The Carny E-Book

Sola Giovanni

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 295

Beschreibung

Nena is a nomadic carny, shrewd, witty, of few words. Crossing places plagued by racial and ethnic wars, she brings the joy of the carousel on which all are allowed, all are equal and welcome. During her wanderings along Yugoslavia she meets Katarina called Carì, a Roma girl. The two immediately befriend each other, and The Carny decides to take the little girl with her first to Croatia and then to Bosnia to raise her as a daughter, teaching her the ethics of carousing. Now that Carì is grown and close to becoming a mother, she must keep The Carny ethic alive. Nena has mysteriously disappeared just as she had appeared in Carì's life. Katarina wants to fulfill her promise to the woman who has been like a mother to her: to rebuild the merry-go-round, to reestablish its ethos. To return to flying those colorful little horses that had brought so much joy and hope to children who had grown up too fast, and to their parents forced to face the danger of war every day. Katarina retraces her memories, her nomadic years among cities plagued by bombs and racism, by plots, violence and horrors inexplicable to those who, as a child and then as a teenager, search for themselves and their real parents, clinging to the mysterious carousel. May Nena herself be her real mother?

Leseprobe

Series

ROMANCE

JOHN SOLA

THECARNY

Translated by  Simona Casaccia

Thecarny

©2020PublishingHouseIlFilodiArianna,LaSpeziatel.+393497762040-[phone]

[e-mail]

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandeventsnarratedaretheproductofthe author's imagination andare usedfictitiously.

Anyresemblancetorealpeople,livingordeceased,existingeventsandplacesistobeconsideredpurely coincidental.

Tomymotherwhoinsufferingandwithgreatstrength

sendsforthherlife

To my daughters Rachel and Gabrielamaytheirchildhoodbeaneternalmerry-go-round.

I would like to thank the Democracy Social Cooperative based in Zavidovici, Bosnia forouremailexchangewhereIreceivedfilesonrequesttoreconstructthelandscapeandtheRoma community in Zavidovici.

Mayyourworkcontinueforever

I walk through the city of our youth andlookforthewaytomyname

thewide,noisystreetsIleavetothegreatsofhistory.WhatwasIdoingwhilehistorywasbeingmade?

Isimplylovedyou.

(IzetSarajlić)

Table of Contents

To my mother who in suffering and with great strength

I would like to thank the Democracy Social Cooperative based in Zavidovici, Bosnia for our email exchange where I received files on request to reconstruct the landscape and the Roma community in Zavid...

Rebuilding the carousel

Story of a stolen childhood

The ethics of jousting

A new promise

Cake with eleven candles

For love

The perfect mother's list of things

A rose for me

A sudden journey

A Rose for Božica

Coming to terms

Sarajevo, April 1993

Rain Boy

The music box

Sarajevo, February 1996

The truth

Story of parallel lives

Traces of Nena

Translated book is published by Tektime

OUR LATEST PUBLICATIONS

JOHN EAGLE

Rebuildingthecarousel

Sarajevo,April1997

I promised Nena that I would rebuild the merry-go-round. I promised ayearago before shedisappeared frommy life.

I looked at her for the last time. She was walking away down the narrowstreet of Gorica. She walked away with her bag slung over her shoulder,herarmswayingintunewithherskirt,duskturningherintoshadow.

She didn't care what she left behind. She didn't care how I felt, she wantedto leave quietly like a child thief, without a trace, without even lookingback,straight as a marching soldier.

I have no idea where she was going, not even where she came from. I neverasked her. I never tried to look for her. I never tried to enter the burden ofher life. I never tried to overstep her identity. I never tried to violate herpersonalno-fly-zone;itwasimpossibleto flyover hersky.

I only remembered the promise yesterday, walking between the new andoldMarindvora.Therewasaninscriptiononadestroyedsmallwallnextto the minaret of the great mosque: Welcome to Sarajevo. It was not awarmwelcome,butitwasamessageofhope.Someonewroteitduringthe siege with a black spray can in big, cubical letters hoping to catch theattentionofthe international press.

