by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
“Who are you?” The first guy speaks at the back of Peter’s head. Pasha’s scared eyes consider his combat boots with last year’s grass stuck to their worn toecaps, beat-up kneepads, heavy side pockets stuffed with something sharp and metallic, an AKM he’s holding like an infant that can’t seem to fall asleep, assault vest holding several extra magazines, clumps of colored tape on his sleeves, and, most important, a knife jutting out of a special pocket near his heart—it has a black handle with deep grooves. Pasha unconsciously starts counting those grooves, but then the soldier repeats, “Who are you?”
The second and third guys come over, cutting off any possible escape routes. “Escape routes?” Pasha says to himself in his head, desperation rising. “Think again!” The fourth man peers out from behind the first guy’s shoulder, his gaze full of such suspicion that Pasha tips his glasses up onto his forehead, like he’s rubbing the lenses clean, just because he doesn’t want to see any of this. Peter turns toward the voice and flashes a carefree smile.
“I’m a journalist,” he says, stuffing his hand into a deep pocket—apparently reaching for his press pass—and all four of them instantly tense up. But then Peter takes out his hand and proffers the necessary papers. “Everything’s fine.” He’s trying to speak in a light, simple manner. “I’m a journalist. Here’s my pass.”
“Hans,” the soldier says, “check this.” Hans takes the pass and runs his fingers over the paper, line by line—frosty red fingers with black earth under the nails. Peter smiles and extends his hand. Come on, give it back already. We’re in the middle of a real interesting conversation here. And Hans hesitates, goes to hand the pass back, but then stops short and looks at it one more time.
“When did you cross the border?” he asks unexpectedly.
“A month ago,” Peter says after a pause.
“Uh-huh.” Hans doesn’t really believe him. “I’ve had my eye on you since fall.”
“That’s rich,” Peter says defiantly.
“I have,” Hans says, his tone just as defiant, and hands Peter’s pass to the first guy, who looks at Peter without saying a word.
“Listen guys,” Peter says, rising from his chair. All four of them tense up once again. “I was here in the fall, too. Here’s my passport. Take a look at my stamps.”
He produces his passport and thrusts it at the first guy, who passes it along in silence, his eyes fixed on Peter. He tries to calm himself down and puts his hand in his pocket, which causes everyone to tense up yet again, but he just takes out his cigarettes.
“Want one?” he asks, his eyes darting from one guy to the next.
But none of them says anything. Hans leafs through the passport, hands it to the first guy, leans in, and whispers something in his ear. The first guy nods and gives Peter his papers back.
“So what’s the problem?” Peter asks, affecting a relaxed tone.
The first soldier doesn’t say anything for a while, looking at Peter the whole time, until the latter breaks down and looks away.
“The problem is that somebody’s been snitching,” he says. “I mean, somebody’s leaking intelligence information. And it looks like it’s one of the civilians.”
“What makes you think that?” Peter asks, still smiling.
“Because we know everybody else,” the soldier answers. “Somebody’s been snitching. Do you know who?” he suddenly asks Peter.
Then all four of them encircle Peter, who turns white as a sheet.
“No, I don’t.”
“You sure?” the soldier asks.
“I’m sure,” Peter answers without hesitating.
“All righty then. You’re free to go,” he says to Peter and turns toward Pasha abruptly. “Now you.”
Pasha lowers his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, visibly flustered, digs around in his pockets, locates his papers, and hands them over, but he can tell that’s not enough. He has to give them some assurances that everything’s fine and he’s not going to cause them any trouble.
“I’m with him,” he says feverishly, turning in Peter’s direction—but Peter’s gone, disappeared, vanished into thin air, leaving the unopened pack of strong cigarettes on the table.
Pasha’s sitting in a cold, spacious room with a computer and a black safe in it—the accounting department, apparently. He didn’t get a good look at the little sign by the door. Hans had led him up the stairs and pushed him into the damp darkness of the hallway softly yet persistently, so he wouldn’t even think about resisting. Thing is, he wouldn’t have anyway—he groped his way down the dark hallway, reacted to a command issued behind him, stopped. Hans walked over to the door and tried the handle; it creaked in his hand. Busted. The door wouldn’t budge. Then he rammed his shoulder against it and crashed right into an empty room. He took another step inside, examined the locked safe skeptically, left it alone.
