Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“Yeah, true. There really aren’t,” he said. “Even the books we all read don’t always bring us together. You know, as a kid I never had any friends. I’d hang out with the kids my parents wanted me to hang out with. We had nothing to talk about when we were alone in my room. We’d sit there, staring at the fish in my aquarium. No books could bring us together.”

“You know, I… ,” she started talking about fish. And about other animals she and her friends would find out on the street and bring home. And about their parents who’d toss all those dogs, hedgehogs, and reed cats back out on the street, causing their children such distress that they would break down and cry. And about her older brothers and sisters who left home and started making their way in the world. And about how she wanted to be like them, how the rhythm and inner workings of their lives, their journey to independence, fascinated her. And about her girlfriends’ personal problems, her guy friends’ real, manly problems, complex relationships within families, and the convoluted structure of love triangles. By then, it was already past 3 a.m.; Thomas was hanging in there the best he could, but as soon as she started talking about those triangles, he took the book out of her hands without a word and started peeling her T-shirt off, still not saying anything. She was surprised and tried to get up, but he held her arms and pulled her toward him.

“What’s all this? No, just don’t,” she said. But that merely riled him up even more. “Just don’t stop,” he thought once again, seizing her shirt. She tried objecting again, gently pushing him back, but when the fabric of her shirt ripped in his hand she erupted and kneed him right in the groin. Thomas emitted a shriek of despair and crashed to the floor. She crawled back, breathing heavily, fixing her boyish hair, and gradually regaining her composure. He eventually composed himself, too, lying on the ground and lacking the resolve to get up.

“How you doing over there?” she asked hoarsely.

“Fine,” Thomas said, still not getting up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard,” she assured him.

“No biggie. It happens,” he answered, nursing his injury.

“Well, I’m gonna get going, all right?”

“Let me give you a ride.”

“I’ll walk,” she assured him. “Get well soon,” she added, obviously referring to her own handiwork.

He waved energetically, as if to say, “I’m good to go, it could’ve been worse.” As she was leaving he turned toward her and asked,

“You remember how you texted me about music and astronomy?”

“Astronomy? What about it?”

“I don’t know. Just something about astronomy—and rum, and birds.”

“You’re making stuff up now,” she said, laughing heartily. “All right, get better. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He waited after he woke up in the morning. He waited after he got to the office. Then he couldn’t take it anymore and dialed her number. She didn’t answer. He called a half-hour later, then started texting her, then called once more. Now a bundle of nerves, he decided to stop by the bar to have a chat. Lacking the resolve to get out of his car, he called Anton first.

“I’ll be right out,” he said.

He came out five minutes later, walked over to the passenger-side door, took a seat without shutting it, and glanced at the pirate flag as though he was concerned that somebody would slip out of the front door unnoticed.

“She didn’t show up today,” Anton said, not even looking at Thomas. “I think she and her brother are butting heads again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Here’s the thing,” Anton said, after a short pause. “She has a brother. He’s a real prick. They have different moms but the same dad. He used to live somewhere up north, and then he came back about five years ago, when her folks died. You know, the older brother watching over her, blood relatives… all that jazz. He’s always on her case. Everybody was telling him all sorts of stuff about her, so now he’s not letting her out of the apartment. Was she at your place last night?”

“Uh… yeah.” Thomas lacked the resolve to deny it.

“Uh… well, he might not let her out anymore.”

“She’s not a kid.” Thomas was stunned at this turn of events.

“You should see this guy. He has cuts and scabs and scars all over, from head to toe. And he doesn’t have a single hair on his body, not even on his head.”

“Did you sleep with him or something?” Thomas snapped.

“I slept with her.”

“Huh?”

“You really don’t get it, do you? I slept with her. Just so you know, I like her. I don’t give a flying fuck that she used to be a prostitute. Half of my old classmates are prostitutes now and the other half are jealous of them. I started chasing after her back in high school. I even started working out to get her attention.”

“I know she likes boxers.”

