22

Yes, there has never been in my life a celebration better and merrier than that funeral.

Whereas I’ve never really liked ‘happy’ events such as Christmas, birthdays, Thanksgiving etc. Because usually these ‘special’ days imply big expectations and wishes which never come true in most cases. And then they give way to bitter disappointment and just as bitter aftertaste - when you realise that the big event you had looked forward to for so long vanished without a trace. Just as bitter and disappointing was my own wedding, where the groom was definitely not Shurik, but I’ll tell you about it later…

Meanwhile I, happy as Larry, was on the phone calling my friends and telling everybody the same funeral story over and over again. My bestie Sue was surely involved as well.

“So what next?” she said sceptically when I reached the ‘happy ending’ at last and paused for effect.

“What do you mean ‘what next”? I asked in confusion.

“I mean, what are you gonna do next? To wait another year until you go back to Kruglovo - to celebrate the anniversary of your grandad’s death? Come on, things change! It’ll be all water under the bridge by that time!”

“No, you don’t understand. I finally got his attention! That means I have a chance…”

“Did he give you his phone number?” asked Sue.

“N-no, but…”

“Then there’s nothing to talk about,” she cut it off, “If you two had exchanged numbers at least, then yes, it would have made sense to hope for something. But the way it is…”

“Wait!” I interrupted her as I suddenly remembered something.

“What?”

“I think I know how to obtain his number”.

Having said bye to my bestie I grabbed my bag, threw my toothbrush and pajamas into it and darted to Gran Zoya’s place in the next neighborhood. The more so, I had been asked in to help her organize the table for the nine-day wake.

The atmosphere at Gran Zoya’s house was all doom and gloom. All the mirrors were covered with black rugs; all the windows blinded. The rooms were dark and candlelit; a lot of candles brought from church and placed in every corner were burning day and night and made the air stuffy. And there were photos of my grandad all around the rooms - big and small, picturing him old and quite a young guy.

My grandfather at his eighteen had been cute as hell. He had dark curly hair, almond eyes, pretty fine features. No wonder that he had broken many girls’ hearts at Kruglovo in his days. People used to say that one of those girls had actually committed suicide over him, and the lives of many others had been ruined by him forever. My grandma was seven years younger than him; and even her he had managed to be cheating on. Yet she would turn the blind eye to his fornications, saying that it’s only unforgivable for the wife to be unfaithful, but the husband is within his rights to do so, because it is inherent in him. I never agreed with her on this account; even then I knew that infidelity is the one thing I would never be able to forgive…

Who knows, perhaps it was the reason why my grandad had been dying such a painful death - paying for his former sins. It might be proof that God exists, and I really want to believe that such a lot is awaiting everyone who being young and foolish played with words and without regard of responsibility broke a single heart just like my grandfather did.