“Sit here,” he yelled in Pasha’s general direction. “And wait.”
“Until when?” Pasha asked, just in case.
“Until we check your documents,” Hans replied abruptly.
Pasha walked across the room, sat down on one of the three chairs by the wall, thought for a second, and then slid over. Hans watched, not saying anything.
“Stay here,” he said eventually. “Don’t even think about escaping.”
“Okay,” Pasha acquiesced instantly.
Hans left, carefully closing the broken door behind him.
Pasha’s sitting and waiting. It’s chilly in that room, the plastic sheet over the window isn’t keeping the wind and moisture out. “How’d I let myself get caught like that?” he thinks. Before this, he’d kind of just gotten by. He’d occasionally cross paths with soldiers, purely by accident—at the store, on the street, at the station. Whenever they started asking questions, he’d say he was a teacher. That generally worked, regardless of who the soldiers were fighting for. During times of war, people leave priests and teachers alone. They really shouldn’t, though. Pasha thought back to the first time armed men had spoken to him—it was back then, last spring, right after it’d all started, right after they’d come to the city, started taking over police stations and tearing flags off public buildings. Most of the locals didn’t know what to make of them, what to expect of them. Pasha didn’t know either, and he didn’t care to. He was walking home from school—he’d decided to cut through the park—just minding his own business, plodding down a sunny May path. The academic year was coming to a close, summer was just around the corner, and he wanted to lock himself in his room and not come out again until the first autumn bell rang. And then two guys with assault rifles blocked his path. Well, actually, Pasha, oblivious and nearsighted, ran into them. The guns in their hands made them feel obliged to react somehow, so they stopped him, quite delicately, no tough-guy stuff. Pasha remembered that some of them, especially the ones who weren’t local, the guys who’d come in from out of town, behaved like that—markedly cordial, constantly smiling at the civilian population. Giving children candy, giving up their seats on the bus for elderly people, courteously waiting like everyone else, no line-cutting: we’re here for your benefit, we’re just like you, we’ll protect you so you can keep teaching your kids. You want everyone to like you, especially when you’re holding a weapon and you don’t know who you’ll have to use it on. Those two guys adopted a markedly cordial tone, like they were talking to an old friend. What’s the big rush? Watch where you’re going next time, all right? One of them, with a soft, round face, started chuckling, his laugh childish and carefree. It seemed as though the other guy wanted to laugh, too, but nothing came of it—crooked lips, evasive eyes. Pasha immediately latched on to those eyes, the eyes of a fisherman who could wait because he knew what awaited him. And that nose—knocked into his face, squished between his cheeks, like he was an old syphilitic, the nose of a boxer. Round Mug was already patting Pasha on the back, jovially poking fun at his glasses. Pasha didn’t like that; he distinctly remembered that—it was so stilted and artifi
cial, as though this was all some kind of performance. They looked unnatural, like actors who’d left the theater to make a cigarette run: their fresh camo had a faint warehouse smell to it, pirate bandanas, the ones beachgoers in Crimea wear, sunglasses. Old AKMs they’d apparently taken from the local cops and brand-new white sneakers they’d probably just bought—maybe just for this country, just for this war—the dust from the street hadn’t burrowed into those sneakers and the grass hadn’t stained them; they were brand new, solemn, completely clashing with the guns and camo. Pasha stood there and looked at their sneakers, not knowing what to say. They kept laughing, and then No Nose casually asked: “So, uh, what do you do?” He kept smiling crookedly—I’m just asking, you don’t have to answer, but, of course, you probably should.
“I’m a teacher.” Pasha swallowed hard. “Just as long as they don’t ask what subject,” he thought.
“What do you teach?” No Nose seemingly heard his fears.
“Little bit of everythin’,” Pasha answered.
He stood in front of them, gaze downcast, so they thought he was afraid. Their tone grew less cordial, more condescending, like they were talking to a wimp who was afraid to make eye contact. Actually, Pasha was just examining their new sneakers.
