Since Mamaie was one of Mrs. Ursu’s closest friends, that night she helped with the wake preparations. They washed the butcher’s body and dressed him. They left a bowl of water at his feet so his spirit could bathe. They put a candle and a coin in his hands to light his way and pay for his boat ride into the next world. Inside the house, they turned all the mirrors and clocks toward the wall. They opened the windows and doors and laid the dead butcher on the kitchen table.
For two nights the Ursu family would have to stay up to keep watch, because if an animal got inside and walked under the body, it might become possessed with his soul. And of course, if he wasn’t properly guarded, there was also a chance Mr. Ursu could turn into a strigoi mort and haunt the family forever.
Early the next morning, old women holding candles faced east and sang the “Song of the Dawn,” begging the sun to rise slowly. Villagers brought Mrs. Ursu food and wine, and that night Mamaie and Tataie took me down to pay our respects. I froze at the little gate outside the garden. I’d never seen a dead body before. Not even my bunica or bunicu. And the truth is, I was frightened. Though I told stories about ghosts and death all the time, the reality was that they scared me.
“Do you want to go back?” my grandfather asked, noting the look on my face.
Mamaie put a firm hand on my shoulder and led me toward the door before I could say yes.
The light inside was brighter than I’d expected. It was late, so only a handful of people were there, family and very close friends. I tried not to look at Mr. Ursu. Instead I went and stood by one of the girls from school, his great-niece, hoping I could think of something kind to say.
“I’m sorry,” I finally muttered, which I knew was maybe worse than staying quiet.
She just stared, not really looking at me, not really in the same room.
Tataie kept in a corner, nodding as another man talked. Mamaie stood with Mrs. Ursu, who would not leave her husband’s body alone. She kept stroking his hand. She kept kissing his cheeks. I couldn’t hear anything in my head except for her wail. Anxiety filled me up like a house in a flood taking on water. I thought about my uncle and father and mother. I thought about all the things that I feared—all the things out of my control.
Mrs. Ursu kept putting her face near her husband’s, and Mamaie kept pulling her back.
“Don’t let your tears fall on him or you’ll drown his soul,” my grandmother whispered.
And then I spotted a radio tucked behind a chair—a small, portable radio, the one the butcher sometimes took into his shop—and I pictured my mother leaning over the counter to change the station when he wasn’t looking.
“She thought I didn’t see her,” Mr. Ursu had told me, winking. “Wasn’t always smart, letting her play the music she liked, but it made life a bit better, listening to her sing. Such a wonderful voice.”
I walked out of the room. I walked right out of the house.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
But when I heard the door open, I turned—and I saw straight through to the kitchen, straight through to the table, where someone stepped out of the way. I looked right at the butcher’s body. His skin was waxy and swollen and fake. My head filled with air.
“That was very rude,” Mamaie scolded, catching up after I was well down the street. Tataie hobbled behind. “If you were ready to leave, you should have told Mrs. Ursu good-bye.”
While we walked back through the town and up the hill in the dark, my grandmother talked about all the things that still had to be done.
There was a sweet bread and a boiled wheat-grain dish to make.
There was a branch to decorate with dried fruit.
There were crowns of flowers to prepare for the grave.
The funeral, to take place on the third day before sunset, would happen in a neighboring village, since we didn’t have a church in our own. We would have to carry the body on our shoulders and drape towels over our arms. We would have to halt at least three times on the way, passing special items across the top of the coffin. If we came to any bridges, we would need to be sure to lay down cloth for the whole procession to walk over. Mr. Ursu had to enter the church before anyone else. He had to be placed right in the center. And when the burial was done and we left, we could not forget to wash our hands at the cemetery. We could not forget to walk home taking a different route than we’d come.
Then, of course, were the forty days after death, all with their own items and lamentations and rituals.
My head spun again, as the first flurries of the year fluttered down from the dark sky above.
“Mamaie,” I said, “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can remember all this.”
I started to cry.
Tataie stopped and reached down to comfort me, but my grandmother waved him away. She took my hand and kept walking. She held her head high and her eyes straight ahead.
“Then write it in your notebook,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “Someone has to remember. How else can we keep the world from falling apart?”
I caught my breath, swallowed, and stuck out my chin.
Mamaie and the Evil Box
There once was a small village down below the mountains, near the train station at the end of the world. In that village lived a family of shoemakers with three beautiful daughters. Though the oldest daughter was certainly more beautiful than any other girl for many hundreds of miles, the middle daughter was even more beautiful than her, and the youngest daughter was more beautiful than both her sisters. In fact the youngest daughter was so beautiful that long before she’d come of age, she’d already been proposed to dozens of times. Her wild dark hair and big eyes were striking enough to make anyone stop and take a second look.
Much later in life, though she hardly could have known, the youngest daughter would grow up and grow old and have a daughter of her own, twice as lovely as her. And someday that daughter would have me, not even half as pretty as the eldest sister. I, of course, would never have any daughters at all, except for my stories, which—much like girls—should never be judged by their looks.
