The Forgotten Vest

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;Sonia and I never miss an opportunity to drag Father Dariusz over for a visit.
Unfortunately, this doesn't happen very often; the Polish priest hardly ever shows up in Novosibirsk anymore.
And here is why.
;...After the return of religious freedoms, crowds of multilingual missionaries flooded the country. Among them were Catholic priests from Poland, Italy, and Germany.
I saw Dariusz for the first time during the so-called "Holidays with God," at a holiday retreat hidden deep in the Siberian taiga.
He was tall, powerfully built, and looked like a young, successful businessman. His face was almost completely concealed behind a wild, luxuriant beard, while his sharp black eyes seemed to scan right through everyone. This was roughly what Grishka Rasputin looked like in his youth.
Incidentally, our Polish pastor possessed the very same charisma as the legendary Russian holy man—he was a psychic.
;...I had tagged along with my church-going acquaintances not out of great faith.
It was simply that I had nowhere else to take my daughter for a holiday amidst the universal, Perestroika-era lack of money. I confess, I was guided by purely self-serving interests back then. I attended the church services and prayer meetings strictly out of politeness, as a way of paying for their hospitality. Incidentally, that was where we met Sonia, who had gone to these so-called spiritual exercises for the exact same reason.
;Now, this heavy-set Dariusz looked least of all like a priest: the Christian songs he briskly belted out by the campfire, accompanying himself on the guitar, would have sounded more at home at a rock concert. Rumor had it that before entering the seminary, he had sung in a rock band.
But that wasn't the main thing. He spoke about God as if He were his best friend, ready to grant any request. It sounded incredible, yet before long, I saw for myself that the priest was not exaggerating in the slightest.
;Suddenly, one of the young girls fell ill. Her back seized up so violently that her friends had to carry her in their arms to the wooden outhouse at the edge of the retreat.
When she took a real turn for the worse, Father Dariusz moved to action.
Immediately following the Mass, still in his vestments and holding the Blessed Sacrament in his hands, he headed to her cabin.
I have no idea what transpired inside that little house, but that very evening, this same girl in a short little skirt was joyfully dancing at the youth prayer meeting. Everyone stared at her in utter amazement, and Father Dariusz asked her to “give testimony” to her miraculous healing.
;Sonia, who happens to be a doctor by profession, monitored the unfolding events very closely. When Dariusz suggested that everyone thank the Lord, who heals by His own hand because nothing is impossible for Him, Sonia resolutely stood up and marched her children of "non-Catholic nationality" out of there—her curly-haired Osya and little Polina.
;What’s more, the following day, nearly all of my acquaintances from Tomsk demonstratively packed up and left the camp. They explained to me that this strange man’s healing did not come from God—in fact, quite the opposite... Well, how about that!
I panicked and rushed to pack my backpack.
Fortunately, my Polish friend Marek dropped by; he and his young wife ran the family community at the Tomsk church.
Marek calmly and clearly explained to me that back in Poland, no one would find anything criminal in such a religious practice.
"Perhaps," he said, "it’s just hard for you austere Siberians to accept a youth-oriented style of worship—these songs with a guitar, candles in the dark, dancing by the campfire, and the notorious healings—but it’s certainly not Satanism, that’s just ridiculous."
For some reason, I believed Marek instantly and didn't leave, a decision I have never regretted.
Moreover, it was precisely after those unforgettable days that I became a genuine, if I dare say so, believing Catholic.
However, just to be safe, the bishop removed Father Dariusz from our diocese, away from sin's path. In his new post in Krasnoyarsk, the priest had the sense not to put on shows with Gospel miracles, and so he has been serving there quietly for several decades now.
Yet, despite the great distance, a long-standing friendship binds Father Dariusz, Sonia, and me.
;...Father Darek feels completely at home at Sonia's place. Taking off his denim vest, he hangs it over the back of a chair, remaining in his T-shirt.
Sonia cuts a fragrant apple pie into triangular slices, while I pour the tea—I am at home here too.
The priest gazes admiringly at Polina, who has transformed from a child into a beautiful young woman, looking as though she had stepped right off the pages of the Old Testament.
