Voroshilovgrad (29 page)

“You're a real scumbag, Herman. What's the point of waking her up?” She didn't know what to do with her hands.

“But we have to talk, don't we?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, why'd you come over here then?”

“I came over here to make sure they hadn't burned the station down. For your information, I work for you—remember? As far as I can tell, you're doing just fine, so I'm gonna get going,” she said, standing up abruptly and heading for the door. But then she stopped, turned around, and came back over to me. “Oh, and there's something else,” she said, clearly to trying some real sharp way to tell me off. “I want my sunglasses back.”

She carefully slid her glasses off of Katya's nose, then darted out of the trailer, slamming the door for emphasis. Katya didn't move a muscle. I sprang to my feet and put my tank driver's uniform on as I ran out the door after Olga.

“Olga!” I yelled, trying desperately to catch up to her. “Olga, wait up please. Let's talk.”

“Sure,” Olga answered. “But the only talking we'll be doing will be at my office, during regular business hours. Oh,” she added, pointing at my collarbone, “and she bit you. You're incredible.” After that she hopped on her scooter and flew out of the parking lot, kicking up hot dust.

Pakhmutova's burial came after lunch. Kocha and I worked tenaciously to dig a pit back by the raspberry bushes, while Injured constructed an odd sort of marker out of scrap metal. It looked just like a TV antenna, but he claimed it was a sunflower.

It was hard to dig the grave because the ground was so hard. We
had to rip up tree roots, thick as underground cables, and toss away all the wet stones our shovels kept striking. Katya stood silently next to the hole. Pakhmutova lay at her feet, as she did when she was alive, and Katya would bend down occasionally to pet her.

I was standing waist-deep in the hole, looking around at all the little rocks and patches of grass trickling down around me, the yellow ball of sand, and the white ball of clay that had accumulated as we dug. The roots we'd exposed and slashed with our shovels were tough and ropey, and the stones we removed from the grave were drying out quickly in the sun. Hard as we hacked away at it, though, the earth at the bottom of the hole just wouldn't budge any further, save what little stuck to the soles of our shoes. It was as if the ground out back had been packed down—it wouldn't let us in for the longest time, then it stuck to our shoes, refusing to fall off.

The clay we'd exposed had a sweet and piquant smell. I had dug up something valuable, something I'd always suspected was there. I never would have imagined that it was right there under the surface this whole time. Shortly thereafter, we lowered Pakhmutova in as far as we could manage. “My second funeral in twenty-four hours,” I thought as I tossed some dirt over her body. We filled in the grave, Injured planted his antenna, and now our work was done.

Katya stood at the grave for some time. Then she said goodbye to everyone and ran home, holding her raincoat in her hands like a kite.

Kocha's relatives came by the station in the late afternoon. They drove into the parking lot in their beat-up Mercedes. A big piece of cellophane, attached with Scotch tape, covered the rear window. Seven people were jammed into the car. They had sobered up after the funeral but hadn't changed clothes yet, so they were all still in their black jackets and colorful dress shirts; they had taken off their ties, though I could see them hanging out of their jacket pockets like boa constrictors. Kocha's relatives were speaking loudly and using a lot of incomprehensible words; they kept calling him
gadjo
and kept him away from the Mercedes when he eagerly tried hopping inside it. They greeted Injured respectfully, though they were a tad too familiar with him. They shook his hand and kissed him three times, as per the Orthodox tradition. After that they came up to me. Kocha and Injured stood off to the side, giving us our space. They greeted me, one by one—their handshakes were short yet firm.

“Hey Herman,” said Pasha, their leader. “A friend of our mother's is our friend, too.”

“Huh?”

“You. You buried our mom with us yesterday,” Pasha explained. “Tamara told us about you.”

“Great,” I thought, “now these guys are gonna slice me up.”

“She said you needed some help?” Pasha asked.

“Some help?”

“Herman,” said Borman, Pasha's right hand man, a fat, bald dude, stepping forward. “We heard about everything.”

“About everything?”

“About everything. About the tanker and all that. We just
wanted to say that if you need any help we've got your back. All right?”

“Okay.”

“So, don't let anyone push you around,” Borman continued. “Just give us a call if you need anything. We'll be there for you if you need us.”

“Now the ball is in your court,” Pasha added. “It all depends on how you act. You see what I mean?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it, bro,” Pasha said, extending his hand. “Hang in there.”

The rest of them shook my hand too, exchanged kisses with Injured, kicked Kocha off the hood of their car, started up the motor, and pulled away, heading back down into the city. As they hit the highway, they crossed paths with a black Volkswagen, which had pulled onto the side road and was now flying toward the station.

“Who's that pulling in?” Injured asked, irritated.

“It's for me,” I said.

Injured looked at Kocha gloomily and headed over to the garage. Kocha stood next to me, examining the newcomers, clearly intrigued. The Volkswagen rolled over to the gas pumps and stopped. Lyolik and Bolik stepped out of the car, looking around anxiously and stretching their legs after their long trip. They weren't in a hurry to hug me; they just watched me attentively, waiting for me to say something. Bolik wiped some sweat off his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Lyolik was tense, fiddling with his glasses.

