Voroshilovgrad by Serhiy Zhadan Read Free Book Online

gave us the time of day. He got a year, and did his time somewhere in the Donbass, where he hooked up with some Mormons. They gave him a bunch of pamphlets, as well as some cologne and cigarettes, at his request. After a year in the can he returned home a hero. Shortly thereafter, the Mormons came around looking to save his soul. They were three young missionaries wearing cheap yet sharp suits. Kocha let them in, listened to their spiel, took a shotgun from underneath the cushions on his sofa, and herded them into his bathroom. He kept them in there for two days. On the third day he rather imprudently decided to wash up regardless, opened up the bathroom doors, and let the Mormons break free. After running over to the police station they tried filing a report; however, the cops quite rationally decided it would be easier to lock up the Mormons for an identity check instead. Over the next few years, Kocha tried, unsuccessfully, to get his act together. He got divorced three times. Moreover, it was the same woman every time. Clearly, his love life was a mess, and Kocha’s youthful energy was slipping away from him. It finally slipped away completely in the late ’90s, when he wound up in the hospital with part of his finger bitten off and his stomach punctured. His wife had done the biting, during an argument, but Kocha flatly refused to say who was responsible for his stomach. Around that same time, my brother started helping him out by giving him some odd jobs, a little money, and whatever else he needed. He and Kocha went way back, apparently; my brother hinted at this a few times, although he never wanted to get into it.He just said you could trust Kocha—he’d be there if you got into a jam. Some Gypsies forced Kocha out of his apartment a few years ago, so he moved up here, to the gas station. He lived in the trailer, led a calm, serene existence, spent most of his time reminiscing, and wasn’t even thinking about getting his apartment back. He was a mess—his balding head had a soft pink tint to it, and his glasses made him look like some insane chemist who’d just discovered the formula for an alternative, environmentally-friendly form of cocaine and decided to test it out on himself, with some very promising results. He wore orange work overalls and old, beat-up army boots; most of his clothing came from military surplus shops, in fact; he even had foreign socks labeled R and L so you couldn’t confuse the right and the left. His wrists were wrapped in handkerchiefs and bloody bandages and his face and hands were always scratched and cut up. His hands were generally so red he looked as though he’d been eating pizza with them.

    Well, now he was sitting out in the sun, answering my questions rather unconvincingly.
    â€œFine,” I said, “if you don’t want to talk, don’t. So who kept the books?”
    â€œBooks?” Kocha answered, opening his eyes. “What do you need books for?”
    â€œI want to figure out how much dough you took in.”
    â€œUh-huh. Herman, we got money out the fuckin’ wazoo,” Kocha said, starting to laugh anxiously, then adding, “You’ll haveto talk with Olga. Your brother worked with her. She’s got her office in town.”
    â€œWho is she? His squeeze, or something?”
    â€œSqueeze?” Kocha asked, rather huffily. “I just told you—they worked together, that’s all.”
    â€œWhere’s her office?”
    â€œYou mean you’re going to go there right now?”
    â€œWell, I’m not gonna sit around here with you all day.”
    â€œBuddy, it’s Sunday. She’s got the day off.”
    â€œWhat about tomorrow?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œDoes she work tomorrow?”
    â€œI don’t know, maybe.”
    â€œAll right, Kocha. You handle the customers,” I said, surveying the empty highway. “I’m going to get some