Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Serhiy Zhadan

“Well then, Herman. You ready?” the priest asked. “Yep. Are we going to get started?” “Of course,” he said confidently. “This is exactly what we came here for. This is exactly what we came here for.” Three months of plentiful sunshine. We had sand in our clothes and teeth, and silence that stopped our blood and thickened our dreams so they ran one into another; it made waking up a long and uneasy process. Black bread and green tea that marked time and framed space. We had sugar in our pockets and on our bed sheets, the smell of grass and diesel, hoarse conversations in • • •

“It’s our church,” he said. “Seriously?” “Uh-huh, it’s our church. Well, and our club too. We’ve combined the two, you see?” “Gotcha.” “Our religion says it’s okay,” Mr. Glass Eye assured me. “Good to know.” “The presbyter knows what’s good.” Now the presbyter was calling me over. He seemed completely focused now, and was handing out clear instructions. I pushed through the crowd as Seva took out a leather bag containing all the necessary supplies. Tamara was fixing her hair, standing silently at the back. “Uh-huh.” “For real.” “Okay, chill.”

14