“Hey, I'm glad you guys could make it.”

“Hello, Herman,”
said Bolik, a note of concern evident in his voice.

“Hey,” Lyolik said, avoiding my eyes.

“Herman,” Bolik said, “let's talk.”

“Okay, what would you like to talk about?”

“Just the three of us, I mean.” He nodded in Kocha's direction.

“He won't understand anything anyway,” I reassured them. “He's Georgian.”

“Gotcha,” Bolik said, apprehensively. “So, Herman, how are you doing down here?”

“Fuckin' shitty,” I answered.

“Fuckin' shitty?” Bolik asked.

“Uh-huh. Fuckin' shitty. They torched my tanker truck and hanged our dog.”

“You have a dog?” Lyolik asked.

“Not anymore. We just buried her. Kocha and I did,” I said, nodding at the old timer. He nodded back.

“Herman,” Bolik said, clearly struggling to follow his initial train of thought, which my interaction with Kocha had derailed. “Well, basically . . . we came here to take you back home. We're up to our eyeballs in work. Ya know . . .”

“You guys are good friends and all, but I'm not going anywhere,” I said after a moment's thought.

“What do you mean you're not going anywhere?” Bolik asked, looking dumbfounded.

“I mean just that. I'm not going anywhere.”

“What about your job?” Bolik asked.

“Say that I've quit.”

“What do you need all this hassle for, Herman? Come on, let's just go home. This isn't even your business.” Bolik was almost trembling now.

“They torched my tanker truck and hanged my dog. This isn't about business anymore.”

“Listen man,” Bolik said, getting heated, as usual. “Who does this to his friends? You're really letting us down.”

“Did you bring my money?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“I said, did you bring my money? And Lyolik, why are you being so quiet?”

“Herman,” Bolik said, “well, look. Things aren't so clear-cut with your money.”

“Yeah, Herman,” Lyolik said. “We've been meaning to tell you.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“We borrowed some of your money. We had to pay off some bills right away. The thing is, Herman, well, we were flat broke, so we borrowed your money. So now you pretty much gotta come with us. We'll pay you back, don't you worry.”

“Herman, we'll definitely pay you back,” Lyolik added.

“So you fuckin' blew all my money?” I asked.

“Herman, we'll pay you back!” Bolik said, almost yelling. Clearly his feelings were a bit hurt.

“Herman,” Lyolik interjected, “honest to God—we'll pay you back!”

“Just come back with us! You'll see, everything will fall into place!”

“I already told you I'm staying.”

“We're not going anywhere without you,” Bolik declared in
the most decisive voice he could manage.

“Hey, numb nuts,” Kocha piped up suddenly, “you heard what the boss said—he said beat it!” He took a sharpened screwdriver out of his suit pocket and starting to pick the dirt out from under his nails. “If I were you, I'd listen.”

The word “boss” took the wind out of Bolik's sails. He couldn't take his eyes off the screwdriver. Eventually he turned around and headed back toward the car in silence. Lyolik stayed put, however. He hesitated a moment, then said:

“Herman, I'll pay you back, don't you worry.”

“Okay,” I answered, “sounds good.”

“Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”

“All right.”

“Maybe you wanna come back with us, after all?” he asked hopefully.

“Nah, I'm not going anywhere. I'm where I need to be. Here, I've got something for you,” I said, pulling my MP3 player and headphones out of my pocket and handing them over. “A little going-away present.”

“What are you doing?” Lyolik asked. “What are you going to listen to without these?”

“I've already listened to everything I wanted to. You have to listen to music
you
like and not let other people take your headphones away. All right, now get out of here, man.”

Lyolik gave me a firm handshake and headed back to the car.

“Lyolik, hey,” I called out.

“What?” he asked, looking back.

“Do you have unlimited calling?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Can I use your phone real quick?”

Lyolik came up to me and handed over his cell. I called my brother. At first it seemed as though no one would pick up, as usual. Then there was a click, and I heard a woman's voice on the other end.

“Hey,” she said, “how are you hanging in there?”

“Who? Me?”

“Who else? How've you been doing?”

“Pretty decent,” I answered. “And who is this?”

“Who were you calling?”

“My brother.”

“Well, I'm not your brother. What did you want?”

“I wanted to chat.”

“Well, why don't you chat with me,” the woman asked, laughing. “You want me to tell ya a story?”

“You definitely have unlimited calling?” I asked Lyolik. He nodded, so I told the woman, “Okay, let's hear it.”

“Ever since I was a kid I've been afraid of heights, and I was always scared of flying too. When I grew up I decided to overcome my fear. I'd buy airplane tickets and fly—a lot.”

“And?”

“Well, nothing's changed. I'm still scared of heights, but I've seen the world, at least.”

“And how are you holding up now?”

“Fine,” the woman said. “I realized it was never really about fear. I just had to let myself relax, so I started feeling better. Why don't you try relaxing, too, all right?”

“All right.”

“Okay, then,” she said, laughing again. Then she hung up.

“Here.” I handed Lyolik his phone back.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.