Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Serhiy Zhadan

relatives already saw me as one of their own. They too would stop by from time to time, tryingto draw me further into their community. Kocha and I evenwent to their religious services a few times, but we could never manage to sit through an entire Mass. Each time, Kocha would drag me over to the kitchen, where he’d start pillaging the wine reserves. Tamara also came by the station sometimes. She’d always greet me with a certain reserve, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t quite find the right words. Frankly, I had no real interest in trying to pry any information out of her. Certain things are best observed at a distance, including other people’s intimate relations. After those three months of sun and shade, of sandstorms and plentiful if withering greenery, came October. The mornings were sunny

the funeral would stop by on his bike. We’d have long conversations. Sometimes he’d stay late, and we’d listen to the evangelists sitting in faraway radio stations— much like us, they clearly had no idea how to pass the time on those black, ignited by indolence. Other times, the presbyter would bring me some books to read. Once, noticing my Charlie Parker discs, he asked me if I was really interested in jazz. On the very next day he showed up with a greasy scholarly work on the emergence of the New Orleans jazz scene. And then there was a long period during which he tried talking to me about Shtundism, but I couldn’t help but demonstrate a total lack of respect for religious symbols whenever the topic came up, so he finally decided to let me be. By this time, Kocha’s Gypsy

18