Down from Cold Mountain
A short story
Kharkov
Winter 2002
…
We walked down the sidewalk, talking neither to passersby, bundled in their warm coats, nor to each other. We were on our way to an appointment.
The long winter night had already begun before we stopped for dinner, and now that we were venturing out again after some soup and bread, the chill had deepened. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Elder Johnson, my junior companion, fussing with the sleeves of his coat, pulling them to cover more of his gloves. I turned my focus back to the cold concrete, scanning the ground with intent.
A bank of yellow lights—hung on the side of a blocky building at the busy intersection near our apartment—declared the temperature to be twenty below, and I could feel it when I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and the fine hairs froze together.
I lurched forward suddenly, taking a few stuttering steps then jumping and landing in a sideways stance and sliding a few feet.
“It’s not very slippery tonight. Too cold, I guess.”
It had not snowed in a week. The sidewalks were clear except for the periodic patches of ice that were laid out in dashes and dots like Morse code; remnants of snow packed down by the Ukrainian school boys who made every effort to slide to their destinations in their smooth-soled shoes.
When I was not sliding, I set a slow, time-killing pace. I could tell that it was something that frustrated Johnson, but he had yet to say anything to me about it. He still had the zeal of a new missionary and was only slowly coming to understand the reasons behind why I did some things the way I did.
Not many people were out, but a man approached. Johnson set his jaw and moved to intercept.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you have a moment to talk about Je…”
“I’m busy. Get lost.”
The man dodged and continued on his way. I looked at Johnson, eyebrows raised. Johnson shrugged.
Our attempts to stop and talk to fellow pedestrians were coldly received at the sunniest of times, and most missionaries quickly learned that such attempts at night were not only pointless but bordered on taboo among the chronically suspicious people.
We walked away from our neighborhood, a cluster of massive concrete apartment blocks of Soviet construction, and towards the so-called private homes: rustic single family dwellings without running water.
Beyond the last of the apartment buildings, we passed a few small buildings and then a long wooden fence, the boards of which were almost white from the weather but still tightly fitted.
A man sat slumped against it.
He wore an olive green sweater and the rough pants of a workman. His red puffy face hung down over his belly, and his head was uncovered, exposing messy light brown hair crowded around a sizable bald spot. He was not dead, as his shallow exhalations stained the night air a faint white, but he was passed out.
This was not the first inebriate that I had come across lying on the side of the road in my time in Ukraine, but the sight obviously set Johnson ill at ease.
He stopped short of the man. So did I.
“Shouldn’t we do something? Can we call the police?”
“The police are more likely to try to shake us down for a bribe than help him. I’ll tell you what my trainer told me the first time I saw a guy like this. He said that if you go over there and try to shake him awake or get him up on his feet, people will think you’re robbing him. That’s how it works here. Everyone leaves a drunk man to sleep it off. Any attempts to help are suspicious. We should keep going.”
Johnson, who was only a few months into his mission, had not yet been given this advice, and he gave me a sideways look as we passed by the drunk. A few paces beyond him, we passed a plump middle aged woman, her head covered in a scarf and the rest of her body by an ankle-length down coat, purple with brown fur trim at the wrists and down turned hood. Seeing the man on the ground she began to shriek.
“O Lord! Boys, you have to do something. You have to help! He is going to freeze to death.”
I looked at her, not knowing what to say. She continued without slowing, taking measured shuffling steps to avoid slipping.
“O Lord!” she clucked, crossing herself as she walked on.
“What are we supposed to do?” I finally shouted.
“Get him off the street,” she said back over her shoulder. “He’s going to freeze to death!”
I scowled. I looked at the man, then at the woman drawing further away. I shook my head.
“I guess she’s right.”
I looked up and down the sidewalk, casting about for some inspiration as to where to take the man. In the direction we were headed, the sidewalk dissolved in the darkness of the neighborhood of private homes, each with high brick walls and spiked metal gates. In the other direction, there was a small wooden building abutting the nearest apartment block. It resembled a shipping container or one of the portable offices I’d seen on construction sites back home. It was painted lime green with yellow trim. A pair of small, barred windows were cut into the same side as the door and they emitted an orange glow through frosted glass.
“Let’s try to take him in there,” I said, nodding in the direction of the building. “Let’s see if we can get him to stand up.”
I shook the man by his shoulder, speaking to him in Russian.
“Excuse me, friend, time to get up.”
I shook harder. The man’s head flopped.
“Wake up, man!”
Growing frustrated, I kicked the sole of his foot. But it did nothing to stir him.
“I don’t think he’s waking up,” said Johnson. “Do you think we can carry him?”
I gauged the distance to the building and sighed.
“I don’t think we have any other choice. Let’s do it.”
Johnson took the man by the ankles, while I attempted to get a grasp on his thick torso. We scooted the man away from the fence and I gave him a bear hug from behind and lifted.
