Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

He came by the next morning, after struggling for an eternity to put on his best tie and nearly choking himself to death in the process. He parked under the pirate flag and called Anton, who ran outside, gloomy and preoccupied, shook Thomas’s hand, and accepted a piece of Stimorol.

“In today?” Thomas asked.

“Yep, she is,” Anton replied.

“I’m gonna stop in, all right?”

Concentrating, Anton started chewing.

“Listen, man,” he said, then paused. “Do you really need the hassle?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I’m just saying, what do you need all this hassle for?”

“To balance things out,” Thomas explained.

Anton got out of the car and slammed the door. Thomas sat there for a bit, waited, then followed him. The bar was empty. He nodded to Anton, who turned away, visibly irritated, and picked a seat across from the bar. The same soccer game as yesterday was on TV. Thomas realized he’d managed to memorize both teams’ rosters by now. This was his third time watching the game in three days, but he was still on the edge of his seat. Olia ran out of the kitchen about ten minutes later, exchanged a few whispered words with the bartender, and then disappeared again without even looking into the seating area. Thomas became anxious, watching the match and anticipating a 0–0 tie with disgust.

She came over a little later and asked what he would be drinking. Thomas was at a loss. “What should I say to her?” he thought. He asked a question or two, inquired about something else, and started automatically rooting around in his pockets.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“My phone ran away on me,” he answered, his voice surly.

“Lemme call it for ya.”

Olia took out a battered Nokia held together with tape. Thomas told her his number, she dialed, they waited. Anton was scrubbing some dishes over at the bar. Thomas said something sheepishly as he was leaving, waved at Anton, and didn’t even bother waiting for his signature nod. Well, there was no signature nod this time around. His cell was in his Fiat, lying on the floor under the driver’s seat. Thomas picked it up, looked at the missed call, and dialed her number.

“What time do you get off today?”

“Why you wanna know?” she asked, not surprised one bit.

“I’m gonna come by and pick you up, all right?”

“Come on by,” Olia consented readily.

He wanted to say something else, but what was left to say?

In July, these empty buildings appear especially desolate. The grass on the windowsills loses its freshness, dryly indicating the direction of the morning drafts. The trees that grow inside apartment buildings suffer from a lack of moisture. The bitterness of crushed stones, sunny, sticky spiderwebs, and stray dogs, as slow and sensitive as pregnant women—July stretches out shadows and burns out colors; long evenings fall suddenly and unexpectedly, old men sit outside in quiet neighborhoods, soaked with light, their skin becoming warm and their wrinkles deep; summer crests the city and descends on the other side, singeing the red-brick foundations of old factories and warehouses on the opposite bank. The sun drifts with the current like a burglar hurled from a bridge; flashes of light dot the horizon until nightfall. Old freeloaders die in their cluttered rooms at the end of July, starved of attention and love, since all the love to be had on those days goes to the young people. Girls, listless from the heat, descend into the water, hanging on to its freshness, wary of the plants along the shore. The streets are especially resonant, so every impertinent step and sudden outburst startles the pigeons on the rooftops and the weary, sun-drained urchins who inhabit abandoned, bombed-out dwellings in the summer. You want to speak quietly so nobody can hear you—or understand you if they do.

Olia was already walking up the steps before he could park. She saw his Fiat and sat down in the passenger seat. Thomas leaned over to kiss her; she touched his shaved cheek with dry ambivalence, like they were old friends or a husband and wife who’d just decided to get divorced. She was wearing a short dress, which made her legs look even longer. She kept fixing her hair, squinting into the evening sun.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“I just quit,” Thomas answered.

“Good for you,” Olia said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. She noticed his look of despair, gave a skeptical snort and rolled down her window.

“Where are we gonna go?” Thomas finally overcame his anxiety and got down to business.

“Nowhere at all. Let’s just sit here.”

“Here?” Thomas was confused. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“Did you want something?” Olia asked without even looking in his direction.

“I just wanted to talk.”

“Okay, talk away.”

And then she turned toward the window.

Thomas realized he’d hurt her feelings. “Maybe Anton told her everything. Maybe she’s figured out that I know. Maybe she thinks that I’m treating her like an ex-prostitute. Maybe that’s what’s weighing on her mind. Taking advantage of her past errors—what kind of swine would play that kind of game with her? She started a new life a long time ago, and here I am trying to pull her back into her old ways. Obviously her feelings are hurt. Telling her that you know simply isn’t an option. Don’t even hint at it, not even as a joke. You have to put her at ease and show her you’re not planning on blackmailing her. Just make small talk.”

“Tell me about yourself,” Thomas said. “What were you interested in when you were a kid? Boys?”

Damn, he thought. Now she’s gonna tell me to screw off.

“Chemistry,” Olia answered.

“Chemistry?” Thomas was incredulous. “Okay, I get it. All those formulas, beakers, and acids. Did you have a lot of partners? Lab partners, I mean.”

Damn! Slipped up again.

“Yep,” Olia replied. “We had a big club.”

“So were you actually doin’ it at your meetings?” Thomas inquired. “You know, doing chemistry?”

Damn! Damn!

“We did experiments.”

“You experimented together?”

!!!!!!!!!!!!

“All of us girls,” Olia said suddenly, “were in love with our chem teacher. He was old and handsome. Do you like older men?”

“Nah, I don’t like older men—I mean I don’t like men…” Thomas was flailing, feverishly thinking about what to say next.

“He had beautiful fingers,” Olia said, not letting him interject. “My skin would turn cold when he touched me, and then it’d start burning all over.”

“He touched you?”

“Yeah. I was fifteen. I wanted to get to the bottom of all life’s mysteries and enjoy all the delights of this world, so I chose him—an experienced, grown-up man with those beautiful fingers of his. He was my first.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, confused.

“My first, you know, sex-wise,” Olia said, turning toward him. “We did it in the classroom after school. My uniform skirt was so short he didn’t even have to undress me.”

Olia took out another cigarette.

“And then what?” Thomas swallowed some saliva and loosened his tie.

“Then he died,” Olia said, and explained without any prompting. “Not right away, of course—not right after we had sex, I mean. In about a year or so. Heart attack. Our whole class went to his funeral. He left behind a beautiful wife. She was a little pudgy, but still pretty good looking for someone her age. Can you give me a ride home?” she asked unexpectedly.

They drove in silence. It was only a few minutes away, though.

“Widows,” Thomas thought, “widows—they’ve gotta be the ones who wind up being prostitutes. That profession welcomes them with open arms. Widows are the best lovers—they’re the least calm and they have the most stamina.” His first woman was a widow, which was pretty much the only thing she had going for her. She was his parents’ friend. A full professor at the university. As a child, Thomas was convinced that the majority of people in town were full professors. Lecturers were in the minority. They had their share of lecturer friends, too, though. Thomas came from a respectable family, and he was raised with wholesome values. Given the sheer number of full professors in their social circle, it was hard to imagine his first time being with anyone else. His widow took the initiative, promising to help him get into college and offer guidance during the admissions process. They wrapped up one of their sessions at her home with some quick sex—excessively quick, as a matter of fact. Thomas just went along with it, thinking, “Sure, my first time can be with a full professor, why not?” Then she actually did help him get into college, although nothing else ever happened between them. “I hope it wasn’t good for her,” Thomas thought. Nevertheless, after that he was always cautious when dealing with widows. “You never know what you’re getting into with widows,” he thought, smoking on his balcony and taking in the golden light glowing inside the old buildings above the river. In fact, he was so cautious when it came to dealing with widows that he tried to only hire married women, preferably middle-aged ones. Preferably with gold teeth. That kept him in line.