The Union of Synchronised Swimmers

by Cristina Sandu

  That show was over, too, one of the two last drunkards leaving the tavern decided. He squinted his eyes; both the sun and the children’s silly excitement, completely indifferent to anything around them, weighed on him. Off you go, he yapped at the girls, frozen first in alarm, then in anger. The foot returned reluctantly to the sandal. And then came the final sentence, loud and simple: Don’t you have anything better to do, heh?

  LIDIA, THE NEAR SIDE OF THE RIVER

  When the villagers hear I’m back, they come to me with food and wine, linen and towels. Only Bird Breeder comes empty-handed.

  Even if my name hasn’t been Lidia for years, here they still call me that. Lidia, have you started plucking your eyebrows? You do know they might never grow back? Where’s your ring? Are you already forty, or older? Where were you when your parents died, Lidia?

  I eat huge slices of pie filled with whole cherries and drink a mug of wine. One of the old women starts doing my manicure: aniline red on the edges and faded pink in the middle.

  I answer their questions briefly and don’t hide my yawns. A few more hours until sunset. The women aren’t in a hurry, why would they be — so old already, they may as well wait for death here rather than at home. This is what they say as they make themselves comfortable in their chairs. Their curiosity is like their mouths: open, hungry, grotesque in their missing teeth.

  When Bird Breeder finally arrives, the women leave, sulkily but swiftly. Old cunts, he mumbles after them.

  He walks through the garden like he did years ago, without waiting to be invited. A faded shirt hangs from his thin, bent body. He sits next to me on the porch and nods a hello, as if the last time we met was yesterday. He doesn’t look me in the eyes or ask questions. His silence feels more poignant than the women’s inquisitiveness.

  I fetch him a mug which I fill with plum wine. My mother used to serve the wine. The cups are the same, as is the floral morning gown that I found in the closet.

  I can’t help staring when he drinks, holding the mug with both hands. The shaking is slight but it puts the hands in a state of continuous restlessness, as if they are trying to get somewhere. His fingernails are chipped.

  He has raised doves for as long as I can remember. The birds fly incredible journeys around the world and always find their way back. The villagers laugh at him for it, some gently and some disparagingly. Bird Breeder doesn’t care, he loves his doves, talks to them and trains them for competitions; he keeps them in a tall cage in his yard. But when people call his birds pigeons — then he intervenes. They are doves, not pigeons, he corrects them solemnly.

  We stay silent. I lose sense of time, whole years disappear, until I notice the veins on my hands. I can feel beneath us how the porch, with its skewed rail and its rotten stairs, is trying to hold on to the house.

  How are the doves? Do you still raise them? I ask.

  He shakes his head. He searches for the words for a long time. Then: I still have my doves, but I don’t compete anymore. The corners of his lips drop for a second, but when he continues his voice is full of pride: You know, before I quit, I won the first prize in the national dove competition. My birds were the best because I take good care of them. You know this, I crossbred them the proper way, gave them good food. After the competitions I would spoil them, he chuckles.

  Why did you stop competing then?

  The birds got old. It’s expensive to do the crossbreeding properly. Ah, who cares. I never had much money anyway, he says.

  I grab the wine bottle to refill his mug, but he lifts his arms to rebuff me and says: If you want, you can come and take a look at the beauties. He slurps the last bit of wine. Then he finally looks at me.

  We walk slowly towards his house. We cross a dry stream and pass an abandoned dairy. I’m still wearing flip-flops and the morning gown, under which I can feel my stomach sagging. My eat-well regime was interrupted by the women plying me with their pies.

  Bird Breeder walks strenuously, dragging his feet and breathing heavily. I hesitate to grab his arm — he would possibly find it humiliating. He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief he keeps tucked in his sleeve. He starts telling me about his new plan that will make him a rich man — rich and happy, he pants with a smile. He seems to be mumbling to himself, saying something about numbers and prices. A man made ten thousand a few years ago by putting up solar panels in his field, he says. Energy always sells, even during recessions.

  I imagine him in the field surrounded by solar panels, smiling, doves perched on his shoulders.

  They’re coming tomorrow to survey the property, Bird Breeder says.

  Who? I ask.

  Two men who are in the solar panel business. They need land.

  Perhaps sensing my doubts, he adds: They’re reliable guys. Young. Enthusiastic. They seem capable and they promised that everything will be in the contract. Everything will be done according to the rules.

  He stops to catch his breath before adding: They come from The Far Side of the River. Then he points behind his back, as if the other country began just there, and concludes: Like anything new that ever comes to this godforsaken place.

  I rub my eyes, which sting from yesterday’s mascara. On the airplane I put my makeup on long before landing. As I was using the mirror in the tiny toilet, my eyelashes asked me: Who for?

  We walk into the garden. Bird Breeder has always lived here, in a tiny house surrounded by dry land. There’s nothing on his property except the house, a bird cage, and some peach trees. A long time ago I would pick up the peaches before they rotted, and in return was allowed to stroke the birds. Their feathers felt oily and hid a cooing sound inside them.

