Dealing with the Dead - a Few Notes From Going Back to My Homeland

I

“Bloody matches,” I mumbled. That was my third attempt and my third burnt finger.

“Mind your language! They may be here any minute.”

“Oh, come on,” I raised my eyes, “As far as I know them, they will be late as hell.”

“You don’t know them. They changed a lot since you’ve left.”

So as you may see, talking to my sister wasn’t easy. We’ve never known how to communicate well, and that day was no different. It is odd to realize how little connects you with people you are technically related to. So, instead of saying anything, I just patted my forehead (what in our culture means, that I believe that what she just said was very silly) and gave her the grave candle, so she could light it herself.

“So, where is the difference?” I asked when she was done with the candle.

“You will see yourself,” she said. “But whatever happens, just stand still, smile a lot and be nice. And whatever they’ll say, agree politely. Could you promise that?”

I nodded slowly. That was my family, and that was my holiday.

You see, in my country, the tradition of the first of November (and this story begins on that day) is ridiculously important. A few years ago, it seemed that this entire grave show was over, but nowadays, we are coming back to it. And to tell the truth, at that point, I hadn’t been to the grave of my parents in a long time. And my sister hadn’t been there either, so you can probably picture how sadly it’d looked - leaves, dust, dirt and two dead daffodils that some good soul had put there as a gesture of mercy. Besides that, it was a really solid tomb. It was marble, with big, clear letters written in a golden font. Altogether, it cost me a little fortune, but I could afford it, and I wanted to honour my parents somehow.

My family arrived led by aunty J., which could be easily spotted at the front of the group. She was a tall woman in her sixties who spoke too fast and liked to emphasize her message with many dramatic and tragic figures.

“Your mom and dad were decent people,” she announced as they reached the grave.

“They were,” I repeated, and we both looked at my sister, so she hastily repeated that as well.

“Is that the first time you’re visiting them?” aunty J. asked me.

“Unfortunately.”

“God always takes the best people,” uncle T. chipped in and sighted a few times. He was a self-made philosopher (so far unpublished), and that was why I loved him with every inch of my editorial being.

Nevertheless, I felt obligated to declaim a similar maxim, and my sister followed my steps, so we spent a few moments on wobbling and mourning. Once everybody agreed that we were genuinely heartbroken, we could go on our graveyard tour and visit other dead people. I hadn’t heard about most of them, and I doubt that anyone had, but aunty J.’s once knew someone who’d known them, so we had no choice. Tradition is tradition.

In the middle of that trip, I started to examine the cemetery looking for something unusual, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything. Every tomb was covered with red candles and artificial flowers. Those were the critical components of every graveyard celebration. To me, flowers were more engaging. Most of them were nicely white or yellow and looked absolutely amazing, while some were motley or illy brown and were worse than terrible. All of them were hugely criticized by ecologists, but nobody cared. Tradition is tradition.

Even people were dressed in the same traditional, boring style. Women wore black dresses, and men wore black suits. Children wore whatever as long as it was tidy. Some men were allowed to wear silver rings with engraved wise quotes, while women had to have a necklace with a black vulture. ‘Why vultures?’, are you asking. As far as I know, it was supposed to be a raven, but posh people of the XIX century experimented with other, bigger animals, so they could put more gems and silver in it. And that way, vultures stayed with us, and many people wanted to have one. Tradition is tradition.

“Last month,” the voice of aunty J. brought me back to our grave, “I was kneeling here for over two hours to tear all the grass out of the ground. I was so tired afterwards that I could barely feel my legs or arms. But, for the sake of our death friend, I couldn’t let the grass ruin his beautiful pavers.”

“I can imagine,” I sighed, wondering if the pavement was really disturbing him that much in the afterlife.

She must have noticed my irony as she added coldly:

“You know that not everybody has such a nice, well-paid job. Some of us must work hard to make this country better.”

“I’m sorry, aunty.”

