Excerpt from ‘Dacha’

This novel excerpt was written by Brendan Williams-Childs in A. E. Osworth’s 12-Month Novel Generator.

Synopsis

Dacha is a speculative, political melodrama. In a small Baltic country, revolution has given way to bureaucracy. A war crimes trial threatens to expose buried national traumas, and a messy, prolonged regime change forces personal secrets out of hiding. As the trial falters, and a vacuum of power expands, eight citizens must decide for themselves what justice and the future of their country looks like.

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Excerpt

At the end of their first date, Sasha had put his hand on Foma’s forearm, the most affection he felt comfortable displaying in the bar. “We leave the bar separately.”

The order seemed to have taken Foma by surprise. “Why? Operational security?” He had laughed at this, like basic awareness of his surroundings ended when his shift was done.

Operational security sounded like something from the mandatory cadet year, but Foma was older than the cadets, or had said he was when he’d accepted a drink. Sasha couldn’t hide his confusion. “What?”

Foma shrugged. “It was a bad joke. Operational security is the term for, like, general awareness in the factory. To prevent accidents.”

The bar was in the basement of an apartment in the far northern section of town, surrounded by rubble from the riots seven years before, technically condemned. The landlord allowed squatters upstairs, a bar downstairs, and nobody without someone to vouch for them within a hundred yards.

“We didn’t arrive together, we don’t leave together. Do you think people don’t know we’re here?” Sasha didn’t like to be abrupt, but he couldn’t risk Foma misunderstanding the seriousness. “I can promise you, it’s safer if we leave separately and meet at the Mother of Grace metro. One man coming from a bar isn’t worth it. A couple is a target.”

Foma looked offended at first, but then shook his head. “Okay, not a couple then.”

“I’ll go first.” Sasha stood, wrapped a long black scarf around his neck three times, pulled on his boar-leather gloves. “Just so you don’t think I’m making you walk out with some kind of untoward intention. Of course, I’m counting on you not to abandon me, either. But I doubt you’re the sort who shirks his responsibility.”

“Never.” Foma said it with the earnestness of a man who made keeping his word his living.

It wasn’t a long walk, but the dark streets seemed more dangerous. He was wary of the squatters staring at him from the windows of other partially lit apartments, the men in heavy coats preparing their tents in the public parks. There were plenty of stories Sasha could have dwelt on—the man who had been set on fire last year, the man jumped by the wrong sort of foreigners, the women assaulted by neighbors, the various other small atrocities that he tried to be inured to. There were only so many tragedies that could be met with sadness. And yet, time and again, he felt for the victims. As he came to the metro station, it began to snow. By the time Foma arrived, small, crystalline flakes that turned to ice on impact had settled on the concrete, embedded in Foma’s hair. They sat across from each other on the metro, looking at each other’s reflections in the dark glass, attempting inconspicuousness.

In Sasha’s apartment, Foma seemed afraid to sit on any furniture, to touch anything. “I don’t think you get it,” he said, after a nightcap. “My apartment used to be a closet. I have a communal kitchen.”

“I thought skilled workers made better pay than that.” Sasha lit the incense he saved for special occasions, set it next to the photograph of his grandparents on the bookshelf by the sofa.

“I have four brothers in the provinces.” Foma poured himself another shot. “Taking care of someone is tough on one paycheck.”

“I can only imagine.” Sasha declined to mention that he had inherited his apartment after caring for his aunt as she died, slowly, from cancer. Too much empathizing too soon was weakness.

After they fucked, Foma helped him change the sheets. “You’ve got a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. I’ve been lucky.” Sasha nodded at his dresser as he pushed the used sheets into a hamper. “You’re welcome to any of my clothes if you want to stay.”

Without hesitation: “I do.” Foma opened the top drawer. Neatly organized boxer shorts were layered over letters and old photographs. Sasha could hear him picking the photos up, flipping through them. He knew what Foma was seeing: a group of young men in the mandatory recruitment uniform, a man in canvas pants and a tank top holding a street cat, a professional portrait of a woman in a lab coat.

