Once upon a time. Once upon a time there were Sundays when families gathered in front of the house, under the linden tree. From the guestroom the men would bring out one of the tables, turning it around among themselves, discussing where it would stand balanced and level and how to avoid the swellings in the concrete made by the roots of the old linden tree, reaching to the sky. In a circle, around them, stood women, shifting occasionally so as not to be unwittingly shoved, calling out advice and looking back from time to time towards the children’s cries coming from a distant orchard.

In the meantime the sky was turning whiter and whiter; the blue colour was becoming hardly visible, just like the colour of faded linen. The great-grandmother stood in the kitchen window, leaning on her elbows, and, as a general during a parade, expedited the setting up of the table, handing to her daughters-in-law a clean oilcloth that was used only on such Sundays.

After the table had finally been put in its proper place, and the heart-shaped shadows of linden leaves rested upon it, the dinner, steaming as if coming straight from hell, would be brought from the kitchen while mothers were smartening up the children, washing their hands and faces at the nearby garden tap. They wiped them with their skirts and dresses trying not to wait for the only towel – all so as not to let the food on the table go cold.

The day was shifting to its still hotter side; clattering of spoons against the plates was heard from the table, as were sighs, and brief questions and even briefer answers. Golden shadows danced in the wine which the Sun probed with its fingers. At the far end of the table, where the children sat, giggles could be heard from time to time, stopped cold by mothers’ frowns or only by a quick wave of the hand. Before the ice-cold watermelon was taken out of the well, most of the children had already started nodding their heads, cheeks burning, and eyes hardly kept open.

Into a cool room, the one where the bed linen, tablecloths, gift towels, and everything else that was not used every day was kept, children were brought, and lined up one next to the other across the old, tall, double bed that the great-grandmother had long ago brought as her dowry.

A thin, shabby blanket would be hung over the window, and under it only the little skirt of lace curtain would show. Soon, only the deep breathing of the sleepers and squeaking of the tired bedsprings in the mattress could be heard from the room.

Outside, the day was silent, tired from the heat. Not a sound could be heard anywhere; leaves and grass never moved, as if waiting for the Sun to finally give up. The dust lay on the village road as if it were much heavier than it really was. Only the fragrance of chamomiles, growing between the ruts, floated above it, sad and warm as if coming from the bosom.

Then, simply out of nowhere, a breath of air appeared, quick and even chilly. Darting down the road, it shook the undergrowth, raised the dust, wrapped the skirts around legs, awakened the hens in the shade and made them yawn as if thirsty. Stunned, silence and heat retreated; if they could they would have crossed themselves in awe because of its rushing around in a low run, totally inappropriately for its title of wind. If winds had children, it would be one.

For there in the grandmother’s room, the little knitted skirt of the curtain swayed. Above the sleeping children’s heads that looked like small melons, one head rose, hair tousled, eyes wide open and lips ready to laugh. The child took in deeply a gulp of wind that was already swaying the dry little bunch of basil hanging on the wall, having kicked down the old picture and tickled the legs of the old table for slava, the patron saint’s feast day. Instead of the old table, the child laughed, for no reason, happy and awake. Children’s laughter was heard from the room, the patter of feet, and mothers ran to them, and men were startled as if from sleep, turning and looking around.

The wind ran through the house door left open, darted back onto the road, shook the offended nettles and vanished – leaving behind the meaning of its name he would readily lend to any child who would not make peace with peace and quiet, the name that brings breath and laughter – Nemirac*.

 

 

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*Nemirac – Restless, m., adj., colloq.