Miroslav Penkov - East of the West

“John,” I say, “there is a leech the size of a five-year-old Gypsy’s dick on your neck.”

“God damn it, Michael, not again,” he says. Then he leans backward and stretches his neck to allow me easier access.

V.

“The news that Crazy Ali is coming to take her away reaches my great-grandmother as she is washing clothes in the river. Panic seizes all other girls, but great-grandmother never loses her calm. She wrings out a shirt and washes another.

“ ‘I have no time to be frightened,’ she tells them. ‘Work waits for no one.’

“A bright moon blooms in the sky. Ali Ibrahim and the hundred soldiers stop before the wooden gates. Ali dismounts, takes out his yataghan, and knocks three times with the ivory handle.

“ ‘I have come for your daughter,’ he tells the man who opens the gate. He brings his sword to the man’s face, and on the tip of the blade hangs the black imperial feredje . ‘Go veil her face and bring her here. We have much road ahead and time is short.’

“The man takes the kerchief and walks to the cattle shed where the most beautiful of all women is milking the cows. He hands her the black cloth, which flickers like a wounded pigeon in his trembling hand.

“My great-grandmother narrows her eyes, takes the kerchief, and throws it in the dirt. She then finishes milking a cow and jumps on the only horse in the shed.

“ ‘ Az litse si ne zabulyam,’ she says: ‘I shall never veil my face.’ She whispers something to the horse and grabs him by the mane.

“People say that right then a great storm rose from the west, and that when my great-grandmother vaulted over the yard walls, over Ali and his soldiers in a cloud of dust with her long hair flowing, her beauty was astounding.

“For a long time Ali stands in disbelief. His face is calm except his right eyebrow, which twitches every now and then. He mounts his horse and puts the yataghan in the sheath.

“ ‘Bring me the feredje,’ he says. And when the soldiers bring him the black kerchief from the cattle shed, he commands them, ‘Chop all heads if you have to, but when I come back I want to hear a hodja chanting in the name of Allah.’

“Then at an even trot he makes after the cloud of dust that my great-grandmother has left behind.”

We’re on the bed again. It’s raining, like never. Even on the way back from the lake, clouds were already lining the sky in thick chunks. We stopped at Dairy Queen and I bought Elli a milk shake. I bought one for John Martin. “You asshole,” he said. “You know I can’t have milk.” But he drank it in gluttonous gulps. We had to stop at gas stations twice before we reached home and once we were in the driveway, John Martin sprinted out to the bathroom with the truck’s engine still running. Involuntarily he granted me the honor of parking under the shed. After he was finished, forty minutes later, pale and sweaty, he went out in the rain to make sure I’d turned the headlights off and straightened the tires. Which I had forgotten to do.

Now on the bed Elli throws a final glance at her cell phone. She’s already texted her mother and gotten her hugs and kisses.

“Keep talking, taté,” she says at last. “What happens next? Does Ali Ibrahim catch her?”

•

“For two days my great-grandmother rides without any rest and for two days Ali Ibrahim follows in her steps. Like a hound he goes after her scent, shortening the distance that stands between them. As he gets closer, as the smell of lilies gets stronger, his heart beats faster, his throat gets drier, and his palms sweat more and more on the handle of the yataghan. With every step the air feels thicker. To Ali Ibrahim it seems as if he were making his way through a rushing stream.

“On the third day, my great-grandmother understands that she cannot outrun the janissary, so she decides to defeat him with her beauty. She sits on a rock in the middle of a river, and this is where he finds her, combing her hair with her fingers.

“ ‘So you are Ali Ibrahim,’ she says without looking. ‘Crazy Ali — the one who sacrifices his own in the name of a fake god.’

“Ali stands on the bank and his fingers rub the ivory handle of the sword.

“ ‘Well, Ali,’ she says, ‘don’t stand there like that. Come help me braid my hair.’ He takes out the sword and lowers it so when he walks through the slow river, the blade scrapes the stones on the bottom. My great-grandmother is still combing her hair, not yet looking at Ali, whose face is as calm as before, although his right eyebrow has started twitching again. He stops in front of her and takes a tress of black hair in his hand. He is ready to cut it, but just then my great-grandmother looks up and her eyes rest upon his face.

“Ali’s hand goes numb and he drops the sword. He takes a step back, stumbles on a stone, and falls on his back in the river. My great-grandmother starts laughing while Ali, lying in the stream, watches her.

“ ‘You are not the first man who fell before me,’ she tells him, ‘and you will not be the last. But you are, by far, the most handsome one I’ve seen.’

“Ali says nothing. He stares at her and licks his lips.

“ ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asks lightly. ‘If I didn’t know you were Ali Ibrahim, I’d think you were frightened of something.’

“Ali Ibrahim finally manages to rise and get a grip on his yataghan.

“ ‘Stand up,’ he tells her. ‘I’m taking you to the sultan.’

“My great-grandmother laughs again and tosses back her hair. She will never let him take her to Istanbul, but she knows it’s pointless to show resistance now. She’ll obey him until her moment comes.

“ ‘All right, then,’ she says. ‘Take me. But I can’t appear before His Greatness like this. You must help me braid.’

“When he touches the dark hair, a shiver runs through his body. He starts braiding slowly, with skill never forgotten.”

•

“They ride together side by side. Every time the horses step on a broader road, my great-grandmother starts singing. She lets her voice rise high in hopes that it will attract the attention of someone who can help her. For three days they don’t meet a soul, and for three days Ali Ibrahim doesn’t utter a word.

“ ‘Is it possible,’ my great-grandmother wonders, ‘that my beauty has no power upon him?’ Every now and then she sprints a few feet forward so her raven braids sway, so Ali could watch her.

“He stays unchanged on the outside. He rides tall on his horse, proud and fierce as always. But on the inside pyres burn him, tempests devastate him and he is weak — just the way a man should feel when he has fallen for the most beautiful woman in the world.

“On the fourth night, they find a glade amid the thick pine woods and stop there to wait for sunrise. Ali gathers dry twigs and builds a fire. The twigs crackle in the darkness and my great-grandmother shivers.

“Ali speaks at last. ‘Eat,’ he says, and hands her a piece of meat he has roasted on the flames.

“ ‘I don’t eat meat,’ my great-grandmother tells him, even though she is starving. ‘I eat only white bread and honey. I drink fresh milk.’

“They sit quiet for a long time, the blazing fire like a living wall between them. Ali watches her — lips, nose, eyes. She also watches. His dark gaze fills her with fear and coldness, and with something she has never felt before. And she hates him.

“ ‘Tell me, Ali,’ she says, and holds a tress of her hair, ‘why should hands that can touch so gently bring so much death and pain?’

“ ‘This is God’s way,’ he tells her. ‘Even the whitest shirt has a bit of gray in it. Even the darkest night conceals something shining in its gown.’