Afterland

by Lauren Beukes

  “Why not?” I ask, and he looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Because I’m a man.”

  It’s the same sentiment the members of Komuna Svoboda in Kiev are counting on. Better known as “XY City,” the controversial Ukrainian “manclave” is set up in an old neofascist paramilitary compound with razor wire and bunkers in the forest hills. It’s the kind of place where the ghosts of swastika graffiti seep through the white paint, the kind of place where they used to cook krokodil…maybe still do.

  “Are you joking?” My designated translator, Vadym, is dismayed. “Please don’t put that in your article. We already have enough trouble with the government.” Vadym used to work for an IT outsourcing company in the U.S., and he speaks perfect idiomatic American English, switching to Russian to crack jokes with our guide, Ifan, who is the perfect ambassador for Svoboda, because he is not what you were expecting. At all.

  There are certainly men in black t-shirts performing paramilitary drills on the cracked concrete of the square, across which someone has optimistically strung a tennis net. But on the other side is the morning yoga class with moms and dads and daughters, even a surviving son or two, pushing up into downward dog and dropping down onto their bellies into cobra.

  “We like to be self-reliant,” Ifan says and Vadym relays to me. He is soft-spoken, with glasses and too much gel in his hair. Initially, when we met, I thought he was gay. But now I am certain he is flirting with me.

  I ask about the women stationed around the perimeter of the camp, and Ifan explains, “They’re hoping to audition. We take new women in every few months for a trial period. If they’re a good fit for the Svoboda culture, they can stay on for a one-year contract, which gets reviewed every year.”

  “It sounds very corporate,” I tell Vadym, who murmurs to Ifan.

  He shrugs. “Why reinvent the wheel? We take our cues from the old Silicon Valley, the gig economy. This way everyone knows what to expect and we have very clear boundaries. And if it doesn’t work out, you move on.”

  There are thirty-seven men living here with their families and loved ones, rounding it up to an even one hundred ten, plus another forty-six “contract wives,” although no one likes it if you call them that. One hundred and fifty-six people in total. That is to say, a proper community, and like any community, it takes all sorts, from neo-Nazis to hipsters (you might have come across their craft distillery, XY City Spiced Vodka), skater punks to the crew-cut dude bros doing one-handed push-ups in the quad.

  Like Jaysing, they have a lot of guns. And that’s part of the reason Svoboda makes the government very, very uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know what they think we’re going to do,” Vadym relays to me over lunch in the cafeteria. They have a chef who makes food for the whole commune, using fresh ingredients from their farm. “Stage a revolution? With thirty-seven men? The government were happy enough to arm the militias when we were at war with Russia. We have the right to our guns, especially in times of global unrest.”

  “Can we visit the armory?” This time when Vadym translates, Ifan frowns.

  “Only if you qualify for membership. Our next auditions are only in May, but I can always appeal to the board. They sometimes make exceptions for extraordinary candidates.”

  “Is it true you have armored vehicles?”

  “That’s right. We’ve got two, ex-National Guard. We use them to patrol the perimeter, make sure our members are kept safe.”

  “I heard you have a tank.” The two men are now laughing, and Vadym turns to me with a grin.

  “Oh sure. And a nuclear submarine in the dam! Along with a lake monster. We know about all the crazy rumors.”

  “About prostitution.” This is the least of the rumors. Ifan shrugs it off.

  “It’s been decriminalized in Ukraine. Sex workers are immune to prosecution, but if the clients get caught, that’s their issue.”

  “That law was intended to protect vulnerable women.”

  “Equal rights. Men are people, too, and what happens in Svoboda…”

  “Like Vegas.”

  “What consenting adults do behind closed doors on private property is entirely their own business.”

  “I heard it’s ten thousand dollars.”

  “I couldn’t comment.”

  “But there are overnight visitors, who are not auditioning?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “How about the milk trade?”

  This causes a fervor of urgent talk between the two men.

  “I should have known. You buying?”

