Crackling harshly, the bonfire demanded more nourishment for its insatiable flesh. After some wood was added and the flames expressed their gratitude by sending a few flocks of merry sparks into the ebony height of the night, Andrew went on with the story that all his companions seated round the fire had been carefully listening to.

"On Ivan Kupal's Day, people poured water over each other. For that purpose they used pails, jars, pots, buckets - whatever they could find at hand. Then everybody came to the nearest river, where the young girls let beautiful flower garlands float away and the lads kindled a big fire on the bank and displayed their deftness by jumping over the high flame.

It used to be the funniest folk holiday. Ivan Kupal is the folk name of John The Baptist who baptized Christ in the waters of the Jordan. But I guess they started celebrating this kind of holiday in the old heathen days, long before Christianity came to this land. The most interesting thing about the holiday has nothing to do with Christ's teaching. The ancient belief says that the fern can bloom one night a year and it's only possible on the night of Ivan Kupal's Day. And those who are lucky enough to see a fern flower are going to be happy for all the rest of their life. Nowadays people keep on celebrating this holiday. They especially like to throw water over their friends, but I guess nobody now believes in the fern flower and its magic power."

"Why, it's so exciting and mystic!" exclaimed Nina. "I wouldn't mind spending a couple of hours in the dark woods in search of good luck."

"Well, we all can do it tomorrow," said Andrew. "Ivan Kupal's Day is celebrated on the seventh of July. Tomorrow's the sixth. The very time to look for good luck."

"But, darling," intervened Oksana, Andrew's wife, "Tomorrow's my birthday and we're going to have a little party."

"Yeah, but after the party, at midnight, we could drive to a nearby wood and try to find our fortune."

"Great, a nice idea," Boris said joyfully, "and now let's drink to the fern flower."

In a matter of moments the bottle of vodka was picked up off the ground, its last contents were poured into the four glasses which were then clashed together over the fire where they flew asunder.

"Andrew," said Nina as she put her emptied glass down on the trampled grass, "can you say what kind of happiness the fern flower brings?"

"It depends. Everybody's got his own idea of good luck. Someone may want to get something which another guy needs to get rid of."

"Well, Andrew," Oksana took hold of her husband's hand, "maybe we'll go to the tent. I guess it's time to turn in."

"Yeah, you're right, hon," assented Andrew. "I'm gonna get up early tomorrow. I'll try fishing a bit. And Boris, don't forget to put the fire out before falling asleep."

"We're not going to linger on, either," Nina, following the first couple's example, rose to her feet. "Okay, Boris, let's go to our tent, too."

"You can go, darling, but I'll take first a little swim. Just got a slight headache - hope that'll help me. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes, dear."

"Just don't take too long then. I'll be waiting for you," Nina smiled and headed for one of the two tents pitched not far from the fire.

Once alone, Boris got up, took off his jeans and shirt and went to the edge of the pond on the bank of which they had set up their picnic camp. He slowly entered the water to find it warm, tender and affectionate. He dived, appeared on the surface again, turned over and with measured strokes swam on his back, his gaze directed into the infinity of the starlit sky. He was enjoying the sensation of bliss given to his flesh by the water, the wonderful substance that made the law of gravitation lose all its significance, no matter whether it was an endless ocean or this small pond, similar to thousands, or maybe millions of ponds scattered all over the Ukraine.

Boris was grateful to his friend Andrew who'd made him and Nina get out of the noisy and smoky St Petersburg and spend a week of their vacation in Andrew's native place - Tulchin, a small and quiet Ukraine town.

Having reached the reed bank on the opposite side of the pond, he turned around and swam back to the camp. On getting out of the water, he noticed a lonely angler sitting on a log,

"Any luck?" cried out Boris.

"Not a bite," was the reply, "the fish have gone to sleep."

"Why are you fishing then?"

"Insomnia. Only that makes me sit here."

"Surely you live not far from here?" Boris walked closer to the man.

