Voroshilovgrad Page 18

  “That’s Tamara to the left, and Tamila to the right,” Injured explained.

  “I can’t tell them apart at all.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Injured said.

  Tamara pulled out some handkerchiefs, as though she were sliding out marked cards, and rubbed her dry eyes, taking great care not to smear her mascara. Occasionally Tamila would glance at her two gold watches, one on each wrist. Meanwhile, Kocha was drifting from room to room, coming up to Tamara and Tamila from time to time; they would light up whenever he approached, lean in toward him, and pat him on the hip or back mournfully yet enthusiastically. The other women were gradually bringing the deceased’s possessions in from the other rooms and placing them around the stools to form a circle. A coffee machine and a Japanese sound system lay at the corpse’s head, while a few pairs of shoes were lined up by her feet. In addition, lamps, clothing, and sewn portraits of Taras Shevchenko and Jesus Christ surrounded the deceased. She was holding a compact and a hair dryer, while Kocha had considerately stuffed her jacket pockets with coins, medals, and tokens. Tamara and Tamila looked at him despondently, continually muttering to themselves, “Gadjo, oh, gadjo.” We stood around for a bit, then Kocha pulled us out onto the stairs. Ernst was coming up holding a metal pot. Someone took out a mug and grabbed it with an air of affected purposefulness, moving past the relatives and taking stock of the calm crowd:

  “They haven’t renovated this apartment since ’91,” he said. “And it’s still holding up just fine.” Having made this pronouncement, he downed his drink.

  Everyone nodded their heads approvingly, commiserating with Kocha. An ambulance rolled up to the building a bit later. A young man hopped out wearing a formal black suit and tucking a folder under his arm.

  “The priest is here,” someone said, and everyone hurried to the main doors to greet the new arrival.

  The priest came in, and as soon as he did, the mourners began rushing at him to get his blessing. He patiently blessed everyone who approached him, accepted a full mug, carefully made the sign of the cross, cocked back his head like a child, and drank.

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked Kocha.

  Kocha took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. The priest handed out Xeroxed copies of some text as they headed toward the apartment.

  “What’s that?” I asked Ernst, who was pouring everyone the last of the wine.

  “The hymn,” Ernst answered. “He gets them off the Internet.”

  “What kind of hymn? Are they Catholics or something?”

  “Nah, they’re Shtundists,” Ernst replied succinctly, taking a copy and heading back up the stairs.

  Not everyone could fit in the living room. Distant relatives, colleagues, and distinguished guests all bunched together in the hallway or stood in the bathroom. There were even people gathered two whole floors down. The priest handed out his hymn, told everyone what to do, and broke out into high-pitched song, wasting no time on a sappy eulogy. The deceased’s family chimed in right away, followed by the distinguished guests, and then the neighbors and other fellow tenants. Down below, a wedding band joined in, the trumpet player, drummer, and violinist picking up the tune, adding their music to the singing, though they were playing more for those living on the lower floors than for the wake itself. The priest really went all out, reaching for the high notes, but sometimes Kocha’s screeching voice would drown him out nonetheless.

  The hymn went like this:

  When the Lord takes you by the hand and leads you down the yellow brick road,

  When you leave this strange country where the weather and utilities cause constant vexation,

  When your young and handsome face yellows in photographs from your trip to Gurzuf,

  Our loving family, including all the sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, and more distant relations, will follow your lead,

  Wearing our Sunday best, dressed as if for Election Day,

  We’ll raise our voices to praise Jesus, so he’ll hold your hand firmly and won’t lead us astray as we make our way to the Holy Father!

  “Sing to the Motherland, home of the free,” was the refrain, and everyone belted it out in unison. “Sing to our celestial Jerusalem, bulwark of peoples in brotherhood strong. The word of God, an invisible power, sare manusha de taboro yavena, romano zakono pripkhenela sare lent e priles!”

  When you come before the Lord in your new suit, boasting of your pull,

  And fall into his sweet, tattooed, and gold-bejeweled arms,

  The Savior will say to you:

  This is your new home, Masha—you’re one of the gang, so relax.

  nalache manusha phendle, so roma jyuvale; lache manusha pkhendle so ame soloviy.

