In two hours the moon would rise, chalked over the contours of the valley. Now it was crouched low behind a series of jagged rocks, waiting for the last glimmer of heat and light to recede.
’It’s made of ice,’ Vitya once told him, ‘All ice. That’s why it’s waiting. If it comes out before the sun has gone it’ll melt.’
That was a long time ago, when they were boys. After that Pyotr started paying attention to the moon, imagining it fearful as it hid from the bullying sun. On cloudy days he thought about how hard it must be for the moon to determine where the sun was hiding, and when it would be safe to come out. Perhaps the moon could sense the sun’s heat, could feel its surface begin to slip and slide and melt, and know to withdraw. And then one day Pyotr saw the moon in the sky in broad daylight, a white fingerprint on the blue, a mark of utter defiance. He’d run to Vitya’s, dragged him out of his flat and into the street and shown him, look! And Vitya had said: ‘Ach, that’s not the moon. That’s just its decoy. To confuse the sun. The real moon is hiding, probably.’
That was when Pyotr realised his best friend was full of shit.
In the twilight he walked over to the camp and caught sight of Vitya crouched on the ground. As he came closer he saw that he was busy sloshing water from the canteen into the tin cans they had all just been eating from.
Oh God, look at him, he can’t be left alone for a second. He’s wasting water. We’ll all perish out here, die of thirst...
’Vitya!’ He hissed. ‘Viktor Alexievich! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
’Just washing up,’ Vitya replied, and Pyotr saw then that he was using his fingernails to scrape clean the insides of the cans.
’Oh Lord, Vitya... if they catch you...’
He took the can off him and placed it with the others, stacked clean in the fading light.
Vitya looked up at him slowly, and the line of his mouth curved a little, almost into a smile but not quite. He nodded; he understood. He picked up another dirty can, spat into it and began to wipe the inside with his shirt-tail instead.
Pyotr stared at him, yanked the can off him and after a moment’s reflection decided not to give him a slap. Dear God, he’s getting stupider by the day. God preserve us, if he goes on like this...
They had been at this post for almost a fortnight. In the hills below the mujahideen went about their business; there had only once been an exchange of fire between them. The silence of night in the mountains was different to the silence of day, which was filled with static. Or perhaps it was not static, but the hum of the wings of the millions of flies that formed reckless constellations around them. Once a week a helicopter would bring more supplies and take away the sick and the dead – five hundred cans of cabbage soup in exchange for a body. In the minutes before he fell asleep, after the sleepy chatter of his comrades had died down, Pyotr wondered whether he would ever be put on it. He vaguely hoped for a fever, or a mild bout of dysentery – nothing serious, just enough to earn him a week’s rest in Kabul, a week’s rest from Vitya.
Vitya slept on the mat beside him. He was always the first to fall asleep, you could hear it from the whistling through his nose. He would even drop off when you were talking to him, or he to you, at some mysterious, seemingly pre-appointed time. Pyotr marvelled at this, and often wondered if, were he to be captured, Vitya would escape his tormenters by simply fainting away into that deep, intractable sleep. Pyotr looked at the profile of his friend, fuzzy in the blue night, with his childish, clumpy nose and weak chin, and sometimes a tender pity would emerge that would show itself at no other point in the day. Other times he felt simply indifference or disgust.
With springtime came the bloom of poppies across the valley, and the vanishing of one of their patrols. Three bodies were found three days later. Two were missing hands or feet, the stumps bound in bloody rags; all had been tortured. Well, that was the end of that. They were ordered to abandon camp, and within a few days Pyotr and Vitya and the remaining unit were transported back to base.
Pyotr witnessed the sheer joy on Vitya’s face when they learned they were leaving. Any horror generated by their comrades’ fates seemed have vanished entirely. If Vitya felt any desire for revenge it didn’t show.
‘We’re not going home, you know,’ Pyotr said. ‘Just back to base camp.’
‘I know,’ Vitya replied.
‘Then what are you looking so fucking happy for?’
But in his heart he felt it too – a sweet, grateful hope that took the edge off his need for vengeance, and that said to him, Eh. Some you win, some you lose.