Dariusz mentions that he drove to Novosibirsk by car to meet his brother and his family at the airport and take them back to his place in Krasnoyarsk.
;"Will you help me?" he asks me. "I don't know where this airport is, and it’s hard to navigate a strange city at night."
;"Of course," I nod.
;Finally, after saying our goodbyes, we head out into the yard.
It’s no longer so hot on this summer evening at sunset. Dariusz promises to drop me off at my house in his car.
But no sooner have we pulled out onto the avenue than the priest realizes he left his vest, containing all his money and documents, at Sonia's.
No big deal; we just have to turn back.
;From my mobile, I dial Sonia's home number and let her know about the vest. Sonia laughs in response: it turns out they have already discovered it and were just waiting for it to dawn on Dariusz.
;"Where are you guys?"
;"We're close by, I can even see your building from here," I report.
;"Great, I'll tell Polina to head downstairs to the entrance."
;The viewpoints of a pedestrian and a driver regarding the distance between objects differ significantly.
To a pedestrian, it seems: look, right there, just a stone's throw away. The driver, however, thinks differently: how best to pull in, given that we are traveling on the opposite side, and we need to turn off somewhere. You can't go there—a "no entry" sign; you can't go there either—it’s a one-way street. Unless we loop around the entire block…
Thus, we rocketed right past the archway in which Sonia's building flashed by, and pressed straight ahead.
;"Where on earth do we turn?" Dariusz guesses wildly.
;That’s what an unfamiliar city means.
Back home in Krasnoyarsk, he has known every shoal for ages, but how is he supposed to figure it out on the fly in Novosibirsk, during rush hour, and without having shifted into the correct lane in advance?
;Somehow, it happened completely on its own that we kept driving straight, further and further away from Sonia's building... Finally, we approached the bridge over the river…
Dariusz was completely flabbergasted. Rolling his black eyes, he frantically searches for a turn-off from the main highway, but to no avail.
We have no choice but to pull onto the bridge and keep moving within the general column of traffic.
;"Oh dear, Polina must be standing there losing her mind, wondering where we vanished to," I remembered, and dialed Sonia again.
;"Sonia, for some reason we've driven onto the bridge, there’s no way to turn off."
;"You aren't the only ones," Sonia consoles me. "That turn is so indistinct that if you don't know about it beforehand, you'll never find it in a month of Sundays."
;"Is Polya still standing out by the entrance with the vest? Should we call her or something?.."
;"She didn't take her phone; she thought it was a matter of a single minute."
;Dariusz drives on and on resignedly, and the bridge just won't end. Like a bad dream.
;"Oh, the police…" the great and terrible Dariusz muttered in horror.
;Every priest, even the most mystical and zealous, has a weak spot: the traffic police. God is one thing, but the police are another. The traffic cops act as if everyone owes them anyway, but if you're a foreigner with an accent, and on top of that you have no license, no documents, and no money… well, no God is going to bail you out here.
Large beads of sweat erupted on Father Dariusz's bulging forehead, and he cursed colorfully in Polish. Catching himself, he glanced sideways at me, then plunged into prayer, judging by his suddenly meek, elongated face. I pulled out my Rosary as well.
Blending into the background, we tiptoed right past the traffic police ambush. Before long, we were coasting onto the left bank of the city of Novosibirsk.
We can think of nothing better to do than to keep moving along with the rest of the traffic flow.
;"By the way, Father Darek, the airport is coming up soon," I say, turning to the priest, and suddenly I dissolve into hysterical laughter. His face is so warped—I have never seen him look like that.
;"What are you laughing at?" the Polish pastor asks, offended, but then he too is overcome by uncontrollable laughter, which breaks all this unexpected, uninvited stress.
;This is exactly what we need right now. I wipe away tears, unable to compose myself.
;"And Polina is still standing there!.." and a new wave of hilarity washes over us.
;At last, we reach the left-bank Ploshchad Truda. Going around the traffic circle, we begin heading in the opposite direction. From there, it’s a beaten path… Well, thank goodness, we finally turned off.
Phew…
;"Where on earth have you been all this time?!" Polina asks us in utter bewilderment.
;But due to yet another fit of laughter, we cannot utter a single word.