"Yeah, quite near."

"Then let me ask you something. You see, our liquor's gone, but I'd like a little bit more to relax finally. So, maybe you know a place where I can get something at this hour?"

"Yeah, I know such a place. You guys probably drove here from town."

"Yes, we did."

"And did you see a cemetery close to the woods?"

"Yeah, I saw it."

"There must be a gravedigger there. His name's Grigory. I suppose he's got something for you."

"It's late, I guess he's sleeping now."

"Don't worry, he'll be glad to see a guest. But wait, look there," the angler pointed at the nervously twitching float. With an abrupt jerk of the rod he extracted a small perch out of the water. After the catch was hurled into the creel, Boris witnessed a worm being ruthlessly put on the hook and sent into the black depth of the pond to finish its life as mere bait for the angler's next victim.

"Thank you for the advice and good luck," Boris turned round and walked up to the dying fire. He picked up a towel from the strewn belongings, rubbed himself, pulled on his clothes and tennis shoes and hurried away from the camp.

The route was not a long one, about half a kilometre. The narrow, dusty track cut its way to the horn-beam woods through the tall and thick formation of a corn field. Before long Boris came to rest against the dark bulk of the nocturnal forest, which murmured in the strange language of rustling leafage. The cemetery was a hundred steps to the left, between the woods and the highway. In a short while Boris was striding along beside the iron fence, looking for the entrance.

The space where the local residents were supposed to find their last refuge was peacefully sleeping, snugly clung to the woods and covered with the hush of the Ukraine night. Having come through the open wicket, he halted and looked around. The moonlight was bright enough for him make out the only building - a low hut, driven into the corner by the disorderly crowd of gloomy tombs and crosses. The lighted window indicated the host was awake. Boris walked over to the hut and knocked on the door. There was some noise inside, then heavy steps drew near and the door swung open.

"Who's that?" In the doorway stood a well-built man of about forty, dressed in pants soiled with fresh earth and a faded shirt, which could not hide the bulging strength of his brawny arms.

"I beg your pardon," Boris started timidly, "Are you Grigory?"

"Yes, it's me."

"I've been told I can get some liquor from you."

"Well, come in. This way, please. Here's my chamber."

If it had not been for a worn sofa and a shelf with kitchen utensils, Boris would have called the room a cluttered shed rather than a chamber.

"Take a pew," Grigory motioned the guest to a wooden stool. "And by the way, what's your name, Mr Unexpected Visitor?"

"Boris."

"And how much booze d'you need, Boris?"

"I guess a bottle will do," Boris, having seated himself on the stool, continued surveying the modest interior. "Excuse me, but d'you really live here?"

"Course not - this is my office," Grigory smiled. "I live in town, got a pretty good house over there. This graveyard serves a few nearby villages. Sometimes when the job needs it I stay over here, but not too often. The villages are small, the population not too large, not so much work for me. I've just finished the grave for Fedor the beekeeper. He was eighty-two. Tomorrow's his burial."

Grigory walked up to a large chest standing in the corner, lifted the lid and started rummaging inside.

"Grigory, what can you offer me?" asked Boris.

"The only thing I have - gorilka." With those words Grigory dragged an enormous bottle out of the chest.

"Gorilka?"

"And what d'you expect in a place like this, champagne, or French wine?" Grigory smirked and set the bottle on the table.

"But I guess it's too much for me and to be truthful I can't remember if I ever tasted this kind of beverage."

"Never mind, I'm gonna take no money from you. Are you alone?"

"Not at all, but..."

"Okay, just keep me company for a while, then you may go wherever you want. I, as well as you, need a drink tonight."

"But I won't be able to drink neat gorilka."

"Need a chaser? No problem." Soon on the table there appeared two tumblers, a jar of water, a loaf of bread, a wisp of spring onions and half a sausage. "In the jar there's spring water, very healthy. The sausage is home-made, my mother makes it. Well, what d'you say to all that now?"

