Bunny Men in Macedonia

 

Bunny Men in Macedonia
Tamara Lazaroff

 

On a borrowed bicycle I’m cutting through a burnt-out field. In the distance I can see two old men – one short, and one tall and lean – carrying big bunches of weeds like bouquets draped in their arms. They are walking towards me as if in slow motion. And I am moving towards them, a little faster, but not much, along the lumpy dirt path.

Finally, we are face to face. I brake. They stop and smile, showing me the remains of their poor teeth that look as if they’ve just had acid poured on them that morning before lunch. In other words, they are brown eroded sticks; pointed sabre-flint; black nervy stumps. But the old men’s eyes are kind, soft.

‘Zdravo,’ they say.

‘Zdravo,’ I say. ‘Shto pravite?’ – which means ‘what are you doing?’ as well as ‘how are you?’

The short one answers first. ‘I’m collecting food for my rabbit.’

The tall one says, ‘And I’m helping him. I’m his friend. We’re widowers. Both our wives are dead.’

‘Well, that’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes,’ they say and say.

Then the short one wants to know, ‘How ’bout you?’

I say, ‘Well, I am a student. I’m a guest here in your land. I just finished the Summer School Seminar for Macedonian Language, Literature and Culture in Ohrid.’

The tall one says, ‘Oh, yeah. I saw it on TV last night. On the news.’

‘Bravos,’ says the short one. ‘Your Macedonian is very good. Honestly, I would’ve thought you were from around here.’ He smiles with his mouth closed. Then, generously, he opens it. He’s too kind.

I am kind too.

I say, ‘I like your T-shirt.’

It’s bright yellow and announces in loud English fluorescent letters: YOUNG, SINGLE & FREE. I ask him where he got it.

‘From a shop,’ he says and shrugs.

‘His nephew bought it for him,’ the tall one informs. ‘From the old bazaar.’

I ask, ‘Did your nephew explain what the words mean?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘He doesn’t know English. He studied German at school.’

So I translate.

And one blushes.

The other sighs long.

We smile at each other some more. All of us with mouths open – tonsils, teeth, gums, throats. I look at them. They take in me. And I wonder what they are making of mine – my teeth. Do they see cemeteries? Do they see head stones, newly planted in a concrete-solid, invincible row? Or ivory cradles? I wonder – what?

‘Well, thanks for the chit-chat, dear maiden,’ says the short one. ‘It was very nice to meet you. But now we have to go.’ He indicates towards the weeds in his arms and then the path. ‘The rabbit is waiting, hungry, in his cage for us.’

‘Even the rabbit has to eat,’ the tall one asserts with a sudden solemn expression.

I nod in agreement. ‘Yes, the rabbit does.’

Of course, he does.

Of course.

I nod and nod.

And then we go our ways, me and them.

But it is really the same way. Yes it is.

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