“There is no need to be sorry,” she explained. “You had a chance, so you left us, your sister, your parents… and now, I have to take care of everything. Do you know that last week, when I went to my shop, there was a…”

But I have to admit that I forgot what was there because I just shut myself down. You know, for my entire life, I had a very low tolerance to long and tragic stories, and the life of aunty J. seemed to be the wild essence of all the ancient tragedies. I couldn’t blame her; her life was not a bed of roses - she was a hardworking, decent, respected woman. Yet she couldn’t understand that she wasn’t the only one and that nobody’s life was ever lovely and relaxing. Sometimes, I thought that her struggles added up in her mind to create some weird cult in which she was the god, the preacher and the martyr. But nobody else was allowed to enter that temple.

“Sir!” someone harshly interrupted our conversation. “Can I have a question?”

We all looked around. The voice turned out to belong to a small man in a dirty jacket. He was staring at us, so I made a few steps forward. My family didn’t move an inch.

“One more time,” the man said when I got closer. “I am very sorry that I am disturbing your beautiful meeting, but you see, sir, that I am homeless.”

He winged twice to emphasize his statement. At that point, I’d already known what he would say, so I just encouraged him shortly.

“And?”

“A real businessman, I see,” the man smiled. “In that case, let me be honest. Do you have a tenner?”

“Why not… The day is terrible anyway,” I mumbled and gave him the note. “Before you go, tell me, how the hell did you happen to be here?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No. I just don’t want to go back to….” I pointed my head at my family.

“Right,” he smiled again. “Maybe I would have something interesting for you.”

He put something in my hand. Before I managed to look what it was, he added quietly:

“It will let you speak with those that you really want to speak to.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know much more than that. What’s interesting-”

I stopped him with a gesture and started to examine his gift (I did it because I like to deal with things in order). It was a small, round, green candle. It was similar to all the other candles of the world, but there was something special in it, but I wasn’t able to tell precisely what it was. Maybe it was the tone of that colour, which brought seagrass to my mind, and therefore, an entire ocean. Maybe it was something about its shape, almost perfectly rounded, yet I could feel some intriguing imperfections. Perhaps it had something to do with the engraved initials. Two golden letters saying M.M. – whatever that was supposed to mean.

“So, coming back to what you were saying,” I said once I was done with my examination. But as soon as I raised my eyes, the man was gone. So there was nothing left but to go back to my family and listen politely to the rest of the tragedies of aunty J.

II

“I disagree,” said uncle T., “and I can relate to him.”

Yes, you’re right. After a few hours, after all that walking among the deaths, they were still discussing different aspects of my life. All of that, because of our other family tradition - we finish graves, and we have dinner at aunty J.’s house. Well, I said dinner, but it was always chicken with rice. Tradition is tradition, even if it’s a tiny one. Although for historical accuracy, I need to say that it was the only dish that aunty J. knew how to cook.

Anyway, back to what I was saying:

“I bet you can,” auntie J. replied. “You always wanted to have an easy life.”

“But it’s not that I’m doing nothing,” I tried to defend myself. My sister sighed loudly. “I am a writer and an academic. To me, this counts as a proper job.”

“When I was younger, to have such a well-paid position, you needed to befriend the government. So I don’t trust that white collars now.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I was trying to sound polite, “ but you used to be a lawyer.”

“And I took the lead over a strike, so the regime forced me to quit,” she said heavily.

I skipped that with silence. Indeed, it was a sad moment in her life. On the other hand, as far as I could recall, saying that she took the lead was a bit too much. She really wanted to do that, but nobody asked her to actually do it. And her ban was a result of her lack of diplomatic talents, as nobody else was fired, even though, according to all the documents, she was only a minor activist.

But uncle T. didn’t want to give up.

“Don’t exaggerate,” he said. “He’s a young man; he’d a chance to escape from our national mass, so he did. And there’s no surprise in it.”

“But I cannot understand how can one just leave everybody,” she looked at me, and her eyes were like two tiny, black adders hidden in her skull. “And I am not saying that because I have anything against that, but because it is fascinating.”

I wanted to say something, but before I opened my mouth, uncle T. had spoken again. And my sister kicked me gently under the table.

“But do young people care about anything? They think about sex, about fun, about parting. They don’t know anything about nation or politics.”

