The Mountain and the Wall (15 page)

“
Ai,
I’m going to throw up!” fake-groaned Amina.

Judging from what Shamil saw in the mirror, both of them were actually ecstatic.

“Nariman, back up and wheel around again,” suggested Arsen, bouncing on his seat.

Nariman obediently performed the maneuver, skidding across the pavement.

“Now it’s off to the Padishakh!” shouted Arsen.

“What do you say, Shamil?” asked Nariman.

“To the club? Right, let’s go,” Shamil said, and they sped off.

11

It was a boisterous night in the Padishakh. On a stage in the outdoor seating area a girl with rainbow-dyed, shag-cut hair, wearing a provocative silvery jumpsuit, was performing a suggestive dance.
Spotlights strafed the crowd, catching the dancers’ euphoric faces, their undulating backs and upraised hands.

“It’s Sabina Gadzhieva!” shouted Zaira, gaping and pointing at the stage.

The crowd roared, and a man in dark glasses and a grotesque fur vest, with a red bandanna around his head, leaped onstage and stood next to the performer.

“
Yoi,
Makhachkala, welcome Sabina Gadzhieva!” bellowed the man.

“And Maga-Do-o-o-odo!” added Sabina Gadzhieva, dragging out the sounds.

The techno gave way to a throbbing drumbeat, and the man in the bandanna launched into a rap recitative.

“What an assclown!” smirked Shamil, squinting and casting a contemptuous glance over Maga-Dodo.

But Nariman’s and Arsen’s thoughts were elsewhere. They energetically scanned the lively covered galleries around the open-air bar, looking for a place to sit down with the girls.

“So Shoma, are you going to try your luck with the blonde—Amina?” Nariman inquired, half whispering.

“Nah, do whatever you want, but look…the other one is a little unripe. She’s still in high school or something, near as I can tell.”

“We’re good, Arsen will figure it out. Right, we’re off to find a table.”

They started jostling their way through the crowd, drawing the excited girls after them. Meanwhile, Sabina Gadzhieva gyrated and sang along with the rapper in a hoarse, passionate voice:

                        
Your lips kiss,

                        
Your hands caress.

                        
But your heart is stone,

                        
Don’t leave me alone.

                        
See me dance,

                        
Give me a chance.

                        
Don’t hate, don’t hit,

                        
You Yank or Brit.

                        
Don’t leave me alone.

The people on the dance floor howled along while the man in the bandanna continued his unintelligible rapping. And only then, for some reason, did Shamil recall giving his pistol to Amina before they’d entered the club, and watching her hide it in her cute little clutch. Nariman and Arsen had done the same, on the assumption that the girls wouldn’t be searched. Their calculations were correct; they’d managed to get the weapons through. Now Shamil wanted his gun back. He started squeezing through the crowd after his companions. There weren’t that many girls on the dance floor, but they were pretty. One of them in profile looked like Madina, and he half-intentionally bumped into her with his shoulder. A stocky, hulking guy appeared out of nowhere and gave Shamil the evil eye, but he had already stepped off the dance floor and made his way to the bar.

“
Salam,
let me have one of those cocktails,” Shamil said to the lanky bartender, and again, from a distance now, observed the dancers and Sabina Gadzhieva. The star was grinding against the rapper, all but melting in his arms. Her silvery jumpsuit radiated multicolored sparks in the glow of the spotlights and her thick lips were parted in a broad, sultry smile.

Shamil got his cocktail and started squeezing between the tables in the gallery, jostling others like himself, young men with time on their hands, looking for something. Finally he located Arsen and Zaira, who
had perched at a corner table on the balcony from where they could see the whole dance hall.

“What’s going on?” Arsen asked.

“Nothing, I just wanted to get my piece.”

“Amina left her purse here, I’ll get it for you,” said Zaira, reaching into her friend’s beribboned clutch.

“Leave it where it is, Shamil, they’ll be able to see it under your T-shirt. You can get it back later,” said Arsen.

“No, I’m out of here—I’m not feeling it,” objected Shamil, and clanking his cocktail glass down on the table, he slipped his pistol inconspicuously into its holster.

“Maybe we can go together?” Zaira asked anxiously.

“What are you so nervous about?” Arsen tried to calm her down. “Look at your friend, she’s really feeling it!”

Shamil glanced down at the dance floor and sure enough, there was Amina, undulating under the brilliant spotlights in a cloud of wild yellow curls, the folds of her sarafan billowing around her, much like Nariman, orbiting her in ever-narrowing circles.

Arsen stood up, put his arm around Shamil’s shoulders, and whispered:

“Brother, this chick is being a bad sport—she’s a real grouch.”

“Better leave her alone. She looks underage.”

“Why did she put on such a show, then? Why can’t she just have a normal conversation with me?”

“Can we get some food here? I’m starving.”

“
Le,
go order something; I’m going to drag her downstairs. I promise, I’m not going to leave her like this. There’s no point in her playing naïve.”

Arsen turned to Zaira and started sweet-talking her.

“I don’t want to,” whined Zaira.

“You’re so pretty, how can such a pretty girl not want to dance?” chirped Arsen.

Zaira said nothing and hung her head.

Shamil meanwhile ordered lamb shish kebab and a marinated seafood salad. He let his eyes wander idly over the stage, which was temporarily vacant, and the hall, which had been plunged into semi-darkness. The sound of a saxophone playing a slow tune was drifting in from somewhere. Shamil tried in vain to spot Nariman and Amina. When his food arrived, Arsen and Zaira were also nowhere to be seen.