I imagined a Bosnian woman with fuchsia-colored hair, highlights, withduesadness,secretly writingthose words.

Rebuilding. I imagined a mason, a Sarajevan, an ordinary man in hisprime rebuilding that little wall, brick by brick. I imagined him with alime-stainedhat and asparsebeard.

The Orthodox priest at Sunday Mass also urged the faithful to reconcile,call each other brothers, forgive offenses and rebuild the chapel on theoccasionofOrthodoxEaster.

Danijel whispered it to me as well. This morning he returned early to thecamper. He surprised me at the sink, at the silence game, blindfolded mewithhishands,and I recognizedhimimmediatelyfromthe calluses.

He told me that he took expectations from the construction company, hewantsto start thereconstruction ofthe ride.

"Andhowmanydaysdidtheygiveyou?""Oneweek."

"Andyou'regoingtorebuilditinsuchashort time?"

Hespreadshisarmswide.Hedoesn't.Hedeludeshimself.Hehopesitwillbeashorttime.

I look at him. I am proud of my Danijel. He is a strong boy. He is a hillanimal. I love the way he surprises me between my thoughts with his lighttouchand querulous voice.

Like the first time we slept together. He wanted to do it outside on the grass.He took me by the hand and I let his manhood lead me, his pale flesh. Ilovehisway: the animal.

On those occasions I call it, "Životinja mojae. ". He wrinkles his nose andsays, "Come gypsy, come! Now I'll show you who the animal is!" He getsonallfours,foxes around, tells me to get ready to runaway.

In the morning, however, he is anything but. Before going to work, withhis eyes, he follows the flight of birds. He wears his favorite lime-stainedhatandheadsdowntheGoricalanelikearealmangoingtowork.Instead,intheevening,Icatchhimatthelittletable,nibblinghisnailslikealittle Sarajevite going to school.

Wearethesameage:seventeen,andwhenIremindhimthatwewereborn only two days apart, he spreads his arms wide and whispers, "It wasmeanttobe"

Weshareabettowin.It'slikeaswallow,afteralongjourneyhasreturnedtomyheart.Torebuildthemerry-go-round,tomakethoseseahorses fly again who have been stationary in a world of their own fortoo long.

The biggest problem is the wooden floor, too creased, as well as thecarousel,nexttousburiedbyclimbingplants,boundlessbeyonditsoriginalcolors.

"Andhoware wegoingto buynewplanks? Wedon'thave enoughmoney,you know!"

Danijel'sgazeelaboratesasmirkwithtwodimples."We'llstealthem!""What? You're kidding,I hope!"

Ilookintohiseyesandsensethatheistellingthetruth.Hehasa planinstore."ThereisanewhardwarestoreinGrbavicathatalsosellswoodenplanks."

"Sowhat?"

"TheclerkIknow.Heisasuppliertomycompany.Heworksasanemployee."

"Sowhat?"

"Itwouldhelpusdothetheft!"

Helooksatmeashelookedatmethreemonthsago,withasmirktooeasy to hide. On that occasion we needed a new coffee table to replace theold one, and he had the fantasy of carrying out a theft. He kept a smallchecked notebook, like a schoolboy's notebook under the sofa bed, withnotes in it. One day I spied on him through the window of the motor homeand discovered that he was carrying out a plan of his own. He had made adeal with his colleague; they wanted to sneak like two rats into the newshoppingcenterin Grbavica.

I looked at him as one looks at a thief, with a sidelong glance and awrinkled nose. I threatened him good. I told him that if he stole even asingleedge,I wouldstoploving him.

Hewentbackongoodfaith,workedovertime.Intheevening,afterediting, he confessed to me that he would do it for love. He was going todoit for me.

Now I threaten him again, "If you dare to do such a thing, I swear ... Iwon'teven give you a son!"

I think I hurt him. He looks at me with his mouth sideways in amazement,similar to a child who has been slapped in the face, leaves slamming thedoor.

