Voroshilovgrad (8 page)

“Here,” I said, handing Kocha my MP3 player.

He put the earphones on over his balding head, tapping some buttons to adjust the volume.

“What is this, anyway?” he asked.

“Charlie Parker. I ripped ten CDs' worth.”

Kocha listened for a bit, and then put the 'phones down, off to the side.

“You know why I like it out here?” I asked him. “There aren't any airplanes going by.”

He looked up. It was true; there really weren't any planes. There were still some lights, though: just reflections, maybe, shooting across the sky; green sparks glowing here and there; golden balls spinning along; clouds massing to the north, giving off little sparkles.

“But there are always satellites up there,” Kocha answered finally. “You can see them very well at night. When I'm not sleeping I always see them.”

“And why aren't you sleeping, old-timer?”

“Well,” Kocha said, every consonant still coming out with a screech, “the thing is, I've got sleeping troubles. Ever since the army, Herman. You know how it goes in the paratroopers—those drops, the adrenaline . . . it sticks with you, for life.”

“Gotcha.”

“So I bought some sleeping pills. I asked for something that would really knock my socks off. They gave me some kind of weird artificial shit. God knows what they're putting in pills these days. Anyway, I started taking it, but it didn't do a thing. I upped the dose and I still couldn't fall asleep. Thing is, though, I've started sleeping during the day now. It's a real head-scratcher . . .”

“What have you been taking?” I asked him. “Can I have a look?”

Kocha rooted through his overall pockets and took out a bottle; the label was a poisonous-looking green. I took the bottle and tried reading it, but I didn't even recognize the characters on it.

“Maybe it's some sort of cockroach repellent. Who even makes these pills?”

“They told me the French do.”

“But look at these hieroglyphs—does that look like French to you? Okay, okay—how about I try one?”

I twisted off the cap, took out a lilac-colored pill, and popped it into my mouth.

“Nah, man,” Kocha said, taking back the bottle. “If you only take one you won't even feel it. I take at least five.”

Kocha dumped a few pills down his throat, as if to validate this statement.

“Gimme that.” I took the bottle back, poured out a few pills, and downed them. Then I just sat there, trying to focus in on my own sensations, waiting for the pills to kick in.

“Kocha, it doesn't feel like they're doing anything.”

“I told you so.”

“Maybe you need to wash them down.”

“I tried doing that . . . with wine.”

“And?”

“Nothing. My piss just turned red.”

The twilight thickened, slipping through the tree branches and reaching out into the warm, dusty grass wrapping around us. Flaming orange balls hung in the valley, their sharp citrusy light burning through the fog. The sky was turning black and distant, the constellations showing through like a face appearing on a negative. But the night's most salient feature was the fact that I didn't have the slightest desire to sleep. Kocha put on my headphones again and began swaying softly to an inaudible beat.

Then I noticed movement somewhere down below. Someone was coming up from the river, ascending the steep slope. The hillside was buried in fog; I couldn't make anything out, but it sounded as though somebody was herding skittish animals away from the water.

“You see that?” I asked Kocha warily.

“Yep, I sure do,” Kocha replied, nodding happily.

“Who's down there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kocha said, continuing to nod, contemplating the night that had pounced on us so suddenly.

I froze, listening hard to the voices that were becoming more distinct as whoever it was drew nearer in the darkness that clung to everything like some thick, acerbic liquid. Lit by the valley below, the fog now seemed full of motion and shadows. I could see into the space above it, where some bats occasionally whipped by, making circles above our heads then abruptly darting back into the wet haze. The voices got louder, the rustling resolved into individual footsteps, and then, all at once, bodies started swimming out of the fog, gliding quickly across the thick, hot grass toward us. They moved easily up the slope—there were more and more of them. I could already see the first ones' faces; new, distinct voices carried out of the fog now, and they sounded sweet and sharp as they soared into the sky like smoke from fireplaces. When the first ones drew even with me, I wanted to call something out, something that would stop them, but I was at a loss for words. I could only sit there and observe them silently as they came nearly face-to-face with us, only to push on, not stopping or paying any attention to us, disappearing back into the nighttime haze. I
couldn't understand what kind of creatures they were; they were strange, nearly formless; men with clumps of fog tucked away in their lungs. They were tall, with long, unkempt hair that they had pulled back into ponytails or else wore in Mohawks. Their faces were dark and scarred; some of them had odd painted signs and letters on their foreheads, while others had piercings in their ears or noses. Some of them had covered their faces with bandanas. Medallions and binoculars dangled from their necks, and they had fishing poles and guns slung over their shoulders. One was holding a flag, while another carried a long dry stick with a dog's head on the end. Somebody was carrying a cross, and somebody else seemed to be carrying all his belongings in a bundle. Many of them had drums; they weren't beating them, however; they were hoisted over their shoulders. The creatures' clothing was striking but bedraggled—somebody was wearing an officer's jacket, while others were decked out in sheepskins. Many were wearing long, simple white garments dotted with cow's blood. One of them wasn't wearing a shirt, and his extensive tattoos gave off a blue light under the glowing stars. Another one was wearing army boots, while somebody else had laced sandals on, though most walked along barefoot, crushing bugs and field mice and stepping on thorns, although they showed no signs of discomfort. Women, whispering back and forth in the dark, and occasionally bursting into laughter, followed the men. Some wore their hair in buns, and many of them had dreads, but the pack even included some bald ladies, their skulls painted red and blue. Icons and pentagrams hung from their necks, and they were carrying drowsy and hungry children on their shoulders, children whose eyes soaked up the
darkness around them. The women's dresses were long and colorful; it looked as though they had been wrapped in the flags of some unknown republics. They wore bracelets and baubles around their ankles, and one of them even had little silver rings on her toes. After they too had passed, more dark figures began to burst out of the fog, one by one. They were like nothing I had ever seen before. Some had rams' horns on their heads wrapped in ribbons and golden paper, while other figures were covered in thick fur. Yet another group followed after them, with turkey feathers rustling behind their backs, while the last cohort, the darkest and least talkative, were deformed, each looking as though they'd been created by merging two bodies together—they walked along with two heads on their shoulders, two hearts in their chests, and enough life in them to die twice. Then weary cow heads poked out of the fog; it was unclear how this strange tribe had forced their animals to climb the steep hill, but there they were, plodding along, dragging harrows bearing blind snakes and dead fighting dogs. The harrows erased the tracks left by the incredible procession that had just passed us. Then we saw that the cows were being goaded on by herders in black and gray overcoats. They were moving the animals through the night, taking great pains not to leave any tracks behind. I recognized a few of the herders' faces—the only problem being that I couldn't remember where I'd seen them before. They noticed me too, but they simply looked me right in the eyes, forcing me to give up any last semblance of composure before they pushed on, leaving behind a scorched smell of iron and burning skin. The sky had already started to turn white over wherever they'd come from. As soon as they disappeared, the air
was injected with an even, gray light, the new morning filling it up like water poured into a vessel. A red crack ran across the sky, and morning sunlight doused the valley. Kocha was still sitting next to me—he seemed to be sleeping . . . with his eyes open. I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose. Morning did come, but a bitter aftertaste of the voices that had been there a moment ago remained in the air. It felt as though death or a freight train had just come through.

