Pan Hryts

By Walter Kish

I had not spoken to my cousin Hryts in a while. So last week I called him at his humble home in the town of Pidkamin.  Humble though it may be, ever since he visited the Vysokiy Zamok (High Castle) in Lviv last summer he has taken to calling it Nyzkiy Zamok (Low Castle).  When I asked him why, he said quite proudly that since every man’s home is his castle, then he had the right to call his a castle, though being an honest man, he had to call a spade a spade, or lopata as the case may be, so Nyzhkiy Zamok it is. 

Besides, he said he was descended from kozak noble stock, claiming direct lineage from the famous kozak chieftain Maxym Kryvonis, and offered his crooked nose as genetic proof.  Of course, I knew for a fact that his irregular proboscis was the result of a well aimed blow from his wife Yevdokia’s broom after she caught him making an inebriated pass at the neighbour’s wife, but I let him think otherwise.

In any case, I told him that President Yushchenko was paying an official visit to Canada in a few weeks.

“Well I hope you find a way to keep him in Canada for a while – he certainly isn’t doing us any good here!” he exclaimed with more than a touch of derision.

I could feel a rant coming on, and knowing Hryts, I was not going to interrupt him.

“It’s all because of the windows.” He said cryptically.

“What windows?” I inquired.

“Why, the windows in his Presidential offices on Bankova Street!” he exclaimed.  “They obviously have some kind of reflective coating on them, so when he looks out, instead of seeing Ukraine and the Ukrainian people, all he sees is himself” he spat out.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall – who’s the fairest President of them all?  Why Victor Andriyovych of course! We must make sure you get re-elected!” continued Hryts, with contemptuous delight.  “We must save Ukraine from Tymoshenko, the wicked witch from Dnipropetrovsk!”

“Why Hrytsiu,” I exclaimed, “Was it not that long ago that you thought Yushchenko to be a hero of the Orange Revolution, a knight in shining armour who was going to rescue Ukraine from the oligarchs and Russian fellow travellers?”

“Bah!” he replied.  “I must have been drinking a bad batch of samohonka.  I should have known better than to trust a banker from Sumy.  It’s so close to the Russian border you know.  There must be something in the air there that affects one’s judgment.”

“So, does that mean you are now a supporter of Yulia Tymoshenko?” I asked.

“Better the kobita you know then the devil you don’t” he replied.  Besides, she reminds me of Yevdokia when she was younger, and you know she’s the one who made me what I am today.  If it wasn’t for her, I’d be like Tolik, the town drunk, who spends half his time sleeping in the ditch.  If Yevdokia can make me the successful pan of his own zamok (Lord of the Castle), maybe Yulia can make this country into the successful and prosperous country it deserves to be.”

“Amen to that!” I replied.

“And one more thing, “he continued, “If you get close enough to Yushchenko when he is in Canada, would you do one thing for me, please?”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“Tell him Hryts from Pidkamin will not be voting for him in the next election!”