Cleanness

by Garth Greenwell

  I hung over him, letting him grow still, then pulled out and fell onto my back beside him. Mnogo hubavo beshe, he said, that was good, speaking Bulgarian for the first time, his face turned away. When I didn’t answer he turned toward me, then lifted himself onto his side. Hey, he said, his voice solicitous, hey. I put my hand over my face, which was wet with tears. I was embarrassed, I didn’t want him to see me, when he asked what was wrong I couldn’t answer. Stop it, he said, pulling my hand away, stop it, which made me cry harder somehow, and he kissed me, my forehead and cheeks, my lips, when I tried to pull away he grabbed my head with both his hands, holding me in place. Sladurche, he said, sweet boy, stop it now, don’t be like that, and then he licked my face, quickly, playfully, like a cat, everywhere he had kissed he licked, catching my hands in his when I tried to shield myself or push him away, until I was laughing and weeping both, I stopped struggling and let him lick my face. He laughed too, rolling on top of me, still licking me, and I realized that I had been wrong before; it did have an end, what I had felt, its end was here, he had brought me here. Finally he laid his head on my chest. Don’t be like that, he said again as I put my arms around him. Do you see? You don’t have to be like that, he said. You can be like this.

  AN EVENING OUT

  Z. had emptied half the carton of juice, and now I was holding it as he poured the vodka into the plastic funnel at the top. We had laughed at the way he threw his head back and drank, sucking the juice down even as he grimaced at the taste, which was sickly sweet. He refused to dump it in the gutter: My grandfather was Russian, he said, we never waste anything. And that too had made us laugh, though he was serious now as he poured, tilting the plastic flask to let the barest ribbon of liquid thread perfectly into the carton. He didn’t want to waste that, either, and I was so absorbed in holding the carton still—and absorbed in Z., too, who stood close to me, our shoulders almost touching—that I had nearly forgotten about N. when I heard the click of his phone as it took a picture of us. What are you doing, I said, and I’m sure there was a note in my voice of real concern at the thought of the image shared with others, but we had already drunk enough that the concern was distant, and N. laughed it off. I’m sorry, he said, it’s just too epic, we’ve been waiting for this for so long. He laughed again when I warned him not to post it on Facebook. I’ll hunt you down, I said, one of the phrases I had used often in my seven years as a teacher. He held up his hands, smiling broadly. Don’t worry, he said, I won’t, I just want to remember this forever.

  Z. took the carton from me and screwed the lid back on, shaking it vigorously and for far too long, making us laugh again. It was the second flask of vodka, the second carton of juice, the second time Z. had taken in hand the mixing of our drinks. He would have poured for us if we had had anything to use as cups; instead we drank straight from the carton, which he handed to me first and then to N. before drinking from it himself. We were on a narrow street in the city center, standing beneath a streetlamp in front of the little twenty-four-hour shop where we had bought our supplies. It was already late, but we had an hour or so before the concert at the club that was our real destination. Sofia is famous for these clubs, where the city’s wealthy dance and drink; they’re called chalgoteki, after the pop-folk music they play. I had never been to one before. But now, since I was leaving Sofia, Z. had insisted that at least once I should have what he called a real Bulgarian night out, and the lure of him had overcome all my aversion to drunkenness and noise. I was eager for it, even, I planned to enjoy myself, to dance and drink, to relax in the company of these boys I genuinely liked, to be their friend for an evening and not their teacher.

  The evening had started a few hours before, at a restaurant where I had promised to meet a group of students to say goodbye. They were already there when I arrived, ten or twelve of them seated at tables they had pushed together. When they saw me several of them stood up, their chairs scraping on the uneven patio, and they called out my name, or not my name really but my family name, I mean my father’s name; soon I wouldn’t be that name anymore, I thought, feeling suddenly the relief of it. Of course it was what they called me, though they weren’t students anymore, or not my students; they had graduated a year earlier and were back in Sofia after their first year abroad, in America or England or Amsterdam, they had scattered as all my students here scatter, none of them had stayed behind. There was already wine on the table, three bottles opened to breathe, a cheap Bulgarian white for the late June evening, even as I took my seat I could taste the twinge of it. But it was a pleasure to hold it up to the light, and more than a pleasure to hear them say my name again, my father’s name, and then Z. said To new beginnings, and we drank. It was terrible wine but it didn’t matter, I was as happy in that moment as I had ever been. There were more toasts over dinner, as the waiters carried out dishes that my students had missed while they were away, salads and grilled meats and ceramic pots of vegetables and cheese. They toasted one another, their year away, their stories of London and New York.