NowIlookatthedoorthathasclosedwithathudandheraldsadisturbancebetween us,likea banner movingfrantically when

wind is blowing. It is the same clutter where he puts his things, his cornerwhereheeatsorwherehetakesnotestoplanourdailylife;yet,inacornerof my heart,I feelas if this clutter isourbest part.

It is the same mess as in Sarajevo. I only noticed it five days ago when Iwent down to Grbavica to go to the old school. I wanted to sign up for abotanymini-coursetolearnhowtocultivateandkeepmygardentidy.Thesecretarylookedatmewithanairthatseemednaïve,hardlyappropriate for the pink dress she was wearing and the porcelain vase offlowers she had beside her. She said, "Maybe you spelled your ethnicitywrong, baby. Besides, the name you wrote is different from this documentyoushowedme...."Ihadthefeelingthatmyhairlookedtoherlikethedirt that collects along suburban streets. She believed my mulatto skin, mypitch-black hair. To my face that looked dirty to her. I looked to her like agypsy running around stealing or begging. I had the impression that shewanted to send me back to Kosovo, where I was born, to a desolateneighborhoodin Mitrovicë.

Itriedtoappearsweet,calm,serenetoredeem myselffromthisthought.Iflashedmybestsmileunderhernose;mymostbeautifulprofile,mycheeksflushed,myeyebrowsturningintolittlebutterflywings.AndIwhispered to her, "You know? It's because everyone calls me Carì."Katarinaisonlywrittenondocuments,soIrummagedthroughmypurse,showedhermySerbianpassport,andshebelievedthesignatureofaBelgrademunicipality official.

Then I went for a walk. I walked as far as Baščaršija. I stopped in front ofthe kafanas. Next to the entrance of one was a kind of stove that glowedwith the red of coals of different flavors. I followed the trail of smokecomingoutofahookahandfoundmyselfwithmynoseintheair,following the course of a NATO fighter jet that had come all this way toshareSarajevo'sabsinthe.

IoverheardawomantalkingtoanotherwomanonmywaybacktoGorica. She was confiding to her that a few days earlier her grandson hadlosta leg. His joy, his childhood, had flown away. He had put his foot in awrong hole, on a mine in a nearby park. There was also the sign that said,"safezone."

Danijelcomeshomethatitisalreadyevening.Hesmellsofsmokefromthedrina.

I usually contort my mouth and wrinkle my nose. He knows I don't likethis smell so he doesn't look at me, but I gather from the look in his eyesthathewouldliketoconvincemetostealtheplanksinthehardwarestore.

I stayed all afternoon watching the merry-go-round instead of thinkingabout stealing. I made beans with soup for dinner instead of thinking of aplan.Andasarewarddwellssilencebetweenus.Idon'tsurvivethesilence for long. Moreover, at the end of the day, it smells of death like atombstone, what remains is a remnant of ourselves. Even the merry-go-roundwasdead withsilence.

"Love." Danijel turns, looks at me, "Let's do it your way." I tell him,servinghimsome soup whilebreaking thisoblivion.

"Doyouagreewithmyidea?""Yes,whatisyourplan?"

Heclearshisthroat.Heexplainsthatthehardwarestoreclerkwillbeloyalto whatever plan hewants to put intoaction.

"Hehasbeeninthewar.Heknowshiswayaround.""Whatif we getcaught?"

"Theplanisperfect,noonewilldiscoverus.""Whatifsomeone snitches?"

"Nooneisgoingtosnitch!Let'sgotoGrbavica'skafanatonight,he'llbethereand explainthe plan."

Grbavica is even gloomier at night. The signs are only half lit, the rest aredanglingcableswaiting formoneytorebuild them.Thetreesontheboulevards are bare. The war wrested them from life, from lime, from theearth.Thebuildingshavewindowsmadeofplexiglass,theyarestillblackened by smoke from the explosions. They hang without a reason therodsfromthe apartmentbuildings.

The kafana has a small stage, where, before long, a rock band will play.They are called the "Sikters," and in their own way they have waged warbyplayingconcerts.