Boris thought for a few seconds, then waved his hand:

"Okay, let's have something of a party. Hope gorilka's worth tasting."

"Good lad." The gravedigger joined Boris at the table, uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses.

"So, let's go ahead." Grigory lifted his glass and emptied it in one gulp.

Boris, having done the same, let the tumbler fall from his hand as soon as the last drop of the burning liquid had migrated into his mouth and straightaway pounced upon the jar, endeavouring to quench the fire in his throat with greedy swallows of the cold water.

"How d'you find it? I distil it myself, therefore I guarantee the quality. Well, try it," Grigory broke off a piece of sausage and offered it to Boris.

"Yeah, it's got it," mumbled Boris, chewing his snack. The drink really proved to be of high quality and it did not take him long to perceive that his attitude of mind was becoming somewhat different.

Grigory took a noisy swallow from the jar, "I see you're a stranger here."

"Yeah, a friend of mine invited me to spend my vacation here."

"And where d'you come from?"

"St Petersburg."

"A nice city. My daughter's studying there. A beautiful girl, eighteen years old."

"Where does she study?"

"I can't remember what they call it exactly, but she's gonna be a musician, a piano-player."

"You mean a pianist?"

"Yeah, I guess that's the proper name."

"Strange, I used to think that at such places they educate children whose parents..."

"Whose parents what?" Grigory suddenly interrupted, "Please go on! Whose parents don't dig graves? Is that what you mean?"

"No, not at all," Boris felt awkward, "I didn't actually mean that."

Grigory thumped the table. "Yeah, you did mean that. But what d'you know of people like me?"

"I'm sorry, but believe me I didn't wanna say anything offensive."

"Okay, now I'll explain to you," Grigory's voice became much calmer. "You think I'm a nobody, a gravedigger, a dung-beetle. But you're terribly wrong. I'm the most important person on this planet. Tell me, what does distinguish you from an animal?"

"I've been taught that labour made Man out of the ape. Engels seems to be the first who said so."

"Bullshitter, that's the name for your Engels. The beaver works building the dam and the ant, too, works hard and the bee works all day long, but still they are all unintelligent creatures. But what actually distinguishes you from a beast of the woods is that when you're dead, you won't be lying somewhere in the bush, stuck all over with flies and rotting with a terrible stench. But you will lie washed like a cucumber, dressed in clean clothes, in a nicely-made coffin and gradually decaying under a beautiful tomb, where all your children, grandchildren, the children of your grandchildren will keep on coming and speaking well of you. And who's gonna do all that? Me!" Grigory poked his finger at his chest. "Ain't that true?"

"Yeah, no doubt that's true."

"Alright, Boris, now tell me how long are you gonna live? Let it be a hundred years. Even such a period of time can't be compared to the world's whole history. It's just a miserable moment. But in the grave you may lie for millions and millions of years, just as long as the earth's gonna exist. See the difference - an instant and eternity; They say a doctor is the most important and noble of professions. Nonsense! You may cure a man, or not, but in any case he'll die sooner or later. Or let's take a teacher. No matter if you were perfectly taught at school or you're the most ignorant, but the only thing every one of us is doomed to is the grave. So, who's more important - doctor, teacher or me? Okay, boy, we'd better drink to my job."

Boris' second tumbler went down with surprising ease and a similar easiness took possession of his mind, putting an end to such a dull and sober thing as self-control.

"You, Grigory, ain't a gravedigger, you're a philosopher," said Boris after he had some sausage with onions.

"Boris, I know the only philosophy there is- everybody should love their business. I've been digging graves for twenty years. It's my whole life."

"Yeah, Grigory, I see you're a real master of your business. But can you, for instance, bury two people in one grave?"

The gravedigger's tanned face gave a cunning smile. "If it's necessary, I'll be able to bury forty persons in one common grave."

"No, I mean something else. You said you were burying somebody tomorrow and the grave's ready."

