Quinces

The October night was brisk and sharp. After having a quick supper, Milena loaded the dishwasher and looked for a sweater. It was getting chilly in her house, and she didn’t feel like making a fire. Her husband was away for the second day, helping their youngest daughter and son-in-law build their new house. Therefore, Milena’s day on the farm was heavier with work than usual. But now, she felt pleased with herself. A few last chores were finished in the vegetable garden, numerous utensils finally moved back from the summer kitchen to the main house, all the animals taken care of, and metal containers with fresh milk put away in their cool storage building. Quite a day!

Milena’s farm was much larger than a typical farm in the hilly central part of Serbia. The core of it, she inherited from her parents. But during their lifetime, she and her husband, who worked both as a policeman in the nearby town and as a farmer, kept on adding to it. Although all three of their daughters were married and lived in towns now, the two of them continued to produce and sell as much as they could; they believed all their effort was still for their children.

Feeling drowsy after much outside activity, Milena threw herself down on the couch and turned on the television. She went through several channels – a soccer game, a violent movie, commercials – and quickly pressed the off button. She loved crocheting and considered it for a moment, but her hands, clumsy from toil, refused. It was still too early to go to bed, so Milena leaned back and dozed for a while, not even aware of it. Then, she suddenly remembered that she wanted to bring some cheese and kajmak* to their adjacent neighbors and relatives, Kaja and Ziko, but, in the rush of her day, forgot. Feeling reenergized, she decided to make a short visit now. Kaja and Ziko were the poorest people in the village, and Milena liked to bring them some of her own milk products occasionally. They were relatives, after all, and Milena sometimes thought that the two of them were as lean as they were because they, God forbid, didn’t have enough to eat. So she quickly prepared her offerings, threw a light coat on her shoulders, and went out.

The sharpness of the outside air evoked the approaching winter. Milena took a shortcut down the hill, through their animal yard, passing a row of farm buildings. A wood-shed smelled of sap, the stables of manure; from the hayloft came an odor of dry hay, from the open garage with farm equipment scents of machine oil and gas. Going a bit more downhill, she reached the hedges separating Kaja and Ziko’s yard from her property. She followed the hedges heading towards an entrance gate, now inhaling the wet freshness of a brook from a nearby dale. When she pulled up a wooden latch on the gate, Milena heard music, which assured her that Kaja and Ziko were not sleeping yet. She entered a yard which was flat, with a few fruit trees in front, a small house in the middle, and a big garden in the back. The music became more and more distinct, and when she approached a curtain-less-window, she saw Kaja and Ziko dancing in their kitchen.

Taken by surprise and feeling that she shouldn’t interrupt them, Milena stopped. Serbian folk dance music, with its fast, repetitive rhythm and loud trumpets that proclaim joy and carry it up and up to the sky, was coming from a transistor radio, while Kaja and Ziko danced kolo around their kitchen table. Kolo is typically danced by a group of people who, holding each other hands, make a line or an open circle, and, with a rhythmic hopping, gleefully persist in trying to overpower the force of gravity. The beauty of the dance and enjoyment of the dancers depend heavily on the skillfulness of the first person in line, the kolo leader, who moves kolo** forward and meanders with it by occasional bowing, as if he or she acknowledges an imaginable applause. The last dancer in line, called the ace, also has a challenging role since he or she has to smooth all unevenness that may occur in the middle of the line, and still follow the pace, path, and meandering of the kolo leader.

In their small kitchen, Kaja and Ziko are the only dancers. Ziko leads kolo with such posture and virtuosity that Milena can hardly recognize him. Because Ziko, as people know him, is a man shy to the extent of silliness; thus, he is always hunched over with his head bowed. But now, Ziko’s back is straight, his head is up. His free hand rests leisurely on his belt, while his feet gracefully follow the pace of the music with fast, numerous movements, as if they are knitting an invisible thread low to the ground. Ziko turns kolo around the kitchen table with a decisive bow, and then, pushing his chest forward, joyfully returns his body to a straight position. Much shorter than him, Kaja follows with big and jumpy hops, typical of a less skillful dancer. But what she loses in movements, she makes up in cheerfulness: her free hand swings with a kitchen towel and each time Ziko turns kolo with a bow, a jubilant scream comes out of her mouth: eee-ju-ju!

