Kolia got all flustered and squirmy, patting me on the back damply and reluctantly, then disappearing down the hallway. She gave me a viciously disappointed look, threw the porcelain under one of the tables, and started berating me. She said that she was so sick of us, the kid and me, that we were a couple of nitwits, that we couldn’t act our age, that she always had to break up our fights, and put up with us. But she wasn’t made of steel, she could only take so much (she started crying, as if to demonstrate); she needed to be alone for a while, and she’d tell us when she wanted to see us again. In other words, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
“John,” she yelled over my shoulder. “Got any smokes?” Shoving me aside, she grabbed our neighbor, who was charging ahead too, and led him away. The diabetic dude followed them. I lost it, but all I could do was head off in the opposite direction. It was a good thing the wedding party was all sprawled out.
“Where is your faith in yourself? Where is your joy, where is everything you’ve searched for in this world full of sun?” I asked myself. While the festivities continued outside, while dust rose and touched the soft blades of grass, green as salad, I was sitting in the bar, watching some damn sitcom. It wasn’t worth going back out because I’d have to socialize, explain myself, and find some way out of this mess; I’d have to avoid locking eyes with her, make a point of not looking at her, and pretend I didn’t see her. And right there, in the warm, early twilight, out of nowhere, a cowboy materialized—in addition to the hat, this character was sporting a light jacket, colorful shorts, and worn-out flip-flops. As soon as he noticed me, he detected all the sadness in my eyes and insisted I join him, saying, “Come on, man, whatcha doing bumming around here? The action is in the domain of the cold pools, in the sector of the water rides, in the black squares of the steam rooms, there among the hellish vapors!” He dragged me away because “you have to get into the spirit of things, you just can’t waste this glorious day of celebration.” He was a blisteringly fast talker, greedily devouring consonants and skipping between half-finished thoughts. His cowboy hat kept slipping over his eyes, sweat was pouring down his forehead, the anticipation was soaking his sideburns, but as soon as he led me through a few secret chambers to a massage room I immediately realized that it had been worth the struggle. All the action was right here—the instant we came into view, a group of fiery, naked bodies darted toward the cowboy, acclaiming him, rubbing up against him with gratitude, and they rubbed up against me too; when it was women I was happy, but when it was men I was seized by a disquieting feeling and the desire to clock one of them, which got worse by the minute. The cowboy took a fat, scented parcel—something precious, something wrapped up in a tabloid—out of his pocket, and everyone went wild; they hoisted him up and carried him out through the doors, right to the gates of hell. Then I lay down on the massage table in the room, looking at the cold pool electrified by bright lights reflecting off its green surface. Beautiful, naked women strolled by, smiling affectionately, and dignified-looking men wrapped in shaggy towels looked at me anxiously as they passed, seemingly trying to decide if I was one of them or just some interloper. Time meandered on, slipping by me and making my presence here even more random and devoid of purpose. When everyone had passed by me, left, and come back again, the cowboy reappeared, carrying a tray of cognac and lemon, forcing me to drink as much of it as I could—and then a lot more.
“When else are we gonna drink together, man?” he yelled. “I’m getting the fuck outta here man—Ukrainian airlines—before ya know it, I’ll be halfway to fucking Timbuktu! No stopovers for me! Tomorrow, man! Out of invisible terminals! Down secret air corridors! Dodging all the customs agents, not declaring my jewels or my assets! Crusading through all the duty-free zones! Two days from now,” he yelled with sloppy enthusiasm. “I’m gonna be sitting with a bunch of legit people somewhere out by Philadelphia (Philadelphia, man, the city!), with a bunch of bigtime stockbrokers (yeah man, brokers!), drinking some real kosher cognac, not this fucking swill!” He was screaming now, throwing back glass after glass. “Nah, no more of this shit for me.” When the naked bodies spilled out of the hot room, headed over toward the cold pool, and hoisted him up once again, I decided I’d had enough.
I left the room and went back to the bar. The night had settled on the grass outside, the dishes were rattling, the women were arguing, and the singing was dying down. Somewhere behind me, a door creaked open. I looked around, catching a glimpse of the bride’s dress. Someone shut the door. I stepped through the side exit. I was just about to head out when I suddenly saw Amin. He was standing there, up against the wall, sobbing. Kolia was looming over him, holding the Rolex. The kid was whimpering, reaching up for his watch.
“What’s going on here?” I asked, walking over.
Kolia looked up with a start, but he calmed down as soon as he saw it was just me.
“Hey sonny boy, everything’s all right,” he said, narrowing his eyes even more. “I bought this Rolex off him fair and square, but he keeps bellyaching ’bout something.”
“He didn’t buy it.” Amin started bellyaching again, still reaching up and trying to get his watch back.
“So what’s the real story?” I asked.
“It’s mine. I bought it,” Kolia said coldly. “Run along now, sonny boy.”
“Listen up, you fuckin’ fag, give the kid his Rolex back,” I demanded.
“Come again?”
“I said give him his Rolex back.”
“Sonny boy, what’s your deal?” Kolia finally opened his eyes all the way and looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.
I cut him off with a powerful punch to the solar plexus. Kolia doubled over, but stayed on his feet, trying to take a step back. I jumped on top of him. The door behind me burst open, and cheerful voices, invigorated by anger and excitement, spilled outside. I was slammed onto the asphalt before I even knew what was happening, taking a few hits to the kidneys and a few hits to the spine; it’s a good thing I managed to cover my head in time. Then it all stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I tried to get up, but somebody’s shoe was pinning me to the asphalt. Kolia was standing over me along with three or four guys. I didn’t know them, but they seemed to know him quite well, that’s for sure. Kolia couldn’t decide whether to finish me off or leave me there. Then he finally let me go.
“Prick,” he said in a conciliatory tone, spitting off to the side and heading back to the bar. The rest of the gang filed in behind him.
I got up. My leg was killing me, and my shirt was a total mess. The kid was standing next to me, badly shook up. The Rolex was just lying there on the asphalt. I picked it up, handed it to him, and then rested my back up against the wall. The door opened once again. Dasha ran outside, saw us, and walked over. Wobbling a bit at first, she regrouped quickly and regained her balance. She looked at the kid’s teary eyes, saw my shirt, ripped to shreds, and then started yelling.
“What are you doing out here?” she shouted at the kid. “What the hell? I’m sick of your crap!”
The kid slouched against the wall, next to me—we looked like we were facing a firing squad together.
“I’m talking to you! Aren’t you even listening?”
“Don’t yell at him,” I said.
“Butt out. What were you doing out here, huh? What the hell?”
“I said don’t yell at him.”
“Who do you think you are?” She turned toward me. “Since when do you tell me what to do?”
“Hey, go back inside, keep partying with those guys if that’s what you’re into. Go fuck their brains out, every last one of them, for all I care. Just don’t yell at the kid, got it?”