Voroshilovgrad (14 page)

“What are you doing here?” I demanded in place of hello.

“Well, what are
you
doing here?” Yet it seemed she wasn't too surprised to see me.

“I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, sure . . .” she said, eyeing me coldly.

“Hi,” I replied, extending my hand to her. She hesitated for a second, then took it. She even threw in a smile, though it was
more dismissive than friendly.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked again.

“I'm looking for Pakhmutova.”

“For what?”

“For Pakhmutova, my German shepherd. She's always running off into the fields.”

“She'll turn up. Dogs are wise.”

“She's just so old. She's forgetful. She's already run onto the highway a few times . . . I was lucky I found her the last time. It's just a good thing everybody around here knows her, so they just leave her alone.” Katya was beginning to show how upset she really was.

“Why not tie her up—that way she won't run away.”

“How about I tie you up,” Katya said angrily. “That way you won't run away.”

“Okay, chill.” I did my best to sound conciliatory.

But Katya wasn't listening. She had turned her back on me and was calling for her German shepherd: “Pakhmutova!” she yelled out into the empty fields. “Pakhmutova-a-a!”

When she stopped shouting, we noticed an odd sound. It grew increasingly distinct, breaking down into individual clanging notes as it slid through the air, cutting through the silence like an icebreaker through a frozen river. Katya tensed up immediately and looked into the sky. There was something there, moving toward us, and soon enough I realized it was a biplane, an An-2. Katya leaped toward me, dropping to the ground and yanking me down by my sleeve. I fell on top of her. “Well, how about that,” I thought. Katya whispered:

“Lie flat and don't move. And cover me up. My shirt is bright—they might spot it.”

“Who might spot it?”

“The corn guys.”

“That's their plane?”

“Yeah. Make sure they don't see you. They don't like people coming on their land. There could be trouble.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, trying to get up.

Truly frightened, Katya tugged me back onto her, repeating, “Don't move!”

I buried my face in her shoulder. The ground beneath her hair was dry and cracked; I could see ants scurrying up the nearby cornstalks, and Katya's black hair was trapping the dust that floated past us, taking on its color, and her eyes were also the color of dust. It was as if she was trying to blend in with her surroundings. Meanwhile, the plane was still approaching, letting out its desperate and ominous roar. I was shielding Katya from view, but soon found my nose in her hair and my body pressing into her and the grass alike. Her breath was quick and nervous, and she was clinging to me, one hand slipping underneath my shirt.

“You're drenched in sweat,” she said, surprised.

“That's from the sun.”

“Don't move,” she repeated.

“These damn overalls,” I said, trying to undo her side buttons and slide my hand underneath her shirt, but all I was managing to do was jerk vainly at the catches and pull her against me. I started getting anxious and angry as she went on touching my skin softly and disinterestedly, not even looking at me. She was focused solely
on the plane whipping by and casting a deep shadow over our bodies—its roar becoming deafening before the machine finally soared away, leaving behind smoke, fumes, and emptiness. By this time, I'd even managed to undo one of Katya's buttons, but she evidently felt the coast was clear, so she pulled her hand out from under my shirt and lightly pushed me away.

“Okay, that's enough,” she said and got up.

“Wait a second. Where are you going?”

“Get up.”

“Where are you going? Wait up.”

“That's enough,” she said calmly and did up the button I had been struggling with for so long.

“Damn,” I thought, but was immediately distracted by a new sound: heavy breathing just over my head. I got up and saw a German shepherd had materialized next to me without my noticing. It was Grandma Pakhmutova, standing there and looking at me, seemingly asking, “What do you want from us, anyway?” And I didn't know how to respond.

“Okay, let's go,” Katya said, and headed toward the TV tower sticking up from beyond the horizon. Pakhmutova trotted happily behind Katya. I picked myself up, dusted off my shirt, and fell in behind them with a bit of a hangdog expression on my face.

Katya kept quiet all the way back, paying no attention to my feeble attempts at striking up a conversation, either muttering to herself or talking to Pakhmutova. She stopped by the gate of the TV tower and extended her hand to say good-bye.

“Thanks,” I said, “sorry if things got . . .”

“Whatever,” she said calmly, “everything's fine. Make sure not
to wander into the cornfields again.”

“Are you
that
afraid of them?”

“I'm not afraid of them,” she answered. “I just know what they're like. All right, I'm outta here.”

“Wait. What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight? I'll be doing my homework. And tomorrow morning, too,” she added, turning and heading inside. The German shepherd sniffed my shoes in farewell, then followed.

“Hard day's night,” I thought.

Injured looked at me even more suspiciously than usual when I got back, as though he knew exactly what had happened, but he kept quiet. Just as he was about to leave he came up to me and said:

“Herman, here's the thing,” his tone was flat, though not unsympathetic. “We're going to need you tomorrow.”

“Who's we?”

“You'll see,” he said. “We're gonna stop by around eleven. Make sure you're ready. This is some serious stuff. Can we count on you?”

“You bet your ass you can, Injured.”

“That's what I like to hear.” He hopped into his car and pulled out onto the highway.

“Here we go,” I told myself. “And don't even try to say you weren't expecting this.”

