The Good Life Elsewhere by Vladimir Lorchenkov

Author:Vladimir Lorchenkov [Lorchenkov, Vladimir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939931009
Publisher: New Vessel Press
Published: 2014-02-18T00:00:00+00:00

20

“KEEP IN MIND, SONNY BOY, WHAT PEOPLE SAY ABOUT Italy. There once was a pretty young girl who lived in these parts. She went by the name Persephona.” Octavian was copying down the words of the peasant, who’d grown quite fond of the boy. Octavian was the spitting image of the old man’s grandson.

“Persephone,” corrected Octavian. “With an “e” at the end.”

“Persephona,” asserted the elder reproachfully. “It’s a she, not a he. But listen. She lived without a care in the world, she didn’t want for anything because her mother and father had what to live on. I mean, they were lifted up and placed on high by the communist powers. They were leaders of the collective farm and for sixteen years their daughter never lifted a finger. If she ever carried water into the house, it was the morning dew in her hair … ”

“Oh!” Octavian admired this flourish in the old man’s speech. “Can you repeat that so I can copy it down accurately?”

“And if she ever carried water into the house, it was the morning dew in her hair,” repeated the old man with pleasure. He’d read this turn of phrase in a literary journal once, the complete set of which was collecting dust in his basement. “Her last name was Demetrescu.”

“What was that?” The student couldn’t believe his own luck. “Demeter?”

“What the hell kind of Demeter?” the man said angrily. “Demetrescu was her name! Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” jabbered the student. “I’m sorry, I’m writing it down.”

The peasant spun his yarn: “Well, when the Soviets left, the village began to live poorly, and Italy slowly started looking attractive to people. Nearly half the village left. And our Persephona herself was almost ready to go to Italy, but her mother, the Old Mrs. Demetrescu, wouldn’t let her.”

“She was afraid?”

“And how! Not a soul who’d gone to Italy had ever come back! And so Persephona Demetrescu cried for a year, then she cried for another year, because there were no suitable men left in the village. Whoever wasn’t working in Italy had taken to drink, and whoever takes to drink would rather roll around with a barrel than a bride.”

Breathing heavily, the old man reflected with pride on his “rather roll around with a barrel than a bride” – a phrase of his own invention. The student, holding his breath, looked at the peasant. Octavian figured he was thinking about Persephona Demetrescu.

The peasant continued: “As it happens, there arrived in these parts a representative from a tourism agency that exported our people to Italy. I reckon the company is still operating today. And the last name of that gentleman was Plutonescu.”

“Pluto!” Octavian slapped his knee. “Absolutely, one hundred percent Pluto!”

“Plutonescu,” the peasant corrected him angrily. “If you mean to listen, then listen! So this comrade looks at Persephona Demetrescu and loses his head over her. He starts in on offers to her parents: ‘Let your daughter come with me to Italy,’ he says, ‘I’ll set her up as a housekeeper, she’ll make a thousand euros a month.

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