Miroslav Penkov - Stork Mountain

Handsome he is , they whispered. And wealthy. He’d take her away from this mountain. Across the sea, to a new world. How they hated me and loved me in equal measure. How they envied Elif, wringing a vinegar kerchief, spreading it gently across my forehead. How they wished it was their fingers that caressed my temples, their old bodies that nestled, like serpents, beside me.

No, they were not young women. They’d lived for sixty, seventy years. They’d borne children who in turn had borne children of their own. Not once had they stood up to their husbands; not once had they done what they’d wished to. Now here was a girl who did as she wanted. How dared she expect bliss and freedom while an endless rope of women before her had received only ache and hardship? They too arose, these long-dead women, envious, outraged, indignant. At our gates they joined their living daughters. We curse them , they said of me and of Elif. And where they’d lain the earth gaped hollow. Their husbands groped the void and bellowed, Where have our females gone? In no time they too were digging; they too were sprouting like rhododendrons. A multitude of long-expired men had joined their long-expired women.

I saw them where they hung, in the yard, on my window. I heard them crying. They demanded nothing unfair. Only that the primordial order of human suffering be followed for me and for Elif as it had been for them.

Lower the curtains, I pleaded with her. Chase them away, I begged of Grandpa.

It’s just Baba Mina, they told me. Bringing you thyme tea. It’s just pills, not dry bones. Just turbines, not a skeleton army. Yet at the time, such corporeal matters escaped me.

Like the feverish turbine construction under way now that I’d signed my permission. Or like Elif, sneaking to see Aysha. Their father at the mosque, and their mother rushing Elif in, hoping the hag across the street wouldn’t catch them. Breaking a bar of chocolate into little pieces, brewing tea, and the three of them chatting, down on the floor, forgetting their troubles, palms on their lips, laughing. Then the imam storming in, for the hag had not been outsmarted. His boot kicking the teacups, chipping the saucers, hot tea spilling on the Persian carpet. Aysha crying, but not Elif and not her mother. For men like the imam a woman’s tears were like acacia honey. Or so Elif’s grandmother had once told her. No honey , kazam , and the drone grows hungry. Don’t feed him, then, my darling, but learn instead to make him starve.

JULY WAS SLIPPING INTO AUGUST. Up the slopes of the Strandja the grass was turning yellow, the leaves of the oak trees a duller green. Dry winds gusted through the streets, chased palls of dust from the construction, chapped our lips. Orphaned storks spun long, tired wheels overhead, restless it seemed to head back south. It hadn’t rained in weeks and one day, far across the hills, we recognized the black snakes of smoke twisting against the cloudless blue — the brush had caught on fire.

My fever had lasted for a week. A few more days passed in weakness and I was cured. Stronger than a bull, cleverer than a fox. Thyme tea and walnut kernels had done the trick. And the antibiotics.

Grandpa and I were getting along well. It seemed like he’d forgiven me for signing the papers, and I in turn forgave him for selling my land, for feeding me nothing but lies. There were still things that needed clarification, but I wasn’t eager to unearth them just yet. As before, he spent his days out on the terrace, smoking, though now he played backgammon with Elif. He never went to the construction site and he rarely looked up at the sky. He was ashamed, I knew that much.

Elif and I too got along well. She’d forgiven me for tossing the money at her in such a lowly fashion and I’d forgiven her— Dear God. What use was it to keep composing lists, to keep on naming our transgressions and crossing them out one by one? We’d made mistakes and then had been forgiven. We ourselves forgave.

In my delirium, I’d worked out a plan, which even after I got better sounded persuasive. I wanted to marry Elif officially in August. Then take her to the States. A different culture, a new language — it wouldn’t be easy. But I’d pay off my student loans, find a basic job, teach Elif English. And once we’d saved up enough money, we’d hit the road toward a brave new future.

Each time we found ourselves alone, I tried to tell her of my plan. And each time, I swallowed my tongue in fear. Was I afraid she’d say no or did I fear the plan was hogwash? Even this I was scared to consider.

* * *

It was July 28, I won’t forget. We took the bus to Burgas and marched straight to the courthouse. We waited in line, made it to the clerk, witnessed the glass slide in our faces, the lunch break sign flip over. We waited another hour just to be informed Elif’s request to change her name had not been reviewed yet.

This was, the clerk assured us, no picnic. It took time for the court to view all cases. “Learn patience, children,” she said. “It’s a heavenly virtue.”

I knew that Elif wanted to change her name officially before we got married. But I couldn’t wait that long. So when on our way to the station she slipped into a drugstore, I waited by the door and tried to muster some courage.

A brave new world, I kept repeating. Freedom. Possibility. America.

“They were out,” Elif barked, flying out of the store, and I was forced to chase her up the street to another. I asked her what she was after.

“Damn it, American,” she said, not even turning. “Can’t you leave me be for just a minute?”

I could see that the court’s tardiness had upset her. But was I bothering her that much really? We checked three more drugstores before at last she stepped out of the fourth one clutching a paper bag.

I asked if she was hungry. “A Big Mac and fries? A large milkshake?”

“Please stop!” she said. “Please, please. Just stop.”

In an instant her face had lost all color. Her eyes scurried deeper into their sockets, like frightened animals into their burrows. Even the smell her body exuded turned instantaneously sour. I was that close and I sensed it. A stream of people shuffled around us on the sidewalk. Some were watching, but I didn’t care.

“What’s wrong?” I said. I took her hand, fearful she might run away, glad she hadn’t. For a long time, she kept her eyes on the pavement. Some cobblestones beneath our feet were loose and vibrated. Someone bumped into me, into her; the crowd tossed us about like a river.

“I’m late,” she said.

At first I thought I had misheard her. I asked her to repeat and she repeated.

How late? I asked. Two weeks. No. A little over. But it had happened before — a few years back, when, to punish her father, she’d refused to eat a bite. She’d been late then, skipped two entire cycles.

We’d slipped around a corner where the sidewalk was strangely vacant. But now the sun was beating down on us, poking me in the eyes, making it really difficult to focus.

Could it be stress? I wanted to ask. Being chased out of her home, not seeing Aysha? Could it be because of my sickness?

And how? We had used protection!

Instead, I must have kept silent.

“Say something,” she begged me, no longer angry sounding.

The sun was blinding, poking, irritating. I pulled her out of its reach, under the shade of a linden tree. I cupped her hand in mine and kissed the tips of her fingers.

From the drugstore Elif had bought a pregnancy test. She’d planned to use it in the toilet at the station, in secret.

“We’ll do the test,” I told her, and took the small bag. “But home, in Klisura.”