The Museum of Abandoned Secrets (76 page)
Vasylenko banged her; he’s the one who brought her to the company. He’d take her to the bathroom in the middle of a day, too. I remember I grumbled (because I didn’t like it, there’s a proper time and place for everything, damn it) that it must’ve been Lyonchik Kolodub’s Komsomol whoring that infected our office with some airborne virus that compels the corporation’s director to unzip his pants when we need him to be thinking with his other head—not for nothing is it said that spaces retain the karma of their previous owners. There was a reason all the Party’s district committees were always housed in former bordellos.
But soon enough it turned out that Vasylenko’s acquisition could do more than wear skirts that end above her panties and bend over in bathrooms—the Melitopol (or Mariupol, I can never keep it straight) orphan had a well-oiled brain, too, and was already taking accounting (or secretarial) evening classes somewhere and quickly became not just our secretary (three hundred dollars a month plus bonuses), but a true comrade in arms: whenever we, the three of us back then (Vasylenko, Zaitsev, and I) discussed any new projects, Yulichka was unfailingly there to assist and, more often than not, would make a useful suggestion right at the moment when we were about to go for each other’s throats.
As long as Vasylenko was there, she felt very comfortable; even the time I pointed out to her that she had semen in her hair; she just smiled at me winsomely and said, Oh! (And that, by the way, was the only time when I felt the tiniest urge to unzip my own pants and ask her to repeat the procedure with me, purely for sport, because how am I worse than Vasylenko?) I don’t know if she rolled over for Zaitsev, too. Apparently, as far as she was concerned, once my partners departed in search of better hunting grounds—from the very beginning, they were both interested in making money much more so than they cared for antiques; they didn’t care what
they sold—and I remained the sole owner of the business, with her as my secretary (five hundred dollars a month plus bonuses). I was the one who was supposed to take her to the bathroom. And since I didn’t do that, she decided to teach me a lesson.
What do you say to that, Lolly? What do you think about that theory?
I know, you won’t say anything because you’re asleep already—you’ve sunk yourself under the blanket (you have a very cozy way of curling up there, under the covers, and without you, my own bed now feels like a hotel one) and zonked out, as if unplugged. Very still, only making a small noise as you breathe regularly into the pillow—funny, like a bunny rabbit.
Sitting up with you now, while you sleep, with the nightlight on, I catch myself smiling. Like I’ve smoothed out inside a little. “Sleep, one little eye, sleep, the other,” Mom used to say to me when I was little, kissing me before sleep: a fairytale charm. Sleep, my brave girl, you did everything right; you held your ground, and I am really proud of you. But I can’t sleep, despite how tired I am: I’ve wound myself up, and smoked too much—burned through three packs almost—to a wheeze in my chest and my heart pounding just under my Adam’s apple. And tomorrow I have to be rested and fresh as a daisy, and the pressure—to go to sleep, damn it, and right now—only sends my nerves into overdrive. Classic insomnia, the professional ailment of Ukrainian entrepreneurs. Most of my colleagues have given up the fight with alcohol (three fingers of cognac before bed—and you sleep like a baby, Igor assures)—and some have moved on to sedatives, which is no good at all. And the ones who deal in really big money call in even heavier artillery. Things keep going this way, and people at parties will soon be asking each other, who’s your dealer, the way they now ask, who’s your stylist?
So we’ll go visit that cuckoo dude tomorrow, alright. I checked the map—it’s really not that far at all: right after Boryspil, after the exit to Zolotonosha. Zolotonosha, such a nice name—means gold-bearing. Dude was a gold mine indeed. A Klondike of a
dude. The same stretch where Vyacheslav Chornovil crashed—and Vlada. Still no one knows if it was an accident, or if he was murdered—that was also right before the elections, exactly five years ago, and the old camp general, as they called him, was rumored to be thinking of running for president.
That story looked bad, it looked really, really fishy: a KAMAZ truck knocks the car with the future presidential candidate off the road and then vanishes into thin air—that’s textbook Russian. And it was right after that, it seemed, that things went south in general—as if with the death of the camp general, an important spring finally snapped in our society, and we lost, as Lolly puts it, the strength of the material. The journalists didn’t bat an eye at the time. I remember one rookie even made a big boo-boo in the media when he wrote something along the lines of, good timing for the old man to die. If he’d hung on much longer, he’d have risked becoming a caricature, like a retired Don Quixote—which looked bad, like a young high-flyer’s dancing on an old fart’s grave—and not long after that, the rookie himself crashed, only without any KAMAZs involved: he and a buddy of his smashed into a tree when they were driving home drunk from a nightclub. Fate, you could say, really rubbed that one in. Better to refrain from dancing on graves as a general principle.
