“Give it up, Dirk!”
Dickerson stops in his tracks, shoots a glance at the scene below and then takes a running jump for the opposite roof.
“Get a man up there, on the double!”
His wingtips dig into the surface of the awning like claws, his hands grope for a ledge.
Step strikes a match from a storefront niche across the street, his hands tremble beneath the flame.
…
“And I just forgot to go home.”
“No kidding, so you’re 49 years old with no profession to speak of, fly to a former Soviet republic on a whim and then forget to get back on the plane… Have I got that right?”
“That’s right. PR is about people – the kindness factor…”
“Now wait a second. Let’s get back to the plane. You had a return ticket, didn’t you? Those cost money, and if you were skint enough to seek employment at a local English-language weekly…”
Losser clears his throat: “Urgh, I loved it. I fell in love with Kyiv at first sight. The more I learned about the country and the people, argh, I wanted to learn more…”
“Well, you certainly must have learned some by now – 14 years has it been? That’s a lot of time to at least pick up the language, Russian or Ukrainian. But I see that you’re more interested in teaching… or ‘training’ as you call it.”
Smacks his lips: “Slurp, well, I always say that Kyiv adopted me…”
“You? That’s rich. Do you realize how many kids live off the streets in this town? The orphanages are booked full, which is more than one can say about the stomachs of their inhabitants. Snorting glue, turning tricks, or just freezing stiff-haired near the train station…”
…
“I’ve got him in my sights. What’s the order?”
Dickerson, ass down and eyes up, has got hold of the roof’s ledge but can’t or won’t pull himself up. His face glows orange from a billboard above: Red Man Tobacco.
“Who sent Woo there in the first place? Soft-headed son of a bitch… he didn’t deserve that, though. Had a wife and kids. Yeah, I’m sure someone mentioned that.”
His knuckles harden but the fingers begin to slip, sweat drips into his eyes. His feet feel like they’re on a vertical dance floor, all smooth and hard, no doubt like the pavement below.
“My woman won’t understand. I wonder what she’ll tell the kids. Your father was a maniac, girls, and I won’t discuss it further. No, no, she wouldn’t say it like that, like some line from an old movie. It would be more like: ‘The police killed papa, now shut up and go to bed.’ Oh, I’m losing my mind.”
…
“Ok, ok, let’s get to your current impressions about this fair city. So, you miss the charm of going into the little corner store and talking to the lady about which sausages to eat…”
“Correct.”
“An aficionado, I gather. So which do you prefer – Doktorskaya Kolbasa or the smoked Hunter Thins? How about sardelki – ever put one of those in your face?”
“Well,” Losser shifts in his chair, launching his hands into the orbit of a professional speaker.
“No, no, don’t answer. See, you haven’t bought one yet. You’re still in that charming little store of Kyiv’s past, idling away the time with some wholesome village maid. She presses flat her apron, simpering at the sight of such a fine foreign gentleman. ‘Oh, you know your sausages well, Mr. Losser.’ ‘I’ve been around a bit,’ you answer, ‘but forgot to go back home – nyuh, nyuh, nyuh.’
“‘Would you like to try one of these? I ground and pressed the pork with my own hands.’ ‘What a fine city you have here, Madam. I should like to make it my home.’ To which she answers: ‘But maybe you would like to buy one of my sausages first, kind sir.’
“‘I’ve fallen in love with it and dream of being adopted.’ ‘Well, I’ve got plenty of kids of my own. Actually, only two, but with my husband long gone – an alcoholic, you see – it’s hard enough to feed them, so I work in this dump to pay the bills. Truth be told, I know little of what I sell, except that two guys pull it off the back of a truck a couple of times a week…’”
…
“Give me your hand, Dirk.”
But it’s too late, he’s already falling – first like an elevator racing past windows, ledges, and wall; then, slapped flat, he begins to sink, numb to any surface or surroundings. It’s dark and then light, warm and then cold, fear, now relief.
An elephant roars; a trumpet to the mad. Dark-skinned girls wrapped in white. A white man has come with a red face. What is his name, what is his shame? Welcome to Delhi Delights!
Step spits without taking his hands out of his pockets, then walks off.
…
“Ladies and Gentlemen, that was Welsh Losser, PR executive and Kyiv-based writer, on change and challenge in post-revolutionary Kyiv. Thanks for coming on tonight, Welsh.”
“You bet.”
His brow strangely knit, and bug eyes exhausted by the studio lights, Losser rises to waddle off the set.
The host promptly moves on to welcome the next guest, and the technicians step in Losser’s way.
Out on the street, it’s dark, an ambulance siren cries out. Losser decides to walk it. First past a pharmacy – maybe he should refill his prescription? A coffee shop – why didn’t he talk about coffee? A drunk lurches toward him with a raised finger, but soon he’s safely in the Metro.
…
“I thought that was you in here,” says Smith, stepping in from the rain.
The older, still well-built man stands reading near the magazine stand. Smith makes out the dark nude forms on cheap gloss with surprise on the verge of a smirk forestalled by the awareness of that little foreigner watching it all from behind the counter.
Filed December 30, 2014