In her youth, my mamaie did not think about daughters. She did not think about sons, either. Or boys in general. Or anything much except her embroidery and weaving, which she practiced every day. So when Mamaie came of age to be wed, she turned down every suitor who knocked at her door. Her eldest sister was married, then her middle sister, and Mamaie’s parents started to fret. By the approach of her twentieth birthday, they were downright terrified.
“She’ll never be married,” they mourned. “She’ll be an old maid.”
It was around this same time that the first Roma family moved into Mamaie’s village. Unfortunately, the other villagers weren’t always nice to those who seemed different, and rumors started to spread that one young unmarried woman practiced magic. Mamaie didn’t believe a bit in superstitions or spells, but the other villagers were so frightened of the Roma girl that finally she just had to meet her for herself.
When she arrived at the little house, the woman greeted her in the doorway.
“Is it true you read fortunes?” asked Mamaie.
The woman nodded, her dark hair bound under a red scarf. She wasn’t at all like the villagers had said. Not ugly. Not tall. Not hunched or foul-smelling or with eyes like a serpent. She was rather unremarkable, in fact: somewhat thin, with a round nose and a long, tattered skirt.
Mamaie offered some coins. “If you read my fortune, I’ll pay you.”
The woman hesitated but took the money and led her inside. My mamaie was brought to a quaint little table by the stove, and when she sat, she placed her bag on the floor.
The Roma woman picked it right up and put it on the table.
“Never do that,” she explained, “or someday you’ll be poor.”
Mamaie hid a smirk under her hand.
While the cards were being sorted before her, my grandmother sipped coffee—a rare treat, even though it was thin
as water—and noted an unusual feeling. It was as if she were becoming reacquainted with somewhere familiar. Mamaie’s eyes wandered to a plucked chicken, to a cloth filled with sheep’s cheese hanging from the ceiling. Whey dripped rhythmically into a wooden bucket below. And then she noticed the half-finished embroidered vest draped over a chair near the wall.
What intricate, colorful patterns!
Where had the Roma woman found such fine thread?
How did she work with such tiny designs?
My grandmother started to chatter, talking tools of the trade, talking projects, asking if she might see other work. The Roma woman loosened and smiled, chatting back. The cards were forgotten between them. Before either realized, two hours had passed, long after Mamaie was expected for supper.
“It’s been just lovely,” my grandmother said, setting down her empty cup, “but I really should be getting back home.”
“I didn’t tell you your fortune,” the Roma woman replied.
“Oh, no trouble. I know it’s only a trick.”
The woman’s brow lowered. Her mouth puckered into a frown. “And here we were getting along.”
“Don’t try to convince me you believe it.” Mamaie laughed. “There’s no reason for secrets between friends. We all have to survive. I understand.”
The Roma woman slid Mamaie’s coins back across the table. “Keep your money and get out of my house.”
“Now you’re just being silly. Fine, then. Tell me my fortune.”
There was a long moment of staring—all the mirth gone from the room—but then, finally, the Roma woman looked down at the cards. Her eyes narrowed. She took Mamaie’s coffee cup and swirled the sediment around and around before turning it upside down on the table. Then she picked it back up and peered inside, eyes narrowing further. She looked at my grandmother.
“Let me guess,” said Mamaie. “Soon I will meet a wonderful man and get married?”
“Yes,” said the Roma woman, “but there’s something else.”
Mamaie rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. However, in the pit of her stomach was a knot.
“Can you feel it?” asked the woman. “The connection between us? There’s a reason you came through my door. One day—I cannot say when—but one day great tragedy will befall you. Heed the signs. Send for me when they’re clear. And trust me when I arrive. More than your life will depend on it.”
Mamaie tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. It felt like someone was squeezing all the air from her chest. She stood up at once, gathered her things, and left without even saying good-bye.
Days passed. Then months. And my mamaie mostly forgot the premonition. Her parents continued to pester her about getting married, and after a while longer the idea sounded tolerable. In fact she’d become rather lonely. With her sisters both gone, there was no one to talk to while she worked the loom or stitched pinpoint flowers. She told herself that this was the reason she’d chatted with the Roma woman—this was why she’d felt so comfortable inside her home. She was craving a friend. Nothing more.
Not long after that, Tataie came into town. He’d traveled from his village in the mountains looking for someone who might help him fix up an old cottage he’d inherited. Tataie was older than my mamaie by more than a decade, something her parents would find most appropriate. He was also quite handsome, in a worn, unconventional way. The marks of the war were in his words, his demeanor, a ragged scar on his forearm. They were in the muscles that still lingered at his shoulders, his legs, and his broad chest.
And though since he’d returned home, Tataie had never again seen the world through the same eyes—though he had very much planned to live alone in his cottage till he lost the life he’d bought with three silver coins—at the sight of Mamaie’s beauty he found himself unable to look away.
They became fast friends. And for two years they traveled up and down the mountains to meet, to have lunch, to chat and share news.
Mamaie liked that Tataie preferred goats to most people. She liked that he listened more than he talked, that he thought hard about the words he would say, always giving straight, simple answers. She liked how carefree he looked when he took out his fiddle—how his laugh rumbled before breaking, unexpected and rare.