  I had a fucking miserable year, N. said when his turn came, I mean I knew it would be awful but it was fucking miserable. I told you, Z. said, I knew you weren’t cut out to be a lawyer, and the girl next to him said That’s true, and everyone at the table loudly agreed, making N. raise his hands in surrender. Hey, he said, I wasn’t the one who wanted it, but even Gospodinut—and here he waved one of his hands toward me—couldn’t convince my mother it was a terrible idea. It was true that I had tried, at the beginning of N.’s senior year, when his mother came in for her quarterly conference. She never missed these meetings, even though it meant a two-hour drive from her home in Plovdiv, losing half a day of work. She was a serious woman, invariably dressed in a pants suit, dark navy or gray, her black hair cut in a severe line just above her shoulders. She was gracious, too, and she had thanked me once for my influence, as she put it; You are the only teacher he works hard for, she said, this is the only class he likes. He isn’t a stupid boy, she said, as she always did when we discussed his poor grades, his late or missing assignments, but oh, he is so lazy. But this time I demurred, It isn’t exactly that he’s lazy, I said. I saw her face tighten slightly with the wariness I often saw in parents when I began to speak about their children, a knitting of the brow that might have meant a special kind of attention but was usually the opposite, was usually their attention shutting down. When N. is interested he will work, I said, if it’s something he likes—and here she turned her head to the side, she made a thick sound with her tongue in the back of her throat. Please, N.’s mother said, turning back to me, her tone at once dismissive and imploring, please, if he likes it? What will he do when he has a job, he can’t only work when he wants to. I nodded and started to speak but she went on, Please, she said, I know what you will say, N. has told me many times, you tell them they should do what they love, it’s beautiful what you tell them. I see why they like you so much, she said, with a tight, conciliatory smile.

  I do tell them that, I said, I believe it. I took a breath. He has a talent, I said, I think he’s lucky to have found it, and yes, I think he should follow what he loves and build his life around it. I paused. I had been wringing my hands beneath the table, knitting and unknitting my fingers, and now I laid them flat on top of it. I worry about N. in law school, I said, I worry that he will keep doing badly. I think, and here I tried to make my voice lighter somehow, I think he should do what he feels called to do, I think he should study what he wants. She sat very still as I spoke, her tight smile unchanging. Yes, she said again, it’s very beautiful what you say, very inspiring. And what does he do then, she said, after he studies what he wants, what does he do when he has to get a job? Things are different here, Gospodine, maybe in America what you say is true; you try something there and if you fail it is no problem, you try something else, Americans love starting over, you say it’s never too late. But for us it is always too late, she said. When N. gets his diploma he has to find a job, right away, a good j
ob in England, if he doesn’t he has to come back here, and if he comes back here it will be very hard for him to leave again, do you understand, if he comes back here he will be trapped. I know you care about him, she said, settling back in her chair, I know your heart, and she hesitated, groping for the phrase, your heart is in the right place, but what you say isn’t true for us, please, you must help him see that. N. groaned when I repeated this to him the next morning at school. You see, he said, she won’t listen, it’s impossible to talk to her. It’s because she loves you, I said, it’s a way of loving you, and he sighed and looked away.

  Well, N. said at the restaurant table, lowering his hands before Z. interrupted him—Listen up, Gospodine, he said, you’re going to like this. N. smiled at me. No more law school, he said, I’m transferring, in the fall I’ll be doing literature. There was a cheer around the table, as several students said Chestito, congratulations, and all of us raised our glasses. But what about your mother, I asked after we drank, how did you convince her? N.’s smile widened. It was easy, he said, I just failed all my classes, and everyone laughed. I don’t approve of your methods, I said, though I was laughing too, and Z. raised his glass and said To whatever works, and we toasted again.

