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Published: July 22nd 2008
Sveta's grandmother was supposed to be buried today, but the Russian state's obsession for proper documentation has made this impossible. This morning, Sveta and I made our way to the funeral home to get flowers and arrange everything prior to the arrival of the guests. The fading wallpaper, and United Russia wall calenders (United Russia is the ruling political party) , and especially the slick attendents whose nameplates read "experts," recalled real estate offices and lower end car dealerships in the United States. A man with half buttoned shirt explained that because the certificate of death had not arrived in time, the funeral would have to wait until Wednesday. We first met this guy the night Sveta's grandmother died. He called us. It seems that the more aggressive entrepreneurs in the death industry here are proactive in seeking out their clients and regularly check up with emergency dispatch for news on the latest deaths. For tact and convieniences sake, this morning he ushered Sveta and I into his new Lada (Russian made car) and tried to put the best face on an offensive reality. There was nothing they could do, though one of the other experts, who some of the clients mistakenly referred to as "doctor," did offer to take more money to better preserve the body. Then Sveta began calling the family and friends -- due to arrive in an hour -- with the news that would be no funeral today. This was, needless to say, very difficult.
The last few weeks, following what we believe was a stroke, Sveta has been with her grandmother. Grandmother could no longer speak and her movement was restricted to occasionaly raising her hand. Sveta believed she was trying to tell her something. Clutching the bed sheet, she would raise her hand. It appeared that she was also looking, maybe pointing, at something in the corner of the room. The feeding and changing did not bother Sveta, but not knowing what her grandmother wanted to say did. Sveta was heroic.
In Russia, caring for the old and dying is something the family does. In this case, family meant Sveta, her cousin Seva, and occasionaly me. Sveta called paramedics last week. They advised Sveta to call in a doctor. They also gave her syringes and some sort of solution. Administering the injections was difficult and painful and it was never made clear to us what they were in fact doing. A doctor arrived a day after being called and said to continue with the injections so as "to clear our consciences." A nurse came at some point last week, but there was nothing she could do. Thursday night, Seva, who lives in the same apartment with the grandmother, became frightened and again called the paramedics. No advice this time. In the past, I have been critical of Americans' death ways -- from hosptial to nursing home -- for being cold and inhuman, but last week some institutional help would have been greatly appreciated.
On Satuday, Sveta woke up early and went over to her grandmother's, so as to be there before her cousin left for work. She came home for supper. While I was making spaghetti, her phone rang. I heard a short burst of Russian. Sveta turned to me. "My grandmother's dead."
After Sveta left for dinner, cousin Seva had returned from work. When she arrived, she felt "a stillness," and she went into the grandmother's room. Seva is twenty-three and had never experienced anything like this and was understandably quite upset. So Sveta did everything. She comforted her cousin and kept pushing the authorities to do their job and come to the apartment.
Upon arrival to his grandmother's Sveta's brother -- also named Seva -- immediately noted the entryway mirror and began searching for a sheet with which to cover it. Covering mirrors ensures that the deceased's soul will not get trapped after leaving the body. This belief is not only held by some Russians, but by many people around the world. With help from the other Seva, Seva found an appropriate sheet and draped the mirror properly.
While her brother concerned himself mirrors and sheets, Sveta initiated a series of endless calls. Militia (police), told her to call the hospital, who, in turn had her call the militia. The militia said they come. They did not. Sveta made more calls. The only people willing to help, were the slicksters at the funeral home. They got Sveta's phone number from dispatch. They said they could take care of everything. Sveta was grateful and accepted their offer. Everything, however, was contigent upon Sveta providing the proper documentation: the certificate of death. For this Sveta needed to find her grandmother's passport and health insurance forms. Only then would the local clinic issue a medical certificate of death to be exchanged together with the passport for teh rpoper death Certificate from the city registrar's office. In Russia, it is said that without papers, a man in an insect. Order, however, was lacking and Sveta only located the passport. We were insects.
So, we retired into cousin Seva's room. There Sveta told the story of her uncle's death two years ago. Sveta helped her grandmother prepare funeral, cleaning out rooms, desks and wardrobes. The two of them worked late the night before the funeral, and so Sveta decided to spend the night at the apartment. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and the grandmother was in her room and her uncle, in the casket, was in the guest room. Sveta stayed in the guest room. This was not a problem, however, because Slavs, according the "expert" sources, possess a more natural relationship with the dead than do Americans. Slavs, as one Russian magazine put it, "confer with the dead." But it was a cold night and so, despite her Slavic nature, Sveta couldn't sleep. She went looking for blanket, all of which were in her grandmother's room. Sveta went in and found her grandmother asleep -- on top of ALL the blankets. She was a big woman and very very tired. Sveta was unable to move her and returned to the cold room with the coffin.
Eventally, the militia arrived. The militia in this case was a frightened boy of about 19. Sveta left us alone to search for documents, and we shared a confusing conversation in Russian. I think I told him that Americans enjoy swimming very much. When Sveta returned we all agreed that the grass is greener on the on the other side. In this case, the young detective's job was to locate the body, and then record Sveta's account of "how this happenned." After Sveta read, edited, and signed her statement, the policeman carefully draw the plan of the apartment, and the position of the dead body and wrote out the sacred documents - the request for medical expertise that the body evacuators needed. No certificate, but he did say that he would allow us to remove the body. As it was 90 degrees Farenheight that day and meterorologists were not talking about any rain in the coming three days, the body could not remain at home. No offices would be open tomorrow (Sunday) so we would have to get the certificate (if we found the paperwork) Monday. Gabriel Garcia Marquez once said that there is nothing in the Soviet state that cannot be found in the novels of Franz Kafka.
Some hours later the "evacuators" arrived. While they were doing their job, I ventured into the grandmother's room. I kept my eyes away from the bed. They found their way to the opposite corner of the room, and there I saw on the dresser, clear as day, an uncovered mirror. I don't like to think I'm superstitious, but the sense dread was overwhelming. I got up and left the room.
It was 3 a.m when calm returned. By this time, Sveta's brother and cousin had left and we were alone. Sveta was ready to collapse, so we lay down on a sofa in the other room and shut off the lights. All I could think about was that mirror. It was absurd, but I wanted to go home and fast. And then I remembered that the grandmother had kept raising her hand, maybe she knew, maybe she wanted us to see the mirror. From that moment on, I was in the grip of a primal fear. I could no longer keep my secret.
"We forgot to cover a mirror. I saw it. In bedroom."
"What? what?" Suddenly Sveta was awake and alert. I explained.
There was silence for awhile as we lay there in the dark -- contemplating this new reality.
"You've unnerved me," Sveta said at last.
There would be no conferring with the dead tonight. So we gathered our things and braved the mean streets of Perm, where -- so I'm told -- drunken hooligans, murderous thieves, and frustrated xenophobes prowl, searching for naiive Americans to mug and worse. But we made it.
Once home, normality returned. Sveta was sad and spent. I made tea. And it began to get light.
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sven
non-member comment
why ask why
Why do you constantly question authority? God will provide, my greenest of brothers.