House

Tiny specks of dust are twirling on the mellow edges of a late-summer afternoon, pirouetting their delicate finery in rhythm with shuffling of feet and rustling of papers. My classmates are handing in the last week's assignment — a sketch of the floor plan of the first house we can remember.

I haven’t made the sketch.

Tash is inching closer to the lecturer’s desk, keeping her finger on the page she wants to show him. The edge of her tartan skirt is brushing the line where stockings morph into panties. I pick up my satchel and slip outside. Sun is lazing across the lawn, warming the last couple of bodies basking in it.

I have two good reasons for not making the sketch.

First, I can’t draw. Never could, not even as a kid. No matter how hard I tried, or what I wanted to draw, it always ended up looking like a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. I must have read that book too many times while too young.

Second, I don’t need to. There is only one house I remember. My grandparents’ house. The house I grew up in. Long before the war came to our street. And I’m not letting anyone in. Like I promised my grandfather. That I will keep it all safe; my grandma, our house, the quinces left to ripen on the windowsill of our kitchen window and on top of a heavy wooden wardrobe in their bedroom.

Only I didn’t. But Grandfather doesn’t know that. His heart gave in before they shelled the house, and I boarded the plane headed for the place further away than any of the stars he taught me to name on the summer sky stretched above the rooftops.

But I can still walk into our house.

Enter its old-fashioned, square space, inhale the aroma of its rooms, trace the shapes of tiles on the kitchen floor, remembering where the chipped ones are, smile at the colour of the bathroom lino Grandad never really liked but didn’t dare to tell Grandma, find the greenish stains on the brass window catches, touch the warmth of deep caramel hue of the wooden case my grandmother’s ancient Singer sewing machine was kept in.

The house’s furniture and its arrangements changed many times. Dictated by the changes in my grandmother’s tastes, affordability, and the needs of its transient inhabitants. Apart from my grandparents, I was the place’s most permanent dweller.

I see it all inside my eyelids, images filigreed into my pupils.

The mint-green of its façade, peeling white paint on its window frames, the shape of a small crack on top of a decorative glass panel in the middle of the front door, white and burgundy colours of peony bushes growing in the front garden, a water pump under the plum tree, a heavy wooden table in the kitchen — tucked under the window looking into the back garden divided between fruit trees and vegetable patches. 

A cherry tree with its branches grown wide rather than tall marked the end of the fruit trees and the beginning of square patches of land. Each devoted to its own growth: lettuce, tomatoes, beans, peas, carrots, leek, parsley, potato. It was a matter of pride to have the plots neatly ordered and heavy with crops.

The kitchen table. A heavy wooden square standing on its four thick legs between a wood stove on its left and a sturdy kitchen cabinet on its right. Four wooden stools arranged around it. The one sandwiched between the stove and the table is my favourite. In winter, the heat from the stove makes you warm and sleepy. I am sitting on it. My feet are on the footrest, and I am leaning slightly forward. Away from the window and its glistening frost figurines. 

Outside, an early evening is making the fruit trees look regal in their snowy frocks. The stove’s thick iron top is glowing. Its oily black shining ebony. The heat is making my cheeks warm. My grandmother opens the small door in front of the stove and stokes the fire. She tells me to turn my back to it. It is a good fire, she says, you will get warm in no time. She is stirring polenta in a big blue pot on the edge of the stove. The little golden bubbles are popping up around the wooden spoon. She moves the pot even further to the side. Aye, too hot. Stoked the fire too high, she said. Get the plates ready. The old man will be home soon.

I get up from the chair and walk to the cabinet. The plates are behind the bottom shelf door. I yank its winter-swollen sides open and grab three white plates. Their edges adorned by a deep-blue line. One for each of us. I place them on top of the table’s plastic cover. It has paintings of peasants harvesting wheat. The sleeves of their shirts rolled up to the elbows. 

I can hear the front door squeaking open, my grandfather’s footsteps, the whooshy sound of his boots and a long woollen coat he calls šinjel tossed away, the heaviness of his breath as he enters the kitchen. His voice booms inside the small space — aye, it’s warm here. Making polenta, he says as a statement rather than a question. It is ready, my grandmother answered. Let me help you take it to the table, he said.

They carry the blue pot to the middle of the table, placing it carefully on top of a thick wooden board. My grandfather’s plate is in the middle of the table’s widest side. His back to the kitchen door. My grandmother’s on his right and mine on his left. 

Grandmother spoons steaming moulds of gold into our plates. Grandfather’s first, then mine and her own. I like mine with only a little bit of milk. Grandfather likes his with fried bacon and onion. Spiced with paprika. Grandmother does not mind. Sometimes she adds a bit of black coffee to her milk. The three of us sit around the square table, with the circle of the blue pot in the middle. The geometry of my childhood.

What you’ve been up to? Grandfather asked me.

I want you to tell me a story, I responded.

Which one?

When you were young. Riding horses and going to war.

Again! My grandfather laughs. I see him winking at my grandmother. She laughs too.

In the darkness outside, the snowflakes are spinning as gracefully as ballet dancers.