Voroshilovgrad (20 page)

“Was she actually pregnant?”

“Nah, are you kidding? The last thing I wanted was for her to get pregnant!”

“How come?”

“I was afraid the kid wouldn't be mine. Buddy, I'm telling you, she was an animal in the sack . . .”

Kocha got quiet, evidently still daydreaming about the past. Then he started up again:

“It didn't work out, all the same. Her parents came down for the wedding. I mean, they moved in with us. So, it didn't work out. Those damn Gypsies . . .”

“Gypsies?”

“Uh-huh, Gypsies.”

“What did they have to do with it?”

“Everything.” Kocha didn't bother explaining. “It's all because of women —I see what's going on with you, buddy. I know why you're all riled up.”

“All right, all right, that's enough,” I said, putting up some feeble resistance.

“Herman, I see what's going on. I see what's going on.”

He caught a glimpse of something through the window and went outside.

She had done something that stuck in my memory, but what was it? Sun was pouring in through the windows; the blanket was stiff and hot, like a stray dog drying out after a rain shower. I was lying there in an empty room, my eyes closed to see fragmented images, the trees swaying rhythmically back and forth in the park, the lilac-colored darkness sticking to the damp leaves, the gold light flickering on the windows of the fire tower, and the scattered, sharp silver of broken glass in vegetable bowls—but that wasn't it; there was something before that, some climax to this memory. What happened? Didn't Kocha tell me about it? What did he remember that everybody else had forgotten? What could she have done? There was only one way out of there, out the side doors, through the kitchen. That way you'd go straight out into the park, and the trees would surround you, wet and wary—you had to be careful because the grass was littered with broken glass and you could get cut, though nobody ever was careful; blood was pumping through invisible channels in the cool night air and it was going to be shed, one way or another. It was only
a matter of who was going to bleed. Toward the end of dinner, I went out those side doors. But why? I don't know why anymore. I was supposed to meet somebody. But who? It was pitch black, and nobody saw me come outside. And there she was, her skin luminous in the wet twilight air—she hadn't even taken off her dress. Oh boy, you should have seen what she was doing! There were two of them, and Tamara was taking both of them on; she was facing one with her back to the other. She hadn't even taken off her dress. I was stunned. I mean, I would have figured that a dress would get in the way in that kind of situation, but no, not this time . . . I couldn't make out the guys' faces, but Kocha definitely wasn't there, and anyway, it's ridiculous to imagine Kocha doing such things, in public no less. After a while, she tore herself away from the first guy, lifted her head, and asked for a smoke. The flame shone brightly, so I opened the kitchen doors and slid back inside so they wouldn't see me. Returning to the party, I bumped into Kocha, all gloomy and angry. From the way he looked at me, I realized he already knew. Suddenly, the darkness lit by electricity burst into hundreds of silver shards, and the evening air exploded into the room, mixing with the smell of alcohol. That's when I knew this wouldn't just blow over.

“What'd I tell you?” a concerned Kocha asked, running over to his trailer. “Get over here. She's on the phone.”

“Herman!” I was standing there holding the warm receiver to my ear. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I said, trying to sound convincing. I don't think it was working. “I saw our competitors yesterday. We had a chat.”

“Uh-huh.” This clearly wasn't news to Olga. “I don't know what your little chat was about, but they're trying have the station shut down, Herman.”

“I'll be right over.” I draped my headphones around my neck and running out onto the highway.

The familiar Jeep was parked outside her office—Nick was in the driver's seat as usual, giving me a completely unruffled look, as if to say, “Oh, it's you, I didn't even notice you left.” I waved and stepped inside. Olga was sitting at the table in her yellow-rimmed sunglasses. She was wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt with some political slogans in Polish. Her orange bra was peeking out from underneath. Two chubby ladies with perms and skin-tight dresses were sitting across from her. These bitches were well over the hill, but they hadn't lost that youthful spark, that Young Pioneer spirit that seeks the joy and inclusion that come only from collective labor. Now they were breathing heavily in this oppressive heat, reminding me of two robust Spanish women, fanning themselves with accounting ledgers.

One of them had a perm the color of cigarette ash; she was wearing massive bronze earrings that dangled like medals from a general's coat, and enormous coral beads were wrapped around her neck. She had squeezed her flabby, sweaty body into a dark, ancient dress, which was stretching every which way, tracing her
every bulge, and her powerful, work-worn feet were jammed into slippers. Now she was holding a ledger in one hand and a pencil in the other; she'd stick the latter in her perm from time to time, probing intently for something. Her friend, drooping just as much from the heat, had a copper-colored mop, tinted red by the sunlight, neatly arranged on her head. She wore big emerald stones in her ears, like the ones used in bus station mosaics, and though she didn't have any beads on her neck, her skin there folded into a few hefty layers concealing amber droplets of bitter female sweat. She was wearing a multicolored sundress dating back to the Soviet days, peppered with images of tropical flowers and herbs, and she too was wearing slippers. She looked more alert and reproachful than her counterpart; her sharp shoulders were twitching, causing her dress to tighten in some areas and loosen up in others, like a sail flapping in the wind. The women turned toward me as one, with identical hostile looks on their faces.

