Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“Here, go hang yourself with it,” I offered as a parting shot. She stopped listening to me and darted out into the hallway, slamming the door. I could take the condoms out now.

They let me go in the morning. They tried shaming me first, of course; maybe they were trying to provide a rationale for detaining me, though they must have known their excuses were pretty weak, so they were a little bit anxious, obviously. They returned my business cards, flash drives, and whistle. I showed up at work with the latter in my hand. She was at her desk. I asked her to step out for a little chat. She complied without saying a word, grabbed her coffee, walked out into the hallway, and sat on a wide windowsill. I positioned myself beside her.

“Sorry for losing it last night.”

“It happens to the best of us,” she answered, sipping her coffee, burning the roof of her mouth, coughing, and growing anxious. “I was just worried about you.”

“Yeah, sure you were.” I reached for her mug, burning my fingers, and placed it off to the side.

I tried kissing her. She made a big show of taking out some gum and started chewing, staring out into space. “Whatever,” I thought. “You didn’t want it enough. But actually you did. Of course you did.”

She quit that fall. The boss’s son filled her position. A special police unit raided us a month later, barging into his office and seizing all the station’s documents. The boss encouraged the whole staff to stage a hunger strike. I agreed. I wound up being the only one. The boss weighed his options and went off to negotiate with the mayor. The good times were just getting started.

Six years ago, sometime in the winter, I bumped into her outside a jewelry store in town. I was racing to some meeting, looking at the ground, when I suddenly caught her in my peripheral vision. I recognized her immediately. She’d dyed her hair, and the new color didn’t look good on her. A long fur coat that hung down to her heels (provided by some well-heeled individual, no doubt), high, black boots that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a grenadier, and a tough guy in a leather jacket gazing at her with heavy eyes, yet holding her hand and not letting her go—none of it looked good on her. I nodded; she pretended not to notice, turned abruptly toward her tough guy and said something cheerful to him. I went on my way, watching his eyes narrow, like he was looking through military binoculars, his hand squeezing hers, his leather jacket creaking with frustration.

Five years ago, I saw her talking on some local TV channel. The caption below her name read “activist.” She was advocating for some businessman to be released on bail. It turns out he’d done a whole lot for the city, and, it turns out, the authorities had apprehended him on trumped-up tax evasion charges, which, it turns out, she personally deemed to be an act of revenge by his competitors and an attempt to discredit his charity work, which benefited many residents of Kharkiv. She, it turns out, had already filed an appeal and approached the city fathers, with, it turns out, a petition. She’s counting on them, those city fathers, although they’ve been acting like a bunch of pricks lately. She didn’t explicitly say that, but it was the precise sentiment expressed by her eyes. She talked about the prisoner with such warmth in her voice that even the anchorman couldn’t take it anymore and had to cut to commercial.

Four years ago, I moved away from the city without even thinking of her once. But then I came back and thought of her again.

Three years ago, somebody told me what she was up to. It turns out, after getting her night school degree and finding a respectable job, she took out a bunch of loans at an insanely high interest rate and bought an apartment in a new complex, intending to move in right away. But suddenly in the summer she sold everything, got all her savings together, borrowed some money from her aunt, and quickly settled up with her creditors. Then the financial crisis hit.

Two years ago, I bumped into her at the Georgian joint—sitting by herself, watching a movie on her laptop, and drinking dry red wine. She saw me, tensed up, yet waved, inviting me over to her table. I took a seat; she inquired about how I was doing health-wise, saying that she’d quit her job and started getting in touch with her spiritual side.

“Like karate class?” I asked. She started explaining. I was about to say something nice and high-tail it out of there when she suddenly clasped my elbow tightly and told me not to hold a grudge against her, that she’d always had warm feelings and a deep sense of appreciation for me, that I was a true friend, and she was an unappreciative swine who never valued my friendly attitude toward her. Now she was really down in the dumps, really hurting, because what she’d done just wasn’t right and that’s not how things should have been—friends are supposed to support one another and have a friendly attitude, because real friendship between friends is held together by friendliness and friendly feelings. It seemed like she was getting in touch with her spiritual side right there in front of me; I interrupted her, rather awkwardly, saying that I’d always had warm feelings and a deep sense of appreciation for her too and was happy our friendship had lasted so many years. I even gave her a half-hug at the end of our little reunion, nearly spilling her dry red wine. We produced our respective cellphones and exchanged numbers—hers was silver and polished, mine black and held together with tape.

A year later she called. Her number was no longer in my phone, so I didn’t pick up for a while. I usually ignored calls from unknown numbers, but something hinted that I had to answer this one. My phone rang and rang; she waited patiently for me to come around. Her voice was tear-stained. She said hello and apologized, quite formally: “I apologize for disturbing you. I just didn’t have anyone else to call. My parents are too old, I don’t have a job—or any friends, as it turns out. My aunt’s in a bad way right now—she fell and broke her leg. At her age that means death is just around the corner.”

“Why are you calling me?” I was confused.

“You have some doctor friends,” she explained. “I distinctly remember you were always talking to some doctors.”

“They were pediatricians.”

“What’s the difference?” she snapped. “They said I could try and take her to a specialist. You hear that? I need somebody that specializes. I’m afraid they’ll just butcher her in a regular hospital. Pull some strings, call in some favors, I don’t care how, just make it happen!” Well, obviously at that point she burst into tears; I tried consoling her, but she’d already hung up. I pulled some strings. My friends actually did recommend a good doctor, asked me to wait a bit, got in touch with him, called me back, and told me they’d filled him in.

“Just make sure the old lady says she knows you.”

I called her back: “Here’s the deal, dial this number, tell them you know me, and you’ll be good to go. And I’m gonna come over and help, okay?”

She stood outside the hospital, crying and dabbing her tears away with wet wipes. She rooted around in her purse with anxious, trembling fingers, pulled out her phone, pressed some buttons, flung some loose strands of hair—her hair was long again and scorched lighter by the summer sun—away from her face, darted toward me, and wrapped her arms around my neck, but it was such a cold and detached gesture that I wound up backing away from her.

“I don’t know what to do—it looks like the operation went smoothly, but the doctors won’t permit me to stay with her. What should I do? Do I just wait here?”

“Let me give you a ride home,” I suggested.