Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  “Where would you like these?” he asks in a deep voice, and as corny as it sounds, he flexes his muscles, leaving me wondering which of ‘these’ he’s referring to—the bags or his arms. I’m sure it’s not deliberate, but I feel like a kid in a candy store. At a guess, he’s flexing to relieve the weight a little. It’s practical, Emma, he’s not showing off. Each of those bags is seventy pounds—I know because I weighed them to ensure we didn’t exceed the maximum allowable weight for Lufthansa. He’s swinging a hundred and forty pounds with those bulging biceps.

  “Ah, okay,” I say, composing myself as he brushes up against me. He’s hot, and not just in the sensual sense of the word. He’s sweating, radiating heat. I scoot past. “Ah, just in there and I’ll sort you out—THEM. I’ll sort them out.”

  I could die. He grins, catching my gaffe. With no sense of urgency, he puts the bags in the room and turns to walk out, but I’m blocking the doorway. Oh, dear god, this is awkward. We both step to the same side, trying to allow the other past, and I cringe.

  “Ah, thank you,” I say, playing with my hair as I back up to let him past.

  “No problem,” he says, smiling. Why did he have to smile? Is he flirting with me? No, but I’m sure as hell flirting with him. Oh, I am so embarrassed. I’m a mother, not a teenage girl with a high school crush. My kids are in the next room and I’m going all sixteen year old prom queen gooey in my brain.

  “Your name? I didn’t catch your name?”

  With a cheeky voice, he replies, “My name?” He’s toying with me, clearly relishing the opportunity to catch a silly American woman off guard. We’re both novelties to each other—two worlds colliding.

  “Emma,” I say, reaching out and offering to shake his hand, desperately trying to restore my dignity. Honestly, who shakes hands with a complete stranger for no reason at all? It’s not like we’re being introduced at a party.

  “I’m Anton.” Of course you are, I think. Anton’s deep voice and European accent are like a magnet, drawing me in. I’m making a fool of myself. We shake hands rather awkwardly.

  “Thanks, Anton,” I say, feeling stupid.

  “No problem. Glad to help.” He means that—I can tell from his tone of voice. I’m not sure what he was doing when Branka grabbed him to help with the luggage, but I bet it was boring. At first, he probably moaned, groaning at being called on as the local muscle, only now he’s had a little fun with the awkward American woman he’s thinking this was a pleasant interlude to his day. I bet he’ll have a good laugh about this with his buddies over a beer tonight—not in a malicious way. I imagine he’ll be genuinely intrigued by the clash of cultures. It’s funny how we read so much into first impressions. Why do looks dominate our opinion of others? Psychologists say upwards of 80% of our communication is non-verbal, just in the way we hold ourselves, the confidence in our posture, the clothing we wear, eye contact, facial motion, the attitude we present. A slight twist of the lips, a kind gaze, raised cheeks, a flush of warmth, relaxed muscles, and soft breath—these speak louder than we realize. Anton’s a cheerful, helpful guy.

  He waves, which is almost as awkward as me shaking his hand, but confirms my suspicion. He’s a genuinely nice guy. He’s probably never strayed more than a hundred miles from where he was born.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Anton heads downstairs. I peek out the window, watching as he leaves the cottage. He stops and talks briefly with Branka. Oh, I’m so silly, but in some ways having a teenage crush is just what I need—something that’s pure fantasy, something that could never, and will never lead anywhere—a bit of escapism. Ah, dreams are free.

  I’m such an idiot. If Homo sapiens are anything, they’re dreamers, and it really doesn’t matter what we wish for, but it’s important that we aspire for more—hope keeps us going. Dreams keep us alive, they give us the promise of change. In some ways, if they were ever fulfilled, they’d leave us without hope.

  Flirting with Anton felt good. For a moment there, I felt alive—dare I say, normal. No Paul. No Helen. No alcohol binge. No mental meltdown in a stuffy customs hall. No role playing as a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother. Just me being myself. I don’t think there’s anything sexual in that, just the longing to be real for once.

  Anton glances back at the window and sees me peering out. Oh, Emma, you’re such a schoolgirl—but what’s wrong with that? He smiles and waves, before walking away. Nothing could ever come of this, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t want anything to come of it. I’m a mother. I have two children to care for. I’m still married, even if Paul is a sleazebag. But to share the warmth of a friendly smile feels good. I decide that I like Europe—a lot.

