Twisted (2 page)

Back in the nineties, I wasn’t the only one in newly independent, barefoot-but-proud Ukraine, who felt a nasty bitterness about Irina’s blow. It didn’t matter what occupation or job you had – doctor, teacher, scientist or student – all ex-Soviet folk struggled equally, seldom able to stretch their money further than the rice or potatoes on their plates.

Funny, when Natalia asked what kind of job it was, Irina, with an innocence in her voice that didn’t match the hussy look in her eyes, just prattled, ‘Dancing in a nightclub.’

‘Whatever! For that cash I would eat from the dirty floor!’ flashed through Natalia’s mind. She was fed up with trying to make a living by doing a ‘proper’ job. Therefore, it was a perfect moment for Irina to plant seeds of doubt in my sister’s soaked-up-in-suppresseddepression head…

Well, imagine our shock when, a few months before the end of Natalia’s final grade and the school exams, she decided to drop out and take off. She wanted to escape from run-down Ukraine with no hope for its future – where the best-case scenario would be her selling goods from Turkey or China on the free market – and run to unknown Istanbul, with no guarantee that she would even get a job but with the faith that somewhere there, if she worked hard and used any opportunity, a better life would be waiting for her.

When Mom found out about Natalia’s big plans, she took her for a long walk. A few hours later, at a family meeting, standing in front of us in the middle of the living room, she announced, ‘It definitely is an avant-garde decision, but I am inclined to support Natalia’s choice.’

My sister cried out,
‘Da!’

Our father became furious and started yelling ‘Mad women!’ and then ‘I can’t fight all four of you!’ Luckily, our mother knew how to handle him. She added, ‘Yuri, our girl is determined to start an adult life with or without us, so I suggest we do anything to make it with us.’

He stopped arguing, but stayed hellishly mad. Of course, eventually, our father found peace, together with the principal of one of the local schools, who agreed to issue a school-leaving certificate for a straight-A student for only fifty US bucks – with Natalia’s name on it.

Natalia moved with Mom to Istanbul. Even though my sister never regretted her decision – she went overseas, lived in a big city and had a real adult life with real adult dreams – it wasn’t a summer camp for her either.

By that time, Mom was holding Russian language courses for Turkish entrepreneurs in small and medium-sized businesses. They sold their goods – leather, textiles, clothes and shoes – to traders from Russia and Ukraine. She managed to find a job for Natalia, making tea and coffee in some shipping company, which ran from a huge and sophisticated office, with a long set of wall-sized windows over-looking the Bosphorus. My sister got the best deal, that’s for sure, considering she didn’t speak Turkish and had no work experience. Her big, dark eyes, her childishly cute but at the same time intricate face, and mop of curly burnt-umber hair, together with her slightly heavy hips, which were balanced by bursting-at-the-seams boobs on a tight body, got her her first job, paying $300 per month.

During these years, Natalia mastered the Turkish language and used any opportunity to get the hang of all types of office work, including how to manage the re-supply of cargo ships. She even learnt about shipping brokerage. She had also got herself involved in a tiring, full-of-empty-promises relationship with her boss. The fucker was married with two kids, and was almost twenty years older than her. He loved to impress Natalia with a good dinner at a fancy restaurant and clumsy sex for dessert in the apartment he rented for such occasions. He generously shared endless wisdom about life with her, as well as gifts of cheap jewellery that he presented to her as if they were diamonds.

He also had a truly Turkish way of becoming over-suspicious from time to time. Natalia would get into trouble if one of the restaurant’s other male patrons looked at her, for whatever reason: either some man would find her pretty, or, as often happens in restaurants, someone would get bored and just look around at others. Once, he even got pissed off when she asked a male waiter for directions to the bathroom, causing a scene in front of everybody that ended with him slapping her sharply in the face.

The jealousy of this man was often caused by absolute absurdity, as was the case with his own business partner, who was a Russian ex-captain. The Russian was practically Natalia’s boss too, but because he was a handsome man and famous for his Casanova reputation, he often caused my sister’s boss-lover to yell at her during his moments of groundless rage – which usually ended up with him calling her a Russian whore who was no different from the other prostitutes who overran the city.

