by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
“What do we have here?” she asks discontentedly, primarily addressing her husband, as if he just invited them in off the street to have a nice chat. “Well?”
“Where can we hang our clothes?” Pasha interrupts her.
He walks over, his eyes red behind fogged-up glasses. The woman gives in, averts her eyes, and then looks at the kid, but he has red eyes, too, from the rain and sleeplessness.
“What are you sitting around for?” she yells at her husband. “Huh?”
The owner anxiously springs up and grabs Pasha’s coat out of his hands. Let’s go, the stove’s over there. They walk into the next room. Bed, chair, torn photo wallpaper. Lit stove, dry firewood on the floor. They hang up their clothes; Pasha moves two pairs of shoes, his and the kid’s, closer to the fire. They come back. The kid’s already sleeping on the bed. The owner walks over, gently covers him with the coat. He comes back and sits down at the table, closer to his ax.
“What’s going on in the village?” Pasha asks severely.
The owner looks at him, waits, doesn’t answer. There’s no apparent reason for him to be afraid of this teacher, but something still compels him to exercise caution. “There’s something off about this teacher,” the owner thinks.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t left the house in three days. There was some shelling over there.”
“Is public transportation running?”
“Is public transportation running?!” he repeats, aggrieved. “Did you hear what I just said? There was shelling.”
“Well, how can we get to the Station?”
“How am I supposed to know?” the owner answers wearily.
He sits there. His eyes wander, his fingers drum on the table. Pasha’s bearing down on him, not stepping back.
“So what are we gonna do?” he asks.
The owner strokes his ax, contemplates, deliberates, and runs his hand through his thinning hair.
“What’s going on over there, at the Station?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine,” Pasha replies, growing a bit anxious. “If he tries to kick us out,” he thinks, looking at the owner. “I’ll knock him out. With his own ax.” “Everything’s under control. The situation is stable.”
Hearing that, the owner warily lowers his eyes. “Something’s up,” he thinks with a tinge of doubt. “This teacher, he’s hiding something.”
“Well, all right then,” he says, eventually. “Are you gonna tell me what side you’re on, at least?” he asks hopefully.
Pasha walks over to the table, rests his fists on it, and looks the owner right in the eye, his gaze persistent and draining.
“Well, what do you think?” he answers.
The man thinks, hanging his head. It looks like he’s thinking with the bags under his eyes.
“I see,” he says eventually. What do you see? What the fuck do you see? Pasha only says that to himself.
“Okay,” he says to the owner.
“So,” the man says anxiously, “why don’t I give you a ride out of the village? If the checkpoint’s gone.”
“And?” Pasha’s bargaining with him.
“I’ll try to slip out to the main road. I’ll drop you off there. Then you’ll call a taxi and head home. Don’t have to pay me anything.”
“Why’s that?” Pasha asks severely.
“Listen.” The man’s growing even more anxious. “I’m not asking you any questions. Just let me give you a ride, all right? Maybe you’ll bail me out one day.”
Pasha doesn’t reply. He looks at the owner like he’s a piece of spoiled meat.
“I’ll bail you out,” he says harshly. “I’ll give you a medal.”
The owner gives him an aggrieved look. The bags under his eyes twitch. But he restrains himself, doesn’t say anything.
