Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

We carried a large mattress with watercolors, playdough, and lipstick smeared all over it from her apartment into my room. Dasha had a slim body and a pleasing voice. “It’d be nice to sleep with her on this mattress. After all, why not?” I thought. “All you gotta do is make the right impression. It sure looks like she’s single. She gets up at about noon and walks around the building in her PJs. She’s definitely my type,” I thought, looking at how lithely she was bending over the mattress to wipe it clean. “I just have to take matters into my own hands,” I thought as I hurried off to the shower.

She ran over to my place again in the afternoon and said she had some stuff to do. She brought over some sheets, left me a set of keys, and told me that anything I could find in her fridge was up for grabs. Well, there was nothing in there but a head of cabbage—it was fresh, though. She was wearing a sand-colored suit that made her look a tiny bit heavier than she actually was, but those high heels of hers were so flattering they more than made up for it—Dasha was an older, self-assured lawyer with her bra showing through her snow-white shirt, a battle-ready haircut, sloppy makeup, and some serious coffee breath. She was talking so much and so loudly that I didn’t even realize she’d left until she was outside.

I was kicking myself. “Just chill, it’s not like she’s never coming back. What could she be doing today? Maybe… going to a trial… or… I don’t know… questioning some witnesses or identifying some bodies or something. She’ll rip yet another unfortunate soul out of death’s claws, sign all the necessary papers, and head home, to see me. Just don’t let this one get away, seize this opportunity, and ride this wave of happiness rushing down the apartment hallway.” In the evening, somebody changed the air like hotel sheets, turning the foliage dark and the window glass pink. Light grazed the floor and the bare walls; voices and children’s laughter resonated beyond the trees. I felt the urge to follow those voices, walk among those trees, touch women’s hands in the gloom, and catch the hefty green moons slipping off the branches under their own weight.

“How should I play this? Just how should I play this? I could go over to her kitchen, like I wanted a bite to eat. I’d keep my cool, announce I was hungry, and gruffly declare that I’d make us a meal. But I’d ask her to help out. Strong and silent, that’s the key. I could show up with no shirt on—let her see my tan. I could show up barefoot. Nah, that’s no good. She’ll figure out what I’m up to and say, ‘You might as well have shown up naked.’ Okay, then… how about sandals? That way I won’t have to mess around with any knotty shoelaces. Yeah,” I nodded, giving myself a pat on the back, “that’ll be perfect. I’ll ask her to get me some spices from the top shelf—some cinnamon, cardamom, or pepper. And as soon as she reaches for them I’ll come up behind her, calmly (keep your cool, man), and touch her legs. Like I’m giving her a boost. When she feels my warm hands on her skin, she’ll know exactly what to do. And then I’ll help her down off the chair, lay her down on the table, and start undressing her. Gotta get over there while she still has her suit on! She’s been wearing it all day, she’s gonna wanna get out of it—no, she’ll help me pull off her jacket and anxiously hike up the skirt clinging to the warm curves of her hips. Only then will I step out of my sandals.”

“Or,” I was getting all excited, “I could show up and ask her for some little domestic thing. Like soap. Nah,” I shot down my own idea, “then she’ll figure out what I’m up to. No soap. A toothbrush is way better. I’ll show up at her front door in sandals, with no shirt on, and maybe with my shades on too. I’ll ask her for a toothbrush (keep it strong and silent, man), I’ll be like, ‘I forgot mine on the train—I was too busy helping all those women, carrying toddlers out onto the platform, and evacuating decrepit old people.’ The toothbrush will probably be in her bathroom. And when she walks across the room in her suit I can slide on over and stand right behind her, and one whiff of my deodorant will do the trick. She’ll freeze up, anticipating my next move, knowing exactly where this is going. Then I can touch her clothes, feeling her receptive body tremble, and I’ll remove her jacket without saying a single word and help her slip out of her skirt, so she’ll be standing there in her white shirt and colorful panties, like a naughty schoolgirl. I’ll bend her over the sink—it will glisten like crystals of sugar—so she can look in the mirror and see all her wrinkles smoothing out and her pupils dilating with joy, fevered desire consuming her as she gasps for air. And I won’t even need to take off my sandals for that.”

“But that’s not all. Not even close,” I was really getting worked up now. “There’s so many ways I could play this. I could show up with my computer and be like, ‘I can’t get on the internet. What’s your Wi-Fi password?’ Maybe she’ll be sprawled out on the bed, too exhausted after a long day of questioning witnesses to take her suit off. She’ll be lying on her stomach (you know she’s the type that sleeps on her stomach) and watching television, preferably on mute. I could walk over, stand between her and the screen, and ask for the password. Just keep it strong and silent, man! ‘You know, I don’t remember anymore. Let me see your computer. I’ll get ya all set up,’ she’ll say, patting the sheets next to her. ‘Pop a squat, you’ll be online in no time.’ And then I’ll calmly (calmly!) plop down next to her. Just make sure to kick off your sandals! And when she starts fiddling around with the laptop, I could help her, put my hand on top of hers gently, like it was purely accidental, and look into her wide-open eyes intensely, confidently. And then I’ll wait for her to figure everything out and put my lagging computer off to the side—I wouldn’t even have to do much—she’d hop right on top of me, taking off her jacket, yanking down the zipper on her skirt, biting my sun-tempered skin (if I didn’t have my shirt on) or gnawing on its fabric (if I was still wearing it). Just gotta keep it strong and silent, be tough but fair, unstoppable and grateful.”

With those thoughts racing through my mind, I fell asleep. Swallows flew over me in my dreams, describing menacing circles, but I wasn’t scared.

I happened to wake up as she was coming back, sensing her footsteps more than actually hearing them. The front door squeaked open and then she stamped her way up the worn stairs, hitting the rails with her palms, resting between flights, peering down the stairwell, then finally pushing on. She was taking an eternity; I had time to chase all the swallows away, bolt over to the bathroom, wet my hair (everything had to be just right), and sprint to the stairs, coming face to face with her. She was staggering, holding a bottle of champagne in each hand. Dangling precariously from her right pinky, her jacket was dragging along the steps behind her. Her shoes were stained with grass and encrusted with sand, and she was smiling drunkenly—Dasha was enchanting.

“Oh, hey,” she said, surprised. “No slippers? Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m fine,” I said. Tough and reserved—keep it going. “I heard you come in.”

“Were you waiting up for me?” She laughed.

“I wanted to give you your keys back.”

“Wanna have a drink?” Dasha asked.

“Champagne?” I made myself sound as tough as humanly possible. “Sure, you oughta have some company.”

She tossed her jacket on the floor, sat on it, and gestured for me to join her. It was painful to look at her skirt—everything was right out in the open. I sat down next to her, my bare feet feeling the nighttime chill coming off the floor. “I shouldn’t have put my shirt on,” I thought. “I could’ve given her a real good show.” Dasha grabbed the bottle and began struggling to open it, shaking it and gnawing off the foil. Finally, it burst open; Dasha squealed but then composed herself quickly.