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Serhiy Zhadan
around in my pockets, but
then I remembered I was
wearing someone else’s
clothes. Digging around in my
jacket pocket, I was surprised
to find Kocha’s screwdriver.
The tips of my fingers felt its
sharp edge. “God’s watching
out for me,” I thought,
smiling at the presbyter. But
he wasn’t looking at me—he
was watching the strangers,
quite concerned. Admittedly
therewas cause for concern—
the tallest guy was holding
a hunting shotgun, come to
think of it, while the pot-
bellied one was expertly
flourishing a machete. The
teenager was the only one
not holding anything, but he
had his hands in his pockets,
so one could only imagine
what he was hiding in there.
The distance between our
two groups closed. The tall
guy unexpectedly swung the
gun off his shoulder, cocked it,
and fired a blast into the sky.
Then he spread out his arms,
holding the weapon with one
hand, and came over. The
rising sun flashed behind his
shoulder. The October air
was dry, like gunpowder.
He stopped, dropped his
hands, and shouted amiably
at the presbyter:
“Father?”
The presbyter was doing
his best to exude an air of
self-importance.
“It’s me, Tolik,” the guy in the
AC Milan jacket said to the
presbyter, dashing over to
embrace him.
The presbyter tolerated his
affection with surprisingly
good grace, and then the
soccer star headed over to
embrace me.
“Tolik,” he forced out his
name, nearly hugging me to
death.
“Herman,”
I
answered,
freeing myself from his grip.