Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“Or a mountaineer,” Kostyk interjected, apropos of nothing.

“But Marat was a real fighter,” Benia said, moving on and paying no mind to Kostyk. “No drugs or partying for him. He never missed a practice, even after he started dating Alina,” he stated, now turning to her.

“Yep, that’s right!” We all shouted to verify his claim.

Alina tensed up, the empty wineglasses in her hands clinking together. Everyone got quiet all of a sudden.

“Now I’m gonna tell you a story. You might not know this one,” Benia said, pausing to catch his breath.

Then he started. According to Benia, Marat got his first pair of boxing gloves from his dad, before he could even stand up straight. In other words, Marat learned to honor his father and his mother, then to box, and only then did he get around to taking his first steps. He was an inspired and determined athlete, ready to box anytime, anywhere. The way Benia told it, Marat’s fists knocked his rivals into oblivion, bringing his athletic club victory and glory. The coaches recognized his talent immediately, recruiting him without asking how old he was, where he went to school, or what his religious affiliation was. But they really should have, Benia stated gravely, because Marat’s religion was a matter of great pride for him. He always had the holy relics which Benia had gotten for him in Sinai on his person, though nobody had ever actually seen them, since bringing relics into the ring during a match is strictly prohibited by the Olympic Committee. Moreover, Marat said namaz without fail, observed the Sabbath on Fridays, abstained from eating meat, and paid the tithe to the church. Benia didn’t specify which church, deciding to stick to cold, hard, verifiable facts. Obviously, Marat’s coaches realized they had a genuine prodigy moving up through their program, a boy who lit up their drab, pointless existence. They’d gotten really lucky with Marat, so they clung to him like he was all they had left, which made perfect sense. Who wouldn’t want to mold a future Olympic champion? They all did, so they were going to make him a champion, whatever it took. Marat knew they wanted the best for him, so every time the clubs from his native Caucasus tried to lure him back there, he’d always say that he was trained here in Kharkiv and this was where he’d make a name for himself. Ambition gives you strength and stamina. Marat’s painstaking efforts and grueling workouts, combined with setting clear goals, simply had to produce top results. Marat made the transformation from some unremarkable Chechen boy into Kharkiv’s most promising sports star.

“Not a single opponent—in his weight class, I mean—could even last five rounds against him!” Benia proclaimed with inflated pathos. “Just remember how he’d prepare for fights! Abstinence and asceticism, prayers and meditation, submission and confidence…” Benia was off on a tangent again, and he wasn’t coming back. “His skin became tougher over the years, and his bones became cold and hard. And when he was duking it out for the regional title, the city fathers stood in the stands, mesmerized by his fluid motions and triumphant shouts!”

“They sure did!” Sasha agreed, and a blue tear descended into his glass of cognac.

“Not a single defeat! Not one single defeat! He triumphed again and again, at every single training camp! His enemies’ dried blood clung to his hair and their howls of pain marked his every stride toward glory! The most beautiful women threw themselves at his feet!” Benia said, getting flustered once he’d caught a glimpse of Alina. “I mean the women from the boxing federation. Unions, labor reserves, you know…”

Everyone started to feel a bit uncomfortable, everyone but Benia, who just kept going. I guess he didn’t know what else to do.

“The story I’m gonna tell you happened at training camp, down in Yalta. I was there the whole time, that’s why I can tell it in such detail. Nobody compared with Marat when it came to stamina or agility. Anybody who tried to keep up with him would just run himself into the ground or blow something out and have to go home. Nobody doubted that he had a great future ahead of him. Nobody besides Black Devil. I can’t remember what his real name was. Nah… ,” Benia paused, apparently racking his brains. “That was his real name, or at least his real name sounded like that. He didn’t come from around here. His parents had moved here from out west, or maybe from really far east—I don’t remember anymore. Now I bet nobody even remembers Black Devil. He wasn’t much of a boxer anyway; Marat was the only one people ever talked about. Well, Black Devil just went off the rails one day at training camp. The coaches wouldn’t even let their athletes go into town—the boxers had their morning calisthenics routine, athletic regimen, and all that stuff. Well, the whole entire coaching staff had to go to some sort of league meeting. That’s when Black Devil went on the bender of a lifetime. He was just drinking by himself at first. Then he got the massage guys going. Then he got to work corrupting the younger dudes. Guess who was the only one who didn’t drink with him? Marat! Black Devil egged him on for two days, tempted him for two whole days. He tried every trick in the book. He sent the massage guys over to Marat’s room and even got the younger dudes in on it. But Marat didn’t crack. So, let’s drink,” Benia said, trying to bring his speech around to some kind of conclusion, “to our friend Marat, to his manly nature.” I saw that Alina hadn’t bothered listening to the end of the story. She was heading toward the house, the fog coldly touching her calves as she walked across the yard. Benia kept going, he just couldn’t help himself: “Let’s drink to his commitment to the sport, his perseverance, and true manly friendship!”

