She feels herself sinking. This is a dangerous moment. It’s so easy to fall victim to hopelessness. In spite of her dreams and her plans, in spite of her recognition that she desperately wanted to live, even while she lay under the hay knowing her family was gone, she hasn’t told anyone about the periods of blackness that can come at any time, sometimes just from the fatigue of keeping up her spirits all by herself. She knows those faraway looks, the sudden insinuation of a smell that transports her to that other life, a certain fleeting light, the way the shadow of a window falls across a floor. She knows there’s no way to keep from dreaming about water lapping gently against the sides of a boat house. And she knows there’s no one to save her from these feelings but herself.
She’s restless now. This is over, this adventure of hers, whatever it’s cost. She’s committed herself to a new venture. God knows what will come of that. She stands before the open window, smoking, contemplating that new world, as yet unformed, but she still has to live through the end of this one. Outside, night has barely fallen. The trees have yielded up some of their color but the dark leaves have become mysteriously thicker. Insects flit around light-bulbs; the air is full of night-smells. Most of the shops in the little town are closed but people will be gathering in restaurants, their faces and silhouettes visible in the windows, and on the porches of the large houses near the university, swings will creak. And she’s a stranger, tucked away in a distant corner of this large, powerful country. She feels a ripple of dread.
She ought to go for a walk, if only for the physical exercise. The night’s coolness is comfortable, the leaves shift heavily in a slight breeze, insects cry and chitter in the growing dark. She imagines herself walking along the residential street on which she lives, arms swinging as she moves from one island of light to another, passing thick hedges, trees heavy with leaves. Where is that woman going? She sees that solitary walker stopping outside a circle of light. What is she thinking: will I ever have a life like this, the houses, the porches?
Ila is in the car before she realizes that she’s decided to go for a drive. At first she has no destination in mind. She drives slowly along the main street of the town. People are lined up in front of restaurants and movie theaters. Music and laughter spill out of doorways she’s never entered. Suits of clothing hang on headless mannequins in windows; cars glide alongside her, in no hurry to get anywhere. All these sounds of life have nothing to do with her. Something ended today and soon there will be another ending when she leaves this place. Once more she’ll have to live among strangers who will never be able to understand her the way Jory or Vaniok could—who else could she talk to about the famous Singing Priest of their childhood? When she leaves here the last connections to the homeland will be broken. A history will have been taken away from her. She turns down a quieter street lined with dark trees. A sweet, heavy fragrance enters the car. Soon she’s passing through a black neighborhood where the smells of outdoor cooking fill the air. Then she’s on the fringes of town, which quickly becomes the country. Her car races along the narrow road, the world reduced to a few lights on dark hills. Where is she going? Maybe she’ll just keep driving, make her way to the new highway, where she could speed eastward, the wind rushing in through the open windows, dials on the dashboard glowing, past the little town the three of them visited, all the way to the ocean. And then? She could reach the coast in the early hours of the morning, while the world was asleep. She could go to the beach and watch the sun come up over the ocean. The thought brings goosebumps.
And yet, where has she actually come to? She’s a few miles north of town, she recognizes, near the place where she turned off shortly after Jory arrived here and drove into the countryside. She remembers looking at the landscape and calling out words in the language of the homeland. There was so much that was going to happen to her, her life was going to change. Now things have happened and everything is different. Is this what she wanted? There’s no way of knowing. She only knows she can’t return to that place, say those words again so that the story might unfold in another way. She can’t repeat that past any more than she can relive experiences in the homeland. Each continues to exist without her having to go back there. Strangely, there’s some solace in the thought.
