Voroshilovgrad (26 page)

“They who? And why'd they call
you
? What are you, the coroner?”

“Buddy,” Kocha said dejectedly, “she was like a mother to me. And now she's just lying here, dead. She's given up the ghost. And their whole Gypsy tribe or whatever the hell you call it, they're already here. They all got in last night, you know? And Tamara's absolutely devastated—people like her, I mean, people from the Caucasus, they take these things especially hard. It's a real mess over here.”

“We'll be right over. Should we bring anything?”

“Get my suit for me. I feel like a scientist with no lab coat.”

“Kocha's really taking this hard,” I said to Injured as we were coasting down into the city toward Kocha's old apartment. I was holding the old timer's dark blue suit. “And it's such a blow for Tamara.”

“Why would she care?” Injured asked.

“What do you mean? It's her mom, after all.”

“Whose mom?”

“Tamara's mom,” I explained. “Tamara—Kocha's wife.”

“Damn it, Herman,” Injured said, losing his temper. “Kocha's wife's name was Tamila.”

“So who's Tamara?”

“Tamara is her cousin.”

“She's Georgian?”

“She's a Gypsy, from Rostov.”

“Why'd Kocha say she was from the Caucasus?”

“Kocha thinks everything south of Rostov is the Caucasus,” Injured replied. “That sly dog lived with the both of them. He'd always get them confused. That's why their parents didn't like him, you know? And now he's all like, ‘She was like a mother to me.'”

I was at a loss for words, and Injured seemed to have run out of things to say on the subject. So we kept driving in silence.

The family, who looked more like Serbs than Georgians, were standing outside the apartment building. The men were wearing black suits with brightly colored dress shirts underneath—yellow and pink ones, primarily. The women were dressed all in black, thumbing rosary beads with such intense concentration it looked as though they were texting. The children, who were also wearing little black suits and running all over the place, had wet, neatly combed hair. I recognized Ernst, clad in an Austrian policeman's coat and Russian army boots he had polished until they gleamed. Nikolaich was walking through the crowd too, with a black wallet dangling on a chain from his right wrist. The two fiery Spanish women were there too, and stood out from the crowd—they were
both holding wreaths, one from the worker's union and the other from the Chernobyl Disaster Fund. Ernst graced me with a dignified salute, Nikolaich was shaking his birdlike head feverishly, and the Spanish women were intent on giving me the cold shoulder. Injured plowed his way through the Serbian-Georgian relatives toward and into the main entrance. More members of Tamara's family were standing on the landing between the third and fourth floors, smoking pot right out in the open, like they thought they were too cool to get caught. We went up to the fourth floor. The apartment door was open, and we stepped inside.

A muffled yet slightly anxious buzz of voices filled the room, the kind of atmosphere you might expect at a shotgun wedding. Women with black hair to match their outfits were running every which way, carrying dishes and bottles. Men with chairs, axes, and shovels were also hurrying past us, and children clutching mint candies and severed chicken heads were playing, scurrying around our feet. We went into the kitchen. Kocha was sitting on an old stool, wearing a long, white T-shirt and black army briefs. The women were buzzing around him, doing their very best to please him. It was very obvious that our old friend was loved and respected here. They swarmed around him, affectionately calling him
gadjo
. Kocha was lazily keeping up a conversation with the whole room, calling one or another woman over, giving out instructions, cracking jokes. Evidently, he was the head honcho. On seeing us, he gave out a warm if restrained “Hello” before dragging us into the bathroom, where he whispered:

“Fuck, man,” he said, “what a goddamn shame. She was like a mother to me . . . but she just wouldn't listen . . . what should I
have expected? She never came home before midnight. She was always at her bar.”

“She worked at a bar?”

“What are you talking about?” Kocha asked, confused. “Buddy, that's not how we do things. We look after our parents. They don't work—come on man.”

Kocha took the suit from me and put it on there and then, but all it did was make him look like some farmer who had to dress up to go to court.

“Let's go pay our respects,” he said, combing back the remains of his once luxuriant hair. “I really have to be by the old lady right now.”

Tamara's mom lay in the living room, sprawled out across a few stools. She was wearing her Sunday best, a gray suit jacket, black skirt, and red, polished high heels. Makeup had been applied meticulously, and she looked rather content, aside from the fact that her lower jaw kept flopping open. When it did, one of the relatives would carefully close her mouth, as though they were punching a tram ticket. Two beautiful, worn-down women, both wearing black dresses, black stockings, and black shoes, were sitting by the deceased. One of them had countless rings on her fingers, while the other had beads, necklaces, and two or three gold crosses hanging around her neck. The two decrepit beauties looked rather severe, sitting there with their legs crossed, watching us coldly and attentively.

“Who are they?” I asked Injured quietly.

“That's Tamara to the left, and Tamila to the right,” Injured explained.

“I can't tell them apart at all.”

“You're not the only one,” Injured said.