One looks like an artist, sipping a bottle of beer: the Pivo. The other is agirl, has fuchsia hair and freckles. The other is the clerk at the hardwarestore. His hair is in a ponytail, hisearring too big for his lobe. He givesme the impression that he prefers a rakija and drina instead of blackcoffee.

HerecognizedDanijel;hejoinsus.The"winninggrip"greetingmakesmeuncomfortable. Danijelintroducesme to him.

I watch him act tough. He drinks beer as if trying to disguise his voice bydrawing out a radical truth. He fought in the Patriotic League. The twofingers he shows us are knife blades, his voice is a querulous whisper,"Fortwo years"

HisnameisŽeljkoand hehas seenterriblethings.

I look at his hands, they hold the drina embedded like holding a piece ofmemory anchored. Everyone was crazy, even they felt normal. And in thismadness they built ideals of pulling up a life of mansions, dreams andbelongingtoa flockof any race,anyculture, justas Godcreatedthem.

HisfamilyincludesCroats,Serbs,andMuslims.Hehopesthatthemultiethnic and multicultural spirit of Sarajevo can remain preserved andunchanged.

His girlfriend's name is Jasmila, she is the one with the fuchsia hair. Shealsowagedwar,inherownway,stealingelectricitytorunapiratetelevision.

I look at her, she smiles at me. In her eyes I seem to see music, the noteslikelookingatthemonasheetofmusic.Shetellsmeshefindsitrepudiatingtodivide people by nationality.

"That'swhywehavetorebuildthemerry-go-round.Butit'snousestealing!"Itellthem, seekingtheir approval.

Instead,Željkoreplies,"Stealingisnormal.Itwasdoneinthewar.Nothing happens if you steal the planks. No one will come looking foryou!"AndI winks, making me remember how the war economy replaced the normaleconomy.

Danijel immediately says yes to him. I desist because I would like tofollow my ethics, but if I think about the broken merry-go-round, thehorsesthat no longer turn I end up going againstit.

The music starts. The drums begin. Željko lets his hair down, grabs theelectric guitar, and begins to solfying on the strings. Jasmila moves herhead in rhythm, waits for the good moment where the music grabs her andpulls her into a chasm. She grabs the microphone and brings back the wildrock ofNirvana.

Load up on guns and bring your friend sit's fun to lose and to pretend...Theyoungpeoplerotatetheirheads,lettingtheirlonghairsway,theirshirtlessbodiesmove. Theypush eachother, wavingtheir arms.

She'soverboredandselfassured,ohno...

Danijel invites me to dance, and I let him lead me to the center of thedancefloor.IlookatŽeljko,pressingtherhythm.Jasmilascreamsreleasing an energy that grips my head inviting me to melt. I glide overDanijel's body as if to abandon my soul. I free my hair from the ponytail,throw it forward, and for a moment I forget the Romany dances, thecarousel music, the ups and downs of the seahorses. I forget my peopleandletthispowerful music entermy body.

"Love,shallwegoout?"IaskDanijelshortlyafter."Areyoutired?"

"No,I'minthemoodforsomepeacenow,though."

We walk. Danijel breaks the silence by asking me if I was on his side tomakethe shot.

Ianswerhim,"Idon'tknow."

"WhatdoyoumeanIdon'tknow,youpromisedme."

"I didn't promise you a damn thing! Leave me alone!" I lengthen mystride, I want to have a moment of my own to merge with the silence ofSarajevo and escape from Danijel's demands. I want to understand wherethe truth I am looking for comes from. I have always seen myself in themirror,lovingthefairytaleofSleepingBeautytosimplyaskhimwhoI Was.

But the mirror would not answer me, I would dig into my memories and Mitrovicë would return. My mulatto skin would appear, sometimes black, always dirty. The daily suburbs would appear, the plots, the cynical calculations made on the skin of the last.

The little that dwells in me does not give me answers to my questions.

IrememberIhadamother.MaybeIstilldo.Andthentherewasthecarny.

Iamtheonlyonewhocantellher story.

There is an open bookstore just outside Grbavica. I take refuge inside.Danijeljoinsme,"Ihopeyoudon'twanttogiveuprebuildingthe ride!""Ididn't saygiveup!"