She pulls off the road at an abandoned gas station where three rusty pumps stand erect and ignored in the darkness; she turns back, in the direction of town, though she’s in no hurry to return home. She wants to hold on to the feeling that things will yet happen to her of which she knows nothing at all, that her move west will bring her satisfaction, will fill the emptiness that can still come upon her. Seeing a cluster of lights, she pulls into a small shopping center, where she goes to a convenience store. She’s strangely buoyed by its harsh light, the bold headlines of the tabloids, the disembodied laughter from the color TV behind the counter and the oddly sinister picture on a black and white security screen where she looks for herself without success. She buys some coffee and takes her Styrofoam cup back to the car. Music booms from other cars, mingling in an oceanic roar. A fat man comes out of a liquor store with a bag, a smile of anticipation on his face. A young man in a baseball cap shouts from a truck to a friend entering the convenience store, who shouts back to him. A station wagon pulls up before the nearby video store. A woman in shorts gets out of the car purposefully but she stops all at once and for a moment she just stands there, her hand on the door handle. The woman, about Ila’s age, is pretty though slightly overweight, and she has the look of someone who’s constantly running to catch up to things. She stands there a while looking around her, then pushes her hand through her hair. The distracted expression on her face momentarily gives way to a movement around the mouth that could be a smile or a grimace and then she shakes her head. For a few seconds it almost seems as if she’s about to decide to drive away but at last she turns briskly and enters the store. What was that woman thinking about? Was she trying to remember the title of a movie she wanted to rent or was she contemplating changing her life completely? Ila holds the coffee cup between her hands, bringing her face down toward its steaming warmth. Bugs circle a light nearby and she breathes in the smell of the coffee. She wouldn’t call herself happy just now but the scene around her compels her attention and curiosity. However sad she might be about the way things have turned out with Jory, she can’t help knowing this isn’t the worst moment of her life.
As they do every year, crowds of people have come to Old Ferik’s sprawling lakeside house to celebrate his birthday and over the shaggy grass that slopes toward the water, under white-barked birches and drooping willows, the usual stories are whispered: that before he was a much-decorated soldier and before he built the string of tourist cabins on which his present prosperity rests, young Ferik was a cold-blooded gangster who administered ruthless beatings in the dark alleys of the capital; or that he arrived in the Lakes region as a young man without either shoes or memory of where he’d come from, taking his name from a word he saw on a freight car. There are those who insist in hushed voices that their host had been a farm boy who’d accidentally killed his twin brother and that all his later accomplishments were a vain attempt at redemption. One neighbor even claims to have heard a servant’s eyewitness account of the old man’s insomniac weeping in his favorite chair, an image that strains and intrigues the imagination. It’s hard to say how much credence the tellers give to these tales and there are some who are convinced that Old Ferik himself is their source.
Vaniok, who’s been coming to these parties for as long as he can remember, has believed all the stories at one time or another; he’s also believed none of them. He and his family are among the dozens of guests who arrive at all hours to partake of the heroic supply of food and drink provided for this event that will last well into the night, when the host will put on a show of fireworks. By tradition some people dress for the occasion, others come ready for an informal good time. Rumpled men with fishing tackle and dripping pails of minnows hurriedly pay their res
pects, then spend solitary hours watching their lines on the dock or in one of Ferik’s boats. Loud clusters of partygoers with cigars and drinks stand on the thick grass laughing at stories they’ve heard before while the clank of horseshoes fills the air. In shady corners people play cards and board games, distracted by the sudden smell of fried mushrooms. Coming as it does near the beginning of the season, the party sets the carefree tone for a summer of play and relaxation and to Vaniok it always means the best part of the year has arrived. This year especially, he’s sure that people appreciate the relief Ferik’s celebration provides from certain subjects everybody would be talking about.
Still, for Vaniok the carefree time doesn’t begin until certain ceremonial gestures have been performed. Once more he stands before his seated host, bent over his guitar, struggling to keep up with his two more accomplished older brothers, who play the mandolin and violin, the eldest, Rikor, singing as well. When the performance is over at last the musicians look toward Old Ferik. His great white-shirted bulk enthroned in a wooden chair, the man nods like an awakening polar bear, his small eyes blink under his shaggy white brows. Dreamily, he turns up his hands in mock wonder at the performance, then brings them together with great force, and everyone else follows. Drinks are handed round. “Good, good,” Vaniok’s father exclaims, no doubt relieved that the songs were sufficiently traditional without having any political implications. “Good, good,” he says to Vaniok, already moving toward his older sons.
