Voroshilovgrad by Zhadan Serhiy; Costigan-Humes Reilly; Wheeler Isaac

Author:Zhadan, Serhiy; Costigan-Humes, Reilly; Wheeler, Isaac
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Deep Vellum Publishing
Published: 2016-04-04T16:00:00+00:00

Kocha’s relatives came by the station in the late afternoon. They drove into the parking lot in their beat-up Mercedes. A big piece of cellophane, attached with Scotch tape, covered the rear window. Seven people were jammed into the car. They had sobered up after the funeral but hadn’t changed clothes yet, so they were all still in their black jackets and colorful dress shirts; they had taken off their ties, though I could see them hanging out of their jacket pockets like boa constrictors. Kocha’s relatives were speaking loudly and using a lot of incomprehensible words; they kept calling him gadjo and kept him away from the Mercedes when he eagerly tried hopping inside it. They greeted Injured respectfully, though they were a tad too familiar with him. They shook his hand and kissed him three times, as per the Orthodox tradition. After that they came up to me. Kocha and Injured stood off to the side, giving us our space. They greeted me, one by one—their handshakes were short yet firm.

“Hey Herman,” said Pasha, their leader. “A friend of our mother’s is our friend, too.”

“Huh?”

“You. You buried our mom with us yesterday,” Pasha explained. “Tamara told us about you.”

“Great,” I thought, “now these guys are gonna slice me up.”

“She said you needed some help?” Pasha asked.

“Some help?”

“Herman,” said Borman, Pasha’s right hand man, a fat, bald dude, stepping forward. “We heard about everything.”

“About everything?”

“About everything. About the tanker and all that. We just wanted to say that if you need any help we’ve got your back. All right?”

“Okay.”

“So, don’t let anyone push you around,” Borman continued. “Just give us a call if you need anything. We’ll be there for you if you need us.”

“Now the ball is in your court,” Pasha added. “It all depends on how you act. You see what I mean?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, bro,” Pasha said, extending his hand. “Hang in there.”

The rest of them shook my hand too, exchanged kisses with Injured, kicked Kocha off the hood of their car, started up the motor, and pulled away, heading back down into the city. As they hit the highway, they crossed paths with a black Volkswagen, which had pulled onto the side road and was now flying toward the station.

“Who’s that pulling in?” Injured asked, irritated.

“It’s for me,” I said.

Injured looked at Kocha gloomily and headed over to the garage. Kocha stood next to me, examining the newcomers, clearly intrigued. The Volkswagen rolled over to the gas pumps and stopped. Lyolik and Bolik stepped out of the car, looking around anxiously and stretching their legs after their long trip. They weren’t in a hurry to hug me; they just watched me attentively, waiting for me to say something. Bolik wiped some sweat off his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Lyolik was tense, fiddling with his glasses.

“Hey, I’m glad you guys could make it.”

“Hello, Herman,” said Bolik, a note of concern evident in his voice.

“Hey,” Lyolik said, avoiding my eyes.

“Herman,” Bolik said, “let’s talk.

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