Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

Thomas came in and said hello to Anton, who just nodded in response, as usual. “Damn,” Thomas thought. “He always greets me like he was hoping to see someone else.” The bar was hopping, though it wasn’t even noon yet. The Arabs were huddled around the plasma screen in the corner. They apparently didn’t have enough money to fly home for their summer vacation, so they’d decided to spend their days down here in the basement. They were watching a replay of yesterday’s match, sizing Thomas up: tall, slouched, dressed in an inexpensive yet neat suit and a sloppy tie—what he lacked in skill he made up for in determination—with a new cell and an old, spring-wound watch. They went back to their game. Thomas was glued to the screen, too, until he realized that he’d already seen this game, and he knew how it would go. He walked over to Anton and started chatting with him. A girl—long legs, dark jeans, white blouse, boyish haircut, nails painted black—popped out of the kitchen, greeted Thomas like they were old friends, took some glasses of juice out of Anton’s hands, and brought them over to the couple sitting by the door. Thomas’s gaze followed her and then settled on the couple. The man was anxious; it seemed like he was itching to smoke, but he couldn’t light up inside. He took a cellphone out of the woman’s hands and started entering something—slowly—he was missing a finger on one hand. The woman sitting across from him was anxious, too. Finger-wise, she was good to go, though. The girl brought them their juice and was about to turn around when the man sitting at the table clasped her arm gently and said a few words. She nodded, picked up the remote from the next table over, and turned down the volume on the TV. The Arabs squawked anxiously, but she responded briefly, silencing them instantly. “Man, she really showed them!” Thomas thought.

“What’s her deal?” he asked.

“She’s a waitress,” Anton answered reluctantly. ‘“Her name’s Olia. First week on the job. I just can’t keep up by myself.”

His clients called back again and asked where he was.

“In a bar, watching soccer.”

“What’s the score?” his clients asked.

“The final score or the score right now?”

“We’re stuck right before the bridge. How do we get to the bar?”

Thomas started explaining, but then Olia came over.

“You can’t be serious,” she said to Thomas. “They’re doin’ road work over there. Tell ’em to turn left before the avenue, up there in the hills, and then right. Gimme the phone,” she said, taking it out of Thomas’s hands. She explained everything quickly, rattled off a few street names, listed a few landmarks—some stores they would be driving by, the school, the army recruiting office—gave the phone back, went over to the Arabs, and spoke to them at length about something or other. The Arabs looked concerned, but they didn’t act up. Her calm demeanor surprised Thomas; when he thought of waitresses, he thought of drama. The Arabs seemed to really be berating her for something, but as soon as her hand grazed one of their shoulders, they turned mute immediately. She leaned toward another one of them to ask a question, and he started objecting and making excuses. Without even realizing it, the others started observing them closely, their attentive glances leaving hot trails in the air behind them, striking sparks against the ozone layer as they studied her face, catching her movements and listening intently to her insults.

The clients called back about fifteen minutes later.

“We’re gonna have to take a raincheck,” they said. “There was a pileup on the bridge and now they’re waiting for the cops.” They apologized and asked for an update on the score. Thomas said goodbye to Anton, then waited for Olia to come over, in the hope of saying something to her, but he got all flustered and tongue-tied, so all he could manage to do was extend his hand like this was the beginning of a business meeting. She started laughing and shook it, and he, unable to contain himself, hugged her in a slightly awkward yet exceedingly friendly manner, his hand softly gliding down her back but not exceeding the bounds of propriety. Thomas was beyond flustered when it turned out that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her blouse. He scrambled outside, found his Fiat, sat down in the driver’s seat, waited for a bit, and then dialed Anton’s number.

“That waitress, Olia,” he said, “who is she?”

“You still nearby?” Anton asked after a pause.

He stepped out of the bar a minute later and sat down in the passenger’s seat, carefully shutting the door.

“Got any cigs?” he asked Thomas.

“I quit,” Thomas answered apologetically. “I’ve been chewing gum. It doesn’t help. Want some?”

Anton looked at the gum in disgust, but held out his hand for a piece.

“Well, um, Olia,” he started, concentrating on chewing through the hard shell of his piece of Stimorol. It looked as though he was chewing through every single word. “You know, she used to be a prostitute, before.”

“How do you know that?” Thomas started chewing in response.

“Well, she lives in the next building over. I’ve known her for years. I’m the one who got her this job… well, it’s not as if there were a ton of people dying to work here.”

“Uh, how come she’s not a prostitute anymore?”

“How should I know?” Anton answered, clearly irritated. “Prostitutes are like boxers; their careers are spectacular, but short.”

“Gotcha,” Thomas replied.

He rolled down the window and spat, his Stimorol rocketing through the air. Anton rolled down the window and spat his gum out, too. They shook hands wordlessly and went their separate ways.

“Is being a prostitute really that bad? Does it really mean your life’s a complete wreck?” Thomas reflected. “What is it about these women that repels us? Society’s scorn for them? Well, public prosecutors elicit much more scorn. If you think about it for a second, what kind of people decide to join the ranks of prostitution? People who’ve gotten a raw deal from fate and walked a troubled and uneven path through life. Jilted lovers, deceived brides, unloved children. Students deprived of their families’ support. Workers tossed out of garment factories, single mothers, alcoholics, orphans, interlopers, and widows. Do widows become prostitutes? Probably. What else could they do? Who am I to judge? What grounds do I have for thinking poorly of them? Moreover, I suspect that most of them lead lives much more interesting than mine, packed with much more adventure and danger. It’s self-evident—it’s the women who want for love that go into prostitution, without a doubt. Who else? Women capable of sharing their tenderness, women capable of arousing jealousy and putting an end to depression. I’m sure that many highly educated and well-read individuals have dabbled in prostitution, settling upon this odd form to express their astonishment at the world and venturing toward a fuller and deeper kind of understanding. Obviously, most of them are well versed in human psychology and medicine and are capable of lifting fatigue and eliminating memory loss; most of them wear silk lingerie or have piercings in the most unexpected places. They are all fiercely passionate about music and their work; they are all trained to blend those two passions together. In the evenings, they run to their rooms to giddily apply their precious makeup, put on their masks and jewelry, and lay out their red sheets in anticipation of brave and generous men. They open up the windows to their abodes to let in round green moons that silver their skin and make their teeth as white as chipped porcelain. They burn herbs in their rooms that make men dream of foxes and black rivers with unknown cities on them; they stay awake at night and catch up on sleep during the day, like vampires. In the mornings, they gather on terraces wrapped in grapevines and talk of music and astronomy, pick out constellations on the black canvases of the predawn sky, observe the flight of birds, taking auguries for the upcoming days as they sip their sweet rum, and then retire to their homes, draw themselves cool baths, and lie there for hours. Their knees flash in the dark water like moons.