3

In the morning, Kocha and I drank some tea he had brewed. He told me how to find Olga, and then sent me off with a trucker whose rig he had just filled up.

“Give me your poison,” I said. “I'll at least figure out what you've been taking. Where'd you buy this?”

“In the main square,” Kocha replied, “at the pharmacy.”

Down below, just beyond the bridge, a row of lime trees spread out along the highway; the blinding sun fought its way through the leaves. The truck driver put on his sunglasses; I just closed my eyes. A dam, built to protect the city against any possible flood, curved off to the left. In the spring, when the river overflowed its banks, big pools would form; sometimes they'd break through the dam and deluge the nearby neighborhoods. We rolled into the
city, drove past the first few buildings, and stopped at an empty intersection.

“Well, that's it, buddy, I'm turning right,” the truck driver said.

“Okay,” I answered, and hopped down onto the sandy street.

The city was empty. Some slow current seemed to be carrying the sun to the west. As it moved along above the city blocks, the light was settling on the air like river silt, making it thick and warm. This was one of the older parts of the city, mostly crumbling one or two-story red brick buildings. The sidewalks were covered in sand; grass had sprouted everywhere else, making it look as though the city had been abandoned and reclaimed by nature. The grass filled every crevice, reaching upward gently, yet persistently. I passed a few mom-and-pop stores, the smell of baked bread and soap wafting from their open doors. There didn't seem to be any customers around, though. One woman, wearing a short red skirt, was standing there listlessly, leaning up against a doorway. She had heavy, ash-colored hair, tan skin, and large breasts. Beads of sweat, like drops of fresh honey, rolled down the whole warm expanse of her body. She was wearing some beads, and a few necklaces with gold crosses on them. She had gold watches on, one on each hand, or maybe I was just imagining it. I greeted her as I walked by. She nodded in reply, scrutinizing me, but she couldn't recall my face. “She's really paying attention,” I thought. She appeared to be waiting for someone. I covered a few more blocks and stopped by the telephone company. It was dank inside, like an aquarium. Two local cowboys, wearing T-shirts that only partially covered their tattooed shoulders, stood in line by the customer service window. Once the cowboys had split, I paid the station's phone bill
and went back outside. I turned the corner, walked along a street where all the kiosks were closed, and found myself in the main square. The square resembled a drained pool. Grass was poking up through stone tiles turned white by the rain—the whole place was starting to look like a soccer field. City Hall stood on the other side of the square. I stepped into the pharmacy. A girl with dyed blonde hair, naked except for a white lab coat, stood behind the counter. When she saw me, she slipped her feet into a pair of sandals lying next to her on the cool, stone-tiled floor.

“Hi,” I said, “my grandpa bought some medication here a while back. Could you tell me what it's for?”

“Oh yeah? What's wrong with this grandpa of yours?” the girl asked suspiciously.

“You know, he's got some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“You know, with his head.”

She took the bottle out of my hand, scrutinizing it.

“This isn't for headaches.”

“You're joking.”

“It's for your stomach.”

“Does it loosen you or tighten you up?” I asked, just in case.

“It loosens you up,” she said, “and then it tightens you up again, but it's past the expiration date. How's he been feeling?”

“He's hanging in there,” I replied. “Give me some vitamins or something.”