  We toasted on the street, too, after a fashion, lifting the carton to one another before we drank. This had been our plan, to leave the others after dinner and drink together, just the three of us, a prelude to more drinking at the club. We passed the carton as we walked the narrow streets, but the second or third time it made the circuit I handed it directly to Z. Hey, he said, trying to give it back to me, you can’t skip your turn. But I didn’t take it. I need to slow down, I said, I can’t drink as much as you. I was already feeling it, the wine from earlier and the vodka we were drinking too quickly now, I could feel the edges of myself softening, a kind of tingling, like a limb waking up. It was dangerous to drink so much; I didn’t have a sense of who I would be if I got really drunk, I had never let myself go like that, as men around me did in my childhood, it was another way I had always been unlike them. Gospodine, Z. said, his voice heavy with disappointment, come on now, and he shook the carton, still holding it out to me, don’t let us down. All right, I said, relenting. And then, in a broad, cartoonish Slavic accent, another classroom trick, I said Tonight I make exception, and drank deeply. Bravo, Z. said, that’s the way, and N. said again This is so epic, and then, this is the best night of my life, which made all three of us laugh.

  I hadn’t been paying attention to where Z. was leading us, and I was surprised when we arrived at the Doctor’s Garden, a little tree-filled park just west of the university. I had been there often, I loved it during the day, and at night it filled like all the parks with young people drinking. Let’s stop for a minute, Z. said, pulling out his phone and making the little screen light up, we still had some time to kill before we needed to be at the club. Z. turned off the path almost as soon as we entered the park, taking us into a section of trees and grass that was filled with dozens of fragments of marble, broken pillars and bits of cornices. This part of the garden was dark, and the stones glowed faintly, reflecting the light from the paths and playgrounds. I had looked at these fragments before, in the daytime, reading the plaques laid in the ground with information about their provenance, the various archaeological digs where they were found, translations of their inscriptions. Z. chose a pillar the right height and sat the carton on top of it, making me suck my breath between my teeth. What, he asked, and I said something about its antiquity, how it was thousands of years old and he was using it as his table. N. laughed. All this time in Bulgaria, he said, and you’re still such an American. We have stuff like this everywhere, he said, if we couldn’t touch it we couldn’t live. And besides, Z. said, don’t you think it’s better out here than in a museum, I think it likes it, and he ran his hand down the length of the stone, a strangely sensual gesture, I think it likes us to touch it. Go ahead, he said, you touch it too, and when I hesitated, he took my arm just above the wrist and pulled it to the stone. I laughed, surrendering, and stroked it as he had done, the stone warmer than the air, it must have soaked in the late sun, and pocked, not smooth at all, or smooth only where letters had been chiseled into it, the slanted edges of the cut still perfectly polished. I drew my hands away and wiped them on my jeans. The park was busy, not just with college students but with couples sitting on the benches that lined the paths, and with children playing on the swing sets and slides. Are you ready then, Z. said, taking the carton and unscrewing the cap, though I think we had all been relieved to leave it untouched for a while, everything packed for your move, and I said it was, more or less, there were still a few days before I would leave. Will you miss it, N. asked, meaning the country, I thought, or maybe teaching, and I said I would, of course, how could he wonder.

