Michael Beres: Chernobyl Murders

Lazlo had not finished his entire glass, so he took it with him.

While climbing the ladder into the white heat of day, his thoughts returned to Nina and how she would move about the table in the yard, serving dinner beneath the shade trees. If he could watch her movements without concern for what she or others might think, if he could be alone with her beneath the stars through the night, then this would be Eden.

Unfortunately it was not true. He was a forty-three-year-old detective in the Kiev militia who, having been unsuccessful in his relationships with women, lusted after his brother’s young wife each year while on holiday. Perhaps it would have been better if he had married years ago. Perhaps he should marry now. But who would have him? Tamara Petrov, perhaps? He tried to imagine Tamara as a bride, her long black hair showing through the veil, bracelets and earrings jingling as she walks up a church aisle. If anything, Tamara would demand a church ceremony, not because she is religious, but because it would go against the mandated state ceremony.

But enough-neither he nor Tamara were interested in marriage.

He was at home in his cubicle at Kiev Militia Headquarters, while Tamara was at home in her cluttered literary review office or at Club Ukrainka, somewhat of a wine cellar in its own way. A wine cellar in central Kiev where artists and composers and writers went to drink and talk, but mostly to drink. A cellar he often visited after a late shift in order to share part of his evening with Tamara.

Here, on holiday, there were no women for a lonely militia detective. Here there was only Nina. At the top of the ladder, the heat of the sun on his head was like hellfire. Even if Nina was in the yard, he could not see her because the sunlight, like a nuclear bomb, had momentarily blinded him.

That evening after dinner, everyone else watched television while Lazlo and Mihaly listened to music on Cousin Bela’s record player.

Some of the records were very old, from when Lazlo was a boy and Mihaly hadn’t yet been born. The scratchy sounds of the Lakatos Gypsy Orchestra filled the house, Lazlo and Mihaly sang, and the children promptly fell asleep. After they were chased from the house, Lazlo and Mihaly spread a blanket in the yard and reclined beneath the stars. It was a clear, moonless night, the trees in the yard forming grotesque shadows upon the blanket of stars. The lights had just gone off in the house, and now the only artificial light came from the village two kilometers away. Because the farmhouse sat atop a hill, only the tallest streetlights and a few lights in the upper windows of village houses were visible. A pair of dogs barked in the village. Otherwise it was silent and deathly still, like the graveyard up the road.

“Lights are all off,” said Mihaly. “But Bela hasn’t started yet.

Snores like his father. Remember Sunday dinners when we were kids? After we finished eating, Uncle Sandor would fall asleep beneath the chestnut tree.”

“We thought he’d shake the chestnuts down on himself,” said Lazlo.

“And when he awoke, he refused to believe he’d been so loud.

He thought everyone was playing a joke on him. Not funny, though, since asthma eventually killed him. I suppose Bela inherited his father’s snoring. I wonder why he hasn’t started yet.”

“Give him time,” said Lazlo.

“Did you think we’d ever come back here, Laz? I remember at Mother’s funeral thinking it would be the last time I ever saw the place. And now here we are, sleeping out back like boys. We sold Bela the house for a good price when Mother died.”

“If we hadn’t sold it to him, he’d still be living with his in-laws, and the collective would have taken it over.”

“What do you think of Mariska, Laz? One baby and she already looks old, especially in those dark dresses and farmer shoes. What a contrast to Cousin Andrew’s wife.”

“Shoes and dresses don’t make a woman, Mihaly. Perhaps in bed things are different.”

“It’s the reason Bela’s not snoring.” Mihaly began laughing. “He can’t because his mouth is full of breast.”

Lazlo tried to control himself, but Mihaly’s laughter was contagious.

“And later,” said Mihaly. “Later, when he is snoring… listen, stop laughing.” Mihaly whispered, “Later, she has Bela’s kielbasa in her mouth, and he really gets going.”

Lazlo and Mihaly both laughed, both began coughing while they tried to contain their laughter. Finally they climbed down into the wine cellar and laughed like a pair of crazy old women in their hole in the ground. When they finished laughing, they groped about in the dark until they found one-liter glass jars on a shelf. They wiped dust from the jars with their shirts.

“Enough to last the night,” said Mihaly as the wine gurgled into the first jar.

After filling both jars, they climbed out of the cellar and went back to their blanket. They spoke of Bela’s hard work keeping up the farm. They spoke of Mariska’s fortune-telling games with the children. They reminisced about the old days on the farm. Lazlo spoke of bedtime stories in which their father said he’d lived with Gypsies when he was a boy. Mihaly, who had not been born until Lazlo was eleven, said he couldn’t recall the stories, but he did recall their mother not wanting their father to ever mention Gypsies.

While Lazlo and Mihaly nostalgically recalled their reflections in their mother’s chicken soup, the sound of Bela’s snoring came from the house. As Bela snored louder, Lazlo and Mihaly laughed harder, Mihaly keeping the joke alive by describing moves on the part of Mariska to keep Bela snorting. Finally, a light went on and off in the house, Bela stopped snoring, and Lazlo and Mihaly quieted down, clearing their throats and sipping wine.

“How are things in Kiev?” asked Mihaly.

“The usual summer heat and traffic. The greenery helps. It must have been beautiful before humans arrived, a jungle river valley. What about you, Mihaly? How are things in Pripyat?”

“Flat and boring,” said Mihaly.

“When you got your job, you described the landscape as gently rolling grassland.”

Mihaly laughed. “Gently rolling. Another term for flat.”

“A good place for soccer,” said Lazlo.

“If one has time.”

“You said your team was as good as Kiev’s Dynamo.”

“No more soccer. Our work schedule is erratic, the hours too long. Sometimes, even in summer, I never see the light of day. On my way home on the bus at night, all I see out the window is darkness. Did I ever tell you how the Chernobyl area got its name?”

“Tell me again.”

“It’s named after a wild grass called wormwood. This wormwood, or Chernobyl grass, was originally named after a star mentioned in the Bible. In the Apocalypse, the Chernobyl star fell to earth and made the land foul. So there you have it, Laz. I live in a gently rolling landscape overrun by foul grass named after a fallen star. Luckily the grass hasn’t yet made it into our nine-square-meter-per-person apartment in scenic downtown Pripyat. A few rolling hills away from Chernobyl on one side, the Pripyat marshes on the other, the Belorussian border up the road, and illiterate farmers everywhere else. What I’d really like is a car to get away on trips.

I’ve been saving and I could probably get a Zaporozhets or Moskvich, but I’d prefer a Volga.”

“My turd-green militia Zhiguli isn’t bad,” said Lazlo.

“Italian design,” said Mihaly. “An old Fiat. Volgas are the only well-built Soviet cars. Everything else is junk, even Chaikas and Zils. We save our money to buy junk, and the KGB drives Volgas.

In my office at the plant, I have a photograph of a Chevrolet Impala

… gorgeous.”