Voroshilovgrad (50 page)

After wrapping up his stint at sea, back when he was a promising young specialist with dreams of becoming the captain of a commercial ship, Nikolaich had gotten to know it very well. No matter how much he tried to be one of the guys, no matter how accommodating he tried to be, he was always rejected outright, accused of pursuing his own greedy interests and lacking a sense of
camaraderie. And he couldn't say anything in his defense, because it was true, on some level—he really didn't have any sense of camaraderie; he didn't have any, and that was that. His whole family was the same—his whole greedy family. His mom didn't have any sense of camaraderie, and neither did his dad. Nothing—not even active involvement in the Communist Youth League and the management position he finally achieved—could make him feel like less of an outsider. In any new group of people, under any imaginable circumstances, he felt rejected; people refused to accept him, no matter what he did. And all of his unsuccessful attempts to be part of the gang only made things worse—he'd quickly become the butt of all their jokes. His superiors didn't care for him, his underlings didn't respect him, and women wouldn't put out for him, although, truth be told, he didn't really want anything to do with them anyway. He didn't have any friends, any kids, any pets. He was afraid of the people he worked for. Moreover, he was afraid of revealing his fear of them. And now here he was, standing there in front of us, all of these panicky thoughts racing through his mind. His eyes were red with hatred and helplessness.

He recalled his run-in on the Hungarian border in '90. He was coming back from Munich via Vienna without any money, food, or smokes. He had been visiting an old girlfriend, Rae Stern; he'd been in the same class as her, and she'd changed her last name and left for Germany after graduating from college. Now she was a singer who did regular shows at the Samovar restaurant. After spending a few reckless days and sleepless nights fueled by gin and whiskey, Ernst was finally starting to make his way back home, where Tamila was waiting for him. Things were just getting started
between the two of them back then. Some Croatian nationalist picked Ernst up at night, took him down to Vienna, and dumped him out at the train station. That's where he decided to risk it, taking a seat in the Belgrade-bound train, figuring he could ride for three hours or so, get off in Budapest, and avoid any document checks. Miraculously enough, he managed to cross the Hungarian border—the stars aligned for him it was as if he had vanished into thin air amid the drafts billowing down the train corridors. He put one over on the border guards, and they wound up stamping his passport and even forgetting to check his tickets. The ticket collectors couldn't track him down in the vestibule or any of the bathrooms, so he stepped off the train victoriously at the Keleti railway station, celebrating his incredible luck and ultimately relaxing his vigilance, which proved fatal. He even managed to strike a deal with the train attendants on the Moscow-bound train, and they agreed to take him to the border and drop him off there. He didn't have the money or audacity to get any farther. So, Ernst solemnly promised them

9

He'd get off at the border. “It'll be all right,” he thought. “It's not like they'll chuck me out of the train in the middle of a field. Just make sure to cross the border, and then it'll be smooth sailing.” That's where he went wrong. He was sitting in an empty train car, bound for Moscow, looking out the window where the warm, March afternoon was giving way to a brisk evening. The red sun was sprawling out on the horizon, its bloody hue reflected in the
windows. The closer he got to the border, the more a disquieting feeling started overwhelming him, because he knew that he wouldn't be able to pull the wool over everyone's eyes indefinitely; he'd have to take responsibility for his behavior.

They didn't actually wind up dropping him off at the border. Instead, the train attendant's heavy glare bore down on him and he knew what was in store. At night, the train was rolling along a railway bridge and the heavy lampposts were piercing the black, stuffy compartments, like unidentifiable animals trying to peer through the cars' window shades. He was sitting in the dark, tuning in to the churning of the wheels and the churning of his own heart and already knowing that he couldn't escape what was coming, and that he should always be prepared for the worst.

The worst part was that the feeling of helplessness was surfacing and growing. He saw then a well-defined image of what he had been trying to forget forever, what he had to avoid every time he started rummaging around in his memory—what he was afraid of even thinking about. Singapore, 1993.