"Ifwedon'tstealwewon'tgetaces!"

Thebooksellerlooksatusinthemiddleofourdiscussion.Ifeelembarrassment,eyesonus.Istep outsidewith mybadlanguage.

"Whereareyougoingnow?"

"Fuckyou!I'mgoingbacktotheGorica,to think!"

Heclapshishands,"Good!Goandthink,sowewon'tgetanythingdone!"Iwalkbrisklytothetramvajstop.MaybeImakeitintimetocatchthelaststreetcarof the day.

Soon after, I find him behind me and he comes in a softer tone, "Carì,stop!"

"What?"

"Iloveyou."

When he tells me I love you, it's like he found the key to appease me. Ilook at him for a long time. I love him too, and I think it's natural to loveeach other. And it is unthinkable to separate us. We are two bizarre beingswho found ourselves alone on the Gorica beside the broken merry-go-round.Alone witha destinyto love each other.

"Idon'tliketoarguewithyou,so,Iboughtyouthisbook."

He shows me a short novel. "Stolen Childhood." I flip through it quickly."ItissetinAustro-Hungariantimes.It'sabouttwochildrenstrugglingtoregain theirchildhood."

"Didyoubuyitordidyoustealit?""Iboughtit,I swear!"

I believe him, I let him take my hand as he usually does: first the littlefinger, then the undo, then the index finger.... And then he shakes it forme.

"Shallwewalkhome?"Heasks.

I answer him, "All right." Together we cross the Vrbanja bridge. TheMiljackaoffersmestillness.Itisasweetsong,carryingthesoundofwater like a musician playing in front of a white sheet of music. I havebeenlongingtoturnmygazetothewaterforever.MaybeIhopetoseemy reflection drifting away on a barge, or I like to see myself scatteredeverywhere.

WecrossMarijinDvor,walkingtowardstheridgeofGorica.NowDanijel's voice comes to me from the dark: "Carì, what do you think is astolen childhood?" He looks at me. I smile at him. He cannot know."Nena, one day, told me that if a child does not get on a merry-go-roundthenhisisastolenchildhood. Doyou understandwhatthatis?"

"Ithinkso."

The music box is stationary on the sideboard. I wind the spring. I let thegroom and bride move. Danijel comes near me, would like to start thestealing talk again, but I signal him to be silent with my index finger overmy mouth. I ask him to let me waltz. He curtsies, pays his respects, I lethimembrace me.

The waltz is mine alone. Once a week he goes out with his friends fromDobrinja. He likes to wear a leather jacket and put hairspray on his hairlikea boycourting females.

HerageslikecrazyinthekafanaofGrbavica.

Then,backintheRV,hefindsmeonthecouchreading,headbentover

Sarajlić'sverses,eyesweighteddown,butshiningbrightlyforhim.

I look at him and he asks, "Do you want to dance?" At that point he loadsthe spring without waiting for my answer. He takes off his jacket andmakes me dance. Sometimes it happens that we get out of the camper anddance on the Gorica in the breeze, on the grass, in front of the astonishedfacesof the Roma whoare watchingus froma distancejustbelow.

It is a strangely silent night. Nothing can be heard except the buzzing of awasp mingling with the song of cicadas and Danijel's breathing. It is oneof those nights that I still struggle to get usedto. One of those nightswhereabandonmentisallowed.Thegrassislikeablackandwhitephoto,thereis only the dirtroad with the moonlit strandsofgrass.

The animal sleeps like a child. It has lain down with shaggy, blond hairand feet, its valgus index fingers sticking out of the bed sheets. It has afrownonitsface,suddenlyhissesandcurls uplikea frightenedfrog.

ItuckhiminasifIwantedtoprotecthimfromapremonitorysleep.

Storyofastolenchildhood

TitovaMitrovica,Kosovo1990

morning.IsearchedShereturnedthatcoldJanuaryforherforyears,shedweltinmydreams,inmymindlikeanalchemy.IdescendedagainintotheshoesofthislittlegirlwhopushesherselflikeawolftotheedgeofRomamahalla.Thefog,mybreathingdeepinthemist,theblackbirdsoverhead. Sebiha's hoarse voice is a distant echo: Carì, come back, now!TheIbarRiverflowsslowlyandsilently.Alittlefurtheron,myfatherdriftsawayeaten by fog.