Tamara pulled out some handkerchiefs, as though she were sliding out marked cards, and rubbed her dry eyes, taking great care not to smear her mascara. Occasionally Tamila would glance at her two gold watches, one on each wrist. Meanwhile, Kocha was drifting from room to room, coming up to Tamara and Tamila from time to time; they would light up whenever he approached, lean in toward him, and pat him on the hip or back mournfully yet enthusiastically. The other women were gradually bringing the deceased's possessions in from the other rooms and placing them around the stools to form a circle. A coffee machine and a Japanese sound system lay at the corpse's head, while a few pairs of shoes were lined up by her feet. In addition, lamps, clothing, and sewn portraits of Taras Shevchenko and Jesus Christ surrounded the deceased. She was holding a compact and a hair dryer, while Kocha had considerately stuffed her jacket pockets with coins, medals, and tokens. Tamara and Tamila looked at him despondently, continually muttering to themselves, “
Gadjo
, oh,
gadjo
.” We stood around for a bit, then Kocha pulled us out onto the stairs. Ernst was coming up holding a metal pot. Someone took out a mug and grabbed it with an air of affected purposefulness, moving past the relatives and taking stock of the calm crowd:

“They haven't renovated this apartment since '91,” he said. “And it's still holding up just fine.” Having made this pronouncement, he downed his drink.

Everyone nodded their heads approvingly, commiserating with Kocha. An ambulance rolled up to the building a bit later. A young
man hopped out wearing a formal black suit and tucking a folder under his arm.

“The priest is here,” someone said, and everyone hurried to the main doors to greet the new arrival.

The priest came in, and as soon as he did, the mourners began rushing at him to get his blessing. He patiently blessed everyone who approached him, accepted a full mug, carefully made the sign of the cross, cocked back his head like a child, and drank.

“Where's Mom?” he asked Kocha.

Kocha took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. The priest handed out Xeroxed copies of some text as they headed toward the apartment.

“What's that?” I asked Ernst, who was pouring everyone the last of the wine.

“The hymn,” Ernst answered. “He gets them off the Internet.”

“What kind of hymn? Are they Catholics or something?”

“Nah, they're Shtundists,” Ernst replied succinctly, taking a copy and heading back up the stairs.

Not everyone could fit in the living room. Distant relatives, colleagues, and distinguished guests all bunched together in the hallway or stood in the bathroom. There were even people gathered two whole floors down. The priest handed out his hymn, told everyone what to do, and broke out into high-pitched song, wasting no time on a sappy eulogy. The deceased's family chimed in right away, followed by the distinguished guests, and then the neighbors and other fellow tenants. Down below, a wedding band joined in, the trumpet player, drummer, and violinist picking up the tune, adding their music to the singing, though they were
playing more for those living on the lower floors than for the wake itself. The priest really went all out, reaching for the high notes, but sometimes Kocha's screeching voice would drown him out nonetheless.

The hymn went like this:

             
When the Lord takes you by the hand and leads you down the yellow brick road,

             
When you leave this strange country where the weather and utilities cause constant vexation,

             
When your young and handsome face yellows in photographs from your trip to Gurzuf,

             
Our loving family, including all the sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, and more distant relations, will follow your lead,

             
Wearing our Sunday best, dressed as if for Election Day,

             
We'll raise our voices to praise Jesus, so he'll hold your hand firmly and won't lead us astray as we make our way to the Holy Father!

“Sing to the Motherland, home of the free,” was the refrain, and everyone belted it out in unison. “Sing to our celestial Jerusalem, bulwark of peoples in brotherhood strong. The word of God, an invisible power,
sare manusha de taboro yavena, romano zakono pripkhenela sare lent e priles
!”

             
When you come before the Lord in your new suit, boasting of your pull,

             
And fall into his sweet, tattooed, and gold-bejeweled arms,

             
The Savior will say to you:

             
This is your new home, Masha—you're one of the gang, so relax.

             
nalache manusha phendle, so roma jyuvale; lache manusha pkhendle so ame soloviy.

Once again everyone chimed in for the refrain, and then continued:

             
Live on Romanistan, the magnificent and free land untainted by the pernicious influence of transnational corporations,

             
sare manushende kokale parne, rat loli.

             
Free amongst the free, equal amongst the equal, recognized by the world community and a special OSCE committee on the spiritual and culture heritage of Europe's minority groups,

             
The Lord holds you in his arms, so listen to the vibrations of his hot heart!

When the hymn was over, everyone in attendance joined in for some slightly more familiar church songs—and further songs as well as off-key if energetic violin screeches accompanied the departed as she was carried out of the apartment, feet first. Her immediate relatives brought along her personal possessions. As Ernst explained, it was unacceptable for anybody else to touch
them. Mom was shoved in the back of the ambulance, while Tamara and Tamila, as well as Kocha and the three-man musical ensemble, took seats in the front. The rest of the relatives, friends, and acquaintances took their own cars over to the cemetery. A tractor with an open trailer was provided for the very poorest relations—roughly two-dozen Georgian Gypsies jammed themselves into the back, and then the funeral procession got underway.