The Mountain and the Wall

by Alisa Ganieva

  “Wait, he invited us, what was his name…he wasn’t an old man, around fifty or so…”

  “No one invited us. We went into some house on our own. It was empty, but there was a fire smoldering in the hearth. The hearth was old-fashioned, not modern. And then that…what was his name…showed up.”

  Shamil and Arip looked at each other in silence.

  “Let’s check,” began Shamil, but he broke off before finishing his thought. The imposing crest of the mountain, which had served as the village’s primary defense, was completely bare. No towers—no ruins, even.

  “Well, I guess we did fall asleep!” he exclaimed, looping around the mountainside, looking up.

  Panting, they climbed to the peak, but there was no sign of any settlement. Arip got out his cellphone and showed Shamil the date and time.

  “If we slept, then we slept out here all night and all morning too, and didn’t even feel the cold.”

  They remained silent on the way back until they saw the river and the bend beyond which the rafts with the tourists had disappeared. Then they walked a couple more kilometers and finally reached the road.

  Shamil had forgotten this incident and had recalled it only now, in the gym. Even more than it had at the time, the entire episode now felt like nothing more than a dream.

  10

  It was late when they finished their workout and went outside; night had fallen. Nariman got out the car’s key remote and clicked open the lock. A black Priora parked by the stadium flickered its headlights and beeped three times. Shamil got in front, and little Arsen sat in the back seat.

  “Arsenchik, how are things at the uni?” asked Shamil, watching the darkness speed by in the tinted side mirror.

  “Greased the skids as usual. Really warmed up the profs. Basically used up all my money, so by the time I went in for the last exam, I was completely broke…Didn’t feel like coughing up any more cash. I thought, my dad and Isaev, my prof, are best buddies—they’ll work it out without any capital exchanging hands. But Isaev turned out to be a real jerk. Can’t get anything done without throwing some kopecks around.”

  “What about the ladies, any luck on that front?”

  “There’s this one piece…” Arsen noted with some satisfaction.

  Nariman slapped the wheel and guffawed: “You’re lying! No chance! Nothing’s shaking at all. One time he picked up this slut in Reduktorny,” he said, then turned to Shamil to explain:

  “Our genius here managed to get her phone number; she lured him to cafés a couple of times, really ran up a tab, then she replaced her SIM card, and that was the last he saw of her!”

  “Bullshit.” Arsen was flustered, “Want me to call her right now?”

  “Go ahead!” Nariman laughed and jerked the wheel back and forth, swerving all over the road. The car began to shake.

  “What the hell?” yelped Shamil.

  “They’re putting up a shopping center; it’s a big deal, will have an escalator and everything. It’s Crazy Maga’s thing.”

  “Maga the deputy?”

  “Who else?”

  Nariman lowered the window, poked his head out, and yelled to someone at the top of his voice: “Le, saul, Rashik, Rashik! What’s up?! What’s with the suit? Hey, how about you lend me your tie?”

  Shamil tried to see who was being addressed, but Nariman had already left his target behind.

  “So what’s going on with you and your girl?” he asked Shamil, with a sly look.

  “It’s over.”

  “On account of the wedding?”

  “I got tired of her,” answered Shamil, leaning back. “I can give you her address, she lives near the Central Mall.”

  “I’m on to her, the guys briefed me. Anyway, she’s with Gazik now.”

  “Is she putting out?” asked Shamil indifferently.

  “And how! Gazik’s already shot an entire series of dirty videos with her on his cell.”

  “So have you heard about the Wall?”

  “What Wall?” asked Arsen.

  “A wall, as in an actual wall. Border troops are building it in Stavropol, supposedly, to cut us off from Russia.”

  Nariman guffawed again. “What, Shoma, are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m telling you, that’s the word on the street,” said Shamil.

  “Wait, Nariman, stop!” Arsen hissed suddenly. He rolled down his window and leaned out excitedly.

  “What’s up?”

  “Look, over by the movie theater.”