What was that joke my banker told me? This lady has to walk through a cemetery at night, and sees a man, and asks him to see her to the gates. No problem, he says. Thanks, she says, I’m really scared of dead people. Sheesh, he replies, surprised, why would you be scared of us?
That’s not as silly as it seems. I’ll have to remember to tell Lolly the joke in the morning.
Not scared, no. But we’ve pushed them completely off our radar, the dead—we’ve come to ignore them, plain and simple. And it’s not sitting well with them, looks like. In the old days, people knew how to live with their dead, invited them into family homes for Christmas and so on.... One dreads to think how many have been added to the other side in the last century—the dead
that no one mourned. One can very well imagine they’re about ready to revolt against us. A mass uprising, the Great Revolution of the Deceased. What if they do rise up from the graveyards one sunny day and take to the streets?
One thinks such happy thoughts in the middle of the night, doesn’t one?
We should buy flowers when we go tomorrow, put them on that spot on the highway. I wonder if it’s even marked in any way....
Better go make myself another cup of that chamomile tea. Now I know why old people drink it—they also suffer from insomnia.
Suffer indeed. At this very hour.
The thought puts me on my feet. All this piddly shit you do, waste your life on, only for your own family there’s never enough time...I’ll just go ahead and call, right now. Why not?
I shut the bedroom door behind me (sleep, one little eye, sleep, the other), and do the same with the kitchen door, turning the light above the table way down, so it doesn’t shine into my eyes; I noticed this a long time ago: people speak softer in low light, instinctively keep their voices low. Two closed doors and a hallway between me and my girl—I don’t have to worry about waking her.
Man, I smoked the hell out of this place! Rooms where people smoke a lot and for a long time, especially when warm, smell not of cigarette stubs or smoke, but of decay: not quite of cadaver yet, but of the stage right before that. A unique whiff of rot: it instantly calls up, on its associative heels, the aromas of whoring, wet dog, and alcohol from the night before. Boy, have I smelled too much of that. And how many people have I seen off to the graveyard already?—the ones with whom I hung out in this atmosphere of uncouth smell that no AC can filter out; back when we were all young, this was the smell of our jolly poverty, the air of Soviet dorms and sophomore parties—and later it turned out that our money stank just the same. Vovchyk, whom I met all the way back at the Sinny market, died of a heart attack at thirty-five; Yatskevich OD’d one day; people said Red (I forgot his real name) coded, he always drank like a fish. Kukaliuk even had me over to his
dacha—a brand new two-level, but it also stank just like that, only even more rotten, sweeter, with cigar and weed thrown into the mix. Kukaliuk complained that some politician double-crossed him so that he now owed everyone, like land to a kolkhoz—and next I heard Kukaliuk fell out of a train he’d never taken in his life.
I throw the window open and suck the prickly night air into my nostrils. I may be losing it to insomnia, but for one instant, I clearly catch the moist smell of the animate earth—a sign that it has already awakened, that somewhere in its depths juices are brewing, running, getting ready to shoot up tree trunks...the first sign of spring.
Gosh, it’s quiet out there. Not a single window lit in the whole neighborhood.
I put on the electric kettle. And pick up the phone.
One, two, three beeps...on the fourth one, the receiver comes to life—see, I knew the old man wouldn’t be sleeping!
“Hullo?” He sounds stern, displeased—who’s this loser calling in the middle of the night?
“Hi, Dad.”
I can hear the TV murmuring indistinctly in the background and can picture my father as if he were in front of me—standing in the hallway of our tiny Lviv flat (the phone’s in the hallway, the TV in the living room), in his broken-in felt loafers with the heels folded in, the bookshelves behind his back packed with old magazines he can’t bring himself to throw out, and above his head—heck, I forgot what’s up there—a coat rack?
“Oh, it’s you,” my father says. “Howdy.”
