The Twenty-first

/, Literature, Blesok no. 75/The Twenty-first

The Twenty-first

She moved away, turned her back on them and, staring in the distance, fretfully arranging her hair on the nape with the one hand, once again started cooling herself with the straw hat in the other.
– Let me tell you… – the railwayman puffed out some smoke from the cigarette and with a tone of someone enjoying the hyped-up conversation added – They’re great. They shoot at you some, and then you shoot at them. That’s what my son says. And, unlike you, he doesn’t shoot with that… joyous stick.
– That’s your fault. You should’ve got him a computer on time – curtly snapped Gordan.
The woman stopped fanning and, still standing with her back turned, started eavesdropping on their conversation again.
– What the hell is my son to do with a compactor? He doesn’t have the time to fiddle about. His Daddy doesn’t have his own company. Just his pension and his distillation pot.
– A computer, Kiro, to surf the Net. To let loose a bit. For a change of scenery. To escape this place for a while since he can’t split for real. Not to wait in ambush and drink and cuss like a sailor on shore leave.
– Go ahead, spew your bile. That’s all you know. You work on compuctors and have no manners to save your life.

32.
In the operative work he was diligently doing with his unit, Lieutenant Hugh W. Ellisor was trying to be outstanding, but never stand out. That was Rule Number Two:
‘Anywhere in the field,’ his father instructed him, ‘from Korea, Vietnam and Latin America, all the way to the Balkans, those who stand out are the first to get hit by local sharpshooters.’
Rule Number Three: when on such unsafe territory, be careful, be on your toes as if you’re under attack. Seemingly relaxed situations could be most misleading there.
Rule Number One: the good soldier’s ideal is not to die in the battlefield, but in bed, as Wyatt Earp.
And it worked.
Everyday he’d chat on the Internet with his father until he wrote him an email from Washington to tell him that his ‘the results from his latest check-up are not all that great’. Lieutenant Hugh W. Ellisor knew that this euphemist phrase might be hiding a new problem for his father and their little family. His tour in Bosnia and Herzegovina finished very soon, but not soon enough. While he was in the Balkans, his father died at the cancer ward of the grand Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.
The last message Hugh got from him was: ‘Mission accomplished. Rule Number One – observed.’
Soon Hugh returned to Washington in the empty apartment in which his father and mother had lived all their lives – but his mother, left all alone, refused to stay in that place any longer, or in Washington.

33.
The hot summer wind on the roofed platform of the long plateau of the train station in Skopje, dominating over the city and stretching in the distance, stopped. The heat became unbearable. Seldom rumblings were heard from afar. The woman with the straw hat in her hand turned to Gordan.
– You may be right, young man – she said calmly – I don’t know anything anymore. I used to know everything. Now I get nothing. I’ve been retired for fifteen years. Early retirement. Back in the day I was advocating the idea of independence, but before the time was ripe. I was taken in for questioning by the communist police. I nearly ended up in prison. Soon I was served the notice of early retirement. Had I waited five more years, I would’ve retired as a public servant in the Ministry of Education, not a mere teacher. Everything should come in its own time. Sooner or later is no good.
– Despite the fact that everything here sucks all the time – Kiril interjected.
– If you hadn’t liked it, you should’ve gone away. Why haven’t you left by now? – Gordan asked.
– Like you now? – wondered the teacher.
– Like me now. I could barely get the visas. With a lot of money and a lot of strings pulled. At least back then you didn’t need visas.
– It’s never too late, young man. I just might leave.
– You also just might not have the chance, madam – Gordan said – Where are you headed?
– Visiting close ones.
– Someone close or somewhere close? – the railwayman asked meanly.
– That’s enough. You mind your own business – she replied callously.
– What’s the hell is the matter with all of you? All you talk about is leaving. Does anyone intend to stay here, huh? – Kiril asked, with a low tone of voice, for the first time, and out of honest conviction.
No one answered. The three of them kept silent for a long time. The sound of a scrappy choir of cicadas was coming from somewhere.
– What does your father do? – Kiro finally spoke.
– PTE – listlessly replied Gordan.
– What?! – Kiro stretched his neck out like turtle.
– A Private Trade Enterprise. He’s swindling, just like everybody else these days.
– The likes of him created all this mess! – Kiril said with a serious tone.
– He’s like you. He says he’s staying – replied Gordan looking at the old man – You do what you want, he says. I’m not moving an inch, it took my blood, sweat and tears to get this little place, I’m not letting anyone take it. And you can take a hike if you will.
– Your father has a shop? – the teacher asked.
– Yes. A grocery store, sixteen by ten.
– He doesn’t want to leave the store! Your father doesn’t give a damn about this country, all he cares are his shelves. That’s why he wants to stay – once again interjected Kiro’s abrasive voice – In the near future, when everyone else leaves, only shopkeepers will stay. This won’t be a country, but a chamber of commerce.

2018-08-21T17:22:53+00:00 December 21st, 2010|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 75|0 Comments