Vaniok puts down his instrument, wipes his brow and toasts his host, impatient for the liquor’s sting. His father has moved toward Old Ferik, taking the other sons. Vaniok is glad: there will be no opportunity for a lecture on passing time and lost opportunities. You’re twenty-two already, his father would say to him. Did you know that when I was twenty-two, and so forth. Vaniok wanders off. No more music today; he’s free. He takes a cold bottle of beer and steps onto the grass.
Men are playing horseshoes near a pair of willows. There’s a ring of metal. Dust rises. “Did you know horseshoes were played by members of the Roman legions?” Professor Mirel asks nobody in particular. In a white shirt, his tie tucked between two buttons, he caresses the curve of the silver arc he’s holding, perhaps imagining himself on the borders of Gaul.
It’s warm already, the heat still building; the day ahead looms promisingly but when a breeze carries the smell of fishy water to him, Vaniok’s mind jumps ahead to the evening, when the snow of fish flies will descend on the area. These few days when the pale, short-lived creatures appear in such profusion have always been a mysterious time of the year for him: summer is approaching and his blood quickens with its promise; and yet at the same time he’s haunted by a sadness he can’t account for. As the insects beat the night air with their translucent wings, their slim bodies curved gracefully, their numbers beyond calculation, something seems to lie just beyond his reach, almost close enough to touch; but he doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength or wit to grasp it. The future, the future—it’s there in the soft, thick fall of the fish flies. The future is a mystery. He looks at the people around him, apparently so happy, expecting only more food and drink, good cheer followed by fireworks that light up the sky. There’s a school of thought in the country, Vaniok knows, that suggests it’s fruitless to try to imagine a future.
The nearby willow sways in the breeze and Vaniok smiles. The liquor has created a haze around him that gives a distance to the people he encounters but the bottle of beer in his hand is real and immediate, its cool condensation tickles his palm, finds its way into the creases of his fingers. Four men are playing a board game—two are thin and two are heavy. A heavy man raises his voice. “This is too much,” he says. “I never get a good roll of the dice.” “Olli, calm down,” a thin one says. “Olli, it’s only a game,” another says. “Your luck will change.” Vaniok walks away from them. There are too many raised voices these days.
Under a shady tent there are metal tubs filled with chunks of clear ice. The long shapes of frosty beer bottles are distorted beneath the smooth transparent surface. A flat piece of wood laid across a pair of sawhorses has been turned into a counter lined with bottles of whiskey whose labels bear images of animals and warriors, aristocratic crests. Dark liquids and clear, their colors are muted in the shade. There’s an arrangement of shiny glasses on a table covered in gingham. Vaniok has entered at a quiet moment. The place is nearly deserted. A few feet away an old man in a military uniform is drinking by himself. Keeping his distance, Vaniok greets him warily. The man nods, coming stiffly to attention for a few seconds. His eyes are sad. When the man returns to his drink Vaniok is grateful. A breeze makes the canvas flutter and sends up the rich sweet scent of grass. The gust subsides and the smell of warm canvas fills the area. Only he and the old man are in the tent until one of young women in aprons walks in, carrying snacks on a tray. Vaniok is happy to see her. Wearing a pale green dress under her apron, she’s tall and very thin with prominent teeth and a weak chin but her eyes are very large and compelling. When she flicks her head absently her long brown hair moves. She’s not at all attractive but Vaniok is drawn to her. He raises his hand and she approaches. He takes a pickled herring on a cracker and thanks her. She says nothing and moves off.
He climbs the path toward the house and suddenly encounters his host, who’s surprisingly alone. Squint-eyed, ancient as a turtle, Old Ferik brings an arm around and pats Vaniok on the shoulder. After a few seconds during which he might be trying to remember who Vaniok is, he intones hoarsely, “Beautiful music, boy, beautiful music.” He turns up his hands as if to say more but can only manage to shake his head. “Thank you,” Vaniok says quietly. As his host shuffles off Vaniok realizes that these parties won’t last much longer.
