Mesopotamia

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Marat died forty days ago. Then spring came to the city. It had almost passed by the time we buried him, on Remembrance Day, at the beginning of April. Now overgrown grass had charred the hills green—summer was on its way. The traditional forty days of mourning were enough for us to calm down and forget about the whole thing. But then his parents called to remind us, and I thought to myself, “Yeah, I guess it’s only been forty days.” The dead don’t have any outstanding grievances; it’s the living who are always on your case.

A few friends and neighbors buried him. Most of his friends—and he had throngs of them, all over town—simply couldn’t believe they were being invited to his funeral. They apologized for being so doubtful, and then they came to the cemetery and looked for Marat’s headstone. That April was a rainy one; stray dogs trotted along after the van transporting the casket like an honor guard, occasionally thrusting their bodies at the black wheels of our Volkswagen hearse because they just couldn’t stand to watch Marat depart for the kingdom of the dead. Solemn throngs of people walked through the cemetery, ascending hills where the low-hanging clouds pressed close to them, and then descending into the valley where the deluge pooled. They honored his memory as best they could, mixing alcohol with rainwater. We were the only people to show up at the cemetery with a dearly departed friend in the back of their vehicle, so we looked a bit out of place—it was as if we’d come to a music shop with our own grand piano. The fact that it was Easter made us feel all mixed up—our sorrow seemed inappropriate. Who dies on Easter? Typically, people rise from the grave.

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