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7
VOROShILOVGRAD
“Herman?” the soccer star
asked. “Yura’s brother?”
“Yep.”
Tolik
broke
out
into
amiable laughter. Then he
remembered
his
fellow
travelers
and
started
introducing me to them.
“That’s Gosha,” he said,
pointing at the pot-bellied
man. “He showed us the
shortcut. We were like
plantation owners,” Tolik
said, pointing at the machete,
“cutting our way toward you.
Yeah, and that’s Siryozha,
Gosha’s son. He’s studying at
the local community college.
He’s going to be an engineer—
well, maybe.”
Siryozha, continuing to listen
to his music, waved at us.
Gosha gave the presbyter a
long and heartfelt handshake.
“We went straight through
the fields on purpose,” Tolik
explained to the presbyter,
“to cut you off. It’d be best
to turn here, otherwise we
could bump into the farmers
farther down. We’re at war
with them.”
“What are you fighting for?”
I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Tolik asked,
surprised. “To expand our
sphere of influence. Sure, in
all honesty, sometimes we do
cross over into their territory
now and again. But, you
know, we have to hide our shit
somewhere,” he explained.
“We leave everything out in
their fields. That’s capitalism
for you. Anyway… they’re
waiting for us out there,”
Tolik said, looking off into the
distance.
Only now did I notice that his
right eye was glass. Maybe
that’s why he’d looked so
mysterious to me. Now he
was laughing heartily again—
he was an easygoing guy, it
seemed, despite everything;
living in a warzone wasn’t