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VOROShILOVGRAD
asked, chuckling. “We’re
going with you. We can all
fit.”
Seva, our driver, who had
been sitting in the car this
whole time watching through
his sunglasses, took them off
to admire the spectacle of
us all jamming into his old,
white Volga, which seemed
to be rusting more and more
the farther we traveled.
The presbyter took a seat
up front, next to Seva; Mr.
One Eye squeezed himself in
right behind the presbyter,
insistently
nudging
him
toward the driver and
miraculously getting the door
shut behind him. Tolik’s puffy
Milan jacket engulfed both
himself and the presbyter like
an airbag. Pot-bellied Gosha
and his son hopped in the
back; seeing a woman already
sitting there, they started
apologizing profusely, albeit
without surrendering even
an inch of space. I was the
last one in, and Siryozha had
to sit on my lap. He was so
close I could hear the music
playing in his headphones—I
thought it was shit, so I just
did my best to ignore. Seva
put his sunglasses back on
and looked at the presbyter
inquisitively. Tolik’s hand
emerged fromunder hisMilan
jacket, waving the driver on.
The Volga shuddered and
started along the dirt road.
At times, the corn came right
up to the edge of the road,
rubbing up against the sides
of the car. Tolik directed the
driver, flapping his arms. The
car was crawling up the hill,
up to where we would have
more bars and where the
farmers would presumably
be waiting for us. Then,
Tolik was motioning off
somewhere to the left. Seva
braked and looked askance
at his one-eyed passenger,
but Tolik persisted in his
waving. Our driver obligingly
spun the wheel, and we dove