And so when some weeks later a bomb tore off his left leg, he was not surprised. It was always going to be. That leg that had run and played with him all his life, that had kicked balls and carried him across cities, and been savaged one summer by Siberian gnats, had never meant to be forever. It had simply been a sham, a dirty trick played on him for so long, only by who he didn’t know.
Vitya had copped it too, although for him it was really just another bump on the head that didn’t seem to make very much difference. It had put him in a coma for a week and when he came out he was a bit slower, but then he had also been recovering from a bout of malaria that had flared up while he was unconscious, and which his body had obviously decided it couldn’t be bothered doing anything about. So poor Vitya had emerged weak and dazed, scatty and stupid – and since the doctors hadn’t known him beforehand they assumed a dramatic decline, and he was discharged at the same time as Pyotr. No fuss at all.
So, that’s all it takes, does it? Pyotr thought, A bit of a bang and they send you home again. Though his leg throbbed terribly, as if it was trying to push blood through an opening that did not exist, and the echo of the throb pounded in his temples, he had the impression that he could still go into combat if needed to. They could plonk him down with a gun behind some rocks, and he would do his best. Only about a tenth of him was missing; the rest still worked perfectly well. You don’t get rid of a car just because one of the wheels has fallen off, do you?
Pyotr sat in bed with a notebook propped up against his good leg and began to write. Mamma, we’re coming home! Tell Vitushka’s mother too. We’ve finished our service – they’re letting us go.
He stopped, thoughtful. A helicopter passed overhead, so loud that it seemed it was about to crash into the hospital, but then beat away again. There was a low moan in the ward, a chattering, the rise and fall of footsteps. And then as if it could not resist joining in, his stump began to throb again. This time though it beat not in his head but travelled the length of where his leg had been and settled, a thick clot of pain, in his absent foot. There’s still a chance, I guess, that we might not make it back. Better not get their hopes up. I wonder if they’ll give Natalya the apartment if I die? Drat. Should’ve married her... I’ll do it when I get back, sort everything out then.
As soon as Pyotr had been fitted with his new leg they were free to go. It was a flimsy thing, but the upgrade would surely be better. At Tashkent airport they waited for the next flight to Kazan. Back across the border it had been the Afghanis all on crutches, and here it was their own. Hundreds of young men, injured badly enough to be discharged, but not badly enough to earn a spell of rehab on the Black Sea. Some had prostheses, like him; others did not, and just dragged their injured limbs around with them. ‘Wow,’ Vitya muttered, ‘it’s a real epidemic.’
What a moron! But Pyotr had no strength to reply. His leg, or what was left of it, had consumed all of his energy, and what was more some kind of insect had got into his trouser leg and was biting its way up his thigh. The air was hot and stagnant, filled with the smell of the sweat, disinfectant and DDT that soaked their uniforms, but outside it was much worse – a parody of an oasis, with the haze of heat shifting the sky but promising nothing. Funny how the eighteen snowy winters that he had lived through, which had all seemed so endless then, were now even less than a memory. Clammy with blood and perspiration, as if he was composed of nothing else, Pyotr could not even recall how snow crunched underfoot, or how it got into you in the first place. His life had been a silly fairytale, and the mountains, knowing this, obliterated it all.
‘What are you thinking about?’ It was Vitya, his voice distant and hollow.
‘Same thing as you,’ Pyotr replied.
‘I’m thinking about the lake. Wondering if my fishing rod is still at home. If we’ll go fishing when we get back.’
The lake. Dark as a hole and its depth unknown – Pyotr had always swum in it in mild terror. But he had swum nevertheless, traversing its narrower width, his body warming up quickly with the effort and adrenalin. And the exhaustion and relief, when he finally flopped on the bank, of having survived. He would still be able to make that length, probably – his arms at least were stronger now. But this heaviness! Was it only the heat? He knew that if he failed to summon up the strength in his arms then he would sink to the black bottom.
On the ground were their bags, packed full of the booty they’d stolen and bartered for. It weighed a ton, and Pyotr, still unsteady, had to get Vitya to carry the bulk of it. When they finally got the call to board, Vitya hurled the bag over his big stupid shoulders and followed Pyotr onto the plane.