5

I thought long and hard about the whole situation. How did they wind up dragging me into this turf war of theirs? What was I doing there anyway? Why hadn't I left yet? Most importantly, what was Injured cooking up? Knowing him as I did, and given his somewhat loose relationship with reality, one could expect just about anything. But just how far was he willing to go? “We're talking about holding on to our business here,” I thought, “so how willing is he to take a stand?” And what part has he cast me for in this script of his? What was in store for me the next afternoon? Would I live to see tomorrow evening? Should I just have hightailed it out of there right away? Who could say what might happen, whether things could be resolved without any bloodshed; it seemed to me that everyone in this part of the country was all too willing to fight for their principles. Injured and the biplane pilots were far too determined and stubborn to find a solution that didn't involve body bags to what were, after all, just some administrative problems. It seemed as though it was all coming back to me—my school days and the real, adult world that was right there beside me. It felt as though somebody had opened a door, and now I couldn't help but see what was going on in the next room. Most importantly, I could see that there was nothing good about it, but since the door had been opened, I was involved in the whole mess. And it was terrible, mulling all of this over—I needed some sort of solution, and told myself that I shouldn't be the only one responsible for finding it. A solution would only be found when your brothers in arms were standing alongside you. But where are my brothers, I wondered, and who are they
anyway? I was standing alone in the dark, but I could already feel apprehensive breathing and the fiery beating of warriors' hearts. The night was heating up like fresh asphalt. I had run out of time and patience—I told myself I couldn't afford to wait till morning to make a decision. That may have been my one real chance to go. And I slept right through it.

I got up early, realizing that I'd blown my opportunity to turn back, and that there was absolutely nowhere else for me to go. It just seemed impossible to walk out into the sunlight that was pouring abundantly into the room and leave this place behind. I could have done it at night, I thought, but not now. Which made things a lot simpler, in a sense—I got up, trying not to wake Kocha, and started getting ready. I put my tank driver pants on and found a pair of heavy army boots under the bed—they were worn, yet quite sturdy. I figured some tougher footwear was in order if today's engagement was going to be as bloody as I expected. I pulled on a T-shirt and went outside. I found an iron rod in the pile of scrap metal out back. I picked it up it, estimating its weight. “Just what I need,” I thought, and set off to face the unknown.

The unknown was running late, however. After tanning in the chair for two hours I was feeling sleepy and hungry, thought I was trying not to think about food—any solider will tell you that you shouldn't eat right before going into combat. That was roughly the state of mind I was in when I slipped into a sweet morning sleep.

The air popped open right next to me, letting in a strange, hot,
and heavy draft. It felt as though it was rising from somewhere deep in the earth. Its heat ate into my dream, and there was a moment when I thought I'd escaped, pulled myself together and fled, returning to real life. Even after waking up, this feeling still lingered—the sunny, torpid feeling of being on the road, and a smell like flame and ash, sweet but tinged with menace. Without even opening my eyes, I understood what was going on, knew what was I'd find standing in front of me, exhaling this hellish air when I did at last look around. Heavy and hot like the air in September, parked in front of me, right by my chair, was a bus. An Ikarus model. That smell is unmistakable—it lingers in the air when someone's been resurrecting the dead. It was parked, with its engine turned off; the windows were tinted so I couldn't see what was going on inside, although there most definitely was something going on. I heard muffled voices and nervous breathing, so I got to my feet and tried to look inside. That was when the door opened. Injured was standing on the steps. He was wearing a white and blue Argentinian national team jersey and he looked at my army boots, quite perplexed.

“You're gonna go in that?” he asked.

“Well, uh . . .” I answered, trying to hide the rod behind my back.

“What do you need that thing for?” Injured asked, seeing it and looking even more perplexed. “To keep the dogs away?”

“Just because,” I said, getting flustered and tossing my weapon into the tall grass.

“Okay, then,” Injured replied, and, stepping off to the side, he nodded, seemingly saying, “Come on, hop in.”

I greeted the bus driver, who nodded apathetically in reply, then climbed the next step surveying the inside of the bus. It was dimly lit—at first I couldn't even make out who was sitting there. I held my place for a second, then tramped over to the aisle by an empty seat and watched Injured as he came back aboard; he surveyed the bus, submerged in twilight, then waved sheepishly, greeting the passengers of this sepulchral vehicle. That was the signal: the bus exploded into cheerful whistling and shouting, and somebody yelled out:

“Herman, my boy, what's goin' on!”

“Herman, you magnificent bastard!” some other voices chimed in.

I smiled cautiously, yet warmly, just in case I actually knew these people, even though I still had no idea what was going on. Injured came over and shoved me lightly, and a bunch of friendly embraces broke my fall. Only now could I discern the faces of my fellow passengers—they were all there: one-eyed Sasha Python; Andryukha Michael Jackson with the dark-blue onion-dome churches tattooed on his chest; Semyon Black Dick with his bitten-off ear and his right hand with all its fingers sewn back into place; Dimych Conductor with his tattooed eyelids; the Balalaeshnikov brothers, who had always gotten by with one cell phone for the three of them; Kolya One-and-a-Half Legs with his Hitler mustache and his bald spot painted white; Ivan Petrovich Fodder, his head boxlike from getting busted-up too many times; Karpo Disc Grinder, who was holding a disc grinder; Vasya Negative with his bandaged knuckles; Gesha Accordion; Siryozha the Rapist; Zhora the Sucker; and Gogi Orthodox were sitting there too. Pretty much all the stars of the Meliorator ‘91 club—the
dream team that ripped through every rival from here to the Donbass on their way to the championship. They were the elite athletes of this particular sunny valley. They were all sitting there, right in front of me, thumping me on the back, messing up my hair, and laughing, their gold and metal teeth flashing in the darkness.