Voroshilovgrad (32 page)

The words they were singing warmed the roofs of their mouths as they belted them out, so by the time they began exalting Zion's golden hillsides, tucked away in the green woods beneath the icy blue sky, they were practically breathing fire. “Oh, Zion,” they cried, “golden Zion, the hidden chamber of our passion, golden Zion, the anthracite coal of dusk. We have ventured toward you, forty times in forty years, our elusive Zion. Boarding trains and barges, fording the mighty river, passing demarcation lines. Oh Zion, you're still so distant and unattainable, you remain elusive,
never in reach, never letting the Israelites return unto you. A thousand birds soar above us, showing the way toward you, Zion. A thousand fish swim behind us, straining to burst out into your sweet, shady embrace. Lizards and spiders, dogs and deer undertake this journey of faith with us. Lions of Judah, with dreads and stars on their heads, stand guard over our places of refuge. Owls fall into pits of darkness, losing their way during our endless journeys. How much longer must we endure? How much longer must we follow the rivers flowing south, closer to you? Callous farmers drive us from their fields like foxes. Blue rains flood our houses and our kitchen bowls, but those valiant, dark red lions lead us onward through the storm, black as tarnished silver. The lions of joy and enlightenment carry our sleepy children. The king of kings among the fish of the sea and the beasts of the land, whom we will recognize as soon as we reach your priceless hills, walks hidden somewhere among us. He will break out of this emptiness and overcome all the barriers in his way, traveling the roads of desperation to reach you. Yellow-green birds will lift him up by the hair so he can survey the twilit valley. Red-brown whales tuck him under the roofs of their mouths. He beats his drums, drawing to him the whole of the animal kingdom to teach them the value of patience and attention. Whosoever listens to him will know that from here on the roads will be firm and the grass will be fresh. Whoever hears his teachings will sing, along with the mad beating of the drums, hymns to your advent, oh Zion! Go to a place where you're welcomed and stay clear of any false teachings. And make sure to remember your divine mission and the people who love you, Zion!”

After all the songs had been sung, the bread had been broken, the wine had been drunk, and the presbyter had given a long and emotional sermon about piety, everyone left the auditorium for the reception. We were invited too. We walked down the only street of their strange settlement, passing nearly identical buildings. The smugglers led an odd life. It was as if they had settled permanently in a busy train station—their yards, roofs, trailers, and decks were occupied by goods wrapped in rags and brown paper and packed away in cardboard boxes and athletic bags. Dark curtains and tinfoil lined the windows of their houses; it was as if they were blacking out their settlement in preparation for an impending air raid. Tolik walked alongside me, his gun slung over his shoulder. He said they had a lot of work these days, that they were constantly on the move, spending their nights on the road. But they were used to all of that—it came with the territory, and their jobs were what kept them going.

The reception was held in their orchard, under the trees. Red apples lay in the sun-dappled grass, and spiderwebs were inching down the leaves as they moved with the wind. The presbyter, clearly an honored guest, was given a seat next to the bride and groom. The guy with the handkerchief tie sat next to him, and the two of them would occasionally toast the bride and groom, encouraging everyone to be hardworking and considerate of others, and to file their taxes in a timely fashion. One-eyed Tolik kept me entertained. Later on Gosha joined us, wearing a red dress shirt. The smugglers turned out to be a simple, hospitable bunch
of folks; they preferred Mediterranean cuisine (at least that's what they were calling it), but by the end of the reception they started chasing Moldovan cognac with soda. I thought to myself that it was a good thing for the whole congregation to get together for weddings and funerals. There was something primal and positive about it all—about the presbyter joining in their celebration and chasing his alcohol with the same soda as his parishioners, about how everyone was taking their turn dancing with the bride, about how everyone was kissing the groom out of brotherly love, some people even giving him enormous, grateful smooches, as though he were their best friend in the world, and had just gotten them out of some serious jam.

The newlyweds were given a boatload of gifts, mostly German household appliances—most notably ones manufactured by Bosch. Tolik told me that they'd received a fresh shipment from Bosch's Western Ukrainian partners a few days ago; they manufactured their own handy household and garden tools, and now had the right to slap Bosch labels on all of their products, having recently struck a clever deal with them. He said they'd be shipping the latest batch out to the Northern Caucasus tomorrow night, since Bosch goods are usually in very high demand down there. For the time being, though, all of the smugglers' closets were simply bursting at the seams with Bosch lawn mowers and chainsaws, while refrigerators and microwave ovens were stowed away in their cellars, waiting for their time to shine. Maybe that's why nearly all of the wedding presents were the same items—the newlyweds received two identical drills, two sets of garden shears, several electric scissors, and even a matched pair of tripod-mounted laser levels.
I expressed a certain degree of doubt as to whether they would actually need all of those things, but Tolik explained that they would, saying that the groom was in the smuggling business too, after all. He'd unload all of these tools quite handily somewhere in Ossetia or Ingushetia and make enough profit to build a brick house for his family.

