The Funeral Party by Ludmila Ulitskaya

Author:Ludmila Ulitskaya [Ulitskaya, Ludmila]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780307772565
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-11-30T23:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Lyuda, an engineer from Moscow, had been brought to the apartment the day before, had spent the night on the carpet and stayed. In the morning, the quietest time of the day, when those with jobs had left, those on benefits hadn’t opened their eyes, and Nina hadn’t shaken off her orange-juice dream, this unprepossessing, unmemorable woman washed yesterday’s cups and glasses then looked in on Alik. He was already awake.

“I’m Lyuda, from Moscow,” she repeated to be on the safe side; she had been introduced to him yesterday, but she was used to people not remembering her name.

“A long time?” Alik was instantly awake.

“Six days. It seems like a long time. Shall I wash you?” She asked this lightly as though her main activity were to wash the sick every morning. She took a wet towel and wiped his face, neck and hands.

“So what’s new in Moscow?” Alik asked mechanically.

“Nothing changes. Twaddle on the radio, the shops are empty, what’s new. You want breakfast?”

“Well, let’s try.”

Eating was difficult for him. For the last two weeks he had eaten only baby food, and he had trouble getting even this fruity mush down him.

“I’ll make you some potato puree.” Lyuda was already in the kitchen, rattling plates and saucepans.

The puree was thin and slipped down easily. Alik felt better this morning: the light wasn’t so blurred, and his vision was clearer and didn’t play tricks on him.

Lyuda plumped up his pillows, and thought sadly that it seemed to be her fate to bury everyone. In forty-five years she had buried her mother, her father, two grandmothers, her grandfather, her first husband, and only recently a close girlfriend. She fed them and washed them all, then she washed their bodies. This one wasn’t even hers, someone had brought her to him.

She had a mass of things to do, a long list of items to buy and strangers to visit, people who wanted to question her about their Moscow relatives and tell her about their lives, but she already felt part of this ridiculous household; it was as if she couldn’t tear herself away from this man she was beginning to love, and her heart would break again in exactly the same place.

The telephone rang. She picked it up, and someone shouted down the line: “Turn on CNN! There’s a coup in Moscow!”

“There’s a coup in Moscow,” Lyuda said in a faltering voice. “That’s something new for you.”

Scattered fragments of a news bulletin flashed across the television screen. Some kind of civil emergency, ugly thuggish faces, thick-voiced, with corruption written all over them, like ill-fitting false teeth.

“Where do they find these ugly mugs?” Alik wondered aloud.

“And the ones here are any better?” Lyuda burst out with unexpected patriotism.

“Yes they are,” Alik thought a little. “Of course they’re better. They’re all crooks here too of course, but at least they’re ashamed. Those ones have no shame.”

It was impossible to make sense of what was happening. Gorbachev apparently had a health problem.

“They’ve probably killed him by now,” Alik said.

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