Читать книгу Unseen - Mark Graham - Страница 8

Mariupol, Ukraine

Their train trip South had ended in Tokmak where Martin and Jenny were then loaded onto a bus with the rest of the group. A small crowded bus with passengers shoulder-to-shoulder and standing in the isles. It was an unexpectedly quiet 3 hour ride for Martin. Once in the town of Mariupol he began to reflect on the city that would be home for nearly a week. Almost eternally overcast and misty, it was now a sleepy former Soviet port of call in the Sea of Azov. It’s recovery from the Russian falling away of 1991 moved between slow and static. The mafia, known as Bratva (brotherhood), quickly filled the void of that time, growing in influence year by year until no one in the city operated completely disconnected from the Bratva. Especially government workers and bankers, who would come to dominate all nowadays.

Three taxis awaited them at the train station to take them to their hotel and then to the orphanage. Martin and Jenny had been assigned to the oldest looking taxi. Martin had to keep his luggage on his lap because the car had natural gas tanks stored in the trunk. But it was worth it when they found the driver, Dima, so pleasant and approachable.

“I take you through Old Town. Best results.”

He gave them a tour of the city that was compelling and detailed. The short ride to the orphanage was almost fun for Martin.

The orphanage of 300 children, or more at any given time, was a principle example of government ministry bonding with the Bratva, police, and business. Through the façade of respectability all the town became a stage. Martin Johnson was aware of none of this when he first walked through the front gates of the local orphanage and under a sign reading ‘Boarding School’. Scanning the condition of the complex made Martin wonder at how good the classes were inside.

An administrator met the small mission team at the broken concrete front steps. Only having been in-country for three days, Martin was still not used to the ever-present brokenness. He had thought it would end in Kiev, in the next taxi or building or town. Or maybe a government waiting room would have new furniture. Or around the next street corner or bend in a road he would see something intact, complete. Nothing.

None of this increased any hope in Martin for the condition of the young broken-hearted people he expected to soon encounter. He stood in the back of the group to wait out the introductions, being the typical quiet kid in the back of the class. When not being the smart-aleck in the back of the class.

The woman was obviously important enough to meet them, but he had learned from customs control at the airport to here, and every stop in between, that every place in Ukraine had an inner-sanctum. A place where someone waited impatiently to exercise power.

The Administrator stood formally in her flowered dress, the cool wind pressing it against her wide frame. Her prematurely aged face, mouth with smiling rows of gold teeth below dark piercing eyes, combined to be cunning in an odd way. She, as so many older government workers, had stalled in time somewhere around the Brezhnev period in fashion and demeanor. The woman finally walked them into the building.

Martin slowed, taking in the view of the large system of rusty external pipes that ran along the building in straight lines. In bad need of paint, they broke pattern only at the doorway. The grey and brown brick ran without order up three stories and about a football field along the length of the building. Spotting government buildings was easy as all were designed without a care for any form of aesthetics. The low standards set to allow residual tax monies to flow through the government official’s bank accounts, had not yet stopped overwhelming him.

Dodging intermittent bursts of child crowds, fending off the noisy attacks in front and from behind, they walked the long connecting hallway towards the director’s office. The meeting was different than others in that the official was quick to be gregarious after the formalities ended. She showed off all the trophies “her children” had won and scores of artwork. Her office was like a giant family refrigerator.

Martin noticed his team leader suddenly become embarrassed, staring at his feet. It seemed to Martin that only he and that man were aware that the director was odd to show so much and force them to page through her photo albums with her. Martin understood this woman’s tears and attending compliments to the ‘good Americans’ were cheap theatre. He supposed she was attempting to up the ante of their eventual donation.

The meeting, as so many did for him at his work, turned to a background noise for his thoughts. Martin moved unnoticed across the large office to the seat near the window.

Jenny followed him and took his hand.

Movement outside on the unkempt soccer grounds caught his attention, pulling his interest like gravity. He watched the lone girl slowly kicking a torn and patched ball about the gravel and grass of the courtyard field. Solitary, head down, she managed the ball skillfully, controlling it at all times.

She was troubled by something, angry and sullen. He had caught that impression generally when walking the hallways to the director’s office. Some of the children looked that way; the child in them was ripped clean away leaving behind unnatural permanent furrowed brows.

Yet many others were just being children abandoned to pure play all day.

“Martin, she is so sad,” Jenny whispered.

“Yeah. She looks like the age group we will be working with. Something about that one, Jen.”

“I know.”