"It ain't somebody, it's Fedor, the old chap. Everybody used to love him. What a nice man he was. May he rest in peace, let's have a drink in good memory of him."

"Wait a bit, Grigory," Boris lowered his voice to a whisper, "now let's suppose that tonight somebody makes that grave a little bit deeper, then puts a corpse on the bottom, covers it with earth restoring the grave to its previous depth and after that, tomorrow, you bury Fedor in the grave. What do you think, will anybody be able to guess that in the grave there are two dead bodies instead of one?"

"You've gotta not only restore the depth but make the bottom look its natural way."

"But is it possible for you to do such a thing, Grigory?"

"Why the hell d'you ask me this? You know there's nothing I can't do when it comes to my job."

"Grand! In that case I suggest we drink a little bit more and then I'll tell you something interesting."

The next draught of gorilka saturated Boris's flesh, dissolving the last remnants of all that could be called sobriety.

"Well, what d'you wanna tell me?" asked Grigory as he put his tumbler back on the table.

"You're my fern flower," pronounced Boris.

"What?"

"Yeah, you're my fern flower 'cause it's only you who can help me feel happy."

"Can you make yourself a bit clearer?"

Boris paused and then slowly uttered the words:

"I need to kill somebody."

"You wanna kill a man?" Grigory cried out in astonishment.

Boris, pinned to his stool by the pair of the examining eyes, started to stammer: "Please, don t... I, I... Grigory... just don't get sur... surprised. Yeah, it's long ago that I decided to do it but I had no idea how to get rid of the corpse. You see, it's the main piece of evidence. But if there's no corpse, there's no murder."

"And who's gonna be your victim?"

"The victim, as you say, is now not far from here, sleeping in a tent."

"So what?"

"It's so simple, I've already explained it all to you. Now we'll go and kill "the victim" and then hide the body in the grave."

"What makes you think that I'll do that?"

"I'll pay you good money."

"To talk of money you must first tell who you're going to" kill."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does matter. You think you can give me heaps of money and after that I'll be able to kill anybody, even my mother."

"It ain't your mother, Grigory, calm down."

"Then who? Your friend?"

"One does not kill ones friends."

"And who is supposed to be killed by such a guy like you?

"Well, it's my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah, I gotta kill her."

"Why?"

"I can no longer allow that dirty bitch to keep on ruining my life."

"Why don't you divorce?"

"Believe me, it's far easier to kill her."

"Maybe you're right and your wife's the worst bitch in the world, maybe she's the Devil in flesh, but I've never murdered nobody and not gonna do so. I just bury people after they die."

"Grigory, I'll give lots of money, a great deal. I'm a successful businessman, I can afford it."

"Please try to solve your family problems without my help."

"Okay, let's do it this way - I'll kill her myself and you'll bury her."

Grigory shook his head: "Nope, it's complicity in a crime."

"Wait," Boris went on, his voice growing more determined, "it was you who just now said that you bury dead people. If the murder's discovered I won't give you away. I'll just say it was me who secretly buried the body while you were sleeping in the hut. And then, when you buried Fedor, you weren't aware of the other body n the grave. No sense in betraying you. That wouldn't change my sentence. Murder will remain murder no matter if I've hidden the corpse or not. Do you get it?"

"Yeah, I got it and I think you'd better hide the body yourself."

"I've just no time for both killing and digging. But we can distribute the work - you will dig and I will kill."

"You see, just got no wish to sin against the Lord."

"Where the hell do you see a sin? You yourself said that Man's doomed to die. Why should you care about the way my wife will leave this world? Imagine she died of some disease or an accident. You'll do your usual job you've been doing for twenty years. I guess at this graveyard there lie quite a few people who were murdered. Did you ever refuse to bury them? No, you didn't. Because burying people is just your way to earn money. No it's the same situation. I pay - you bury."

"Wanna buy me over?"

"Not at all. Just going to pay for a piece of work, which you do almost every day. Digging with a spade can't be considered as a crime. It's your job."