“Some fuckin’ education you got around here,” No Nose said, and they started laughing again.
Pasha nodded as a goodbye of sorts, stepped around them wordlessly, and began walking away nice and quiet, nice and slow. “Just as long as they don’t yell anything at me,” he thought. “Just as long as they don’t yell any insults.” He kept walking, holding his breath so they wouldn’t hear his heart pounding. “Why didn’t I say anything to them?” he asked himself later. “Why?” He walked ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred yards. Behind him, the laughter ended abruptly. Pasha turned on to a path to his left. It was all over.
Pasha takes out his phone and checks the time. Twelve o’clock. He’s been sitting here for about an hour, but nobody’s come for him, nobody’s let him out. “I’ll wait a little longer,” Pasha tells himself. He waits and then waits some more, and the longer he waits, the colder it gets, since the plastic sheet is doing nothing to keep the place warm. Waves of brisk air burst inside. At first, Pasha tries to ignore the cold, then he starts to feel sorry for himself—just had to leave the house today of all days—then he gets angry at the soldiers for holding him here in a cold room, even though they have no right to do so. The colder he gets, the more justified his indignation seems.
“What the hell?” Pasha says to himself. “What do they want from me? I’m gonna go give ’em a piece of my mind.” He stands up resolutely, walks over to the door, and pulls on it just as resolutely. But the door gives a menacing squeak and his resolve flutters away instantly. He stands there, still holding on to the handle, and apprehensively listens to the silent hallway, listens hard but can’t make anything out. Now he’s afraid to go out into the hallway—might see someone out there. He’s afraid to shut the door, too. What if it squeaks again? What if someone emerges from the damp gloom and heads toward him? He stands there, not knowing what he should be most afraid of. But just standing there is scary, too, so Pasha timidly sticks his head out into the hallway. It’s empty.
“I’ll come right back,” he says to himself. “Lemme find someone, tell ’em I’m still here, and then I’ll definitely come back.” He leaves the door open and advances blindly down the dark hallway, tries one door, then the next, then another, and eventually the fourth one’s unlocked. Pasha pushes it and finds himself in a motel room. After the dark hallway, the diffuse, glimmering light coming through another plastic sheet on the window instantly blinds him. Feeling like he’s underwater, Pasha examines an unmade bed and a table cluttered with empty champagne bottles, the local brand. Television in the corner. The news is on, and for Pasha it feels like he’s seen the news in real life outside, just a few miles from here. He stares blankly at the moving picture, only noticing the clothes scattered across the bed a little later. Black skirt, dark stockings, and weightless lingerie. And a blouse. And a vest. There’s a badge on the vest, and the word “WAITER” has been printed on the badge. “ANNA” has been added in blue marker. “I guess Anna’s in the shower,” Pasha deduces, hearing water hitting the plastic doors of a walk-in shower, crashing against a woman’s warm body, flowing down her long legs, and vanishing down the drain. Anna will have a fit if she catches Pasha in here. “They might even shoot me,” Pasha thinks. “Gotta get outta here.” But he looks at the lingerie on the bed and realizes that it might still be holding some warmth from her body, that it’d be nice to wait for her to come back, hand her her clothes, wait for her to get dressed. He’d like to meet her.
“Well, her name’s Anna. Anna,” Pasha thinks. “What more is there to know? I should find her after all this is over. Find her and talk to her about everything. Will she want to talk to me?” Pasha asks himself incredulously, listening to the water flowing off her. He turns around and unexpectedly sees his face in the mirror on the wall across from him. Fair hair that hasn’t been cut for a while, glasses with thin, inexpensive rims, bags under his eyes, two-day stubble that makes him look more slovenly than rugged. Birthmark on his right temple, scar on his neck—got it as a kid. He fixes his glasses and looks at his fingers. Yeah, and that hand he hates. He finds himself thinking that he doesn’t like the way he looks. And he finds himself thinking that he wants to like himself. He goes out into the hallway and quietly shuts the door.
