The Good Life Elsewhere

by Vladimir Lorchenkov

  Verily, the people were expecting a miracle. Once the Italian rulers beheld them, so said the people, two hundred thousand children, yearning for the embrace of their mothers and fathers, then the heart of Rome would surely expand and grant every Moldovan the right to work in Italy without a visa and to bring with him whichever of his loved ones he desired. And only the children, free of turpitude, could give the Moldovan people something to replace the Holy Sepulchre; only they could grant us our innermost dreams.

  Only the children could deliver us the blessed land of Italy.

  43

  MEANWHILE, AS FATHER PAISII’S TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND children were marching toward Italy in one column, with their gonfalons, their swords and faith in their hearts; as thousands of Moldovans paid for the privilege of being secreted into Moldova in hidden automobile compartments, risking capture and forcible return to Moldova; while the earth carried forward the Moldovans and their Italy …

  … Vasily Lungu had found peace, and without hindrance or obstacle was floating with the river’s tide toward the Black Sea. From there he began his doleful water voyage, carried by the waves of the sea toward Italy, where his dead body was aiming. Along the way, Vasily was greatly changed. His hair had grown by several meters during the course of his journey and now it ranged across the face of the drowned man like the tentacles of a strange sea creature. His fingernails had stratified into twenty layers, so that Vasily’s hands looked like the fins of a mythical merman. The Southern European’s skin, brown and tightly wound across his cheekbones, had whitened, like the finest linen, and stretched, so that Vasily’s face took on the placid look that one loses at birth. His nostrils fluttered with the rhythms of the water which filled it, and his body slackened. And finally, Vasily was at rest, after these thirty-five years of his life. His face relaxed, and Vasily forgot how he’d looked in his lifetime. Little fish nibbled at his arms; crabs pierced his spine.

  At the Romanian coast, below Constanta, he encountered the Brazilian water goddess Yamanja and offered her his passionate caresses, as heated as Moldovan despair. Near Slanica, he collided with a sculpture of Pallas that had fallen off the nose of an ancient Greek ship, and now made its home in the sea. Near Mangalia, Vasily saw a giant squid which the Irish monk Peter the Wise had written about in the Twelfth Century; he was surprised at how accurately the man had described this sea monster. Then Vasily floated out from the Black Sea into the Adriatic. He was surprised yet again by how the two seas fit into each other, like Russian nesting dolls.

  Vasily floated, gradually turning into something amorphous, into a jelly-like lump swaying in the beating heart of the ocean, and he was happy as never before. The ocean was an enormous womb, and he – a baby.

  “That’s it, my true homeland,” the drowned man thought to himself, “the ocean!”

  And so, joyfully anticipating his encounter with the ocean, the heart of which beat ever stronger inside him, Vasily finally left behind the warm Adriatic Sea and exited, through the Pillars of Hercules, into the ocean. And the colossal enormity of it surprised Vasily, just as shouts of “Land!” had surprised Columbus. The waves broke in their rage against the columns, seagulls joyfully greeted Vasily, and the seals barked. They played atop the columns with the disk we call the sun, instead of with a ball. Their barking merged with the din of the ocean, and gave rise to tears of pure happiness in the frayed heart of Vasily. And he, or rather, that tiny part of him which remained, broke free into the open water. And the strongest and largest wave encompassed Vasily, and the pathetic remains of his body dissipated into the foam. And they spun, each particle a tiny planet in orbit.

  Vasily Lungu, citizen of the ocean, returned home forever.

  44

  IN MAY, THE FIELDS OF ROMANIAN MOLDOVA WERE COVERED in flowers as pale as the countenances of the local residents. Last year’s haystacks jutted out of the landscape here and there, but nobody had any use for them. Nor would they. Winter in Moldova, of course, isn’t the same as winter beyond the Prut River, but there, in the land that had once been Moldova but was now called Romania, where Stefan the Great had reigned four hundred years ago – all the livestock had perished. The Romanians blamed it on the Moldovan sorcerers whom Father Paisii brought to their land three years prior. Officially, Bucharest did not confirm these rumors, but neither did they deny them. The Romanian president had long ago dreamed of getting rid of the troublesome ad hoc settlement that came to be known as Eurograd. He had even planned on meeting with Father Paisii, in order to dot all his i’s and cross his t’s. But the priest, who’d already received the invitation from President Basescu, had something else on his mind that day.

