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14
Serhiy Zhadan
“It’s our church,” he said.
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh, it’s our church.
Well, and our club too. We’ve
combined the two, you see?”
“Gotcha.”
“Our religion says it’s okay,”
Mr. Glass Eye assured me.
“Good to know.”
“The presbyter knows what’s
good.”
“Uh-huh.”
“For real.”
“Okay, chill.”
Now the presbyter was
calling me over. He seemed
completely focused now,
and was handing out clear
instructions.
I pushed through the crowd
as Seva took out a leather bag
containing all the necessary
supplies. Tamara was fixing
her hair, standing silently at
the back.
“Well then, Herman. You
ready?” the priest asked.
“Yep. Are we going to get
started?”
“Of
course,”
he
said
confidently. “This is exactly
what we came here for. This
is exactly what we came here
for.”
• • •
Three months of plentiful
sunshine. We had sand in our
clothes and teeth, and silence
that stopped our blood and
thickened our dreams so
they ran one into another; it
made waking up a long and
uneasy process. Black bread
and green tea that marked
time and framed space. We
had sugar in our pockets
and on our bed sheets, the
smell of grass and diesel,
hoarse conversations in