Читати книгу - "Навіщо. What For"

Shoot! Or one more poem?’ I write this to you—what more can be said? What more can I add to that one fact? For now I know it is in your power To punish me contemptuously for this act. But you, keeping for my unhappy lot Even one drop of sympathy Will not entirely abandon me*.

Martynov (puts down his gun)

— Get out of here, bitch, while I’m kind! You dispatcher, find us vodka! Get it out from the ground, miner!

Scene 4

Theseus (surfing on Facebook)

— Commander… Our men occupied half of Ilovaisk. There, right across the railroad (just on the other side of the train tracks?), is our enemy. They’re calling for reinforcements backup… Their Joint Staff is only giving them promises… The protest is, as it seems, today… Well… Like!.. Share… Well, they know better in the Joint Staff… And I’m not a friend with anyone from there.

…Money for the injured… At his classmate’s request. I could help… He looks like our Kolia. Hm… No, that’s not him. .. An orphanage, moved out of the Luhanks region: shoes and clothes are needed. Parents, that’s what those kids need! Who’s gonna take them after this, they panic and scream when a balloon pops …

…Let’s see. Gathering money for a sniper scope?! A balk of money! No, I won’t contribute. This is for murder. Killing naive people who are brainwashed by propaganda is a crime. Moreover, politicians just keep holding meetings and shaking hands. No, war should be the warriors’ business.

…Oh, Ilovaisk, again… It seems like the circle is closed. It contains eight thousands of our soldiers. That’s a lot. And everybody’s silent about it. In Kyiv, they will celebrate Independence Day. There will be fireworks. Or there won’t be… They say that shots frighten refugees from Donbas. No, there won’t be any. But how can they celebrate without fireworks?..

…A parade of vyshyvankas (Ukrainian embroidered shirts)… A sailing regatta… They paraded prisoners from our side through the streets of Donetsk. The path through hatred?… What would I feel? Perhaps, I’d simply think how not to stumble, lest the rest of the chain fall on me. I would twitch if there were fireworks, perhaps. And I would not raise my head.

Scene 5

The sound of explosion. The door in the class suddenly opens. Laurel drags Veles, who’s leg is injured. Strilka runs in with bandages and sponge with celox.

Strilka

— What’s there?

Laurel

— He’ll live.

Veles

— I will. But not for long.

Strilka cuts his trousers and bandages wounds that are not too deep.

Veles

— Now sew it back. I don’t have an extra uniform.

Strilka

— Everything was torn apart. If you started pulling it, there would be a blood flood.

Veles

— You’re too sloppy, Strilka. No one will marry you.

Slon

— For that purpose we have trousers with velcro.

Laurel

— If everything is the way it has to be in your army, why are you alone here? Why not all of it?

Slon

— I’m not the one to answer that question. My agenda is simple: I want to fight, that’s why I’m here.

Strilka

— Why not to marry someone instead? You can fight on the matrimonial battlefield.

Slon

— Who? You? I don’t mind. Let’s do it right now! Suspicious Laurel will be the witness; Poet will fix it for history. Leave a bit of bandage for your bridal veil…

Strilka

— No, as Veles say, I am sloppy. And I don’t know anything about you.

Slon

— A soldier by vocation, born in Odessa in a typical Jewish family. I played the violin, drew still lives—a pear and an apple, a pear without the apple, very sharp. My parents moved to Brighton where I attended school. When I was sixteen, they died in a car crash. I started washing dishes in a cafe in Queens, fought with the blacks and ended up in a hospital. When I got out with only five dollars in my pocket, I felt abandoned by the entire world. And then I saw a girl on the corner of the street I was passing by with leaflets: “Want attractive cloths, nutritious food, travel around the world? The US Army is waiting for you!” And I applied. After Iraq I built a house in New Jersey. I could stay there watching my wall size TV. But I had heard about Ukraine and decided to come along, believe me or not.

Poet

— We believe you. And I write it all down.

Laurel

— What a neat fairytale! Very much like something you’d hear from a Russian spy.

Slon

— I’ve followed Russians with my gunpoint in South Ossetia. So don’t be silly. My patience has limits.

Laurel