  “It’s a lucrative business.” Ifan waves his hands, animated, and Vadym leans toward me.

  “Look around you. Look at this piece of paradise we are sitting on, that we’ve built by hand. Why would we risk all that to deal in black-market sperm?”

  “Because you have to find a way to pay for all this. And it’s free.”

  “You think we got some kind of facility in the back, where everyone goes and plugs themselves into the milk machines, makes a deposit and then we ship it out on ice to the highest bidder?”

  “There have been a rash of new pregnancies.” Despite the Global Reprohibition Accord that has led to most of the stock in the sperm banks being destroyed to prevent exactly this, life finds a way. It always does.

  Ifan’s face shuts down. “I don’t know anything about that. Would you like to see the sewing room now?” he offers, via Vadym. “We make all our own clothes.”

  Three weeks after my visit, Svoboda is raided and disbanded by INTERPOL working with Russia’s Berkut special police for sperm trafficking and health violations. The men are remanded to the controversial men’s camps—high-security specialist facilities—ostensibly for their own safety.

  Back in Jaysing’s truck, riding high in the cab as the tires eat up the miles of cracked road between Delhi and Mumbai.

  I ask him why he doesn’t sell his sperm, considering the lucrative black market, and he smiles ruefully. “Testicular epididymitis when I was forty-five. It means I am infertile, but even if I wasn’t, no one wants old man sperm. But don’t tell my girlfriends, they would be very sad. They always hope.”

  I’ve been nervous about hijackers, but the most interesting thing that’s happened over the sixteen hours we’ve been driving is a herd of cows causing a twenty-minute stop, and the abandoned small towns we pass through that are already being swallowed up by the forest.

  “It’s nice to see nature coming back,” I say, and Jaysing grunts, uninterested. “Do you think men will ever come back? That it will ever be normal again?”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  Dawn creases across the Powai hills as we pull into the outskirts of Mumbai, and he lets me off at a truck stop just inside the city limits, because while the trucking company has authorized this ride-along, the warehouse district is even more fortified than Svoboda.

  It’s the end of the road for me and Jaysing. I tell him they charged for sex at XY City before it was shutdown and the men relocated.

  “Isn’t that something,” Jaysing says, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand dollars a pop.”

  I swing open the door of the truck, half-out already when Jaysing calls after me. “Hey. You ever want one for free, you’ve got my number.”

  I know some women who would find that an irresistible offer.

  31.

  Confidance Files

  Transcript /AllSorrows/ MotherInferior/locked/Confidances/SisterFaith

  File Name: JanettaWilliams0001_firstcontact.doc

  Created 3/14/2022

  Fisher on duty: Sister Hope

  Location: North Scottsdale Scout Hall, Arizona

  Transcript by Sister Hope 3/15/2022

  Fisher: Hi, my name is Sister Hope, thank you for coming down to see us. I hope I can help you today.

  Janetta Williams: Hi. Um. Is that a recorder? You recording this?

  Fisher: Yes. If you don’t mind. We
do it for everyone, so they can come back to us to review the counseling. It helps your own understanding, hearing the way you talk about yourself and your life.

  JW: I dunno. I don’t think I’m gonna ever want to listen to this. Hate the sound of my own voice, you know what I mean?

  Fisher: I don’t think there’s anyone who likes how they sound. But that’s the least of our worries, right? You’ll be surprised how useful it will be for your personal actualization. And if you feel uncomfortable afterwards, I’m happy to delete it in front of you.

  JW: Nah. I’m sure you’re a very nice lady. But I don’t want you recording me. It feels out of order. You shouldn’t be recording people. Even if you delete it at the end.

  Fisher: I understand. Look, I’m turning it off, I’m putting it away.

  (Muffled sound)

  JW: All right. Still. You should reconsider that. It makes people feel uncomfortable.

  Fisher: You know, that’s a really good suggestion. I’ll take that up with the other Sisters. It should be voluntary, that’s what you’re saying?

  JW: Yeah. Exactly. Give people the choice.

