Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROShILOVGRAD

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

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

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