  There was a loud sound then from a distance, an air horn, followed by a single low drum beaten very fast, the sound of a few people making as much noise as they could. Are they still at it, I asked, and Z. nodded, A few of them, they’ll be out all night. There had been huge protests weeks before, but the heart went out of them as time passed and nothing changed, the government refused to resign and the protesters melted away until only a few dozen remained, circling the city each night as they shouted slogans. Neshtastnitsi, Z. said, assholes. Why, I asked him, what do you mean, and he shrugged. What do they think will happen, he said, nothing will change here, I don’t even think they care who’s in the government, it’s just a game. And these guys, he went on, his voice bitter now, their drums, sleeping in tents, they’re just playing a game too, it doesn’t matter, they can’t find jobs so this is how they spend their time. N. groaned. Fuck, he said, that’s going to be me in a few years, and Z. laughed. It will not, I said, reaching across to put my hand on his shoulder, leaning forward too far, I had to put my other hand on the pillar again to keep my balance. You’ll be fine, I said, looking at him, do your work and don’t be scared, that’s all, it’s all you can do. He shrugged as I removed my hand, placing it beside the other on the stone. I don’t know, he said, my mom is probably right, I don’t have any idea what I’ll do after college, I’ll probably have to come back here and be a bum. Z. laughed again, picking up the carton in a kind of toast. Job security, he said, there will always be bums, and N. groaned again.

  Let’s go, Z. said, checking the time, and he set off quickly through the park, so that N. and I struggled to keep up. E, kopele, N. said, bastard, slow down, why are you rushing, and Z. turned and smiled, still walking, moving backward along the street. We don’t want to be late, we’ll miss the show, he said. He made a motion with his hips, a little Turkish shimmy, before he turned back around. The club was a short walk away, on Tsar Osvoboditel, part of a complex that housed one of the city’s most luxurious hotels. We showed our lichni karti to the two men stationed at the door, their torsos obscene with muscle, and then descended a long carpeted staircase that was lit dimly by red lights set high along the walls. There were mirrors mounted every few feet, and I found myself stealing glances as we passed, seeing how incongruous a group we made, wondering what people would make of my presence with these men so much younger than I, still boys really. The music got louder as we approached the glass doors separating the corridor from the club proper, and it overwhelmed me as Z. pulled them open and we stepped through into a cavernous, dark room strafed by lights that spun somewhere above us. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, abrasive as sand, despite the new law that had passed months before; I could see it hanging beneath the only steady illumination, above the bar in the center of the room, where four men in identical black suits were mixing drinks. We made our way single file through the crowded space, toward the corner farthest from the entrance, where there were a few unclaimed tables, small and chest-high, each with an ashtray and an unopened bottle of gin. Nearer the bar people stood with bottles and glasses, moving their shoulders and hips, dancing in place. There wasn’t a dance floor, though what else could be the poin
t of the place; the music was so loud it was almost impossible to talk, after only a minute of it my ears ached.

  A young woman walked over to us, holding a tray above her head as she angled her way through the crowd. She wore a white blouse several sizes too small, exposing her navel and buttoned just barely above her breasts, which she allowed to touch Z., casually erotic, as she leaned over and brought her face to his. She shouted something into his ear as she placed three glasses and a small bucket of ice on the table. He reciprocated her gesture, putting an arm around her shoulder, and N. and I looked at each other and laughed. Z. was always theatrical with women, a cartoon Lothario at sixteen who had grown into real seduction; it was like he breathed sex as he exchanged comments with the server, they could almost have been kissing as they moved mouth to ear. But then Z. drew back, letting his arm fall from her shoulder, and looked at her in disbelief. He jerked his head in a single vertical motion, a decided no. He started to turn toward N. but the waitress pressed her hand to his chest and gestured for him to come back. She spoke longer this time, her hand on his chest, balancing the empty tray on the table. Now Z. did turn to N., shouting into his ear, and N. shouted to me in turn that to stay at the table we had to buy the gin. Okay, I shouted back, how much, and when he told me 160 leva, 80 euro, I burst out laughing, making Z. and N. laugh, too. But the woman didn’t laugh, she shrugged, all her seductiveness gone. It’s crazy, Z. shouted, but the alternative was to stand in the packed space between the bar and the booths, where you could hardly breathe, what would be the point of that, and so I pulled out my billfold. One night, I said, my throat already raw with shouting and with smoke, and they smiled and pulled out their wallets. No no, I said, wagging my forefinger, I didn’t want them to spend their money. I had gone to the bankomat earlier that day, my wallet was full of bills, and I drew out several to hand to the woman, who smiled again, opening the gin and a can of tonic and pouring us our first drinks before she spun away.