The next one to speak up was Kostyk, heavy and cumbersome, like he was all soggy from the fog and wine. He undid his tie and tossed it aside—it landed on some baked fish. He wasn’t speaking all that clearly, yet his voice was loud with conviction. When someone talks like that, there’s no disagreeing with him, even if he’s talking nonsense. Kostyk realized that, so he tried to talk even louder. Sometimes it sounded like he was attacking someone, sometimes it sounded like he was defending them, and other times he broke into shouting, and then Sem would place his bony hand on Kostyk’s shoulder, but then Sasha would nod gently at him, as if to say, “Let him be. Tomorrow morning he’s not even gonna remember any of this crap he’s spewing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kostyk said, clearly agitated. “I’d like to say something, too. Why aren’t you letting me talk? Don’t look at me like that.” He got so riled up that he knocked over some wineglasses. The white tablecloth swelled with the dark weight of the alcohol, but Kostyk didn’t pay that any mind, he just kept telling everyone to pipe down. “Having a warm heart… When a person has a warm heart, he has a completely different outlook on life. A man like that has eyes that light up from the inside, and people flock to him. Both men and women,” Kostyk added.
“Here we go again,” Benia interjected in a dissatisfied tone. “I told ya to cut him off a few drinks ago. Now that mouth of his is gonna get him in trouble.”
Everyone knew what Benia was getting at. Everyone knew what to expect. First he’d start going on about the inner light, then he’d start holding forth about eternal salvation. He might break down crying or, more likely, pick a fight with someone. Kostyk got that way after his first stint in rehab. You generally think of drug users as mellowed out, but it’s often exactly the opposite. Kostyk got hooked as an adult, when he already had something to lose, but he didn’t quit until he’d lost all of it. He bounced around from one rehab clinic to another, not to mention all those spiritual counseling programs. He went back to his regular life after all that, but he had already started putting on weight. I figured it must have had something to do with his blood sugar. His drug use had led to some problems with his kidneys… and his head, for that matter. The drugs had nothing to do with his yelling and carrying on tonight, though. He was just as obnoxious at parties back when we were kids.
We didn’t really like what he had to say, but the sloppily earnest way he said it won us over. All of our inner voices seemed to be saying, “That’s it, keep it up. Open heart, men and women flocking to you.” It looked like Alina was absolutely freezing; she picked up a shawl someone had left behind and wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering from time to time, as though she was reacting to a soft whisper only she could hear.
“Having a warm heart helps us get through our tougher moments and enjoy our happier hours when they come,” Kostyk continued, inhaling a deep gulp of nighttime air, which made his white shirt puff up like a sail against black water. “It’s all about having a warm heart, guys, having a warm heart!” With that, he started crying.
Then he wandered far afield, but it led us to a nice story that everyone could identify with; he spoke about hearts filled with goodness and hope, merciful and benevolent—those are the hearts through which mankind’s conscience comes into this world, hearts with the strength to resist temptation and reject vanity. After a long and slightly garbled introduction, he reminded everyone how warm and splendid the weather had been that September, a few years back, when this incredible story took place.
“You know, you’re talking about being a man and all that manly nature stuff,” Kostyk blubbered. “Having compassion is the only true mark of a man, and being willing to administer first aid if it comes to that—that’s the only true mark of a man too. Let’s take Marat, for example. Back then, he was a famous sports star, a boxer well respected by the city’s youth, a thoughtful son, a faithful husband, a man of iron will and firm convictions. Ascetic and unstoppable—you wouldn’t believe his stamina—he had hit that age when nothing seems impossible, when miracles happen and the gates of heaven open high above us just so the saints can get a better look at our joyful eyes—see what color they are. That’s why he didn’t go to the Caucasus, even though he was invited to box for the national team. How could he just drop everything? Think about it! It was his sense of duty that kept him here!