As if I weren’t four hundred miles away but just walked through his door, the way I did when I was fifteen. I took my shoes off in the dark, tiptoed in my socks through the hallway...and froze at the kitchen door. Dad was sitting at the table with the nightlight on, reading—it was obvious he had not gone to bed at all. Howdy, was all he grumbled at me—and went back to his book, a bit embarrassed even: as if each of us had gotten caught in the middle of something he did not want the other to see. (I was in love with a
girl, my first love; I think he’d guessed as much.... ) And now he is also working hard not to show how happy it makes him to hear my voice—he can’t show he is dependent on me in any way at all. Only now, when he is over sixty, and he’s got high blood pressure, diabetes, and podagra, his reticence has a completely different meaning. For the second time tonight, I feel my throat catch.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“You wish,” he protests vigorously. “You know I don’t go to bed so early.”
Early is before three in the morning. He won’t fall asleep until it’s begging on dawn, and might sleep three or four hours. He does not call this insomnia; he still puts on a tough show, loath to admit any old-age ailments, pretending that this is just the schedule he’s set for himself: he is a busy man, works until late, and spends his nights after work assembling the family archive (Lolly’s idea). Plus, he is very engaged with politics, naturally, like all people who are growing old alone.
“I was just watching Channel Five...”
Recently, this channel, propped up by the opposition in the run-up to the election, has become for Dad what Radio Liberty used to be in the Soviet days.
“Have you heard what these goons are up to in Mukachevo?” And in the same breath, he spills into my lap everything he’s just heard on the TV (which meanwhile goes on muttering in the background, the effect of which is a surreal experience of something like simultaneous interpretation), about how in Mukachevo the powers that be are calling a special election, to replace the current mayor with their own puppet. I’m left making sparse grunts to evince my continued attention, not showing that I have heard all this before—and more than once. About the Carpathian forests, cut down by “those goons,” and that the catastrophic floods that wreak havoc on Transcarpathia every year are nothing but a natural consequence of their criminal lumbering, and how the current mayor, who was determined to reel “those goons” in a bit, was prevented from even running in these elections by having his
paperwork stolen, and now the quiet resort town of Mukachevo is suddenly swarming with packs of homicidal-looking men in leather jackets—they’re being brought in by busloads, from who knows where, they stroll around the town like they own it, make trouble in its bars and restaurants, and intimidate the locals, so that folks are too scared to go out after dark anymore; it’s terrorism, pure terrorism, and the indignity makes my dad younger, as if in the course of speaking to me he’s lost about thirty years.
“What do they think they’re doing, bringing back the Stalin days? That’s plain the way the Soviets used to run their elections in ’48! Bring a garrison to every village, herd folks to the ballot box with Kalashnikovs. Some folks still thought it’d work the way it did with the Poles: if we boycott the elections, they won’t be legitimate. That was before they figured how this new power does business.”
The kettle, as if heated with the fire of Dad’s speech, bubbles up indignantly. I can’t help smiling. He doesn’t know this, of course, but Dad is mimicking me—an hour ago I was raising hell just like that in front of Lolly. She’s right when she says that when I grow old I’ll be “a carbon copy of Ambroziy Ivanovych.” Been a while since I last called. I’ve been busy. Been even longer since I last went to Lviv...
“This, Dad, is what they now call electoral technologies.”
I pour boiling water into my mug.
There will come a day when I can no longer just dial a number like this, day or night, and hear my father’s voice. For a moment, this future void gapes before me, as if someone snatched away my blanket while I was sleeping, and left me exposed to the cold. I get up to shut the window, while Dad—alive and well for now, thank God—continues to expose the 1948 vintage of Russian electoral technologies.
“You know what else they did? As your gramps used to tell it, they’d bore a little hole in the booth’s ceiling right above the spot where the chemical pencil lay tied, and let a stream of chalk dust pour from that hole the entire time. When a man came into a booth and bent to lick the pencil to put whatever in the ballot,
that little stream of white dust would land right atop his head. And it’s winter, February, everyone’s wearing hats...stepped into the booths with their hats on, too. The booths are private, as they’re supposed to be—no one can see anything, vote however you please! Cross that one candidate out if you please, or put a clean ballot into the box: It’s a free country! Guaranteed by Comrade Stalin’s constitution. And on the way out, everyone who had white on their hats—the ones who put the pencils to use—got snatched onto a truck that stood ready in the backyard, and went to build Communism in the tundra. That’s the kind of elections we used to have, kid.”