Shabela leapt forward but the other
Indo got up and was standing behind his friend with the knife that pointed
quietly in our direction. We didn’t
move. They walked slowly backwards, staring at us, keeping us at distance by
wielding the blade from side to side. When they saw there was enough distance
between us, they ran away very quickly. We remained pinned there under rain
that had suddenly started to pour; steam
rose from the rocks like from a pan of water.
Iskra was holding his arm that dripped with blood. Shabela immediately told us there was a doctor
up on the ridge that spent every Sunday there. Shabela wanted to go to him
right away. Every time Iskra tried to speak, blood from the gash in his mouth
formed a little stream of spittle that ran down the side of his bottom lip. We
held him up and went back to the house as quickly as possible. When we got
there, Iskra said that the injuries were superficial but that he would go to
see the doctor anyway.
He left with Shabela and I stayed behind with Mo to
explain what had happened. Shabela’s wife started crying and Mo started to cry
as well, but I told them to fucking shut up. They were as bad as old Srino and
his missing bird.
Srino lives in a room in our building with his parrot. He hates it and
the bird hates him. They are both scaly with age and wear, just like any couple
who get to be like one another. One day the bird goes missing, hops out of its
open cage at the fairground and goes free. It could hardly walk let alone fly.
The sun would kill it. Did it just want to get away from him or the labyrinth
of its life around its owner; whatever way Old Srino is devastated. I drew on
my cigarette. Maybe the bird just took a chance. The cage was always open for
him. That day he might have thought, ‘this is the time I get a chance to go
free.’
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