A Spare Life by Lidija Dimkovska

Author:Lidija Dimkovska
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781931883573
Publisher: Two Lines Press
Published: 2016-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

1996

“The money’s been found,” Darko said one day, several months after Srebra joined the party. “We’re going to London.” “We’re going?” I asked, in surprise, not knowing whether “we” meant Darko was coming with us or only that Srebra and I were headed to London, the destination we had dreamed of for so long—not as tourists, but for the realization of our fate. “Yes, we’re going,” Darko said again, hugging both of us. “How could I let you go alone?” Srebra pulled me over and nestled beside him. She pulled his arms around her waist, while I stood within their embrace, restrained, motionless. “Everything’s arranged,” said Darko. “I’ve bought the tickets and have visas for you, well, not yet actually, because they wouldn’t give them to me without you there, but my father went to dinner with the British ambassador and told him the whole story. The ambassador already knew everything, though he’d already talked to the hospital in London. You have no idea the network that has been assembled for you, how many people are preparing for your operation—diplomats, doctors, and journalists, the whole world. I wanted it to be a surprise, and now we can really go. Tomorrow morning at seven o’clock.” Darko was speaking excitedly. We stared into space above his head, mouths open, our breaths intermingling. It was rare that Srebra and I smelled good to each other, but at that moment our throats, our viscera, emitted scents that were floral instead of sour. A warm bliss spread through our souls, as if some spirit (the Holy one?) had settled within us. Our hearts beat with excitement and a bit of fear, though we weren’t thinking about the fear. It seemed that our departure for London predestined success, as if the trip to London was, in and of itself, the uncomplicated separation of our heads. No, we didn’t feel the fear, uncertainty, or worry. All those feelings arrived later that afternoon, when we went to tell our parents the day had come for our trip to London and our separation. “What’s wrong with how you are?” our mother asked. “You’re risking everything for this stupidity. That operation is difficult, and no one is giving you a guarantee. But go, since you’re so obstinate.” “You know best,” our father said. “Do whatever you want. You’re not children.” We sat in the dining room—Srebra and I, on the chairs we had always pulled side by side, our father and Darko sitting across from us—while our mother stood at the head of the table, where there was no chair, because it was leaning up against the wall. Darko drank rakija and said nothing. However, after our mother and father said what they had to say and we sat in silence with our chests full of that well-known feeling of powerlessness and anger, Darko said, “They’re not children, and the time has come for them to be separated.” Then he stood up, and we stood up after him, and, I don’t know how, we said goodbye to our mother and father.

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