The Laconic Sexton

Yuri Finkelstein was writer. Not just any writer, of course, a 'writer' with a strong emphasis on the 'i' and the voice subtley lowered in pitch. Yuri liked to say that word. Writer. He had said it many times, and with each repetition it became more real. Yuri also like the term 'man of letters,' and 'belletrist' was simply too apt to be forgotten. Of course, he didn't really know precisely what either of these terms meant, but that wasn't important. They conjured an image, a sense of 'esprit' if you will, that Yuri strongly identified with and was emminently comfortable in claiming as his own.

'I cannot fecundate
a keen inscription,
And thus auspicate
mine own salvation'
wrote Yuri on a dark and stormy Saturday night, or so it must seem. However, when he looked up it was the middle of the morning and the sun was streaming in the window. He looked down again, loving every word. All along he had known that he could write, and here was the proof. He smiled that little smile of his, that others found annoying, but that he found only joyful and totally fulfilling. That done, he got up and left the room. Then he remembered that his uncle Moshe, his only living relation, was coming to lunch. 'Just a small epulation,' said Yuri as he walked to the kitchen, pronouncing the words slowly, almost chewing them. He said it again, and once more, just for good measure.

Lunch had come and gone, but poor Uncle Moshe had only done the former and was trying intensely, but quietly, to do the latter. Moshe had said 'Hello' and 'How are you?' and little else except for 'Oh' and 'Really?' more times than he could count. Yuri had said 'burglarious', 'uranometrical', 'pillarmonk', 'chrestomathy' and much more besides, and was, in fact, just warming up. Of course nothing had actually been communicated, but to Yuri this was secondary to the task at hand.

Quietly, very quietly Uncle Moshe edged towards the door. He had only taken a step when Yuri spoke, and nearly floored him. The word 'disciliated' rang through Moshe's head like a tenor bell. Yuri continued his sentence and the phrase 'ipsissima verba' brought the bile to Moshe's throat. He felt an intense pain in his chest and fell to the floor unable to breathe, unable to see. Yuri finished his sentence and phoned an ambulance.

The funeral was held three days later. Being the only surviving relative, Yuri attemped to act as some kind of macabre host. He waited at the door of the chapel as people filed in. He stood there expectantly with a somewhat sinister gleam in his eye. 'Oh, I'm so sorry' someone would say as they passed in. Yuri would reply with 'mortification', 'Weltschmertz' or perhaps 'lacrimae rerum'. The other party would say 'Oh' again, and walk hurriedly into the chapel, their eyes glazed, staring fixedly at the altar. Yuri, of course, delivered the eulogy. Perhaps it would have been better if he had done so in an envelope. His need to express himself overcame all practical considerations, especially those of which he was not aware.

Two hours later, and the chapel was empty. A line of mourners waited at the door. The funeral they had come for was now running half an hour late, but they were of a polite caste and none among them had the nerve to interrupt. At length, Yuri completed his final sentence and stepped down from the lectern, and headed out to the cemetery. His mind was awash with his own brilliance. He barely noticed that there was no one with him, and even if had fully understood the full import of this fact it would not have bothered him. Sedately, he walked out to the cemetery and waited for the coffin and the priest.

The priest did not arrive, of course, as he was otherwise engaged. In a few minutes the coffin of Uncle Moshe came out, carried by pall-bearers Yuri didn't know. The assigned bearers had already left an hour ago, and these four were doing it as a favour to the sexton. He walked slowly behind them, spade over his shoulder. The coffin was carried to the grave, and, as Yuri stood in a posture of contemplation and grief, they threw the coffin in. It hit the bottom with a loud crash and a thwump. Yuri looked up at them, looked down into the grave, and looked up again.
'I say....' he began, but the bearers had already turned their back on him and were chatting idly amongst themselves. One of them was smoking. The sexton approached the grave, sizing it up.
'Now, look here,' Yuri said loudly to the sexton, 'This is most hoydenish of you all. I require that you undertake to correct this impudicity. I am most discomposed.'
'Oh,' said the sexton as he looked Yuri squarely in the eye. The sexton turned towards the chapel, for no particular reason at all. As he did, the spade that he had over his shoulder hit Yuri full in the back of the head. The sexton heard another crash as Yuri fell into the grave. He took his spade down from his shoulder and began to fill it. The sexton whistled while he worked.