A heavily perfumed girl paraded past, teetering on spike heels. With some surprise Shamil recognized her as the sister of one of his friends, and felt for his phone so he could share the information. Then he remembered that his phone wasn’t working, and anyway was on the sofa at home where he had tossed it. “Maybe everything’s all right now—no Wall, network’s back up. Maybe it was all just some kind of trick?” he thought.

When his order came, Shamil made short work of the meat and soaked up the last of the gravy with a piece of lavash. He began to feel drowsy. He paid, picked up the purses that the girls had left behind, heavy with the weapons, and headed for the balcony.

The balcony looked out onto the dark nighttime sea, whose usual rumbling was drowned in the loud music. A salty breeze blew from the shore, dispelling the heavy languor that had come over Shamil. He lingered there, leaning on the metal railings and listening to the unintelligible voices of the men smoking outside until Nariman, looking concerned, stepped out onto the balcony and beckoned to him.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, where have you been? Little Miss Prissy, Zaira I mean, Arsen was pressuring her to stay, and she made a scene.”

“Where is she now?”

“She took off somewhere, the little bitch. Ruined my night. I was making real progress with Amina, and then Arsenchik shows up, and he’s like, the chick gave me the slip.”

“I have her purse, how far could she get? All the guys will be hitting on her.”

“Maybe she went to security.”

“What, is she out of her mind?” Shamil was beginning to lose his temper.

They walked along the gallery, peering into people’s faces as they passed. On the dance floor a plump woman in a sparkly bra and a rhinestone-embroidered skirt was undulating her belly to an Arabic song. Crumpled banknotes poked out of her cleavage. Finally they heard Arsen’s voice:

“
Le
! Here she is!”

Arsen was over by the exit, glaring at Zaira who was standing there in stubborn silence, staring down at the floor. Amina stood beside her, alarmed, stroking her arm and trying to get her to talk:

“What happened, tell me? What’s going on?”

“Enough, we’re on our way, we’ll take them home,” announced Shamil, and they left the club.

“Take us home, please—but swear by Allah that you really will!” said Zaira abruptly.

Nariman gave a loud laugh. “Just look at her. Now she wants us to swear.”

“Zaira, they’re just normal guys,” mumbled Amina, “We were just dancing…”

“Shall we go to the beach and smoke some hash?” Nariman proposed quietly to Shamil.

“No, some other time, I’m going to bed.” Shamil turned away.

Nariman shushed him, then muttered, “All right, we’ll drop you off, then we can go get wasted.”

Zaira overheard him. “Take us home first,” she commanded.

“What’s with all the complaining? Just listen to her: ‘bitch, bitch, bitch’!” said Arsen. “Amina, why is your friend such a spoilsport?”

“She just got a little spooked, she’s fine,” simpered Amina. She had calmed down and was getting her second wind.

They sped along the empty streets, braking once to look at a crowd that had gathered and to ask some of the gawkers what was going on. It was just an ordinary fender bender. In spite of the late hour, a lot of men were still loitering around the streets. Amina was finding everything amusing; she looked out the car window as they went, attracting whistles and hoots from the sidewalk, and kept asking Nariman to play some song that only she knew. Zaira pouted and stared grimly at the road.

“I guarantee, I’ve seen her somewhere before,” said Arsen suddenly, casting a hostile look at Zaira.

“Where?” everyone asked.

“Right, like I’d really tell you all that.”

“You’re lying,” blurted Zaira.

Amina laughed. “You’re so funny, Arsen.”

“Where did you see me?” asked, Zaira, increasingly alarmed.

“I’ll tell you guys later.” Arsen nodded to his friends.

Shamil noticed that they had reached his neighborhood, so he asked Nariman to stop. Zaira got very nervous when she saw that he was getting out.

“Don’t worry, they’ll take you home,” Shamil reassured her, though he wasn’t really at all certain.

“Don’t get lost!” shouted Nariman after him.

The Priora roared off and disappeared, beeping a farewell.

The elevator wasn’t working. Shamil went up the stairs to the apartment, exhausted. “I got up too early today,” he told himself. When he got to his room he saw that his mother had already made his bed.

He shed his pants and T-shirt, collapsed on the mattress, and immediately fell asleep.

*
     
Do you speak Avar? (
AVAR
)

†
     
Go have something to eat. (
AVAR
)

PART II

1

In the morning the city came to life. Workers in dusty overalls walked briskly along the pitted streets to their worksites; women’s voices rang out as they darted through the courtyards with their milk jugs; joggers appeared on the streets in gaudy shorts, and old men trotted down toward the sea. Shamil awoke with a hangover. He stumbled around the empty apartment for a while, then, feeling a sudden burst of energy, he grabbed his swim trunks and set off toward the beach. Along the way he glanced into courtyards and observed clusters of children wielding rubber hoses, rinsing the lather out of freshly washed carpets.

He stopped at a booth to buy a hot crusty loaf of bread that had just been delivered from the bakery. The booth was outside a beauty salon. As he paid for the bread, he glanced into the salon window and recognized his neighbor’s daughter Kamilla. She was sitting in one of the salon chairs as the hairdresser worked on her thick hair; she didn’t see Shamil. He went on his way, breaking off and eating pieces of the bread one by one, his unshaven cheeks moving rhythmically as he chewed.