Cleopatra Hunting

By the end of April, the air becomes unbearably hot, as the plants quickly wilt, dry up and become scarce. Here and there, you can only see smooth, as if polished by the glass-dust, stalks of dried ferrule, that stand up like white bones covered with sand dust. The turtles also disappear: they burrow into the sand and sleep until the next spring. The active life of turtles lasts for ten to twelve days a year. For such a short period of time, people never get a chance to wipe them out, so, all the cruelty of civilization notwithstanding, most of these reptiles manage to lay eggs, stock up calories and fall into a long hibernation, in order to appear a year later and once again indulge in plowing the hot sand with their clumsy paws.

The desert fades and becomes hotter and hotter. In May, the sun-warmed land no longer has time to cool down overnight. It becomes infernally hot: somewhere between forty and forty-five degrees Celsius in the shade every day.

Hot, hot, hot! The breeze does not refresh, it just comes in heat waves, each one of them hotter than the one preceding it. Sometimes, it seems that the heart would fail under this infinite heat buildup and break out of the chest cage. The nerves get frayed; the body gets soft and flabby. Sweat pours in buckets – the face, neck, and back are constantly wet… The handled objects quickly become wet and slippery. Salty sweat makes scratches sting, tickles the swollen eyelids, and corrodes the metal in areas where it is most often touched by the naked hand. The iron gets hot and sears the skin the same way it would burn in the biting frost. The skin pores get wide open, like windows, and you constantly feel them exude the excess heat, removing it from the body. If you decide to take a cool bath, then you’d better stay there as long as possible, because, until the moment you sweat again in the open air, you will suffer from internal stuffiness, the terrible pressure growing in every cell, bursting from within, like a premonition of a heat stroke. Sometimes you cannot stand it and just start running round in circles, not knowing where to hide or find shelter from this endless heat.

The sky is frightening: it is dominated by blazing, dazzling whitish tones. The Sun is getting closer to the Earth, filling up the sky above with a fiery mass, burning and burning relentlessly, uncontrollably and unrestrainedly. The stones, sand, and concrete – everything gets hot, and you cannot figure out where this tormenting heat comes from.

Mellow, half-asleep people are working according to a schedule made to last by the authorities of the country, without any regard to the heat. They stare bluntly at the production processes and resolve other issues, pull the levers of excavators, steer heavy cars and drink, drink, drink… The most experienced ones prefer hot green tea, others drink black one, the amateurs and women drink iced water, while those with no means of making drinks stand in the lines for a mug of kvass. And everyone is counting the moments until the evening, the time when the scorching sun above disappears and they can finally come out into the streets, breathing again.

In the evenings, the asphalt and the buildings continue to radiate sweltering, unbearable heat. At night, no one can sleep: it gets too hot to breathe, to lie, you feel thirsty, but if you drink something, you start bursting with excess moisture, pouring sweat. The bed gets wet, everything sticks and it is impossible to fall asleep even in the early morning. Then the new day begins, and with it, a new round of the useless struggle with the heat.

The work is distracting, but body accumulates the internal tension and fatigue from insomnia. Everything becomes annoying. And only a strong wind that will come without failing and carries a cloud of sand and dust, can tame the heat for a little while and bring a short relief.

The winds are different in the desert, and they are blowing constantly. Even on a quiet, scorching day, when the air is viscous, like hot treacle, and motionless, and it seems that all living and non-living things fall into a lazy trance, every now and then a little mischievous gust of wind comes seemingly from nowhere.

It dances like a madman, squirms, jumps, and rushes everywhere, snatches small objects from hands, overturns everything that is unstable, splashes sand, laughs in your face, whistles, puffs, and zigzags away.

Often, larger whirlwinds – the sandstorms – come rushing along the streets. They move with certainty and are noticeable from anywhere in the city. Their prey is paper, pieces of plywood, fragments of foam, hanged or abandoned clothes. All of this gets sucked in a huge spinning whirl, rises rapidly up its narrow neck and is thrown high into the sky. The most striking are the rectangular paper sheets that swirl over houses, like a flock of hysterical ravens.