"Hiding traces of a crime ain't my job."

"Well, of course there's a minor risk, but the sum I'm going to give you is much greater than the ordinary pay for your none too easy work."

"What do you mean by "much greater"?"

"Okay, a good question. Well... I guess I can afford to give you something like three thousand American dollars. Alright not about, let's set it accurately. I'll give you three thousand dollars exactly. Who else will ever give you such a sum for digging a small hole that can't even be called a grave? Tell me, maybe you think I'm going to deceive you, or you're afraid that I'll kill you as well, just to get rid of the witness."

All of a sudden Grigory seized Boris by the shirt with both his hands and drew him close to his face, smelling of gorilka, sausage, onion and rotting teeth. "You, sucker, there's nobody I'm afraid of, including a snotty bastard like you."

"Well, well, Grigory, let's forget all I said," Boris tried to remedy the situation. "Just let me go."

"Just got no wish to soil my hands with shit," Grigory unclenched his huge fists and Boris lowered himself back onto the stool.

A tense, edgy silence occupied the room. The thoughtful gaze of the gravedigger fixed itself on the bread-crumbed tabletop, while his night guest, his head turned away, looked into the dark distance through the small square of the only window. Finally Boris ventured to break the deadly hush that had lasted a good few minutes.

"Okay, Grigory, thanks for the gorilka and I think it's time to go."

Grigory slowly lifted his eyes, fixed them on Boris's face and asked: "Is she really such a bitch?"

"There's no worse one."

"Maybe there's another way out, without a crime. Have you thought it out?"

"Yeah - it's my final decision."

"I once, too, was about to kill my wife with an axe. I was all too boozed. Now I thank God I failed to do it. And I'd strongly advise you against it."

"Grigory, I need your help much more than your advice."

"You see, I need no money, my requirements are minimal. But I do love my daughter. I just wanna see her well educated. You're right, she lives among alien people who don't have much respect for guys like me. Money is the thing that can help her live in a foreign place."

"Grigory, if you agree to kill my wife, I'll give even more money."

"No," the gravedigger shook his head, "but I will do the thing I'm used to. I'll bury her. And remember what to say to the cops - I was sleeping, you were burying."

"No problem, you can fully rely on me. But I'm positive it won't come to that."

"Then don't waste your time," said Grigory, "I'm getting sleepy.

"Alright," Boris got to his feet, "I'm off right away."

"And how are you gonna carry the body over here?" inquired Grigory.

"Don't worry," Boris replied cheerfully, "I'll manage it somehow. And don't be afraid, everything will be done to a T." He turned around and staggered over to the door.

After Boris left the hut, the gravedigger stood up, took the spade from the tool rack, switched off the light and went outside.

Boris did not come that night. When dawn was about to gleam, Grigory, having realized the inanity of waiting longer and unable to control his drowsiness any more, pulled the spade out of the earth hillock by the grave and strolled over to the hut.

At noon, when the old beekeeper was being buried, no one paid attention to the fact that the grave was a little deeper than it had to be. After the ceremony was over and the cemetery again became deserted, Grigory took a fishing rod and set off for the pond to bathe after a dusty and sweaty job and then while away a couple of hours angling.

On the bank he saw a group of people playing beach ball. Boris was one of them. Grigory came closer and hailed his new acquaintance.

"Boris, who's that?" asked Nina in surprise, after the game had finished.

"Just... I don't know... wait a little guys, I'll be back soon," Boris answered, confused. He ran over to Grigory.

"Hi, bud," Grigory greeted him.

"Hi, let's walk away a little," Boris took the gravedigger aside, "Well, Grigory, how are you?"

"Fine, see you haven't forgotten me yet."

"Of course I haven't. 'Specially I remember your gorilka. It's not so easy to play ball after that drink. Something of a hangover."

"Don't talk rubbish. I've come to get my dough."

"What dough?"

"The three thousand bucks you promised to give me yesterday."

