A Constellation of Vital Phenomena

CHAPTER



15





“SHE NEVER TALKED about how it happened,” Sonja said, thirty minutes outside Grozny’s outer suburbs, ten since she had begun telling him. “How she got to Italy. If they took her on a plane or in a car or what. She never even told me who took her there, when she left, how she survived the first war. Nothing. She probably just didn’t want to think about it, but I always thought it was her way of punishing me for leaving her.” Akhmed had set the radio to 102.9. She barely knew him and that was the only reason she told him; he was, himself, static. She couldn’t explain her confession any more than the calm that followed.

“War is unnatural,” Akhmed said. “It causes people to act unnaturally.”

“Even you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I was never this charming.” He stretched his hands in front of him; brown fields wedged between his fingers. “In the first war Dokka began classifying everything. He was an arborist by training, so he was used to dividing plants into species and genera and family, and one day he began doing that with everything else. With people. Everyone was a pacifist or an imperialist or a fascist or a classicist or any other number of -ists, and anyone who criticized his system was an anarchist.”

“Havaa speaks in more -isms than a philosophy PhD.”

“Yes, she really does take after him. She began making up her own and I remember hearing them discuss mustachism and shearistry and they were so excited. I had no idea what any of it meant. It was like a language they created to speak to each other more fully.” He paused. He was breathing heavily. The flush of his cheeks had seeped to his neck. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“She plans to be a sea anemonist.”

He laughed. “I bet. We were friends for years, Dokka and I and Ramzan. Every other Sunday we played chess, Havaa watching. Ramzan was the one who was waiting for me yesterday. The informer. We played chess every other Sunday for over a decade.”

“What happened?”

“Ramzan began running guns for the rebels. He would invite Dokka on his expeditions, pay him well. I never understood why. He didn’t need Dokka’s help to drive a jeep into the mountains. The same way you thought Natasha was punishing you by her silence, I always thought Ramzan was punishing me with those trips. He never invited me along even though I needed the money as much as Dokka. We were friends, Ramzan and I, but I always felt Ramzan resented me for something I had done. Now I think it’s more complicated than that. He was detained in the Landfill in ninety-five, and I think he resents me because I know what happened to him there.

“I was jealous of Dokka. Of his trips to the mountains with Ramzan. Of the money he made. Of his wife. Mine has been bed-bound and senile for nearly three years while his had more vitality, more urgency in her little finger than most men have between their legs. I was jealous of his daughter. We tried for years but …” His voice trailed away. Beyond him a single smokestack rose a hundred meters into the sky, no building in sight. “Dokka was my closest friend and yet I wanted his family, his opportunities, his life. He and Ramzan would go to the mountains for a week or two and I would eat dinner with Esiila and Havaa. I would spend the whole day and night there. On his final trip, in January 2003, I slept in his bed for three nights. Of course I couldn’t have known that he and Ramzan had been detained and sent to the Landfill. I couldn’t have known that his fingers were snipped off with wire cutters while I was at his house, sleeping with his wife, eating with his daughter, because I thought his life was perfect. Whatever we were to each other was lost then. I’m not sure if Esiila told him or not, but he knew. Never said anything but he knew. I would go over and talk to the refugees staying at his house when I wanted to talk to him. He didn’t say a word to me last year when I spoke to the woman who told me your name. If I saw Dokka again, I wouldn’t apologize or try to make it right. That isn’t what I would say.”

“What would you say?”

Akhmed smiled, shook his head. “I don’t know.”


The shadow of a fresh crater darkened the road. At the bottom an arm reached upward. The rest of the body lay there and there and there. Lavender tatters, caught in an updraft, twisted in a wide ocean of sky. “We offered her a ride,” Sonja said, meaning I told her so, meaning this isn’t my fault.

Snow sprayed from the tires, cresting in the rearview. What would she do if the war ended? Of all the possibilities and permutations she had played out in her mind, peace was never among them. What would she do? The war that turned lieutenants into colonels, and unemployed men into jihadists, also turned residents into chief surgeons.

“Tolstoy was here two hundred years ago,” Akhmed said. “There was a war then. He wrote a novel about it.”

“I don’t care for fiction.”

“Hadji Murád it’s called,” he said. “I’ll bring it for you tomorrow.”

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” she asked. The question had been burning in her all afternoon.

Akhmed folded his hands, but said nothing.

“I had you interrogated at gunpoint. If you were deceiving me I would have had you shot.”

“If I were deceiving you, I would have been another man.”

“You’re a decent man,” she said, and smiled. “A terrible physician, but a decent man.”

“I know. I shouldn’t spend so much time with you. You’ll turn me into a first-rate surgeon and boor.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” she said. A gauze of afternoon cloud cover had wrapped around the sky and she looked up and into it. “I’m overcome by the inexplicable desire to speak to you with common courtesy.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“I’m sorry I called you an idiot.”

“You only implied it. Do you want to make it up to me?”

“Not really,” she said.

“Then tell me who Ronald McDonald is.”

“Very soon I’ll have to apologize for calling you an idiot again.”

“Imply,” he reminded.

“No, this time I’ll likely come out and say it.”

“I already know he isn’t the American president.”

“I think you’ll be disappointed.”

“I almost always am.”

“He’s a clown.”

“A clown?”

“A clown who sells hamburgers.”

“Does he cook the hamburgers?”

“Does it matter?”

“I may be an idiot,” he said gravely, “but I would never eat a hamburger cooked by a clown. Anyway, you were telling me about your sister. When she returned from Italy.”