  Once again everyone chimed in for the refrain, and then continued:

  Live on Romanistan, the magnificent and free land untainted by the pernicious influence of transnational corporations,

  sare manushende kokale parne, rat loli.

  Free amongst the free, equal amongst the equal, recognized by the world community and a special OSCE committee on the spiritual and culture heritage of Europe’s minority groups,

  The Lord holds you in his arms, so listen to the vibrations of his hot heart!

  When the hymn was over, everyone in attendance joined in for some slightly more familiar church songs—and further songs as well as off-key if energetic violin screeches accompanied the departed as she was carried out of the apartment, feet first. Her immediate relatives brought along her personal possessions. As Ernst explained, it was unacceptable for anybody else to touch them. Mom was shoved in the back of the ambulance, while Tamara and Tamila, as well as Kocha and the three-man musical ensemble, took seats in the front. The rest of the relatives, friends, and acquaintances took their own cars over to the cemetery. A tractor with an open trailer was provided for the very poorest relations—roughly two-dozen Georgian Gypsies jammed themselves into the back, and then the funeral procession got underway.

  As I was leaving, I noticed that Kocha was already a few drinks deep—some sort of scene was inevitable. At the cemetery, he got out of the ambulance even more loaded than he was getting in. He was haranguing the musicians, demanding they play some sort of polka, and then started in needling the ambulance driver, trying to get him to take the body all the way up to the grave, saying he would pay him whatever he wanted. The old cemetery was tucked away in a pine forest. The trees encircled the rows of graves, and there was hardly any unused ground left, so we had to creep like partisans, between the trunks and headstones to the freshly dug plot. It was a rather spacious hole. The walls of the grave were faced with brick and the bottom was covered with meticulously placed boards. Mom was carefully lowered in, and afterward came her possessions, passed down the line and placed in the grave beside her. Portraits of Shevchenko and Jesus had been fixed to the walls somehow. Kocha pushed through the pack of relatives, gave them some brusque instructions, ripped some dishware out of their hands so he could put it in the grave himself, ultimately lost his balance, and tumbled, of course, right into the pit, still holding a coffee machine. Some of the mourners reached to help. They wanted to pull him out, but he wasn’t having any of it, saying he wanted to be closer to Mom.

  “Let’s just make sure they don’t leave him in there,” Injured remarked, genuinely concerned.

  After the hole had been filled with flowers and the deceased’s possessions, completely concealing her, the priest walked up to the grave to pay tribute:

  “Why go to a place where you’re not welcomed? Why run away from those who love you? If you can’t stand up for yourself or your friends and family, what gives you the right to complain about your lot in life? Did you try to do anything before throwing up your hands and giving up? How will you be judged by those who went before you and who are now counting on you? How will you answer the questions posed by those who follow in your footsteps? Life, good people, is an ongoing cycle, and actions taken in the name of love justify any mistakes you may make.
The economy is grounded not in force, but in justice. If you can’t feel the presence of the living, then why have you come here to part with the deceased? Masha lived a long and heroic life, doggedly fighting for the happiness of her people, her friends and family, and her colleagues. Her persistent struggle to promote the common good and secure equality ennobled her mission, her spiritual journey and her painstaking efforts to build a better tomorrow. Her commitment to the principles of brotherhood, genuineness, honesty, and Romanipen, which she upheld consistently and staunchly throughout her entire life, will serve as a timeless example for generations to come, as they take the baton from their parents in the eternal fight for a brighter future. In that sense, Masha’s industry and resilience should inspire us to perform heroic tasks of our own, to refine our professional skill set, and tune in to the positive vibrations sent by the Savior as a reward for our years of wandering and our endurance in the face of discrimination.”

  “Amen,” the crowd cheered amiably.

  I didn’t know the deceased, but it seemed as though the priest might have idealized her life story just a tad. A lot of the mourners were invisible, standing behind the pines; one could easily have thought that he was speaking to the forest itself.