The bastard would be satisfied and stop his ugly, jealous scenes only once he’d brought her to tears. At the same time he constantly fed her bullshit about how unhappy he was with his wife and that the only reason he didn’t end the nightmare of his marriage was because of his kids: ‘The divorce would devastate them,’ he always said with great concern on his face.

No shit! Devastating my sister, instead, was the perfect solution, then?

So, her life was quite intense: ten-hour workdays often without lunch breaks and days off; hours spent on public transport in the city’s heavy, endless traffic; wasted tears and ragged nerves from the love story with the boss. Hers was a life of haste and too little sleep, chronic fatigue, and eyes that were red and swollen from crying.

Don’t get me wrong – Natalia was not a hard-labour victim. Her life involved absolutely normal things that many people have to do in order to survive. But I do want to make a point: her future decision was not the result of failure or laziness.

By the end of her fifth year of climbing the career ladder, desperately trying to improve her life and the living conditions of our family, she had got by earning $1,000 and the privilege of having a lunch break. Of course, a great salary if she was staying in La Paz, Bolivia, or even in our Kherson. In Istanbul it was not a living, but simply holding on to life. Eventually, she lost her faith in the possibility of having a decent income. The frequent nightmares started, in which she’d wake up in 20 years’ time in the same office, at the same computer, earning only $500 more, and having finally got a legitimate place in her boss’s family – as wife number three or four.

The trip to Luxembourg could have been a perfect chance for Lena, my middle sister, to change her life too. She was always tangled in endless-love-forever stories with all kinds of losers.

It would be easier for you to understand Lena’s problem if you could meet her in person. Tall and beautiful, she resembled Drew Barrymore, but with chestnut hair. Her body was fit and flawless, especially since becoming a student of the Kherson Cultural College’s choreography department. She had an extremely soft and friendly nature; she simply never learnt how to say no. This, with her looks, drew men – mostly jerks – like the light draws moths.

She constantly dwelled in a fairyland. The only thing she wanted was marriage and a bunch of kids. What’s more, she was convinced that this was the only way she could ever be happy.

I always wondered when we ‘lost’ her. Was it as early as when we watched Cinderella animations, or later, while she was reading
Scarlet Sails
by Alexander Grin? We were raised on the same books and movies. Why was it different with her? I guess during one of those screened tearjerkers she felt so comfortable and secure in the fantasy that she decided never to come back to Earth.

All of Lena’s life was built on this one dream …

The first serious relationship she had was when she was in the eighth grade. His name was Serega. Sad, but after that ‘love story’ I will never be able to associate this name with anything rosy. He was in his last year of school, three years older than her, involved with the local youth gang whose members were familiar with stealing, drugs, and who knew what else. We all knew Serega was a bastard, but Lena wouldn’t listen …

I’m telling you, totally in fairyland…

Two years of happily ever after ended with an ugly incident that put me in hospital, caused tons of pain and tears, and Lena’s self-reproach for her unforeseen and non-participative bit in that ‘antisocial behaviour’. Afterwards, unintentionally, I learned how to use her guilt-ridden feelings towards me to my advantage.

Then, there was this Slavic fellow. They met when she was already a college student. Lena truly thought he was the one, and that they would spend the rest of their lives together. Apparently, they didn’t think alike. He was an excellent storyteller. One day, after a whole year of sharing an ‘unbelievably strong’ connection, he disappeared. Then she received the coward’s letter: ‘Sorry baby, but I’ve been lying to you all this time – I have a wife and two kids. Forgive me’. The comeback from this fairyland was as messy as the previous one. Lena tried to kill herself. Luckily, her knowledge of how to cut vital veins was second-rate; the only outcomes Lena achieved were scaring the shit out of us and spoiled wallpaper in the bedroom, which still has dark and awful stains on it.

By the time the trip came up, Lena was in the middle of another drama. I remember that night as if it were today. We were drinking cheap, sweet wine and smoking long and trendy cigarettes on the balcony of our apartment. My sister was sobbing, and smearing the snot and mascara over her face – ‘I can’t believe he wants me to do this! I can’t believe he wants this!’

By ‘this’ she meant an abortion.

