The funeral was held on the fifth day – because of the investigation. The autopsy showed that the cause of death was a cracked skull, from hitting the ground. She died instantly.
When Egor and I arrived, the yard in front of the high-rise was packed with mourners.
“So horrible. I still can’t believe it,” a mutual acquaintance touched my hand. “I remember how joyful she was at the party. And now.” She shook her head. “How are you?”
I made a noncommittal gesture by shrugging my shoulders. I really didn’t know how I was.
We went up to Oxana’s apartment. As we were taking the elevator, Egor talked about changes in tradition and how unusual it was nowadays to have the body at home.
“I wanted Oxana to be at home, if only for a few hours,” her mother explained, as if she had overheard Egor’s comments.
It was the second time I had met the poor lady. The first was in the morning following that awful night. There were flowers everywhere. We placed ours in the coffin and went downstairs.
Soon her body was moved to the yard and placed on two stools in front of the entrance; the flowers were put into big vases provided by the funeral home. Everything was done smoothly and efficiently, a ceremony perfected by daily practice.
“Those who are not going to the cemetery can say their farewells now. Please come to the coffin and touch the hand or kiss the forehead of the deceased. Then we will go to church for the funeral service. The final farewell will be at the cemetery before the burial,” the officiant instructed.
A line of people moved in the direction of the coffin. Sobs could be heard even in the distance.
“Oxana, look how many people have come to bid you farewell. They all love you. Why are you lying there? Get up! Come on, get up!” Her mother broke down in agony. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.
The family travelled with her body in the hearse, and we followed in the funeral bus. The first stop was the graveyard church. It was stuffy inside: incense and Church Slavonic hymns filled the air. We stood with lit candles, the crowd making me anxious I might accidentally set somebody’s clothes on fire. Luckily, there were no other victims. Thank God!
Then we went to her final resting place. It was not far from the entrance to the cemetery, where the plots were the priciest and the monuments the tallest. The grave had already been dug out. We lined up to say one final goodbye to Oxana. Her waxen face looked unfamiliar, as if it belonged to some other creature. I moved as if in a slumber, but after the coffin was closed, lowered into the grave, and everyone started throwing handfuls of soil onto it, I suddenly realized that these were the parting moments. Then it burst through. “Please, forgive me, please, please, please,” I repeated desperately to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. I did not know if I could forgive someone who had not been there for me when I needed them.
The repast was at a café. As usual, there was plenty of food, but I could not bring myself to eat even a morsel. There were also lots of speeches in tribute to Oxana at the end of which the whole assembly wished the traditional “May the ground be like down feathers” before having a drink in memory of the deceased. At some point, a stout middle-aged woman who was Oxana’s aunt stood up to say a word.
“Oxana was cut down in her bloom. Some bastard killed her while she was returning home. She was a helpful person, but no one helped her. Her husband was away. Her companion ran away. And disaster struck.”
I blinked really hard and pursed my lips to stop them from quivering. Egor put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t remember much else from the repast: everything seemed like a blur. The only other clear memory that comes through my brain fog was that of her mother. During the funeral meal, she tried hard not to break down, but eventually could bear it no longer.
“I’m too old, how will I be able to bring up Lilichka?” she sobbed, referring to Oxana’s four-year-old daughter. “She is so little, she needs care and support. And I, I don’t have the strength to raise her.” There were words of reassurance from the mourners, some offering their assistance. I took a closer look at her. She seemed to be in her seventies, but grief had probably aged her. Shriveled, forlorn and miserable it was she who needed care and support. My heart sank.
(…to be continued…)
Transadaptation Volume 6 – Meaning? – Uncertainty, Instability and Extremes Transadapted
January: A Regular Train Trip – Mateusz Tymoszewski (Poland)
February: Growing Up – Adriana Uribe (Columbia)
March: Mess – Veronika Groke (Austria)
April: The Roads We Take – Svetlana Molchanova (Russia)
May: Need – Nadia Silva Castro (Brazil)
June: “Next Sunshine” – Jonay Quintero Hernandez (Spain)
July: Intentions – Narantsogt Baatarkhuu (Mongolia)
August: Planet Kyiv – Anastasiia Leonova (Ukraine)
September: Feeling like a Fool – Ulrike Bergmeister (Germany)
October: Stories of Outcast Souls – Armine Asryan (Armenia)
November: Ronaldinha – Alejandra Baccino (Uruguay)
December: Aimlessly – Krisztina Janosi (Hungary)
Background – Context
Transadaptation Volume 5: Of Flowing Vicissitudes – Life Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2024)
Transadaptation Volume 4: Material Dissent – Adulthood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2023)
Transadaptation Volume 3: Evanescent – Young Adulthood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2022)
Transadaptation Volume 2: Conceived – Childhood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2021)
Transadaptation Volume 1: In the Middle – Prelude to a Contemporary Transadaptation, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2020)
Peripatetic Alterity: A Philosophical Treatise on the Spectrum of Being – Romantics and Pragmatists by Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2019)
La Syncrétion of Polarization and Extremes Transposée, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2019)
The Codex of Uncertainty Transposed, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2018)
L’anthologie of Global Instability Transpuesta, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2017)
From Wahnsinnig to the Loony Bin: German and Russian Stories Transposed to Modern-day America, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2013)
Emblems and stories on the international community
Perception by country – Transposing emblems, articles, short stories and reports from around the world
Credits
Top row (left to right): 1. Saratov, Russia – Listening to music – NataVilman (Shutterstock); 2. Saratov, Russia – Cityscape – Lapandr (Shutterstock); 3. Saratov, Russia – Privokzalny market – Trolleway (Shutterstock)
Middle row (left to right): 1. Saratov, Russia – The Work City – Sarlynx (Shutterstock); 2. Saratov, Russia – Out with the family – Irina Wolfe (Shutterstock)
Bottom row (left to right): 1. Saratov, Russia – The way home – Trolleway (Shutterstock); 2. Saratov, Russia – Residential blocks – Irina Wolfe (Shutterstock); 3. Saratov, Russia – In the snow – Irina Wolfe (Shutterstock)
Source: The Codex of Uncertainty Transposed