“I see,” aunty J. reloaded her guns, “but to miss the funeral of their own parents. So we have to work these hands to the bare bones,” here she raised her hands so everybody could clearly see what she had in her mind.

“But can they,” uncle T. was analyzing minds of my generation in all the details, “get some booze there? Of course not! So why should they care? That how young people think, funeral or not.”

That was too much for me, so I stood up rapidly. My voice was too angry, and I spoke much faster than I should, but enough was enough.

“I told you a thousand times that I was ill. I was seriously ill, and I just couldn’t make a flight over half of Europe because of it. If anyone doubts, he may check all my documents, and I’m more than happy to show them.”

“Nobody talks here about you,” uncle T. laughed. “Please, don’t take an offence, but not everything has to be about you, young man.”

My sister coughed meaningfully.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I said slowly, because what else could I say.

For a few moments, we were sitting in silence. Finally, aunty J. decided that she was not done yet.

“But as I was saying,” she said, “I cannot understand all those young people. We were raised differently.”

At that point, her sister – aunty Z., aged sixty-nine, decided to contribute her understanding of youth as well.

“When we were young, things were different. We had to struggle, and now everything is easy. We had to fight, and they had everything handed to them. So no surprise they don’t know the value of country, nation, solidarity or family.”

“I have a coworker, and he’s twenty-six,“ Uncle O., brother of uncle T., had to say something as well, “what a terrible man, I’m telling you….”

And, as usual, he was the worst creature walking the face of Earth.

III

The next day was supposed to be relaxing. I scheduled only one thing: a meeting with my old friend Adam. However, to let you fully enjoy this note, I need to explain one thing to those that have never been to my home. As you probably noticed, we used to have a regime – the government that would oppress everybody. But when I was abroad, it somehow happened that we kicked them out. That took a lot of protests, and the cornerstone of it were all the activists who dared to fight and sacrifice themselves when necessary. And Adam was one of them. However, he wasn’t a nut who would attack everybody. Instead, he would pick the right time and smoothly attack the regime’s weaknesses. Thanks to his precise, diplomatic, and very sharp strikes, we won many battles and managed to push our country in the right direction.

After a standard welcoming, we grabbed a beer and shortly highlighted the recent events of our lives. In a nutshell: he had quit his business to become a member of our new parliament. That way, he could still help our beautiful homeland. And although he declared many lionhearted and earthshaking ideas, he’d decided to begin with working on an act that would regulate mushroom picking by amateur forests passers. When I doubted the importance of this act, he answered shortly and icy:

“When you are in my shoes, you’ll do something else. Things are complicated. Like with your aunt,” he added after a while, “I can understand her. She’s been through quite a lot.”

“Just don’t tell me you want to take her side. Not you-”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” he interrupted me and looked around like if he was making sure that nobody was listening to us. “I said I understand her. Nothing more than that.”

“I see,” I mumbled. “You didn’t use to be so careful with words.”

“Things were simpler – we and they, an obvious choice. Now, there are too many people that could use my words against me. So I need to be careful.”

“You’ve changed, buddy. You’ve changed a lot.”

“I’ve adapted,” he articulated each of the syllables distinctively. “That was the price.”

“The price of what?”

“Of my better life,” he grinned and looked around for the second time.

“You’ve never told me you’re fighting for that.”

“God forbid!” he looked around again. Then he took a big breath and added slowly. “By the way, in terms of fighting, you shouldn’t say too much. You were not here, remember?”

“Indeed. I wasn’t here.”

“So don’t lecture me.”

“I’m not going to lecture you on anything. I just want to kindly remind you how much my foreign currency had helped you. Have you forgotten about that?

“Do you regret supporting your friends?”

“No. But I regret that I wasn’t keeping a record of my lost blood.”

“You don’t need to be mean. Besides, you know,” he looked around and smiled, “there were thousands of people like you. It is so easy to help when you sit in a warm armchair earning your money in a nice office. And there are we - people who suffered. We deserve that respect and rewards. And my parents may be proud of me. Unlike yours.”