  “One more thing,” the priest added after gathering his thoughts for a moment. “What does death teach us? It teaches us that we must remember everything that has happened to us and to those closest to us. That’s the main thing. Because when you can remember everything from your past it’s not so easy to let go of it. That is all,” he said, ending his eulogy, and everyone broke out into song once again.

  Before the mourners could belt out yet another hymn about the brick roads that we walk down alongside the Savior, about the trying hardships that will pay off tenfold down the line, you know what I’m saying, yesterday’s black clouds rolled back in and an unexpected deluge drenched us. Everyone scattered, trying to find shelter under the tall, barren pine trees, hopping over old, sunken tombstones, and running to their cars parked out on the asphalt. The rain gushed into Masha’s pit, threatening to flood the grave completely and turn the whole cemetery into a lake. Now Kocha climbed out as quickly as possible and ran after everyone else. I dashed to find Injured’s car, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, veered a little off course, or maybe chased after the wrong person: I quickly got lost in a labyrinth of pine trees, running between them, choking on the water that ran into my mouth, feet sinking into the wet sand. Eventually I stopped by some more tombstones to catch my breath. My eyes settled on their inscriptions. I couldn’t quite take it in, at first. I moved a bit closer and read them again. The names of the Balalaeshnikov brothers were carved on the tombstones. All three of them. The rain was drowning their portraits; they were looking at me like sharks peering up from the ocean floor. It really was them. Barukh Balalaeshnikov, 1968–1999. Various sacred signs, such as stars of David, gold half-moons and pentagrams, crowns and bird’s wings, rose stems and old revolvers, were engraved next to Barukh’s face. The next plaque read: Shamil Balalaeshnikov, 1972–1999. Something written in Arabic was engraved near Shamil’s picture, while some scenes depicting birth, hunting, and last rites could be seen at the bottom of the plaque. They were hunting deer. As expected, Ravzan Balalaeshnikov, 1974–1999, was next in line. A sad woman, her hair down, wearing a short skirt, had been drawn on the plaque below the deceased’s portrait. The woman was sitting on a riverbank under a tiny birch tree, clearly pining for Ravzan. Bewildered and drained, I continued my run, trying to escape from this black hole and remember where I’d come from. However, the farther I ran, the more despair overwhelmed me, because I soon came across Sasha Python’s grave, featuring carved horses bearing insane riders; then Andryukha Michael Jackson’s tombstone, with a marble column and gold letters; and then heavy granite plaques with the names of Semyon Black Dick, Dimych Conductor, Kolya One-and-a-Half Legs, and Ivan Petrovich Fodder; as well as small yet ornate plaster sculptures of Karpo Disc Grinder holding his plaster disc grinder in his right hand and Vasya Negative with thuja trees planted all around him; and then there were Gesha Accordion and Siryozha the Rapist’s graves; and finally Gogi Orthodox’s tomb with crosses painted all over it.

  At last I fought through some blackthorn bushes and popped out onto the road, where I was nearly run down by Injured’s car. He wasn’t too surprised—he just stopped and waited for me to get in. After I was safely inside I immediately started telling him about what I had just seen, but he cut me off, asking grimly:

  “Where have you been? Olga called. She’s worried about you. And she was asking about some sunglasses.”

  “About some sunglasses?”

  “Yep, about some sunglasses. She told me to make sure you’re being careful. This is some serious shit we’re talking about.”

  He was right—I immediately recalled the burned truck, thinking that they were probably just getting started. My mounting dread was accompanied by an odd excitement. For the first time since I’d come back, my heart was resonating with those odd, sweet vibrations that filled the sky. Suddenly I could feel them all—the musicians playing their old instruments, striking their false, piercing notes; the two relatives in black suits driving a crane into the cemetery and covering the freshly-dug grave with concrete slabs, so nobody would be tempted to desecrate the final resting place of an eminent public figure like Masha and make off with her Siemens coffee machine. I also felt the two Spanish women wailing for the deceased, squeezing each other’s hands, and felt the two cousins, Tamara and Tamila, who had gotten soaked to the bone, their clothing sticking tenderly to their shoulders. I could feel Kocha, with his hoarse, whistling cries as he tried to get the ambulance driver to drop him off right in front of the apartment. I felt the children clutching their mint candies—I felt them, so carefree, so remote from death and hardship, running in the rain as hymns sounded around them. This happy and terrible feeling thrust me forward, forcing me toward the group packed into Kocha’s apartment; I had to join in without delay. The crowd spilled out onto the stairs and landings—nobody was even thinking of heading out early, and Tamara’s relatives wouldn’t have let them go anyway.