“Let the kid sleep,” he says, standing up. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
He gets up, turns off the lamp, leaves. Pasha stands there in the dark for a bit. He looks at the kid, at his face, as tranquil as a dead person’s, at his jacket, which he’s sleeping in—didn’t bother taking it off. At one point, it seems as though the kid has stopped breathing. Pasha breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of that. The kid’s saying something, though, incoherently, in his sleep, so Pasha calms down. Everything’s fine, he’s still alive. He gropes for a chair, sits down, rests his head in his hands, and sinks into a deep sleep. In his sleep, all he sees is snow that he has to wade through. He steps through this snow, sinks into it, pulls his leg out, sinks into it again, takes one step after another, struggling, like he’s walking through a river. He wades through the snow, continuing to do what he’s been doing all day, just in his sleep, though—trying to escape, trying to get somewhere, feeling that spring inside him compressing, feeling it compel him to take step after step. Feeling someone’s breath—heavy, animal—at his back. He turns around. He doesn’t see anyone, though. Just white snow stretching to the horizon. He occasionally wakes up, sees the damp moonlight through the window, hears raindrops pattering against the glass, catches the sweet smell of gas, and sinks into his snow again, wades through it again, shivers in it, gets lost in it, tries to escape death. But how are you supposed to do that in this snow? You won’t escape, don’t even try. The snow makes you helpless, vulnerable. You sink into it. It burns you down to the bone, and then you’ll never cast off the touch of death, you’ll feel it for as long as you live. But how long will you live, huh?
It hadn’t snowed for a while that winter. All December, cold dry air was coming up from the south, from the sea, chilling the trees and rivers. Then, sometime around the holidays, before New Year’s, it snowed. And it snowed for a few days straight, without letting up. On New Year’s Eve, they—still the whole family—sat in the main room, endlessly flipping through the channels, seemingly expecting to receive some good news. How old was he then? Fifteen, going on sixteen. His sister went to bed. She couldn’t take it anymore. His parents weren’t saying anything, and it felt like something had been taken from them, they’d been deprived of something, something important had been stolen from their home. And everyone knew that, but for some reason they weren’t saying anything. At some point, Pasha went to bed, too, but he didn’t lie there for long. He stood by the window, looking at the snow that kept falling and falling and listening to his parents switch off the television and begin clearing the table. He listened to his mom rattling the dishes in the kitchen, his dad going outside, grabbing something from the yard, coming back inside, and the brisk breath of the blue nighttime snow flowing through the house, touching your skin. And you instantly feel the entirety of winter, just how much of it there is, how it begins right here, outside the window, between these trees, how it fills up the space around you: their snowy yard, the street lined with sleepy houses with smoke rising out of them into the sky, the road they’ll have to shovel come morning, the footbridge that’s also been coated by nighttime snow, the stores and library, the school, the local businesses, the railroad buildings, the train station, empty at this hour. The route that he could walk with his eyes closed, the route that he got used to as a child, the route he associates with his childhood. Winter is at every intersection, reflected in every dark window, making itself felt on the roofs and hillsides. And everything that he’s used to, that he knows so well, is filled with winter, like a mailman’s bag with newspapers. Have to embrace this winter, live it, have to get used to it, have to learn to derive pleasure from it, feel joy. “I’m gonna start learning right away, tomorrow morning,” he says to himself. “I’m going to work long and hard at it.” Winter shouldn’t scare you, you shouldn’t be afraid of it. It’s like a dog that you let into your home, make a part of your life. Then, for the rest of its life, it’ll be willing to die for you, it’ll recognize your voice and scent, follow you wherever, wait for you, no matter where you go or when you come back. “I’m gonna learn that,” he thinks. “I have so much time ahead of me, it’ll all work out.” And with that, he falls aslee
p.