The orientation finally concluded and they were free to roam the town for the rest of the day. On their way out of the building, Martin stopped, taking a closer look inside a room with older looking fourteen-foot high doors. He grabbed Jenny’s reluctant hand and pulled her into the room with him.

The old musty smell of the room instantly overcame him and he knew he was on holy ground. The room was a shrine to the former days, the Soviet years. The deep red curtains and blood red display table-cloths flowed against the dark browns of the wide-board flooring and custom hand-carved paneled walls. These walls were adorned with paintings of the greats of history and former local party leaders. Medals and plaques filled the tables that clung to every inch of wall in the room. In the center of the room stood a long fold-out meeting table with an army of wooden fold-out chairs last popular in the 1930s. Martin imagined the meetings that had once taken place there in the past. This was the ideological utility room. Instead of generators and heating units, this would have been where the workers fueled up with propaganda before the day’s work. The darkness of the space repelled Martin, making him feel out of place, unwelcome. The room had been unlocked but seemed to him in some way forbidden.

The two looked to each other instinctively, caught hands again, and fled the room. They walked out of the building with alertness and speed normally reserved for an escape.

Jenny took the lead when they reached outside until Martin slowed their pace.

“There she is again,” he said, pointing.

“Let’s ask her name,” Jenny said.

“Okay. My Russian is good enough for that.”

They ambled over to the ancient and rusted playground monkey-bars she was climbing. If she feels pursued she might be frightened off. Martin locked eyes with her and pulled Jenny closer to himself as if they were bird-watching and had just come across a rare breed, careful not to scare it away.

“Hello,” Martin said slowly in his best Russian.

She flashed a huge smile at them, almost robotically. Martin glanced to Jenny who told him by her expression, “Yes, this is the least genuine smile I have ever seen in my life.”

He pressed on telling her their names and why they were there. That they would be playing many games. An older teacher appeared suddenly and began yelling something at the girl. Martin tried to make sense of it, tie her presence on the playground to some kind of disobedience. But there was nothing, mostly it was a repeated admonishment to not speak.

“I’m sorry,” the girl repeated back.

The woman never looked at them as she physically gathered up the child and nearly ran her back inside, whispering in her ear the whole while.

Martin and Jenny stood motionless in their confusion.

“Oksana,” he said to Jenny.

“That’s a pretty name, Martin.”

They walked to the outer gates by the street to call their group leader and wait for a taxi.

Martin watched Jenny as she sat on the curb, in a daze and with a slight grin. She was likely running through visions of Oksana in their home. Maybe playing in the back yard with a dog they didn’t yet have. All the while probably chanting to herself the child’s new last name.

But his emotions were in the present. He felt something different, strange and exhausted. Normally he was unaware of any emotions in the moment but in the span of ten minutes he had the largest sweeping feeling of love he could remember, followed by a quickening of intense fear and then anger. All in the span of ten minutes. In his heart he had suddenly become a dad, and his daughter had been stolen from him in a whirl of violent words. Worse, he had helplessly watched it all happen.

Each day they worked at the orphanage they searched for Oksana and asked the staff where she was. By the third day their translator closed them down.

“Mr. Martin. Please stop inquiring about child.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

“It is not appropriate. People much irritated, understand?”

“I’m much irritated. How can no one know where she is?”

“There are no answers. But no business is ours. No more, please. I go now for find afternoon schedule. Thank you.”

Knowing the director knew some English, Martin watched her schedule. If he caught her, like outside in transit to another building, he might get some information. He had quickly discovered that was the only way to access her.

On the last morning there he saw her heading from the administration building to where they kept the old school bus. A large woman in her late fifties with dyed yellow hair that punched out from her head-scarf. Always in conservative dress. From her attitude she probably wore the scarf on her head more for tradition than to keep her hair in place. There was enough hairspray on it already to harden a bowling ball.

He speed-walked quietly to overtake her midway in the courtyard.

“Madame, Director!”

“Yes?” She stopped and turned slowly toward him with wary eyes.

“Sorry to bother you. If I may, just a couple questions I can’t seem to get answered by the staff here.”

“Yes?”

“My wife and I met a little girl, maybe nine years old, named Oksana. We have not seen her since and this being our last day we would like to say good-bye to her. Also, can we know her status?

“Oksana Kholobayev. Her status?” she asked.

He caught his breath in sudden anticipation.

“Yes. Is she available for adoption?” he asked.

“I am sorry, no. Not possible. She has a Ukrainian guardian who will adopt her.”

