrive. Someone pulled up to the pumps—I heard it. It could have been anyone. What popped into my head was that I should find a baseball bat or something to defend the sanctity of private property . . . I felt strangely detached from the danger, apathetic—I didn't want to do anything at all. I didn't want to defend myself, didn't want to snap any necks, didn't want to put my own neck on the line. “Sure, maybe death is coming,” I thought, “But not for me. I'll remember his face for next time.” I heard some footsteps, the door opening, and there was Olga. She stood in the doorway for a bit, surveying the sun-kissed room. Seeing Katya sleeping next to me, she froze for a moment, then began fixing her hair. She came over and sat down on the couch next to me. I was unable to sit up or say a word. “Well,” I thought, “this really couldn't get any worse—dying probably would have been better.”

“Hey,” Olga said, trying to be nonchalant. “What's going on here?”

“She's sleeping. You called yesterday?”

“Yeah, a few times,” she said, looking even more anxious.

“Let me wake her up,” I suggested. “I'll send her home, and then we'll be able to talk.”