Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

I got here at the end of May. I walked through town from the train station. I didn’t have a lot of stuff with me—a leather backpack containing a few T-shirts, an old laptop, and a thermos of cognac I hadn’t finished on the train. Jeans, Keds, and an aggressively green button-down shirt—I was here for the long haul, and I’d packed accordingly. My gait was smooth and buoyant from running daily that spring, my haircut made me look like Boney M.’s lead vocalist during their heyday, and the bountiful sun reflected off dark sunglasses covering half my face. I was a rock star—it was impossible not to notice me. At least that’s how I saw it. I took a liking to the city—quiet neighborhoods down by the station overrun with apricot trees and grass, outdoor garages, ramshackle additions, and condemned buildings (or at least they ought to be condemned) from which retirees, as slow as chameleons, would emerge from time to time—it was all all right by me. The smell of sugar and cocoa floating around the blocks down by the chocolate factory, the grim shop floors of the empty enterprises down by the market, iron gates, corner stores, and doctors’ offices—it was all mine for the taking. I popped out by a river. “Huh, turns out this city has bridges. That’s good,” I thought to myself. “A city on the water is more calm and secure; life in that kind of city has its own order and sticks within its own boundaries.” I later found out that there wasn’t just one river here. The city lay between two of them, up in the hills; it might as well have been on an island, flashing its white and red buildings enclosed by hot May greenery. “All right, Kharkiv,” I said, stepping onto one of its bridges, “are you ready to rock?”

The apartment building had four floors. It looked pretty dilapi­dated—i.e., like a place to call home. Overall, the area was quiet, although there were kids wailing despairingly in the schoolyard on the other side of the street. I pulled the front door open. I didn’t even have to punch in a code—anyone could just waltz on in to any of the apartments and murder the tenants in their warm beds. I was feeling pretty chipper at the beginning of this endless, sunny day. The third floor was mine—a black metal door, a blue rubber mat, and what looked like a cute red coin serving as a doorbell. Sometimes the world forgets that we’re in it and starts looking nice, for a change.

I rang and rang, pressing hard on the red button until I had squeezed out the last drop of its aggravating whine. Nobody answered—just my luck. I kicked the door, humming a cheerful tune to myself. I even thought about waiting at the neighbors’ apartment for a while; I rang their identical red doorbell—they didn’t answer either. What now? I didn’t have anywhere else to go—nobody was expecting me in this town. I put my backpack on the floor, sat down on the mat, and opened up my thermos. “They’ll have to come back eventually,” I thought. “And they’ll be sorry, you can bet on that.”

In a little while I heard some light, untroubled footsteps and somebody humming. “It must be the downstairs neighbors,” I thought. “But no…” My back was up against the door, and I could hear somebody walking on the other side. I sprang to my feet and reached for the doorbell. At first, the footsteps trailed off, but then they came closer, almost inaudibly. Somebody was eyeing me through the peephole. I stepped back so they could get a good look at my sunglasses. “You gotta nail that first impression,” I thought. The door opened.

She had a perky haircut. Her hair wasn’t simply dyed white—it was dyed all different shades of white—yeah, nice and perky. Her gaze was probing, yet languid. Dressed in red pajamas and a snow-white robe with a hotel logo on it, she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. She’d thrown that robe of hers on carelessly, so it kept slipping off her shoulders, making her look like a boxer shedding his warmup gear and tossing it to his coach before stepping into the ring. She had green eyes, a heavy smoker’s pale skin, a long, delicate neck, and bare feet; she shifted her weight from one to the other.

“Who are you?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Romeo,” I answered and looked behind me. “My mom called you.”

“Your mom?” She looked confused. “Why’d she call me?”

“I’m going to stay at your place,” I explained.

“With your mom?”

“Nope. By myself… My mom’s at our apartment.”

“At your apartment?” she asked, adjusting her robe as it slid down again. “What’s she doing at your apartment?”

“Working on a case.”

“Huh?”

“She’s working on a case. She’s a lawyer.”

“Oh…” She finally figured out what was going on. “I remember now. You’re Romeo, right?”

“Yep.”

“Your mom’s a lawyer.”

“You got it.”

“What’s that thingy on your head?”

Her name was Dasha. My mom and her met a month ago at some seminar. During the day, they’d sit together, jotting down notes and guzzling coffee. At night, they’d go bowling with the other attendees, and usually get plastered. My mom knows how to butter people up; by the end of the first night she was hanging all over her new friend, telling her about how I’d transferred to a new school, so I’d be leaving her nest any day now.

“It’s his last year coming up,” she said, sniffling. “I get it—it’s no fun sitting around at home with your mom. So he transferred. But what’s gonna happen to him? Is he gonna wind up sleeping at the train station like a bum?” My mom wiped away her tears and ordered another round, which inevitably led to still more tears.

Eventually, Dasha interrupted: “What are you beating yourself up for? Why doesn’t he just stay at my place? I’ve got my grammy-in-law’s old apartment. She just croaked. Talk about great timing! I was planning on renting it out anyway. I’d rather have it be someone I know—at least he won’t take off with the furniture—well, not that he could… there actually isn’t any.” My mom latched onto Dasha and her apartment; if she was going to let her little boy—meaning me—out into the big, wide world, she wanted to know where she’d have to start looking for the body. I was all for staying at her friend’s place, but I would have found somewhere to live, even if Dasha hadn’t come into the picture. I just really needed to escape from my room, which still reeked of children’s clothing and schoolbooks. I had been planning on moving out for a while—living with your mom when you’re twenty isn’t exactly a boatload of fun. She drank more than a respectable lawyer ought to, and I spent too much time in the bathroom. Under the circumstances, we’d be better off living separately and writing each other heartfelt letters.

It didn’t seem like I made much of an impression on Dasha, which bothered me, obviously. I thought I should tell her something about my mom, about what interested me, what I did, and what I was shooting for in life, but I didn’t manage to get anything out.

“Follow me,” she said. “Let me show you around.”

She walked over to the other apartment, opened the door, and stepped inside. She didn’t invite me in, so I stood in the doorway for a bit, but then I followed her anyway. There were two rooms. It looked like they’d been renovated not too long ago. And it looked like she had done it herself—the wallpaper was peeling off, warm water had pooled on the bathroom floor, and the ceiling looked as though it had been bleached, not painted. Dasha walked across the room, opened the window, and leaned out. She had nice legs. “I think I’m gonna like it here,” I thought. She came right back.

“You don’t have a sleeping bag?” she asked. “All right, I’ll give you a mattress. And here’s the kitchen,” she said, steering me into the next room. There was a stove there… and nothing else. “Well, that’s about it. You won’t actually be needing any of this,” she said, referring to the kitchen. “There’s a pizzeria around the corner, just so you know. Here’s the shower,” she declared, carefully stepping over the puddles. “I’ll give you a towel,” she added. “Hmm… what else is there? Oh yeah, internet and utilities. You woke me up, so I’m kinda out of it.”