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Serhiy Zhadan
getting him down, at least.
“Well then,” he said, his
real eye directed at the pot-
bellied man, “let’s give them
a call and get going.”
The pot-bellied man handed
me his beloved knife and
started digging around in his
overall pockets. They seemed
bottomless. He kept taking
things out and handing them
to Tolik and me to hold: I got
two red autumn apples, and
Tolik got a handful of spark
plugs. Then, much to my
surprise, I got a hand grenade
covered with nail polish; next
came a few old, battered
cassettes for Tolik, whose
glass eye twinkled joyfully.
Finally, the pot-bellied man
reached all the way down
past his knee and came back
up with an old Sony Ericsson
phone, one with a short
antenna. He walked a few
steps away fromus, pulledout
the antenna, and turned the
thing on. After a few minutes
of struggling with the ancient
apparatus, he called back,
dejectedly, “I don’t have any
bars. We’ll have to drive up
to the top of the hill.”
“We’re down in a gully here,”
Tolik explained. “We’ll have
to drive up to the top of the
hill,” he repeated. “We’ll take
a little detour. We’ll be there
in no time.”
Gosha collected his toys
and dropped them into his
cavernous pockets, wiping
the grenade off on his sleeve
before tossing it back in. He
also took back the machete.
The three of them just started
milling around, seemingly
expecting
something
to
happen.
“What’s the deal?” Mr. One
Eye blurted out at last. “Are
we going or what?”
“What are you going to drive
up there in?” the presbyter
asked, clearly confused.
“What do you mean?” Tolik