5 292
5
VOROSHILOVGRAD
Translated from Ukrainian by
Reilly Costigan-Humes & Isaac Wheeler
T
he
priest
from
the
funeral—the
“presbyter,” as he was
officially called—was looking
up at the morning sun as
the three figures emerged
from the yellow cornstalks
that swayed in the wind like
hangers in an empty closet.
For a while there it was hard
to tell who precisely were
pushing their way out of the
thick crops—the only clues
were a black jacket flashing
by, the creaking of the corn,
their cool breath rising.
Stomping some sand-colored
leaves and mowing down the
morning dew, they finally
popped out onto the road:
two adults and one teenager.
The man in front was wearing
a winter AC Milan track
jacket that went down to his
knees. Army boots too. The
club’s black and red colors
seemed faded against the
troubling October sun. The
man was unshaven and had
long hair. He cast a shrewd
yet unfocused glance at us.
Another man, short and pot-
bellied, wearing white work
overalls stained with yellow
paint, followed behind him.
He had short, gray hair and
was wearing Chinesemade
Nike sneakers. The teenager
looked the worst of all. He
was wearing knockoff Dolce
& Gabbana jeans and a shiny
black jacket with scattered
cigarette burns, square-
tipped dress shoes, and had
some Koss headphones on
his head—which also looked
like knock-offs. All three
of them headed toward us
without a word. I looked
at the presbyter out of the
corner of my eye. He was just
about holding it together:
was doing his best to conceal
his distress. I started rooting