“All right, fine,” she conceded. “Let’s go to your place. You can show me your suitcase collection.”
She abstained from drinking, so he had no idea what to do. She asked him about his work; he started talking but quickly realized how sad he sounded.
“I shouldn’t have dragged her here,” he thought, growing more anxious. “I look like an idiot. And I’m acting like an idiot, too.” Feverish thoughts raced past him—what tricks do I have up my sleeve? What should I suggest to get her out of here? Where should I take her to kill some time? Olia walked over to his bookshelf and picked up an adventure book.
“Do you have any kids?”
“Kids?” he repeated, surprised. “Nah, no kids for me.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno,” he said, getting even more flustered. “Nobody wanted to have kids with me, and I never gave it much thought myself. That’s just kinda how it went. You’re probably asking because of the books. They’re mine, from when I was a kid. I’ve been meaning to throw them out, but my mom asked me to keep them. It wasn’t too easy to get your hands on good books in the Soviet days.”
“I know. Our elders read those books. That’s for the best, don’t you think? Boys should get used to bad literature when they’re young, because that’s precisely what teaches them how to be real men, be the top dog.”
She took a book off the shelf and sat down on the floor, holding it. He sat down next to her.
“I was hung up on that as a kid,” Olia said. “I thought, ‘Huh, they all seem to be reading the same books. Maybe it’s not just a coincidence, maybe there are a lot of important things I just won’t get unless I read them too.’ But I read all of them and I still didn’t get it. But then later on, as I interacted with them, watched them mature, came into close contact with them, fell in love with them, I always saw things that seemed to come straight out of those books—something in their conversations, their behavior, and the dumb things they did. There aren’t that many things that bring us together.”
“Yeah, true. There really aren’t,” he said. “Even the books we all read don’t always bring us together. You know, as a kid I never had any friends. I’d hang out with the kids my parents wanted me to hang out with. We had nothing to talk about when we were alone in my room. We’d sit there, staring at the fish in my aquarium. No books could bring us together.”
“You know, I… ,” she started talking about fish. And about other animals she and her friends would find out on the street and bring home. And about their parents who’d toss all those dogs, hedgehogs, and reed cats back out on the street, causing their children such distress that they would break down and cry. And about her older brothers and sisters who left home and started making their way in the world. And about how she wanted to be like them, how the rhythm and inner workings of their lives, their journey to independence, fascinated her. And about her girlfriends’ personal problems, her guy friends’ real, manly problems, complex relationships within families, and the convoluted structure of love triangles. By then, it was already past 3 a.m.; Thomas was hanging in there the best he could, but as soon as she started talking about those triangles, he took the book out of her hands without a word and started peeling her T-shirt off, still not saying anything. She was surprised and tried to get up, but he held her arms and pulled her toward him.
“What’s all this? No, just don’t,” she said. But that merely riled him up even more. “Just don’t stop,” he thought once again, seizing her shirt. She tried objecting again, gently pushing him back, but when the fabric of her shirt ripped in his hand she erupted and kneed him right in the groin. Thomas emitted a shriek of despair and crashed to the floor. She crawled back, breathing heavily, fixing her boyish hair, and gradually regaining her composure. He eventually composed himself, too, lying on the ground and lacking the resolve to get up.
“How you doing over there?” she asked hoarsely.
“Fine,” Thomas said, still not getting up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard,” she assured him.
“No biggie. It happens,” he answered, nursing his injury.
“Well, I’m gonna get going, all right?”
“Let me give you a ride.”
“I’ll walk,” she assured him. “Get well soon,” she added, obviously referring to her own handiwork.
He waved energetically, as if to say, “I’m good to go, it could’ve been worse.” As she was leaving he turned toward her and asked,
“You remember how you texted me about music and astronomy?”
“Astronomy? What about it?”
“I don’t know. Just something about astronomy—and rum, and birds.”
“You’re making stuff up now,” she said, laughing heartily. “All right, get better. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He waited after he woke up in the morning. He waited after he got to the office. Then he couldn’t take it anymore and dialed her number. She didn’t answer. He called a half-hour later, then started texting her, then called once more. Now a bundle of nerves, he decided to stop by the bar to have a chat. Lacking the resolve to get out of his car, he called Anton first.
“I’ll be right out,” he said.
He came out five minutes later, walked over to the passenger-side door, took a seat without shutting it, and glanced at the pirate flag as though he was concerned that somebody would slip out of the front door unnoticed.
“She didn’t show up today,” Anton said, not even looking at Thomas. “I think she and her brother are butting heads again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Here’s the thing,” Anton said, after a short pause. “She has a brother. He’s a real prick. They have different moms but the same dad. He used to live somewhere up north, and then he came back about five years ago, when her folks died. You know, the older brother watching over her, blood relatives… all that jazz. He’s always on her case. Everybody was telling him all sorts of stuff about her, so now he’s not letting her out of the apartment. Was she at your place last night?”
“Uh… yeah.” Thomas lacked the resolve to deny it.
“Uh… well, he might not let her out anymore.”
“She’s not a kid.” Thomas was stunned at this turn of events.
“You should see this guy. He has cuts and scabs and scars all over, from head to toe. And he doesn’t have a single hair on his body, not even on his head.”
“Did you sleep with him or something?” Thomas snapped.
“I slept with her.”
“Huh?”
“You really don’t get it, do you? I slept with her. Just so you know, I like her. I don’t give a flying fuck that she used to be a prostitute. Half of my old classmates are prostitutes now and the other half are jealous of them. I started chasing after her back in high school. I even started working out to get her attention.”
“I know she likes boxers.”
“What do boxers have to do with it?” Anton asked, agitated. “Her brother likes boxers. Whatever, what am I even telling you this for? I’ve always had a thing for her. Then just when things are finally getting going, her brother comes back.”
“And?”
“And he broke my nose. Look here.” Anton turned, his face now in profile. “Even the bridge is busted up.”
Anton had clearly shaved that morning, but he might have been in a rush, or maybe he just wasn’t used to doing it that carefully—there were cuts on his neck and stubble faded into his jaw line. The collar of his stale shirt wasn’t starchy, and the earring Thomas could see had become darker over the course of time. Right now, what he wanted more than anything in the world was to hide out behind the bar and not let anyone in. “He can do that when I’m good and ready,” Thomas thought resentfully.