  Fantasies are healthy, I think. Fantasies need not come true, and they don’t say anything negative about us—nothing more than that we’re warm blooded with a madly beating heart. To hell with other people’s expectations of how I should behave, what I should do, or how I should act. I don’t want to be anyone other than me.

  “Mom?” a nervous voice says from behind me. I turn, seeing both Jimmy and Jilly staring into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

  “What is it?” I ask. Now that the door to the bathroom is open, the smell is pungent. I step behind the kids and peer in. There’s a wooden toilet seat resting on a plastic bucket. “Is that?” I ask. Jimmy nods.

  “How do you flush?” Jilly asks. She’s potty trained—only just, and still prone to the occasional accident, especially with number twos. I shudder at the thought of her refusing to use this toilet because of the smell.

  “You no worry,” Branka says from behind us. “I empty twice a day.”

  “There is running water, though?” I ask, wondering just how far back in time we’ve been transported.

  “Yes. Yes. The water runs from the tank on the roof.”

  Don’t—I scold myself. Don’t think about bacteria, or leaves and twigs and dead birds floating in the tank. Just don’t. We can boil water for drinking. Branka seems to read my mind.

  “It is safe for drinking. I drink. Look at me.” She smiles, again revealing her lost teeth. Yes, look at you—but I’m too polite to say what I’m thinking.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  I’m not sure I want to ask what’s for dinner. I was kind of hoping there was a restaurant in town. McDonalds is too much to ask for, but there should at least be a 7-11, right?

  “Come. Come,” she says and we head downstairs after her.

  The kids and I sit at the table as Branka serves up four bowls of stew. I’m liking having Branka around already—no cooking suits me fine. We each get a chunk of bread torn off a brown loaf. The bread is as tough as an old boot, and there’s no butter.

  “You dip,” she says, seeing Jimmy chewing on his piece of bread. She’s right. With a little of the stew, the bread is suddenly soft and soggy, breaking apart easily. Branka’s stew is what I’d imagine Europeans ate in World War II. I’m not sure what’s in the stock, but I’m guessing beef. There are carrots, potatoes, onions, and leeks. I suspect both Jimmy and Jilly are jetlagged and still in awe of the service we got in business class, as neither of them have the presence of mind to complain. Normally my kids are fussy, rebelling against changes in diet, but they’re both hungry and tired.

  The sun sets, casting long shadows throughout the house. I wash the dishes while Branka lights a few oil lamps and some candles. Jilly curls up on the rocking chair in front of the fire and drifts off to sleep. As for me, I want to soak in the novelty of the moment. I never want to forget this night.

  Jimmy sits in front of the fire, breaking off tiny twigs and tossing them into the flames. Once the dishes are done, Branka and I sit on the couch with some kind of herbal tea in old, dented enamel mugs.

  “Why don’t you have a TV?” Jimmy asks. “Back home, we have three.”

  “Why do you have three TVs?” Branka replies. “You can only watch them one at a time.”

  “Because they’re interesting. Thi
s place is boring.”

  “Boring?” she asks, but she’s not offended. Branka points at a damaged section of the wall, saying, “Those stones come from the battlements of a watchtower that stood here for a thousand years protecting the approach to the village. Archers would march on the walls, firing arrows at the barbarians from the north.”

  Jimmy is silent.

  Branka points. “Those beams in the ceiling are from the keel of a merchant ship called The Alexander. She sailed the Black Sea for a hundred years before being shipwrecked in the Bosporus Straits after being attacked... by pirates. If you look closely, you can still see the marks from the chains and the scorch of fire on the wood.”

  Jimmy swallows a lump in his throat. He looks up at the dark timber in wonder.

  Branka says, “In America, everything is new and shiny. In Europe, life is recycled.”

  She points at a candlestick on the mantel.

  “See the tail fins?” she asks, and I note several tiny metal blades branching out around the base of the candlestick—the body is made from what looks like corrugated iron rolled tightly together. Wax drips from the jagged top of the candlestick, running down the olive colored metal. Branka says, “RPG. Rocket Propelled Grenade. Fired at my father before I was born.” She laughs. “They try to kill us, but they can’t. We take their weapons of death and turn them into life.”

