Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

Black Devil was the first one to panic. He knew the girls were under age. Sure, maybe that wasn’t a big deal in and of itself, but he also knew that the girls had told their parents they were going to training camp too. They had to get home somehow, and fast, because if word got out, not even Black Devil’s dad could get them off the hook. His girl started to panic, too; she broke down crying and asked him to get her a ticket back to Kharkiv. Black Devil tried reasoning with Marat. They were sitting in the kitchen and smoking their last few cigarettes. Blood was seeping out of Marat’s fresh wounds, mingling with sweet saliva. Marat said that he wasn’t going anywhere, he didn’t want to hear it, he was afraid of going back home, she’d tell everyone everything, he didn’t know what to say to Alina—she had no clue what was really going on and if she found out she’d die of a broken heart. So the best thing for him to do was to stick it out until the gymnast rode him to death or he ran out of cigarettes. Black Devil patiently presented some arguments, telling Marat that staying here wasn’t an option because the authorities would start looking for them eventually and then it was only a matter of time—they’d be the ones dying, and not of broken hearts, either: the righteous would throw the book at them, and then start looking for something else to throw, and they’d wind up getting stoned to death.

“Nah, man,” Marat protested, “you just don’t get it. When things aren’t going your way, when you’re backed into a corner, it’s best to just keep still. You just gotta stand there and take it till it passes.” And then he went back to his room and started warming her cold, slim shoulders, then he warmed her palms and her stomach, trying not to think about anything in particular, trying not to think at all. For a few days, Black Devil tried to talk him into going home. He went to the post office a few times to call Alina and tell her that Marat said hello and that he was busy working out. Alina figured out what was up, but she didn’t let on. She just said not to go too wild after practice. On one of the following days, Black Devil’s girl gathered up her stuff, slipped out of the apartment unnoticed, hoofed it out to the highway, flagged down a car that took her as far as Simferopol, and made it all the way home by the next morning. It was only a matter of time until the cops showed up. Black Devil kicked in the door to Marat’s room, pulled his girl out of bed, and helped her get dressed without saying a single word as she stumbled around, getting her stockings and socks all in a tangle. Then he dragged her to the train station. Marat stayed. Black Devil’s friends came back in a few days, so Marat had no choice but to go home. Alina dumped him and then took him back. Marat’s gymnast girl tried swallowing a whole bunch of pills, but it didn’t work out for her. Well, she didn’t die, I mean.

In the time we spent remembering that story, a thin, copper-tinged moon dangled itself over the yard. Partially concealed by the fog, the crescent was still showing through the damp air, moving quietly over the city’s tin roofs and the black throats of its chimneys. Alina stepped outside and was drowned in the darkness that wrapped tightly around her black dress. Occasionally, her elbows and wrists would pop into view as if rising out of black milk. Everyone got really serious all of a sudden; Benia lunged out of his seat to help Alina once again, taking some bread and wine from her. Sasha started inviting her over to the table and she finally came, perhaps a bit reluctantly. The air was growing even cooler—it was as though a rain shower had just passed through and the smell of its even, frigid breath lingered. Alina hardly said a word, occasionally asking the guests what dishes to pass them, and then she kicked back in her hard chair, gazing at the blue wine in the green bottles.

The next one to speak up was Kostyk, heavy and cumbersome, like he was all soggy from the fog and wine. He undid his tie and tossed it aside—it landed on some baked fish. He wasn’t speaking all that clearly, yet his voice was loud with conviction. When someone talks like that, there’s no disagreeing with him, even if he’s talking nonsense. Kostyk realized that, so he tried to talk even louder. Sometimes it sounded like he was attacking someone, sometimes it sounded like he was defending them, and other times he broke into shouting, and then Sem would place his bony hand on Kostyk’s shoulder, but then Sasha would nod gently at him, as if to say, “Let him be. Tomorrow morning he’s not even gonna remember any of this crap he’s spewing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kostyk said, clearly agitated. “I’d like to say something, too. Why aren’t you letting me talk? Don’t look at me like that.” He got so riled up that he knocked over some wineglasses. The white tablecloth swelled with the dark weight of the alcohol, but Kostyk didn’t pay that any mind, he just kept telling everyone to pipe down. “Having a warm heart… When a person has a warm heart, he has a completely different outlook on life. A man like that has eyes that light up from the inside, and people flock to him. Both men and women,” Kostyk added.

“Here we go again,” Benia interjected in a dissatisfied tone. “I told ya to cut him off a few drinks ago. Now that mouth of his is gonna get him in trouble.”

Everyone knew what Benia was getting at. Everyone knew what to expect. First he’d start going on about the inner light, then he’d start holding forth about eternal salvation. He might break down crying or, more likely, pick a fight with someone. Kostyk got that way after his first stint in rehab. You generally think of drug users as mellowed out, but it’s often exactly the opposite. Kostyk got hooked as an adult, when he already had something to lose, but he didn’t quit until he’d lost all of it. He bounced around from one rehab clinic to another, not to mention all those spiritual counseling programs. He went back to his regular life after all that, but he had already started putting on weight. I figured it must have had something to do with his blood sugar. His drug use had led to some problems with his kidneys… and his head, for that matter. The drugs had nothing to do with his yelling and carrying on tonight, though. He was just as obnoxious at parties back when we were kids.

We didn’t really like what he had to say, but the sloppily ear­nest way he said it won us over. All of our inner voices seemed to be saying, “That’s it, keep it up. Open heart, men and women flocking to you.” It looked like Alina was absolutely freezing; she picked up a shawl someone had left behind and wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering from time to time, as though she was reacting to a soft whisper only she could hear.

“Having a warm heart helps us get through our tougher moments and enjoy our happier hours when they come,” Kostyk continued, inhaling a deep gulp of nighttime air, which made his white shirt puff up like a sail against black water. “It’s all about having a warm heart, guys, having a warm heart!” With that, he started crying.

Then he wandered far afield, but it led us to a nice story that everyone could identify with; he spoke about hearts filled with goodness and hope, merciful and benevolent—those are the hearts through which mankind’s conscience comes into this world, hearts with the strength to resist temptation and reject vanity. After a long and slightly garbled introduction, he reminded everyone how warm and splendid the weather had been that September, a few years back, when this incredible story took place.

“You know, you’re talking about being a man and all that manly nature stuff,” Kostyk blubbered. “Having compassion is the only true mark of a man, and being willing to administer first aid if it comes to that—that’s the only true mark of a man too. Let’s take Marat, for example. Back then, he was a famous sports star, a boxer well respected by the city’s youth, a thoughtful son, a faithful husband, a man of iron will and firm convictions. Ascetic and unstoppable—you wouldn’t believe his stamina—he had hit that age when nothing seems impossible, when miracles happen and the gates of heaven open high above us just so the saints can get a better look at our joyful eyes—see what color they are. That’s why he didn’t go to the Caucasus, even though he was invited to box for the national team. How could he just drop everything? Think about it! It was his sense of duty that kept him here!