  The wind clatters the door of the outside loo. Next to the house, a loose wire whips the air. Bird Breeder walks straight to the biggest tree and the murmuring cage under it. He hands me a jug, which I know I must fill at the well. The water is brown but fresh.

  A strong smell surrounds the cage. Bird Breeder is whispering to his pets, his face almost touching the bars with one palm on the floor, open invitingly. I give him the jug and he fills the troughs.

  Water splashes on my toes. I must know, immediately: How do they find their way home from so far?

  His eyes light up. He takes an excited breath, ready to discuss his favourite topic. Then he shrugs and sighs: I don’t know exactly. But it has something to do with magnetic fields. It’s a sure thing. It’s been studied a lot.

  He takes a plump bird from the cage and holds it right under his chin. The shaking hands don’t startle the bird. It darts its black eyes.

  They found poison, Bird Breeder states. In the groundwater of the river, in the gardens, inside the fish and the birds.

  I remember hearing, a long time ago, that farmers here started to do better thanks to a new pesticide which was supposed to be applied directly to the soil. Then dead fish started to emerge from the river, belly up, and the birds began to lose their feathers.

  But that was a long time ago, I say.

  Bird Breeder shakes his head. Things don’t disappear just like that, he says, and places the dove on my palm. I’m afraid of squeezing too hard. The bird thrashes about, eyes bulging with terror. I press it against the empty space of my chest. The dove stops moving. I suddenly have two breasts again.

  Bird Breeder takes the dove back, puts it inside the cage, and closes the door. He turns to look at his land, perhaps picturing it radiant with solar panels.

  The land surveyors are coming tomorrow, he says.

  That’s when it starts then, I say.

  The next day, I return to Bird Breeder’s house. First I see the white truck at the end of the muddy road. Bird Breeder is standing next to the field with two men from The Far Side of the River. They are wearing baseball caps. Their jeans are clear blue. Their teeth flash white when they laugh. One of them is tall and thin. The other one is short but broad-shouldered. T
hey nod and gesticulate a lot. They pat Bird Breeder on the back and hold his arms when he stumbles. When they notice me, all three wave eagerly.

  Bird Breeder comes to me and suggests I sit by the table under a hunched parasol.

  Have some iced tea, he says, nodding towards a metal jug.

  Thank you.

  He seems nervous and excited. Suddenly he remembers something and walks, mumbling, towards the house.

  Maybe because of the sun or the overly sweet tea, the feeling of having returned sweeps through me. My body, until now tense and alert, relaxes. I look at the field, which has always stayed the same, yet is now changing. The taller man is standing behind some sort of camera on top of a yellow stand. The shorter is holding a notebook and walking among the hay.

  I wish he would open my legs like he opens the hay. Soon he stuffs the notebook into his pocket. The other man lifts his face up from the machine. Time to eat! I help Bird Breeder set the table. The men have brought beer, which has been cooling in the well. The atmosphere is cheerful. We drink straight from the cans. Bird Breeder seems younger. He asks about the size, the function, and the resistance of the panels. He seems clueless, but the two men are friendly and give him detailed answers.

  Those panels, then, they suck the light in and turn it into electricity? he asks as he breaks bread.

  The taller man takes a sip of beer and bites into an onion. He chews quickly and replies: Exactly! So the solar panels work in a way that they transform the radiation of the sun directly into electrical energy.

  Unbelievable. Those thin boards, I say.

  Isn’t it? They’re becoming very common. Luckily we realised their value in time, the shorter one says, blinking at me.

  Indeed, who knows how long I’ll be around, Bird Breeder says and makes the men laugh.

  You youngsters are so capable, he adds. I can only wonder and try to follow. I’m too ancient for this.

  Oh no, not at all! the shorter one hastens to say, grinning. You were wise enough to get into it.

  Bird Breeder snorts in a way that shows he’s not used to compliments but enjoys them.

  And obviously any Peter the Peasant could thrust one panel up on his roof and have enough electricity to read lottery tickets, but with this space — the taller one says, making a big arc with his hand holding the beer can — one can have dozens of panels. That is quite something, I think.

  The shorter one nods approvingly. He cuts a tomato, spreads plenty of salt on the deep red halves, and adds: Maybe even one hundred.

  More eager nodding. Teeth bite into onion, bread, tomato. A bright curved cucumber appears on the table. A new beer can hisses open — the most wonderful sound in the world. I gave up drinking in the States but different rules apply here, even for me.

  The land surveyors are quiet for a while. Then the shorter one looks at me. Without saying a word, just letting his gaze move along my face, neck, and neckline. Suddenly I feel like laughing. Even if the gesture is vain, I bring my fingers to my hair.

