Voroshilovgrad (44 page)

Injured hesitated for a second and then sat back down at the table with me. It turned out that there was more to the story—some serious things had happened while I was hiding out. The corn guys had started really playing rough. They hadn't touched our gas station, though Injured had reason to believe that they would any day now. Instead, they'd cracked down on Ernst, the friend to all aviators—they tracked him down at the airport and proceeded to inform him, without providing any supporting paperwork, that the airport did indeed belong to the state. So, despite the fact that it had obviously gone to shit, and despite
the absence of even a single passenger flight in or out of the city, the runway itself was still on the state's balance sheet . . . meaning that, one way or another, Ernst would have to hand it over to the official representatives of the people. And all of Ernst's attempts at getting the corn guys to fuck off had come to nothing. Moreover, he'd been issued a tough ultimatum: Ernst was told that if he even contemplated putting up any further verbal or physical resistance, this matter would be turned over to the authorities, and, naturally, there was no need to explain who the authorities worked for around here. Ernst was given three days to gather up his stuff and vacate the airport he had unlawfully occupied.

“How's he holding up?” I asked.

“He's hanging in there,” Injured said. “He's set up some barricades outside the entrance and he's gotten out his prized grenades. Now he's holed up in there, waiting. We're trying to do something for him. We went to the courthouse and did what we could to push back on the corn guys, but they just froze us out. We've got nothing we could use in court, because the airport really is a state asset.”

“Injured, I just don't get it. What do they need the airport for?” I asked. “What do they need our gas station for, come to think of it? They just wanna take over everything in sight, is that it?”

“They've got their own vision for the development of the region,” Injured said, a little vaguely. “They're going to build an asphalt plant where the airport is, I hear.”

“They couldn't build their asphalt plant someplace else? Is the airport built on holy ground or something?”

“Herman,” Injured said, like an older brother. “They could build
their factory wherever they wanted. Seems like they want to build it at the airport and nowhere else, got that?”

“Got it. So what now?”

“You know what. You don't have to get involved. You've got your own problems. What do you need the airport for?”

“What do you mean? What do
you
need it for?”

“Well, I live here, man,” Injured replied.

“I live here too,” I said. “What the fuck, Injured? Do you still not trust me? I'm staying.”

“I trust you. It's just that I've got a bad feeling about this one.”

“A bad feeling about what one?”

“I feel like we're not gonna get anywhere on this.”

“So what if we don't? We should at least try, right?”

“Right.”

“We can't just roll over, right?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, you're right,” he said. “Just chill out, okay? I've been thinking it all through . . . about why they backed down this summer.”

“So, why'd they back down?”

“I don't know,” Injured replied. “I just can't figure it out.”

“Well, they backed down,” I said, “and that's all there is to it.”

“Yeah, sure. But there's no guarantee they'll back down this time.”

“Look, Injured, if they don't back down then we'll cross that bridge together, all right?”

“Sure,” Injured said hesitantly. He got up again, and this time he made it all the way out the front door. I made to follow him, but Tamara appeared and stopped me as I was crossing the threshold.

“Wait up,” she said. Injured saw what was going on, so he bounced down the stairs and left the two of us alone. “Sorry if said more than I should have yesterday.”

“Everything's fine, Tamara. I'll give you a call later on, okay?”

“You do that. Try not to forget.”

“I won't forget,” I told her.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, it won't be a big deal if you do. And, look, I almost forgot, but the presbyter brought you a book. He said he wants you to read it closely.”

“Some church book?”

“Dunno,” Tamara answered wearily, handing me the book and pushing me out the door at last.

The metal gate with the black stars on top looked orphaned. A feeling of emptiness and neglect permeated the place, despite the fresh tire marks leading straight up to the entrance. A spiderweb hung in the air, as if anchoring the metal to the ground. It was quiet, and seemed devoid of life, at first glance; the air was heating up slowly, like in a room where nobody lives. Autumn was setting in, I guess. And despite the apparent desolation, I could sense life behind the gate, as though a besieged army were hiding there and observing us nervously through gun slits. Injured beeped his horn, but to no avail—there wasn't a single movement behind the black gate, and no one called out to us from beyond the moat. Injured took out his cell.

“Hello?” said a flat and mistrustful voice on the other end of
the line.

“Come on, open the gate already,” Injured said by way of greeting.

It occurred to me that Injured hadn't been acting right, lately; for the past few weeks, really; he'd been quieter than usual, thought you'd have had to know him well to notice. Where had his rough exterior gone? “Maybe our star striker is showing his age,” I thought to myself. Like this back and forth with Ernst—instead of hassling the guy, who must've already been scared out of his wits, Injured was sitting and waiting patiently for him to let us in.

Ernst too wasn't at his best. He was masked and already dressed for winter. He was wearing a cut-off overcoat that covered a red, stretched-out T-shirt. I could see high army boots on his feet. He was holding a pioneer spade and his pockets were drooping, weighed down by what I hoped weren't really live grenades. He was happy to see me. He said it was a good thing I had showed up, that he had a lot to tell me, that he had just gotten back from a terribly interesting expedition, which I, as a historian, would find particularly fascinating. He was planning, in other words, on talking my ear off, but at that point Injured interrupted him, declaring that he didn't want to hear anything about any fascist tanks or about fascism at all, for that matter, that he'd prefer it if we could just shut our traps. Once Ernst opened the gate, Injured pulled in and stopped his car on the cracked asphalt inside—all summer the grass had been pushing its way up, waging a furious struggle with the hard road, only to freeze as soon as they reached the surface, with winter on the way.

