Chernobyl. Ilinda Markova
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9
IN THE BEGINNING FOR each one of the children there was the defining smell of mother. A smell, which cascaded into the tiny nostrils to fill his entire being and the whole surrounding world, as if the nostrils were little trunks, which sucked the warm, damp smell of something that belonged to him by birth, something, which no one could take away from him. Because a mother was such a possession, something only yours.
Forever.
Why that forever appeared so short and elusive he didn’t know.
One day he woke and his nostrils were no longer sucking the warm and reassuring smell of mother. He wasn’t immediately worried because that had happened before, as yellow mucus collected in his little nose blocking the nostrils, later his mother had cleaned it away with a little cotton ball on a match stick and had dabbed them with something which smelt of the mint sweets which later he would love so much. The mint sweets, or as they were called “small onion heads”, were the simple and affordable sweets on the scarce market. This time the smell of mother had completely vanished and he cried so much that a lump appeared in his groin. Soon he was pronounced Chernobyl sick and sent to live by the lake in the shabby collapsing building with many other children. It could have been fun if it wasn’t for the missing smell of a mother. At least they had allowed his favourite Teddy Bear to accompany him.
In that first home all the children were trying to find and grasp again the lost smell, nothing else existed for them. This smell appeared to be different for each child. Sometimes in the evenings, when the women who looked after them left for dinner taking the choicest portion from the children’s table, they gathered in front of an old black and white TV and each child was telling about that vague memory. No one remembered a face, or a name, just the smell. Some child would say that the smell reminded him of a young apple tree where the bark was eaten by rabbits; another - of soap floating in Sweppes; a third - of a cat just given birth to kittens; a forth - of cough syrup; a fifth - of a plate. Here everyone would interrupt him and say that a plate has no smell, but the child would look at them with cunning eyes and ask:
“And when you put beans on it, has the plate no smell then?”
The children looked at each other and the cleverest said, “There is, there is, but only of beans, so then why don’t you say that the smell of your mother is the smell of beans.”
“Because it’s not. If you fill the plate with rice, then what’s the smell of it?”
“Of rice,” the children answered in choir.
“And if you fill it with quince jam?”
“Of quince.”
“And with eggplants or pastry, with stew or soup?”
“Aha. We understand.” And they did.
Chapter 10
ROB WAS LOOKING AT the setting sun as the water rocked him gently.
The water caressed him only that he wouldn’t know what caress was.
He strained to hear more of the conversation between the sky and the lake but now there was only silence. He remembered the black pebble and turned on his stomach floating like a buoy with his eyes wide open. Usually he could see the bottom easily but lately the water has lost some of its transparency and looked more like the generously thinned with tap water milk they had for breakfast.
He was about to give up when the black pebble appeared under him smooth and glossy. And cheeky. This time it was not interested in the sun. It slid beneath Rob and winked as if inviting him to follow it in a new unknown play.
Chapter 11
NICOS WOKE UP SHORTLY after midnight and silently tiptoed out of the master bedroom casting a quick look at his sleeping wife. She was a strong and caring woman who had made him leave his native island of Thassos and get married in this town.
Once, in his youth, he had been a fisherman like most of the men on the island and had proudly worn his captain’s cap as it is well known, every Greek fisherman is the captain of his boat, no matter how little. The splashing of the waves used to blend with the sound of the sirtaki and deep tender women’s voices called the men to come back on shore. But the island of Thassos was at the same time a popular destination crowded with tourists and when this young Bulgarian beautiful as a siren had appeared, Nikos forgot everything else in the world. His southern blood boiled like young wine and on the tenth day of her stay, nights spent on Nikos’s boat, he simply didn’t let her go home alone. His father cursed him for leaving the land of the Olympic Gods but his sister decorated them with orange blossom wreaths.
Nikos started a new life to the north of the mountain of Olympus. In the beginning he continued his trade and was doing some good fishing in the lake for sale and to provide for his young family until a neighbour sold him his bakery at a bargain. Since then Nikos began to knead bread and sweet rolls for the town. His crown success was with the savoury chicken and mushrooms pies which quickly finished.
His wife helped him, years after, his two sons helped him too. The whole family went to bed early, with the hens, as they used to say here, and got up early, around three o’clock so as to manage with the bread for all their customers, because, as Nikos proudly said, man could do without everything but bread. This night, however, he decided to remember his youth on the island of Thassos and catch some fish, perhaps even sing some Greek songs in the middle of the lake. As he hadn’t used the boat for a while he checked the bottom, then started the engine and in no time he was unzipping the water surface.
The moon was bright and when Nikos turned the engine off, in the silence it seemed to him that he had gone back in time and the boat was an island and he was its only inhabitant but at the same time its captain because he had found his old captain’s cap.
Nicos was going to fish for two to three hours so as to comfort his heart because lately the rolls somehow resembled cleaned scaleless pieces of fish on their way to the frying pan.
Nicos unfolded a small fishing net, positioned two fishing lines and waited. He took out his Greek cigarettes, Karelia Agriniou, saved for occasions like this one. His wife was jealous of everything that was Greek, so he could smoke it here, inhaling the familiar rich smoke. Soon he began singing Ta Matia, Your Eyes, and quite frankly he was thinking of a Greek girl whose eyes years ago had given him so many promises.
Nicos waited for an hour and pulled the net. The catch was good and he tried again. Again he stood there silent, carried back to the past and to the eyes of a young girl, his first love, which he had betrayed for the beauty of his future wife now still in their warm bed.
Suddenly Nicos decided to go home.
He spat the cigarette out and bent over to pull the net in. It was then that some strange power got hold of him and abruptly pulled him down into the cold night water. Born and raised by the sea Nikos was a good diver so he wasn’t immediately scared.
Fear came later when he realised that he was never to see his wife and children again. He was still kicking but that seemed to be the game of Death.
Someone was slowly, very slowly playing at killing him. Oh, ta matia, the whole world turned into two enormous eyes, eyes of a girl but also of a woman. He fought for a gulp of air, screamed and defended himself but his gut instinct told him that all was in vein. For a moment he gave way to the game, relaxed, even smiled.
Nikos wanted to know who was playing with him the nasty game and why; tossing him around, biting pieces off his body. He got caught in his own net and felt blood spurting out from the gaping wounds as if caused by a gutting knife. The taste of the water around him was different, a taste which in sea would have attracted sharks.
Was there a shark too, in this small quiet lake?
It was late for questions. Ta matia, was singing someone in a loud deafening voice, accompanied by bouzouki, whose sound bounced and reverberated in his head that turned to be a small claustrophobic space for the thundering decibels.
At