"Carì!Comeback!"Sebihaimploresme."Iwantto followhim!"

"Areyoucrazy?IftheAlbaniansfindout,they'll stoneus!""Idon'tcare!I wanttofollowhimanyway!"

Sebiha looks at me with cola in her nose. I stare into her eyes hoping shewill give me consent to leave. Instead, she points her finger at the groundasif I wereapoor abandoned dog. "Obey! Comeback here!"

Shetakesmyhand,pullsmetoherasevensmallerpulledherfavoritedoll toher.

The streets of mahalla are narrow and dirty. The dwellings are simple tinshacks, side by side. The nicer ones are hovels, but decay has left reddishmarks on the walls, with wood leaning against the walls, pile upon pile.There are still the rusted grates, the gutters sloping downward, the laundryspread out in the yard. Women holding babies as if they were big dolls,cradle them on doorsteps. Beside them, older siblings attempt their firststeps.

"I'm so cold!" I tell her, as I look at the burning braziers just outside thebarracks.They are hearths that drylaundry, warmbodies.

Sebiha proposes that I join a recently lit one. She hopes I don't go back onthe idea of getting out of the mahalla. We look at each other with ourhandsoutstretchedtoward theflamesand enjoythatsuddenwarmth.

SheisstillbeautifulSebiha,fourteenyearsold.FromtimetotimeIlookat her from the window of her house, next to mine. She has a habit ofstanding on thewindowsill with her hair down and one hand resting onher cheek. I see her again in these still childlike features. She likes to callherself a "little black sheep." Those she calls Mom and Dad are not, infact, her real parents. She still cultivates childhood dreams, like me shedreamsof going to school.

Now think of what song to hum. She likes it. I improvise a dance, stretchmy arms out in ballerina ways. I love to do it. She claps her hands. I putmy feet up and imitate the old women who dance in groups in the summerand warm up the evenings. About fifty meters from the mahalla entrancethere is another bonfire in the brazier. The old woman who lit it I know iscalled Luzia Glavić, but everyone calls her the fortune teller. The childrenare afraid to go near her bonfire. They think it is cursed. She says she canread the future with cards and sees her deceased daughter wanderingaroundat night.

The greatest challenge set between us is to approach her campfire, tostretchoutourhandsoverthefirewithoutgettingcaught.Sebihaproposes."Come on, show me that youarenotafraid!"

"Whatifyoucanfindoutaboutme?"

"Wewillknowwhetherhecastsspellsorevilspells!""Yougo!"Itellher.

In response she starts coughing. She picks up some soot and throws it at me.

"Areyoucrazy?Youhavesoiledmyface!"

"Andgetalittledirty!Soyoulooklikeafakenigger!"

Thegigglestartscrystalclearandendsupminglingwith thecough.Welook at each other, scrutinizing each other. There is still the urge of thechallengebetween us.

"Youcan'tbeahero,miachirp!"

"Yes you can be a hero!" Just get out of mahalla and chase my father tofind out where he goes. Or accept his challenge: go in front of the fortuneteller's fire without getting caught. Deceive time to fool the old woman. Idecideto challenge her,"NowI'll showyou I'm not afraid!"

I approach toward the fortune teller's brazier. I imagine a dragon suddenlybursting through the flames with its claws, but I take courage and reachoutmy handstoward the fire.

"Wait! I won't leave you alone!" My friend joins me. She stands besideme.

Anoisebeyondtherustywindowgratecatchesmy attention.Afacein thedarkness scrutinizes us. I recognize the small blue eyes of Mrs. Glavić."Sebiha,thefortune tellerdoesnotcastcurses."

"Howcanyoubesure?""She's smiling at me!""Whereis she?"

"It'sthere,atthewindow!Look!"

"No!Don'tlookather!"Sheputsher handsovermy eyes.

