Voroshilovgrad (35 page)

The sun had set on the other side of the garages, its harsh, farewell glare reflected in the moat of black fuel oil around us. We walked over to the car. Seva popped open the hood and started taking stock of the damage as Tamara took a seat in the back. I flopped onto my seat too. The punk was standing next to Seva, evidently not knowing what to do with himself anymore.

“Are you sure they aren't going to do anything bad to him in there?” Tamara asked quietly.

“Don't you worry,” I said. “Everything's going to be all right.”

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” she continued. “I was so scared.”

“Don't mention it.”

The punk came over to Seva and started poking around under
the hood as well. I took out Tamara's phone while he was otherwise occupied. I flipped it open and found the last number dialed. I hit the green button, and it began to ring.

“Hello.”

“Injured, it's me. Can you hear me?” I was trying to keep quiet so the punk wouldn't catch on.

“Herman,” Injured said. “Speak up.”

“I can't talk any louder. What's going on back at the station?”

“Herman,” Injured shouted, “they came around looking for you this morning.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. They weren't the police, I can tell you that. They were in civilian clothes. They came by in the morning and were asking tons of questions.”

“What'd you say?”

“I said that you'd gone to see your brother, and I didn't know when you'd be getting back.”

“What'd they say?”

“They said they'd come by again, and that they really needed to talk to you. Then they drove down into town, Herman.”

“So what should I do now?”

“Stay away from the station. I think they'll be coming back soon. It'd be better for you to go someplace a few more days. Lay low until it all blows over.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“Dammit Herman, you can go anywhere you damn well please!” Injured snapped. And then, “Okay, okay. Sorry. When are you supposed to be getting back?”

“Don't know. Late tonight sometime.”

“Give me a call when you're getting close,” Injured said. “Get them to drop you off by the tracks and walk over to the train station. I'll be there waiting for you. I'll bring you your dough and your passport.”

“Thanks, Injured.”

“Don't mention it.” And his voice clicked off.

“What was that all about?” Tamara asked.

“Just some problems at work,” I said.

Time seemed to be dragging on, as though catching on all the garage roofs and agricultural machinery on its way past. It was already dark, and the air was brisk. I was almost nodding off when I saw the dog, wagging his loyal tail, run out from behind one of the nearby structures. Behind him came the presbyter, taking powerful strides behind the animal, and after him a pack of farmers followed. The presbyter reached the car and waved to everyone. “Let's go!” Seva said cheerfully. One of the farmers came over and gave him back the car keys. The farmers all looked a bit confused, actually—shifting from foot to foot, coughing awkwardly, not saying anything.

Seva slammed the hood shut and walked up to the punk.

“My cell,” he said decisively.

The punk was getting a bit flustered.

“Gimme my cell,” Seva repeated.

The punk cast a sweeping glance at his friends. Failing to rally any kind of support, he took Seva's cell phone out of his pocket sheepishly. Seva took back his property, got behind the wheel, started the car up, and put the pedal to the metal, taking a victory
lap around the farmers before rolling out of their greasy settlement.

Once we were in the clear and the cornstalks were rattling against the sides of the car again, I leaned in toward the presbyter.

“You doing all right?” I asked.

“Yep, everything's just fine,” he answered cheerfully.

“What were you guys talking about for so long?”

“Ah, nothing really,” he said lightly. “About the roads we must walk. About the divine providence that guides us along our journey. But mostly we talked about the latest agricultural reforms.”

“Nah, for real—what were you actually talking about?”

“Herman, your time will come—you will find the answers you seek,” the presbyter told me, taking a Zippo lighter out of one pocket and a clean handkerchief out of the other. He wrapped the lighter carefully and tucked it away into his pocket.

Then he dozed off as if he didn't have a care in the world.