Injured got out and sat on the hood of his car; we took up
positions around him. We looked like a few old friends who'd just happened to meet up on the way here or there, and so decided to stage an impromptu reunion. The gas guys were on their way, however, they were supposed to show up any minute now. Injured was listening intently for the sound of any traffic on the highway. He told Ernst to keep his spade ready and try not to make a fool of himself. Me he told to keep my mouth shut and not get in the way.

“I'll do the talking,” he said. “All you guys need to do is chuck some grenades at them when I give you the signal.” It took me a second to realize he was joking.

They showed up half an hour later. Ernst tensed up, and Injured went quiet, keeping a cautious eye on our guests; nobody knew what to expect from them, and nobody was entirely sure why they'd bothered making the long trip out here. The same old Jeep pulled up first; I took a closer look, hoping to see Nick at the wheel, but it was some other guy; he looked about fifty, with short hair, a heavy leather jacket, and an equally heavy look in his eyes.

The back door of the Jeep opened, and Nikolaich fell out. He too was wearing a leather jacket, and also sported a black cap that neatly covered his pale, autumnal baldness. Seeing me, he froze for a second, as though verifying some information stored away in his mind. Then he hurried over to the Beamer pulling through the gate. Nikolaich opened one of the back doors, and a tall, gray-haired man, wearing a long, dark jacket and holding a briefcase, stepped out of the car. This fellow buttoned up his jacket while Nikolaich held his briefcase for him, hugging it against his stomach, looking like a trained German shepherd holding something in his teeth, after which the gray-haired man took his case back
and moved decisively toward us with Nikolaich in tow. He didn't have any bodyguards with him.

They greeted us reservedly—no handshakes or anything. Nikolaich, who kept looking at me but avoiding eye contact, was bustling around the gray-haired man, making various short comments, addressing only Ernst and Injured. He looked flustered and not at all sure of himself, which must have been because I was there. A few months back he'd been offering a fair down payment on my soul, throwing his weight around, making a show of being tough and decisive to puff himself up in my eyes—but now the shit had hit the fan, so he had to do some serious ass-kissing to avoid taking the blame. The gray-haired man, unlike Nikolaich, actually looked self-assured and prudent, like he didn't have anything to prove to anyone. He was there to get something that already belonged to him—no need for displays of strength. He approached us, treading firmly across the beat-up asphalt, and put his briefcase nonchalantly on the hood of Injured's car, but the owner gave him such a withering glare that he removed it again without comment, handing it back to Nikolaich, who stood planted behind his superior, occasionally peering out from behind and trying to keep up with the negotiation process. He was scared.

The gray-haired man started the conversation. Quickly determining that Injured was going to be acting as our esteemed yet glum representative, not the joker in the cut-off overcoat, he brushed Ernst and me aside and got down to business, still radiating an absolute confidence that everything had already been settled, and that this little show was only being put on out of respect for us. In fact, he didn't much want to be talking to any
of us—but he apparently thought that we deserved to know why.

“Well, what have we got here?” he asked, as though resuming a previous conversation. “This is the government decree, and these are the resolutions from the public prosecutor's office. And here's a statement from the utilities department.” Injured accepted all the documents without so much as glancing at them; he already knew what they said. “We'll have a car come by tomorrow and, our guys will help you pack up your stuff. What time would be good for you?”

“There won't be a good time,” Injured replied. “And there won't be any cars coming by, either.”

“How's that?” the gray-haired man asked, a bit put out, but clearly taking great satisfaction in our misfortune just the same. “Of course there will. I've already arranged for it.”

“Who'd you arrange it with?” Injured asked coldly.

“I arranged it with the driver,” the gray-haired man answered just as coldly.

“And what about us?”

“What about you?” He was acting like he didn't even understand Injured's question.

“Did you arrange it with us?” Injured asked.

“I'm pretty sure we did,” the gray-haired man replied.

“No, in fact, you didn't,” Injured assured him. “Nobody cleared anything with us. So keep your car back in the city.”

“What about the statement from the utilities department?”

“We don't give a rat's ass about the utilities department,” Injured said, “or their statement.”

“Is that a fact?” the gray-haired man asked.

“Sure is.”

“Sasha,” Nikolaich said, stepping out from behind his shadow with the briefcase clenched loyally in his teeth, “what the fuck are you listening to all this cheap fuckin' rhetoric for?”

“Shut your trap,” the gray-haired man snapped. “You're a reasonable man,” he told Injured, “you must realize that if you don't let our car onto the premises tomorrow, we'll just bring in the bulldozers. And you'll have to pack up by yourselves and leave anyway. You realize that, right? We've got all the paperwork right here.”

“You're also a reasonable man,” Injured said, doing his best to ape his opponent's calm, credible tone of voice. “You know perfectly well how you got those documents. There's nothing legal about any of this. It's a goddamn land grab, and you know it.”

“A land grab, you hear that Sasha?” Nikolaich cried out from behind the gray-haired man's back, nearly dropping the briefcase in his mouth. “This isn't a fuckin' land grab.”

The gray-haired man paused for an instant, ignoring Nikolaich's cries, then asked, his voice metallic:

“So, you're trying to say that you're refusing to vacate the premises?”