"In Bosnia, they use mouse-shit as a diuretic", he said, a cigar hanging from his lip, his overly big suite hanging from his body. "But Sergei -" "Nobody buts me - except the women in my bedroom, when I am in the mood for a strap-on" Here, he smacked the girl's bum. There was an eerie silence.
"Your move" - the card game continued, black spades mingling with red hearts. There were three rules at Sergei Sergievesky's Sunday night gatherings: 1. Never question his word 2. Never be a Republican 3. Always play cards.

He was not seen much around the building during other days of the week, or the weekend, but sometime screams could be heard emanating from his apartment. Some said those were the sounds of his sexual proclivities, that his desires extended to men and women, whips and chains. Others said that he was a member of the Russian mafia, and he used that chamber to torture and kill informers. Of course, Sergei was mostly Bosnian, but there were a few days when we caught him being Russian as well. When asked about the discrepancy, he replied, "What, can't a Bosnian visit Russia now and again?", and as ever, the card game carried on.

There was one week however, when I showed up, only to find the door opened by a petite woman in her forties, her hair covered in a flowery kercheif. "Hello." she said, "I guess you didn't get my letter." "What letter?" "On Monday, at 12:55 PM Shmuel killed himself." Her voice sounded dry, like desert winds howling into sand. "Shmuel?" "You called him Sergei, I believe." There was a moment of silence. I could not find the right sylables - they all seemed empty, somehow. "He was very grateful to have you in his life. All his Manhattan friends - those Sundays were the highlight of his week. He would talk about it all the time." I nodded. "We should have noticed - my husband and I - but - everything was so normal. He would come home from work, and start planning the menu for his Sunday card games. Maybe that wasn't normal. But we figured - I figured, he is just excited to see his friends. A young boy in his twenties, what's wrong with that?" She shook her head, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. "You were just friends weren't you?" she asked gently, "I mean...he was never married." "I have no valid evidence that your son was not straight", I said firmly, deciding that mere rumors were not a reason to add to a woman's tears. She smiled. "But you have no valid evidence he was straight either?" I shook my head. She sighed. "I had to come here to say goodbye. I don't expect to come back. The apartment was my brother's - Shmuley was looking after it, but with him gone...I haven't the strength now." I nodded. I considered saying, "I am sorry for your loss", or "Shmuley was a great friend", but even in my head, those words sounded corny, and I had never really known Shmuley - I had known Sergey, the Bosnian gangster who liked Glenlivet. (Well, that should have been a clue to his real identity...)

"Would you like to - take something - to - remember my son by - please?" The words were croaked more than said. So I scampered around the studio, trying not to feel uncomfortable about rifling through the posessions of a corpse while his mother stood and watched. I found a picture of someone- a girlfriend I suppose - with her hands clasped in Sergei's, only he was wearing a normal-fitting suit and a yarmulka. As I stared at the photo, I realized how, despite having spent hours with this man every Sunday, there was so much about him I still didn't know - that I never would know now.

I showed the photo to Sergei's mother. "Perhaps you would like it?" She laughed. "I never knew he had a girlfriend. His own mother...oh God, I have failed you". She started to sob, and I felt supremely awkward, but I knew she would notice if I tried to sneak out. After a moment, she gained control. "Let me have it for a moment, and then you can keep it." On the back she wrote, "Remember", and some words in Hebrew that I could not understand. "That says "Zachor", the Hebrew word for "Remember". It also says Shmuley's Hebrew name: Shmuel Zecharyah ben Avraham Yitzchak, and the Hebrew dates that he lived."

I did not have the heart to ask how he died, which weapon he used and where he perpetrated his crime. "Goodbye" I said, but she had started crying again and did not anwser.

We still have card-games on Sundays, sometimes. When we do, I make sure to keep Sergei's picture by the Glenlivet, out on the mantle. I still don't know his real last name - or his English first name, for that matter. We don't really discuss Sergei that much, because between who is sleeping with whom, and Republican-bashing, there is way too much to talk about. Once in a while however, someone in the group will randomly say, "In Bosnia, they use moust-shit as a diuretic", and the rest of us will burst out laughing.