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Go pick him up! Pashas dad yells. Hes her son. She oughta pick him up, Pasha retorts. Hes your nephew, the old-timer reminds him. So what? And hes my grandson. And the television is on the whole time. He never turns the television off, even at night. Its like their very own eternal flame, burning to commemorate the dead rather than entertain the living. The old-timer watches the weather report like hes expecting theyll mention him by name. After it ends, he just sits there, like he cant believe what hes heard. Pasha doesnt really watch TV, especially this past yearthe news has been just plain scary. Pasha sits in his room on a couch by his desk, surrounded by textbooks, until he cant stand it anymore. Then he jerks to his feet, goes outside. Springs protrude from the couch like twigs from a Boy Scouts campfire. The furniture in the house is old, yet full of lifeitll probably out- live its owners. Pashas sister suggested they at least get some new chairs, but he simply brushed her off. Whats the point of hauling stuff around? Thats like doing pull-ups when youre seventy. Yeah, sure, go right ahead, just make sure you take some ibuprofen first. His sister hardly comes by anymore, so nobodys talking about hauling furniture around anymore either. Pasha liked their house; hed lived here his whole life and planned to keep on living here. It was built by German POWs shortly after the wara rather spacious duplex on the second street back from the train station. Their densely populated settlement, which was mostly home to railroad workers, was built around that station, so theyd often refer to their whole town as the Stationit gave them work, it gave them hope, like a heart blackened by locomotive smoke, pumping the blood of the local gullies and windbreaks. Life still revolved around the station, even now, with the depot as empty as a drained swimming pool and the repair shops unused, if you didnt count the bums and swallows that slept there. There just werent any jobs now. Sure, maybe they lived in a so-called workers settlement, but they were the first to find them- selves out of work. The shops were shut down, and the people scurried off in all directions, hiding in crowded apartment blocks with wells dried up by the scorching summer and cellars where the supplies had already run out by Christmas. Pasha didnt have anything to complain about, thoughhe was on the government payroll. Yep, yep, Pasha thought as he shut the front door, insulated with hospital blankets, behind him. Im on the government payroll, even if Im not actually getting paid all that much. The snowblue-pink with deep, dark pores reflects the evening sky and the approaching sunset. Sharp to the touch, smells of March water, conceals black, viscous earth, renders weather reports unnecessarythe winter will last long enough for everyone to get accustomed to it, suck it up, and learn to cope. And then something else will begin. For the time being, the world feels like a lump of snow in someones warm hands; it melts, releases its water, but the longer that goes on, the colder their hands get, the less warm motion they retain, the more icy stillness seeps into them. The water remains lethal, even as it melts. The sun drowns in an intricate system of watery mirrors and reflections. Nobody can really get warmright after lunch, once the wet blaring of horns announcing shift changes at the station subsides, twilight sets in, and that illusory sensation of warmth, of a thaw, disappears again. Pasha skirts the building and takes the soggy path through the trees. They had always shared the duplex with a railroad worker. Half the building belonged to him, half to Pashas tight-knit familymom, dad, Pasha, and his older sister. About fifteen years ago, when Pashas family still all lived together, the railroad worker burned his half down. They put the fire out before it got to their half. The railroad worker didnt feel like rebuildinghe went to the station, caught a train heading east, and disappeared from their lives forever. They knocked down his half of the building, whitewashed the burned wall, and went on with their lives. From the outside, the structure looked like half a loaf of bread on a store shelf. Pashas old man always bought those half-loaves so he wouldnt have to pay too much or have too much left over. Living by the railroad taught him that. Black trees in the snow, biting boughs against the red backdrop of the sky, their street on the other side of the fence, the neighbors little white houses, yellow lemons of electric light scattered here and there, gardens, fences, fireplaces emitting smoke like the warm January respiration of weary men standing out in the cold. Empty streets, no one in sight, train cars being coupled together, metal on metal, like someone rearranging iron furniture. And from the south, from the direction of the city, sporadic blasts have been coming in all day, since morningsometimes intense, sometimes diffuse. An echo ripples high up in the air. The acoustics are distorted in the winter; you can never really tell where one is coming from or where its hitting. Fresh air, the smell of damp trees, tense silence. It only gets this quiet when everyone pipes down and starts listening. Pasha counts to a hundred and heads back. Ten. There were six last night. In the same interval. I wonder what theyll say on the news. Pasha sees his dad in the kitchen. Hes standing hunched over the table, packing an old duffel bag. Long trip ahead of ya? Pasha asks. Whats the point of asking, though? Hes going to pick up the kid, obviously. He makes a big show of tossing things into his bag: a newspaper (how can he reread old newspapers like that? Its like looking at a completed crossword), glasses (Pashas always hassling him about those thick glasses that warp every imageyou might as well wear sunglasses, you cant see a thing anyway), pension card (hell get a free senior citizen bus ticket if hes lucky), his cellphone, worn smooth like a rock in the sea, and a clean handkerchief. The old-timer washes and irons his handkerchiefs himself, doesnt pass it off on his daughter. He takes out the ironing board once a month and smooths out his handkerchiefs, grayed by the passage of time, like hes drying out devalued hryvnias that have been through the washing machine. Pashas always getting his old man tissues, but he keeps using his handkerchiefshas been since the days he worked at the station, when tissues just flat out didnt exist in this part of the world. He can hardly even use his cellphone, but he still takes it just about everywherebeat-up frame, faded green button. Pasha puts minutes on there for him; hes never learned how. Now hes folding everything meticulously, rooting around in his bag, silently taking umbrage at something or other. Its getting harder and harder to deal with himcant even talk to him without hurting his feelings. Hes like a little kid. Pasha walks over to the stove, begins drinking right out of the teapot. All the wells dried up in the summer. Theyre too scared to drink from the tapwho knows whats floating around in the pipes now? So they boil their water and steer clear of lakes and rivers. The old-timer is rooting around in his pockets, refusing to respond to Pasha. Fine, Pasha says. Ill go get him. The old-timer isnt just going to roll over, though. He takes out the newspaper, unfolds it, then folds it in four, and sticks it back in his bag. Dry yellow fingers anxiously tear the paper; hes all hunched over the table, not even looking at Pasha, like he wants to prove something, take on the whole world. Did you hear what I said? Ill go pick him up. You dont have to. I said Id pick him up, Pasha repeats, a bit anxiously. The old-timer makes a big show of picking up his newspaper and leaves, flinging open the door leading to the living room. A strip of soft light from the television reaches the dark hallway. Then he shuts the door abruptly, as though hes locking himself inside an empty fridge.

Details e-book Orphanage

🗸 Author(s): Serhiy Zhadan
🗸 Title: Orphanage: A Novel (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)
🗸 Rating : 4.5 from 5 stars (155 reviews)
🗸 Languange: English
🗸 Format ebook: PDF, EPUB, Kindle, Audio, HTML and MOBI
🗸 Supported Devices: Android, iOS, PC and Amazon Kindle

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