“I don’t understand. She was here a few days ago,” Martin said.

“Oksana lives here and her teacher adopts her. Please, if you are interested in another child send me an email. I must go now. Thank you.”

Martin tipped his head, his mind spinning. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. If she has a guardian how does she live here?” Martin asked.

The director shook her head. “She not live here. Do you see her? No, she is with guardian. I must go.”

He didn’t like making anyone uncomfortable, especially not strangers, but he somehow felt no remorse with this woman. He tried to sum up the conversation as he walked slowly back to Jenny, stopping short to watch her playing with the children.

She looked so happy, so at home. How could God instil such a strong love for children into a woman who could not have children of her own? All week she talked about Oksana – at breakfast, on walks, taxi rides. She had fallen asleep to images of the child in her heart and in her home. When she talked of the girl, he listened, hiding his feelings, but she called him on it several times by simply telling him to stop worrying.

It would be best to interrupt her play, to take her aside for the news, rather than wait.

Jenny stiffened. “What did she say? Where is she?” Jenny asked.

“She has a guardian.”

“What is that? What does that mean?”

“She is not available.”

She sank as if suddenly swallowed into quicksand, eyes dulling and head dropping.

“But…”

“But what?” Jenny asked. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“That’s it. Something is not right. I don’t believe her,” Martin said.

“Why would the director lie?”

“I don’t know. But the girl was taken away the day we met her, probably the moment we met her.”

“Okay.”

He paced the playground trying to put the pieces together. Martin returned to Jenny with the same conclusion.

“It’s just…I think she is lying,” he said.

“What do we do? We leave in two days.”

A little boy with a nametag that said Victor came up to Martin. Oh yeah, the boy who could run at the wall of the building, run up it, and flip back around in the air.

“Hey, Spiderman. We’ll be right back in a minute. Go play.” Martin gently pressed the boy’s shoulder back in the direction of the play-group.

The boy stood firm. “I want say to you.”

“Okay, Victor. But real quick, okay,”

“No, take your time,” Jenny said, stroking his arm.

“I want say I know you love Oksana. She come back yesterday.”

“She was here?” Martin stepped closer. How could we have missed her?

“No, I say wrong. She back tomorrow.”

The thoughts and questions that flooded Martin’s mind were too complicated to ask the child even if the boy had known better English. Jenny’s shoulders had lifted and her smile reappeared, even though she knew they would leave too early in the morning to see the girl. And now this news lent more validity to his questions about the director.

It could be that Oksana was only coming to collect her things.

Or the boy could be mistaken. One look at the boys face threw that option out. Oksana’s disappearance was a major break to the boy’s routine understanding of his life there, obviously, and her coming back was important to him as well.

All their asking around about her had paid off. News of it had gotten around the orphanage and was clear to the children, the little inmates, that their friend might get adopted. The tension in his stomach eased a bit as the picture, the bigger plan expanded, Maybe this was God at work. Martin had seen it before – when all his efforts and failures seemed hopeless at the time, he would look back and see those moments as misplaced stones on a path to a victory.

But they were leaving for the States. How would he get more and better information, or communicate with Oksana? But he felt confident this would also happen as needed. Martin grew some confidence in his renewed hope, and the source of it. He held tight to this awareness. But he knew that he would likely loosen his grip on that faith before too long. He always did.

The last day in Mariupol had been set aside by the group as a free day. For some, this translated to sleeping in; others to shopping. They were leaving the hotel lobby when their group leader stopped them at the door.

“Martin, glad I caught you guys. You have been like the proverbial lost sheep this trip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t know if you planned to spend the day at the orphanage. But in case, I am letting everyone know that we won’t have access today.”

“Why?”

“It’s scheduled as a free day for us so they plan their day around that as well. You know.”

“Not really. Why no ‘access’?”

“Mr. Johnson, you have made the relationship with the director difficult. To be honest, things are very tense right now. The director called me today and wants me to pass on her concerns to Chip in Kiev.”

“So this is about me?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you know, to be honest, you aren’t letting everyone know, are you?”

“Everyone has planned for a fun day. You guys should do that, too. Please.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Good. And don’t worry about this. The way I see it you are naturally very curious about adopting a child. It happens all the time. It’s nothing we can’t fix.”

“Okay.”

“I better get to the bus. Some of us are going to see the old part of town. Should get some great photos. Come along?”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay. Thanks again for understanding. See you guys tonight maybe.”