  Shamil lowered his window too, and saw the silhouettes of two women moving briskly along the dimly lit avenue. A large crowd trailed behind them, picking up loiterers along the way. Cars honked and braked. Nariman wheeled around and joined the procession.

  “Hey, girls, hop in, we’ll give you a lift!” came from all sides.

  One of the girls was very tall, with a mass of curly yellow hair. She wore a kind of sarafan that was waving in the breeze. The other was a short brunette in tight jeans with a famous brand name embroidered in rhinestones on the back pocket. They walked without looking around, clicking their heels loudly on the sidewalk. Nariman and Arsen joined the chase, beeping enthusiastically and calling out invitations to the girls.

  Shamil observed these goings on complacently.

  Soon some of the drivers gave up; the crowd of pedestrians following the girls thinned out, but the two of them kept creeping along the avenue, which led inexorably into unilluminated wasteland.

  “I like the one with the curly hair,” said Nariman. He fumbled around in his CDs and put on a popular foreign song.

  “They’ve stopped!” shouted Arsen.

  The girls had indeed stopped and were standing on the side of the street, shifting helplessly from one foot to another.

  “There’s some mud over there,” noted Shamil, trying to see the sidewalk in the darkness.

  Nariman poked his head out the window: “Honestly, girls, we’re not going to do anything, we’ll just take you home,” he reassured them. “Someone’s going to pick you up no matter what, you know.”

  “No they’re not!” shouted the brunette.

  “I’ll be right back,” whispered Nariman to his passengers. He got out of the car and walked up to the girls.

  “I bet he’ll talk them into it,” snickered Arsen from the back seat.

  They could see Nariman talking and gesticulating; the girls kept turning away. Finally he held out his hand to the one with the curly hair, and she took it after another moment’s hesitation. He led her across the mud, skipping over the deeper puddles, then went back to the brunette and helped her over to where her friend was waiting.

  “Shamil, turn the music down, what’s he saying?” said Arsen.

  Shamil ignored him. “What difference does it make?” he asked listlessly.

  Nariman was pointing to the car and talking energetically, explaining something to the girls, who were laughing now. Finally the three of them headed toward the Priora.

  “Nariman, what a player,” whistled Arsen, impressed.

  While everyone got settled in the car, Shamil turned down the music and adjusted the front mirror so he could get a better look at the girls. The tall one’s curly hair was bleached, and her features seemed just a bit too large for her face. The brunette was nice looking, but too young.

  “Let’s get acquainted: I’m Shamil, this is Nariman, and this is Arsen,” he began.

  “We’ve already met Nariman,” giggled the girls.

  “What’re your names?” asked Arsen ingratiatingly.

  The girls exchanged glances and the curly haired one paused, then answered, “I’m Amina, and she’s Zaira.”

  “What’s your ethnicity?” asked Shamil.

  “We’re Avars.”

  “Where are you from?” asked Shamil.

  “Soviet District.”

  “Both of you?”

  The girls giggled again.

  “Mar’arul mats’ l’alebish?”* Shamil asked.
/>   “We don’t,” answered Zaira, “All I know is ‘Kvanaze rach’a.’”†

  “Le, you’re a sly one, Shamil,” Arsen broke in, “you won’t let anyone get a word in edgewise.”

  “I’m just curious. It’s almost midnight, and here are these beautiful girls out on the streets all by themselves. Where were you headed?” grinned Shamil.

  “We were at the movies,” Amina said, adjusting her hair as she justified herself. “We didn’t realize that the movie was going to go on so long. It started at 7:30 and lasted four hours, what a nightmare.”

  “We followed you all the way from the theater,” Nariman pointed out.

  “Why?”

  “Well, we took a real liking to you.”

  “To tell the truth, there’s only one thing we didn’t like.” Shamil said, smirking.

  The girls were clearly curious. “What’s that?”

  “You got in the car with us.”

  “Cut it out, Shoma!” Nariman waved his hand in Shamil’s face.

  The girls snorted: “It never changes; you’re all the same! We’re bad if we don’t get in, but if we do, we’re even worse.”

