Thirst

by Andrei Gelasimov

  “Me?”

  “Stop acting the fool with me.”

  “Two days ago.”

  “What for?”

  “I had to pay a guy back.”

  “So how was it there?”

  “OK.”

  “Did you see Arkady Andreyevich?”

  “Who?”

  “The head teacher. What, have you decided to tick me off especially today?”

  “No, it’s true, I forgot his name. We call him the camel.”

  “He spits?” Alexander Stepanovich chuckled, and his body started swaying like a giant balloon.

  “And how!”

  “I see. That one’s going to spit far eventually. Well, did you see him or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing. He asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you were sick.”

  “Sick? You’re a fool! You have to tell him the truth. Otherwise he’s going to eat you alive. Especially when he becomes director.”

  I never forgot our head teacher’s name again. Because Alexander Stepanovich was right. Arkady Andreyevich really did become director. I don’t know—maybe his friend the minister was transferred or Alexander Stepanovich himself decided homemade wines would do a better job of slaking his thirst. My father used to tell me when I was a kid that there’s a good southern wine called Massandra. I don’t know why I remembered what it was called. I thought it must taste even better than ice cream. Maybe the director went to his son’s so he could drink that wine. I don’t know. He told me not to give up drawing. Otherwise he’d come back and personally rip my head off. Actually, the word he used was noggin.

  “Get what I’m saying? God forbid you give it up. I won’t just rip your noggin off then.”

  But he never did come. I stopped drawing almost immediately after because I was hoping he’d been telling me the truth. I waited for him a few more months. But it turned out to be a load of crap. He probably didn’t even remember my name.

  Arkady Andreyevich wasted no time getting started on my education. That’s why, as soon as my call-up papers came, I was the first to head for the enlistment office. After all, nobody knew how it was all going to end. Especially since I was thoroughly fed up with Eduard Mikhailovich.

  “Listen, Kostya!” Genka shouted right in my ear when the APC started moving. “You want us to pay your stepdad a visit after demob and rip off his balls? Hey, Pashka? Wanna rip that jerk’s balls off?”

  I shook my head because I didn’t feel like shouting over the noise of the engine. Not only that, this weird captain from division headquarters was riding with us. And also an ensign, Demidov, who had never gotten into an APC with us before.

  Genka looked in their direction as well and then leaned toward me and hollered in my ear again.

  “Crummy spies! Damn! They’re paying a call on the Chechens, to divvy up the spoils—who gets how much if we don’t bomb Staropromyslovsky. They’ve got those crappy oil rigs there.”

  I looked toward the captain, but he could hardly have heard Genka; he was sitting too far away. Ensign Demidov was listening to his trophy cassette player. Two days before, the boys had captured a sniper and thrown him off the fifth floor. They gave his player to Demidov. He was a good person to have on your side. Before the war he’d worked as a supplier.

  “How’s about it, soldier?” Genka shouted at Seryoga. “How long are you gonna fuck around with that hatch?”

  “It doesn’t want to open.”

  Seryoga was tugging at the handle as hard as he could.

  “Move the fuck over! Look. This is how you do it. See?”

  Genka opened the hatch and started laughing at Seryoga again.

  “You’re fucking hopeless. Look, they’re going to shoot you you-know-where, and then what’ll you go home with? What are you going to bang your women with, your rifle butt? Hey! Don’t sit there. Come here. Stick your head out the hatch.”

  Seryoga looked at him as if he were a ghost.

  “What are you goggling at? Come on, get out there, do as you’re told.”

  “There’re snipers out there.”

  “So what? You wanted to sit in here? Go on, crawl on out. I’m talking to you. We’re just about to pass the ruins. The spooks sit there all the time with their bumblebees. If a grenade lands in the APC, at least it’ll throw you out alive. Then you can come back and pull us out. See? Whoever’s moving, pull them out first. Got it? Up you go.”

  Seryoga stuck his head out the hatch and fell tensely still. Genka went over to the lookout slit.

  “We’re coming up on the ruins!” he shouted into the two-way. “Hear me? Have you fucking fallen asleep there? We’re getting closer. Cover us if anything happens. Two hundred meters to go. A hundred fifty. A hundred. All’s well. No one’s there, I think. Fifty meters to go. Nearly past. All’s quiet here. What? No, all’s well, I said. It’s quiet here, quiet—”

  The explosion was so loud I jumped to my feet. Jumped up and fell straight down. My head was ringing from the blow, like being inside a bell. There was an empty bottle in front of my eyes. And another one next to it. I touched them and they clinked. Lying on the floor felt good. The floor was cool. I pressed my cheek to the linoleum and shut my eyes. Just so I didn’t move…

  At that moment someone started banging on the door again. More like kicking. Right at my head.

  I sat up, opened my eyes, and started getting up very slowly. The main thing was not to make any sudden movements. So it wouldn’t explode. Because it would be very hard to clean up. I wouldn’t be able to bend over more than once.

  They started beating on the door again. What’s the big rush? Do they think I’m an express train?

  They can go to hell, anyone who comes see you in the middle of the night and kicks at your door. What time is it anyway? What day is it?

  I hope their legs fall off.