After the man left Jenny asked, “What now?”

Martin and Jenny decided to take the drive to Berdyansk and spend the day there. A tourist beach town, smaller and less industrial, it would offer a change of pace and scenery.

They needed it.

The trip took only an hour of their day each way. When they reached Berdyansk the driver took them to the heart of the city.

“Here now.” The driver reached back for his fare.

Martin reached for his wallet. “Any tourist recommendations?”

The man shrugged.

“What is a good restaurant?” Martin held the money back, waiting for a response.

The man’s gaze followed the bills. “Soba okay.”

“Thanks.” He handed over the fare and the cab drove off. “Friendly locals, right?”

A beautiful stone-tiled walkway led from the street to the beach. It rolled out wide through a large, endless courtyard lined with shop upon shop. And dotted with beautiful trees, park benches, and kiosks. Teenage and college girls manned the kiosks, working their summer at the beach. After stopping at a few kiosks, Martin realized all their items were the same. They obviously had the same distributor of drinks and tourist junk items. “I think one guy owns this whole walkway,” he said to Jenny.

“In this economy, I doubt the workers care as long as there is work.” Jenny turned from the kiosk to inspect a store window. “Look at that scarf. I’ll bet it is hand made.”

Jenny shopped in every store they passed. If they had been in an American mall, he would tell her where he would be waiting for her. But this section of town resembled America so much; his need for the comfort of home compelled him to continue.

She bought some memorabilia for themselves and a hand-crafted ceramic plate for her folks. When they reached the end of the court they stopped to walk around the looming statue of Vladimir Lenin. It was the exact same pose he had seen in Kiev and Mariupol. Was this yet another attempt in years past to encourage conformity?

Today it was no longer holy ground, but apparently a favorite spot for the local children because of the steps and ramps that led to the base of the monument. A boy on a skateboard swooshed between them, breaking their handhold. They stood there for some time to watch the teens break-dancing for money until the loud thumping music was too much to bear.

Jenny grabbed his hand and hurried them to the beach front because she had seen a wedding ceremony taking place under a large golden-domed gazebo that jutted out over the waters edge. There was an old iron railing inside the open-arched structure with hundreds of different padlocks strung on it. Jenny pressed into Martin’s side as they looked on. The young couple added a lock, clamping it to the railing.

“How wonderful. I wish we had deep traditions like that.”

She hugged Martin.

“Well, it’s definitely appropriate.”

Jenny elbowed Martin in the side and gave a mock disappointed look.

They followed steps down the beach wall and took off their shoes.

The steps flowed out to the long, narrow, overpopulated beach. Martin was hesitant at the sight of so many people and such little room to walk freely. He stopped and Jenny laughed at him.

“You’ll be fine.”

Though the sand felt like small gravel under his feet, and the water washed ashore in dark brown oily sheens and cigarette butts, she was a determined romantic. She led him forward as she scouted their way to the area where they could cut back up to the city street where the Soba was located.

Ten feet later, Jenny brought them to an impasse with a grossly overweight and uncommonly hairy man wearing a Speedo. Martin held in a laugh as she quickly gave way to let the man pass by. Unfortunately, looking ahead revealed that he was a clone of many such men, as far as the eye could see.

Jenny grabbed Martin’s hand and dragged him back up the steps to the street.

He laughed most of their way to the Soba.

They walked freely, innocently, up the steps to the Soba patio and sat down at the nearest table. Jenny set her satchel down in the empty seat between them. The young waitress brought them the menus and Martin struggled to translate the options for Jenny. “Excuse me. Speak English?”

“Little,” the girl giggled. “Nyet.”

“Very good. Really. You have big coffee?” Martin asked in Russian.

“Da. Americana coffee.”

“Perfect. We are Americans.” Martin was enjoying himself, happy for the practice.

“How big?”

The waitress sized an imaginary glass in her hands.

“Two, please. And pizza.”

His eyes followed her inside where he watched her chat with another waitress; he imagined it to be about them.

All through dinner, they laughed about nothing, smiling at one another often. They remarked on people walking past—local loners and couples, families from Moscow and Kiev.

The taxi drivers parked in a row in front of the Soba, waiting, drew his attention. One struck his memory. Ah, the nice man, Dima, who had taken them from the bus station. Martin watched him alone, focused on his every movement. With every slight movement, drag from a cigarette, random chatter with other taxi drivers, a sincere laugh—Dima stood out as a man who was who he was. Stone. Not a man one could twist around in their imaginations.

