Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“Come on in, ya lumberjacks,” Sonia said, laughing. “There’s nobody here. I haven’t eaten anything all day. Man, that’s at my own wedding, too! I’ll grab something now. Take a seat.”

Oleh hopped up on the table, snatched a stray cabbage leaf, aimed, and shot it into the sink. “Three-pointer,” he thought, rather pleased with himself. Danylo was leaning up against the fridge, looking at his brother mockingly, and listening to the silence in the hallway. Sonia started peering into the pots, sniffing around and fishing out something tasty—the last morsels of Mediterranean dishes, eastern spices, and southern fish—rattling dishes, pouring gravy all over, lighting up all four burners on the stove, which flared like sea flowers, flinging lilac shadows all across the ceiling. She produced a block of cheese, found some lemons, took out an open bottle of cognac, and passed it to Oleh, who froze every time their fingers touched. She sat down next to him, taking out an apple from behind her back, and tossed it to Danylo, who caught it effortlessly. Sonia took a massive swig of cognac, passed the bottle back to Oleh, picked up some food and sliced it into equal portions with a big knife, sharing everything she had. Oleh started drinking hard, keeping a close eye on her. Sonia bit into a lemon, and its golden juice ran down her chin. Not a single muscle in her face twitched—only a few tears slid down onto her cheeks, but she wiped them away smoothly and then reached for the cheese and parsley. Her teeth ripped through black bread and she smoothly washed it down with cherry juice. Her fingers snapped bars of chocolate and she licked strawberry jam off her palms, laughing all the while. A white flame whipped across her mouth—her smile was wide and bountiful. That’s the kind of smile only kids—not all of them, though—can have. The cherries left a bloody trail on her lips and the alcohol made her breath warm; eating gave her such a light and cheerful air that Oleh was instantly drunk, a sleepy kind of drunk. Something was tossing him up into the air. Now he noticed that it was cold in there; not even the gas stove could heat up the damp air hovering over the sinks and freezers. “She’s gotta be cold,” he thought, shedding his leather jacket and using it to cover her shoulders. Sonia wrapped herself up in it and breathed deeply, inhaling his smell, turning to kiss him—she kissed him for a while, and her kisses smelled like lemons and honey. Oleh waited and waited some more, until he couldn’t take it anymore, then he grabbed his jacket back and tossed it on the cold tabletop—Sonia went right along with him, dropping back onto the jacket, pulling his shirt toward her, still kissing him as he took it off. Lemons were tumbling to the floor, bouncing off the jam-stained tile, dates were crushed under his arms, making his skin sweet, alcohol was spilling across the table, hopelessly soaking the stray salad greens.

“I’m just wearing this dress. Like that’s it,” Sonia said suddenly.

“That right?” he asked, surprised. “Don’t your sneakers count?”

But she just chuckled, taking his hand and showing him that she really wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Who would have thought? As they were laughing together, Danylo walked quietly over to the door and switched off the light, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “It’s a good thing I have some left, otherwise I’d have to bug my brother,” he thought, lighting up, looking out the dark window, and cracking the faintest smile. He was trying not to bother them and trying not to look at them. Her skin was golden, her hair was copper, and her heels were yellow, like lemons.

Persistent fists pounded on the door. The iron was ringing dully, bombarded by men’s heavy shoulders, but the locks were durable and the metal impenetrable, so over there, on the other side of the door, in the black hallways, there was nothing to be heard but sharp curses and frustrated cries. Danylo kept smoking, burning through one cigarette after another. Oleh jumped down onto the floor and started getting dressed in a hurry, trying to slide his hand into the armhole of his jacket, hopping on one foot, sticking the other one into his shoe, and looking around the room for something heavy.

“Take it easy,” Sonia said.

She was sitting on the metal table, tying her sneakers unhurriedly. Hazelnuts and coins were sliding down the creases of her dress. Her hair looked like a red flame flapping in the wind. Her voice was calm, though, and her eyes tender. When they’d first started pounding on the door, Oleh had stopped and whirled around, looking at his brother apprehensively, but Danylo, hiding out there in the gloom, hadn’t even flinched. Sonia had wrapped her arms around Oleh’s neck, pulled him toward her again, whispering something in his ear—quickly, quietly, yet coherently—which brought Oleh to a sudden stop inside her, and then it stopped her too, but she kept whispering, overcome by gratitude, joy, and drowsiness.

“Sonia, are you in there?” His voice was odd-sounding—­sharpness mingling with uncertainty, frustration with hesitation.

“What a guy!” Sonia said, laughing, and then she yelled. “Yeah, I’m here. Whaddya want?”

Senia was at a loss.

“Open up,” he said dryly.

“All right,” Sonia said to Danylo, “climb out the window, you two. Then I’ll open the door. Are you listening?”

Danylo didn’t say anything, and Oleh didn’t respond, either. Everyone was listening on the other side of the door.

“Danylo, did you hear me?”

Oleh walked over to Danylo.

“What are we gonna do?” he asked quietly.

“Whatever you say,” Danylo answered, just as quietly.

“I can’t just leave her. He’ll kill her.”

He looked ahead, biding his time. Danylo hesitated for a second.

“Danylo,” Sonia said, growing a bit anxious. “Are you listening to me? Come on, get outta here!”

“Don’t think so!” Danylo said suddenly. “Like I’m gonna run away from those chumps.”

“Yeah, for real, man.”

Danylo patted him on the back, switched on the light, and opened the door like it was the gate of a besieged city.

They looked like a real soccer team, coming out of the stadium’s dark tunnels and into the floodlights, geared up for battle and expecting another victory. As soon as the door was flung open, the whole squad burst forward, backing Oleh and Danylo up against the metal tables, forming a half-circle around them. Senia’s nephew was poking his head between them, relishing the fact that he’d been the one to bring them all here, to the scene of the crime. Senia’s relatives immediately rushed over toward Sonia, who had adjusted her dress inconspicuously, found Oleh’s cigarettes somehow, lit one up, and was now coldly blowing smoke in the faces of some women as they yelled at her, doing nothing to hide their consternation and despair. The soccer players stood there, glaring at the two brothers, not knowing what to do; Senia’s gaze kept moving from Oleh to Danylo and then back to Oleh, until he realized it was making his eyes look all shifty, so he turned toward Oleh.

“Hey, you,” he said glumly, “let’s have a little chat. And you,” he said, nodding at Danylo, “stay put. We’ll chat with you in a bit.”

“Hey, you,” Danylo mimicked his tone. “Go fuck yourself.”

Senia wanted to respond, but the anger welling up inside choked him, and he charged at Danylo, who stepped out of the way, grabbed Senia’s neck, and threw him against the table. Senia’s chest slammed into its shiny metal surface, and he slumped to the ground, gasping for air. The soccer players charged at the brothers. Oleh clocked one of them, and Danylo took down another two. After that, the gang knocked them off their feet and went in for the kill. Danylo covered his head, trying to keep his breathing relaxed. Oleh was squirming, trying to fend them off, not saying anything and not thinking about anything, although he sure had a lot to think about.