  “Just take a look. What a beautiful maiden!” they shouted at his back. “I’d like to ride a mare like that.”

  The jesters kept up the banter. “Now let’s give her … a wide berth.”

  Father Paisii hunched up his shoulders, which made him look completely pathetic and shriveled. He tossed his hood high upon his head and began galloping quicker. From behind, the longhaired, slender-bodied priest looked an awful lot like a girl. Paisii stole a glance at his watch and darted toward the tent city. He had to hurry. In just a few minutes in Eurograd there’d be the usual delivery of wine cisterns. Then the ubiquitous bingeing would begin. It would end, as a rule, with rape and pillage. And then they wouldn’t let him through. Paisii knew that they’d lift up his cassock, and then the people would see that it was he, the priest. The threat of sexual assault which loomed, whether he was actually a woman or not, would be mere child’s play compared to what would happen if they discovered that it was him trying to escape.

  “They’ll burn me like that miserable Tudor,” Paisii whispered grievously and bit his lips. “Oh, cruel mob. I never asked for a wretch’s death.”

  The mob was savage, Paisii well knew, and he understood that if they caught him, he couldn’t count on mercy. Children are the cruelest of humans, after all, and out of the hundred and ten thousand residents of Eurograd, one hundred and eight thousand of them were teenagers, ranging from twelve to eighteen years old. The crimes they committed in the city every single minute were agonizing in their cruelty and savageness. Eurograd, Paisii realized with grief, was a focal point of evil. A true Babylon of our day. Nero’s Rome, transplanted into Romania in 2005 by the caprice of the Devil. And he, Paisii, shouldered all the blame.

  Everything had started out so well.

  45

  GOD, HAVING ARRANGED EVERYTHING FOR US TO REACH BLESSED Italy, our destination, changed His mind. The insight and intentions of Providence destroyed us for our sins. Nonetheless, I shall describe all the events in the order they occurred. My labor as Chronicler of the Holy Crusade of Father Paisii will serve as evidence of the sincerity of my words. In the secular world, I was the schoolteacher in a village called Larga in a country known as Moldova. This aided me in becoming a Chronicler.

  Gathering together roughly two hundred thousand people, more than three quarters of whom were children, Father Paisii undertook a crusade to Italy, a land considered holy by all Moldovans. This Promised Land now languished under the legs of the impious Italians, Paisii said, and we were to liberate it and populate Italy with true Orthodox believers. But the First Holy Crusade—the chronicle of which I laudably and painstakingly recorded—did not come to completion. We were scattered as the Egyptians were scattered by Divine Providence. Father Paisii explained this was because we, the Moldovans of a certain age, proved unworthy of the lot God intended for us. And because of the absence of pure thoughts in the army of the Holy Crusade, the effort was destroyed. Therefore, in the Second Crusade, Paisii commanded that only children should participate. Only they, clean of soul and mind, could save Italy from the impure Italians and open the door of the divine world to us, the Moldovans.

  The first three months we spent idly, following after Father Paisii across all of Moldova, completing the Crucession and saying prayers, bringing joy to the local population with our hymns in glory of
Italy and God, and stocking up on victuals, sometimes without the consent of the people who supplied them. Around the time of the third month, signs of corruption appeared in Father Paisii’s army: boys and girls were copulating with such vigor that even Father Paisii, who had already forgiven his flock for these sins, called upon them to be more restrained and to remember the ultimate goal of our undertaking.

  When we had journeyed for four months, finally, we crossed the River Prut. Nothing could stop us, neither the Romanian border guards, nor the water, which on that day was abnormally quiet and calm and not a barrier. In this we saw that our undertaking was of God and we rejoiced.

