Stork Mountain Read Online Free Page A

honked. The driver had counted the ticket money, and now that all was in order, the doors swooshed closed, the exhaust pipe threw up black, cloudy vomit, and we were left alone on the square.
    â€œThere in the bus,” the old man said, his eyes glistening from the exhaust, “you kept staring. Why?”
    I said I’d taken him for someone else.
    â€œFor whom?”
    â€œMy grandfather.”
    â€œMaybe I am.”
    That was unlikely; he looked nothing like the man.
    He tossed his cigarette and the wind carried it halfway across the square. “Come with me on an errand. Then I’ll take you to his house.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy, why. For the thrill. For the adventure. Isn’t this why you all come here to the mountain? With your cameras and video recorders.”
    I realized then that the old man had started walking toward the bridge. And unconsciously I followed. I was jet-lagged, once more hungry; my head was spinning from the trip. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. Besides, which way would I go to my grandfather’s? And so I asked how long the errand would take us and if the chicken was involved.
    â€œThis chicken is a lie,” he said. “It’s for a little girl who’s very ill.” Without turning, he asked me if I believed in lies. That lies could cure. I said sure, maybe, I didn’t know. “The girl’s mother does,” he said. “She begged me to bring this chicken. Also, this chicken is a rooster and if you can’t tell that much, well then, you are a city fool.”
    I laughed. “You may be right,” I said, and I think he also laughed, but with the wind in our faces I wasn’t sure.
    The bridge vibrated at our feet and its metal ropes creaked. Below us the river rushed muddy and wide, high from rain or snow melting upstream. A cobblestone road, which the wind had swept perfectly, took us past a flock of empty houses, the likes of which I’d never seen before. Later I learned such was the Strandjan architecture—the ground floor with walls of neatly fitted stones, where back in the day the cattle slept. The floor above—a deck with walls of wide, oak-wood planks; a covered corridor encircling the rooms, a terrace, and in one corner, the privy.
    The old man led and I followed. The ancient houses alternated with modern ones—clean, lime-washed façades, shiny red-tiled roofs—and in the distance above them, thin as a knife and black with the sun behind it, the minaret of a mosque. We saw not a soul until we passed the village café. Which later I found out was also the grocery store. And the barber shop. On tables outside, men drank coffee, or lemonade from tall glass bottles. Some played backgammon, others cards. I’d never seen so many mustaches and prickly beards in one place.
    â€œ Salaam alaikum! ” someone called. “You come to sell at last?”
    The old man halted. Petting the rooster, he eyed the one who’d spoken. That man was also old. He stood in the doorframe and cleaned a glass with a towel.
    â€œAnd who’s the beardless beauty beside you?”
    â€œHis lawyer,” someone else said, and the crowd burst out laughing.
    The old man pointed to the sign above the entrance.
    â€œIt’s in Turkish,” he told me with a smirk. “It says Suleiman Pasha Café. You know why?”
    I shrugged. I suddenly felt very thirsty.
    â€œA hundred and thirty years ago, Suleiman Pasha, on his way to be spanked by the Russian army, stopped here to drink a coffee. And for a hundred and thirty years, these fools won’t shut up about it. Listen, kardash ,” he called to the man in the doorframe, “I know where Suleiman Pasha squatted after he drank your hogwash. He didn’t make it far. I’ll show you and you can write a sign.”
    A new gust of laughter stirred the bushy mustaches. The man in the doorway waved the towel like a white flag after