The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Page 17

‘Bee-tola.’ Nikola corrects her, then frowns. ‘Our country is no good. I want to get out.’

  Luisa’s tempted to try out her Croatian but she knows the Macedonian dialect will be different. ‘Your English is good. You learn it here?’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘A little at school, but most from the TV. And your very good pop songs.’ He smiles. ‘I’m learning to be the mechanic. For the fast cars.’ He gestures towards the rear of the carriage. ‘Florina has the good pieces for the cars. Greece is the very wealthy country.’

  Could have fooled me, thinks Luisa, wondering what they might be heading towards. Bex does her best to convey the story about the creep and soon they are all laughing. Luisa acts out the moment with the knife.

  ‘So, I am to be frightened of you,’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Very,’ says Luisa, her voice like a warning. She checks her watch. ‘Nikola? We want to go to Lake Ohrid. There’s a bus?’

  He frowns. ‘Now? I’m not sure. Maybe just morning. We can see. Not long now.’

  It’s just after three p.m. when they pull into the Bitola station. Luisa and Bex hoist their packs.

  ‘Come,’ says Nikola. ‘We can find the bus.’

  The air reeks; nearly every chimney belches smoke. Piles of rubbish are strewn about and the footpath is no more than broken slabs of concrete parked either side of the dusty road. They are forced to walk down the centre of the road between the groups of men, a patchwork of ages, perched upon the slabs. Their eyes feel like drills and Luisa is grateful to be trailing after Nikola. Some sit on ramshackle chairs, others directly on the concrete. A few gather around small tables, their heads lowered, playing games. She wonders if some might be playing briškula, the card game the men play at the Dally Club at home. Most puff on cigarettes and the smoke hovers, a thick shroud in the still air.

  Nikola strides ahead. Luisa quickens her pace and Bex manages to fall into step beside her, taking two steps for every one of her loping strides. In New York they had been the ones staring, taking in the crowds of people, faces that were a melting pot of features and colour where nothing seemed to gel. The streets there were filled with noise: sirens mixed with the growls from brash tin-can cars cruising low to the ground and flaunting ostentatious number plates. Buicks, Fords and Chevrolets ruled the streets while bright yellow taxi cabs swarmed like locusts. Here, the buzz of the men’s conversation hushes to an eerie silence then returns like disconnected static once they pass by.

  ‘It’s like we’re movie stars, or models, someone famous,’ says Luisa.

  ‘Pity about the catwalk,’ says Bex under her breath.

  ‘Where are the women?’ whispers Luisa. Somehow, it feels better filling the void with chatter.

  Bex pulls a face and shrugs. ‘Anyone’s guess. We might as well be back in the Dark Ages.’

  Bex is right. This place does feel like a step back in time. Perhaps the men think them flashy, profligate, spoilt even? Maybe their sweatshirts seem too bright? They’re probably wondering how two young foreign women even got to this remote part of the world. How they would have the money. What a joke — if only they knew.

  Nikola is waiting up ahead. He leads them down a tiny side alley that’s too narrow for vehicles. The seal is too pot-holed and rutted anyway. This feels more comfortable, in this back street where there are some women. It’s impossible to tell their age. Most are dressed simply in black dresses, with headscarves hugging their round faces. One woman stands out, parading patterns of bright orange and yellow on her black skirt and wearing her white headscarf loose, like a bonnet. Perhaps they’re Muslim, thinks Luisa, but she’s not sure. It’s no wonder the men stared at them. Luisa glances across at Bex who rewards her with a smile.

  ‘This is cool,’ she says, and Luisa feels a rush of relief.

  The women are all busy with some form of domestic chore: sweeping their front yards, tending to their gardens, hauling buckets or bags loaded with who knows what up the street. Most stop and stare but their looks don’t seem hostile or accusatory — perhaps they’re intrigued to see two young women with packs loaded high on their backs. Another side of life, a possibility. One flashes them a gummy grin and waves. Bex waves back. The woman’s grin widens and Luisa wonders if these people have access to a dentist.

