“There’s murder afoot, death at hand and evil looking on from nearby.”
The Guinea lowers his smooth salacious chin toward the cold summer soup and scoops up a full spoon without spilling a drop. The diced slices of dark cucumber and neat potato chunks bump about in the fermented milk broth, where there are pieces of boiled egg and green onion, too.
The moon outside, beyond the glass, is a perfect half, dark orange and almost red along the edges.
“Who will count the dead? Who will take them home? Who will look into their bone-dry faces and say it’s going to be all right?”
The Guinea, head still lowered over the bowl, Ukrainian style, dips the large spoon deeper into its contents, dragging up a crowded catch of milk sausage and dill strands, then swallowing it all whole to the hilt of his eating utensil.
The two men are seated near the windows on the second floor of Puzata Khata, an air-conditioned cafeteria overlooking Kontraktova Ploshcha in the heart of Podil. The heat outside can be cut with a knife, so everyone’s out after dark even though it’s a week night.
“I’m afraid for these dead – the young and the old. Who will talk to them now? I’m sure they’re no longer together but alone. I believe they aren’t frightened or even sad, just deeply isolated from the warmth that is humanity and life, but also from the heat and dust and deafening sounds of war,” says Kowalski.
The Guinea, now devouring a slice of dark bread, his thick greasy fingers having made indelible marks just inside the crust, looks down onto the square where a local musician has already set up shop. He’s seated on an amplifier cross-legged, strumming a Russian-language ballad to a growing crowd of listeners that includes a core of faithful alcoholics. Some dance dirty-faced and semi-comical, most just squat along the grass, occasionally berating one another in crude gestures and obnoxious tones. The social drinkers sit Indian-style and laugh unnaturally – many are young. Others approach to drop money in a dark bag lying at the feet of the performer, no doubt assuming their humble gesture is appreciated.
“The dead will bury the dead… I once heard said.”
“But what about their bodies, pierced by three-inch bullets, mangled by shrapnel or shredded from the force of an explosion? Are they to be enshrined, stuffed or just buried out of sight? Those heads, arms and legs once moved up and down, and not so long ago. They displayed expression, posture and purpose. This was the life in them, not some transparent orb glowing warmly in another world of smiles and eternal peace like you see in those films. Serenity is the prerogative of the living, not the dead.”
The Guinea has now laid into a thick piece of chocolate cake, shoving it sideways past lips and teeth alike, guiding the dark moist morsel to the pleasure of his tongue. A crowd is picking up on the square, ordinary if not oafish, with predictable fashions and tastes from tattooed and goateed youths, motorcycle boys, to hoop-skirted hippy chicks, big-tittied bimbos, aging whores, bored childless wives.
“I believe that most regret having lost their lives. In most cases it must come as a shock – like a guy who comes to his senses after being floored in a fight, except there’s no crowd around to help him up, his vision never comes back into focus, no idle boasts rally from the inner sanctums of his flawed but forever defiant human spirit. Instead, he grows silent, cold and stiff. He, you, we cannot come back to this, here and now… Never, nunca, nikogda…”
“The dead are best left that way,” says The Guinea, wiping the chocolate off his mouth with two bare fingers. “It doesn’t matter how they died and it never has. They’re almost never ready for it in any case.”
A mangy dog, still apparently overwhelmed from the heat it experienced on the street, emits a low growl, and The Guinea reaches down to hand it a piece of boiled veal.
“Ever been to the circus?” he continues wanly. “Everyone’s attention is riveted to dramatic feats defying death in the center ring, while some fat well-dressed loudmouth talks them through it all. They can see for themselves what’s happening and how it will all end but hang on his every word all the same. Then terror from the trapeze, ferocious animals appear, the snap of the whip…”
“And the clowns…”
“Yeah, and them too… probably the closest thing to reality in the whole damn show and a creepy reality at that. All that dancing and buffoonery from men stuffed and painted like cadavers. The kids only laugh because they think they are supposed to. The rest of us go along to fit in with the crowd, even though it’s dark enough not to notice the awkward glee of the guy next to you.”
“So the clowns are our dead.”
“Just the opposite, I would say,” says The Guinea.
A fine-featured girl of African descent passes the table in proud erect strides, as if she were carrying a bowl of fruit on her head.
The Guinea excuses himself, leaving Kowalski alone near the window. The square below is almost full, with people seated around flowerbeds and a guy collecting money in a hat. It could be a Western peace protest from the 1960s, with the guitar player and greasy-haired girls and all. Kowalski takes a sip from his watery lemonade, at UAH 9 per glass.
The Guinea returns with moist hands, which he wipes on his green corduroy pants. A ponytailed guy in a white tank top is pacing back and forth near the bathrooms. The proud Negro girl comes out, blushes, and the two leave together.
“Who’s going to look after the dead?” says Kowalski.
“The dead,” says The Guinea, adjusting his fly.
The Half Guinea, August 6, 2014