Nightfall set in quickly; they laid out an extension cord from the nearest house, and soon the dark apple branches were lit by a soft band of electricity. Tolik and Gosha had already started saying their good-byes. They each gave the groom a long, sloppy kiss, shook the bride's hand, wished the presbyter sweet dreams, and exchanged tender farewells with Tamara. The presbyter decided to stay the night. The smugglers, most of whom were quite intoxicated by then, remained peaceful and amiable.

“Where you off to? It's still early . . .” I asked Tolik.

“We have to get to work,” he answered and pointed somewhere toward the east, where a ball of darkness had accumulated and some blue and yellow stars were shining.

“How about I come along?” I volunteered.

“All right,” he said. “But it's really dark out there. You won't be able to see a thing.”

“I'll be just fine.”

We looped through the black apple orchards, tromping all the while through on dry grass mottled with spiderwebs. Tolik and Gosha strode along confidently, speaking softly to one another.
They weren't rushing me—when I would fall behind they would freeze in the grass and wait patiently. Eventually we reached some empty meadows. Clouds had blanketed the sky like soot from a chimney, making the night truly dark. Tolik and Gosha found and moved further into the night. I lost sight of them; all I could hear was their footsteps, and then their once-quiet voices, which had begun to carry, their volume rising the longer our trek continued. Soon enough it sounded as though there was a large group of hikers up there in front of me. While moving through the all-encompassing blackness, I kept trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to remember the way, so I could get back if need be. I don't know why I believed I could ever manage to navigate through the gloom just as long as I didn't lose sight of my escort and wind up all alone in the cool darkness of the border. Impossible though I would have thought it, the black abyss seemed to be getting even deeper, up ahead: it looked as though the soot that had been pouring into the sky since we left had hardened.

“Be careful up here,” Tolik said, out of nowhere, as he started climbing up something I also couldn't see.

It looked like we'd reached the earthen wall I'd seen that afternoon. Once I'd climbed up after the smugglers, I realized that we were actually on top of an embankment leading down to railroad tracks.

“There's a railroad here?” I asked.

“Well, yeah,” Mr. One-Eye answered.

“Where does it go?”

“Nowhere.”

“What do you mean ‘nowhere'? It must go somewhere.”

“Nope. It doesn't. They were building it here in case of war. But they started building it from the center, laying track in either direction. Well, they never wound up connecting this line to anything at either end. They just stopped.”

“So you're saying that no trains run on these tracks?”

“We run on these tracks. The border's right over there. That's Ukraine,” he said, pointing to the left, “and that's Russia over there,” he said, nodding toward the black abyss.

We stood on the tracks for a bit, peering into the gloom.

“Why don't you take these apart and sell them as scrap metal?” I asked Mr. One Eye.

“These tracks keep our business running,” he explained. “The border guards on the other side cruise around in big trucks. If you can sneak by them on the tracks with some goods in hand, you're in the clear. They won't chase after you because they'd just get caught up on the rails.”

“Gotcha. But you can't see a thing out here.”

“Brohan,” Tolik said, laughing. “This is the sickest time for a smuggler. Isn't that right, Gosha.”

Gosha may have nodded in the darkness, but I couldn't tell.

“Well, what about you guys? How can you make anything out?” I asked. “It's pitch black out here.”

“Brohan, when you can't see, you gotta follow your heart. Then you can see just fine,” Tolik replied, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Herman,” he said, changing tack, “you head on home now. We're gonna keep going.”

“What do you mean ‘head on home'? I don't know the way back.”

“You'll find it if you want to. You shouldn't come any farther. You could get shot. And it's not your business, after all. See you soon, brohan,” he said, punching me affectionately in the shoulder and diving into the dark void.