  “Hello!” Genka said when I opened the door. “You look like hell, dude.”

  I was about to check the mirror, but then I remembered I’d taken it to Olga’s ten days ago. Or twelve.

  “My, this is quite a disaster zone you’ve got here!” he said as he walked into the room. “The patient is more dead than alive. And I’m thinking, why aren’t you opening the door?”

  “Sit over there.”

  “Oh no, Commander. I’d rather stand. My wife just bought me these jeans.”

  “Get out!” I said, dropping back down to the floor.

  “What’s the matter, are you totally wasted?”

  “Leave me alone, I’m telling you. Can’t you see I feel rotten?”

  “Yeah. Been at it long?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of weeks. What day is it? Why did you come in the middle of the night anyway? It is night now, right?”

  “You’re amazing, Commander! It’s nine o’clock in the evening. I’ve been trying to reach you for two days, by the way. What’s with your phone?”

  He leaned over the jack and picked up the disconnected line.

  “I see. Fed up with the outside world?”

  “Get out.”

  “Yesterday I called your neighbor, Svetlana.”

  “Olga.”

  “Like I care. She said you were on a binge. She knocked at your door. She says there’s no point.”

  “I didn’t hear her.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I nearly banged my fists off myself. So, let us arise and get you cleaned up. I’m spending the night with you, and tomorrow we’ll pick up Pashka and go to Moscow. His car’s not running, and he won’t ride in the same SUV with me without you. You know about that whole mess.”

  I could barely raise my head.

  “Why the fuck should we go to Moscow? Have you two decided to make up or something?”

  He stared at me and for a few seconds said nothing.

  “You really are something! Don’t you know anything at all? Didn’t Pashka call you? W
hen did you disconnect the phone? You mean he didn’t call you?”

  I rose partway and sat up on the floor in front of him. My head was ringing like the bells at Easter.

  “Someone called but I didn’t talk. My head hurt too bad.”

  “You’re something. Seryoga’s gone missing, and you don’t know a damn thing. Tomorrow we’re going out looking for him. Got any vodka left?”

  This wasn’t the first time Seryoga’d gone missing. After demob nothing ever panned out for him really. Not like for Pashka or me. To say nothing of Genka. In the beginning we tried to help. We found him a job. Then another. Then Genka said he was done meeting with those people. Like, they’d trusted him, and he’d stuck them with Seryoga. But he wanted to make deals with them for big bucks. Which is why we just started giving Seryoga money. First me, then Pashka. Genka would give him money, too. But it was pointless. You could give Seryoga a hundred rubles or two hundred bucks, and it would all vanish at one go. Nothing ever panned out for him.

  At first the guys around him seemed OK. Sit around, have a drink—How ya doin’? Later, though, these homeless guys started showing up. Because he had an apartment. And he lived alone. At first his aunt put up a fight, but before long she bought a house in Kaluga Province and told him, I’m sorry, I’m getting old and I don’t need this kind of headache. And he just couldn’t get in a job groove. First it was one thing, then another. Either his boss was an asshole or it was a crappy job. Something always went wrong. The last time Pashka and I dragged him out of a real hole. He was sleeping at Domodedovo Airport. In a room full of tombstones.

  So this was nothing new. But Genka said that Seryoga’s aunt was beside herself. She’d called him a few times and cried the whole time. Someone she knew had gone to Moscow and told her that these other people were living in Seryoga’s apartment. They didn’t want to talk about him and wouldn’t open the door.

  “Basically, she won’t let go of the idea that Seryoga’s been killed. She’s losing her mind in her old age. These old farts are always imagining fuck-all. That garden’s driven the old lady batty. She’s probably growing marijuana to sell.”

  “Maybe we should go see her first,” I said. “When did she last see him?”

  “Enough already! Cut it out! Tomorrow we’re going to Moscow. I said, where do you keep the vodka? There’s zilch left in the fridge.”

  We got to Fryazino a little before eleven. The weather was lousy so we drove slowly. First rain, then snow. A few times we just plain had to stop.

  At Pashka’s house Genka handed me his phone.

  “Tell him to move his buns.”

  Five minutes later Pashka climbed in the back without a word, slapped me on the shoulder, and started staring out the window. As if he’d never seen his own yard before. Never in his life.

  “How’s the family?” I turned to face him across the seat.

  He shrugged in reply.

  This money business had created a lot of tension for them. He and Genka had actually decided to split up the business. They’d stopped seeing each other altogether and started drinking vodka with different people. Although, how could they get away from each other in Fryazino? All the people were the same people. So they had to check ahead of time, to make sure they didn’t meet somewhere by accident. Who knew how that might end? Pashka didn’t like to talk, but he could drink an awful lot of vodka at one go. Two bottles. Three, even, if he was in the mood.

  From what I could tell from their drunken stories, things had gone to hell over fifty thou. A lot of money, sure, but was it worth that? They’d come to see me later, rocking on the footstool and repeating over and over, You know perfectly well I couldn’t abandon him. You know that, don’t you? Say it.

  I needed these conversations like a hole in the head. Because neither one of them could calm down. They’d come see me and drink my vodka. But the real joke was that I really didn’t know which one of them had taken the loot.