  “He was just joking,” Arsen said, hoping to calm them down. “How about we take you to Tarki-Tau?”

  “No, take us right home, please,” Amina said firmly. “To Uzbek Gorodok.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Nariman smiled. “But tell us about yourselves in the meantime. Where do you go to school, what do you do? You first, Amina.”

  “I’m from Khas.”

  “You go to school around here, is that it?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  “What the hell?” Nariman was getting irritated. “We’re having a perfectly pleasant, normal conversation here.”

  “She goes to Pedagogical,” Zaira gave the game away. “Anyway, we’re almost home. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  “Where should we stop?” asked Nariman.

  The girls whispered to each other and finally pointed to a corner of a five-story brick building looming up at the end of an alley.

  Nariman didn’t believe them. “Is this really where you live? Seems to me we got here a little too fast.”

  “Yes, of course, thank you very much.”

  They stopped, but no one was ready to call it a night.

  “Looks like they’re not waiting up for you,” noted Shamil, “or else you wouldn’t be out so late.”

  “It’s not actually where we live. It’s our aunt’s apartment. We’re staying at her place while she’s in the hospital,” said Zaira.

  “So let’s drive around some, we’re not weirdos or anything,” said Nariman.

  “We’ll just go downtown, do some donuts,” added Arsen.

  The girls held another whispered consultation, then Amina said, “All right, but just a quick trip.”

  They wheeled around, merged onto the avenue, and sped back the way they’d come, toward the streetlights and sparse neon signs.

  “Narik, take it up to two hundred, I’ll take a picture with my phone,” Arsen suggested gleefully.

  Nariman floored it, as if he’d been waiting for the invitation. The girls squealed.

  “Too fast!”

  Someone turned the music up. Tires squealing, they turned onto the main street and sped toward the center of town, dodging and weaving around the other cars on the road. The speedometer needle strained and hovered at maximum. More squealing. Arsen rolled down his window, and the girls’ hair whipped him in the face. Shamil languidly watched the streets as they looped around to the pulsing rhythm of the song, the whistling of the wind, and the joyful cries of his fellow passengers.

  “I’m going to take the picture!” howled Arsen, holding his phone in his outstretched hand.

  “Hey, are you getting any service on that?” the girls asked him.

  “No one’s got any these days,” answered Arsen, and then, shoving his entire torso out the window, he roared:

  “Ai saul!”

  Someone on the street yelled back.

  “Let’s hit the square!” proposed Nariman. He was really getting into it.

  “What do you mean? It’s closed off,” said Shamil.

  “I’ve got a pass,” bragged Nariman.

  “Wow, you can get onto the square?” simpered the girls.

  “Just turn down the music some,” Shamil said blandly.

  A grim-looking sergeant inspected the ID that Nariman held out the window, scrutinized his face, and, to Shamil’s surprise, lifted the barrier. The Priora shrieked and leaped onto the broad, completely empty square. The girls gasped. Arsen laughed. Nariman grinned proudly, braked in the middle of the square and started wheeling the car around its axis. The girls shrieked again.

  “Ai, I’m going to throw up!” fake-groaned Amina.

  Judging from what Shamil saw in the mirror, both of them were actually ecstatic.

  “Nariman, back up and wheel around again,” suggested Arsen, bouncing on his seat.

  Nariman obediently performed the maneuver, skidding across the pavement.

  “Now it’s off to the Padishakh!” shouted Arsen.

  “What do you say, Shamil?” asked Nariman.

  “To the club? Right, let’s go,” Shamil said, and they sped off.

  11

  It was a boisterous night in the Padishakh. On a stage in the outdoor seating area a girl with rainbow-dyed, shag-cut hair, wearing a provocative silvery jumpsuit, was performing a suggestive dance. Spotlights strafed the crowd, catching the dancers’ euphoric faces, their undulating backs and upraised hands.

  “It’s Sabina Gadzhieva!” shouted Zaira, gaping and pointing at the stage.

  The crowd roared, and a man in dark glasses and a grotesque fur vest, with a red bandanna around his head, leaped onstage and stood next to the performer.