I greeted them, giving Olga an inquisitive look. The women introduced themselves, albeit unwillingly. The ash-colored one's name was Angela Petrovna—she had a heavy and languid voice, and her expression as she spoke was obviously accusatory, yet somehow hard to read. The other woman, the copper-colored one, spoke anxiously and unintelligibly, as though with a mouthful of rocks, introducing herself as Bgalinda Bgedorobna. Clearly she meant to say
Galina Fedorovna
, or something along those lines. I thought of her as Brunhilda Fedorovna, and from then on my mind refused to give her any other name. Why Petrovna, not Fedorovna? Maybe I wanted to give them the same thing because they were so similar as to be indistinguishable, like two
half-sisters—both women had acquired some valuable experience, some experience that they weren't planning on sharing with anyone.

“Ah, good thing you've finally decided to show up,” Olga said, not looking remotely happy to see me.

“I had to catch a ride,” I explained to all present.

The two ladies watched me coldly and implacably, Angela Petrovna twirling her pencil in a predatory manner, Brunhilda Petrovna puffing up her flabby neck like a cobra.

Olga briefly filled me in about the problem at hand. As far as I could gather, it all boiled down to the fact that Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda hadn't retired when they were supposed to, so now they had nothing better to do than mess with me. Like funeral keeners, these two signified death, forecasting interest rate hikes and mounting utility bills. I tried getting to the bottom of things, but it was a struggle, since Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda Petrovna's voices had a debilitating effect on me, making me depressed and wistful. I could only glean one thing from our conversation—they had been sent by the tax service, and the social security fund, as well as the sanitation department, and the veterans' association too, in addition to the independent small business owners' association, and, finally, the housing department. It turned out that we were in deep trouble—my downtrodden private enterprise had owed the government an exorbitant amount of money for years, and it'd be best for all concerned, it seemed, if I simply hung myself, liquidating my business before doing so, and transferring all my worldly wealth to the fearless retirees. Angela Petrovna did most of the talking, spinning a web of confusing accounting
jargon around my head. Brunhilda Petrovna rolled colored marbles anxiously along the roof of her mouth, periodically interjecting with such linguistic mutants as “betirees,” “bygenic,” or the utterly incomprehensible “balfolcol bovelment,” so I could never quite get to the bottom of things. Olga persisted, trying to explain something to the women and taking some papers out of her drawer. She was saying that things weren't actually that bad, that all of our documents were in order, and that there weren't any legal grounds for banishing me to deepest layer of hell. But Angela Petrovna and Brunhilda Petrovna paid her no mind, waving Olga's arguments away with their ledger books, holding their ground by citing some amendments or other, reading aloud choice excerpts from some recent decrees, and pointing out inconsistencies in our tax forms. All of Olga's attempts at easing the pressure applied by these two passionate, sultry Spanish women were to no avail—the old-timers were clearly spurred on by their own wailing as they exhibited their vast knowledge of both the criminal code and accounting standards. At some point, Olga stopped trying. This caused the Spanish women to pipe down as well, though they went right on glaring at us. I got the sense they were waiting for me to react. I decided I had to say something:

“Listen,” I began, in an exceedingly conciliatory tone, causing my voice to take on an emotive note that was unusual for me. “Maybe we can smooth this all out together? Huh? We're all grownups here, aren't we?”

The ash-colored lady squinted at me formidably, while the lady the color of copper launched lightning bolts out of her aging eyes.

“What do you mean?” the ash-colored lady asked me slowly,
like a professor during an oral exam.

“Bha?” went the copper-colored lady.

“Herman,” said Olga, frightened by my brashness, trying to rein me in.

“Well, I don't know,” I cut her off, getting frustrated. “People can always find common ground, can't they?” I asked. And then I added, for some reason, “Couldn't we smooth things out?”

“You're completely out of line!” Angela Petrovna shouted, or tried to shout; she was raising her thick voice as though it were a rock she was rolling up a hill. Brunhilda nodded along with her. “Who do you think you are? Maybe that's how you do business UP THERE! Maybe that's how you talk UP THERE!!!” Now her voice had reached the peak, and was about to crash down the other side—and there it went, barreling down the hillside, leveling everything in its path. “Do you even realize what you're saying? You think this is some sort of a joke? UP THERE it's a free for all! But HERE you're on our turf!” She turned to address Olga: “Ms. Volkova,” she said, “I won't stand for this!”

The old ladies rose haughtily to their feet, said their contemptuous good-byes, and disappeared out the door. They vowed to return tomorrow.