‘What proof do you want?’ I ask.
‘Well, some proof. I can’t write an article based on your assumption.’
‘You could only know for sure if you opened it and got it tested by an expert - and I can’t fucking do that on my own,’ I say, getting the feeling he is backing off.
‘As much as I’d like to help, there’s no case -’
‘There is!’ I interrupt. ‘There’s the waybill and my dad’s dead colleague … and the people of Seversk!’
‘None of that is hard evidence.’
‘What hard evidence do you need? A press release? And photos of the explosion as it happened? That would definitely be more newsworthy … but till then it’s just a non-issue, so we should all just carry on as if it’s not happening?’
‘That’s not the most accurate way to put it,’ he cuts in.
‘What is the most accurate way to put it, then? That you choose to take no action in your career and in your life, no risk whatsoever … just so you don’t have to see anything, any fucking evidence,’ I shout, enraged.
‘Look at that - the queen of venality, turned advocate for truth and justice,’ he sneers.
‘You wanted to write the story, to pull the strings … I trusted you, I came here to get you the freaking story!’ I argue.
‘I won’t even be able to convince my contacts to act on it, if it’s only based on what you think.’ His words are fading into the bitterness of disappointment. There will be no help. There is no one.
‘OK.’ I give up, oppressed by the shabby houses on the hill, obliterated by the stillness of time and the sea air … distressed by my pointless exertions. All this sacrifice for nothing. The sacrifice for truth. My dad died for nothing … The sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of all sacrifices.
I cannot let that happen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SCORE
At half past three, I lethargically get up and, leaning on a chair, hop to the bathroom to change my bandages. It does not feel so revolting any more. There is no more bleeding, and the stitches are drying … I touch them for the first time with my fingertips … caress my scars … disinfect them with vodka. I almost feel like having a sip of it … to ease the pain from Richard’s betrayal … but I just pour it on my knee and wrap a new bandage around it.
Even with the brace on my leg, I manage to pull off a flirty soccer fan outfit for tonight: a short, slinky blue and red dress emblazoned with the Genoa team crest. I figure this is more than enough to drive Marco crazy.
Anticipating an interesting game, I come out to the Rossoblu – a folksy bar next to the stadium, packed with tipsy Italians in red-blue vertical striped T-shirts, wholeheartedly shouting, ‘Genoa, Genoa,’ and extravagantly consuming generous amounts of finger food and booze.
Marco is at a tall table by the entrance with a huge group of people, who fill the entire terrace.
‘Ciao, bellissima!’ he cheerfully exclaims, complimenting me on my dress and impassionedly kissing me in front of the crowd, who applaud and shout ‘Limonata!’ He then proudly introduces me to at least twenty people all wearing the same T-shirt, drinking Campari orange and vividly discussing something soccer-related.
‘Milito e il forward genial,’ says a tall, handsome dark-haired Italian, with curly hair and an aquiline nose.
‘Milito a bisogno segnare,’ shouts another tall, good-looking, dark-haired Italian with spiky hair.
‘Segnare?’ I ask Marco.
‘Score. Milito must score!’ he shouts, raising his glass, and the whole place, filled with patriotism and testosterone, begins to shout, ‘Milito, Milito … Genoa … Milito,’ making me deferentially squeeze amid this savage energy.
At 6.37 p.m. we, together with the animated crowd, make our way to the intensely crowded stadium.
‘So lucky I could get you a ticket,’ Marco says spiritedly, touching my butt cheeks underneath my skirt as we go through the gate.
‘You’re so amazing,’ I say, pulling down my short pleated skirt.
Our seats are on the highest level of the stalls, with lots of steps to go up. Luckily the crowd is slow, and Marco is attentive enough to protect me from anyone pushing me.
The lights above us illuminate the entire stadium like bright moons surging from every corner. And yet we are too far away from the field to see a thing.
When the little figures down on the pitch begin to move, everyone around, including Marco, starts shouting, singing, cursing, and loudly discussing what Milito should do.
