Voroshilovgrad (31 page)

“Well then, Herman. You ready?” the priest asked.

“Yep. Are we going to get started?”

“Of course,” he said confidently. “This is exactly what we came here for. This is exactly what we came here for.”

Three months of plentiful sunshine. We had sand in our clothes and teeth, and silence that stopped our blood and thickened our dreams so they ran one into another; it made waking up a long and uneasy process. Black bread and green tea that marked time and framed space. We had sugar in our pockets and on our bed sheets, the smell of grass and diesel, hoarse conversations in the mornings the smooth operation of rain falling slowly like factory workers trudging home after a tough shift, passing empty tin cans. We listened to border radio stations, giving us news from both countries, alternately informing us about clear days and calling for precipitation. Women's voices came through the speaker, telling us about the heat waves battering distant, unreachable places, complaining about the stifling heat and the unending racket in the city and dreaming about travel and cool weather. It all seemed so artificial and intoxicating from where we were—we listened greedily to their smooth breathing, their short yet frequent bursts of laughter. We wanted to look them straight in the eye as they reported the day's exchange rates.

The summer was so dense that it was impossible to push through to the other side. Every evening after work, we'd lock up the booth, flop down on our couches, and listen to the radio—one of the truckers had hooked Kocha up. I'd fall asleep to the music
request show and wake up to long, sad conversations between radio evangelists. The latter were particularly earnest in the early mornings when things were light and easy and I couldn't even think of falling asleep again. Around that time they'd generally be holding forth about the importance of fasting and reading excerpts from the prophets' holy books. Occasionally, they'd break for weather reports, which made their sermons all the more comprehensive. Three months of good sleep, a healthy appetite, and sentimental feelings. I'd always thought that it would probably serve a person well to change their social circle, daily routine, name, and hair color every once in a while, and now I'd had the chance to test that theory. My hair had gotten lighter and grown out—in July I started combing it back, and then in August Kocha cut it with his prized German scissors. My old clothes had gotten all greasy and they stank of wine and gasoline now so I bought myself some black army T-shirts and a few pairs of pants with countless pockets to store all the bolts, keys, and lightbulbs I came across at work. I had become more sensible and self-assured—maybe changing my daily routine did the trick, or maybe it was the fact that I was working with some serious people. Fresh air really can cool your head and light a fire inside you. I reconnected with all of my old acquaintances, all my old loves, all my teachers and enemies. My old acquaintances were genuinely happy I had come back, but it didn't go any further than that. My old loves introduced me to their kids, reminding me of the diffuse passage of time that makes us wiser, though this newfound wisdom is inevitably accompanied by cellulite. My teachers looked to me for guidance, while my enemies asked me to lend them a little cash
so they could continue leading their worthless lives. Life is cruel, but fair. Well, sometimes it's just cruel.

On the weekends, Injured and I would play some soccer. A bunch of community college guys would stop by the station, guys who considered playing on the same team as our chubby living legend a great honor. We had a lot of work, but I'd gotten used to it. Olga and I still weren't on speaking terms. My former Kharkiv friends never came back. I forgave their debt. Kocha's Gypsy relatives gave me enough money to keep going. I stopped trying to contact my brother. At night I'd dream about airplanes.

Surprisingly enough, my gas station worries had just evaporated somehow. At first, I sat around anxiously awaiting their next move—waiting for arson, corpses, and so forth. I even tried to rally my old acquaintances in town. Nothing ever wound up happening, though, and I was told not to make a big deal about it, and just take things as they came. I gradually calmed down, despite Injured's constant warnings that our problems wouldn't blow over so easily, and that one day somebody was going to get his neck snapped. “Maybe,” I told myself. “And then again, maybe not.”

In the early fall, everything was set into motion again, everything was reactivated—caravans of trucks pushed out to the north, delivering the fruits of the harvest to local markets. This golden September was warm. The sun would seem to halt right above the gas pumps, and then it'd get it into its head to roll away as quickly as it could, heading along the highway to the west, lighting up the road for the truckers. Sometimes Ernst would stop by and hold forth to Injured about differences in the tactics of tank combat in daytime and nighttime conditions. Injured would soon lose his
temper and disappear into his workshop to dismember some more fresh automobile carcasses. Occasionally, when it wasn't too hot, the clergyman with whom I'd struck up a friendship during the funeral would stop by on his bike. We'd have long conversations. Sometimes he'd stay late, and we'd listen to the evangelists sitting in faraway radio stations—much like us, they clearly had no idea how to pass the time on those black nights, ignited by indolence. Other times, the presbyter would bring me some books to read. Once, noticing my Charlie Parker discs, he asked me if I was really interested in jazz. On the very next day he showed up with a greasy scholarly work on the emergence of the New Orleans jazz scene. And then there was a long period during which he tried talking to me about Shtundism, but I couldn't help but demonstrate a total lack of respect for religious symbols whenever the topic came up, so he finally decided to let me be.

