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VOROShILOVGRAD
beheardoverhisheadphones.
He just waved his hand
amiably. Then again, maybe
he didn’t even hear my
question. Meanwhile, the
locals
were
cramming
themselves through the front
door. I went up the steps too.
I found myself in a dark
hallway with a cool scent to it;
the building appeared to be
their town hall, or something
along those lines. Various
doorways could be seen at
the end of the hallway—
the locals who’d preceded
us inside were bunched up
around them. There was a
rather large auditorium, given
the size of their community,
on the other side. The
interior was modest—the
room was lined with neatly
arranged rows of wooden
pews, and the stage was
decorated with red velvet.
Up above the proscenium I
could see the clear outline
of Lenin’s profile. His picture
had probably been hanging
there for a while, and then
it was taken down, but the
fabric had faded and molded
around the outline of his face.
Now a crucifix had taken his
place; at a distance it looked
as though somebody had
crossed out the tenets of
Marxism-Leninism once and
for all. Most of our crew was
already on the stage—the
leader, whose handkerchief
was now draped around
his neck, was bobbing
around them and explaining
something. The locals took
their seats all around us. Tolik
came up to me.
“What do you think? You like
it?” he asked.
“Is this your club or
something?” I asked.
He slid out of his heavy jacket,
exposing a striped woolen
navy shirt. He carefully leaned
his gun up against one of the
benches.