  “Yoi, Makhachkala, welcome Sabina Gadzhieva!” bellowed the man.

  “And Maga-Do-o-o-odo!” added Sabina Gadzhieva, dragging out the sounds.

  The techno gave way to a throbbing drumbeat, and the man in the bandanna launched into a rap recitative.

  “What an assclown!” smirked Shamil, squinting and casting a contemptuous glance over Maga-Dodo.

  But Nariman’s and Arsen’s thoughts were elsewhere. They energetically scanned the lively covered galleries around the open-air bar, looking for a place to sit down with the girls.

  “So Shoma, are you going to try your luck with the blonde—Amina?” Nariman inquired, half whispering.

  “Nah, do whatever you want, but look…the other one is a little unripe. She’s still in high school or something, near as I can tell.”

  “We’re good, Arsen will figure it out. Right, we’re off to find a table.”

  They started jostling their way through the crowd, drawing the excited girls after them. Meanwhile, Sabina Gadzhieva gyrated and sang along with the rapper in a hoarse, passionate voice:

  Your lips kiss,

  Your hands caress.

  But your heart is stone,

  Don’t leave me alone.

  See me dance,

  Give me a chance.

  Don’t hate, don’t hit,

  You Yank or Brit.

  Don’t leave me alone.

  The people on the dance floor howled along while the man in the bandanna continued his unintelligible rapping. And only then, for some reason, did Shamil recall giving his pistol to Amina before they’d entered the club, and watching her hide it in her cute little clutch. Nariman and Arsen had done the same, on the assumption that the girls wouldn’t be searched. Their calculations were correct; they’d managed to get the weapons through. Now Shamil wanted his gun back. He started squeezing through the crowd after his companions. There weren’t that many girls on the dance floor, but they were pretty. One of them in profile looked like Madina, and he half-intentionally bumped into her with his shoulder. A stocky, hulking guy appeared out of nowhere and gave Shamil the evil eye, but he had already stepped off the dance
floor and made his way to the bar.

  “Salam, let me have one of those cocktails,” Shamil said to the lanky bartender, and again, from a distance now, observed the dancers and Sabina Gadzhieva. The star was grinding against the rapper, all but melting in his arms. Her silvery jumpsuit radiated multicolored sparks in the glow of the spotlights and her thick lips were parted in a broad, sultry smile.

  Shamil got his cocktail and started squeezing between the tables in the gallery, jostling others like himself, young men with time on their hands, looking for something. Finally he located Arsen and Zaira, who had perched at a corner table on the balcony from where they could see the whole dance hall.

  “What’s going on?” Arsen asked.

  “Nothing, I just wanted to get my piece.”

  “Amina left her purse here, I’ll get it for you,” said Zaira, reaching into her friend’s beribboned clutch.

  “Leave it where it is, Shamil, they’ll be able to see it under your T-shirt. You can get it back later,” said Arsen.

  “No, I’m out of here—I’m not feeling it,” objected Shamil, and clanking his cocktail glass down on the table, he slipped his pistol inconspicuously into its holster.

  “Maybe we can go together?” Zaira asked anxiously.

  “What are you so nervous about?” Arsen tried to calm her down. “Look at your friend, she’s really feeling it!”

  Shamil glanced down at the dance floor and sure enough, there was Amina, undulating under the brilliant spotlights in a cloud of wild yellow curls, the folds of her sarafan billowing around her, much like Nariman, orbiting her in ever-narrowing circles.

  Arsen stood up, put his arm around Shamil’s shoulders, and whispered:

  “Brother, this chick is being a bad sport—she’s a real grouch.”

  “Better leave her alone. She looks underage.”

  “Why did she put on such a show, then? Why can’t she just have a normal conversation with me?”

  “Can we get some food here? I’m starving.”

  “Le, go order something; I’m going to drag her downstairs. I promise, I’m not going to leave her like this. There’s no point in her playing naïve.”

  Arsen turned to Zaira and started sweet-talking her.