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11
VOROShILOVGRAD
pot-bellied man.
“The Russian border,” he
answered succinctly. Then
he retreated into his own
thoughts.
Seva shut off the engine, and
we coasted down the hill.
The bricks under our tires
were all broken up. The road
was crushed, like the spine
of a dog run over by a truck.
Having descended into the
valley, we stopped in the
middle of a small lot. There
was a relatively spacious
building there with a slate
roof and fake columns on one
side. About forty locals were
standing on the front steps.
They seemed to have been
waiting for us.
I could instantly sense the
atmosphere of a grand,
festive gathering. The men
were mostly wearing dark,
inexpensive suits, bizarrely
colored ties, and thoroughly
polished
shoes.
The
women had a less uniform
appearance—some of them
were in dresses, some of
them in white blouses and
black skirts; others, mostly
the younger ones, were
wearing jeans studded with
masses of rhinestones. Some
women had winter coats
around
their
shoulders,
some were wearing leather
jackets, and a few others had
raincoats on, although the
autumn air had had already
been thoroughly dried out
and warmed up by the sun. It
was actually rather cozy down
here in the valley, like on
the southern Crimean coast.
The locals greeted us with a
joyful roar. We all crawled
out of the car, smoothing
our wrinkled clothes. Tolik,
wearing his Milan jacket, and
the presbyter, wearing a black
jacket and holding a folder,
took the lead, followed by
Seva, who was also wearing
a suit, albeit a red and rather
dubious looking one, as well