I laughed. I know, it was rude. I should just change the subject, and start talking about the weather or our old friends, and the evening would go on nicely. But for some odd, unknown reasons, I wanted to battle. So I straightened up on my chair and asked:

“What do you mean ‘to suffer’?”

“Your aunt, for example. Was she a lawyer? Yes, she was. Did she lose it? Yes, she did, and she’s still working in that bloody shop.”

“Do you know what bothers me?” I raised my finger. “Many people were banned from their jobs, including lawyers. And now, when we are free again, she is allowed to go back to her office, but she’s not going anywhere near that direction. Do you know why?”

“I don’t,” he shrugged his shoulders, “but I bet that you have a theory, don’t you?”

“I do,” I nodded. “Ready?”

He only gasped and waved his hand.

“Because that’s her most outstanding achievement. Let’s face it. Her protest was meaningless. Nobody heard about her until she was fired because she was simply a lousy layer. And she knows that, so she decided to stay in the shop because that’s the only place where she’s a hero – the one who suffered.“

“Enough,” Adam’s voice was on the edge of breaking down. “Our freedom was regained thanks to our sacrifices and suffering. People like your aunt should be blessed and praised. I will give her a medal next week to prove that.”

Having said that, he quickly stood up and rushed to the door. So not only was I left alone, but I had to pay for his drinks. Sitting in one of our most popular pubs, I had nobody to talk to. That was my trip to my home.

IV

What did happen next? Is that important? Well, if you really must know, after all those events, I was simply drained and, I have to admit, confused. Was it really my fault that I’d left? What would my parents say? You may notice that I like sarcasm, and I don’t like all those stories of ghosts, deaths, and heavens, but that evening, I was depressed enough to believe in every stupid nonsense that would cheer me up.

That is why, while going to sleep, I lighted that odd candle, which I got from that homeless guy. At the very beginning, everything was perfectly normal. The fire was brightly red, and it smelled like vanilla. Then, I could feel something from the forest, possible pine needles. I didn’t like it; something in it was making me dizzy. Everything became blurry, and when I wanted to blow it out, the fire became blue. And then I saw them.

My mother, as always, was reading something, and my father was, also as always, writing something way too clever for me to understand. And they weren’t ghosts or zombies. They were exactly the same as on the day I saw them for the last time. They had all the colours and all the details like glasses (both of them), hand watches (my father), and a cup of tea (my mother).

At first, I thought they didn’t notice me, but when my mother coughed slightly, I knew they were listening. So I told them about everything and asked them all those questions that were in my mind.

I started with my father, but he said shortly.

“Sorry, but can we discuss that later. I have an additional lecture tomorrow and really need to prepare something, so I’m super busy right now.”

“I told you like thousand times,” I said it automatically (I used to say that for my entire life), “you shouldn’t take so much work!”

“I know,” he smiled. “But there are so many things I’d like to buy, and I don’t have them yet.”

So I went to see my mother. She was sitting in her armchair, enjoying a book and tea. I wanted to say something, but before I managed to even open my mouth, she moaned:

“Jesus Christ, you can’t have a moment of peace in this house to read even the tiniest book. What is wrong, my progeny?”

“I know, but this is kind of important.”

“Alright. Go on then,” she sighed.

I repeated the whole story again and asked:

“Are you really so mad at me? Because I wasn’t here when all this happened. Country, freedom and funeral.”

She patted her forehead. A moment after, everything was back to normal. I was sitting in the hotel room, the candle smelled like vanilla, and the little red flame was the only source of light.

The next day, I had my flight back to emigration. As usually in airports, I was sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. Suddenly, I got a phone call. Nothing special, just another fella wanting me to give some additional lecture. So I agreed, because, as I believe you’ve already heard, there are so many things I’d like to buy and I don’t have them yet.

Then I got on the plane, and what happened afterwards is another story that I will tell you if you ask me kindly. But not today. The last thing I saw before taking off was a short article announcing that aunty J. was awarded a special medal for her merits for our country and freedom. That is why she may leave her shop and go back to working as a lawyer. Long story short, everybody was happy.