  Maybe later we would meet, the land surveyor and I. Maybe when I walk away from Bird Breeder’s house, I would hear steps behind me. He wants a moment alone with me, hoping that I don’t mind, and he would say so without expecting a reply, and then, as if by accident, his fingers would brush my hip, linger there, climb my defective side. When I let the dress drop to the ground, he would see my nakedness — the scar like the scream of a bird on my skin — and then he would back off, disgusted.

  So, I clear my throat. I press my fingers against the cool can. This is probably a very silly question, I say apologetically — but the men warmly encourage me to continue. How can one calculate the earnings from the panels? I mean, how can one tell how much energy they produce? Do they all have some kind of a meter or something?

  The pals exchange gazes.

  It’s all in the contract, I suppose?

  I turn to Bird Breeder, from whom I expect interest or at least some kind of survival instinct, but he’s focused on dipping a slice of cucumber in the salt.

  Finally the taller one says: An excellent question from Miss America! He swings his hand towards me, like a talk show host. His watch, a sturdy piece of silver, glints.

  The shorter one smiles, relieved, and lets his friend explain how they would keep track of the panels directly from a reader in their office, in The Far Side of the River.

  Bird Breeder says with earnest assurance: Everything is in the contract.

  I open my mouth to ask something else, but Bird Breeder is now staring at me, and his eyes have a severity that puts me back in my place. You’ve been gone for too long, the eyes say.

  I let my shoulders drop and focus on the taste of the food. I missed the texture of freshly picked onions on my tongue. Honest and undisguised.

  The men aren’t in a hurry to return to work, but eventually they get up. They hold their hands awkwardly in the air, careful not to touch their jeans, not knowing what to do with them now that they’ve used them to eat. The notebook flaps comically from the shorter one’s jean pocket. They walk slowly to the field, where the tall yellow machine stares into the distance like a neutral observer. The men exchange a few words. The shorter one glances at the house and spits.

  I help Bird Breeder carry the dishes to the kitchen. He’s tipsy. His face is glowing and he doesn’t notice that his shaking hands are making the coffee spill.

  Promising, right? He says, asking for my approval.

  I nod vaguely.

  Everything in the room seems old and stagnant, apart from the pile of papers in the middle of the table. Suddenly the presence of the two young men feels insulting. I hope the field swallows them. I look at Bird Breeder, whose bones protrude from under his skin. I feel a twitch in my stomach.

  When he washes the dishes, soap water froths everywhere. His shabby brown trousers would fall if they weren’t held by braces. He’s wearing sandals and socks, one of which has gobbled the end of one of his trousers. It’s this tiny detail, the end of the trouser inside the sock, which is why I need to leave right now.

  First I walk quickly in fear the men might be following me. I keep on glancing behind my back but there’s nobody. Even the shapes I mistake for people are only fruit trees, orange in the setting sun. I start slowing down. The heat hasn’t left the ground — I can feel it against my flip-flops. There’s no rush anymore. I think of the fresh onions and cold beer while walking to the house, very slowly now, as my flip-flops survey the land.

  Disoriented — like after a long journey or a feast — they emerged from their hiding places. With no apparent sense of direction, they didn’t seem to be heading anywhere in particular, one following the other past the fences and the utility poles and the faded signs taped on them, tottering and swaying along the bumpy road. They of course couldn’t read the signs, and anyway were busy marking the territory — the street corners, the gates, the trunks of trees.

  The rising sun shone over the forests and neighbouring villages; it washed over them, and over the cottages with their vegetable gardens, and the shop and the tavern which were scattered about like chess pieces after a game; over the blue roof of the monastery, the desolate factories, and the stony Lenins; the auditoriums, where empty seats looked out at the football field; stopping just short of the mute swimming hall.

  The river streaked through the land. At some point it straightened and widened, gobbling up a few bushes, indifferent to borders. Here the dogs arrived, a bit tired now after their morning stroll. They were so thirsty they sank into the water up to their bellies. Stones slipped under their paws. Water rinsed the dirt and the urine off their fur. They lay down in the grass, replenished and sated.

  The grass was tall and dry: one torn plastic flip-flop lay there, a shy reminder of absence. It had been a long time since anybody came to the river. The rusty yellow tractor was still on the riverbank, its excavator up in the air l
ike an unfinished sentence.

  The river flowed in a rush, chasing the bigger rivers that lead to the sea. There were no clouds in the sky. There was only the wide, dark stream of the river, and the dogs, who until now had been dozing, but, startled by a noise or a sudden movement, all at once opened their eyes. Darting glances, a musty breeze. After a few hesitating seconds they took off, tails up, teeth baring, pink tongues hanging out. They too were on a chase.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you:

  My editors Molly at Scribe, and Hazel and Jay at Book*hug Press.

  Leenastiina at Rights & Brands agency.

  And Carlos F. Grigsby: thank you for helping me with the translation and for showing me the rigours of short fiction.

  The idea of the threshold, on page 73, is from Peter Handke’s Slow Homecoming.