Paraska's Rehearsal

The morning calm of the village was shattered by news! Paraska was throwing her own funeral, though she was still the one ordering everyone where to stand. She slapped her palm down on the counter: - I've hired Motria, Kylyna and Khveska. I'll lie down, close my eyes and check the quality myself. - But you're alive. - Exactly! Once you're dead there's no checking anything. For two fainted neighbors she promised a bonus. Sincere grief was billed separately.

At dawn she called Hrytsko over to carry a long bench into the house for the rehearsal. He did the job, drank to his own labor and lay down "just for a minute". Paraska went off to order bread for the funeral dinner and to pretty herself up, and he pulled a white sheet over himself and started snoring. The mourners arrived early, saw the covered figure on the bench and gathered around it.

Then in came Marfa, who was looking for her husband - and, recognizing his patched boots, she smiled. She was about to pull off the sheet, but Motria put a finger to her lips: - Don't interfere. And she began to wail: - Oh, how hard-working she was! Marfa glanced at the boots: - Not really, no. - How she loved her husband! - The one under that sheet loves himself best of all. - How quiet and gentle she was! - Only when he's asleep.

Motria decided the neighbor had come to settle old scores and wailed even louder. - And never in her life did Paraska drink a single drop of horilka! - cried Motria. Hrytsko sat up so sharply that Kylyna ended up under the table and Khveska clutched a candle to her chest. - Now that's a lie too far! I poured for her myself on Pokrova. Twice! Motria crossed herself: - Hrytsko, what are you doing under Paraska's sheet? - Lay down a husband, woke up a dead woman.

How quickly everything changes in this mourning trade of yours. Hrytsko swung his legs down, but Motria pressed him back: - Don't fidget. Once we've started, we have to wail it through to the end, or the old woman won't pay. Marfa calmly straightened the sheet over him: - He's a true master, my man - every Sunday after the mead he rises from the dead. Half the village came running at the shouting. Hrytsko smoothed his hair and closed his eyes:

- If you're burying me anyway, say something about my looks. And my brains. Someone shouted from outside the window: - Louder about the looks - Hrytsko never heard the like of it while he was alive! Paraska came back in her funeral shirt and saw Hrytsko on her bench. - Have you all gone completely mad! You gave my funeral away to the neighbor! Motria spread her hands: - He lay down first. Paraska knocked Hrytsko's legs off and settled down beside him. - Move over.

- That I won't. - I'm the corpse here! - And I've already lain through half the funeral! Now there were two living dead on the bench, and Paraska had promised money for only one. Motria ruled they would be sung over in turns: Paraska for the money, Hrytsko because he had honestly lain through half the funeral already. She bent over Paraska: - She was gentle, quiet, never a harsh word for anyone... Paraska opened one eye: - You've got me mixed up with somebody.

Hrytsko snorted: - Me too, but the part about the looks came out well. Khveska tried to be more honest: - Oh, how everyone feared her! Paraska folded her hands with satisfaction. - And me they loved, - said Hrytsko, offended. - Because they didn't know you well. The funeral was going according to plan. Only the corpses kept getting in the way.

The slightly tipsy cantor suddenly remembered that today was Paraska's funeral and came running, buttoning his cassock as he went. He looked at the two corpses on the bench: - So which one are we singing over? Paraska and Hrytsko both pointed at themselves at once. While the cantor was deciding whom to finish singing over first, Khveska sat down at the table: - I can't bear other people's grief on an empty stomach anymore.

People took this as permission and drifted to the table. Hrytsko sat down beside his wife, and she pushed the varenyky and sour cream toward him. - Corpses aren't allowed at the table! - thundered Paraska from the bench. - Then lie back down, Baba! - Hrytsko answered. - I'll toast your memory with the holubtsi myself. She shot up: - Nobody touches my holubtsi without me! The cantor crossed himself - he had never yet served a "resurrection" like this one.

Paraska agreed to pay only half, since part of the funeral had been given away to Hrytsko. Hrytsko, for his part, demanded pay as well, because he had lain dead more convincingly. And Motria took her fee in salo, pyrizhky and the bench on which the whole thing had taken place. Nowadays, when someone in Vyshenka says: - I'd sooner die! People ask: - For real, or at Paraska's? In that house they sing you into the grave first, and only then decide whether you've died.