  Fisher: Like God gave us the choice in the garden. Free will. It’s a thing!

  JW: Yeah. Exactly. Free will.

  (Long pause)

  JW: You know, you’re not what I expected.

  Fisher: You were thinking we’d be very serious.

  JW: Sorrowful maybe. You know, because it’s in the name.

  Fisher: We carry the sorrow of the world, but we are joyful in God’s work, in accepting each other. We come together to find comfort and solace against the darkness.

  JW: That’s very poetical.

  (Long pause)

  JW: You just waiting on me?

  Fisher: I’m here for you. Whatever you want to talk about, whatever brought you here.

  JW: Where do we start?

  Fisher: Why don’t we start with your sin name, some personal details.

  JW: I don’t like that phrasing. “Sin name.” I didn’t do nothing wrong.

  Fisher: Are you human?

  JW: Last I checked.

  Fisher: Then you have made mistakes. We all have.

  JW: I don’t even know where to start.

  Fisher: Why don’t you start with your name?

  JW: My name’s Janetta. Janetta Williams. I’m 24 years old. Wait, what month is it? Yeah, still 24.

  Fisher: When is your birthday?

  JW: April 19. So coming up.

  Fisher: Happy birthday in advance.

  JW: Thanks. I guess.

  Fisher: And what kind of work do you do, Janetta?

  JW: I was in the air force. I was a private, a grunt, you know. Nothing glamorous. I was about to be shipped out to an aircraft carrier, the USS Saratoga, working below decks, but then the shit hit the fan and we got deployed with the National Guard. Hey, the Church got access to an optometrist? My prescription isn’t cutting it anymore. Maybe it’s because we were all crying our eyes out, like Marcia says.

  Fisher: Who is Marcia?

  JW: My friend. Marcia Coolidge. We had a falling out. I haven’t seen her in a while. I lost track. You got to make an effort to stay connected.

  Fisher: With God, too. And to answer your question, yes, we do know a great optician in Miami. Dentists too. If you were to join the Church, we’d take care of that for you. We’re a tight-knit family. We look after each other.

  JW: Like being in the air force, huh?

  Fisher: I don’t know about that. I think there are some differences.

  JW: Yeah?

  Fisher: We don’t have uniforms, for one thing. The accommodation is much nicer than barracks. The food, too. We grow our own vegetables.

  JW: But you got the habits. Is that what you call them?

  Fisher: We do have the Apologia. It’s a reminder of how far we have to go.

  JW: They’re butt-ugly is what they are. Don’t know why they have to be those lumo colors. Hurts my eyes. If you don’t mind me saying.

  Fisher: Oh, I didn’t design them. But I suppose that’s rather the point. We wear them as an act of humility and grace.

  JW: Uh-huh.

  Fisher: I was also skeptical. That’s natural. It’s healthy! We’re not some cult preying on vulnerable people. The people who join the Sisterhood are strong, capable women who have endured terrible things and come out on the other side. They’re looking for answers. Why did you come down here today?

  JW: I don’t know. You tell me. The Holy Spirit, maybe?

  Fisher: Ha. You have a fire in you, Janetta. It burns brightly. But you’ve been thwarted in your life, haven’t you?

  JW: Not more than anybody else I reckon. Life sucks, then you die.

  Fisher: The army shunted you around. And Marcia.

  JW: What about her?

  Fisher: She didn’t understand you. She put her own priorities ahead of yours. She didn’t see the toll it took on you.

  JW: It wasn’t like that.

  Fisher: And yet, here we are, here you are, and she’s not here.

  JW: It’s complicated.

  Fisher: You’re right, Janetta. We are infinite universes of complexity, every single one of us, in God’s image. Sometimes it’s really hard to live with that complexity.

  JW: No shit.

  Fisher: No shit indeed!

  JW: I didn’t know nuns were allowed to swear.

  Fisher: God has bigger things to worry about, don’t you agree? We take it on board, we’re helping hands that do His work on earth. Are you a religious woman, Janetta?

