A Night in the Cemetery

AT THE CEMETERY

“Where are his jokes, his cases, and his tricks?”

—Hamlet

“Dear gentlemen, it is cold, and dark, shall we head home?”

The gust of wind touched the yellow leaves of old birch trees.

The leaves drenched us all with many droplets of water. One of us slid on the claylike soil and had to grab at a big gray cross in order to stop his slide downhill. Its inscription read,

‘A general, a secret councilor, decorated with orders and medals, George Black, is lying here.’

“I knew this man. He loved his wife, had medals of honor, and never read anything in his life. His stomach was working properly. He died from an accident. Truly, but if not for that accident he would have kept on living. He died as a victim of his own observations. One day, he was eavesdropping behind a door, which swung to hit him so hard he was given a severe concussion from the blow, dying shortly after. Now, look at this monument. This man hated poetry all his life, see his headstone there? Do you see the irony? His entire tombstone is completely covered with poetry; what an ironic twist of fate! Look, someone is headed our way.”

A man in a shabby old overcoat and a reddish complexion with a blue aftershave hue on his face was coming over to us. He had a bottle of vodka under his arm and a ham sandwich sticking out of his pocket.

“Do you know by any chance where I can find the grave of the actor Bugsy?” he inquired of us in a hoarse voice.

We led him over to the grave of that actor, who had passed away about two years ago.

“Are you an office worker?” we asked him.

“No, I am an actor. These days, it is hard to see a difference between an office worker and an actor, which we actors do not find very flattering.”

So, we finally found Bugsy’s grave. It had partially fallen down in the earth, and was covered with weeds, and did not look like a grave at all. There was small cheap cross on it, lying crooked to one side, covered with moss, looking worn out, as if it were ill. The inscription said, “… forgettable friend Mr. Bugsy.”

Time and the elements had worn out the prefix “un” from the word “unforgettable” and revealed the human lie.

The actor bowed in front of his friend’s grave, almost touching the grass, as he mentioned how his fellow actors and journalists had raised money for a great monument, then drank most of it away.

“How did you know they drank the funds away?” we asked.

“It’s very simple, they took an ad out in the local paper asking people to contribute to his monument, then spent it all getting drunk. To your health,”—he turned to us—“and to his eternal memory.”

“Our health will not get any better, and eternal memory is a very sad thing.”

“You are right! He was a famous artist, Mr. Bugsy. They brought lots of flowers and several wreaths for his funeral, but now he is completely forgotten! Those he had been kind to have forgotten him, and those he treated badly will never forget him. For example, I will never forget him because he only acted with evil toward me. He’s a dead man now, God save his soul!”

“What bad things did he do to you?”

“He caused a huge misfortune for me, a terrible blow.” He sighed again, and an angry expression appeared on his face. “He was a bad man for me, God save his soul. When I was but a young man, I saw him perform, and decided to choose acting as my profession. He lured me from my parents’ home, brought me into the artistic life and gave me only tears and failure. The life of an actor is truly tragic! I lost both my youth and my sobriety. I do not remotely look now as if I was created in the image of God. I am completely broke, the heels on my shoes are worn out, my pants have turned into laces at the bottom and look like a chessboard covered with numerous dirty spots. And my face—it looks like a dog has been chewing on my face for a long time! I had liberal ideas, and free thought. He took away even my faith! If only I could have the talent of a great actor—but no, I just wasted my entire life.

“It’s getting cold, dear gentlemen. Would you like a drink? There’s enough for all of us. Ha-ha-ha! Let us drink for the peace of his soul. Even if he is dead, I do not like him; he was the only person in this world left to me, and now I am all alone. I am seeing him for the last time. The doctors have told me that I will soon die from alcoholism. So I came to say good-bye. We have to forgive our enemies.”

We left, and the actor kept on talking to the dead Mr. Bugsy as the cold drizzle started again. We returned to the major alley, where we met another funeral procession. Four porters dressed in white belts, wearing dirty high boots plastered with leaves were passing as they carried a brown coffin. It was getting dark, and they were in a hurry. The coffin swayed as they hurried along on their way.

“We have been here for only two hours, and we have just seen our third funeral procession, dear gentlemen. Should we not go home now?”