“One time in the fall, when he was coming back from sparring, through the park, he came across a man lying there on the ground, his head facing east. A woman who just happened to be passing by saw it all and went on to tell the community. What do most of us do when we see death coming for someone else? Generally, we try not to react at all, hoping we can avoid drawing its attention. We simply pretend that death doesn’t exist, refusing to acknowledge the dead and refusing to think about the living. But Marat stopped—according to the passerby, some inner voice compelled him to bend over the lifeless body. Something hinted to him that all was not lost, that he could try to fend off the dark shadow of death already creeping up on the man from behind the crimson trees. The man was wearing an old-fashioned coat, and his briefcase lay on the ground beside him. He looked like an upstanding guy. Marat acted quickly, instructing the woman to call the police and an ambulance, and while she was dialing the numbers with her cold, stiff fingers, he massaged the poor sap’s heart—he as good as brought him back from the other side. Then he waited around for the ambulance and police, and even drove with them to the station to give a full report. The woman went along, too.”
Alina broke down completely then, tears flowing fast as she bolted out of her seat, heading for the house. But Sasha managed to intercept her, wrapping his arms firmly around her shoulders. She fell into his embrace, giving in to heavy, gasping sobs. We all sat there in silence, sensing that our moment to say something, revive the conversation, keep the unbearable mounting silence from popping like a paper bag was slipping away. Everything was as Kostyk had said, almost—sparring, the park, black trees, and the lilac heavens with red spots out west—that was all true. Marat was just about to quit the team over an argument with the manager; he wouldn’t come home for weeks at a time, and things had gotten so bad with Alina that he wondered why they were still together. That day we’d been bumming around by the park, drinking in a rundown bar—basically just a tent where you could buy beer, really. We were the only ones there, Marat, one of his teammates, and me, just passing the time, waiting for nightfall, and listening to Marat going on about how he was supposedly going to chuck it all and move down to the Caucasus for some coaching job they’d been offering him for years now. In the late afternoon a couple sidled up to the bar—the guy was a lot older than the girl—he looked like a college professor. He was just minding his own business. He was wearing a light fall jacket and glasses; he hardly touched his drink. She was pretty young, but she didn’t appear to be an undergrad—she exuded confidence, ordering her own drink and recommending one for him. Marat went silent and started eyeing her; something about her got to him, resonated with something inside him. She had coarse, fair hair, long, sharp-nailed fingers, and bright white teeth, and since she never stopped laughing or talking, Marat kept examining her smile, not bothering to be the least bit discreet about it. In an hour or so, the professor gave us a look that Marat was determined to take the wrong way. He wanted to throw down, but the bartenders broke it up and told everyone it’d be best if we went on our way. The professor tried to keep his cool, but he handed his girlfriend her coat just a little too quickly, he tipped just a little too generously, and he made just a little too much of a show of taking her hand as they were leaving. We had been restraining Marat, but then he broke free and latched on to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her against him. His movements were so sharp and unrestrained that she shrieked, and I wasn’t sure what I was hearing in that shriek—outrage or surprise. It seemed more like surprise to me—and pleasant surprise, at that… although she did try to extricate herself, and she kept up her angry shouting, her teeth shining and her head bobbing, but then she thrust herself forward, crashing into Marat—with bewildered eyes, she studied his sharp, unshaven face, covered in scars and cuts, gray, fiery eyes, black hair, and hard skin. And the longer she looked at him, the more intent her gaze became. When the professor darted toward them to pull her away, Marat lost control, nailing his rival with a right hook like his coaches had taught him when he was a kid; he put his weight into it—and his heart too. The professor rolled across the floor, and the bartenders jumped on Marat from behind. All three of them crashed to the floor too. Marat’s buddy and I tried to throw everyone outside, into the bluish-red void of the eerie park that had devoured the neon fire of the bar’s sign. And there, amid Kharkiv’s golden foliage, Marat pummeled the professor, the bartenders tried pulling him away from his victim, and we did our best to pull them back.