Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Serhiy Zhadan

they were old friends; they had some catching up to do, but, instead, the boss invited us in, saying that we didn’t have much time, and needed to get everything done nice and snappy. “ Then we can catch up,” he added, and headed up the steps The presbyter fell in behind him. The locals parted respectfully, making way for him and the rest of us. Our driver moved quickly down this living corridor, then Tamara, sending a concerned glance my way. I turned to Gosha and Siryozha. “Are you going in?” I asked. “I’m going to stop home real quick,” Gosha said, standing still and keeping his machete hidden behind his back. “I’m going to get changed. It’s a holiday after all.” “What about you?” I asked Siryozha, raising my voice to

as his sunglasses, of course. Then the rest of us spilled out—Siryozha, wearing his knockoff jeans with the letters D and G on the back pockets, and me in my reflective blue suit that made me look like a ’70s Soviet pop star. Then came Gosha, decked out in his white, paint- stained overalls, and finally Tamara, surveying her new surroundings anxiously. She was wearing a cherry-colored sweater and a long skirt. On her feet she had thin high heels that immediately sank into the sand outside. Our whole crew headed over to meet the assembled locals. They were glad to see us. A short dude, wearing a suit and colorful handkerchief instead of a tie, and clearly the one in charge, came down the steps and kissed the presbyter five times in a row, a custom that was unfamiliar to me. It seemed as though

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