Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

What I meant was that, at the agency, one of my tasks had been to regulate pedestrian traffic to Udobsklad, a fuel and artificial fertilizer storage facility that had once been a monastery. “Regulate” meant “stop”—a tedious task no one else at the agency wanted, so it was dumped on me, a novice at the time. Every spring, small groups of pilgrims would make an illegal procession of 25 kilometers, sneaking through Kirovka, through the forest, to the arched gates of Udobsklad. This they did in spite of the clearly marked signs warning of hazardous material. At the gates, the pilgrims would sing songs, as they had allegedly done for the past six hundred springs. They still considered the storage facility the holy site of some ancient, highly improbable event. The town council had tolerated the procession until we made an embarrassing discovery: among these fanatics figured respectable citizens—two factory directors and a senior lieutenant. Every spring henceforth I had to intercept groups traveling through Kirovka and fine them. One group tried to pass themselves off as a touring choir, another as a foreign delegation; most of the pilgrims, however, were candid about their purpose of travel, and their loyalty to their cause baffled me. At the end of the day I would trudge back to the office, my suit dusty and shoes scuffed, and my colleagues would make me recount all my dealings with the pilgrims while they laughed. Before long it occurred to me that my colleagues were laughing not at the pilgrims but at me, for having to chase after them.

When, after a few years, the Ministry of Labor and Social Development converted the storage facility into a psychoneurological internat and erected a tall iron fence around it, pilgrimage numbers did drop. But the hardiest pilgrims persisted. They set up at the iron gates and, worst of all, drew in orphans to sing with them.

If I issued too few fines, my superior questioned my vigilance; too many fines, and my superior scolded my stale thinking. And still the pilgrims crept back, year after year.

—

“Who said you could redecorate?” Konstantyn Illych stood at the doorway of the tomb, nodding at the linen sheet over the saint. Konstantyn Illych’s hair was uncombed, still ruffled from sleep. The previous year it had turned white in one burst, like a dandelion gone to seed.

“Why not try it for a day?” I suggested. “Divinity needs a bit of mystery.”

Konstantyn Illych closed the door behind him. The pilgrims lined up along the glass wall outside were eyeing the sheet, too. Like Konstantyn Illych, they did not look thrilled by its addition.

“Didn’t Zaya keep the saint covered, in a pillowcase?” I reminded him. I’d never met the girl, or the pillowcase, but Konstantyn Illych had supplied me with plenty of details.

My superior’s scowl softened. “I still have that pillowcase, starched and ironed for her return.” His eyes darted about the tomb, as though the girl might materialize at any moment. I suspected that his ex-wife’s new living arrangement added to his anguish. He’d once told me that women only turn to each other when there is a dearth of sensible men—“And am I not sensible?”—but I believed the core of his heartbreak lay elsewhere. While Milena had gained two children, who trailed around her in their school pinafores, braids bouncing—he had lost one. Surely he dreamed of walking Zaya to school, no matter her age, her hand clasped in his.

Konstantyn Illych unlocked the cash register and broke a roll of coins into it. He turned back to the shrouded mummy. “Nice not to have to look at that thing,” he conceded.

“Or have it look at you,” I muttered.

He placed a stack of laundered kerchiefs on his counter, available for rent to women who wished to cover their hair for worship but had forgotten to bring their own—a new addition to his business, following repeated requests.

“So long as the sheet doesn’t affect attendance,” Konstantyn Illych warned.

—

At the agency, we’d shared a courtyard with the Transport Workers’ Union. One afternoon, on break, I’d overheard two railway engineers debate the best location for a new freight rail yard. The first potential spot sat north of Kirovka and would require the construction of a bridge. The second sat south of Kirovka, over Holinka Ridge, and would require the dynamiting of a tunnel. At the mention of Holinka Ridge, I put down my fish sandwich. The pilgrimage route I’d been monitoring passed over Holinka Ridge. Twenty rows of freight cars would lob off the procession, remove the need for policing any fence. I envisioned myself free from the tedium of chasing down pedestrians, promoted to more rewarding work.