A Spare Life by Lidija Dimkovska Read Free Book Online

meat again, but she ate chocolate, in silence. Then her sickness went away. Surely, the fortune-tellers and seers to whom she went also had a share in it. One of them had “foretold” that the thermometer from Ohrid in the kitchen behind the door had mercury in it and was making my mother’s blood pressure drop, so it had to be changed. And that she had to drink English ivy tea. Black magic? Several times, we found rags burned black and sooty in front of our door. Who had left them there and why? Did something from that ominous magic touch us? Srebra told me, “Magic does not touch those who are descended from monkeys, it touches those who are descended from God.” I felt faint with fear.
    But that January in 1985, I just wanted the days to pass until winter break when we’d travel alone with our cousin Verče on one of the Proletariat bus company buses to the village and directly into the embrace of our grandmother. The fire blazed in the only warm room in the house; while Srebra and I sat in our grandma’s lap, Verče had already found something to amuse herself—she had pulled a lead pellet from her pocket and was sticking it into the woodstove with tongs to see if it would melt. “Tomorrow we will go into town,” our grandmother said. “We’ll see the girl your uncle wants to marry. But don’t tell your mother, she’d yell at me, asking why I took you along and brought shame to us in front of the in-laws.” “We won’t tell her,” said Srebra, but I had a gigantic lump in my throat. We could hardly wait. Grandma, Verče, Srebra, and I went to the house of the girl our uncle, our mother’s brother, was in love with so we could have a look at her. She and her sister were standing at the window—the chosen one was a brunette, her sister a blond—like a picture of angels and divine brides in heaven, although the only thing that our prospective aunt-to-be had of that image was the plump body of a woman in a baroque painting of paradise. At first, when her parents saw Srebra and me, they could not help their open mouths uttering “Oh!” Then they scowled, but, finally, her father smiled as broadly as possible. He stood behind Srebra and me and hugged the two of us, placing his hands on our breasts. He ran his hands across them, as if by accident, while we stood, stunned, looking at the tapestry hanging on the wall. His wife went out to bring some juice; Verče sat in front of the television set; our grandmother settled down next to her and looked around. When our prospective aunt appeared, her father let his hands drop from our breasts. Our cheeks burned with shame. “Were they born like this, or did it happen to them afterward?” the mother asked our grandma, pointing to us as she served the juice. “That’s how they were born; it’s fate,” our grandma said. “What’s your sign?” asked our potential aunt. “Your uncle and I have compatible horoscopes, both our signs and rising signs.” “You have beautiful, beautiful granddaughters, even if they are like that,” her father laughed again. He had a leering expression, white teeth with a few gold ones interspersed. Later, as we were waiting for ourgrandmother to put on her shoes, he passed Verče in the hallway and grabbed hold of her by the breasts, too, as if by accident, while helping her put on her coat. Verče was twelve years old and as flat as a board, but we were a year older and almost unnaturally mature, our nipples obvious under our blouses. And in all our future meetings, at the engagement party, at the wedding, at every family event connected with our uncle and aunt, her father always greeted us warmly with his firm grip, immediately throwing his arms around our necks and literally taking hold of our breasts. Srebra and I would freeze, red with embarrassment. We hated him and we hated ourselves, while his wife,