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Serhiy Zhadan
instead of him. I guess that’s
just how it goes sometimes
in a big family.
“Can’t they get by without
me?” I asked. “I don’t know
a thing about their church
stuff.”
Kocha, who was still quite
sick, replied hoarsely, “Look,
you don’t have to do a thing.
They’ll handle it, so just
chill, dude. All you gotta do
is hang around them, that’s
it.” His voice fizzled out then
like a dying car battery. He
couldn’t manage more than
a feeble mumble when he
went on: “I just can’t— you
see I’m hurting.”
“What I don’t get is why they
needed you in the first place.”
“It’d be bad news if we only
sent Gypsies over. They need
a regular person there, you
know, just in case the shit
hits the fan.”
“What’s their beef with the
Gypsies?”
“Herman, they’re uncivilized
people. They already don’t
trust each other, and then
you throw Gypsies into the
mix?
Listen, if this weren’t so
important to the family I
wouldn’t have asked you. The
thing is, you’re like a brother
to us now. Just make sure
you wear my suit. You look
like some sort of POW in that
getup. Come on, Herman—
you gotta take life by the
horns.”
“Who are we doing all this
for, anyway?” I asked.
“Smugglers,”
Kocha
explained. “They live by
smuggling. The border’s right
there, see. They just get by
however they can.”
“They ever get caught?”
“Yeah, of course. Some of
them get locked up and
others are let go.”
“How’d they wind up here in
our neck of the woods?”
“They do business with our