"What for?"

"I made the beekeepers grave a bit deeper to let you bury your wife there."

"What nonsense," Boris shrugged his shoulders, "Why should I bury my wife?"

Grigory spat. "Don't make a fool of me. You were gonna kill her."

"Who? Me? My wife's alive, look - there she stands by the water. That's my wife and I was never going to kill her."

"Yesterday you didn't talk about her like that."

"I was drunk, maybe I said something foolish, but I can't be responsible for all I say whilst intoxicated, specially with your gorllka."

"Intoxication doesn't belong to extenuating circumstances and you can't put blame upon my booze."

"Damn it," Boris shook his head, "you talk like a scholar prosecutor in court. Well, even if I actually said something like that, I wasn't able to kill anybody. You saw me leaving, I literally crawled up to the tent."

"I'm not interested in the way you got to the tent. To kill your wife wasn't my notion at all. You were so long persuading me to help you. You promised to pay me if I'd made the grave deeper. I've done so, but haven't received the money yet. It's a mere fraud and I don't like it."

"But how can I give you the money if my wife's alive?"

"It doesn't matter. You promised to pay not for murdering your wife but for working with a spade. I did do what I was asked to and now I want to get my deserved pay."

"Look here, you're paid for burying dead people, not for digging just holes in the ground. If my wife ain't buried, how can I pay for her burial?"

"There was a case once. I dug a grave but it happened to be unnecessary. However I was paid the whole sum I'd been promised."

"You wanna say that the deceased refused your service?"

"The deceased was half Jewish, and at the last moment her relatives changed their mind and decided to bury her at the Jewish cemetery, but they paid me as if I'd buried her"

"My wife ain't a Jew and what's more I've simply no such a sum."

"That's no excuse. You promised to pay - you must pay."

"Okay, Grigory, I think I can give you a certain sum of money for the trouble I put you to, but it can't be three thousand bucks."

Grigory cast a scornful glance at Boris. "I need only what I've been promised and if you're not gonna pay the right sum, I'll go to your wife and tell her something she's not gonna be glad to know."

"She won't believe a word of your story. It's nothing but dirty blackmail."

"Now we'll see her reaction," Grigory took a step towards the tents.

"No, you won't do that," Boris barred the gravedigger's way, spreading his arms out.

"Only the money you owe me can stop me."

"Alright, let me think a little." Boris dropped his arms, "Just give me a few minutes to think it over."

"I see you wanna play for time. Alright, so be it. I'll give you some time, but not too much. I'm gonna take a little swim and when I get out of the water, I want my money here, waiting for me, otherwise I'll go to your wife straight away."

Grigory turned around and slowly walked along the bank, looking for a spot to bathe in. Boris, petrified and bewildered, was following the gravedigger with his eyes and only after the latter got undressed and took a running dive into the water, did he dart his look in the opposite direction. Andrew, Oksana and Nina, carried away with the game, seemed to have forgotten him. He dashed up to them, seized an item from the belongings lying about the camp, dropped it, picked it up again and wildly threw it back onto the ground.

"I say everybody, strike the camp, pack up and drive away immediately!" he shouted in a mad voice as he put all his energy into pulling out the tent pegs. "Andrew, get the car started!"

"Boris, I don't understand you."

"What's up?"

"What are you doing?"

All the three stared in astonishment at their pal, who was furiously struggling to dismantle the tent.

"Why are you standing like idiots?" Boris yelled, "I say pack up and get away, I'll explain all later"

Evening fell. No one wanted to die, there was nothing to do, so Grigory decided to go home. He caught a bus to town and in twenty minutes alighted at the stop by the taproom, or the Cellar as it was called, due to its situation under the two-storied building of the local department stores. The heat, which had not yet abated, would not allow him to pass, so he descended the flight of stairs and entered the faintly lit room which was filled with a pleasurable mixture of damp coolness and the aroma of beer.

He was sipping his second draught when his old pal Mickola came in.