Their rusty, Greek-made vessel, which they had bought for pennies off the Germans, had been in the port for a whole week, its cheerful Liberian flags flying. They were a motley crew—a Greek captain and some sailors from the Philippines, with the balance of the crew made up of his countrymen. Nikolaich, the second officer, ridiculed by the sailors and hated by the captain himself, was an odd bird with multiple bald spots who didn't seem to have a friend in the world; even the ship's rats avoided him. How he tried to be one of the guys! How he bent over backward
so the crew would just accept him! And that's the thing about bending over backward—it makes you look rather foolish. In his compatriots' eyes he was still a cheapskate and a lousy motherfucker. In the narrow, slanted eyes of the Filipino crewmembers, he only was a dick and cheapskate. What made them experts on lousy motherfuckers all of a sudden? Nikolaich heard them all snickering behind his back, he saw their mocking and scornful eyes, he imagined what they were saying about him, and his eyes filled up with tears and hatred. But the worst thing happened in Singapore. And he remembered every detail.

Three guys beat him up; Ernst remembered that quite clearly. It didn't last long, and they weren't particularly adept fighters, so he only came away with a fat, slightly bloody lip. Then he picked up his empty backpack and set off for the train station, to keep pushing east, where they were still anticipating his arrival.

After a week of waiting, watching the sun scotching the waves they still weren't ready to leave port, the crew finally convinced Nikolaich to go ashore with them. “C'mon, boss,” they said, “come along with us. We'll have some fun. We'll find you the best girl in town. An officer on the best ship should have the best girl.” And he, piece of shit that he was, fell for it.

There was that one time back in the '80s when he was doing some fieldwork in Crimea. It came rushing back to him all at once, as if he had returned there: the nighttime air, the Crimean vegetation suffering through its long summer, and the incredible,
bitter water in the bay knocked the wind right out of him. The wind was herding low-hanging columns of cloud along the sky, making them sail past the fishermen's boats, the empty, nighttime beaches, above the scorched steppes and black, scarred roads. It all started the way these things typically do—bravery, joy; Soviet Crimea, before the tourist industry and displaced Tatars; bad wine, collective farms, ceramics, and bones in the dry ground.

The archaeological expedition was a big group, and most of them had never met before. Ernst was the youngest one in the party, and everyone treated him accordingly. Being pushed around didn't even bother him much anymore—after all, there was no hope of changing anything, really, so why bother complaining? And there was one really young teacher's assistant in the group. Her name was Asya, yeah, Asya, that was it, and she was responsible for their team. They were constantly ripping trail markers off the trees and systemically violating all of Christ's commandments. And Asya was always taking abuse from everyone—her superiors, her colleagues, and the locals too, which is worth noting, though that isn't what this story is about.

It all got off to a rather inauspicious start. Ernst was always helping Asya out at camp, trying to be around her as much as possible. He'd walk her out to the bus stop when she went into town and meet her there when she came back. He'd sit next to her by the campfire in the evenings, be ready with a towel whenever she was swimming in the ocean, do all kinds of stuff for her, like a brother would—without a hint of unprofessional behavior, without counting on any reciprocation, and all the while being bullied by his older colleagues. He was pretty much doing what
any sexually frustrated seventeen-year-old boy would have done. And Asya was always apprehensive in his presence. Sometimes it'd seem as though something was just about to happen between the two of them, like she was dropping hints, but it came to nothing, she'd change the subject every time, steering the conversation back to work, dashing all of Ernst's hopes. It was hard on him, but he bounced back pretty quickly—he had to, since the local guys were already moving in on her, and they, unlike Ernst, were adept and energetic, giving her rides to the city in their Kopeika car and walking her back to the camp at night . . . The older guys in the expedition quite amused by the whole situation and would mock Ernst mercilessly. The worst part was that it was
love
she was rejecting. She wouldn't have anything to do with him, romantically speaking, but she would let him do odd jobs for her, and would encourage him to wait for her at the bus stop. And that's just where a bunch of local guys trapped him one day as he waited.