Nobody was against having another drink; nobody had anything against true manly friendship either. Sasha, a skinny guy with a shaved head and a little, neatly combed mustache, looked like a chimney sweep who’d slipped off a roof but had his fall broken by a banquet table. He was quite happy with his lot because things could have gone much worse. As the sky got darker, the light shed by the lamps overhead became more disquieting. The darkness encircled us like water wrapping around motionless catfish it didn’t dare disturb.

We all knew the real story. Nobody interrupted or corrected Benia while Alina was around, but as soon as she stepped inside, I started telling everyone what had actually happened down there in Crimea; everyone else started recalling parts of that trip too. Our crew was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of confusion. Even Rustam avoided making eye contact, took out his cellphone, and started texting angrily. The “Devil’s” real name was Valera. He and Marat were kicked off the team on three separate occasions, but the coaches took them back every time. It wasn’t because Marat was unbeatable or something—he never even won the regional crown. It’s just that Valera’s dad worked for the police department and he had a lot of pull; he’d go to bat for his boy and Marat whenever they got in trouble. They were at training camp together, right here in Kharkiv, but they decided to skip town and head to Crimea. Marat had been dating Alina for some time already, and they had been telling everyone they were going to get married soon. But all of a sudden, he went off the rails. It was March; black snow covered the city’s squares and parks, the sky flared and burned, and Marat was itching to go somewhere, so he made up some story about another training camp down in Yalta. These two gymnast girls went along with them—I don’t think they’d even turned fourteen yet. Marat and Black Devil, who were both eighteen, seemed so mature and responsible to them—two manly men who were man enough for anything. They stayed at Black Devil’s friends’ place—a cramped apartment in a big concrete prefab building. You couldn’t even see the water from the balcony, but they couldn’t have cared less about the stormy sea—all it was doing was inundating the beach with ice and seaweed. On day five of their trip, when they started running out of money, champagne, and bread, Black Devil and his gymnast were trying to drag Marat back to Kharkiv—but then it was like somebody had flipped a switch. That’s how Marat would later describe what he had felt. He said that he didn’t even know what had hit him or how it all started—his partner in crime, a shy, slim girl with nothing going for her but the prospect of a dazzling sports career, went crazy for Marat… and he’d gone crazy for her a while before. They locked themselves in one of the rooms, crawled into bed and didn’t crawl out again for days, just wearing each other out. Marat told us that she didn’t know a thing: he had to teach her the basics and show her how to make it last. The heat was on low in the apartment; they had to hide under thick blankets, so he hardly ever saw her naked—he studied her by touch alone. When he told the story, he would linger over how tender the palms of her hands were, how thin her veins, how dry her skin. It didn’t take him long to teach her, and she soon forgot how awkward and painful it had been at first; she cried at night and laughed in the morning, grabbing him by the neck whenever he tried to free himself from the blankets wrapped tightly around them and run to the kitchen for another bottle of champagne. He’d come back to bed, slip under the covers, and they’d start going at it again. The alcohol made her reckless and tireless; she’d bite his skin and then lick his body’s wounds, whispering tenderly in his ear. He’d be thinking about how to escape and take a piss. She’d conk out, mumbling something to her mom in her sleep, then he’d bring her back to consciousness. That went on for days.