  And at the outskirts of the city Iassi we were surrounded by the army and they compelled us to halt, but Father Paisii called for negotiations. And the Romanian president said he was unable to let our army cross over his country, but his feelings of Romanian brotherhood would not allow him to bomb and shoot at us. Especially since all of Romania was very touched by the genuine yearning of the youth of Moldova toward Europe. Father Paisii and President Basescu assessed the situation and reached the following conclusion: Romania committed to building us a tent city with several buildings made of stone. And to contribute construction materials, with which we ourselves would be responsible for building the city. And Romania also pledged to become an advocate for Moldova in the European Parliament and to intercede for the two hundred thousand Moldovan children, so they might be allowed into Italy, and that no obstacles be put in their way. But the miserable Italians objected, and the Romanian efforts saw no success.

  And we named the city Eurograd, in honor of Europe and European integration. And we came to live there, waiting for a decision on our fate from the European Parliament. But God inflicted madness upon us, and the Moldovan children began to pervert Eurograd into a semblance of their own country, which they had abandoned. They shook the dust of their homeland off their feet.

  In Eurograd, corruption, theft, violence and lawlessness multiplied furiously, like lilac in the groves along the banks of the Dniester. One could not take a step in the city without paying a bribe. Evenings, the young cross-bearers would commit violence against each other, brawls and knife-fights flashed up in the city. The streets of Eurograd turned into a rubbish heap that pigs would not shy away from. The women sold themselves for food, the stronger youths took everything by force, and the weaker ones abased themselves, attempting at least to inflict pain upon those weaker still than themselves. Nobody utilized the sewer system that had been dug by the Romanians. People answered nature’s call directly in the streets, and into the streets they threw their garbage and poured out their slops. The public bathhouse was burned to the ground. Tuberculosis appeared. Many residents were lice-ridden. Two universities that had been opened for purposes of self-improvement in anticipation of Italy were looted. But there was not only destruction in Eurograd. There was also creation.

  They built four hundred public houses in three years in the city, where spirits were sold by the glass and by the bottle, for a swallow and for a barrel. The crowds of children brazenly ignored Father Paisii’s words. Street gangs and clans, criminal authorities and swindlers were everywhere.

  And our dream of becoming pure, of being worthy of Italy, perished.

  And the entire world was astonished by our wretchedness when they looked upon our city. And Italy, in light of all this, forbade us straightaway from crossing over into its land. And when the residents of Eurograd, hearing this, attempted to continue their Holy Crusade, Italy’s whips and cudgels turned them back. And they continued to decay and die.

  Ipso facto, Eurograd became Moldova.

  46

  PAISII’S THOUGHTS TURNED TO CURRENT EVENTS. HE teared up and lifted himself onto his elbows. The priest was lying on the ground at the edge of the tent city’s border. The roar of trucks reached him from afar and floodlights flickered near the tents. The lights were Eurograd’s evening illumination system, installed by the Romanians, who surrounded the city with troops. They didn’t allow anyone to leave the city, but they did let in lines of vehicles carrying food, alcohol, and other goods. Right now they were supposed to be hauling in three cisterns of port wine.

  “They’ve brought sweet wine,” somebody standing near the cisterns laughed. “For dessert!”

  Teenagers walked away from the cisterns clanging their full buckets. Many of them were drinking right at the cistern, and fell down drunk on the spot. The Romanian merchants kicked them disdainfully, all the while keeping an eye on their accounts. One of the boys didn’t have enough money so he brought over his ten-year-old sister. The wine merchant suspiciously wrinkled his face, poured out a potful of poison and, as the young man guzzled it down, whisked the girl away to the cab of his vehicle. An hour later, he shoved her out of the car, bruised and crying, and said something to the brother. The brother, already good and drunk, mumbled a response, after which the merchant poured him a bucket of wine. He picked up the girl—who was so afraid of being beaten and raped that she couldn’t even speak—and locked her in the car. “He’s going to take her away,” realized Paisii. “He bought her, now he’s taking her away.” But Paisii took himself in hand and turned away.

  Paisii waited until all the wine had been poured out into smaller buckets and brought into the city center. Toward night, creeping quietly along the ground, he climbed onto a truck and slipped into an empty wine cistern. Pulling a gas mask over his face, he got down on his haunches and nearly burst out sobbing with relief. In sum, the three-year attempt at controlling uncontrollable teenagers—Moldovan teenagers, to boot—had turned Paisii into a sentimental crybaby.