We staggered down the sidewalk. Immediately, the man’s sweater and shirt began to ride up to his armpits, where I had him encircled with his arms.
“Stop stop stop,” said Johnson, “I need a better grip.” He took off his gloves and grabbed the man by the ankles again.
We heaved him back up, but he was dead weight and his bottom dragged on the ground as my grip on him continued to slip. At last we reached the door. I was sweating and out of breath.
“You’d better open it,” I said. “If I let go now I won’t be able to pick him up again.”
The door opened behind me and warm air washed over me. I dragged the man inside.
“What the hell?” came a voice from across the room.
Johnson tried to come in behind but he could only stand awkwardly, wedged against the door that was propped open by the unconscious man’s protruding feet. I lifted my head and looked around the room. It was a bar.
A few tables were crammed against the street-side wall; six or seven men sat around them. They all stared at us. A narrow countertop split the room in two. Behind it were flimsy shelves with half-full bottles and empty glasses. A few posters were on the walls: mostly local beer brands but also some women, hair teased out and bare breasts airbrushed to oblivion.
A man at the nearest table shouted.
“Hey, he was just in here!”
The room erupted with laughter. All except for the barman, who stood glaring, arms crossed. He was short but solid and he had a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once before. Tattoos—some intentional, others looking like those I’d seen on men in the Donbass: inky remnants of injuries incurred working in a coal mine—covered his hands and disappeared up the sleeves of his blue and white striped telnyashka1.
“Close the fucking door. The cold is coming in.”
I pulled the man the rest of the way in, propping him against the bar. Johnson closed the door.
“Now, what are you doing?”
“He was lying out there in the cold,” I said. “He was going to freeze. He doesn’t even have a coat.”
Hearing my accent, he raised an eyebrow.
“Where are you from?”
“From America.”
There were murmurs and scrutinizing looks from the group.
“From America? Here is the simple truth, boys from America. If he had wanted his coat, he wouldn’t have sold it for samogon2.”
Everyone laughed. The barman smiled, a gold incisor glinted in the warm light.
“We couldn’t just leave him there.”
“So you just want to leave him here?”
“Does anyone here know him?” I asked. “His family?”
The barman scratched his head.
“I think Sasha knows him. You’re neighbors, right San’?”
A young man at the back table perked up his buzzed head.
“What? No, who are you? I don’t know this guy.”
“Not you, dummy. The other Sasha. Baldy.”
“Yeah. I know him,” said a middle-aged man. “So what?”
The barman repeated the answer to us.
“He knows him. So what?”
“Maybe you can help this man get home when he wakes up.”
Bald Sasha noisily dismissed the suggestion and went back to his drink.
“Sorry, boys.”
“Well, he is here now and we have an appointment.”
“That doesn’t suit me.”
He spoke with a flat menace that needed no posturing.
I looked around the room. Eyes bounced between us and the barman.
After a moment of silence, the barman grinned widely. There was still steel in his eyes.
“Perhaps we can come up with an arrangement or something of the like. Your friend there is clearly very sick,” the barman flicked the side of his neck with his middle finger3, “and he will need some medicine after he wakes up.”
“Some hair of the dog!” shouted one of the bar’s patrons. His friends laughed.
“Exactly. And that kind of medicine is not free. Perhaps you boys could chip in. As you can see, we are not wealthy men, factory workers, builders, veterans on disability pensions and such. And I am sure that we could get Sasha to drive his neighbor home, but, you know, gas is also not free. And what happens if this man pukes or pisses himself in the car?”
“How much would you need?”
The man considered his payday.
“Do you have dollars?”
“No.”
“Gryvni?”
“Yes, gryvni.”
“Three hundred.”
“We do not have that much.”
“This is very tough. Very tough.” He paused, sizing me up. “One hundred fifty.”
I unzipped my coat and reached into my shirt pocket. I pulled out a wad of folded bills that I kept secure behind the black name tag that was clipped there, and started counting.
The barman watched closely, checking to see how well he had guessed.
I slapped the money down on the bar. I moved to put the rest back in my pocket, but the barman spotted the bill folded on the outside.
“And another twenty so your friend can buy back his coat.”
I peeled off the bill and tossed it on the rest.
“That is very generous of you, boys. Now get lost. Have a peaceful night.”
Johnson opened the door and stepped out. I followed, not looking back.
The cold hit me full in the face and poured down over my chest. It felt wonderful until the sweat cooled and I shivered. I adjusted my scarf and zipped up my coat.
Through the door, a muffled voice reverberated, followed by cheers.
I checked my watch.
“We’d better hurry. We’re going to be late for our appointment.”
A striped undershirt worn by soldiers in some former Soviet countries.
Moonshine.
A gesture indicating drunkenness.
Great story!