Tataie liked that Mamaie didn’t want to get married, even though he had begun to think that he did. He liked that she was always speaking her mind and giving advice, whether people would heed her or no. He admired her embroidery and weaving, often bringing tunics for her to decorate, or orders for pillows and blankets. He was her first and best customer, paying much more for her work than was fair.
When they finally agreed that it would be more convenient to marry—no more traveling up and down mountains to meet—Mamaie’s parents nearly died from relief. The ceremony was plain and quiet, and they moved into his cottage right after. It wasn’t long till my young grandmother was round and glowing, soon to give birth to my mother.
In the last three months of her pregnancy, life seemed perfect.
If Mamaie had read stories, she would have realized that things were about to go horribly wrong.
At first the signs would have been easy to miss, even for someone quite careful. A twitching left eye. A tickling nose. A crow landing on the front porch.
But then came strange animal calls from the forest. Then came the storm that took part of the roof. Mamaie remembered then what the Roma woman had told her, but still she did not heed the warnings. It wasn’t long before the goats and the well had gone dry. Soon after that, wolves got half of the chickens, and the crops in the field where Tataie worked rotted in mushy brown rows.
Finally, my grandmother began to have pains—sharp pains, staggering pains—far too soon. The village midwife was no help beyond recognizing the danger.
One morning, while Tataie was away, searching desperately down the mountains for a doctor, a knock came at the cottage door.
“Be off with you,” Mamaie called.
“Please,” replied a voice. “I’m starving. Haven’t you got any food?”
Mamaie knew they hardly had any to spare, but she hated the thought of someone hungry, so she crossed the room, bracing herself with the wall, and opened the door. A Roma woman stood on her porch, head wrapped tight with a scarf. Though it had been years since their meeting, Mamaie recognized her at once.
“You,” she breathed.
The woman’s eyes widened. “So this is the way that fate tied us.”
Mamaie snatched some bread from the cupboard and pushed it into the Roma woman’s hands. “Take this and go. I have no need for your fortunes.”
But the woman wouldn’t stop staring, eyes tracing Mamaie’s taut belly, her pained expression, the skinny goats in their pen, the damaged roof.
“You’re in trouble,” she said.
“Anyone with sight could tell,” said Mamaie. “But there’s nothing you can do.”
“Why haven’t you heeded the signs?” asked the Roma woman. “Why haven’t you sent for me?”
Mamaie snorted, then grimaced. “To spare myself exactly this nonsense.”
The woman shook her head, gaze narrowing. “Trust me now, like I warned. It’s clear as day you’ve been cursed.”
Mamaie laughed out of spite, then slammed the door closed in her face. But the Roma woman refused to be off. She stood there pounding and pacing and causing a racket. Finally, unable to rest, my young grandmother swung the door back open.
“What can I do to get you to leave?” she asked.
“Let me help. That’s all. Then I’ll go.”
So Mamaie followed the Roma woman out into the yard, where they walked to the back of the house. The woman closed her eyes and knelt to the ground, touched the grass, then scraped the hard-packed dirt by the back wall with her nails.
“A shovel,” she said. “Where can I find one?”
Mamaie told her, and when the woman returned, she started digging at once. Hard. Fast. She was strong. The late afternoon sun san
k over the trees. The shadows grew long and dark. When the hole was big enough, the Roma woman crawled inside, reaching deep, deep under the foundation of the house. She called for Mamaie to pull her back out and emerged with a large, dirty wooden box in her arms. Purple and black markings were painted all over, from bottom to top. The lid was held shut with rusted, bent nails.
“What is it?” Mamaie asked, quite surprised.
“Evil,” replied the woman.
For the first time, Mamaie felt frightened. She told herself that she still didn’t believe. But the box had been deep under the house, so deep that it must have been buried before the cottage was built, decades and decades and decades ago. It made no sense that the Roma woman would have known it was there. Slowly Mamaie reached out to touch the half-rotted lid, but a pain struck like lightning through her womb, and she wrenched away. The other woman pried the box open with a tool, and together they peered inside.
Mamaie’s eyes widened. The Roma woman’s face tightened in terror.
Herbs, bundled and burned. Dark stains and scratches, as if something had clawed, trying to get out. Shriveled, rotten black pieces of what might have been flesh long ago.
And bones. Small bones. So many. Mamaie tried to convince herself they belonged to a bird. To a rabbit. A cat.
“Why would someone do this?” Mamaie asked, her voice shaking.
The Roma woman pursed her lips. “People hurt other people for all sorts of reasons. The best we can do is stay watchful—keep our eyes open to protect those we care for.”
Lifting her head high, Mamaie said, “Tell me how I can fix this.”
That evening, as the last light faded from the sky, Mamaie brought the Roma woman a chicken and cut off its head. Its body shuddered and blood speckled the grass, painting the bones in the box. My grandmother held the animal as still as she could, keeping its wings tight together, and as the corpse drained, the Roma woman chanted, swaying and singing. In the dark they burned the box and the dead hen, then filled the hole under the house.
The Story That Cannot Be Told Page 14