"No,Iwanttolookather!Iwanttoknowifshecursesmeorblessesme!NowI knock on her door!"

"No!Obey,Carì,don't!"

Thedooropens.Thefortunetellerisstandinginfrontofus."Whatareyou doing standing there in the doorway? Come on in, girls, come in!"SebihaandIlookateachother.Iamtheonewhotakesthefirststep,Icrossthe threshold and enter.

Theburningstoveinvitesmetowarmup,Ismellfirewood.Evilmagicisa devil cast out of the house. The dim light in the center of the kitchenbarelyilluminatesour faces.

"Do you want two pennies?" she asks us, "Two to you and two to thisprettylittlegirl... Carì."

"Do you know my name?" My tone of voice is not cruel; it is more asoundof astonishment.

"Yes,honey,Iknowyourname!Areyouafraidofme?"

"No." I answer her and marvel at myself. I never got beyond two wordswiththefortuneteller.Beyondage,therehasalwaysbeenabarrierbetweenus.Yet,Ialwayshadthefeelingthatbeyondthatrustygratetherewasagrandmother.

She looks at me with a big smile. "I've been waiting for you to come into myhouse for a longtime!"

"Andwhy?"

"BecauseIwanttointroduceyoutoyourfuture,honey. Doyouwantto?""No."Imutter.

"Neither do I ma'am." Sebiha replies to her. So we hurry out with moneyin hand. We leave the brazier and return to the next one where we werebefore. Looking smugly at Sebiha, I chirp to her, "Challenge won! Mydear!"

Shelooksatmesideways.Maybeshewasbotheredbymytone."Iwouldn'tlaugh if I wereyou!"

"Why?Didyousee that?She'snotbad.Shegaveuslittlemoney!" Sebiha nods, looks at them, "What if they arecursed?"

"Idon'tcare!Iwanttokeepthismoney!"

Heletsoutasigh,"Haveityourway.NowIhaveto go,Ihavetohelpmymother. Come over tonight, I have a secret to tell you. It's about yourfather."

"Nowwon'tIcometoyourhousetoeat?""No,gotoyourmother!"

She prints me a kiss. It is languid on my lips like a feather. She ends upsmearing her lips with soot. I stand in the middle of the street, looking atthe two pennies I hold in my hand. "I know what you want to tell me!" Ishout to her. She turns around, "Go to your mother. You are a smart andbravelittle girl!But you'll see,I'll win thenextchallenge!"

The fog rises, the weather threatens snow. The bitter cold grips my feet. Ihead home like a lamb without a flock. Perhaps I will spend the afternoonalone as a last child. I rarely find my mother at home. For too long nowNohela has been hanging around all day and coming back at night. I don'tknow what she does, I don't know where she goes. She doesn't even leavea trail for me to follow. Nothing, not even a clump of words that would letme guess what's going on in her head, what devil is hovering around her,whatrancorher heart bears.

EverytimeIcomehomeandapproachthewrought-irondoorIhesitateto pushonthehandle.IfearIwillneverfinditagain.I'mafraidIwon't to see again the turquoise blue of the scarf on her petite head. I suspectmyfather beatsherlike avile, soullessbastard.

Thesobscomingfromtheroomrattlemychest.

"Carì,isthatyou?IthoughtyouwereatSebiha'shouse.""Shetoldmetocomehere.But...areyou crying?"

"No,I'mnotcrying."Allofasuddenshepullsherselftogether."Whyis everything dark?"

"Ijustcamebackandfelldown.Ihitmyhead."

Itakesmallstepstowardher,"Lie!"MyRomanifliesinherface."It'snot a lie!"

She lifts the scarf up to her forehead. There she is, Nohela, my mother. Isearched for her for years, in my dreams, in my heart. Her memory is asfaintas a grape stalk.

Here is Nohela putting butter on my hair to loosen the knots. Here she isgiving firm strokes to slide the comb to the ends of my hair. Here isNohela's breath behind my back. The exhalation is deep. But Nohela doesnot speak, mymother says nothing. Evenin mymemories her voiceremainsdistant.

