“I worked as a lifeguard for a bit,” Nastia said, seemingly picking up on Mark’s train of thought. “I administered first aid.”
“To who?”
“The people I saved.”
The next morning she patched up the knee of his jeans, fed him breakfast, and rubbed some kind of solution on his scratches, the old ones and the fresh ones she’d given him the previous night.
“Does that hurt?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Mark answered, feeling fire entering his skin.
“Yeah, whatever you say. There’s no need to lie.”
Peering out of his third-story window, Kolia caught a glimpse of Mark—it was like he was waiting for him. Mark gathered his thoughts and then entered the hospital. He ran into a patient in the hallway; there was something curious about him. He was standing by the doors tensely, thinking about something. It looked as if he’d run away from someone, but he could no longer remember who exactly. Some interns latched onto him, some elderly visitors bumped into him, and some mistrustful patients in their ragged gowns sidestepped him. He was holding a white suit jacket in one hand and a big paper bag in the other. He saw Mark and promptly stopped him.
“Got any smokes?” he asked. His voice was weary, yet unyielding.
“Nah,” Mark answered. They stood there for a bit, looking at each other.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You got this,” the patient said finally.
Mark thanked him.
Once again, he could tell that something had gone down in the ward—the headphones guy had disappeared, leaving only an unmade bed in his wake, and the gentleman was hastily tossing his things into some black bags, refusing to engage with anyone. Kolia eyed him with disgust, and the factory worker eyed Kolia with caution. Mark laid out some yogurt and milk in front of Kolia, but he didn’t even look at them, immediately pursuing a harsh line of questioning—What’s going on in the city? Do you have any news? How’s your mom? How’s work? He asked if the boss had been riding him, if he wanted to quit, and what he was planning on doing with his life if he did.
“Why don’t you want to quit? You always have to be thinking about these kinds of things,” Kolia said. “Life can really wear ya down. We’ve gotta have each other’s backs, we’re all one big family—aren’t we? In our family, the men have always run the business together,” he said through gritted teeth. “Nobody’s ever even thought about bailing, you got that, Markster?” He didn’t ask about Nastia, but Mark could sense that it was her he wanted to know about more than anyone else.
“Well, that’s fine,” Mark thought, deciding he had nothing to worry about. “He won’t do anything to me—he doesn’t have the guts.” Kolia continued questioning his nephew, looking him straight in the eye, until Mark, brimming with hatred and anger, couldn’t take it anymore—he met his eyes and studied him. Kolia looked right back at him, trying to extinguish the fire in his eyes, all of his dark weight bearing down on the kid, but Mark didn’t buckle under the pressure, he stayed strong and kept resisting. At some point, Kolia started drifting, looking somewhere behind Mark’s shoulders, barking something at the factory worker, and changing the subject to his antibiotics. Mark sat there facing him, pressing his palms against his knees; this was a Kolia he had never seen before, his skin yellowed like an old photograph, his gaze extinguished—he was old and crooked, hapless and broken, stale and uncertain, sick and hungry. Mark was even starting to pity him. “But why the fuck should I?” he thought.
“What kind of meds are they giving you?” he asked. Kolia thought for a bit, evaluated the situation, and spoke in a calm and conciliatory tone.
“They’re giving me the right kind, Markster. It’s just that treating me is like taking a guy down off the gallows and trying to patch him up—he’s not gonna be in the best shape, there’s a limit to how far therapy will get you. How’ve you been holding up?” he asked, squinting.
“I’ve been feeling all right,” Mark said, without giving his answer much thought.
“What’s with the marks on your neck?” Kolia asked casually.
“I cut myself… shaving.”
“I see,” Kolia said, nodding. “Do you shave every day now? Don’t go slitting your throat. It’s a good idea to have somebody around who can administer first aid. What if there was nobody there to help?”
Kolia’s cold, wolflike eyes fixed on him once again. Mark got up, said a curt goodbye, and promised to give everybody Kolia’s regards. Standing at the intersection, he could feel his eyes on him.
“What could he possibly know about business?” Mark griped that evening in Kolia’s bathtub. “He can’t even open a new vegetable stand.”
Nastia sat on the edge of the tub in her gym shorts and a tight-fitting top, holding some dry towels, smiling and listening to her cousin.
“He can do anything he puts his mind to,” she objected. “He just got taken for a ride.”
“He just can’t do anything at all! He can’t even play cards.”
“Everyone knows how to play cards. Even I do.”
“Yeah, sure you do.”
“Wanna play?” Nastia got up, tossed him a towel, and stepped out into the hallway.
Mark wrapped the towel around his body and left the bathroom, leaving wet tracks behind him. Nastia sat down on the rug, deck of cards in hand. “Well, now I know exactly what to do,” Mark thought, remembering how ridiculous Kolia acted whenever he played.
“All right, let’s go,” Nastia said, smiling.
He lost three times. He was furious. Then he lost again, ripped the whole deck up, and went over to the kitchen. Nastia waited for a bit, then followed him out of the room.
“Hey, Mark, don’t be so angry. You never had a chance anyway. I know all the tricks. I trained at the circus.”
“For real?” he asked, turning toward her, thinking that might give him sufficient grounds to accept his defeat.
“Yep,” Nastia assured him. “By the way, I know some other tricks, too. I can read navigational charts, just like Saint Sarah.”
Lying next to her, distinguishing her every movement in the dark, Mark thought about how his mom slept the same way—pieces of clothing scattered around the bed, the alarm clock wound to a cold ring, the whole world forgotten. There she lay, not regretting a thing, not lamenting a thing, leaving all those tormenting nighttime thoughts to restless neurotics like Mark. He sifted through all the words he’d heard over those past three nights with Nastia, all her stories and promises. He made some calculations, tried to develop a plan, found some unexpected arguments in his defense, and searched for some level-headed answers. In the morning, the planets aligned—it’s all up to us; our hearts dictate everything. No despair, no fear, and no excuses.
Through the sleepy reverberations and morning turbulence, he felt that there was suddenly more light, and someone’s breath, muted and hostile, growing and growing until it filled and ruptured the morning void.
“Mark!” He hopped up, flipped over in the air like a cat, landed on his knees, sprang to his feet, slammed into the alarm clock that hadn’t gone off, stepped on a plate of leftover pasta, knocked over some wine, spilling it all over the bedsheets, bumped into Nastia’s suitcase, sending her maxi pads flying, and grabbed a pillow to cover at least some part of his body.
“Mark, you son of a bitch!” Kolia was an ominous figure in the doorway, wearing rumpled white pants and a yellow cycling shirt, his olive black skin pumped full of antibiotics and poisons.