I remember the exact moment when it dawned on me that Andrei had volunteered without my consent to serve as my village drill instructor.
He had recruited me for one of his many schemes. In this case, digging a hole. We both had shovels, but Andrei’s was purely ceremonial—like a sword resting on the shoulder of an officer on parade.
“Dig, dig!” he barked over my shoulder as I stabbed the ground. But Andrei did not approve of my technique. “No, no, not like that. Dig! Good. Now throw the dirt away.”
What else was I going to do with the dirt? Eat it?
When the hole reached a width and depth that were satisfactory to Andrei, he issued me a new order: “Smoke.” That is, take a smoke break. I do not smoke—only hookah.
From that day forward, Andrei would periodically abduct me from my home so that I could fulfill various labor-intensive tasks for him. He would arrive unannounced at all hours of the day, from six in the morning to late in the evening. If the door was unlocked, he would invite himself in. If I was in my pajamas, he would tell me to get dressed. If I was having dinner, he would tell me to stop eating and get in his car. There were things that I needed to do for Andrei and the clock was ticking.
Andrei had a tattoo on his left arm (likely from prison, although I never inquired) and a scar on his right cheek (from a nearly fatal chainsaw accident), and his proclivity for issuing unsolicited instructions to anyone within his field of vision earned him the title of Know-It-All Andrei in the village.
One of the greatest regrets of my life is that I didn’t keep a detailed record of Andrei’s constructive criticisms (“You hammer like a girl”; “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”), although I have vivid memories of many of the things he made me do against my will.
One time he caught me minding my own business inside of my own home and informed me that his banya’s chimney needed cleaning. And then, as per tradition, he ushered me into his car.
“Up you go,” Andrei said.
“But I’m a blogger, Andrei.”
“What’s that? Don’t worry, I’ll hold the ladder.”
In spring, I would help Andrei install fish traps—fyke nets—in the nearby lake. I should mention in passing that trapping fish with fyke nets is a very popular and technically illegal pastime in the village.
Andrei had four or five nets strategically placed around the lake. My job was to help carry the inflatable boat, and most importantly, to row him from fyke net to fyke net so that he could collect his winnings.
However, due to the covert nature of these activities—the location of a man’s fyke net is a closely guarded secret—Andrei was initially reluctant to reveal his setup to me. On our first outing together, he instructed me to row to the center of the lake, where he marooned me on a cranberry bog. Then Andrei paddled away, with promises to return eventually.
And then it began to rain.
Time passes very slowly when it’s raining and you’re stranded on a cranberry bog. With not much else to do, I decided to collect cranberries. I stuffed my sweatpants and camo sweater-pocket with berries, and when Andrei returned about 30 minutes later, I was very wet but had a lot of cranberries.
Andrei was impressed, and after that he allowed me to row him to his nets. I would ride my bicycle to his house every morning at 5:00 am, and together we would check for trapped fish. He would sometimes ask me for my phone so he could film commentaries as I rowed.
"No no no not that way … in Russia we'll make a man out of you … He knows how to drink, now we'll teach him how to row … Row, row.”
Our last expedition was on a cloudy evening. Andrei wanted to check the nets before he had to leave for the city the next morning.
“It’s going to rain, Andrei,” I protested when he pulled into my driveway and told me the plan.
He smiled and batted away my objections with his hand.
The rain started moments after we launched the boat. It was torrential rain, the kind of rain that obscures visibility. Not long after, thunder arrived.
I rowed to the first fyke net. Empty. Then the second—nothing. Our vessel was taking on water as Andrei shouted directions to the third net. Not a single fish.
“Well. There it is,” he said, gesturing at the empty fyke net. And with the thunder becoming louder and the rain pouring down even harder, he laughed.
I was in a very sour mood. Silently, I rowed us back to shore.
“I’m sick of Andrei ordering me around!” I told Ekaterina when I returned home, soaked to the bone.
“Well, next time he wants you to do something for him, just say no,” she suggested.
“I will!”
I never did though, because Andrei died of a heart attack last week.
It will be difficult in the village without his tutelage. Who will correct me when I hit nails like a little girl?
Rest in peace, Andrei, my friend.
You will remember your friend when rowing, digging holes, hammering nails, cleaning chimneys and driving jalopies!
Long live the salt of the earth!
They add unique quality to our lives.
RIP Andrei.
I'm sorry for your loss.
I have to say, this is the most hilarious memorial I have ever read.