Voroshilovgrad (34 page)

The farmers looked like a biker gang—beards, dirty looks, and implicit threats. Some of them were decked out in black tracksuits and leather jackets; others were in camo and leather dress shirts. One guy had a red bandana, another was wearing sunglasses, and a third farmer wore a tattered sheepskin coat over his bare chest; yet another, who seemed to occupy a position of prominence, standing out in front, was holding a rusty metal rod, tossing it between his big, meaty hands. After a few moments of this, he suddenly wound up and slammed the rod into the hood of the Volga. Metal rang like church bells on Easter. Seva hopped right out of the car in reply; the presbyter followed him, neither of them even bothering to shut the doors behind them. Tamara yanked firmly at my sleeve, hanging on for dear life.

“Calm down,” I told her, feeling for her cell phone in my one pocket and the Bosch electric scissors and old screwdriver in the other. “Just calm down.”

Seva was standing across from three farmers, trying to say something. They were eyes him scornfully, like a pack of predators. They weren't so much listening to him as waiting for a reason to mash him up and mix him in with the fuel oil.

Seva eventually managed to stammer out a question to the
farmer with the rod:“What do you think you're doing, anyway?”

“I do what I want,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather pants.

“Well, what the fuck are you wrecking my car for?” Seva asked, trying to sound stern.

“Well, I could wreck you instead,” the farmer answered, stepping forward, his fat belly gradually edging into Seva's personal space. Two other guys moved to positions on Seva's left and right.

“Hold on there for just a second.” the presbyter said, seemingly waking from a trance.

The three farmers threatening Seva stopped and spared the presbyter a glance.

“There's no reason for violence,” he continued in a conciliatory tone. “We were just on our way back from a wedding. I'm the presbyter. We decided to stop by your place to . . .”

“You're a presbyter?” the farmer in leather asked. “Where were you coming from?”

“From over there,” the presbyter said, pointing to the east, “from the border.”

“There aren't any churches over there,” the fat guy said, tossing the rod from his right hand to his left.

“You don't need a church to get married,” the presbyter replied.

“You Baptists or something?” the leather one asked.

“Shtundists,” one of his friends suggested.

The farmers' faces got even grimmer.

“Fine,” said the guy with the rod. “Let's go have a talk with our agronomist. You'll tell him all about your church.”

“Actually,” the presbyter said, still trying to be as diplomatic as possible,
“we have to get going. We don't want to keep our friends waiting.”

“Hey,” the rod man replied, “they can wait a bit. Now you're going to have a talk with our agronomist. Got it?”

“All right then,” the presbyter said feebly.

“Do you have any phones on you?” he asked.

“Huh?” went Seva, sounding rather dense.

“Give us your phones,” the rod man barked.

“You're not for real, are you?” Seva asked. It was all the resistance he had left in him.

The farmer's reply was to grip the rod with both hand and strike Seva with it right in the stomach, folding him up like a lawn chair. The presbyter was about to dash over to help him up, I think, but one of the farmers cut him off. I bolted out of the car to help, and Tamara slid out behind me, but we were immediately surrounded by the four men who had been standing behind the car. A short, young farmer with some sort of punkish Mohawk, wielding this season's tire iron, was standing closest to us. I stopped, making sure I was between him and Tamara.

“Give us your phones,” the rod man ordered Seva once again.

Seva took out his cell and handed it over. One of the farmers hopped in the Volga, took the keys out of the ignition, and put them in his pocket.

“Now give us
your
phone,” the farmer said, pressing the rod up against the presbyter's chest.

“I don't have one,” the presbyter replied timidly.

“How do you keep in touch with your congregation then? And check them, too,” he told the punk, pointing at Tamara and me.

“Hey,” the punk said, eager to get at Tamara. “Give us your phones.”

Tamara let out a frightened squeal.

“Take it easy,” I said, intercepting his hand. “She doesn't have a phone on her.”

“You lookin' for trouble, tough guy?”

“Are you?” I asked, sticking my hand in my pocket and grasping the electric scissors.

The punk could see I had something in there. He decided not to risk it.

“Fine, whatever you say. What about you? You got a phone on you?”

“You wanna search me?” I asked him.

“Fuck that. I don't need your shit,” the punk replied. “Vlad!” he yelled over to the chubby guy, “all clear over here.”

“Well then,” Vlad replied. “Shall we?”

He gave Seva's cell to the punk and took the lead. We followed him, leaving the Volga empty and open out in the middle of those black, well-trodden pits. I started walking, thinking to myself, “Phone, please don't ring, please, don't ring.” The dog sniffed each wheel, his fur soaking up the October sun.

We passed the garages, went around the combines, and found ourselves next to a big cinder-block warehouse. There were a few more farmers hanging around by the door. Seeing us, they all started talking at the same time.

“Well Vlad, you've got some hostages?” shouted one of them, tall and bald and wearing a long leather jacket.

“Let's lock them up in the garage—the rats will have a feast,” suggested another farmer, short and wearing glasses and a heavy, leather cap, domed on top and with a visor; it made him look like a sunflower.

“What about just burying them out in the cornfields,” a third farmer, wearing a leather jacket and some crappy jeans, chimed in.

“All right, all right,” said Vlad, who was evidently the voice of reason around here. “Is Kotovsky in?”

“Yep,” went the lanky guy.

“How's he been doing?” Vlad asked warily.

“Fuckin' shitty,” the sunflower guy answered.

“He's been hurting,” the crappy jeans guy confirmed.

“Well, we're gonna go see him anyway,” Vlad said, shoving them aside and opening up the doors to let us in.