  At the end of the alley, Nikola points ahead to the main town. People stand in clusters, muted shades of black or grey. Luisa is appalled by how utilitarian the low-rise apartment buildings look. Everything in this place seems worn out and there are so many who are idle. Bex was right. It does feel as though they’ve turned back the clock to an earlier decade. Luisa thinks about pictures she’s seen from the war years and tries not to stare, but she can’t help it. Closer, it seems that the only shot of colour comes from the odd headscarf. Across from the bus station a group of young men point and jeer. Nikola yells at them, shaking his fist, and they scuttle off. Inside the terminal Nikola checks the timetable. Bex has gone quiet again. When he turns back his face says it all: there is no late bus.

  What now? Bex was so certain and Luisa wonders if she even bothered considering transfer times. But then, the buses and trains have run at all hours elsewhere and they’ve got used to travelling on a whim. The lack of information in the guidebook should have been a warning. It seems the rules are different here.

  The place Nikola points out looks more like a hotel. Luisa’s thankful for the bankcard tucked securely in the money-belt around her waist. This might be the time she has to step in for Bex and dip into her reserve funds. A dusty ochre car pulls up to the kerb and the driver leans across to yell at Nikola through the open passenger window. He’s gesticulating, both hands waving, and Luisa smiles. This feels familiar, like the club at home or family gatherings with Dad and Uncle Zoran. Nikola loops around to the driver’s side and leans in the car window. The two men seem deep in conversation.

  ‘Check out the make of his car,’ Bex whispers. ‘Zastava. I reckon it might be straight out of Russia.’

  ‘Close rellie of the Lada for sure,’ says Luisa. She looks across to the building again. Definitely not a hostel. On the cracked sign over the porch the few lights still working reveal the shape of a beer tankard. ‘Come on,’ she says, tugging at Bex’s sweatshirt. ‘Help me check this dive out. It’s definitely a job for two.’

  ‘Hey! Kiwis. Wait!’ Nikola calls out when they are halfway across the road.

  He catches them before they head up the short pathway. A flight of steps leads to the double entrance doors where a light is shining behind the glass panes. Two old men sit either side of the steps. One can’t stop scratching himself: behind his ear, his crotch, his chest. The other stares vacantly. A terrible stench of urine hangs in the air. The twitching man jerks his arm and Luisa jumps back, the weight of her pack throwing her off-balance so that she almost loses her footing. Bex grabs her and the man cackles as they rush past.

  Inside, the dark panelled walls of the foyer sap any available light. The reception desk is unmanned but the bar behind is crammed with customers. Bex pulls a face, and Luisa can’t believe they’re even contemplating staying in this dodgy-looking place. Nikola hangs back by the door. The sign behind the desk advertises rates in both dinars and American dollars.

  ‘Is this right?’ she asks Nikola. ‘One room costs fifty US dollars?’

  ‘What a rip-off,’ says Bex, scrunching her nose. ‘We’ve never paid that sort of money. Anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe I have the better idea,’ Nikola says, motioning, already half way out the door.

  They give the men on the steps a wide berth. Nikola points across the road to a thick-set, stocky man leaning against the ochre car. ‘My friend. He can help.’

  As they draw closer, Luisa double-checks that it’s not fur coating his forearms. Even his feet clad in clunky brown sandals are super hairy.

  ‘Kosta,’ Nikola says. ‘My friend. He has room. At his house.’

  ‘Please. Come,’ says Kosta, his arms still folded like a Cossack dancer, his voic
e booming.

  Nikola claps his hands and babbles. ‘His mother. His sisters. Everyone’s there. I come too. For the language help.’

  Kosta shifts about as though he can’t get comfortable. Luisa wonders if his clothes might be a size too small. He seems older than Nikola — thirties, even? His eyebrows sit heavily and his thick beard curls around his chin and mouth.

  Luisa pulls Bex over to a quieter spot on the street. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I can pay, honestly.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t be a ditz. It’s a no-brainer,’ says Bex. ‘Why waste our money? We should be grateful. I don’t want to piss them around.’

  Nikola and Kosta are staring and Luisa gives them a cheery wave, still feeling torn. This is the kind of experience she’s been wanting, but she would feel more comfortable going to the home of two strange women.

  ‘Come on. It’ll be fun,’ says Bex. Luisa thinks this will be another one of those times when she’ll look back and kick herself for hesitating. ‘We’ve struck it lucky. At least it’ll be a cheap night.’