  Branka ruffles Jimmy’s hair playfully. “So, no. We do not have TV. Only boring people need something to stop being bored. We need no such contrivance.”

  I doubt Jimmy knows what the word contrivance means, but I’m sure he gets the idea.

  “Do you know where you are?” Branka asks.

  Jimmy shakes his head.

  “You are in the land of warriors. This country has been on the frontline of every major war in the past two thousand years. From the Romans with their swords and spears, up to the mighty Turks and even the Nazis—all have come here to fight. All have fallen.

  “When the Mongol hordes swept across Asia, it was here they met with steel. Our swords clashed in battle. With spears and axes, we fought them to a halt in these green fields.”

  I doubt Jimmy knows what a Mongol horde actually is—for that matter, even I’m not too sure, but Branka’s words conjure up images far more effectively than anything I’ve ever seen on television. Wood crackles in the fireplace. Shadows dance on the walls—the ghosts of some long forgotten battle.

  Her voice lowers, and she speaks as though she were uttering some dark incantation. “Werewolves and vampires are folklore around here.”

  Folklore—nope, he won’t know what that means, but werewolves and vampires—hell, yes.

  “We talk of bloodsucking monsters because we fear all that is in the dark.”

  As if in response, the wind picks up outside. Branches from the apple tree tap against the glass. Now she’s freaking me out.

  “But the worst of all the monsters are those that need no special name—the evil of men that need no supernatural power to steal, kill and destroy. Men driven to bloodlust, sweeping across the land like a plague, burning villages, murdering women and children—this is the evil that died in this valley.

  “Tomorrow, I will take you to the Castle Gramalic where kings feasted on the blood of their enemies. We will walk among the ruins where once a watch was kept over the valley, where soldiers bound arrows, sharpened spears, and forged swords.”

  Jimmy’s eyes are as big as dinner plates.

  I cut off Branka, saying, “Yes, tomorrow. Right now, young man, it’s time for bed.”

  “But Mom!”

  “Come on,” I say, picking Jilly up off the couch. Reluctantly, Jimmy follows. Poor kid is probably going to have nightmares—thanks, Branka.

  Once we’re upstairs and Jilly is in bed, Jimmy whispers, “Are we going to see a castle tomorrow? A real castle?” His hand is resting on the thick stone walls in his bedroom, lost in his imagination of the past.

  “Yes.”

  “This is the best vacation ever.”

  He hugs me and heads off to bed. Jimmy hugged me. Jimmy hasn’t voluntarily hugged me in about five years—not counting obligatory hugs on my birthday and Mother’s Day, which are never more than a brief squeeze with the least pressure possible. I smile. Here I was worried he would be scared, but tonight he’s going to dream of knights charging across the grassy plains on horseback.

  I climb into bed and drift off to sleep in a new country.

  Chapter 06: Minefields

  Birds sing in the trees. Sunlight drifts in through a gap in the curtains, while the smell of freshly cooked rolled oats wafts through the air. Morning has come so fast I barely realize I’ve been asleep. I sit up, feeling refreshed. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so alive.

  I get up and go to the bathroom. The stench from the bucket is enough to clear the sinuses—hey, I’m learning to look on the bright side. After that, I brush my hair and then my teeth. I check on the kids. Jilly is already up, but she didn’t wake me, which is unlike her. I can hear her singing a song from one of her favorite movies downstairs. She’s getting most of the words wrong, but that doesn’t bother her. Jimmy made his bed. Will the miracles ever cease?

  “Good morning,” Branka says, serving up a bowl of porridge as I sit down at the rustic wooden table with the kids.

  “It’s right here,” Jimmy says, pointing at an old map. “The castle. It’s just outside the village, Mom.”

  Branka smiles, enjoying his enthusiasm as much as I am, but she cautions us, “Do not stray from the path. There are mines.” I nod. The thought of unexploded landmines in the area is more than a little disconcerting. Branka pours me a cup of coffee. It’s crazy to see how normal this concept is for her. She just accepts that there are areas of the country that are off-limits because relics from a long forgotten war still litter the fields. “There are orange flags marking the safe zones—ten feet either side of the path. It is safe.”

