Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

Like his own misplaced self-confidence, how sure he was that everything would play out just the way he imagined it. He had taken a liking to her right away. He liked that she wasn’t afraid of anything, especially being alone, and that she made a big show of carrying condoms in her wallet, right next to her business cards. He liked it that she sent the hearts of her potential business associates racing.

Back then, at the Georgian joint, after those two guys shat their pants and signed on the dotted line, he drove her home and then kept her in the car for a while, talking constantly so she wouldn’t go anywhere; he could tell that she was tensing up and that she didn’t like this whole situation, but he was so sure of himself that he continued holding her hand and cracking jokes, making her laugh and tense up even more. But when he casually leaned in, not even bothering to turn off the engine, she covered his lips with her cold palm and said, “Cool your jets, pal.”

Then she got out, slammed the passenger door and headed over to her apartment building, swaying from side to side so angrily that he simply couldn’t help but stare at her. “How on earth can someone walk like that without tipping over?” he thought. She opened the door to her apartment building and dove inside. He just sat there, unable to take his eyes off the black night enveloping him. A split second later, her silhouette popped back into the headlights, swaying back and forth, like before, approaching the car and opening the passenger side door again.

“Hey Rambo, are ya comin’ or what?”

He caught up to her in the stairwell and tried to carefully lay her down on the landing, but she neatly slipped out of his clutches, mounting him and pressing him up against the cold stone floor. He felt a wandering draft, songs reverberating in other people’s apartments, beasts and birds gathering around the building, reacting to the light and warm air, reacting to the loud cries she wasn’t even trying to hold back.

“Keep it down,” he said to her. “Your neighbors… you’re the one who lives here.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, not stopping. “I know.”

She kept screaming after every jerky movement, stopping only once, when a door downstairs squeaked open—it sounded like somebody had come in from outside and quickly scurried up the steps; he tried getting up, but Sonia covered his mouth with her hand, which wasn’t as cold anymore and now smelled like her warmth, and the pattering steps cut out a floor below them. A door opened, somebody said hello, everything quieted down, and then he couldn’t hear a thing but her moaning. After that she ran up to her apartment, and he was left sitting on the steps until the early morning, lacking the resolve to get up and leave.

At first, the squad was dragging them down the hallway, throwing punches and ripping their clothes, and eventually shoving them toward the swimming pools. At that point, Danylo broke free and nailed one of the guys so hard he fell back into the water. Then the whole gang pounced on him and dragged him along, hungry for vengeance. When the whole crowd piled into the bar, John stopped them. A few locals were standing behind him. They had either heard about the fight or just knew that this was the only way this night could end.

“Whatcha got there?” John asked.

“Well, we caught these two troublemakers,” they all shouted triumphantly.

“Just two? So it was all you guys against the two of them?”

“Well, uh, yeah,” the soccer players answered, suddenly sounding less confident. “We caught ’em.”

“And your fuckin’ point is?” John said. “All right, you caught ’em, now let ’em go. Yeah, some troublemakers you got there.”

“No fuckin’ way!” one of the younger guys yelled.

“Come on over here.” As soon as he did, John grabbed him by the collar, spun around abruptly, and slammed him against a half-open door. It swung the rest of the way, sending the guy flying, and the men standing behind John stepped forward. The squad started duking it out with John’s guys, but they didn’t realize what they were getting into, and it didn’t go well; they all took a beating. John, punching randomly at bobbing buzzcuts, shouted to his buddies,

“Don’t touch the groom. This is his big day.”

Nobody touched the groom; he just stayed in the kitchen, crying, his face buried in Sonia’s cold lap.

He could have thought about the fatigue that enveloped him every time he walked downstairs in the morning, sensing that the tenants in her apartment building were listening to his footsteps. Sonia never let him leave in the middle of the night.

“Don’t go. I can’t stand sleeping alone. If you go, I’ll have someone else come over.”

He was putty in her hands; he’d get mad and stay. Her screaming would lull him to sleep, but his body would keep moving, so she wouldn’t even notice. He’d quickly snap out of it, unable to believe that he’d actually fallen asleep right next to her, and even though he couldn’t see her face in the dark, he definitely knew when she was laughing, when she was worrying, when she was coming, and when everything was about to start all over again. You could tell by how she was breathing and what she was saying. She was always talking, always giving him warnings, explanations, and exhortations. He got used to her voice over time, but he could only stop and relax once she’d quieted down. Then he’d lie there, touching her skin.

The young soccer players were led outside and backed up against a wall. One of them tried breaking free, but he was knocked onto the asphalt immediately. Half the team stood there—the half that wasn’t lying on the floor inside. Obviously, there was no point dragging them out. The locals stood there, making sure nobody could escape; John inspected them coldly; Danylo, holding his side, was standing next to him, and Oleh was next to him. Uncle Hrysha, who was stumbling but managing to stay on his feet, tried reasoning with John, nodding at the squad. The others could hear bits and pieces of the conversation.

“What the hell, man?”

“Why the fuck would ya…”

“Those goddamn morons.”

“Uncle Hrysha,” John replied, “go back to the bar and get yourself a drink.”

So Uncle Hrysha slunk off dejectedly, not making eye contact with the team.

“All right then, ya little pukes,” John started. “What’d I tell you? Was it that hard to just listen to me?”

The team didn’t say anything. Danylo was readying his fists and Oleh was spitting out blood from a bitten lip. The rest of the guys were standing behind John and thinking, “Yeah, they deserve it. He did tell them. Was it really that hard to listen?”

“We gonna finish them off?” John asked, turning toward his guys. But before they could answer, a dry, deafening flash cut through the air, forcing everyone to duck their heads like turtles hiding inside their shells, and fireworks flooded half the sky, illuminating tree branches and roofs buried in the dark, reflecting in everyone’s eyes, and fading into black ozone. People were hooting and hollering somewhere nearby, and our block chimed in, too. Beyond the trees and hills everyone was embracing the celebratory, celestial flame that scorched the insects in the air and blinded the passersby in the streets, making the night unbearably beautiful and our lives inexpressibly wonderful.

“All right, whatever,” Danylo said, placing his hand on John’s shoulder. “Who gives a fuck about these little punks? Let ’em go.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Oleh said, sliding his tongue along a chipped tooth. “Who gives a fuck?”

John thought for a bit and lifted his head, regarding the yellow and green flashes glowing in the sky above them, then he turned toward the team.