* * *
The three men lost all desire to collect mushrooms. They picked only those that appeared in front of them as they slowly descended. From below they heard a few more shots, several times they heard the barking of the hunting dogs, and then silence fell again on the hill.
“They killed it”. Said Moustache, in a voice as if a calamity had befallen him.
“Let’s go back while it’s early,” said Owner. “It’s midday already. First we’ll have to go to the village, to see about tools and glue. If we can’t find any there, we’ll have to walk to the road and stop a car, and that’ll certainly take us three or four hours.”
“I don’t trust these people,” said Beard.
“One of those huntsmen must be the woman’s husband,” said Moustache.
Then they realised that they hadn’t talked about the woman at all. They had seen her only briefly, when she opened the gate to them. Then she had turned and gone into the house without a word.
“The village woman was beautiful,” said Moustache.
“The hell she was,” said Beard.
“She was in mourning,” said Owner. “Someone must have died.”
* * *
A woman met them in the yard, but not the same one. Or if it was, she wasn’t in black now.
“You didn’t pick many,” she said when she peered into their baskets. “Up there” — she pointed to the hill — “there are a lot of mushrooms.”
“It’s enough for us,” said Beard, looking into the basket, which wasn’t even half full, and knowing it wasn’t enough.
“You don’t ask much,” said the woman, smiling. The gleam of white teeth enhanced the beautiful face.
Is she the same one as this morning, the three men wondered.
“How long does it take to walk to the village?” asked Owner.
“An hour here, an hour back,” said the woman. “Let’s go then,” Owner said to the other two, unlocking the car and putting the basket inside. “Where are you going?” asked the woman. “To the village,” said Owner. “And can we see anybody there about glue and tools? Of course we’ll pay for the service.”
“Tools and glue for tyre,” said the woman. “You don’t have to go to the village. I’ll give them to you,
They looked at her open-mouthed as she went into the house and came out with the tools, glue and a pump.
“Is this what you need?” she asked.
“That’s it,” replied Owner.
They glued the tyre in a second.
“Take the tools with you and leave them in the village shop,” said the woman.
“They’re not yours?” asked Moustache.
“No,” said the woman. “I went to the village and got them from the shopkeeper.
So that’s it, the three men thought. Wanting them to leave as soon as possible, she’d done them a great favour.
They were getting ready to go, when the woman told them.
“Wash your hands.”
She went to the well, lowered the bucket and drew water.
“She’s right,” said Owner, looking at his hands.
The woman gave them soap, poured water for them, and brought a towel. Then she said.
“It’s a holiday today. Holy Cross Day.”
When the three looked at her she continued.
“How about a glass of rakija?”
“A glass of rakija?” Beard repeated in wonder.
“Why not?” said Moustache.
“All right,” said Owner.
None of the four budged. Finally the woman said.
“Go into the house. I’ll close the gate.”
And she went to close the gate. They were entering the house when the woman called. “Hey! Come here.”
The three men turned and went towards the gate. The woman was holding something gray, and that gray thing was wriggling.
“A rabbit,” said the woman. “A wounded rabbit by the gate. What can it mean?”
Then the rabbit collapsed and expired. “It’s dead,” said the woman in fear, dropping it.
* * *
They entered a spacious, clean room full of the smell of roast meat. They sat at the table. The woman poured them each some rakija. Then she made a salad of freshly picked tomatoes and green peppers. Then she poured them each another rakija. Since they hadn’t toasted each other the first time, they did so now. But just in two or three empty words, and when they clinked glasses they did so cautiously, as if they were frightened of breaking them.
“So that’s what happened to the rabbit,” said the woman, when they had recounted the incident to each other and to her.
“Yes,” said Owner, adding, “Come on, it’s time to go. Thanks for your help and for the rakija.” Nobody moved. “I’ll have another one,” said Moustache.
“Do have another one,” repeated the woman. “And you have another,” she said to the other two. “I mustn’t,” said Owner. “I’m driving.” Beard accepted. Then the woman said.
“It’s Holy Cross Day today. My husband’s name-day. His name’s Krste.”
“Here’s to his name,” said Moustache, raising his glass.
Beard said the same thing.
Then Owner said it.
“But he’s dead,” said the woman.
“Dead?” Moustache was surprised.
The other two men were also surprised.
“Was he young?” asked Owner.
“Young,” said the woman. “If he hadn’t died two years ago, he would have been thirty-seven now.”
“Thirty-seven,” said Beard. “Was he ill?”
“Ill,” said the woman, “no. He was killed. He was injured in a hunt, up on this hill.”
“Oh,” said Owner. “Up on the hill.”
“Up on the hill,” said the woman. “But he died at home, on the doorstep. He died in my arms.”
“Like the rabbit”. This slipped from Moustache and he bit his tongue.
“Like the rabbit,” answered the woman, and the others kept quiet, because the comparison didn’t seem proper to them.
The woman stood up and they still said nothing. She opened the oven in the range and said.
“The chicken’s done. We must have lunch.”
“We must have lunch?” Car-owner repeated, wondering. “But we can’t.”
“Why not have lunch?” asked Moustache. “How can we say no to this woman?”
He looked at Beard. Beard said nothing and poured himself some rakija.
“That’s right,” said the woman, closing the oven and putting some logs in the range. “Why not have lunch?”
“But we can’t just like that,” said Owner, embarrassed. “We don’t even know each other.
“I killed the chicken this morning,” said the woman. “I thought you’d be hungry when you came.”
“Nobody has ever cared whether I was hungry,” said Moustache. “So I’ll stay and have lunch.”
“Don’t be childish,” said Owner, standing up. “I have to take you back to where I picked you up.”
“He said he’d have lunch,” said the woman. “Let him have his way.”
“Not me,” said Owner. “My wife and children are waiting for me at home. It’s Sunday today, Holy Cross Day.”
“I won’t either,” said Beard, pouring himself another rakija and beginning to stumble over his words.
“Then what shall I do with the chicken?” asked the woman. “It must weigh four kilos, the meat alone.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Beard. “There’s no chicken like that.”
The woman opened the oven and took out the earthenware pot. The chicken had turned brown, bathed in thick aromatic gravy. The stomachs of the three men began to rumble.
“We’re going,” said Owner determinedly, looking into the pot.
“Let me finish this rakija,” said Beard, who had poured another glass and was already quite tipsy.
“I’m not going,” said Moustache.
“Exactly,” said the woman. “He’s not going. I’ve got wine, too.”
“We’re leaving!” Owner said, angrily this time, and he got up.
“Without him,” the woman confirmed.
The two men went out. By the gate, swaying. Beard stopped, and said.
“Let’s shake hands with the woman.”
They shook hands with the woman. She picked up the rabbit and gave it to them.
“What shall we do with it?” said Owner, taking it.
“It’ll make a beautiful meal,” said the woman. “It must weigh four kilos, the meat alone.”
Owner raised it a little, as if weighing it. Beard said.
“And you, can you two eat the whole chicken alone?”
“We’ll eat it all,” said the woman in a confident tone.
“They’ll eat it all,” said Owner, pushing Beard, who was stumbling.
“We’ll eat it all,” cried Moustache from the house, but they can’t have heard him because the engine began to hum, they were leaving, and the woman closed the gate behind them.
Translated by: Milena Mitrovska and Michael Black