In the morning, he runs over to the window and doesn’t see anything! Just snow—deep, shiny, its crystals wounding his eyes, blinding him. And he quickly gets dressed and slips outside. Before anyone else gets up, before anyone notices that New Year’s Eve is long gone and a new day filled with light and snow has begun, he runs outside and drowns himself in the snow, jumps in it, tramples through it, wades under the trees, white and laden. He makes his way out to the street, the empty street of the new year—no one’s out, no one’s moving around—walks at random through the fresh, untrodden snow, reaches the school, passes the stores, pops out by the train station. It’s empty here too this morning. Everyone’s asleep. Nobody’s aware that a new year has started, that a new life has started. Nobody’s aware of anything. Nobody’s around. And he trudges across the railroad tracks, plunging into knee-high snow, climbing the embankment, a white expanse now hovering over the tracks, and an entire world opens up before him, one filled to the brim with snow. And he immediately wants to cross it, from beginning to end. And he slides down the embankment, runs through a row of trees, wades through the snow, which is getting deeper and deeper. He descends into the valley, passes some snowbanks that faintly outline the foundation of an unfinished factory, plods into an open field that stretches all the way up to the sky, as far as the eye can see. He’s walking endlessly, losing all sense of time and space, feeling only the snow around him and the sun that’s rising higher and higher in the January sky. When he’s worn himself out, he just falls onto the snow, his face sinking into it, his lips touching it, burning himself. Then he rolls onto his back and looks up at the sky—endlessly high, immaculate. And then he spots a cloud—the first and only one in this immaculate, shining space. “Where’d it come from?” he asks himself, annoyed. He turns his head and sees clouds rolling in from the south, from the sea, covering the horizon. They’ll be here soon, above him, right over his head. He shrugs frostily and feels that lying in the snow isn’t all that cozy: his fingers are frozen, the snow on the lapels of his coat has turned into an icy film. “Time to go back,” he says to himself. “Screw that,” he replies to himself. “Don’t think so,” he adds less firmly. “Just not today. Today, nobody can stop me, no matter what. Today, I’m going to learn to love the world and take it as it is. And have the world learn to love me.”
He gets up and keeps going, through the deep, untouched snow. It’s getting harder and harder to move, though. And his feet in his short winter boots are freezing, aching. “Gotta head back,” he reminds himself somewhat anxiously. “Don’t think so,” he sharply answers himself again. “Well, all right.” He begins bargaining with himself. “Walk to those trees over there, and then turn around. We’ll see,” he says to himself in a dismissive tone. He walks, pulling his legs out of the snow. The trees float forward, slowly, unhurriedly. It’s getting even colder. Eventually, the clouds roll into his valley, blocking out the sun. Suddenly, it’s so gray and gloomy. But he’s already reached the trees; he victoriously stands on the slope, looking at the frozen river below. “The river!” he yells to himself cheerfully. “I made it to the river!” “That’s great,” he answers himself anxiously. “Now head back home. Wait a sec,” he disagrees with himself. “I’ll go down to the river and then turn around.” “Don’t, go home,” he objects. “Whatever,” he says, not listening to himself. “There and back, that’s it.”
He rolls down the slope, reaches the bank dotted with cattails, and runs out to the middle of the river. He victoriously throws his arms up toward the leaden sky as snow starts to fall. “Ye-e-a-h!” he shouts and then crashes through the ice. Under the thick layer of snow, he didn’t even notice that the ice was very thin, especially in the middle of the river. It all happens before he can get scared. It’s a good thing that the river’s so shallow and silty. So he’s up to his waist in icy water. Frightened, helpless. And he instantly realizes that it’ll be dark by the time he gets out of here, by the time he gets home. And he’s wet and frozen. Will he make it through the deep, dark snow? Now that’s a big question. And at this point, he starts to panic.
He plods through the snow for a long, very long, endlessly long time, his hands and feet numb, expending every ounce of energy to keep himself from stopping, to push through another snowdrift, to trudge to the top of another hill. Walk, walk, don’t stop, just don’t stop. He looks back and sees a flat, gray expanse sprawling out, encircling him, robbing him of any chance of escape, and this all-encompassing gray is so eerie that it somehow gives him new strength, and he starts running, running and crying, occasionally looking back, fearfully discerning black dots emerging over behind him on the horizon—one, two, three, four, five—and they’re growing in size, moving in his direction. He still can’t make out what they are, but he clearly, lucidly understands that he has to escape, no matter what, run far away from those dots on the gray backdrop, because that’s his death heading toward him, and he just can’t let it catch him. Don’t let it catch him, break out of this deep, gray mush, get home, try to outwit his own death—that’s all that needs to be done.