At Kazan the boys spilled wearily out. Many of them kissed the ground of the motherland, despite the difficulty of doing so – they had to lay their crutches aside and descended awkwardly, like they had no intention of getting up again. Vitya joined them. Pyotr hesitated a moment, wobbled a bit, then simply crossed himself. It was a time to stand tall; he did not want to bow down anymore. He felt that God would understand and respect that.
The cold tingled through him, a distant bell heralding an bodily memory. He relished the feeling for half a minute or so before it began to shiver and irritate him. The sky was slate grey, like a tombstone. He was beginning to wonder if there was any comfort left for him in the world.
The marshrutka deposited them five kilometres from their village, at the turn-off from the main road, then drove off into the mist, the sound of its engine lingering far longer than the sight of it. By the side of the road Vitya hauled the heavier bag over his shoulders, but seeing that Pyotr had slumped to the ground, put it back down again. ‘Will we wait?’ he said.
Pyotr sighed, no. The chances of any cars coming along were slim, but in any case he didn’t want a ride with anyone who was driving into the village. It was bound to be someone that they knew, and he needed time to prepare himself for that. He had to prepare Vitya, too. So they would go by foot, but should not look weary or pathetic when they approach. Of course, Vitya looked pathetic most of the time – there was not much that could be done about that. The main thing was to give the impression that everything was okay.
Pyotr hauled himself up. ‘Come on Vitya, let’s walk on the grass ... How long has it been since we saw grass!’ and led his friend down into the lush valley at the side of the road, where the mist and the dew settled. A little further now and they would not be able to be seen from the road at all. Vitya did not complain. He followed his friend down, like an old packhorse. Hard to believe they were both still young!
After about fifteen minutes Pyotr perceived the sound of a vehicle approaching, and stopped still. ‘Shh! Wait! Shh!’ He could not tell which direction it was going in, but it did not matter. ‘Duck! Duck!’ He pulled Vitya down onto the moist soil with him and they waited, the damp soaking into them and their heavy breath seeping out. The car passed – it had been leaving the village after all. A thought passed through Pyotr’s mind: I hope that was Papa.
The next one was not so much a thought as a swell of despair. He was sitting on the damp soil, his leg and his back aching, and everything else consumed by exhaustion. Vitya crouched silently by, awaiting his orders.
‘Give me the bag,’ Pyotr finally said, and Vitya planted it down beside him. Pyotr began rummaging around, grasping in its depths, not really sure was he was looking for, and Vitya didn’t ask. Instead he stood up, announced he was going to take a piss, and walked several metres away, so that the silhouette of his body was only barely visible through the gauze of mist. Pyotr’s hands stopped still. They had clasped around a revolver. Was it loaded? He couldn’t remember. He lifted it out of the bag a little, just enough to be able to check. Half a round was left. It occurred to him it would be easy to put a bullet in the back of Vitya’s head from here. A wholly new idea, which he was surprised he hadn’t come across before. Put him out of his misery, save his mother the pain of seeing her son like this. Tell everyone he died back there, a hero. There might be something rather grand about that.
But then who would believe it? Our Vitya, a hero? Don’t make me laugh! Not even his daft old mama would buy that. She would ask for the body, she would make a fuss. She would come to Pyotr for help, then plague him for the rest of his life.
Dammit, what’s taking him so long? He’s standing there like a dummy, almost like he wants me to shoot him.
Ach, it was a stupid thought anyway. Without Vitya, who would carry the bags? Pyotr held the gun a little longer, then pushed it back down to the bottom of the rucksack. He leaned back on his palms, pushing his fingers into the soft earth, the dirt crawling up beneath his fingernails. Vitya was still standing in the same spot, his back to him. He seemed to be gazing into the mist. There was a tranquillity about him that made Pyotr nervous, as if he were no longer there but had actually departed a while ago, and what Pyotr was seeing now was merely his afterimage, a white imprint on the sky.
Kyra Giorgi is a writer and researcher