  Bex grabs Luisa’s hand and pulls her back to the car. Mum’s back in Luisa’s head: Life’s for the living, tears are for the dead people. Bex is right. Why would they spend a fortune staying at that horrible hotel? It’s a no-brainer.

  All the same, when Nikola instructs them to leave their packs beside the car, Luisa watches closely as he loads their packs into the boot. All their worldly possessions are inside and without them they’ll be snails minus their shells. She clambers into the back seat behind Bex, scrunching her nose at the pong of stale cigarettes. The fawn-coloured lining is fuzzed with layers of grime and they perch either side of a slit running down the middle of the back seat. The sagging brown vinyl exposes stained foam and springs. Nikola turns and gives them the thumbs-up as the car takes off, the engine sounding like gunshot.

  Nikola gives a running commentary on the local landmarks but Luisa can’t concentrate. Outside, ramshackle fences built from sticks or wooden posts divide the land. Sunflowers are jammed against corn and cabbage fields, and towers of watermelons are stacked outside makeshift stalls. The mountains behind everything form a stark backdrop, some capped with snow. Luisa wonders how far out of town Kosta’s family live. How much time they should allow in the morning for the bus. Nikola has turned his attention to Kosta and they are talking non-stop. Luisa wishes she could understand, but the dialect is so different.

  ‘Amazing,’ Bex says, turning back from the window. ‘I didn’t imagine it would look so different from Greece. It’s obvious we’re in another country. Your country.’ She slaps Luisa’s thigh. ‘Exciting, eh?’

  Luisa forces a smile. She knows Bex is trying to get her to relax but it’s hard to dampen her disappointment. Even though it’s well after five p.m. people are still toiling, some bent low slashing sickles, others standing behind cumbersome ploughs. Groups of women struggle along the side of the road with loads of firewood strapped high on their backs. They straighten to glance at the car then lower their heads and trudge on. Surely these woman are too old for this type of work? They all look like grandmothers. If Baba Marta was alive, she would be getting dinner ready at this time of day.

  Maybe she’s got Yugoslavia all wrong? New Zealand seems so full of hope in comparison. It makes more sense now why so many Dally families send their hard-earned cash back home, often going without themselves. A worrying thought catches her. Could her relatives be putting themselves under strain by having them to stay? Uncle Josip is a fisherman so probably is not a huge earner, and she is unsure whether Aunt Mare works. Her family would never be considered well-off but from what she’s seen today, and through Greece and Turkey, she has a new perspective. For the first time in months, she feels a pang of homesickness. It’s as though all the colour has bled out of the pictures she’s been carrying in her head.

  Nikola turns and claps his hands, pointing to a gap in a tall hedge. They pull into a gravel driveway curling around in front of a white clay farmhouse and Nikola instructs them to wait by the car. The row of trees cast long shadows and Luisa leans against the car, wrapping her arms tight across her chest, watching as Nikola and Kosta head off towards the house. Bex busies herself pulling their packs from the boot, dumping them down and snorting with laughter as clouds of dust explode.

  ‘Check your arse,’ Bex says, as Luisa goes to help. ‘Car’s not the only thing needing a wash.’

  It feels cathartic to laugh, but Luisa clamps her mouth shut at the sound of footsteps rounding the corner of the house. Kosta and Nikola stride out in front of four women in plain black dresses. Nuns minus their headgear, Luisa thinks, as the women draw close. Maybe headscarves are an accessory for town? Whatever the reason, she is relieved Nikola wasn’t lying. Kosta tugs at the sleeve of the stout, older lady and pulls her forward. Her hair is beautiful, snowy white and caught behind in a neat bun. If they hadn’t just been in Bitola, Luisa could have been fooled into thinking she had just stepped out of a hair salon.

  ‘Please. My mama, and my sisters,’ Kosta says, sweeping his hand to indicate the three younger women, a clique of twittering birds hanging behind.

  Kosta’s mother is a similar height to Bex. She takes her hand. ‘Welcome,’ she says.

  The sisters look to be close in age to Luisa and Bex. They are taller than their mother but still a head shorter than Luisa. One wears her jet-black hair loose while the others have theirs pulled into ponytails. It’s obvious they’re sisters — same almond eyes, same sharp noses. She glances at Kosta, checking for the resemblance, but she can’t see past his facial hair.