“What do boxers have to do with it?” Anton asked, agitated. “Her brother likes boxers. Whatever, what am I even telling you this for? I’ve always had a thing for her. Then just when things are finally getting going, her brother comes back.”

“And?”

“And he broke my nose. Look here.” Anton turned, his face now in profile. “Even the bridge is busted up.”

Anton had clearly shaved that morning, but he might have been in a rush, or maybe he just wasn’t used to doing it that carefully—there were cuts on his neck and stubble faded into his jaw line. The collar of his stale shirt wasn’t starchy, and the earring Thomas could see had become darker over the course of time. Right now, what he wanted more than anything in the world was to hide out behind the bar and not let anyone in. “He can do that when I’m good and ready,” Thomas thought resentfully.

“Do you have his number?” he asked.

“Why would I?”

“Do you know where he could be?”

“Maybe,” Anton answered, reluctantly. “At his place, his garage, over on the other side of the river,” he said, pointing down the hill. “You know those garages?”

“Yep.”

“He has a repair shop there. The one with the dog skull nailed to the wall—that’s his place. But do you really need the hassle?”

Thomas didn’t answer. Anton waited a bit. Someone’s head poked out of the bar—fearful eyes, unkempt hair, dark skin. Anton bolted, nodding goodbye and disappearing inside. Thomas left his car parked there, descended the hill, crossed a bridge, passed a factory fence, and stepped into a maze of garages, laid out in rows like storage units.

Clay, there was so much clay, it looked as though they were getting ready to burn something on a bonfire, as though nothing ever grew here and the dead came here at night to quench their thirst by imbibing dry, thick lumps of clay. Black tires, half-buried in the ground along the road, an unending white brick wall blanketed with Bible quotes—the clay gave way under his feet, and the scorching sun shone overhead, newspapers and dead cats lay in the grass, and the smell of hell and river water hung in the air. A rusty gate arm blocked the entrance, and the security guard’s booth stood off to the side—broken glass, pocket calendars, random pamphlets, a taped-together length of hose, the door wide open, and black blood that had eaten into the cement floor. The security guard wasn’t there. Thomas hesitated, then peered inside the booth. The security guard smoked terrible cigarettes and didn’t bother stepping outside to do it. He probably couldn’t wash the smell of tobacco out of his clothes. A path made of crushed asphalt ran up ahead; rows of white brick garages stretched out to the left and right. Thomas thought for a second, then hung a left, walking past metal doors and glancing at heavy padlocks lining the sides of the path. Scrap metal was lying by the walls here and there; some startled birds flew by overhead. There was nobody around, and eerie silence prevailed. Thomas sped to the end of a long straightaway, ran up against a brick barrier, turned right, reached the next row of garages, noticed a side alley, and turned down it. He got to the end and turned right again. The garages stretched out ahead of him, without end and without hope. “Where is everybody?” he thought. “There has to be somebody around here.” He stopped and listened hard. Little lizards were scurrying through the charred grass, swallows were rustling under slate roofs, the wind was blaring, whipping through the frames of the metal doors, as if it were alerting the drowsy city that unseen enemies were approaching. A flash of color blazed by somewhere far up ahead. Thomas darted forward, realizing that it was somebody in a colorful shirt whipping around the corner. Thomas ran to that corner, barreled out into the next row, and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s back as he walked quickly past the garages, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and gray pants, his bare feet in sandals. He appeared to be holding some heavy metal object. Thomas was nearly at ease and was thinking about chasing down the stranger; however, the man suddenly ducked into a side passageway, so Thomas dashed forward, in a panicky frenzy once again. He ran, turned, reached a narrow tunnel, sprinted down it, high walls on each side of him, pounding the crushed bricks beneath him with his polished dress shoes and stomping on empty cigarette packs and used condoms. The man wasn’t getting any closer; somehow, he managed to stay ahead, his shirt flickering in and out of view and his feet knocking stones flying. No matter how much Thomas accelerated, the gap between them wasn’t closing. Finally, Thomas decided to go for it, and yelled: