12 292
12
Serhiy Zhadan
as his sunglasses, of course.
Then the rest of us spilled
out—Siryozha, wearing his
knockoff jeans with the
letters D and G on the back
pockets, and me in my
reflective blue suit that made
me look like a ’70s Soviet
pop star. Then came Gosha,
decked out in his white, paint-
stained overalls, and finally
Tamara, surveying her new
surroundings anxiously. She
was wearing a cherry-colored
sweater and a long skirt. On
her feet she had thin high
heels that immediately sank
into the sand outside. Our
whole crew headed over to
meet the assembled locals.
They were glad to see us. A
short dude, wearing a suit
and colorful handkerchief
instead of a tie, and clearly
the one in charge, came down
the steps and kissed the
presbyter five times in a row,
a custom that was unfamiliar
to me. It seemed as though
they were old friends; they
had some catching up to do,
but, instead, the boss invited
us in, saying that we didn’t
have much time, and needed
to get everything done nice
and snappy.
“
Then
we can catch up,” he
added, and headed up the
steps
The presbyter fell in behind
him. The locals parted
respectfully, making way for
him and the rest of us. Our
driver moved quickly down
this living corridor, then
Tamara, sending a concerned
glance my way. I turned to
Gosha and Siryozha.
“Are you going in?” I asked.
“I’m going to stop home real
quick,” Gosha said, standing
still and keeping his machete
hidden behind his back. “I’m
going to get changed. It’s a
holiday after all.”
“What about you?” I asked
Siryozha, raising my voice to