There are more people downstairs. Or maybe they’re just yelling even louder. Pasha slides between their backs and sneaks toward the door, trying not to call any attention to himself. A large group is sitting in the corner, hovering over the table, whispering about something, occasionally kicking back in their chairs and laughing anxiously. One of them turns halfway around and surveys the room languidly yet very attentively, and his gaze snags on Pasha. Hans—Pasha recognizes him and freezes, too terrified to move a muscle. One of his sharp eyes narrows for a brief moment when his gaze bumps into Pasha; a wrinkle under that eye of his twitches almost imperceptibly, just for a split second. Then his gaze keeps moving; he turns around and slaps the guy next to him on the back. Then that guy turns his head, locks his eyes on Pasha, and gets up slowly. Pasha stands completely still, too afraid to fix his glasses even. The soldier lazily walks toward Pasha, making little effort to sidestep the tables and people in his way, and gives him a sharp look, not saying anything. Then he takes Pasha’s papers out of his pocket and sticks them in his crippled hand. He turns around and lazily walks back. It takes Pasha some time to collect himself; then he quickly heads to the next room over; he wants to go around the bar, but an incredibly young rifleman tugs on his sleeve. Helmet dangling from his hand, swaying like a cooking pot, high taped-up boots—looks like he pulled them off someone’s feet and just cut the laces, so he had to tighten them up with whatever he had. The tape squeaks with his every movement. The rifleman, who’s not even looking at Pasha, tugs him over to the bar. One sec, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Pasha stands behind him and watches. The rifleman flashes the woman behind the counter what looks like a V sign, but actually it’s just him ordering two more. While the woman’s pouring their drinks, he roots around in his pockets, takes out a handful of small bills, scrutinizes them discontentedly, reaches into his pockets again without letting go of Pasha’s arm, and then suddenly produces a hand grenade. The woman freezes; the rifleman places the grenade on the counter and keeps rummaging through his pockets as the grenade starts rolling down the counter, rolling and rolling, very slowly. The woman can’t take her eyes off it, the cup runs over, and the other people standing around also notice the grenade, but they can’t get anything out. All they can do is watch it roll slowly, very slowly, toward the edge, pause, roll over the edge, and plunge to the floor.
“Get down!” Somebody shouts in Pasha’s ear and charges through the crowd.
The woman shrieks, too. Pasha tears away from the riflema
n and dashes toward the door, to the light. There’s hardly any light left at this hour and what light remains is chilly and damp.
“Where we headed?” the taxi driver asks him.
“Home,” Pasha answers.
“You military?”
“Nah, I’m a civilian.”
“Gotcha.” The taxi driver pulls out discontentedly, yanking the wheel like he’s wringing out a wet sheet.
He doesn’t say anything for a bit, but then he breaks down and starts talking. He’s pissed off and anxious. Well, if you disregard all his anxiety and anger, you can glean that he’s talking about how there aren’t any decent roads around here. They fucked the roads up, really fucked the shit out of ’em, and now there aren’t any left, not that there were any to begin with. He’s more and more anxious. And it’s unclear what bothers him the most—that there never were any roads to begin with, that they’re gone, or that there probably won’t ever be any. So he’s getting all pissed off and anxious. Well, soldiers and roads, and they fucked the shit out of everything. My brother’s hunkering down in some basement in the city with his family, he doesn’t wanna crawl outta there.
“I keep telling him,” he says to Pasha. “‘Get outta there, I’ll take you to the other side. At least there’s work here, nobody knows who’s gonna be running things over there. The new government might shoot ya.’ But he’s still hunkering down, too scared to leave his house. I mean, who the hell cares about that house of his? The roads, man, they just fucked the shit out of them—”
“What was that about getting to the other side?” Pasha interrupts him.
“Huh?”
“Your brother, can you take your brother to the other side? Everything’s blocked off.”
The taxi driver explodes. And he launches into angry arguments, his basic point being—all his rambling aside—that there are one hundred and twenty-five ways to get in and get out. You can even take freight trains out of there, which a lot of people have been doing. And he’s already made two trips today, skirting all the checkpoints and putting one over on all those sucker generals. And what they show on TV is all wrong, and he doesn’t watch TV at all because there’s nothing worth watching anyway.