by Miha Mazzini
"We've got to keep in with the natives," whispered Max.
They bought a crate of beer and ten litres of brandy. The owner acted as if he had just signed the deal of the century. Maybe he had, judging by the badly equipped and stocked shop.
"We've robbed him of all his stock," whispered Max in the doorway.
Outside they noticed that the sun was still quite hot in spite of it being nearly six o’clock and realised just how heavy the drink was.
Max went over to the pensioners' bench, said hello in the sweetest possible voice and asked if there happened to be a taxi on the island. For a moment it seemed that he would have to explain the word but then one of the men shook his head and said that there was only one vehicle on the island and that even that was very rarely used.
"Could we hire it?" asked Max.
The old men shook their heads and started gazing through him at the open sea, towards the progressively reddening sun and a seagull, floating in the air and then deciding to catch the departing boat before it disappeared.
Max gabbled something and returned to the rest of the expedition.
"We'll carry it," he shrugged his shoulders.
*
From the slope, they looked back at the village in the middle of the bay. The tank on its stand looked as if it was aiming right at them and it seemed bigger than the stone houses. There were only two that had been painted in white with bright red roofs and they stood out from the rest of the crowd which seemed to be squeezed into the bottom of the bay.
"This lot really are backward," sighed Max. "That monument! Stupid peasants! Where have we come! Ciao civilisation!"
Raf did not dare look in Alfonz's direction but it seemed to him that Alfonz, too, had twitched with embarrassment. Max did not sense the unease.
"That's strength!" sighed Samo. "They must have copied us, humans, when they designed it. The turret is like a head and the tracks like shoulder muscles!"
The tank did not produce the same feelings in Raf, to him it seemed clumsy and ridiculous rather than dangerous and strong. Surprisingly tall, with a barrel that was too long, it reminded him of a vehicle he had seen in an old comedy where Laurel and Hardy drove their car into a tunnel, encountered a train and emerged with the car somewhat longer and narrower. Still, he wanted to have a closer look, he had only seen heavy armoured vehicles on television and in films. He was curious as to how the tank worked - the wheels at the side, all the lids and covers, visible even from that distance.
"I'd like to see it from close up. Shame we didn't have a good look at it," he said.
"We'll go to the village again," Alfonz tried to comfort him.
"At least we know where we are now! Fifty years back!" Max concluded the conversation.
*
Her uncle was dragging the suitcase whilst Ana made sure from the back that it did not turn over or get stuck in the paving stones.
She had already had a good look at her relative and earlier, when he arrived to meet her at the bottom of the stairs leading off the boat, she found it very hard to hide her astonishment.
He was not an albino as she had concluded from the old, yellow photographs in the family album. None of them were taken from nearby, and her uncle was still quite young, but he was instantly recognisable next to the other relatives whose names, or at least the deeds and professions which were supposed to give them their place in the family history, even her mother sometimes could not remember.
She looked at the complete whiteness of the hair in front of her and she just could not hide a smile over a funny detail, which she had never noticed before. The hair stood up, even though it was not of the bristly kind but feathery soft.
"Maybe he combs it that way?" she thought and stopped her smile from widening with a realisation that in the next two months she would have enough time to find out her uncle's every little secret.
And by the look of things, there would be no spectacular revelations.
2
One of them should have fainted or at least said that he could not go on and just sat down.
But it seemed to Max that it would never happen. He could not say it himself because it would not be right considering his position, Samo was not a serious candidate, and as for Raf, Max felt he did not really know him well enough to be able to say. He did not look like a sporty type, but skinny and bony. Alfonz with his thick shirt and corduroy trousers seemed Max's best bet. His face was red hot and he kept having to use his sleeve to wipe away the streams of sweat pouring from his forehead.
Not one of them wanted to admit defeat and there they were, carrying the drink - Samo and Alfonz a crate of beer, Raf and Max the other bottles - with rucksacks on their backs. The previously quite innocent sunshine was tormenting them whenever it reached at them between the branches of the pine trees through which the road led. Up to the top of the hill and down to the campsite the road really was worthy of that name but after that it turned into a neglected and overgrown cart-track lined with electricity poles.
They stopped at the junction without putting down the drink and had a look at the campsite in front of them. The last group of tourists had crowded into the reception, and the guy with the motorbike was already on the restaurant terrace with his bike gleaming near the fence.
"This is where we'll come to eat for the next few days," said Max. "Today we'll just finish off the sandwiches, and anyway, we came here to drink not to eat. And while we're here we'll catch a bird or two which will make it a real holiday."
He turned towards them:
"You know, the seaside isn’t just about food and drink, but about squeezing, sucking and licking too."
He burst out laughing and the others nodded.
Before Raf joined in the nodding he thought:
"And love."
He was afraid he had said it out loud. He would have died with embarrassment if the others had not killed him with their teasing first, that is.
