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Serhiy Zhadan
the funeral would stop by
on his bike. We’d have long
conversations.
Sometimes
he’d stay late, and we’d listen
to the evangelists sitting
in faraway radio stations—
much like us, they clearly had
no idea how to pass the time
on those black, ignited by
indolence. Other times, the
presbyter would bring me
some books to read. Once,
noticing my Charlie Parker
discs, he asked me if I was
really interested in jazz. On
the very next day he showed
up with a greasy scholarly
work on the emergence of
the New Orleans jazz scene.
And then there was a long
period during which he
tried talking to me about
Shtundism, but I couldn’t
help but demonstrate a total
lack of respect for religious
symbols whenever the topic
came up, so he finally decided
to let me be.
By this time, Kocha’s Gypsy
relatives already saw me as
one of their own. They too
would stop by from time
to time, tryingto draw me
further into their community.
Kocha and I evenwent to their
religious services a few times,
but we could never manage
to sit through an entire Mass.
Each time, Kocha would drag
me over to the kitchen, where
he’d start pillaging the wine
reserves. Tamara also came
by the station sometimes.
She’d always greet me with
a certain reserve, as if she
wanted to tell me something
but couldn’t quite find the
right words. Frankly, I had
no real interest in trying
to pry any information out
of her. Certain things are
best observed at a distance,
including other people’s
intimate relations.
After those three months of
sun and shade, of sandstorms
and plentiful if withering
greenery, came October.
The mornings were sunny