After ten minutes it is still entertaining, with all the ball action shown on a big screen, but gradually it becomes rather tedious and chilly. Bored and cold, I lean over to Marco, squeezing his thigh and biting his ear, as the tension in the stadium intensifies.
When the first half finishes, he gives me a proper kiss, slobbering over me, indecently slipping his fingers into my panties so that I almost fall, but I hold onto the rail in front, whilst the agitated fans behind us shout a modified slogan, ‘Marco has to score’. Feeling uncomfortable from so much attention, I back off and wait till everyone has left to get their drinks, discussing the fruitless nil–nil draw.
‘So how was your day?’ I ask Marco solicitously.
‘Oh,’ he exhales, stroking my hip, ‘well, my friend Franco came over and we went to Da Pino … and Da Pino makes that really good pasta, but Franco said he had pasta yesterday, so we ordered crostini alla Toscana but they weren’t really alla Toscana because there were no anchovies … at the end we had involtini with a very nice wine … but then they didn’t have my favorite gelato, so we went to a gelateria … and by the time we had a digestivo it was already time to come here … for aperitivo,’ he says light-heartedly.
‘What about the freight document?’ I ask pointedly.
‘I know, my clerk usually does it … but he is on vacation visiting his grandma in Sicilia – bellissimo, mare, montagna, cannelloni.’
‘So you didn’t do it?’
‘Yeah, it’s really bad … I was sitting on the beach, looking west, at the sea, thinking the real fire comes from the east, my Russian Katerina,’ he says, devouring my mouth and trying to get into my panties yet again.
‘So you haven’t done it?’ I ask, pulling his hand out. ‘There’ll be no shipment tomorrow?’
‘I’ll have time to do it tomorrow morning just before the ship,’ he says, grabbing my thigh with a devoted gaze. ‘Don’t worry, your containers will all be there.’
We continue making out until the second half starts and everyone starts yelling their throats off, reacting to virtually every move made by the tiny players on the field.
‘Terun da merda,’ Marco loudly curses, jumping off his seat, when someone from Napoli tackles Milito.
To avoid getting caught under the feet of the monstrous mass, I join Marco by the rail. He embraces me, putting me in front of him, as if he wanted to protect me … biting my ear and harshly squeezing my hips every time Genoa gets the ball.
‘Madonna mia,’ he shouts, pushing his boner against my butt. ‘Dai, dai.’ He hastily gets under my short skirt and, pulling away my thong, forcefully surges into me as Milito runs unchased across the field towards the goal.
The savage, primordial energy of the field takes me over. The tumult in the stadium is a million times louder than my humble moan, with my Italian stallion spurting to the pulsating rhythm of the chanting: ‘Genoa, Genoa!’
‘Milito has to score’ … is getting me closer to my wildest orgasm, with every yard the forward advances … holding it until the very last moment, when he strikes … breathing rapidly … groaning … gripping tight to the rail, ready to be fueled by the outcry of red-blue celebration … when the ball flies into the gate and.
… hits the crossbar.
A disappointed uproar fills the stadium. An outraged bunch of Genoa fans all around us all of a sudden turn their eyes onto us. The next moment I see myself on the big screen, and immediately cover my face with my
hands.
Humiliated, afraid to turn around and see everybody pointing at me, I remain motionless … I hear a lighter click and catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, moving further and further away. I glance back, hoping for reassurance that Marco has not really left me here alone … but all I see is a faceless crowd with hundreds of smartphones directed at me.
If only I could run away …
I quickly look back down at the field with the dull 0:0 on the scoreboard, covering as much of my face as I can with my hair and hands.
Someone from behind taps me on the shoulder, signalling me to turn around - but I stand still, paralyzed with humiliation.
If I do nothing the container will be shipped to Libya …
The bright lights above gradually shut down, plunging the entire place into a deep obscurity.
The grandstands are thinning out … but I can still hear the vultures with cameras, waiting for me to turn around.
A day and night and another day again … thinking of one thing all my life—one thing! A thousand years would not be too much time! How will I be able to live with myself if the container gets on that ship tomorrow …?
