Love in a Zapor

 

A while back, this turd of a vehicle cropped up in front of my house. It was a Zaporozhetz, a name often shortened to Zapor, which means constipation in Russian. No one knew whence came this marvel of automotive engineering that proudly and justly bore its aforementioned title. Once white, this specimen was now a dirty gray, with rust-eaten fenders and a busty naked chick painted on the hood, under which was a proud representative of the internal combustion engine family. The car's bumper, nearly falling off, was wired to the frame. The door handles were missing, replaced by—you guessed it—more wire. In short, it was a "super-deluxe" model in tip-top technical condition, a real pain in the ass on wheels.

My son declared it a gift from the heavens and suggested we strip it for parts.

"Who knows?” he said. “Something might come in handy. We've got a Zaporozhets in the garage, just in better shape." But I forbade him from doing any such thing. The car had a license plate (wired on, of course). Maybe the owner would turn up. You never know....

One night, I woke up to a horrible roaring noise at 2:30 in the morning. Half-asleep, I wondered if we were having an earthquake. I peeked out the window. Three shadowy figures were trying to start the Zapor. I doubted that they were its rightful owners. Why would anybody come for their own property at such an ungodly hour? The Zapor roared like a wounded lion but wouldn't start. It hadn't earned its nickname for nothing. The guys pounded on it, caressed it, spat on it, and kicked it. The Zapor didn't budge. It just kept howling. I went back to bed.

The next day, I heard a commotion outside. Looking out, I noticed that clearly there were people in the Zapor. I went out and approached the wonder wagon. Inside sat a young couple. What a pair! They looked forty, but considering how excessive drinking and smoking can age you prematurely, they were probably much younger. The male specimen was not entirely sober and therefore particularly chatty. He gleefully explained that the car had broken down on the road, so they pushed it to my house. His Russian was quite refined, with cursing entirely replacing his grammar.

He assured me the Zapor was the best car in the world. Worth its weight in gold, he said. But he'd sell it to me for just 10 bucks because he liked me. I told him I couldn't accept such a kingly gift... I mentioned that someone had tried to steal his wonderful car in the middle of the night. "That was me," he explained. "I came with some friends." I asked why at night. "Because we were drunk," he replied. Looking at him, I figured he probably hadn't been sober for a decade, and his girlfriend likely hadn't bathed in just as long...

"Listen," he addressed me in a very confidential tone. "You wouldn't happen to have some moonshine, would you?"

"What, you think I'm running a distillery here?"

"Ah, too bad! My insides are on fire!"

"Yeah, a drink would be good right now," his companion confirmed, snuggling up to him.

 

I went back inside and sat at my computer. Soon, my wife came and called me for lunch.

"Did you see those two in the car?" she asked.

"Of course. What are they up to now?"

"What a man and a woman usually get up to," she replied.

I looked out the window. Sure enough. A scrap of newspaper barely covered the window, and behind it, I could see the man's backside bouncing up and down.

"To each their own," I thought. "Some people experience life's pleasures on their private yacht in a blue lagoon. Others savor them in their car." The Zapor swayed before my eyes like a yacht on gentle waves, a true blockage on the street of life.

"Ah, forget them!" I said. "Let's eat."

 

That plug-ugly car sat in front of my windows for what seemed like an eternity. Its owners would show up from time to time for their love sessions. Grass started growing around it. I called the police to report that a vehicle had been parked under my window for a long time and was being used for purposes other than transportation. Nothing changed.

I looked out the window one day and saw quite a scene. That same woman was standing by the water pump where we get our water. Her face was battered and swollen. Twin streams of blood were trickling from her nostrils, and every now and then she'd spit blood. Her boyfriend stood next to her, yanking out tufts of grass, wetting them with water from the pump, and shoving them up her nose. Tossing away one bloodied clump, he'd rip out a new one. The woman didn't move. A third companion squatted nearby, thoughtfully smoking. All three were drunk, but still managing to stay upright. My wife came up behind me.

"Ah, those three," she said. "They were drinking in the Zapor. Now they've crawled out to freshen up."

The woman said something to her boyfriend. He tossed aside the bloody tuft of grass and walloped her across the cheekbone. Then he went to his buddy, bummed a cigarette off him, and lit up. The two men walked away. The woman meekly shuffled after them.

A few days later, the couple appeared in front of my window again. The Zapor howled in a peculiar way, the man behind the wheel yelled something, the woman gave it a push from behind, and... the Zapor moved off, leaving a bluish cloud of exhaust in its wake.

That pain-in-the-ass car and its owners never showed up on my street again. I sometimes wonder if I dreamed it all. But the depressions in the ground, bare of grass, tell me it was all real...

(Translated by J. McVay)