This was clearly their headquarters. The wallpaper was nailed on, but it was drooping down or peeling off like in many places, like flags lowed to half-mast to mark some tragedy. Up against the walls were long benches covered in old rugs and goatskins, and there were more farmers sitting or lying on them, as though they were anticipating something, hoping to hear some good news. Winter clothes such as pea coats and furs were heaped in a corner. A small window let in too little light, and the room was full of the harsh yellow hum of electricity. By the far wall, across from the door we'd come in, there was a desk cluttered with papers and disposable dishware. A guy with sharp, unshaven features and a strange, contorted smile was sitting behind it. He
had a leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders and a knockoff Armani sweater underneath. Other farmers, one of them wearing an artificial leather jacket and the other a heavy leather police officer's hat, hovered over him. There was no way he could be a cop, though, because his fists were colored with blue prison tattoos. When he saw us, the guy's face contorted even more. Vlad ordered us to stand by the door and headed over to the desk. The farmers were watching us from every direction, just in case we tried to pull anything.

“Kotovsky,” Vlad said, fiddling with the rod as he spoke. “We caught them down by the garages. They say they were on their way home from church. They're Shtundists. They were coming from over by the border.”

Kotovsky looked at us apathetically.

“Grisha,” he said, “you see what these Shtundists are up to? We gotta take 'em out.”

“No fuckin' way, Grisha,” the man in the artificial leather jacket disagreed. “We'll get busted. Let's take them over to the garage and keep them there for a bit. Maybe then they'll start talking.”

“Start talking about what?” the tattooed guy asked. “What do you want them to tell you? We gotta take them out and torch their car.”

“Grisha,” the man in the jacket continued stubbornly, “why the fuck should we go around torching cars? You guys are a bunch of fuckin' clowns. Let's keep them in the garage until tomorrow, and see if they start talking then.”

“No fuckin' way,” the tattooed man insisted.

“I'm telling you,” the man in the artificial leather jacket insisted
just as strongly.

“Listen,” the presbyter tried interjecting, taking a step forward before a farmer grabbed him by the collar, as if to say, “Don't interrupt when farmers are talking business.”

“Kotovsky,” the rod man volunteered, “We gotta do something. Soon enough their friends are gonna go looking for them, and they'll definitely be coming by our place.”

“All we gotta do is take them out,” the tattooed guy said, clenching his fists, making the ink on his fingers stand out even more.

Kotovsky sighed heavily. The guy in the artificial leather jacket, knowing what was going on, opened up one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle. The edge of Kotovsky's mouth grazed the bottle, and he attempted to pour some vodka down his gullet through a funnel. The alcohol started trickling down his face, however, and none of it seemed to go down his throat. After another sigh, Kotovsky kicked back in his swivel chair, giving the bottle back to the man in the jacket.

“What's wrong with him?” the presbyter asked Vlad.

“He's hurting,” he answered coldly. “Can't you see that?”

“Paralysis?”

“You're paralysis!” Vlad said, in a schoolyard-comeback tone. “They busted up his jaw. Can't you see that? We had a run-in with your Shtundist clan over by the border. Someone thumped him real good with the butt of a sawed-off.”

“I even know who it was,” I thought.

“Give me a sec,” the presbyter said, and took off for the desk once again. The farmers tried holding him back, but the presbyter fended them off: “Hold your horses!” he barked. He
outmaneuvered Vlad, who looked dumbfounded, easily pushed past the tattooed guy, and leaned over Kotovsky, who stared up at the presbyter with a doomed expression on his face but maintained his tough façade.

Seeing this, the farmers on the benches all stood up, gravitated toward the desk, and readied themselves to rip the presbyter to shreds if he dared harm a hair on their dear Kotovsky's head. Vlad wanted to pull the presbyter back, but Kotovsky raised his hand and Vlad stopped, keeping his rod at the ready.

The presbyter put one hand on Kotovsky's head, leaned in, and touched his busted jaw delicately with the other. Kotovsky trembled slightly. Vlad seemed to be trembling along with him.

“Does this hurt?” the presbyter asked Kotovsky. The latter moaned faintly. “The thing is,” the presbyter continued, “people don't even know what their bodies are capable of. We consider the body a fixed entity—something given to us at birth that we can't change. Consequently, we view any ailment as some sort of irreversible disaster that takes away the most important thing in our lives—harmony with oneself. However, the body is an instrument in the Lord's hands. The Lord calls forth magnificent sounds by pressing invisible keys. Like this.” The presbyter pushed hard on Kotovsky's jaw, which clicked and fell into place. Kotovsky didn't know what hit him.

The presbyter stepped aside and took a self-satisfied look at his handiwork. Kotovsky touched his jaw sheepishly, opened his mouth, and started inhaling greedily. Absolutely mesmerized, the farmers' glances shifted back and forth between the presbyter and Kotovsky.

“Listen,” the presbyter said, giving them no time to come to their senses, “I
wanted to say something to you.” He turned toward us. “You go on ahead, I'll catch up.”

“Father,” Seva replied, dumbfounded. “What about you?”

“I'll catch up, don't you worry,” the presbyter repeated, more assertively. “Go back to the car.”

I made for the door. The punk, standing behind me, peered at Kotovsky inquisitively, but the latter nodded apathetically, as if to say, “Whatever. Let them go. Quit it with all the tough-guy shit.” Leading Tamara out with me, I went back into the open air. Seva followed us. As we were leaving I noticed the farmers forming a tight circle around the presbyter. I would have darted back inside, but the presbyter was watching us leave, calmly and graciously, encouraging us to keep going. The punk squeezed through the doorway with us. Flustered and irritated, he didn't bother answering the other farmers' questions as he led us back to the Volga.