They said goodbye to paradise with wistful looks and went on, without too much moaning, just the odd observation about the island being bigger than it first seemed from the ferry (wider, they should have said wider!), and how the summer had already started in earnest there. But not for long, soon the desire to talk was gone.
Alfonz was dripping with sweat, Max was nearly as bad, Samo kept his hard-as-stone image of bravery and only once did Raf manage to catch an expression of suffering on Samo's face before he quickly hid it again. Lifting weights is one thing, but carrying them for over half an hour is something quite different.
The cart-track had recently been churned up by a vehicle, its tyre marks were visible all the way from the junction.
"The jeep," said Max. "Before my old man bought the villa he came to look at it and then sent some builders to sort out the wiring."
He looked at the electric wires and the rotten wooden poles. Some poles had gone altogether and the wires were supported by the taller pine trees.
"There's no water in the villa?" asked Raf, who could not restrain himself, his desire for a long cool shower was too strong.
"What do we need water for?" grinned Max. "You're by the sea. You can wash when you swim, and as for drinking - we're bringing the booze!"
And he had only one small moan about their present situation:
"It really is heavy, but worth the bother. Just think how pissed we can get tonight!"
*
Ana was still secretly observing her uncle and beginning to hope that the two months just might be bearable. What she had worried about most was that he would be one of those people who never stopped talking, always asking questions and telling stupid stories. But even before they reached his house, dragging her heavy suitcase, she was able to stop worrying as he only asked her the usual pleasantries about the journey (Fine, thank you.) and then remained silent. He seemed a bit shy to her, even though he did look her in the eyes when he talked to her. She could not get rid of a feeling that he was only pretending to be insecure. Not pretending in a
negative sort of way, but as if he had been given a role which he was now trying to act out to the best of his abilities, even though it was not best suited to his character. The role of a guardian, who had to play host to an underage relative for whole two months.
On the way, he had explained to her that the monument had been put there in memory of all those who had died in the Second World War. Ana expected him to start imitating a tourist guide, but he stopped. He had told her about the only unusual thing in the village about which he thought she might have some questions. Everything else was completely self-explanatory.
But that funny hairstyle of his! It somehow did not quite fit the stereotyped image of an elderly islander, with his dark brown skin which looked as if it was not just tanned but as if it had been that colour from the day he was born. He could have either cut his hair off completely or worn a cap - a fisherman's cap would have quite suited him. And he could have worn a checked shirt or something similar, like all the other pensioners who were sitting on the bench. But as it was, he really stood out in his short-sleeved white linen shirt and wide trousers of the same material.
She wondered why he bothered with his appearance on an island, where there could not be more than a hundred inhabitants and where everybody had to know each other as well as if they shared the same house; where the campsite had only been opened that year - or so she had heard them saying back home; and where the passengers she saw on the ferry were probably among the first tourists ever. Was he doing it for her? She thought about the winter when the presently seductively sparkling blue sea must turn into a matt-grey surface and she felt cold at the thought of it. At least in the summer the ferry came once a day and provided an opportunity for everybody to gather for the event of the day. It all seemed very strange.
Her uncle carried the suitcase up the three stairs leading to his house by himself and she had another good look at him. He certainly was not a weak old man, even though he was completely grey and quite wrinkled.
The only trace of a woman in the house was a photograph in an honorary spot behind the glass of a cabinet. Ana was overcome by sadness. That overwhelming, all inclusive feeling that ends as a pressure on the left side of her chest. A man's room with memories of a woman. A photograph, memories - enough for a moment of melancholy, from which she was aroused by that most basic of smells: the smell of good food.
Her uncle smiled:
"I'm making dinner. You must be hungry after your long journey."
She had been eating sandwiches on the ferry and until now she had not been aware of the emptiness in her stomach. So much saliva filled her mouth that she found it impossible to speak and she just nodded.
"I got your room ready. Do you want to see it?"
"Thank you, Uncle."
"Just call me Aco."
After a few embarrassing smiles they agreed on Uncle Aco. But the agreement did not last long. Ana soon returned to calling him just Uncle and he did not correct her.
The room faced the sea and the window was wide open, covered with a green mosquito net. Her bed seemed too short at first glance because of the wooden frame. The open window did not have any effect on the stuffiness of the room, even though Ana was sure Uncle had been airing it ever since her visit was first arranged.
Ana's mood was very fragile and it did not take much to tip the balance. The smell of the room carried her over to the dark side and she again started thinking about the longevity of the two months ahead.
A romantic image: caught on a small island, amongst natives who seem friendly enough but rather clumsy.
They sat down in the kitchen and she accepted tea which seemed a strange choice for a summer drink. It had a very full and sweet flavour. Her uncle explained without prompting that it came from the herbs he had made it with and that there was no sugar in it at all.
Ana looked into her cup while sipping the lukewarm liquid. She was expecting to find a hair-line crack running from the bottom up to a small chip on the edge of the china cup. But there wasn’t one. The cup was intact and very old looking. Wide and thick, a smaller version of the bedpans from silent comedies.