  JW: I ain’t been to church since, you know, my daddy died, and my uncles and my brothers, and the other guys on the base, and my little nephew, Ephen. He was six years old. Whole school emptied out, all the little boys dying. What kind of God does that?

  Fisher: Is that why you have come to us?

  JW: Figure you might have a direct line. Ask God what’s up. What’s he playing at? You see this?

  (Interviewer’s note: JW pulls up her sleeves to show scars from slitting her wrists, multiple slashes, lengthways)

  Fisher: You tried to kill yourself.

  JW: Marcia found me. I was lying in the shower with the water running, half bled-out. I’d been there long enough that it ran out of hot, which probably saved me. Cold water constricts the veins. She was so mad with me, screaming at me and crying and swatting at me, because she was so angry, even while she’s dragging me out, blood all over her uniform and I kept trying to push her off, telling her to let me be. I was going to go see God, ask him what he thought he was doing. I prayed. You understand? I prayed and I prayed and I prayed, and there was no answer. Nothing.

  Fisher: I understand.

  JW: And then he won’t even let me die. You gonna take my whole damn family, all the men in my life, and my momma, from a broken heart? She died three days after she buried Kimon, at eighteen. That’s my brother. But God wants me to stick around, to suffer?

  Fisher: To bear witness.

  JW: I did! I did more witnessing than anyone should have to go through. With the army, protecting food stores, you see what people are capable of, how desperate they are, and you get to thinking about what kind of God would bring people to this point. It sits on your chest late at night, like someone’s gone and put dumbbells on you.

  Fisher: How did you come to us, Janetta?

  JW: Got your flyer. I thought maybe, I don’t know…

  Fisher: You were looking for forgiveness.

  JW: Marcia couldn’t look at me. She couldn’t speak to me. Afterwards. I mean. When I got out of the hospital. But she was there with me on the line, man. She was right there, pulling the trigger same as me, scared shitless, same as me. We didn’t know they’d run out of rubber bullets by then. I mean, I guess we must have, because those cartridges didn’t load themselves. But we were so scared and those women had their own guns, and they weren’t playing. It was shoot to kill. They were ready to kill us because we were standing between them and bags of g
rain. Not even steak, you know. Or milk or vegetables or rice or cereal or, I don’t know, chocolate donuts with those sprinkles made of real glitter. Just bags of grain. What are you even going to do with grain?

  I wasn’t on cleanup duty. They kept us separate. But there were photos in the news. That one, you must know the one. Of the woman with her baby in a pouch. Who brings a baby? I mean, she could have been one of the peaceful protesters, or just hoping to get her kid some food, and maybe she didn’t have somewhere safe to leave her baby. But they said she had a gun, a .22, that it had been fired, they could tell from the powder traces on her hands. They said she was killed by one of the food rioters’ bullets, you know, according to the forensics. Stray bullet, went straight through both of them. Not one of our bullets, not from our guns. But I don’t know. I think about it a lot. Sometimes I think I saw her, curled over her baby with her shoulders all hunched up, trying to get out of there. But the others said, nah, they definitely saw her with the gun, waving it around like a crazy woman, shouting about how if her kid couldn’t eat, no one would. Maybe. I don’t remember that. But I was so scared. There was this rushing sound in my head. So I don’t know.

  Fisher: You went through a lot of trauma.

  JW: Marcia didn’t understand why I did it. And she wouldn’t talk to me. If I walked into a room, she’d get up and leave. As if my being there, just me being alive offended her. And then I got discharged, obviously. Mental health reasons. Not like I was the only one who tried it.

  (Crying)

  (Muffled sound)

  (Interviewer note: offering the subject the box of tissues)

  JW: I’m fine. Really. I’m good.

  Fisher: Tears tell you you’re alive, Janetta. Your pain tells you you’re alive.

  JW: I don’t want…to feel, to feel pain. I’m done with pain. Every single person…who died, you know how it feels?