Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

“Obviously, we identify most with the ethnic Ukrainians and their moral code,” she told Bob, her voice somewhat grating from the alcohol. “They’re all nationalists. That’s what draws us to them.” Bob couldn’t see any real logic in her claim, but he still enjoyed talking about nationalism in the abstract. When he was asked about the goings-on back in the old country, he gave them the following answer:

“Obviously, we have all witnessed numerous cataclysms that have left an indelible and irreversible mark on the city itself, and on its residents, for that matter. Clerics, ventriloquists, and street magicians fought doggedly for years, and eventually took control of city hall. Racing all the way up the social ladder before anyone could knock them down and getting to the top of the political hierarchy, they decided to tackle the most pressing issues. First of all, the city walls were reinforced, with special care being taken on the east side, where the threat of nomadic border tribes loomed. Also, two long avenues were built, one stretching from the eastern gate to the western gate and the other running from the bridges up north to the basin down south. A pyramid was erected where the two avenues intersect to symbolize the new government’s commitment to tasteful architecture and fiscal transparency. Events commemorating the memory and legacy of our dearly departed ancestors have become a regular occurrence. Water from the city’s two rivers is consecrated every Sunday for use by the utilities department. There are more flags around town now, too.

“The insignia they bear are mostly lions, jackals, and fighting cocks,” Bob continued, “which are supposed to represent the government’s firm commitment to further social upheaval. Although many reforms have been implemented smoothly and effectively, the problems of post-totalitarianism and xenophobia still haven’t been eradicated. This new, post-totalitarian state has knocked all the social ladders out from under me, so I have no hope of moving up. I’ve been dealt a bad hand—I’m forced to waste away in the back alleys of the ghetto, fecklessly contemplating the ills of social inequality and religious intolerance.

“And those assholes,” Bob exclaimed, crying and alternately tugging at Aunt Amalia’s arm and leg, “are gonna keep me down, they’re never gonna give me a chance.”

Aunt Amalia was listening, biting her lip anxiously. Lilith was patting Bob on the back, which made him sob even more theatrically. It was only after midnight had rolled around, another bottle of California wine had been polished off, and Bob’s tall tales had escalated to the realm of two-headed state employees responsible for education and burning witches in the central market, that Aunt Amalia had finally had enough. She suggested that everyone go to sleep, preferably in separate beds. Leaving the dining room, she assured Bob that he’d come to the right place, and that America, the cradle of multiculturalism, would make a real man out of him—if he acted like one, of course.

He couldn’t even look at the pasta the next morning.

That’s how his Philadelphia summer got under way. He didn’t have much of anything to do because nobody had offered him a job yet—he had two months left until his flight back home, two months to explore the unknown and absorb his new reality. During the first few days, Bob took some pictures by the Rocky statue and stopped by the Ukrainian Cultural Center. Its young members, who had been born in exile, were discussing Ukrainian nationalism. They took Bob for an Irishman because of his thick accent and red sideburns, but they had no idea how this fuckin’ Irish guy could know each and every member of the Ukrainian Parliament. They arm-wrestled a bit and sang some nationalist songs. Bob made a big show of not wanting to join in, but it didn’t last—pure, Irish-bred love for Ukraine filled his passionate voice. Bob fell asleep toward the end of the meeting, slouched over in his chair. The other guys called him a cab, but they didn’t know his address. They went through his pockets and found his cellphone. He had a picture of the Rocky statue as his wallpaper, so that’s where they dropped him off.

Late at night, after his relatives had wandered off to their respective quarters, Bob would read emails from his family and friends back home.

“Dear Bob,” his dad wrote, “never come back to this godforsaken city, no matter what! Do everything in your power to stay in the country of enduring democracy and stick by that brother of mine, life’s really run him into the ground. This city doesn’t deserve to be loved and remembered by you. It’s already kicked me around enough. It’s taken my faith, hope, and Party card away from me. Don’t ever come back here again! But if you do decide to come back, please see if there are any Chinese guys down at the market that can get you some cheap blades for my lawnmower.” His mom’s emails didn’t have the same degree of pathos, but they were just as troubling. There was talk of a default and another planned power outage.

“Supposedly, the ATMs only dispense large bills with some mysterious markings on them. Apparently, some mutated strain of E. coli was found in the city’s reservoir. I don’t know, Bobby—the government has been consecrating the water and all, but what’s the use? What was the point of all that social upheaval of theirs? I’ve heard the city fathers have all gotten Chinese passports, so it’s only a matter of time before they hand the keys to the city over to the Communist Party of China. Rumor has it that there will be a sugar and flour shortage soon. Life is chock-full of mirages and mysteries, and you have to have nerves of steel and a cool head just to get through the morning news—the things going on chill you to the heart. Anyway, your family and your ever-hospitable homeland wait eagerly to embrace you once more.”

Zhora, his other cousin, who was employed at a 24-hour pharmacy, wrote the most interesting emails, giving him the full rundown. As a fully qualified practitioner of medicine, Zhora wrote in an eloquent and didactic tone, and he didn’t turn up his nose at the opportunity for the occasional lyrical digression. He told Bob that their neighbor Thomas had started dating a girl who used to be a prostitute. Everyone in the whole apartment building was concerned. Well, and it looked like Mark, a distant relative of theirs through Aunt Maria, was doin’ his cousin.

“You never know what unexpected turn fate will take next,” Zhora wrote, referring to these odd relationships. “Just don’t let it rattle you, and you’ll be all right. Make sure to say hello to Lilith for me. She’s such a sweetheart.”

There was no need whatsoever to remind Bob about his cousin, though. Lilith had taken up residence in his heart and wreaked havoc. She’d be on his mind when he got up in the morning and she’d be on his mind when he turned in at night. In the morning, he’d lie there on his air mattress and listen to her getting out of bed and rushing to get ready for school, searching frantically for her clothes and phone and putting on her makeup. At night, as he lay there listening to her blabbing away on Skype and falling soundly asleep, his broken heart would nearly stop. He’d listen to her pajamas rustling and the movie stars and pro soccer players talking in her dreams. He saw her come out of her room, scantily clad, a few times. One time she asked him to do up her bra in the back, but he wasn’t up to the task. Also, Aunt Amalia happened to be walking down the hallway right then, so they all felt a bit awkward. He’d occasionally see her panties hanging in the kitchen, which he took as proof that God and all the saints really did exist. Sometimes she wouldn’t get back from hanging out with her friends until early morning. Aunt Amalia would start scolding her, and Bob would lie there on his mattress, mad with jealousy and boundless sympathy. They had a small Fourth of July celebration, just for the family. Lilith wasn’t really into it—she hardly even spoke to Bob and outright ignored her parents. Bob was hitting the dry California wine hard, engaging Uncle Alex in a discussion of how the American democratic system affects the stability of the oil market. Aunt Amalia had been drinking since she got up, so she was definitely on Bob’s side. That’s how it was that summer. Aunt Amalia would back Bob, but Lilith wasn’t coming around. Bob slipped into a serious funk. He stopped in at the Ukrainian Cultural Center a few days later. They took him for an Irishman once again, but this time they beat him up instead of singing with him. The sun hung high, seemingly detached from the city of Philadelphia. The air was saturated with utter hopelessness. He wanted to hang himself, preferably in her room, preferably not for long. He tried writing her love notes and camping out by her door at night. But all his efforts were in vain—summer was trickling by, dragging all his hopes and dreams away. Lilith was out sowing her wild oats, only coming home when she needed some fresh clothes.