Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

Nastia got pensive and sad—her cousin was sitting on the bloody rug, immersed in his own thoughts and paying no attention to her. Or at least he was acting like it. She told him another story.

“I was really young when I fell in love for the first time. Everybody in my city falls in love really young, especially the women. He was about ten years older than me, just like you.” She touched Mark, but he didn’t pay any attention to that either, he just hunched his shoulders. “That’s why it didn’t pan out. I was very upset. I started thinking this was my punishment for falling in love so young. Long story short, I just up and got braces.”

“How come?” Mark asked, confused. “Is she for real?” he thought to himself. “Trust.”

“To repent,” Nastia explained. “So I wouldn’t be tempted to kiss anyone. I didn’t kiss anyone for two years. Two whole years. Well, that was until I took those things off. But once I took them off… ,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

“What?”

“Now I kiss everyone,” Nastia answered.

“Everyone?”

“Yep, everyone.”

At that point, Mark finally realized what she was getting at. “Trust,” he thought, and kissed his cousin. He was really going for it, but he had no idea what was compelling him to do such odd things. He hadn’t forgotten, not for one second, whose apartment this was and whose rug he’d just soused with wine. He hadn’t forgotten, not for one minute, Kolia’s heavy gaze and dry voice; he remembered where Kolia hid his knives and sharpeners, his threatening voice over the phone, his gray-brown face swelling up with anger, the veins bulging in his neck, his hoarse breath, the smoke and fire billowing out of his wide nostrils. He remembered, he was scared, but he couldn’t help himself. Meanwhile, Nastia couldn’t quite figure out what had gotten into him. She liked how clumsily he was kissing her, and how he smelled, but as soon as he touched her dress, as soon as he crossed the line, she slapped his hand warmly, tenderly pushing him away, emitting a short, admonishing shriek, and Mark tumbled back, but he immediately recalled all the blood and wine that had been spilled in this building, all the ashes and golden sand that had been flushed down its toilets, all the deaths and insults its walls remembered, and he touched her face once again, caught her hands, deprived her of her clothing. Nastia laughed and resisted; she was saying something, and he even answered her, without really processing her questions. At one point, she even started to regret that she’d gotten her braces taken off, because he was so persistent, this older cousin of hers, with all his fear and trust. She grabbed his short, fair hair, pulled his head back, and looked him straight in the eye. Then he pushed her hand away again and muttered something to distract her while he shifted closer. She let him do just about everything, not stopping him, seemingly waiting for some signal. When that signal that only she could hear rang out, her elbows dug into the rug and her whole body arched as she slipped out of his arms and scurried away into the darkness. Mark caught his breath, calmed himself down, and then went for her again. That went on for a few hours, until she finally ran out of patience, and he hastily laid her down, unresisting, on the synthetic Chinese rug.

“What will I say to him? How will I be able to look him in the eye? He’ll figure everything out as soon as he sees me. I won’t even have to admit anything. He’ll rip my throat out,” Mark thought, “or break my legs—one at a time—or stomp my ribs in, or scalp me, or gouge my eyes out and leave me to beg for alms in the streets. I’ll sit there on the warm asphalt with my McDonald’s cup, asking for spare change, but he’ll take it all from me at the end of the day and dump it into his capacious pockets. But first he’ll tell his sisters—Zina and my mom—and they’ll finish me off, doing what he wouldn’t dare do—they’ll deprive me of my manhood. Literally. They’ll cut my private parts off with a pair of garden shears. What’s my mom supposed to say to this? What does my mom usually say in these kinds of situations?” Mark thought for a bit but couldn’t come up with anything. Well, he couldn’t recall any situations quite like this one. Clearly, his mom would side with her niece, try to calm and console her. They’d sit there on Kolia’s rug, trying to figure out what to do with Mark first—hang him in the hallway or quarter him in the kitchen. “Well, it’s my own fault. I got myself into this mess; nobody made me drink with her on the rug, nobody made me listen to her stories, and nobody made me… well, come in her,” Mark thought. He was holding Kolia’s breakfast; he looked exhausted, his gaze was weary, and he had a few fresh scratches on his neck.

Kolia received him gloomily, nodded wordlessly as he snatched his breakfast, looked at the fish Nastia had prepared, clearly suspicious, and sniffed the herbs mistrustfully.

“Fish? She knows I can’t have fish.”

Something had clearly gone down. Kolia had apparently been showing the other patients who was boss—the gentleman promptly brought him and Mark two teabags, the factory worker passed him his heating wand, and the headphones guy turned toward the wall submissively. Kolia sat on his bed, looking at something behind Mark, so he could neither meet his eyes, nor look away.

“Markster,” Kolia said, starting to put the pressure on, “children are not always born out of love. Sometimes their coming into this world is random and unplanned. Then their lives are full of hardship and adventure—but mostly just hardship.”

“What’s he talking about?” Mark thought in a panic. “Has he really figured everything out already? Why isn’t he stomping my ribs in yet?”

“Hey sleepyhead, what’s the deal?” Kolia asked, finally looking at him.

“I was up all night,” Mark explained.

“Well, obviously you were up all night if you’re sleepy,” Kolia said. “How come you were up all night?”

“I had some work to do.”

“Good, I’m glad you’re keeping busy.”

What was he talking about? Mark could feel himself starting to sweat profusely. What was he hinting at? As soon as Kolia reached for his food, Mark tried to wipe off those first beads of sweat dripping down his face in one swift motion before they could betray him, but Kolia lifted his head lightning-fast. He saw everything. Mark felt blood rushing up toward his throat, then even higher. He sat there in front of the dark and heavy Kolia, sweating bullets and blushing deeply. All he could do was keep sitting there, not knowing what to do with his hands or how to conceal the scratches on his neck. Kolia, gaze still fixed on him, rooted around in the bag, took out the fried fish, and started gnawing on it wordlessly, without even looking down. Sauce clung to the edges of his mouth and green flakes of garnish stuck to his chin; his eyes were all bleary and his face had swollen up. “He can’t eat fish,” Mark thought. “Maybe I can’t either.”

“How’s your mom?” Kolia asked, chewing. He chewed slowly and methodically, the way conspirators chew up codebooks to confound their enemies.

“Fine,” Mark answered reluctantly. He was absolutely convinced that he’d already been exposed and sentenced.

“Fine?” Kolia asked incredulously, continuing to masticate the fish with his yellow incisors. “Tell her to give me a call.”

Mark nodded.

“The women in our family have always known how to make good fish,” Kolia said, scrutinizing his nephew. He spoke quietly, but Mark had no doubt that everyone in the ward could hear him—even the headphones guy. “Fish takes time. The women in our family have always had time. Nobody has ever pressured them. I’ve never pressured them. I’d advise you never to pressure them either.”