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VOROShILOVGRAD
yet cool; every day it felt
as though a cyclone was
just about to touch down.
I would get out of bed with
great reluctance and wander
outside, shivering, to wash up
at the sink. Our toothpaste
would freeze overnight like
vanilla ice cream. Patches of
fog would gradually clump
together by the gas pumps,
with only individual trees
still visible, poking through.
Fall was already gathering
momentum; we needed to
start gearing up for months
of darkness and snow.
That’s when it happened.
The presbyter had to make
a trip all the way out to the
border to perform a wedding
ceremony for some members
of his congregation. He had to
go God knows where, so he
decided it’d be best to travel
with a big group. The church
provided him with a driver
and an old, rotting white
Volga, and asked Tamara to go
along, since having a woman
along would the whole affair
look a bit more legitimate.
Kocha was supposed to join
the group, help out at the
ceremony, and generally
serve as backup. One of his
pals from the can paid us a
visit a fewdays before the trip,
however: The two of them
loaded up on wine and sang
prison songs deep into the
night, paying no mind to the
first breaths of frost that blew
through those deceptively
warm, early autumn nights.
By the next morning, Kocha
had nearly lost his voice,
while his former cellmate,
who had agreed to bike into
the valley for some medicine
at some point during the
previous night’s festivities,
had failed to reappear as
promised, meaning there
was little chance of getting
the bike back, leaving the old
timer distraught. All he could
do was lie around on the
couch, drinking hot tea and
pouring generous doses of
grain alcohol into his mug. So
I had to go to the ceremony