East of the West by Miroslav Penkov Read Free Book Online

month. I never found the courage to speak of the soldier. At night, we swam to the drowned church and played around the cross, very quiet, like river rats. And there, by the cross we kissed our first real kiss. Was it joy I felt? Or was it sadness? To hold her so close and taste her breath, her lips, to slide a finger down her neck, her shoulder, down her back. To lay my palm upon her breasts and know that someone else had done this, with force, while I had watched, tongue swallowed. Her face was silver with moonlight, her hair dripped dark with dark water.
    “Do you love me?” she said.
    “Yes. Very much,” I said. I said, “I wish we never had to leave the water.”
    “You fool,” she said, and kissed me again. “People can’t live in rivers.”
    •
    That June, two months before the new sbor , our parents found out about Boban. One evening, when I came home for supper, I discovered the whole family quiet in the yard, under the trellis. The village priest was there. The village doctor. Elitsa was weeping, her face flaming red. The priest made her kiss an iron cross and sprinkled her with holy water from an enormous copper. The doctor buckled his bag and glass rattled inside when he picked it up. He winked at me and made for the gate. On his way out, the priest gave my forehead a thrashing with the boxwood foliage.
    “What’s the matter?” I said, dripping holy water.
    Grandpa shook his head. Mother put her hand on my sister’s. “You’ve had your cry,” she said.
    “Father,” I said, “why was the doctor winking? And why did the priest bring such a large copper?”
    Father looked at me, furious. “Because your sister, Nose,” he said, “requires an Olympic pool to cleanse her.”
    “Meaning?” I said.
    “Meaning,” he said, “your sister is pregnant. Meaning,” he said, “we’ll have to get her married.”
    •
    My family, all dressed up, went to the river. On the other bank Boban’s family already waited for us. Mother had washed the collar of my shirt with sugar water so it would stay stiff, and now I felt like that sugar was running down my back in a sweaty, syrupy stream. It itched and I tried to scratch it, but Grandpa told me to quit fidgeting and act like a man. My back got itchier.
    From the other side, Boban’s father shouted at us, “We want your daughter’s hand!”
    Father took out a flask and drank rakia , then passed it around. The drink tasted bad and set my throat on fire. I coughed and Grandpa smacked my back and shook his head. Father took the flask from me and spilled some liquor on the ground for the departed. The family on the other side did the same.
    “I give you my daughter’s hand!” Father yelled. “We’ll wed them at the sbor.”
    Elitsa’s wedding was going to be the culmination of the sbor , so everyone prepared. Vera told me that with special permission Mihalaky had transported seven calves across the river, and two had already been slain for jerky. The two of us met often, secretly, by the drowned church.
    One evening, after dinner, my family gathered under the trellised vine. The grown-ups smoked and talked of the wedding. My sister and I listened and smiled at each other every time our eyes met.
    “Elitsa,” Grandma said, and lay a thick bundle on the table. “This is yours now.”
    My sister untied the bundle and her eyes teared up when she recognized Grandma’s best costume readied for the wedding. They lay each part of the dress on its own: the white hemp shirt, the motley apron, the linen gown, festoons of coins, the intricately worked silver earrings. Elitsa lifted the gown, and felt the linen between her fingers, and then began to put it on.
    “My God, child,” Mother said, “take your jeans off.”
    Without shame, for we are all blood, Elitsa folded her jeans aside and carefully slipped inside the glowing gown. Mother helped her with the shirt. Grandpa strapped on the apron, and Father, with his fingers shaking, gently put on her ears the