The winds, like street sweepers, eliminate garbage from the streets and spread it across a large area, so that even far outside the city you can see the scraps of some official papers in the sand, sheets torn from the school notebooks, letters and mailing box lids with the addresses of various cities and villages.

To be in the chaos of a raging sandstorm is unpleasant and terrifying: the whirlwind, like a devil, plays with a man in mean ways, painfully lashes with biting sandblasts from the sides, from above, from below, at random, relentlessly tortures your clothes and stuns you with loud hisses, squeaks, and squeals. The moments spent in the embrace of a whirlwind seem excruciatingly long, and the feel of being short of breath increases the fear.

Several times a year the desert gets shaken by storms. Their approach can be seen from afar: usually from the north, across the horizon, a towering black wall starts approaching the city, gets inevitably nearer and nearer, absorbing everything in its path. A tense silence reigns upon its path and you can clearly see the hundreds of small, protruding tornados «marching» in dense rows. Like a row of Roman legionaries, escaping from underground, they are striding confidently, without a fuss, united by one goal: to raise into the air and destroy houses built by man. And yet the hurricane hits the city unexpectedly, immediately trying to lift it into the air. In the beginning, you can hear the slamming of doors and the ringing of broken glass, then the rattle of roofs, the banging of broken slate, the whistling of wires and balcony grades, joined by the deep groans of houses, and finally, everything merges into a hellish roar and continuous rumble. The day gets replaced by twilight, which turns into night. The hurricane rages for hours, sometimes for days.

No matter how well the windows and doors are caulked and plugged, in the middle of the hurricane storm, the wind still discovers all the cracks and searches every part of the house up and down, filling it with the fine-grained sand. The sand gets everywhere: a dense sand veil hangs in the air, it lies in even layers on the floor, on furniture, on faces of sleeping people and covers the souls of those who are awake. Especially disgusting snowstorms come in winter, bringing with them the cold that invades houses and takes residence, reigning over people, despite the powerful heating. Every apartment at this time gets dirty, dusty and uncomfortable. When the storm subsides, there comes a short period of stunning purity and calmness in the air. And this is not a deceptive perception caused by the contrast between the lingering noise and the long-hoped-for silence – not at all, the eye is pleased with the high dark blue sky, the colorful horizon with the predominance of yellowish tones up close and the violet ones in the distance, and with the transparent air, electrified by the already fading lighting strokes. Unfortunately, the sky soon becomes opaque, the horizon gets gray, and the tornadoes rise up in the air again, with moving clouds of dust that bite your nose. The desert returns into its usual state.

* * *

Today’s sandstorm was unlike any other: it brought a rain that began late at night, when almost everybody was already asleep, and ended in the morning when almost everyone had not woken up yet. Maya woke up suddenly because of the deathly silence, coolness and a feeling of impending joy. Sometimes she managed to escape the heat and rest in the maternity ward like this, thanks to the only operating air conditioner in the entire hospital. But to sleep in your own apartment is way better indeed!

Discovering a thin layer of dry soft dust everywhere, she did not feel upset, like she used to. On the contrary, the perspective of upcoming housecleaning seemed pleasant. She brightened up, and asked herself: «Do you want to marry Klyuchitsky?» – and in the next breath she realized the absurdity of the question, and laughed loudly and decided that she feels so good today due to the wonderful weather, because the nature has brought the time when she will live in the Mainland a step closer, the time, when she will have her own apartment, furnished with her own furniture.

When Maya came out into the street, she saw a couple of small puddles and immediately imagined how she’d pass over the wide streams of muddy water in the spring flood season, merging into the majestic rivers filling up the vast seas. Suddenly she felt like she was already living there, in that bright future, while what was happening now, was in fact just a fleeting reminiscence of this hot desert and all the things that happened to her while she was here.

Maya looked forward to seeing Klyuchitsky with a sublime feeling of sorts. She carefully wiped the books, the fridge, the armrests of the armchair, the headboard of the sofa bed and all the surfaces which might gather dust; she moped every floor in the apartment and on the wide sunroom balcony, prepared the ingredients for the Russian salad, cold snacks and the pot-au-feu stew, which was her specialty. That done, Maya took a bottle of Georgian «Five Stars» cognac from the cupboard and put it on ice, then checked out the sweets brought from Moscow, and, satisfied with the results, set to work. Maya wanted to treat her guest to a delicacy, but after getting started, she suddenly lost her inspiration, so she only mixed the salad, deciding to cut the ham and cheese upon Klyuchitsky’s arrival. All the fuss with meat and potatoes she decided to keep for a later moment, hoping that the feast would take longer and she’d get in a proper mood.