  “Look,” Injured said, “don’t take what you see in there to heart, because who knows what you’ll wind up seeing. That’s the main thing.”

  We were heading up the stairs. Olga had called again before we’d reached the apartment, asking me how I was doing and telling me to watch out. But she didn’t want to stop by for some reason. The party was flowing out onto the stairwell; bottles of wine and vegetable platters were being passed down the line. Everyone was talking loudly, recalling the deceased’s professional achievements, yelling over one another. The band was stationed between the third and fourth floors, and as soon as we approached them, the trumpet player nodded at me and started playing a Charlie Parker’s song, which I took as a bad omen. We continued plowing through the crowd, up the stairs, but then, right at the doorstep, a slim, dexterous arm jerked Injured away from me. Some middle-aged woman, with a hefty backside, led him farther up the steps. Injured looked back at me and managed to shout out some sort of warning, but I couldn’t make it out, as I was already diving into the jam-packed apartment. A bunch of the deceased’s closest relatives as well as the most esteemed guests were sitting at the table in the living room. I picked out Kocha’s bald spot, between Tamara and Tamila, and steered heedlessly toward it, crushing kids underfoot and shoving half-blind grannies out of the way. Kocha turned around, saw me, and yelled excitedly:

  “Herman!” hitting a high note, even for him—it must have taken every one of his internal whistles—“Buddy, thank God you’re here. Well,” he went on, introducing me around, “this is Tamara, the deceased’s daughter, you know. And this is Tamila, she’s like a sister to me. Herman, you know how hard it can be growing up in a big family and all.”

  Tamara and Tamila didn’t bother to disguise their interest; the way they looked at me suggested a challenge. Kocha spun, bobbed ar
ound the table, gave up his seat to me, and disappeared into the sea of people. Tamara and Tamila started taking care of me right away. Two hands poured me some wine, and they scrutinized my every move, making sure I kept drinking and stayed quiet. I had no clue what I could have conveyed to them, so I was more than happy to sit there, drinking to the deceased’s memory. I still didn’t know how to tell them apart, either. I thought I had seen Tamila last week by the store, downtown. As far as I could remember, she had been wearing a short, red skirt, but I wasn’t absolutely sure about that, so I didn’t bother asking.

  After a while the party started getting amorphous. A few people hurried out of the apartment, while others started showing up and proposing elaborate toasts to love and fidelity. The priest was going on about something or other—he and Ernst seemed to be having a lengthy argument about race relations, and soon Kocha’s insensate body was carried out of the kitchen into the next room. Tamila and Tamara and lit up like fireflies when they saw this. Bitter, dark wistfulness flooded their eyes, and I gazed intently into their bitterness, remembering more and more of the stories I had so conscientiously tried to forget. The number of guests gradually increased, although I couldn’t figure out where exactly these new people were coming from and how they could possibly fit inside the apartment. By midnight, I was dazed from all the yelling and singing, so I excused myself and went looking for some place where I could take a leak—but some old women were smoking heavy clay pipes in the bathroom. One of them offered me a hit. I accepted and breathed in deep. The pipe was hot, like the heart of a long-distance runner. I passed it back and wandered off.

  “Where can I take a leak around here?” I asked a man wearing a rubber raincoat standing in the hallway and drinking some Moldovan brandy straight from the bottle.

  “This way,” he said, slinging his arm over my shoulder and pulling me along.

  We walked over to the next apartment. The man whipped open the doors and shoved me inside.