Baba Dunja's Last Love Read Online Free
Author: Alina Bronsky, Tim Mohr
black suit. The girl is heartbreakingly beautiful: big eyes beneath thick lashes and a mouth that promises sweet kisses. She looks fragile in the slightly too big dress thatâs not been fitted quite right. And although the contrast couldnât be more stark, I recognize immediately that the girl is Marja.
âThatâs your Alexander?â I ask.
And Marja cries more and says that she got married fifty-one years ago today.
I should have realized that Marja isnât just lazy and messy. Sheâs lazy and messy because sheâs suffering from depression. Back when I was a nurseâs assistant nobody had depression and when people killed themselves you called them insane, unless it was out of love. Later on I read in a newspaper that there was such a thing as depression, and I asked Irina about it on her last visit.
She looked at me as if she didnât want to answer at first. She wanted to know why I was asking, like it was some kind of state secret.
I told her I just wanted to know if there was anything to it. And Irina said in Germany itâs very widespread, practically like a stomach bug.
And when I look at Marja, I think maybe it sloshed across the border at some stage. Perhaps if sheâd moved back to Tschernowo earlier, she could have avoided itâif thereâs one thing that canât harm us here, it was the epidemics that sweep through the rest of the world.
Marja has told me a lot about her Alexander. Most importantly, that he beat the living daylights out of her and at some point while in a drunken stupor got run over by a tractor. She took care of him for a while after that, and he continued to curse her and to throw his caneâand whatever other heavy objects he could grabâat her from bed. A few days before the reactor he threw a radio at her and managed to hit her. The radio was totally destroyed, which made Marja so upset that she left with the liquidators and a sack of clothes without ever turning around to look at Alexander. He was discovered only after he was dead, and now sheâs reproaching herself and painting a rosy picture of her past.
Iâm of only one mind about that sort of thing: when two adults live together but have no children, they can just as well live apart. Thatâs not a marriage, thatâs just a lark.
But I keep my opinion to myself.
I thoroughly wash two of Marjaâs bowls and dry them with a dish towel that turns out to be a piece of curtain. Marja mutters to herself that Iâm wasting her water and that sheâs too weak to go to the well. I click my tongue, she needs to pipe down.
She wrenches herself out of the armchair and comes to the table. Her body is massive and the rickety dining chair groans beneath her backside. Itâs a mystery how someone can get so fat in a village where you have to either grow all your food or drag it all laboriously home from town.
I shove a bowl of chicken soup over to her.
As she takes the spoon in her hand, dunks it in the golden broth, and guides it to her lips, I suddenly see it: Marja as a young bride with a fear of the future flickering in her eyes. Her former beauty hasnât completely disappeared, itâs still here in the room like a ghost. How much easier Iâve had it my entire life: never being beautiful means never being afraid of losing your beauty. Only my feet drove men wild, and now I canât even cut my toenails. Lately Marja has helped me do it.
The goat jumps out of Marjaâs bed and comes over to us at the table. It puts its head on Marjaâs lap and peers over at me. I take a mouthful of soup, which is clear and salty like tears.
And I think to myself that Marja should never have come here. Itâs not the radiation. Itâs the peace and quiet that is so bad for her. Marja belongs in the city, where she can quarrel with the baker every morning. Since nobody here has any desire to fight with her, sheâs lost her sense of self and just
âThatâs your Alexander?â I ask.
And Marja cries more and says that she got married fifty-one years ago today.
I should have realized that Marja isnât just lazy and messy. Sheâs lazy and messy because sheâs suffering from depression. Back when I was a nurseâs assistant nobody had depression and when people killed themselves you called them insane, unless it was out of love. Later on I read in a newspaper that there was such a thing as depression, and I asked Irina about it on her last visit.
She looked at me as if she didnât want to answer at first. She wanted to know why I was asking, like it was some kind of state secret.
I told her I just wanted to know if there was anything to it. And Irina said in Germany itâs very widespread, practically like a stomach bug.
And when I look at Marja, I think maybe it sloshed across the border at some stage. Perhaps if sheâd moved back to Tschernowo earlier, she could have avoided itâif thereâs one thing that canât harm us here, it was the epidemics that sweep through the rest of the world.
Marja has told me a lot about her Alexander. Most importantly, that he beat the living daylights out of her and at some point while in a drunken stupor got run over by a tractor. She took care of him for a while after that, and he continued to curse her and to throw his caneâand whatever other heavy objects he could grabâat her from bed. A few days before the reactor he threw a radio at her and managed to hit her. The radio was totally destroyed, which made Marja so upset that she left with the liquidators and a sack of clothes without ever turning around to look at Alexander. He was discovered only after he was dead, and now sheâs reproaching herself and painting a rosy picture of her past.
Iâm of only one mind about that sort of thing: when two adults live together but have no children, they can just as well live apart. Thatâs not a marriage, thatâs just a lark.
But I keep my opinion to myself.
I thoroughly wash two of Marjaâs bowls and dry them with a dish towel that turns out to be a piece of curtain. Marja mutters to herself that Iâm wasting her water and that sheâs too weak to go to the well. I click my tongue, she needs to pipe down.
She wrenches herself out of the armchair and comes to the table. Her body is massive and the rickety dining chair groans beneath her backside. Itâs a mystery how someone can get so fat in a village where you have to either grow all your food or drag it all laboriously home from town.
I shove a bowl of chicken soup over to her.
As she takes the spoon in her hand, dunks it in the golden broth, and guides it to her lips, I suddenly see it: Marja as a young bride with a fear of the future flickering in her eyes. Her former beauty hasnât completely disappeared, itâs still here in the room like a ghost. How much easier Iâve had it my entire life: never being beautiful means never being afraid of losing your beauty. Only my feet drove men wild, and now I canât even cut my toenails. Lately Marja has helped me do it.
The goat jumps out of Marjaâs bed and comes over to us at the table. It puts its head on Marjaâs lap and peers over at me. I take a mouthful of soup, which is clear and salty like tears.
And I think to myself that Marja should never have come here. Itâs not the radiation. Itâs the peace and quiet that is so bad for her. Marja belongs in the city, where she can quarrel with the baker every morning. Since nobody here has any desire to fight with her, sheâs lost her sense of self and just
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