by Gennady Rochshupkin
HIV Program Coordinator 
AIDS infoshare russia

This was written especially for the international day of remembrance of those who have died from AIDS, May 21, 1995.

I knew him for several years. Of course, I understood that he would die-- and that his death would not be caused by old age.

And then he died...

"We have a new one." This was announced by a friend in the AIDS clinic in the Sokolniki region (located in Infectious Disease Hospital #2). I clearly remember the words which were my introduction to A. When I glanced into his room, I had the impression that I was looking at a large cat. There was an air of satisfaction about him as he lay sprawled in the hospital bed. One of his legs was bent at the knee, and the second extended so far that it was hanging off the edge. Although he appeared to be reading, he took in everything happening around him and everyone in the area. He knew he was handsome- this was clearly stated by the style of his hair, his neat moustache, his calm eyes and impeccable yellow running suit. When he sensed my presence, he readied himself for a compliment or another sign of attention.

In 1994, A., together with his boyfriend and their dog, took a long-awaited vacation to a resort in Yalta. They spent a long time carefully packing and taking care of other details, such as agreeing with a neighbor to water their houseplants. A. was the pedantic, accurate one, while V. was the domestic half of the pair. Their home was an example for everyone.

When they returned, I had the feeling that they carried a heavy secret with them- their apartment took on a heavy, serious atmosphere. It was if they were waiting for something- something bad.

Somehow at the end of the year I found out what had been occupying their their thoughts. It turned out that, left alone one day, the dog had eaten the purse which contained all of their savings. V. explained to me, "Can you imagine, she ate all of the money that we had saved for A.'s funeral."

V. told me that A. was in quite a bit of pain, and that he had become introverted and reticent.

When I entered the hospital room which contained A. and another couple of patients, he was surprised (there was a surprise). All of the windows had been covered with blankets, so that the room seemed to be in twilight. A. was dozing. I tried to see the details of his face in the half-light. I do not know what I wanted to see, to find, to discover. Maybe I expected to see pain... A.'s face was calm and seemed to be a dark shade of grey. ???? That was all. I could not believe that he would soon die, as everyone was saying. V. wanted to take him home, as the doctor was saying that there was nothing else that could be done for him, that now all that he needed was relief from the incessant pain.

A. opened his eyes and smiled. We chatted a little. He explained that the blankets were hung over the windows because the room was very cold. There were wide spaces between the glass and the window frames. There was a strong draft. I left juice and cigarettes for him and left.

A and V. loved each other. V. is large and muscular, with lively eyes and a thick reddish moustache. He can do or make anything with his large, meaty hands. A. was tall and slender. V. loves to talk, even to gossip every once in awhile. A. was quite more often than not. When he spoke, it was in a very quiet, calm voice. I never saw them kiss one another. They kept everything that is commonly referred to as one's "private life" to themselves. I guess that they are just ordinary people who just happen to be close and important to me. They were more important to me than the friends that I saw all of the time.

V. ran from pharmacy to pharmacy, inquired of all of his friends, did not sleep at night, and sometimes cried quietly to himself-- because A. constantly needed hard-to-obtain narcotics (the regular pain killers had long ago stopped working for him), fruit, and other necessities. Most often of all, however, he asked that V. just sit with him quietly. ???? As V. tells it, he just wanted the end to come as soon as possible and for the pain to stop.

In his last days, no one touched A. Friends arrived at the home of A. and V. Everybody waited. Everybody waited for the pain to end.

...I called V. in the evening, about 10:00. We needed to agree on a time and a place to meet the next day. As always, I cheerfully asked how he was. And he answered. "A. died."

Within a couple of hours I was sitting in his home. In the kitchen. Two other friends were there, as well. V. told us how A.. had died. He was telling the story already for the third or fourth time and crying, crying... He cried hysterically, occasionally sighing deeply in order to catch his breath and wipe away his tears. He gave a detailed account of the previous night. He spoke of how the dog had suddenly jumped up and began licking A.'s hand. And how, just as suddenly, she ran out of the room, into the kitchen- and would not come out. He told us that in the last few days, A. had become completely blind. How, just before the end, A. began speaking again. How convulsions had shaken his body. How his body had turned yellow and stiff, how his head and legs hung off the couch...

Memory is a strange thing. A. was simply my friend-- I was happy when he was happy, and I felt pain when he suffered. It is the job of a higher power to decide the fate of everyone. I was just a person- A.'s friend.

Someone told me that because A. was homosexual, he sinned his whole life- in his actions and his thoughts. In my opinion, A. learned to love. He was able to love, he loved and he loves...