In short: they had been together for almost two years, and were often too lazy to use a rubber. She’d got pregnant. While she was picking a name for the baby, the husband-to-be confessed that he wasn’t ready for it yet.

I sipped my wine, drew on my cigarette, and sighed deeply. For a second, I wondered how we could accommodate the prospective baby, considering that the father still lived on campus while Lena and I shared a bedroom in our parents’ small apartment.

I nodded and agreed with Lena’s affirmation of him being a total bastard, but at the same time, praised the fella in my head. I thought that if it wasn’t for him getting cold feet, my crazy sister would definitely keep the baby, and probably mess up her life even more. Come on! Even at seventeen, I knew that babies are a very cute but extremely expensive ‘hobby’ to have. Food, living space, nappies, doctors, medicines, clothes, school fees, you name it!

In the middle of our little gathering Lena’s cellphone rang. It was Natalia. She quickly wiped her face and cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. Then, ‘Hi, Nata!’

I sighed again, and thought that life was so unfair. Lena never turned on the waterworks in front of Natalia. With me, she could go for hours. The fact that Lena used me as her tissue all the time started irritating me.

‘Are you crying again?’ I heard Natalia’s muffled voice in Lena’s brick. I smiled – she knew her sister too well to be fooled.

‘Len, stop moaning, let’s get our visas to Luxembourg and fuck off. You need a break; I desperately need some changes, too.’

Lena snivelled, ‘Are you sure we can trust Irina? I don’t want to get into one of those scary stories about girls being enslaved. They talk about them on TV all the time!’

The voice in the receiver quivered, ‘Fuck Irina and your scary stories! I called the embassy and checked – it’s all legitimate, so the risks are considerably low.’

‘Well, I don’t know ...’ Lena moaned after a pause.

‘Come on, sister!’ Natalia almost squealed. ‘I know it’s scary, but trust me, it will be fine. You know I need you on this one! I swear that if you say no, I’ll kill myself and leave a note: For everything I blame my indecisive sister Lena.’

We burst into extended belly laughter, ending up with tears in our eyes.

The decision was made!

Before my sisters took off, Lena had an abortion and Natalia quit her job in Istanbul. During the trip, they called almost every week and reported that they were fine. In the meantime, I was in my last year of school, trying my best to combine my soaked in booze and weed nightlife with school and my damn homework. I still managed to get fairish marks and – more importantly – not to get pregnant.

One evening, a few weeks before my sisters were due to return, my father and I were having dinner at home. It was a typical supper of borsch, a traditional Ukrainian beetroot soup, and potatoes fried in lard with chopped onions. As always, our conversation hardly went further than, ‘How was school?’ or ‘Have you done your homework?’

Then, out of the blue, my father turned his attentive look to me, narrowed his eyes and said, ‘Don’t even think about it!’

Hmm … all I had in mind was how to sponge a few
hryvni
¹
for tomorrow’s night out, so I just raised my eyebrows in return.

‘Don’t even think about going with your sisters!’ he snarled. ‘Jul, you are too smart for this. Remember, when you were a little girl, you always wanted to be a doctor?’

Unintentionally I rolled my eyes.

‘Don’t pull your faces here, in front of me!’ he raised his voice.

‘Pa, please …’ I begged wearily.

Un-fucking-fortunately, the supper had gone from casual to seriously annoying.

‘Don’t “pa” at me! You need to have a degree to become something in this life or to find a good job.’

I flew into a rage. ‘Where is your diploma, Pa, huh? How is your degree helping you now? It’s been almost six months since they laid you off and you are still jobless!’ I uttered and ran out of the kitchen.

The saddest part was that not only my father was canned; the whole post-Soviet belt was in the same jam, too.

Let’s take the Kherson shipbuilding yard, where my father worked for almost twenty years. In 1991 it closed down and thousands of people, like him, lost their jobs. What’s more, the teachers, doctors, policemen, soldiers, pensioners – anyone who depended on government – didn’t get their salaries for months, even years. So, the educators’ hunger strikes or medics’ refusal to come to work, ignoring the Hippocratic oath in a desperate fight for their shamefully low salaries, were normal, everyday events.