  “You’ve broken free!” Paisii whispered to himself. “You’ve broken free! Now, if only I could go home and sleep this off!”

  The vehicle drove off and the priest fell asleep. Due to the lack of oxygen, his dreams were surprisingly vivid. At first his runaway wife, Angela, shamelessly waved her thigh from somewhere deep in the night. Paisii ran after her leg, grabbed it and began squeezing it. Then, without any ceremony, he threw the strumpet to the ground and had his way with her. And then the priest looked around and saw the girl who’d been purchased by the wine merchant. The merchant was nowhere in sight. Paisii stole up on the little girl, clamped her mouth shut, threw her to the ground and had his way with her, just like his wife. Then all of a sudden, from deep in the night, the wine seller appeared. He forced Paisii to put on his gasmask, and then the merchant had his way with him, just as the priest had done to his wife.

  The light streaming into the cistern through the open cover roused Paisii from his sleep. He was covered in sweat. He made sure nobody was looking, then he took off his gasmask and climbed out for a breath of fresh air. It was sweeter than wine. With an open cistern the car drove on, one of a column of vehicles approaching a border of sorts. With a squint, Paisii read the road sign. He couldn’t believe his eyes, so he read it again.

  3 MILES TO ITALIAN BORDER

  The priest rubbed his eyes. He was nearly sure the wine was causing him to hallucinate. Then he recalled overhearing talk in Eurograd about wine-producing firms in Italy where Moldovans held jobs under the table. They made wine that was cheap, sweet and strong. Then they forged documents to make the wine appear to be from Moldova and brought it to sell in Russia. “They must be selling it in Eurograd, too,” realized Paisii, and he fell deep in thought. At that moment he looked very much like a tank soldier, leaning his torso out of the hatch of his combat vehicle. Father Paisii was the soldier, the cistern was his tank, and here he was, Father Paisii, overtaking the last three miles of his Ten Years’ War.

  Paisii dusted off his lapels and breathed in a chestful of sky from approaching Italy.

  47

  THE AIRPLANE MADE A STEEP TURN AND BEGAN TO CLIMB. The Croatian Air Force combat craft, an old crop duster, could climb for half an hour and still barely be off the ground, thanks to its miniscule speed. The pilot, Ivan Gorditch, closed his eyes and took off his helmet. After sett
ing a course straight for the sun, he liked to let the steering column alone and catch some z’s with tightly shut eyes.

  “Ivan, take a look at these ballsy Romanians!” shouted the junior pilot, who’d been resting in the back. “They don’t even hide anymore.”

  Ivan unwilling pulled his eyes open and steered the plane into the horizontal flatness. In this light, the earth looked bright green. The chain of trucks crawling toward the border with Italy looked to him like a caterpillar, and the earth – like an apple. Ivan blinked and saw a vehicle with a cistern in back amidst the column. A brazen Romanian had climbed right out of that cistern.

  “More likely a Moldovan,” shouted Ivan. “Looks like the Romanians have started smuggling them into Italy. That’s a hoot!”

  “A hoot and a half!” said the second pilot, a rookie. “Yesterday on the Internet I saw pictures of truck drivers crossing the border from Mexico to the US. I’ll tell you, those Mexicans hide in all kinds of places.”

  “Moldovans are more resourceful,” said Ivan, disagreeing. “In my opinion …”

  The colleagues argued for a bit about which migrants were harder to catch, Mexicans or Moldovans. In the end, they agreed it was Moldovans. The column meanwhile had crawled within spitting distance of the border.

  The cistern must be full of Moldovans. They had to report their findings back to the ground. Or did they? In any case, they had to be vicious to the column. Illegal Moldovans were a thorn in the Croats’ sides, for they too tried all means, legal and extralegal, to get to Italy.

  “Let’s bomb this column back to the Stone Age!” suggested Ivan.

  “Ivan, have you lost it?” asked the second pilot, surprised. “We’ve only got two bombs, and they’re just replicas.”

  “We’ll get someone else to do it!”