"I brought two pennies!""Wheredidyougetthem?"

"Thefortunetellergavethemtome!""Didyouenter herhouse?"

"Yes!"

"Idon'twantthatmoney!""Why?"

"Because that old woman is cursed! Promise me that you will never enterherhouse again! Promise me now, Carì!"

I'llputittoyou,however,Iputthemoneyinmypocket.

It is still very cold. Snow falls in the late afternoon. I look at it, open mypalmstocatchit.Ilookattheneighbors'cart,withrustyironanddegraded wood. Next to it the little goats are looking for a bit of grass;theyhaverecentlystartedbleating.Theyresemblechildren'scries  little ones shouting:daddy...daddy...Perhaps, they too arecold.Thewhite coat has reached the height of their cages. The fog descends. Theembersin the braziersare white souls.

The side streets are narrow, dirty, with a few blades of grass peeking outof the asphalt between cracks. Above the rooftops the current flows inwiresstretched likecobwebs.

Shacks with satellite dishes, radio, television announce the samesymphony as always: the suffering of Kosovars. Albanians claimBelgrade exploits them, so in Serbia they build luxury villas and inKosovo the houses remain with shacks and asbestos roofs. I walk towardSebiha'shouse.Sheseesmecoming. Shehasherarmsfolded likeanightwatchmanlocked insideher comforter.

Her father's name is Ukshin, he is originally from Pristina. He smiles atme, his face chubby. He has a habit of finishing his soup by scrapping itwitha pieceof bread.

Also at the table is Tina, her eight-year-old sister. She holds the dollbetween her legs, eating the soup with a small spoon. Sebiha's mother'sname is Hatixhe, also originally from Pristina. She is a woman who hasbeenfightingbreastcancerforayear.Twiceaweekherhusbandtakesher all the way to Pristina for chemo. When she feels better and does notvomitshecomes back smiling assheisnow.

Heasks,"Carì,howisyourmother?"

"She has a bump here and she told me she fell when she was cominghome.But I don't believe her."I answerher.

Hatixheturnsasmileintocompassion,"Why?"

"I feel she is hiding something from me. Everyone is hiding somethingfromme!"I answer herina firmtone.

"No,don'tsaythat.Weallloveyou!Youknowthat,right?"

Ihavetheimpressionthathetoldmethistomakemesmile.Andshylyhesucceeds.

Soonafter,Sebihatakesmebythehandandleadsmetoherroom.Sheclosesthe door and suddenly hugsme.

"ThismorningIdidn'twanttotakeyououtofthemahalla, becauseIdidn'twantyou to see your father!"

"Why?"

"Because twomonths ago they caughthimin the mine fighting withAlbaniansand kicked himout!"

"Whatdoeshedonow?"

"Wedon'tknow,butmyfatherthinksI'mplottingsomething.""Iwanttoseeit!"

"No!"

Ipay noattention toher,Ileave theroom.In thekitchenIcollide with hermotheraswell,wealmostfalltogether."Carì,whereareyougoing?"

Idon'tanswerher.Ifreemyselffromherarmandgooutside.

I have many things to say to my father since a long time ago, since Istarted kicking my nose out of the house, past the wrought-iron gate.Among many things I would like to tell him to go back to the mine,apologize to those he has wronged. Other things I keep to myself, pushthem back to the bottom of my soul. Others I make them resurface, up mythroat, so much that I go so far as to whisper:take care of mother I feelherso far away.

Instead,Idon'tmaketimetotellhimanything.

The unspoken remains ashes. When I open the door, he lunges at me witha harsh Romani. "Where the fuck did you think you were going thismorning?"

"I wanted to follow you!""Don'teverdothatagain!"

Here is Zlatan, the ogre. The man who keeps the devil company. He kicksme,IfallonthegroundnexttoNohela.Ilookather.Shecries.Maybeshe would like to ask my forgiveness for not telling me anything, forhiding the truth from me, that my father is a fucking bastard and beats herlike he beats Albanians. She tries to protect me. Her arm is in front of myeyes,but