They made it quite clear that they didn't want Ernst hitting on their woman anymore (yeah, they called Asya
their
woman). They told him to stop causing trouble, that he should just head back to camp and jerk off like usual. That got Ernst all riled up. First he just yelled at them, and when that didn't do any good, he started waving his fists around. The locals were surprised at this show of force, but that didn't stop them from knocking Ernst down and giving him a good beating. He went back to the camp, picked up his spade and without saying a word, despite the jeering of his colleagues, he headed back to the bus stop. The crew, now realizing that the locals might wind up doing something permanent to the youngster, followed him, genuinely concerned. Ernst already knew
that he had to fight until the end, that he couldn't back down now, otherwise he'd go on being the camp pushover who always got sent to the store for wine, and who never got anywhere with the ladies. He figured the worst would be over fairly quickly—after which things would finally go his way.

He marched straight at the little circle of his tormentors, who were still congregated around the bus stop, by their car, celebrating their easy victory. Obviously, they weren't expecting a return visit from Ernst, let alone the whole expedition. Ernst bolted toward them and smashed the fuck out of their windshield. The locals panicked and hit the road, deciding it wasn't advisable to mess with those lunatic archaeologists.

The air was equatorial, warm and thick, and the sun's yellow reflection was swimming in the water like oil in a frying pan. Suffering from a lack of stimulation, they asked the old Greek captain for permission to disembark. The port's thousands of bars, coffee shops, and pubs greeted them. They walked down Clarke Quay, but not for long. They stopped at the first pub, where three Chinese whores fell right into their laps: two regular ones, and a really young one—a girl, not a woman. It was the girl who set off Nikolaich's eternal anxiety; he knew that in Singapore you could get away with doing just about anything to anyone, but not with minors. His stinginess was acting up too, despite his best intentions, and was just about to get the best of him when his crewmates managed to calm him down. Nikolaich wanted so badly for them to accept him, he wanted so badly for them to like him, it was bound to happen, and happen it did.

Nikolaich was already loaded on rum. After the pub, they all—sailors and prostitutes both—got in a taxi and headed to Chinatown, passing through numerous teeming city blocks before winding up, somehow, in a shady apartment. Someone produced some awful Chinese vodka, and that's where Nikolaich's recollections of the evening got fuzzy; they kept pouring him more and more, laughing and patting him on the back, so he eventually just let himself go. One of the prostitutes was fat and had a booming voice. She sat on the floor yelling something incomprehensible and kept hiking up her short, red dress. The next woman was skinny, with big breasts that sagged piteously, distracting and intimidating everyone. And the third, the youngest of them, was quiet and sad; she stood by the window where the hot glare of the streetlights tinted her skin gold. She wore her hair short, which made her look even younger, like a girl just going into high school. She had too much makeup on her face, but Nikolaich liked that about her, since it gave her a childish, endearing, and approachable look. She was wearing a short, red shirt with shoulder straps, a tiny emerald-colored skirt, and bright pink stockings. She had on a pair of light sandals that flapped whenever she took a step. Her shoulders were covered with a thin, soft down, and there was a tattoo portrait of Jesus on her right shoulder blade, although Nikolaich assumed she was a Buddhist. She had pouty lips and a long, thin neck encircled by a leather collar with metal studs. That collar just drove Nikolaich wild; he kept bobbing around her, desperately trying to strike up a conversation, racking his brain for the few nautical terms he knew in English, and all the while his shipmates were egging him on, saying, “C'mon boss, be a man. You're one of us!”

Finally, he went in for a kiss. Her breath had a bitter and acerbic scent to it and a lingering taste of fire and ash. She was a good and eager kisser. So they made out for a while, there by the window—nobody had ever kissed Nikolaich like that before. And after a few minutes of this, the sailors went wild, hooting and hollering and pointing at Nikolaich, who was quite excited as well as flustered. He didn't pay attention to what they were shouting, at first, but gradually it dawned on him that it sounded as though they were saying “C'mon boss, fuck that boy's brains out! You're already sucking face with him, now take him by the balls and give it to him!”