Gosha shook my hand and then disappeared too. I was left standing there alone on train tracks that went—literally—nowhere. The only piece of advice I'd been given was to listen to my heart. But my heart was telling me that I wasn't going to be getting out of there anytime soon, and that my only other option, following those two smugglers with only three eyes between them, probably wasn't the greatest idea in the world. My heart was telling me: “You got yourself into this mess, now you get yourself out of it.” So I got to thinking it might be best to stay put and wait out the night. And that's what I did. I just stood there. A gust of smoky wind came over from the east; the inert clouds overhead finally got moving, floating west and crossing the Russian border. A round, red moon cracked the darkness, appearing in the turbulent air above me, drenching my surroundings with radiant light and stretching long shadows out along the valley. I could finally see again, at least in my immediate vicinity, though the void was just as thick as before, if I looked too far ahead or behind, leaving me none the wiser as to the origin of the voices and muffled footsteps that could still be heard echoing out of the abyss from time to time. Now, standing here and gazing at the red, moon-kissed meadows, I caught a glimpse of a caravan of gas tankers inching past my position, heading west, toward the border. There was an old, dark-colored Kopeika model car out front, meticulously smeared with mud. There were four people inside, wearing black
jackets and black winter hats. The guy in the passenger seat was holding a Kalashnikov. The gas tankers were wrapped in swamp-colored canvas and camo nets. From this distance they looked like elephants meandering out of some desert land with valuable and aromatic fuel supplies in their black wombs. The caravan stretched out into the distance, its tail somewhere far behind. It was hard to spot it over the hills and blackthorn that peppered the valley. I could just about make out a small crowd of people waiting on the border for the tankers to arrive—silhouettes were hurrying down the embankment, and a few trucks were sitting parked on the Ukrainian side. The silhouettes descended to meet the trucks, unloaded some boards and ready-made wooden frames, and placed them over the tracks to form a makeshift bridge. They clearly knew what they were doing; brief commands would reach my ears occasionally, after which someone would run over to the other side of the railroad tracks and carry another board over on his back. A makeshift bridge had already been assembled by the time the lead car rolled up to the embankment. The Kopeika rode up onto the boards gingerly. Then some of the silhouettes scurried down, formed a circle around the car, and started pushing it over. Shortly afterward, I saw it coasting to a stop on the other side of the embankment. The gas tankers followed suit. A few of them crossed problem-free, while others stalled a bit, and so had to be pushed or towed. The crossing continued for quite a while; eventually, the entire motorcade wound up on the other side of the tracks. From atop my hill, the whole scene resembled a sort of odd military maneuver—a column of tanks stopping under cover of night, afraid of being spotted. The tanker drivers, the outriders
from the Kopeika, the guys who built the bridge, and the men from the Zil model trucks all gathered around, standing between their vehicles, sitting on the hoods, crawling underneath them and climbing on top of them to keep watch on their associates as well as the surrounding landscape. Then some of them started arguing, yelling and carrying on about something. One small group, arguing in a particularly animated fashion, waving their arms and ripping off their sweaters, stepped away from the tankers. Another group, calmer and more focused, opposed them. The rest of the crowd stood there in anticipation, not knowing which side to join. I didn't have any way of figuring out what the argument might be about, from my vantage point, since I couldn't make out a word they were saying. Still, I heard it clearly enough when one of the guys I'd pegged as being calm and reasonable pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and fired into the air. I crouched low, involuntarily. Then I saw what I had not seen before; black stars were glinting up in the sky, cutting through the thick air and igniting the dry grass so I see the birds nestling between its blades, hiding from the cold and our unfamiliar voices. Animals were crossing the border, all the while apprehensively surveying the valley, thick with breath, where countless shadows were suddenly moving across the high embankment, sprinting into the adjacent country like people sprinting into the ocean in summer. Snakes slithered onto the tracks that were shining in the moonlight, slithering over the rails, undulating down into their émigré burrows to lose themselves amid the elaborate and tenacious roots below. Spiders scuttled across the sand, reaching upward, toward the other side of the moonlight. Red foxes scowled threateningly as they approached
the railroad tracks that were the last thing separating them from the unknown land beyond. Ravens circled above, as if hesitant to give up this territory they have claimed, meandering through the sky like Gypsies roaming along a train platform. I saw the roots fighting doggedly to tunnel through the parched, early autumn ground, striving toward the water that was hidden deep beneath the surface like magma. I saw silver pockets of water reaching upward to meet them, intruding into the black earth, skirting around the bodies of the dead that were buried there who knows when by who knows who, moving into the dark unknown. I saw the black anthracite heart beating deep in the body of the valley, giving life to everything around me, and the fresh milk of natural gas accumulating in nests and underground channels, hardening and watering dried-up roots—insanity and resilience ran through those roots, turning blades of grass to make them face the wind. I turned with them and a gust of wind slapped me in the face, bringing me back to reality. I looked back to the commotion down below. Three men wearing long coats had grabbed one of the most vocal guys from the loud, angry group and carried him by his arms and legs over to the closest gas tanker. They tossed him to two of their guys who were standing on top of it and they bound his hands with rope. He tried to break free, but to no avail. Then his captors opened the hatch, dropped him into the tank, and hopped back to the ground. I didn't quite want to believe what I'd seen. “What was that for?” I wondered. “He'll drown in there.” I pictured him swimming in that thick blue gasoline juice like a man inside a whale's stomach, kicking off the bottom of its metal lining. Afterward, both groups quickly dispersed. The
argument had quieted down—apparently, all their issues had been resolved. The driver of the Kopeika took out a heavy road flashlight and started shining it at the nearby hills, checking to make sure nobody was around. The fat stream of light moved slowly across the grass in my direction. It had already crept past the embankment and was coming at me quickly. “Drop!” my heart advised me. “Come on, drop!” So I followed my heart right onto the railroad ties. The stream of light slipped by over my head and kept going. The driver turned around and started walking by the trucks. My heart wasn't stingy with additional advice: “Now get the hell out of here!” The tankers revved up and continued west. I got up, ran down the embankment, then went off at a quick walk, slightly hunched over, toward the lights coming off some buildings in the distance. Once I was in the clear, I looked around—the wind was still goading the clouds across the sky; by now they looked as heavy as bags stuffed with coins, they moved so slowly, blanketing the horizon. The moonlight was gone; gloom had settled on the grass like silt on a riverbed. It was as if a mother had turned the lights out as she left her child's bedroom.