Towards the end of the dance, they were red in their faces and panting, but they danced until the music was over, and Ziko made a final theatrical bow. They fought for their breaths and laughed when Milena knocked at the door. It was Kaja who opened it, looking out with a flushed, radiant face and big, curious eyes.

“Aaa, Milena! Come in, come in!” she shouted, smiling with her big mouth so wide that the golden caps on her last molars shone through. She was a woman with an uncommonly alive countenance, which made her beautiful in spite of her common features.
“No, no, I don’t want to interrupt you. I just brought some cheese and kajmak for you two.”
“Aaa, thank you! But come, Milena, come! You can’t go now. Please come in,” Kaja urged.

Milena stepped into the warmth of the kitchen that had sweet, fruity smell. The transistor radio sounded too loud now, so Ziko lowered the tone. The radio show very popular among rural inhabitants, called “An Evening of Merriment,” was on.
“I saw you dancing. You two are quite jolly tonight.”
“Ooo, Kaja was persistent, ‘Let’s dance! Let’s dance!’” said Ziko apologetically, assuming again his stooping posture.
“Let’s dance, of course!” said Kaja resolutely. “When will we dance if not now, right Milena?”
“Sure, sure, don’t wait until you get old like me,” Milena replied, although the difference in age between the three was not significant.

Kaja and Ziko’s kitchen had low ceilings, white walls, and basic furniture: a table with benches on the sides, two old, solid wood-chairs, a bed neatly covered with a plain red blanket, a wood burning cook stove, and open shelves with cookware, plates and cups. There was no carpet on the plank floor, no tablecloth on the table. Nonetheless, the cleanliness of the room together with numerous wooden elements made the space pleasant. There was no place to sit down comfortably, so Milena sat on the bed and accepted a cup of herbal tea that Kaja offered. Ziko sat at the end of the table and went back to what he was doing before the dance: with his long hands, he patiently disassembled a mechanical coffee grounder that somebody gave him to repair. He was known in the village for his unusual ability to understand functioning of all things mechanical, and from time to time a rifle, a clock, a coffee grounder, or some other mechanical tool would be brought to him for repair.

“Those rose hips are excellent. Where did you get them?” asked Milena pointing at a barrel filled with the red and shiny fruit of wild-roses; they were cleaned and prepared for cooking, each little stem and blossom end cut.
“Along the road to your upper hay fields,” replied Kaja. “They are big and plentiful this year. I am going to make jelly tomorrow.”
“How come you didn’t scratch your hands on the thorns? I always do.”
“You don’t if you pull carefully and take your time. Slowly, slowly, Milena, and things get done,” said Kaja revealing her shiny molars again.
“Yes, but how many things, that‘s the question.”
“I may pick some up for you, if you want,” offered Kaja.
“No, thank you. I already made enough jellies this year, both for us and the children. I don’t like preparing rose hip jelly, anyway. It’s too involving.”
“It is. Last year, I put all the effort and then overcooked it. But we ate it anyway. I’ll bring you a jar of this one if it turns out to be good.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you, Milena,” said Ziko jokingly. “She’s young, you know. She still learns.” Kaja threw the kitchen towel on him.

Asked about her daughters, Milena talked about each of them, and about her son-in-law who was elected to a political office in Southern Serbia, and who, finally, succeeded in helping them to get their new tractor, which was paid for almost a year ago. She was ready to leave and refused Kaja’s pleading for her to stay and have roasted quinces with them. The quinces had just been pulled out of the oven; well done, bronzed and smooth, they spread their heavenly scent throughout the house. Kaja packed the two quinces in a piece of magazine paper and made Milena take them in spite of her resistance.

Outside, the sky was darker, the night thicker. While pacing quickly up the hill, Milena felt the pleasant warmth of the quinces in her pocket, and she kept on asking herself when was the last time she and her husband danced kolo together.

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*A specific Serbian bread-spread, something between butter and cream-cheese
**In Serbian language, the same word – kolo – is used both for the kind of dance and for a line of dancers performing it.