Then, through a whole night of feverish heat and chills, feeling his body burning up and his heavy head exploding from exhaustion, he curses everything in this world, curses himself for being so foolhardy, curses himself for being so naive, curses the world for its deception. He curses and realizes that the wintry tinge of mortality, the icy breath of fear and nothingness will accompany him until the day of his death, the death that’s missed its target this time around, yet probably hasn’t waived its rights. No, death hasn’t waived anything, it knows how to wait, and it’ll catch him at this time of year—in the deep snow, under the leaden skies, among the cold rivers. One of these days, it’ll do it, as soon as he lets his guard down and forgets about its presence, its lingering resentment. So he’ll have to go through his whole life with this fear of the snowy unknown, the icy wasteland. But for now, he still has to try and survive. Because the dead aren’t afraid. At all. Of anything. With that, he falls asleep.
“Pasha,” the kid says. “Wake up.”
Pasha springs to his feet. The kid produces some matches, lights the lamp, all business. He’s already got his shoes on. Pasha drowsily rocks his head back and forth, finds his glasses, which slipped off his nose while he was sleeping, and puts them on.
“Where’s the owner?” he asks.
“He went out—” the kid begins.
“He went out?” Pasha interrupts him, springing up. “He’s gonna turn us in,” he thinks in a panic. “That’s gotta be it.”
“He went out to the garage,” the kid says, seemingly hearing his thoughts. “To warm up the car. He’s gonna take us to the bus station. Grab your stuff.”
He steps outside. Pasha goes into the next room, finds his clothes, retrieves his boots. His jacket’s dry, and so are his boots, more or less. He puts them on, laces up, picks up his backpack, leaves the room. He bumps into the lady of the house in the hallway. Frightened, she presses herself against the wall. Pasha cautiously walks past, taking in the smell of hard soap. It’s as if she was eating it. Pasha leaves without saying goodbye.
A blue Zhiguli, Model Three. Rotten fenders held together with playdough. There’s a layer of paint on top, but it still looks like the Zhiguli is made of playdough. The passenger’s seat is gone. Clearly, the owner uses the car to haul vegetables or something, so he just threw one of the seats out. Pasha and the kid hop into the back. The owner has pulled on his rubber boots and put on his peacoat. He isn’t looking at Pasha. He walks on, opens the gate, gets behind the wheel, roots around in his pockets awhile, seemingly trying to delay their departure, but eventually gets going. He pulls out, cautiously enters the street fog. Pasha sits behind him, examining the wrinkles on his neck, the gray, unwashed hairs poking out from underneath his black hat. The kid’s sprawled out beside him, extending his legs all the way up to the driver’s seat. He’s peering with great interest at what’s happening out the window. And out the window, a
bsolutely nothing is happening. The street’s empty, dark, the fog merely accentuating the darkness. The driver isn’t turning on his headlights. He gropes ahead slowly, yet confidently—he apparently knows the way—moving down the street like it’s the hallway in his own home. He even tries to dodge the potholes. They reach an intersection, slow down. The driver warily peers into the fog, practically sniffing it, deliberates for a moment, then turns left. He drives a hundred yards, slows down again, crosses himself.
“What are you doing?” Pasha asks him, surprised.
“There’s a church over there,” the driver explains, nodding at the darkness.
Pasha peers out the window. But he can’t see any churches, obviously. The kid turns toward him and winks cheerfully, seemingly saying, “Well, aren’t you gonna cross yourself?” Pasha smiles in reply. They drive into a field. The fog comes apart like an old boot. The driver steps on the gas.
“They took down the checkpoint,” the driver explains. “It was there, on the edge of town.”
“Whose checkpoint was it anyway?” Pasha asks.
“Well, uh . . . ,” the driver hesitates. “Your guys,’” he finally musters. “They pulled out two days ago.”
“I see,” Pasha replies coldly, seemingly saying, “That’s what they had to do—guess nobody bothered asking you.”
That’s how the driver interprets what he’s said, too. He rides on in silence, his eyes fixed on the black asphalt. The rain’s calming down. It gets very quiet, spacious—everything’s filled with blackness, flooded with it. They actually get to the main road a little later. A bent metal sign protrudes somewhere off to the side. The driver stops, turns off the engine, gets out, walks forward.