Zero History

58. DOUCHE BAGGAGE
Voytek was very angry about something, probably whatever had been the cause of him
receiving his mottled, yellowish, not-quite-black eye. He seemed most angry with
Shombo, the sullen young man Milgrim had seen at Biroshak & Son, though Milgrim
found it hard to imagine Shombo striking anyone. He’d looked to Milgrim as though just
getting out of bed would have posed an unwelcome challenge.
Milgrim would have liked to be up-front with Fiona, in the passenger seat, but she’d
insisted that he sit back here with Voytek, on the floor of this tiny Subaru van, an area
slightly less than the footprint of a washer and dryer, and cluttered now with large, black,
cartoonishly sturdy-looking plastic cases he assumed were Voytek’s. Each of these had
PELICAN molded on the lid, clearly a logo rather than any indicator of contents. Voytek was
wearing gray sweatpants with B.U.M. EQUIPMENT screened in very large capitals across his ass,
evidence of what Milgrim took to be kitchen mishaps down the front, thick gray socks,
those same gray felt clogs, and a pale blue, very old, very grimy insulated jacket with that
Amstrad logo on the back, its letters cracked and peeling.
The Subaru had actual drapes, gray ones, everywhere except the windshield and the
front side windows. All drawn now. Which was just as well, Milgrim supposed, as it
really had a great deal of glass, as well as a moonroof that was in effect the whole top of
the vehicle, through which Milgrim, looking up, saw the upper windows of buildings
passing. He had no idea where they were now, no idea which direction they’d taken from
Tanky & Tojo, and none where they were going. To meet Bigend again, he assumed. Like
urine samples but more frequent, meeting Bigend punctuated his existence.
“I did not come to this country for the terror from paramilitary,” declared Voytek,
hoarsely. “I did not come to this country for motherfucker. But motherfucker is waiting.
Always. Is carceral state, surveillance state. Orwell. You have read Orwell?”
Milgrim, trying for his best neutral expression, nodded, the knees of his new whipcord
trousers in front of his face. He hoped this wasn’t stretching them.
“Orwell’s boot in face forever,” said Voytek, with great formal bitterness.
“Why does he want you to sweep it?” asked Fiona, as if inquiring about some routine
office chore, her left hand busily working the shift lever.
“Devil’s workshop,” said Voytek, disgusted. “He wants mine occupied. While he fattens
on the blood of the proletariat.” This last phrase having for Milgrim a deep nostalgic
charm, so that he was moved, unthinking, to repeat it in Russian, seeing for an instant the
classroom in Columbia where he’d first heard it.
“Russian,” said Voytek, narrowing his eyes, the way someone might say “syphilis.”
“Sorry,” said Milgrim, reflexively.
Voytek fell silent, visibly seething. They were on a straight stretch now, and when