All at once he feels lonely. He wishes Ranush were here but Ranush’s family has had a quarrel with Ferik and were not among those invited. Vaniok returns to the horseshoe players a while. Clang. Clang. “That one we have to measure.” He’s watching under a willow, the drooping leaves brushing his back languidly, when he hears music coming from the screened porch and he walks over to take a look. The stiffened bodies of a few of last night’s fish flies cling to the black screen; inside a red-haired man is playing the accordion and Vaniok’s brother Rikor draws the bow soulfully across his violin, his tall, spidery frame moving in a slow sinuous motion as he wrests heartfelt sounds out of the instrument. A long table is piled with hard-crusted bread and smoked fish, sausages, a half dozen kinds of cheese. Some people are shouting toasts, a circle has formed around a pair of white-haired women dancing with each other, their arms held out stiffly. Vaniok watches for a few moments, the fine wire net dissolving the scene into a hundred parts. He closes his eyes to concentrate on the music and smells the screen. I should remember this, he tells himself, though he realizes that even as he’s experiencing it, it seems like something remembered.
“Are you still working at the sporting goods shop?” a friend of his father’s asks. He’s a dark, wiry man named Rudi with a short black mustache and a high-pitched voice. No, Vaniok explains, that was only part-time. “But you were working on an ambulance too, weren’t you? Or do I have you confused with someone else?” No, he says, that was him as well. When he sees a group of men his age kicking a ball, he excuses himself to watch them but he isn’t tempted to join.
He exchanges a few words with the sleek monsignor, a tall, bald man attired for the occasion in dark pants, a sport shirt and a commodore’s cap—the priest, whose family is rich, came to Ferik’s in his own boat. “God has blessed us with fine weather,” he says, as if taking some of the credit for the party. “It could be midsummer.” “Yes, Father,” Vaniok answers, “that’s certainly true.” He hasn’t been to church much lately but he’s heard that the monsignor’s sermons have become increasingly political. “But you don’t want to be talking to an old man on a fine day like this,” the priest says with a wave of his hand. “You must have things to do.”
Vaniok w
alks to the end of Ferik’s dock, where a burly man in a red shirt is fishing from a bench. The man nods when Vaniok approaches but says nothing. There are boats on the lake, which is calm, its surface sparkling in the sun. Vaniok can smell the worms in the silver can in the shade of the bench, he sees the shine of the minnow bucket bobbing in the cool water, its reflection gliding across the side of the dock like the sun’s wavery footprint. The two men are in each other’s company for some time without speaking. Vaniok looks down the lake, which is an unusual body of water. Named after a mythical figure who cut down whole forests in a morning, the lake bears some resemblance to his famous axe. This part, known as the Blade, runs east to west; it’s shallower and protected from the wind. But not far from here the lake bends into a very long leg known as the Handle, a deep north-south trough bounded by hills and resembling a river in its long, narrow configuration. Vaniok watches a white boat moving toward the point where the lake bends. As he leaves the dock he wishes the fisherman luck. The man grunts something that’s either a response or a clearing of his throat.
There’s a large meal in the late afternoon. People come and go to outdoor picnic tables filled with food. Toasts are made; people rap the tables with their glasses. Vaniok finds himself beside a salesman who’s just returned from the Borderlands. Short-armed, red-faced, prematurely bald, he punches at the air violently as he talks. “Do you know Bostra?” he asks. Vaniok shakes his head. “Bostra,” the man says. “Never saw a duller town. I ask this old coot in the hotel if there’s anything interesting to do at night. Know what he says? There’s a bowling alley a couple of blocks away. A bowling alley.” He finishes his drink in a swallow and blinks back the tears, then sits there with a musing expression, as if contemplating with wonder a town that regards bowling as interesting. When he speaks again, though, it’s quietly. “One advantage I can think of: it’s on the border.” Then he falls silent. The tall woman with the large eyes comes by, replacing a bowl of mashed potatoes. “May he live another eighty years,” someone declares enthusiastically from one of the tables. The chant is taken up by all the diners, the salesman lifting his empty glass. Vaniok watches the woman wipe her face with her sleeve. A droplet of sweat clings to her nose. He smiles at her and she looks back at him expressionlessly, her large eyes alert.
The 14th Day Page 27