The air was as black and stony as anthracite coal. Our headlights flushed the road with thick, golden rays; foxes were running out of the fields, their eyes giving out a brief, frightened twinkle before fading dejectedly away. As for Seva's eyes, he kept them fixed on the crumbling road, and the presbyter was still snoozing peacefully in the front seat next to him. Gradually, I felt Tamara's hand slide up my leg. I looked at it—Tamara's hand, I mean—but she turned
away and started staring intently out the window. It was as if she wasn't even in the car, as if she wasn't the one riding along with us, as if it wasn't her hand moving resolutely to undo my belt and buttons, to slip underneath my T-shirt, as if those weren't her rings burning my stomach with cold and danger, and as if those weren't her long, sharp nails touching my skin, scaring and exciting me. I tensed up, though the men in front seemed entirely oblivious. The infamous Tamara, on the other hand, hadn't forgotten a thing—she remembered all her old tricks, clutching me and inching up my leg, slow and steady. Her hand held me firmly, not letting me exhale or relax at all. It was as though she was afraid I was on the verge of breaking loose and escaping from her. I heard her breathing and felt her hand shaking, either due to fatigue or to the mounting tension. But it kept moving, continuing to perform its mechanical work and pouring all of its energy and tenderness into its task. She still wasn't looking at me—she was searching for something in the darkness; she saw something out there. She was with me, yet she also somewhere far away; I couldn't reach her, couldn't tell her to keep going, to maintain her rhythm no matter what. I wanted to tell her to push on for just a little longer—then she'd be able to rest. But every time I wanted to tell her to keep it up, she'd seem to freeze, as though on purpose: to catch her breath and then let some hot air out of her lungs. Those few seconds were just enough for me to cool off. Then it'd start back up again; she'd have to start all over again, continuing her exhausting act of love. Her rings had warmed up. Now she was moaning almost inaudibly; she turned to me at last, staring at me for what seemed like ages. This was it—this time there was no stopping her, because
we had to put an end to all of this. How much longer could we hold out? We had to put an end to this, otherwise we would die from exhaustion and desire. A moment before putting an end to it, after she felt that she'd reached her goal, she laid her hand gently over my mouth, so that nobody would hear me. After that she ran her damp hand along my stomach in a sweet caress, breathing softly. Then she turned back to the window to observe the falling stars that lit up the dry corn.

3

To my left I could see the dark wombs of the railroad sheds, pumped with blackness pure as oil. Lampposts sliced through the gloom, filling the air with sparks that flew in every direction, lighting up the windows and the metal components of the trains. Railroad sidings stretched out to my right, leading to dead ends in grass that was yellow from the diesel and tracks that were black from the smoke. Apartment complexes started a bit farther down—a kingdom of alcoholics and petty crime. I could hear some loud music mixed with dogs barking and locomotives roaring. A train loaded with Donbass coal rolled on by, heading north. The air smelled of rain and wet stones. I put the collar of my jacket up and headed down the tracks, escaping the industrial zone and moving toward where the station's lights burned in the darkness.

Injured was sitting in his car parked by the station sleeping soundly, his head cocked back. I hid behind some trees, scampered by, and then hopped in the car. Injured woke up and looked at me with obvious interest.

“What's with the getup?” he asked.

“This suit? It's Kocha's.”

“Get changed,” Injured advised me. “I brought you your stuff,” he said, pointing at the back seat. “Here's your passport and dough. The Donetsk train will be leaving in an hour. Take the economy-class car—there'll be more people there.”

“And where am I going?”

“Get off at the last stop, I guess. My brother will meet you in Donetsk. Tell him you've come to pick up the car. Just lay low this weekend.”

“Injured, what do I have to hide out for, anyway?”

“Do you know what they want?”

“No.”

“Me neither. So it's time for a little weekend getaway. And hey, I'll get a little break from you, too.”

“Where's Olga?” I asked, ignoring his jab. “Maybe she knows something we don't.”

“She doesn't,” Injured said. “I asked her.”

“Maybe we should tell Kocha's relatives?”

“What could they do? Herman, this is some real serious shit. At least I think it is. People don't just go around torching gas tankers for kicks, and with one of us in it, no less.”

“All right then,” I agreed. “I'll ride in the economy-class car. I'm gonna get changed, okay?”

“Go for it,” Injured replied, looking away.

The chilly October air became denser; voices seemed to bounce right off it, as off an invisible surface and ricochet back into the darkness, echoing until they disintegrated. The train station attendant made announcement after announcement over the PA system, reading off messages, telling passengers to be careful while boarding, informing them about delays, and repeating route numbers, but all her efforts were in vain, everything she said was incomprehensible, just syllables spilling out of the speaker like bird poop, frightening the passengers more than enlightening them. I stood on the platform in the shadow cast by the main building, wary of staying inside yet unwilling to risk venturing out into the open, where someone might see me. I looked at the floodlights burning through the black fabric of this October night, observed the silhouettes of the railroad employees from afar, watching them disappear behind the crossing on the other side of the tracks, overhearing their jargon. Meanwhile, I kept asking myself, “Who came looking for me? Who suddenly needed to have a talk with me? Maybe it was one of my brother's guys? But why didn't they say so? And if it was the corn guys, then what are they up to now?” And so I felt the calm, peaceful pattern of the last few months being wrenched apart, and everything was suddenly back to normal, or what passes for normal these days. I guess life didn't want anyone taking it by the horns, after all. “This is some tangled business,” I thought, as my train finally rolled into the station. Tangled like the grass between the railroad ties.