“Martin, are you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah. They should at least tell us where Oksana is. It’s not normal.”

“I know.” Jenny dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, pulling at it with her fingers.

“We’ll be home in two days,” Martin said.

“I know.”

“She’s coming with the check,” he said.

It was early morning, still dark, when Martin stepped outside his room to the balcony overlooking the hotel courtyard. The accommodations were equal to a roadside motel back home but with a newly dressed up exterior. This spot was routine for him after a week of sleepless nights. This morning Jenny was awake and came to join him. The scene was new to her. He had learned how the hotel made their money. They looked down to watch two women, each in high boots and mini-skirts and little else. They were laughing with their dates. Everyone with their own cigarette and beer. One of the prostitutes got up to walk inside. Martin, out of the habit of his morning ritual solitude, allowed his eyes to follow one of the women as she got up and walked inside.

“Really?” Jenny said.

“What? What are you doing up?”

“Yeah. What.” Jenny laughed and shook her head.

The prostitution was very open and without fear. This was accepted as part of life, how things were. He wondered what other aspects of life he culturally found unlawful or immoral.

Together they watched the dawn break over the sea behind the coastal rooftops.

“We meet everyone in the lobby in an hour. I’m going to pack.” Jenny said.

Jenny went inside and Martin walked downstairs, across the outdoor lobby and through the hotel front gate. He headed across the damaged blacktop street to the common espresso vending machine, popped in three hryvnia, and took his miniature plastic cup to the water’s edge.

He stole away there while Jenny packed. Salty sea air mixed with decades of asphalt-like air to make a very foreign amalgam of a natural and unnatural experience.

How could he find his way out of this box that he now felt himself in? Familial associations, creations, could not be conjured up from mere desire. No, his fatherly and parental feelings were too natural and real. It was as if Oksana was born to him the moment he saw her. Love at first sight. It would have been unbelievable to him had he not experienced it. He had to get his daughter out of here, but how?

He paced some, sat and watched the seagulls forage along the sand, and paced again. An image of Dima returned to him. Sincere and direct. There was integrity and a determined happiness about him. He remembered that he had managed to endure that man’s music because of the man.

“Dima. Dima, can you turn that down little, please.” Martin had said.

Without any visible annoyance, Dima turned down the marching music.

Martin saluted him.

“Da. Afghanistan. Special forces.”

“Your tattoo. Very nice.” Martin pointed to his arm.

“Czechoslovakia lion. I was in Afghanistan 4 months and problem with my papers. They shipped me to Czechoslovakia. Saved my life! I know it.”

Martin had smiled for a half mile. Something like that had happened to him as well.

Dima could be trusted to help him even if there was not much money in it. If Martin could only remember what he did with the man’s card, he could insist that he and Jennifer ride back to the station with Dima.

Martin was excited now that there seemed some step, some forward movement in this effort to … to what? Maybe adopt. Maybe save. Maybe simply get more information. It might not lead to anything, but deep down it was something he could never turn from. He made his way back to the hotel and pulled Jenny aside.

“I’ve got an idea. Well, sort of. We can’t leave yet.”

“What do you mean we’re not leaving?” Jenny asked.

“We will still make the train. But we need the three-hour ride with Dima. He might be able to help us.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“The taxi driver. He knows some English, remember? We are going to lay it out for him. Send him money maybe.”

“We don’t even know him, Martin.” Jenny dropped her shoulders.

“We know him as well as anyone here. It’s important, babe. I think he can do some work for us. I don’t know what, exactly. But…I’m sorry; I just have a gut feeling. Can you tell them downstairs we are going to sight-see longer and catch up with them in Tokmak?”

He could see Jenny was torn by the hope he had given her and by the change in plans. He knew her to be very resistant to change. He watched her adjust to this new thing and slowly walk out to see the others off. She stopped at the door, eyes darting around.

“Yesterday I picked up one of the other girls. She was seven years old,”

Martin nodded, waiting.

“She was stiff as a board. She was stiff because her body literally did not know how to respond to being held. She didn’t know to tuck into me. She had never been held as a baby, Martin. That’s why.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Martin touched her arm, her shoulder. “You okay?”

Jenny nodded, wiped her eyes, and moved into the hallway.

Martin searched their bags for the card Dima had given him. He finally found the card in his pant’s pocket and called. Dima would have to come quickly. As it rang, he dreaded the conversation he’d soon be having with Jenny. She needed to go home. He had to stay behind to find Oksana.