  Originally they’d been going to buy themselves a couple of houses somewhere abroad. Because the money was rolling in, raining down on them, like no one had ever expected. This one business had turned out that well. But later they found out that fifty thou isn’t enough for two houses, just for one. So they decided to put it off: you know, we’ll think of something later. But when “later” came the money wasn’t there. And each of them was saying he wasn’t the one who took it. Pashka’s wife went to Genka’s house to talk about something. Genka didn’t want to discuss the encounter with me, and when Pashka was drunk, he just ground his teeth. Another idiotic habit.

  In short, the story was shit. The same old fucking shit.

  That’s why Pashka was looking out the window at his hometown of Fryazino. With deep and abiding interest. And Genka was driving the SUV as if he were taking his driver’s test. And I was next to him like some driving instructor. Except that I can’t even drive a car. And I didn’t really find the Fryazino out my window particularly thrilling.

  “What’s this you have?” I said, picking up a small blue-bound book off the floor.

  “Some bozo gave it to me,” said Genka. “Some American missionary. He was ordering some furniture from us for his chapel.”

  At the word us he tore his eyes away from the road for the first time since Pashka’d gotten into the SUV and looked back. Maybe not exactly looked, but shifted in that direction.

  I opened the book in the middle and read the first thing my eyes came across: “Then entered Satan into Judas surnamed Iscariot, being of the number of the twelve.”

  “Toss it in there.” Genka reached across and opened the glove compartment. “I have to give it to my wife. She’s into that drivel lately.”

  “Just a sec,” I said. “Let me take another look.”

  Once when I was a kid my father told me, Don’t read too much. You’ll ruin your eyes. But I never did read too much. And I didn’t read too little either. I’d just happened to pick up the book he’d seen me with then. It was Mama’s book on how to crochet. Hooks and loops and whatnot. I don’t know why I even opened it. Boredom, probably. And right then my father comes up. And he says, Don’t read too much.

  It was the same story with the bicycle. And with teaching me to score a goal. As if there were no such thing. No bike, no ball, no knee. No me, either. But there were the neighbor kids. At least each of them had a father holding onto his bike. Standing behind and holding onto the rack. Then they’d ask me if I wanted them to hold me. But I always said they didn’t have to. Because it’s better like that, when you’re all on your own. You come home and rub your bruises with a soup spoon. And your father rustles his newspaper, looks at you, and says to be sure to wash it afterward.

  That’s why when no one opened the door at Seryoga’s apartment and Genka said that evidently we were going to have to go see my father, I just stood there in that dirty entryway next to the green wall dumbfounded, looking at him, at a loss for words.

  “Well, what are you staring at?” he said. “Why don’t you say something? You were the one who said when you were drunk that he works at Moscow City Hall. Let’s go see him and have a chat. He can find out there about the apartment sale. Who bought it and when. There ought to be some office there, too, about those homeless guys. Registration…you know, what to do and where to go. Let’s go. Time fucking waits for no man.”

  “I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

  “So what? Now you will. Cut the pity party! Without him, no one’s going to give us any information about Seryoga’s apartment. And without that information we might as well butt out altogether. We have to find out who’s living there. And how they fucking got there. Come on, out with the address.”

  I looked at Pashka, but he had just that moment turned away.

  “Who do you want?” the young woman said as she opened the door.

  She was frightened. You could hear it in her voice. We were standing in front of her like three wise guys. I tried to hide behind Genka a little. Just because of my face.
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  “Oh, it’s you, Kostya!” said my father, who loomed up in the hallway behind her. “Come on in, boys. Everyone come in.”

  I took a step from behind Genka’s back, and my father embraced me in his strong arms.

  “Here you’ve come at last. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

  The vodka he had was expensive. With import labels and an attractive bottle. But there wasn’t much. Only enough for fifteen minutes.

  “Marina, go buy us a little more vodka,” my father said. “Or else pretty soon everyone here’s going to die of thirst.”

  “You’ve got a meeting tomorrow,” she said, trying not to look in my direction.

  “I remember. Go out and buy some, precious. My son and I need to drink some vodka finally. What took you so long to come? Eh, Kostya?”

  “I had things to do,” I said.

  “I’ve been wanting to show you your brother and sister. Do you know about them? Of course, they’re in school right now. Natashka’s in fifth and Slavka’s started first. Both on the second shift. You know, they’re so funny.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Oh, you have no idea. Tell me, how are you doing?”

  He looked me in the face, which wasn’t easy for him to do, I could tell.

  “You can see for yourself.”

  “Enough of that! You never know what life will bring. The main thing is you’re alive.”

  He paused and twirled his empty glass in his hands.

  “But in general, how are you doing? Has it been hard?”

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  “I realize that. But how did it happen?”

  “They chucked a bumblebee into our APC.”

  “And these boys were with you?” He looked at Genka and Pashka.

  “They were taken out before. Seryoga thought I was dead.”

  My father paused again; then he sighed deeply and tore his eyes from his empty glass.

  “As for your Seryoga, to be honest, I don’t know how I can help you. I’m in a completely different department. I do patriotic education.”