“I don’t know which one you’re holding,” Sasha lied, “But those are just some old things. Probably my mother’s staff picture, my cadet graduation, and maybe an old friend.” If he downplayed them, there probably wouldn’t be a discussion. He would be able to stop himself from being sentimental with a younger man who he wasn’t sure would appreciate it.

“It’s a good photo.” Foma handed him the one of Sasha and Dimitri. “You should put it up somewhere.”

Sasha set it back in the drawer. “There’s only so much space for pictures of dead people on my walls. Now put some pants on before you come to bed.” He turned the light off and lingered only for a moment before closing the drawer.

They curled up together, nose to nose. The darkness in the room was cut through every so often by a soft white glow, a streetlight flickering on and off below the window.

“My first boyfriend, Grigory . . . He died, too.” Foma was speaking quietly.

Sasha opened one eye, trying to calculate the probability that Foma was telling the truth. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“You were born after Sidirov, then?” Both eyes open now. Sasha propped himself up on his elbow and examined Foma like he was a new specimen in a museum’s special collection.

Foma nodded. “Four years after, yeah.” He was looking away, grinding his teeth. Maybe he was upset at himself for having spoken up.

Sasha shook his head and lay back down, “That’s such a shame. About your boyfriend I mean.” They were silent for a while again. Snow began to pile up on the windowsill, cold air seeping into the cracks in the building. Foma, staring at the ceiling, looked like he wanted to say something else but was waiting for approval. Sasha spoke again. “Can I ask how?”

“It . . . ” His voice caught in his throat, his eyes wide like his own pain took him by surprise. “Officially, a workplace accident.”

“Homicide or suicide?” It was hardly a question.

Foma took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Probably a suicide.” Then, all at once, “Jesus. I’m sorry. Forget it. It’s just a good photo but, you know, I get it. That’s all I was trying to say.” He closed his eyes and rolled onto his stomach, tucked his hands under his chest, palms against the cotton sheets. “Your bed’s really comfortable.”

Sasha adjusted himself as well, turning to his left side, knees up slightly. Foma was shaking and Sasha reached out, fingers touching the younger man’s shoulders. “My first boyfriend was shot by a policewoman during a bar raid.” He considered explaining the details, how he had overcome the loss, how the loss was impossible to overcome, actually. Instead, he stuck to the facts. “I have to go to the Netherlands to talk about it.”

“Really?” Foma promptly rolled back over to face Sasha. “The Hague?” That was the only place in the Netherlands that anyone in their country was aware of. The trials that received international coverage might have finished five or more years ago, but the whole affair was far from over. There was a seemingly endless list of people the International Criminal Court had issued warrants for.

“She’s still alive, if you can imagine it. The woman who killed Dimitri, I mean.” Sasha didn’t know what else to say. There was still justice to be done. To him, that was something that could be universally understood.

“Damn. Good luck.” Foma, slowly, moved closer, stretched out his own hand and wrapped Sasha in his embrace.

They lay entwined and Sasha mumbled a thanks into the space between Foma’s neck and shoulder. How long Foma was awake after that, Sasha didn’t know. But in the morning, Foma didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to leave, and Sasha was in no hurry to make him. They ate breakfast and talked about the World Cup in Poland, the number of people they knew who had illegally crossed the border with hopes of sneaking into the stadium on a weekend. It was a relief to have company, and Sasha could see, even then, the potential of keeping that company close.

When Sasha was finally called to The Hague to testify against Tatiana Garmash, he entrusted his apartment to Foma.

And when Sasha returned, full of fire and ready to scream, it was Foma who said, quietly, “Well, if you . . . You know, I’m from the provinces. I grew up hunting. If you wanted to shoot her, I could probably help you out.” Now, Sasha felt like an idiot for believing him, but at the time it had felt like true love.