By this time, Kocha's Gypsy relatives already saw me as one of their own. They too would stop by from time to time, trying to draw me further into their community. Kocha and I even went to their religious services a few times, but we could never manage to sit through an entire Mass. Each time, Kocha would drag me over to the kitchen where he'd start pillaging the wine supply. Tamara also came by the station sometimes. She'd always greet me with a certain reserve, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't quite find the right words. Frankly, I had no real interest in trying to pry any information out of her. Certain things are best observed at a distance, including other people's intimate relations.

After those three months of sun and shade, of sandstorms and plentiful if withering greenery, came October. The mornings were
sunny yet cool; every day it felt as though a cyclone was just about to touch down. I would get out of bed with great reluctance and wander outside, shivering, to wash up at the sink. Our toothpaste would freeze overnight like vanilla ice cream. Patches of fog would gradually clump together by the gas pumps, with only individual trees still visible, poking through. Fall was already gathering momentum; we needed to start gearing up for months of darkness and snow.

That's when it happened. The presbyter had to make a trip all the way out to the border to perform a wedding ceremony for some members of his congregation. He had to go God knows where, so he decided it'd be best to travel with a big group. The church provided him with a driver and an old, rotting white Volga, and asked Tamara to go along, since having a woman along would the whole affair look a bit more legitimate. Kocha was supposed to join the group, help out at the ceremony, and generally serve as backup. One of his pals from the can paid us a visit a few days before the trip, however: The two of them loaded up on wine and sang prison songs deep into the night, paying no mind to the first breaths of frost that blew through those deceptively warm, early autumn nights. By the next morning, Kocha had nearly lost his voice, while his former cellmate, who had agreed to bike into the valley for some medicine at some point during the previous night's festivities, had failed to reappear as promised, meaning there was little chance of getting the bike back, leaving the old timer distraught. All he could do was lie around on the couch, drinking hot tea and pouring generous doses of grain alcohol into his mug. So I had to go to the ceremony instead of him. I guess that's just
how it goes sometimes in a big family.

“Can't they get by without me?” I asked. “I don't know a thing about their church stuff.”

Kocha, who was still quite sick, replied hoarsely, “Look, you don't have to do a thing. They'll handle it, so just chill, dude. All you gotta do is hang around them, that's it.” His voice fizzled out then like a dying car battery. He couldn't manage more than a feeble mumble when he went on: “I just can't—you see I'm hurting.”

“What I don't get is why they needed you in the first place.”

“It'd be bad news if we only sent Gypsies over. They need a regular person there, you know, just in case the shit hits the fan.”

“What's their beef with the Gypsies?”

“Herman, they're uncivilized people. They already don't trust each other, and then you throw Gypsies into the mix? Listen, if this weren't so important to the family I wouldn't have asked you. The thing is, you're like a brother to us now. Just make sure you wear my suit. You look like some sort of POW in that getup. Come on, Herman—you gotta take life by the horns.”

“Who are we doing all this for, anyway?” I asked.

“Smugglers,” Kocha explained. “They live by smuggling. The border's right there, see. They just get by however they can.”

“They ever get caught?”

“Yeah, of course. Some of them get locked up and others are let go.”

“How'd they wind up here in our neck of the woods?”

“They do business with our guys,” Kocha said. “Our guys hook them up with Chinese-made bathroom fixtures, they take
them across the border, repackage them in Rostov, and then ship them out to China, passing them off as Italian-made. Remember, Herman, business and faith go hand in hand.”

“Sure.”

“They come to our services sometimes, take some of our pamphlets, donate some money to our church. But it's not just about that the money.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We have to spread God's word. Who else should we be spreading it to? Why not them?”

“What sort of creed does their presbyter preach, anyway?”

“None that I know of, he just does things his own way. All that matters is that you're at peace with yourself . . . and that you keep your feet warm,” Kocha said, tucking his ailing body underneath the blanket.

They came by to pick me up early Saturday morning. I put on Kocha's dark blue suit, laced up a pair of worn boots, and hopped in the car. If I had known from the get-go how the trip was going to play out, I probably would have been a bit more cautious. But who could have guessed how it was all going to go down, and what kind of trouble we were going to get ourselves into? When you're taking life by the horns you don't really think about the consequences of your actions.

Their songs sounded like national anthems being performed at the Olympics—their voices rose in a heartfelt chorus, even though they didn't
exactly know how to sing. They may not have been hitting the right notes, but the joy in their voices made up for their musical shortcomings. I remembered the singing at Tamara's mother's funeral: you might have thought that there would be a mournful, wistful air of solemnity about the ceremony, but no, everyone was singing uplifting songs, thanking the heavens for all the kindness they had been shown, and asking for further intercessions on behalf of those they loved. Now the presbyter was standing on the stage and launching into couplet after couplet as his congregation joined in gladly and sang the Lord's praises. Tamara and the driver were both inspired by all this melodious thanksgiving to lift their voices as well. I felt like a soccer player from some third-world country at the Olympic Games—I opened up my mouth and caught the beginning of the words, latching onto them and spitting out the endings as loudly as I could, so one could hear my voice, too, on longer phrases like “the righteous” or “burning bush.” The bride and groom were standing in the first row with one-eyed Tolik to their right and the head of the local community to the left.