Yet, things went not as Maya expected. Klyuchitsky dropped in with two huge heavy bags – they seemed to burst at the seams with all the groceries stuck there. First of all, he carefully arranged the liquors and put them into their designated places: he put cognacs in the pantry, the white wine bottles and the chilled champagne he stuffed into a large saucepan, then covered them with ice and placed on the bottom shelf of the fridge. He then put vodka and non-chilled champagne on the side shelves of the fridge and placed the beautiful bottles of golden Czech beer in the freezer, muttering that they should pick up the beer in an hour. Done with the bottles, and in the same scrupulous way, he arranged the cans of caviar, sprats, jellied tongues, pate and salmon on the fridge shelves. He even found a space for cervelat sausages, cheese and glass jars full of salads.

Closing the fridge, the guest opened a tin can with the red caviar with deft fingers and asked Maya to prepare sandwiches. Meanwhile, he went ahead with the roasting of butterflied grilled chicken. To do so, he took a couple wide pans from his bag, as well as tailor-made pressure weights with wooden lids adorned with practical handles. A cutting board carved from the dark wood with a bizarre pattern of growth rings came next – this thing not only could serve as a magnificent decoration of Maya’s kitchen but also as a precious exhibit in a museum of hand-carved souvenirs made by prisoners of the strict regime colony. Putting the dressed chicken on a board, Klyuchitsky easily squashed it with his heavy palm, rubbed it with salt, peppered, sprinkled with garlic juice, and then placed it on the pan with already melted fresh butter, covering it with pressure weight.

Soon the kitchen got filled with the scent of fried garlic chicken, fueling Maya’s appetite to the point of her hand reaching involuntarily for a pink sandwich. Klyuchitsky immediately seconded Maya’s initiative and poured champagne into glasses, gulping a good half of his drink with a toast: «To our union!» Maya took a couple of big sips – the wine pleasantly tickled the nostrils and burned the esophagus, as Maya began to eat the temptingly delicious sandwiches. They quickly emptied the wide blue plate, leaving only a few grains of caviar, sparkling like precious gems, and finished off the wine bottle. Klyuchitsky turned the stove with chickens on and suggested to sample the chicken salad he brought, while the poultry was being roasted. Maya put the soft meat, marinated in thick green sauce, on small plates, and Klyuchitsky uncorked a bottle of Georgian wine. The salad turned out to be spicy, with an ever so slight smell of garlic and some nice, and yet unknown to Maya, spices, that evoked voracious appetite and raging thirst. Taking a sip of wine, Maya marveled at its wonderful taste and bouquet while an involuntarily thought had crossed her mind – this must be how the divine nectar smells.

Then Klyuchitsky brought the freshly roasted chickens and served more wine. The chickens were a total success: of tender golden color, with an appetizing crust, savory, soft and juicy. Klyuchitsky smeared the meat with a thick garlic sauce, as Maya did the same. She started eating and it felt like she fell into a blissful trance of gluttony to the point of losing the sight of her guest. The girl woke up to reality when her glass got empty, and only the carefully picked bones remained on the plate.

Klyuchitsky ate with the same gusto and self-abandonment. Putting aside the plate with the bones, he quickly refilled the glasses, which were immediately drained, and filled them again. After finishing the wine, Maya felt a slight intoxication, but the nourishing did not end there. Klyuchitsky reached for the cognac, and Maya pushed the ham, aspic, and cheese closer. They effortlessly emptied a bottle of five-star cognac, then moved to a three-star Armenian one. Now the Russian salad, sprats, and liver pate came into play. They ate and drank slowly, obviously prolonging the pleasure.

