Free Voroshilovgrad by Serhiy Zhadan Page A

tell me what it’s for?”
    â€œOh yeah? What’s wrong with this grandpa of yours?” the girl asked suspiciously.
    â€œYou know, he’s got some problems.”
    â€œWhat kind of problems?”
    â€œYou know, with his head.”
    She took the bottle out of my hand, scrutinizing it.
    â€œThis isn’t for headaches.”
    â€œYou’re joking.”
    â€œIt’s for your stomach.”
    â€œDoes it loosen you or tighten you up?” I asked, just in case.
    â€œIt loosens you up,” she said, “and then it tightens you up again, but it’s past the expiration date. How’s he been feeling?”
    â€œHe’s hanging in there,” I replied. “Give me some vitamins or something.”

    Olga’s office was right around the corner, on a quiet, shady side street. There was a beat-up scooter parked next to the sprawling mulberry that grew by the doors. When I was a kid, there used to be a bookstore here. Its heavy iron doors were still there, still painted orange. I opened them and walked in.
    Olga was sitting by the window on a stack of papers, smoking. She was roughly my brother’s age, although she still looked quite good. She had curly red hair and chalky skin that seemed as though it was illuminated from the inside by fluorescent light; she hardly wore any makeup, which may have made her look younger. She was wearing a long dress and white designer sneakers.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œGood afternoon,” she said, waving the clouds of smoke away and sizing me up. “Are you Herman?”
    â€œHave we met before?”
    â€œInjured told me you’d be stopping by. Take a seat,” she said, pointing at a chair and getting to her feet. As she did, the papers she’d been perching on spilled all over the floor. I was about to lean over to help pick them up, but Olga stopped me, saying, “Forget it. Leave them there. I’ve been meaning to throw them out anyway.”
    She took a seat in her chair and swung her feet up onto the table like cops do in American movies, her sneakers resting heavily on some reports and log books. Her dress slid up for a second. She had some nice legs on her—long, lean calves and high hips.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” she asked.
    â€œAt the log books,” I answered and sat down across from her. “Olga, I’d like to have a talk with you. Do you have a few minutesto spare?”
    â€œI’ve got an hour. You want to talk about your brother?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œOkay then, you know what?” she said, drawing her legs back abruptly, so her calves flashed before my eyes again. “Let’s go to the park. It’s too stuffy in here. Did you drive here?”
    â€œI got a ride.”
    â€œNo big deal. I’ve got a scooter.”
    We went outside. There was a padlock hanging from the front doors; she closed it and hopped on the scooter, which only started on the third try. She nodded to me, and I got on, gingerly holding onto her shoulders.
    â€œHerman,” she said, twisting to face me and yelling over the roar of the motor. “Have you ever ridden a scooter before?”
    â€œSure,” I yelled back.
    â€œDon’t you know where to put your hands?”
    Flustered, I took my hands off her shoulders and put them on her waist, feeling the outline of her panties through her dress.
    â€œDon’t get too carried away,” she said, and we set off.
    The park was just across the street. Nevertheless, Olga tore down the road, drove onto the sidewalk, and darted between the thick bushes. There was a paved path ahead; Olga adeptly squeezed in between the trees and popped us right out onto the asphalt. The rows of trees were sunny and empty, and behind them were amusement park rides and swings, giving way in turn to other, younger trees, a playground whose sandboxes were being slowly taken over by grass, and old ticket booths now