Uncle asked her how she had done at school and she gave him a brief rundown of her results. He praised her and then concentrated on his tea.
She finished the last sip and wondered what would happen next. Well, what happens next is that I am here and the two months begin, she answered herself. She should have been happy to be at the seaside on her own, for the first time without her parents. On her own! Up until then she had always gone away with her parents, who spent a part of every summer in the village where her mother had been born. There Ana's only company were the village teenagers with their cruel pursuits - from tearing wings off flies to teasing the goat - which invariably made her stomach churn. She had voluntarily changed her holiday activities to babysitting, as there was nothing better to do.
But this time she was on her own. Probably the last one to achieve this privilege amongst all the girls in her class who had long ago lost their holiday virginity, both literally and metaphorically. Maybe her parents were aware of the fact that she was now grown up and that was the reason for suggesting this trip. To a deserted island, admittedly, but even that was more than she had dared ask for in her wildest dreams. But on the other hand, maybe... She remembered the boys on the ferry, especially the thin one. Maybe...
Her finger slid to the bottom of the cup and rubbed against something which felt different from the porcelain. She turned the cup and looked. There was a label stuck to the bottom, saying in faint handwriting:
A COFFEE CUP
ACO LENT IT ON
RETURNED TO ACO ON
The second date was unreadable whereas the first one referred to a day three years ago.
She looked at Uncle and he blushed.
"I lent the cup for the wedding of my neighbour's granddaughter and afterwards I forgot about the label."
He rose from his chair and reached for the cup and then remembered that it would be rude to just snatch the object of his guest's interest from her hands and he sat down again.
Ana took another look at the label. Very neat writing with an obvious desire to make the letters look beautiful. Very old fashioned.
Uncle was still hesitating and she realised she was embarrassing him, so she put the cup back on the table and - almost too briskly - moved her hand away.
"There were quite a few tourists on the ferry," she said and Uncle visibly relaxed when she showed no intention of asking him about this friend of his who put labels on borrowed things so as to remember who they belonged to.
"Yes, they opened a campsite this year," said Uncle not very enthusiastically. "I suppose it was inevitable," he added, more to himself.
"Is that the only place to stay on the island?"
"Yes, there's nowhere else."
"No bed and breakfast?"
Cheerfully:
"No."
A pause.
With resignation:
"They'll probably start up one day soon, just like on all the other islands."
He got up and walked over to the cooker, opened the oven and let out a new wave of the wonderful smell. He bent over and with a fork gently and very carefully turned each fish on the roasting tray. The fish sizzled with submission when turned and Ana remained silent as she observed the operation which looked more like a ritual than cooking.
"It'll soon be ready," he said and smiled at her.
She returned the smile and asked:
"What's on the other side of the island?"
A sudden seriousness, a very brief and sharp smile, which seemed like something her imagination projected onto her uncle's face.
He stared at her.
"I ..." she opened her mouth.
"Nothing. There's nothing on the other side of the island."
She closed her mouth and said nothing. And then... she herself did not know what came over her. She certainly was not used to answering back at home where she had be
en trained right from the moment she was born to swallow anything which might be interpreted by her parents as answering back. Maybe it was the sea, the feeling of freedom and independence, maybe it was the wind left behind by the ferry which still seemed to be blowing through her head.
"The boys were going to the villa," she said.
The fork rattled onto the floor and neither of them followed it with their eyes. Her uncle's eyes became strange, huge and perfectly circular; she couldn't stop looking at him.
"H-h-h-h-h-h..."
He stammered. Her parents never mentioned that to her.
"H-how d-do you k-know?"
Then she saw the wave. It travelled across his hair, lifting it. It looked like a field of wheat, the memory of which suddenly filled her head but she was unable to put a date to it or any other proof of it ever having been real.
His hair lifted from the back towards the front and it stayed up. His eyes: she could swear they were looking at her but she could not see her reflection in them. Only something terrible, which she was to her horror nearly able to distinguish but did not want to see.
She did not scream. She let out her breath in a clear staccato of As, which at least halted if not removed the scene forming in her uncle's eyes.
Maybe she was louder than she thought? The rattle of the glass in the cabinet confirmed her suspicion.
"We didn't tell... we didn't tell anybody..."
What was he saying? What was happening?
Oh, my God, suddenly she realised. Her first day on the island and her uncle would die. How old he was! She remembered all the heart attacks she had heard about which happened to people as young as forty. Or even younger. Any moment he could be struck and it looked as if it was happening right now. She would stay there alone with his body among strangers. With a tray of nearly-ready fish cooking in the oven, the smell of which drove away her fear.
"They told me," she repeated very slowly and carefully, "today on the ferry."
"On the ferry?" he asked almost immediately, comprehending what she had said much later. "On the ferry? Who told you?"
"The boys."
His stiffness passed but he was still acting very strangely. He stared at her, moving at the same time in very slow motion as if he was moving through chewing gum.