Maya could drink a lot. Having reached a certain state of inebriation, when her body became light, the head became lucid, and her thoughts and actions bold, she ceased to get progressively drunk. When this happened, only a glass of strong alcohol tossed off in one draught or a whole bottle of strong wine could knock her down. To knock her down, but not to shut down her consciousness. For this talent, Maya once paid with her virginity…

After the second bottle, Klyuchitsky suggested to boil the water for some coffee and come out to the balcony to get some fresh air. They stood side by side on the warm cement floor, leaning against the concrete grate and raising their heads to the sky – the enormous stars shone above them, and it was possible to make out the Milky Way. After a few moments of silence, Klyuchitsky surprised Maya by uttering not quite what Maya expected to hear:

«Let’s enclose the balcony with glass! And here,» – he pointed to the middle of the loggia, – «we’ll put up a table and some wicker chairs. We will install a rotating frame, and turn this corner into a real solarium, and you’ll be able to sunbathe here even in winter.

– I cannot make heads or tails of what you do for me already…

– Maya, come on! I can build you a palace… Look at me, do I look like some kind of shallow talker or philanderer? I’m just a man who has more money than you! The things around us need to be improved, and our life needs more comfort, as simple as that.

– Well, in this case, let’s set up our nest.

– Let’s drink some coffee. I’ll send you some professionals the day after tomorrow.

– Here’s the coffee, – Maya passed Klyuchitsky a can of instant coffee.

– We’ll need this later. Bring the cups!

Klyuchitsky rummaged in his bottomless bag, took out a small glass jar and unscrewed the lid – the room got filled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. Spooning coffee grounds into the cups, Klyuchitsky filled them with boiling water so that a soft foam coating formed on the surface of the intense brown liquid. He then passed one cup to Maya and began to sip the burning drink from the other one, taking one small sip at a time. When he had finished his cup, he filled the glasses with liquor, cut a lemon into thin slices, sprinkled each slice with sugar and spiked them with a little bit of instant coffee. After appraising his work, he smacked his tongue and, raising his cup, offered: «Let’s chase the liquor with «nikolashka.»

Maya had already drunk enough for it to show in her behavior: she became bolder and more relaxed, she felt the sudden wish to be naughty – she wanted to do something, so that her self-assured, rich guest, who did not perceive a woman in her (or as she thought), would feel embarassed.

Leo proposed to return to the balcony, and Maya readily agreed. He took a bottle in one hand, a glass into another, nodded in the direction of the snacks and, stepping over the low threshold, sat comfortably on the balcony floor. When Maya sat down next to him, Klyuchitsky, once more, started by saying something completely unexpected:

– Maya, my dear, I want to offer you an extra work at the feldsher’s station located in the old town.

– I did not even know that there’s a station there.

– Actually, it’s not even a station, just an empty room. But why should you care? You will get your two or three hundred a month, and work for an hour a day.

– Do the deportees live there?

– Yes, and they rarely need medical help.

– Why can’t they come to our infirmary?

– They can or they can’t, for all I care. Let’s make a deal: you work without getting officially registered, and if you like it – you stay, if you don’t – you leave.

– And are these killers no longer dangerous?

– It all depends on how you behave. If you try to pry into their lives, then anything could happen. If you just work with them, then no harm should be done. They are like any other average person. Of course, they are still all psychopaths, make no mistake about it, and even their appearance bears the stamp of years spent in camp isolation. Just don’t focus on that, or, better, do not notice anything at all.

– Will I be allowed to work part-time, then?

– Let me sort it out. But, for a start, you will work regularly. Deal?

– Deal. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.

Maya slipped back into the room, and Klyuchitsky looked up at the sky. He looked at some marvelous constellation and could not remember its name. He thought that it looked like a steel farm, the Milky Way resting on its corner. Time passed. Suddenly Klyuchitsky felt someone’s presence next to him. He turned his head and saw a sight more amazing than the stars: nude Maya was standing in front of him.

Klyuchitsky was not one of those men who centered all their life around women, but at the sight of a really beautiful form he immediately recovered from his sudden oblivion and even scrambled onto his feet, as if the warm cement under him suddenly turned into the red-hot iron, and, then he snapped to attention all at once, as if upon receiving a command. When he came to his senses, he came closer to this smiling naughty woman, bent down, took her in his arms and carried her into his room with deft, confident movements…