Languidly, I turn around to the cold, dark emptiness and slowly hobble towards the exit.
By the exit, a bunch of shady, hashish-smoking kids stare ravenously at my damn skirt, scaring the shit out of me. Ignoring the pain in my knee, I rush to the highway. The green light of an oncoming taxi on the empty street appears to me like a saving grace.
‘Sei pazza?’ asks a Middle Eastern-looking driver. ‘Who runs on the road with a leg like that?’
‘I’m sorry … I just really need to get to my hotel,’ I say, shivering, leaning heavily on my crutch.
‘OK, get in … you should really take more care of your health.’
Back in my room, I take a long shower. The scars on my knee are bleeding; I pour vodka on them, and into my mouth, but it only makes me feel worse.
I lie down in bed, imagining the colossal, flame-breathing monster, ready to run after me at any moment … ready to swallow me. A weak sound comes out of my mouth … I begin humming and crooning, some melody or other … So I do have a voice! I could cry for help! But there is no one out there who will listen …
God took seeds from different worlds and sowed them on us in this earth, and His garden grew up and everything came up that could come up, but what grows lives and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other mysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the heavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will be indifferent to life and even grow to hate it.
I don’t want to be indifferent … and this wins over my desire never to see Marco again … Only one thing matters, one thing; to be able to dare!
At 8 a.m. I get up, put on a comfy dress and walk down to the street, overhung with shabby, red stone balconies under the gloomy skies.
The entrance to the container terminal is as inhospitable as it could be, with dockers smoking under the orange trees, pointing their fingers at me and jeering, ‘Donna del stadium,’ eagerly crowding round smartphone screens like monkeys, probably to watch the video of me and Marco.
Notwithstanding becoming a meme, I boldly hobble past this tiresome menagerie, through the gray metal doors.
With a dull pain spreading from my knee through my entire body, I limp all the way to the ‘Direttore’ sign. Putting on a professional poker face and slapping colour into my cheeks, I determinedly knock, and enter the office without waiting to be invited.
‘Katerina?’ Marco exclaims, getting up from his chair.
‘Ciao,’ I say with a broad smile, hobbling in towards his desk.
‘Ciao,’ Marco says, bewildered. ‘I’m a bit busy now … just finishing this fucking freight forward.’ He disconcertedly stares at his screen.
‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ I say, making a real effort to play nice, and not to slap him in the face.
‘I’m sorry. So many cameras,’ he says in a much softer voice. ‘I’m the director here, you know,’ he says guiltily. ‘Genoa is a small city … everyone knows about me.’
‘It’s OK,’ I smile, leaning on his desk and glimpsing a spreadsheet on the monitor … wondering if there is a way to make container number 33-9674K magically disappear from it. ‘Do you have coffee here?’
‘Si … certo,’ he mumbles. ‘Do you want? Wait, I’ll bring you,’ he smiles, passing by with his cigarette smell, radiating sensual energy.
As soon as he leaves, I quickly lean over to the screen and see a fairly simple spreadsheet, listing the hundreds of items for the consignment. Voraciously, I scroll down, looking for my container, getting lost in the numbers … and the Italian. My hands are shaking and my heart sinks when I hear Marco’s steps approaching, still not finding the container … damn it, there goes my chance.
In my mad dash back to where I was, I bump violently into the edge of the table and send a pot of pencils flying, when a Nokia phone rings and Marco’s voice, just outside the door, answers: ‘Ciao, mamma … tutto bene … si, ho mangiato …’
Taking a deep breath, I move back to the screen and hold down ‘Ctrl-F’. Miraculously, the search window appears and I type in the damn 33-9674K. The container data appears to me like a ray of light in the darkness. My years in investment banking have not been in vain after all – at least I can quickly delete a row in Excel, and all traces of it … at the very moment Marco is saying goodbye to his mom.
‘Cappuccino per la donna più bella del mondo,’ he gushes, striding into the office with a white ceramic cup.
