LITMIR.BIZ

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into a legend, almost a myth.

* * *

      A wide panorama opened beneath the branches of the oak tree my friends and I had prudently managed to climb. We could observe the sea of swaying heads, bright head scarfs, caps, bald heads, skull caps, boys’ forelocks, girls’ braids. The muffled buzzing of voices now and then drowned out Marya’s lamentations by the entrance.

      “They’re bringing him out!” Gennady Oparin shouted.

      The crowd froze. The coffin cover was carried out of the building, and, almost immediately after, an open coffin with Uncle Anatoly’s body in it floated out on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was placed on stools.

      The shouting became louder. Now, it was not just Marya lamenting. For some reason, all the women joined her cries. Marya rushed to the coffin to hug her husband. She was followed by one woman, then another, and a third. They were all weeping right into the dead man’s ears. We exchanged glances. Did they all love Uncle Anatoly so much? And where had they been before, when he had been drunk and lying on benches?

      At last, the women stepped away from the coffin. Someone pulled the wailing Marya away. The men lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and carried it from the entrance. The crowd swayed, lined up and followed. Now came the procession. It moved slowly down the middle of the street. As it pulled even with our tree, we bent down and, motionless on the branches, stared at the coffin, not taking our eyes from it. Here it was, right below us… Who would now call him Bogeyman? He looked so smart in his white shirt and black suit. His light hair, no longer disheveled and stuck together, but neatly combed to the side, gleamed in the sunlight. His well-shaven face was frozen into a meek smile… as if he had done everything himself – bathed, shaved, combed his hair, changed his clothes and then looked at himself in the mirror and, satisfied with his new appearance, lay down quietly and died.

      After the coffin passed, we tumbled down from the tree and rushed forward, overtaking the crowd. We knew that the funeral would be accompanied by music on the main street, Yubileynaya. Here were the musicians! They were waiting, and as soon as the front of the procession drew even with them, funeral marching music rang out.

      That was the moment we were especially looking forward to.

      Both sides of the street were crowded with people. People were looking out of windows, doors and balconies. It was as if someone very important, a government official, was being buried. It was amazing how fast people came running to the sounds of the band, like soldiers to the sound of a bugle. They looked at the band, the coffin, the crying relatives, at the whole procession and, consequently, at me, for I, in order to draw attention to myself, walked like a close relative, with my head bent low, as if stricken with grief, but my eyes darted to the left and right in order not to miss anything.

      That was how I walked, slowly, taking small steps, along with the whole crowd. It felt like a huge caterpillar crawling along, and the coffin with the dead body was its head. It was a colorful head, decorated with flowers. Wreaths on the sides of the coffin were the multicolored eyes of the caterpillar. The crowd, swaying slightly to the sounds of the music, was its body.

      Ba-boom, ba-ba-ba-boom! The drummer beat the rhythm. The drum was so big that he carried it attached to very wide straps, wider than those on a school backpack. And he carried it not with its top up, like a normal drum, but with its top and bottom facing sideways, so he had two surfaces for drumming. Watching the drummer from afar, one saw a man with a huge belly, and his belly must have been so stuffed that it was difficult for him to walk. So, he was pounding on his belly with drumsticks to beat it down.

      It wasn’t just the drummer but all the musicians, playing from the heart, assuming that the louder they played the better. Here, for example, was a man with a pair of cymbals. They crashed so loudly that one would jump every time he struck them together. No way a blacksmith with his hammer and anvil would be heard here.

      Then there was the violinist. He wriggled as he dragged his bow over the strings for all he was worth. Sweat was rolling thick and fast down his face, the sound of his violin piercing and mournful. Women who walked close to him wailed to match the violin’s tone.

      In a word, we boys were ecstatic about the band. It was the accordionist who didn’t win our approval. He didn’t show enough diligence. He didn’t seem to realize that he was playing at a funeral… Heavy, serious, mustachioed, he was squeezing the bellows of his accordion effortlessly, as if they were opening and closing all by themselves. His face remained absolutely impassive and motionless, so we decided that he was a bad musician. One had to play with feeling and sadness at a funeral.

      Suddenly, the procession stopped. Was it really over? Yes, it was. A small truck could be seen at the intersection, its sides lowered, its bed covered with carpets.

      It was this truck onto which the coffin bearing Uncle Anatoly’s body was placed. The band stopped playing, the crowd split into groups and began to disperse. The truck and a few cars carrying relatives and friends drove off to the cemetery.

      We, in turn, set out for home. It was a long walk, but the impressions we had would be enough for a long walk.

      Ilyas’s funeral was quite different, and we didn’t feel the same about it as about Uncle Anatoly’s. Perhaps, it was due to the fact that the feelings we had for Ilyas were more full-fledged and humane. Whether it was that or something else, every time a conversation about the upcoming funeral started, we felt sad. We were sorry for Ilyas. And still we were going to attend his funeral, overwhelmed by that very unquenchable childish curiosity we couldn’t conceal. Ilyas didn’t just die, he drowned. Poor Ilyas was found a week after he had fallen into the arik. His body floated to the surface further downstream, by the fence of the reservoir near the hydroelectric station. We went to his place right away to bid him farewell, not on the day of the funeral but a day before.

      To allay our fears, we showed up at his place in a large group – Kolya, Sasha, their sister Lena, Edem, Rustem, Vova Oparin and I. One of the adults took us to the bedroom. Our friend lay on the mattress, covered by a spread up to his waist. His head rested on a snow-white pillow, against which his face stood out distinctly. We squatted near the mattress in silence, trying to keep our eyes off the swollen blue-and-white bubble on which his slanted eyes were not visible, where his nose had slid down to his mouth, which had become tiny. A thin lock of hair could be seen on the upper part of the bubble. That was all that remained of Ilyas’s thick jet-black hair.

      I was drawn to look at Ilyas, but as I did, I wanted to avert my eyes, and when I averted my eyes, I could picture Ilyas’s former face very clearly.

* * *

      I remembered well a day when that face seemed especially nice, handsome and kind to me. On that day, two years before Ilyas’s death, the preparations for a ceremony were almost complete in the school cafeteria, which also served as an assembly and concert hall. We first graders were to join the Octobrists, and the third graders, the Young Pioneers. All the tables and chairs were piled on top of one another in a corner, which made the cafeteria look bigger. It seemed as if its walls had expanded. Sunlight poured through the windows and was reflected in the floor, polished to perfection.

      The class on duty, 3A, was responsible for the ceremony. The third graders, wearing red armbands, ran around the hall, their faces concerned, carrying ladders, sticking posters on the wall, inflating balloons, helping set up microphones on the stage.

      And they were all mumbling something. We could hear… “I give my solemn oath…to fulfill all the rules and customs…” Today they, the third graders, would have red ties tied around their necks.

      But first, it was our turn.

      All of us future Octobrists had been brought to the hall and directed to form three circles, one inside the other. The third graders stood inside the circles. The principal was saying something on the stage, but I was so nervous that I couldn’t understand what it was until I heard, “Future Young Pioneers, pass your batons to your young comrades!” And then, the third graders ran to us. I was so excited that it seemed to me they were not running but floating slowly and smoothly on a cloud. Someone floated to Zhenya Andreyev, who stood to my left. Someone approached Galya Bektashova, who was on my right. They were saying something, their hands flashing. Everything was happening in a fog;

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