  I guess every country has its dangers. Africa has lions, Australia sharks. Hell, each year, over thirty thousand people die in the US from automobile accidents. That’s an insanely depressing number of needless deaths—and I think landmines are dangerous? At least I’ve got orange flags warning me where they are. We’ll be fine, I tell myself. Don’t freak out, Emma. Keep the danger in context. I wonder how many people die in Bosnia each year from stepping on landmines? As horrific as it is, I bet it’s far less than thirty thousand. I bet there are more people that die from slipping in their fancy American bathrooms than from landmines in Bosnia.

  “You will be safe,” she repeats, clearly seeing the worried look on my face. I nod. “I will go to the markets. Big meal tonight. We celebrate St. Augustine’s Day.”

  Never heard of it, but okay, sounds like fun.

  Sunlight streams in through the tiny kitchen windows. Blue skies. Fluffy white clouds. It’s a beautiful day.

  “Come on kids,” I say, after washing our dishes and setting them on a wooden rack to dry. We step out into the warmth of the sunlight. Worn cobblestones pass under our feet, leaving me with the impression the road is hundreds, if not thousands of years old.

  “Stand over by those flowers,” I say to the kids, and I snap a picture on my phone, noting the battery is almost dead. I’ve switched off location services, so the photo won’t be geotagged. Although I’ve only got one bar of mobile reception, I upload the picture to Facebook along with the caption, “Having a blast in Montana.” I’m reasonably sure there’s nothing in the background that will give away where we actually are. Ah, lies are nothing if not engaging for the mind. Lies demand far more upkeep than truth, and I hate myself for lying yet again. Pretenses are a sham, and yet I justify my position to myself—all three of us are loving our vacation in Europe. We’ve been able to leave the past behind like we simply couldn’t have in the US. What am I going to say when the kids blurt out the word ‘Sarajevo’ to my parents, or talk about castles with Paul? Didn’t think that one through, did you, Emma?
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  I shrug off that thought as we walk through the village. A pair of worn leather boots protrude from beneath a beat up old truck. Anton slides backwards on a wooden dolly, holding a wrench in one hand and a rag in the other. His pants are covered in grease stains. As the temperature is already well into the eighties, he has his shirt unbuttoned and is sporting a six pack the likes of which I’ve only seen on the cover of a romance novel. Muscles ripple and flex on his washboard stomach as he twists to one side, exchanging the wrench for a pair of pliers. I’d scrub clothes on that any day, I think, being a little naughty in the sanctum of my own mind. Okay, Emma, time to move past silly fantasies.

  “Good morning,” I say with a friendly smile.

  “Yes, it is,” he replies, returning my smile and revealing slightly crooked teeth. In a way, it’s a relief to see he’s flawed like the rest of us, and not quite the Adonis of my dreams. Expectations rarely match reality, and maybe that’s a good thing, as it keeps me grounded.

  Jimmy blurts out, “We’re going to see the castle.”

  “Ah, nice. You get a great view of the valley from up there. It was used as a field hospital during the last war.”

  “Oh,” I say. For Americans, war is something that happens ‘over there’ somewhere. Our soldiers fight and die, but not on our soil. It’s always somewhere else—like here. Wars dominate the news, but once they’re over, the places and people in those far away lands are forgotten, and yet for them, life goes on. It’s daunting to see how long the legacy of war lasts—extending well beyond boots on the ground or planes in the air. Wars may be fought over the course of years, but their impact spans generations.

  “You’ll love it,” Anton says as we walk on by. He disappears back under the truck. Jilly skips beside me. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her so full of life.

  The track leading to the castle is well marked, and starts beside the stone bridge leading into the village. The trail is worn, winding along the riverbank for a hundred yards before disappearing into the trees. The stone walls of the aging castle are visible against the skyline in the distance. Every fifteen feet or so there’s an orange plastic flag on a thin metal wire. They’re set well to each side of the path, reaching up to knee height. They resemble the pennants I used to wave at football games while growing up, only they’re smaller and lack any insignia. These, though, mark the edge of the safety zone cleared of landmines. Beyond them, death lies quietly, waiting patiently among the green grass and dense bushes covered in flowers and bustling with birds, bees, and butterflies.