  Kosta’s mother drops Bex’s hand and turns to Luisa. ‘Welcome,’ she says and her hand is a mixture of soft and sandpaper. ‘Come.’ She gestures towards the house.

  Luisa reaches down for her pack.

  ‘No! No!’ The sisters flap and squawk, pointing at the men.

  Kosta’s mother herds Luisa and Bex into a dimly lit room. There’s a slight musty smell and the festival of lace reminds Luisa of Baba Marta — the crocheted doilies on the coffee table, the elaborate curtaining on the windows behind. A grandfather clock ticks loudly in the corner, the dark walnut veneer polished to a high sheen. Kosta’s mother gestures towards the plump sofa.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ says Luisa, conscious that she’s gushing.

  For a moment, Kosta’s mum seems stuck in the spotlight, then someone calls from

  another room. She turns and marches off, barking orders, the gruff sounds seeming at odds with the mild-mannered woman who’s just been with them.

  Luisa and Bex perch either end of the couch. Somehow it feels wrong to talk. Luisa fingers the stuffing oozing from the rolled arm rests and runs her hand across the seat. The fabric is beautiful: pale hydrangeas on a worn linen weave.

  ‘Nailed it this time,’ whispers Bex. ‘What a privilege.’

  Luisa eases further back into the deep seat and closes her eyes. There’s so much she doesn’t know about Mum growing up here. She would often say, You don’t know how good you’ve got it in Nova Zelanda, but Luisa never appreciated what she meant, never bothered to ask. She feels guilty. Travelling has shone a light on what Mum must have glossed over: the stories of her childhood, spending time at a refugee camp, growing up under a new Communist regime. Mum focused on the positives, but Luisa’s certain there must have been hard times. Perhaps her mother’s life wasn’t too dissimilar to the lives of the women they’ve seen?

  ‘Come! Come! No sleeping time.’ Nikola startles her when he enters the room and crashes into one of the low-slung chairs opposite the sofa.

  Kosta is there too, thrusting a pack of cigarettes in their faces. He shrugs as though mildly disapproving when they decline, then heaves into the chair beside Nikola, leaning over to offer him a cigarette and lighting it from his own. His chair sags as he reclines further back. The buttons on his checkered shirt strain against the mound of his stomach. He pulls hard on his cigarette and it seems that he’s trying t
o hook his sandals under the rim of the coffee table. When he stretches again he succeeds. Now he’s a convex banana, incongruous alongside Nikola, who is stretched out, relaxed. Kosta’s trouser legs have crept up and cling to his thick calves. Luisa dares to glance at Bex. She’s smiling too and Luisa’s laugh erupts like an explosion.

  The women file in carrying plates of food. Kosta’s mother carries a glass bottle filled with a strawberry-coloured liquid she pours into tall glasses. Luisa searches the older woman’s face. Surely she wouldn’t be plying them with alcohol? She takes a sip but can’t work out the flavour that’s like summer with a sharp tang.

  ‘Her special,’ Nikola says. ‘From the cherry tree.’

  ‘Yum! Delicious,’ says Luisa, raising her glass. Kosta’s mother claps her hands as though delighted.

  The sister who looks the youngest sidles close to Bex. Nikola beckons her over and she whispers in his ear. ‘She wonders to touch your hair. It’s okay?’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Sure. Wish I’d washed it though,’ says Bex.

  Soon all three sisters are alongside Bex, touching her smooth blonde bob. ‘So soft. So white,’ Nikola translates.

  ‘You want to see?’ Luisa says, noticing one of the sisters staring at the gold locket Mum handed down to her on her eighteenth birthday. The sisters crowd around but before she can show them the enclosed photo of Mum as a child, Bex retches and whips her hand up to cover her mouth. Luisa slides her glass towards Bex who snatches it up, sipping quietly, her face colouring. Kosta’s beard can’t mask his smirk.

  ‘That feta,’ Bex mouths. Luisa’s not surprised — it’s the most pungent cheese she’s ever tasted.

  Kosta’s mother bustles back through the door and motions for her daughters to gather around her. Kosta extracts himself from the coffee table to join them. They speak in hushed tones, then all four women wave goodbye and file from the room. Luisa glances towards the grandfather clock. It’s close to seven p.m. She looks to Nikola for an explanation.

  ‘They go to work,’ he says. ‘Back at midnight.’