Vodka and rows at a funeral to savour

Street Life SAMOTECHNY LANE

I HAVE attended at least four weddings in Russia, including my own.

Recently, I went to my first Russian funeral and it was not the grim experience I had imagined. It was very sad, of course. My friend Vitaly's hospitable father, Mikhail Matveyev, had died of cancer, as he had been prepared to do, since he was unable to give up the evil Belomor Canal papirosi that are the Russian equivalent of Woodbines.

There would be no more trips out to his dacha - no more jolly sessions digging up new potatoes with hankies on our heads; no more autumns in the apple orchard; no more drunken evenings recallingthe fine wines of the Brezhnev era; no more nights star- gazing from the veranda. He died in pain and his death was painful to those who loved him. Yet, his funeral was not the bleak and awkward affair I have seen too often in Britain.

Death is a part of life to the Russians, not a taboo, and the mourners were not embarrassed to laugh a little as well as to cry freely. Perhaps the fact that Russians, unless they are very rich, get a limited service from undertakers explains their ability to look death in the face. In the case of the Matveyevs, Ritual, the Russian funeral service, provided the coffin and the bus to take it to the cemetery but Vitaly's sister, Natasha, had to lay out her father in the family home in Kolomna. Older relatives were on hand to give advice about all the traditions. The curtains were drawn, of course, but Aunt Nina said the carpets should also be rolled back and a lock placed under the coffin. Why, she did not know, but that was the way it has always been.

Coins closed the dead man's eyes and a glass of vodka with a slice of bread laid on top was placed next to the open coffin. The family could have had a chitalka or reader to sit up all night reading Psalms while relatives kept vigil. But Vitaly and Natasha thought their father, who was not fanatically religious, would have begrudged the expense. Instead, they paid a small fee to have their father's name mentioned during a general memorial service in the local Orthodox church. The priest insisted on seeing the death certificate to be sure he was not being tricked into remembering a living person, which is a black magic practice. Ritual had warned Vitaly and Natasha not to buy wreaths from street traders, as it said they were often stolen from graves. But after paying for the coffin and bus, they had to economise on flowers, so they bought on the street anyway. The wreath frames were indeed old but fresh flowers had been put in. "Dad would just have thought it was funny," said Vitaly.

The burial took place in Kolomna's New Cemetery. The dead man's sister- in-law, Aunt Vera, decreed that he had forfeited the right to lie with his wife in the Old Cemetery because he had had other women since she died 15 years ago. Therefore, Aunt Vera herself would take the place with her sister when her time came. He would have just laughed at that as well. After the burial, the family had a wake at home. Dozens of neighbours crammed into the three-room flat to drink vodka and eat salads. An alcoholic, who had seen the coffin being taken out and knew there would be free drink later, gate-crashed. Uncle Yura got into a fight with him and in the end Aunt Vera, strict as ever, threw out them both.

Two more parties, though quieter, would be held on the ninth and 40th days after the death. Russians believe that on the 40th day, the soul finally leaves the places to which the person was attached in life. After the funeral, the family sat around discussing death. "It's very shocking to see the person you have loved become a lifeless doll," said Vitaly. "But the body of my dad was so unlike my dad himself that I concluded he simply wasn't there. And if he wasn't there, then he must have gone to another place. In a way I am happy now. My father's sufferings are over and I know that he is free."

Helen Womack