Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“I didn’t.” Mark’s answer said more than he meant it to.

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, then.” Kolia tossed the rest of the fish back into the bag, had Mark hold it, took a towel out from under his pillow, carefully wiped his face, took the bag from Mark, and stuck it under his blanket. “There’s no need to pressure people,” he continued. “There’s no need to lie either.”

“I’d better get going,” Mark answered. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

Nastia was waiting for him, sitting barefoot on the steps. When he came over toward her, she got up, turned around, and disappeared behind the apartment door. Mark hurried after her.

She awoke in the middle of the night, moved his arm away gently, so as not to wake him, got up, opened the suitcase on the floor of Kolia’s bedroom, found some pills, and took them with a sip of wine. Mark woke up and touched her skin. Nastia shuddered, but calmed down quickly; she turned toward him. Lying on his stomach, he rested his chin on her lap, considering her suitcase, reaching out to touch her things. “It’s all up to us,” he thought. “We can make it happen, if we want. I can’t change anything now. This is how it’s gonna be.” He took out some books and started leafing through them. They were chemistry textbooks and detective novels. They typically use poisons in detective stories, so they’re basically chemistry textbooks too. He picked up pieces of clothing she had worn, feeling how coarse the fabric was. Nastia didn’t object. Then he picked up an icon. It depicted a female saint. With a dark face and bright clothes.

“Who is she?” Mark asked.

“Saint Sarah,” Nastia said.

“What kind of name is that? Was she Jewish?”

“Uh-uh, she was Egyptian,” Nastia answered, from out of the darkness. “She saved a boat with some important people on it.”

“So what do you have her for?”

“I got her at camp. Ages ago. When I was a kid, I mean. My mom would send me to a Catholic camp.”

“Why?”

“Well, she had to send me somewhere for the summer. She wouldn’t keep me in town, she was afraid I’d run away. We didn’t have the money for a regular camp, so Mom let the Catholics deal with me, and they gave me Sarah as a going-away present. You see that writing at the top?”

“What’s it say?”

“Well, besides all the stuff about Jesus and the church hierarchy, it says that the greatest danger is hidden in rivers… but the most reliable protection is down there, too, because rivers separate friend from foe and partition light from darkness; they protect us from immediate threats and unexpected turns of events. All you have to do is hug the shore and be ready to administer first aid when you’re out there on the water. Can you swim?”

“Yeah, but not very well.” Mark didn’t want to think about the time he and Kolia took their fishing nets out to the reservoir and he tumbled into the black rift of the water. Kolia had to fish him out and resuscitate him with alcohol, cursing him up and down all the while.

“I worked as a lifeguard for a bit,” Nastia said, seemingly picking up on Mark’s train of thought. “I administered first aid.”

“To who?”

“The people I saved.”

The next morning she patched up the knee of his jeans, fed him breakfast, and rubbed some kind of solution on his scratches, the old ones and the fresh ones she’d given him the previous night.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Mark answered, feeling fire entering his skin.

“Yeah, whatever you say. There’s no need to lie.”

Peering out of his third-story window, Kolia caught a glimpse of Mark—it was like he was waiting for him. Mark gathered his thoughts and then entered the hospital. He ran into a patient in the hallway; there was something curious about him. He was standing by the doors tensely, thinking about something. It looked as if he’d run away from someone, but he could no longer remember who exactly. Some interns latched onto him, some elderly visitors bumped into him, and some mistrustful patients in their ragged gowns sidestepped him. He was holding a white suit jacket in one hand and a big paper bag in the other. He saw Mark and promptly stopped him.

“Got any smokes?” he asked. His voice was weary, yet unyielding.

“Nah,” Mark answered. They stood there for a bit, looking at each other.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You got this,” the patient said finally.

Mark thanked him.

Once again, he could tell that something had gone down in the ward—the headphones guy had disappeared, leaving only an unmade bed in his wake, and the gentleman was hastily tossing his things into some black bags, refusing to engage with anyone. Kolia eyed him with disgust, and the factory worker eyed Kolia with caution. Mark laid out some yogurt and milk in front of Kolia, but he didn’t even look at them, immediately pursuing a harsh line of questioning—What’s going on in the city? Do you have any news? How’s your mom? How’s work? He asked if the boss had been riding him, if he wanted to quit, and what he was planning on doing with his life if he did.

“Why don’t you want to quit? You always have to be thinking about these kinds of things,” Kolia said. “Life can really wear ya down. We’ve gotta have each other’s backs, we’re all one big family—aren’t we? In our family, the men have always run the business together,” he said through gritted teeth. “Nobody’s ever even thought about bailing, you got that, Markster?” He didn’t ask about Nastia, but Mark could sense that it was her he wanted to know about more than anyone else.

“Well, that’s fine,” Mark thought, deciding he had nothing to worry about. “He won’t do anything to me—he doesn’t have the guts.” Kolia continued questioning his nephew, looking him straight in the eye, until Mark, brimming with hatred and anger, couldn’t take it anymore—he met his eyes and studied him. Kolia looked right back at him, trying to extinguish the fire in his eyes, all of his dark weight bearing down on the kid, but Mark didn’t buckle under the pressure, he stayed strong and kept resisting. At some point, Kolia started drifting, looking somewhere behind Mark’s shoulders, barking something at the factory worker, and changing the subject to his antibiotics. Mark sat there facing him, pressing his palms against his knees; this was a Kolia he had never seen before, his skin yellowed like an old photograph, his gaze extinguished—he was old and crooked, hapless and broken, stale and uncertain, sick and hungry. Mark was even starting to pity him. “But why the fuck should I?” he thought.

“What kind of meds are they giving you?” he asked. Kolia thought for a bit, evaluated the situation, and spoke in a calm and conciliatory tone.

“They’re giving me the right kind, Markster. It’s just that treating me is like taking a guy down off the gallows and trying to patch him up—he’s not gonna be in the best shape, there’s a limit to how far therapy will get you. How’ve you been holding up?” he asked, squinting.

“I’ve been feeling all right,” Mark said, without giving his answer much thought.

“What’s with the marks on your neck?” Kolia asked casually.

“I cut myself… shaving.”

“I see,” Kolia said, nodding. “Do you shave every day now? Don’t go slitting your throat. It’s a good idea to have somebody around who can administer first aid. What if there was nobody there to help?”

Kolia’s cold, wolflike eyes fixed on him once again. Mark got up, said a curt goodbye, and promised to give everybody Kolia’s regards. Standing at the intersection, he could feel his eyes on him.