Free Voroshilovgrad by Serhiy Zhadan Page B

inhabited by drowsy, cooing pigeons and skulking stray dogs. Olga roundeda fountain, turned onto a side path, zoomed by two girls walking a dachshund, and stopped by an old bar overlooking the river. The bar had been around for ages; I remembered how back in the late ’80s we used to make bootleg tapes in one of the back rooms. In my Communist Youth League days, I’d even recorded some heavy metal here. Oddly enough, the bar was still open. We went into a rather spacious room suffused with the smell of nicotine. The walls were paneled in hardwood and the windows were draped with heavy curtains dotted with numerous burn holes and lipstick marks. A sixty-year-old guy who looked like a Gypsy, meaning he was wearing a white dress shirt and had gold teeth, was manning the bar. Olga greeted him, and he nodded in reply.
    â€œI had no clue this place was still open.”
    â€œI haven’t been here in ages myself,” Olga said. “I just didn’t want to talk in the office. It’s more relaxing here.”
    The Gypsy came over.
    â€œDo you have any gin and tonic?” Olga asked.
    â€œNo,” he said firmly.
    â€œWell, what do you have?” she asked, a bit flustered. “Herman, what are you going to have?” she asked me. “They don’t have any gin and tonic.”
    â€œDo you have any port?” I asked the Gypsy.
    â€œYeah, white port.”
    â€œOh, I’ll have that,” I said. “What about you, Olga?”
    â€œWell, fine,” she agreed, “we’ll have port. So, have you seen your brother lately?”
    â€œThe last time was about six months ago. Do you know where he is?”
    â€œNo, I don’t. Do you?”
    â€œNope. What are you to him, anyway?”
    â€œI’m his accountant,” Olga said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “Isn’t that why you wanted to talk to me?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to imply anything.”
    â€œWho said you did? Don’t worry about it.”
    The Gypsy came back over, carrying our port in the squat glasses they use to serve tea on trains, though their new role had allowed them to shed the metal holders meant to keep passengers from burning their fingers.
    â€œWell, what’s your next move?” Olga asked, taking a cautious sip.
    â€œI don’t know,” I answered. “I’m only in town for a few days.”
    â€œI see. What do you do for a living?”
    â€œNothing really. Here, take a look,” I said, pulling my business card out of my pocket and handing it to her.
    â€œSo you’re an expert?”
    â€œYep, sure am,” I said and downed my port. “Olga, you know the whole business is in my name, right?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWhat should I do?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, I can’t just leave everything as is, can I?”
    â€œMaybe you can, maybe you can’t.”
    â€œWould that be a problem?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œSo . . . what should I do?”
    â€œHaven’t you tried getting in touch with your brother?” Olga asked after a short pause.
    â€œI’ve tried. But he hasn’t been picking up his phone. I have no idea where he is. Kocha says he’s in Amsterdam.”
    â€œThat Kocha . . .” Olga said and motioned for the Gypsy to bring her another.
    Visibly irritated, the Gypsy hauled himself up, placed the unfinished bottle of port on our table, and went outside—clearly, he didn’t want to be bothered anymore.
    â€œThe gas station, is it even profitable?” I asked.
    â€œHow should I put it?” Olga replied after I had poured another round and she had downed her glass. “Your brother made enough money to keep the place afloat. But he never made enough to open another station.”
    â€œUh-huh. My brother didn’t want to sell it?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œDid anyone make him an offer?”
    â€œYeah,” Olga