‘Grazie mille,’ I say, with a Cheshire cat smile all over my face.
‘You’re so beautiful and blonde,’ he says, stroking my hair.
‘We could do so many things together,’ I wink, trying to distract him from looking too closely at the spreadsheet, playing with the cappuccino foam in my open mouth, keeping his lascivious attention.
‘Madonna, che porcella,’ he says, touching his groin … undoing his belt … but the phone on his desk suddenly rings, interrupting our carnal electricity.
‘Minchia,’ he yells, gesticulating like crazy. ‘It’s the cranes for the loading … I must send them the freight.’
‘Sure,’ I smile.
‘Si te la mando adesso la lista finale,’ he says, looking at the screen. ‘Fatto,’ he exclaims, segueing into a loud discussion about soccer, Milito, the stadium and YouTube … denying any connection with the ‘slut on the crutches’.
Resenting his attitude, and realizing I have done everything I can to stop the freight, I lean on my crutch and follow my screaming instinct to leave this place.
‘Where you go?’ Marco asks, hastily hanging up.
‘Um … I need to make a phone call,’ I falter, holding myself back from punching him in the face.
‘But who you need to call … I’m here,’ he implores, unbuttoning his shirt.
‘Mamma,’ I say - the first thing that comes to my mind.
‘Oh, la mamma,’ he says approvingly. ‘Mamma is very important. I talk to mine every day.’
‘I’ve got a lot of topics to discuss with her,’ I say, hobbling out the door, almost hearing the roar of the cargo being loaded onto the enormous deck of the ship to Libya.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WHITEOUT
Dreams of dirty bomb explosions haunt me throughout the flight to Kiev.
London, Tel Aviv, Paris … contamination, epidemics, fear … Rome, cold and empty … the Coliseum destroyed. Black Hawks fly over deserts, and wherever they go, people start hating and killing each other … I wake up and realize World War Three has begun.
A round of applause for the soft landing, the beeps and vibrations of incoming messages and calls that the people around nonchalantly respond to, bring me back to reality.
It was just a bad dream. None of it actually happened. No explosions … no Akbar Gromov … no Lehman Brothers.
I am simply home.
&
nbsp; Right now, this is all about acceptance … about choosing to be my best self, whatever happens … about forgiving my mom …
The holes in the deserted road to my village have only gotten bigger with time. The railroad tracks seem a lot less scary with hardly a tree left in the woodland beyond.
The old, smelly taxi stops at number 40 Karl Marx Street, with its small houses and candle-shaped poplars, reflected in the puddles that are starting to frost over under the rosy glare of sunset.
Before the driver has a chance to switch off the engine, a metal gate opens and I see my mom’s beautiful big green eyes, emphasized by her short, fiery red hair.
‘Katya, my daughter!’ she exclaims, rushing to meet me. ‘You’re dressed so lightly,’ she scolds, eyeing my cotton dress. ‘You could catch a cold,’ she warns, wiping away her tears with the long sleeve of the blue knitted jumper she made for me when I was in high school.
‘Did you just happen to open the door?’ I ask, bending down to hug her, catching the usual sharp bergamot and lavender fragrance, which, surprisingly, does not bother me now as it used to.
‘Since you said you were arriving today, I’ve been looking out for you all day long,’ she says, embracing me as if I were her biggest treasure. ‘Come in.’ She immediately grabs the handbag from my shoulder and lets me into the garden - asleep for the winter, but spick and span as ever - as she goes out to pay the taxi driver.
‘Mom, I can pay for it myself … I’m an investment banker,’ I say, trying to get to my wallet.
‘Look at what investment banking has done to you!’ she grumbles. ‘Go,’ she commands in her usual brusque manner, which would normally provoke nothing but protest inside me - but today it is different.
As soon as we enter the perpetually neat and tidy house, she starts fussing around the dinner table in the spotless kitchen, filling it with amazing-smelling food from my childhood – vareniki, cutlets, stuffed peppers, roasted duck with potato, Russian salads …
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