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AVANOS
1.
Returning from Cappadocia, 1
the bus stopped at Avanos.2
All the tourists got off and began crawling around the city. The day was
warm and clear, with an abundance of sun and purple light. The houses lined
the steep slope of the hill and looked like one big well-lit shop window.
In front of the houses and along the winding lanes were displayed varieties
of colourfully painted pottery, jugs, mugs, plates, pitchers, coffee cups,
vases, vessels for oil, for wine, for grain, as well as spouted pots of
copper. There were other pots too, of unknown purpose. They were well
fired, richly braided and ornamented in eastern style. Obviously, all the
inhabitants of Avanos were great potters. Almost the entire city was
covered in pots. Human voices arose, echoed, and vibrated from the pots
like bees hovering above a hive.
Gjuvezia Dubrovska and Sija Hadzibanova
were dazzled. They looked everywhere but didn't know where their eyes
should rest first. Their eyes skimmed over the glazed pots and were blinded
by the glare of the sun. They liked everything but they couldn't buy
everything.
They stopped before a pottery shop and
the potter invited them in. The girls trembled at his invitation. They were
seized by a strange chill coming out of the opened door. The pottery shop
was actually a deep cave that had been expanded by masons on several
occasions. However, they trembled not only because of the cold, but also
out of fear. They sensed that something was about to happen to them, that
something would catch them unawares. The potter disappeared into the shop,
reemerging with a tray of two earthen cups full of cold wine. The cups had
golden rims that melded with the wine.
– Come in, said the potter, his mouth
full of throaty tenderness.
The girls raised their eyebrows wondering
what to do. They hesitated. But the potter steadily held the tray before
them. A light smell of vineyards, oak barrels and musky wine cellars rose
into the air. The girls looked at each other, questioning only with their
eyes. From this they gathered courage: in one motion they reached for the
cups and lifted them. Their lips touched the golden rims and they sipped
from the wine. Its smoothness rippled their throats, first upward, then
downward. They sipped again and felt it blissfully spread through their
veins. It opened their eyes, enlarged their pupils. They then raised the
cups twice more and drained the wine. The potter collected the cups and
withdrew into the workroom. Without hesitating, Gjuvezija Dubrovska and
Sija Hadzibanova followed him. Encouraged by the wine, they merely smiled
and stepped in. Now nothing could stop them. Their faces flushed as though
a nettle had brushed their cheeks.
They entered with the smile they had
before, but the cold emanating from the walls of the cave stiffened their
lips. It also drained the blood from their cheeks. They felt like they were
in a deep grave illuminated only by the stingy light coming from outside
and from a single naked light bulb inside. Above them hung stone arches
that seemed about to crack and crumble any moment. In the workroom were
lumps of kneaded clay and several upright potter's wheels for shaping the
pots. But the wheels were unused, as if no one had touched them for years.
And there wasn't a single potter in front of them. Only God knows where
they had gone. The floor was swept clean. From the uneven walls there hung
unfinished pots and some reliefs of awed human faces. The potter walked
along the narrow corridors that linked the adjoining low-ceilinged
side-chambers, constantly explaining something. His words gushed, running
one before another like a torrent of water. The girls followed him without
hearing a thing. To be exact, they could hear him talking but his words
told them nothing. The wine warmed their breasts, but they felt the cold
from without. As if a drizzle had soaked through their clothes and tingled
them with cold. And they were dressed lightly, only in summer dresses. They
wore open sandals on their feet, without socks. And so they felt chills
throughout their bodies. They felt hairs stiffen on their bodies, growing
where they had not appeared before. Especially when they saw the numerous
locks of women's hair hanging like drying heads of rye. One might think
that they grew from the walls, winding through its cracks. The girls
stopped, glancing quickly from the locks of hair to the potter and back
again. They looked like fledgling birds trapped in a cage, raising their
wings, clawing at the bars, turning their heads without knowing what was
happening. Then the potter took a pair of scissors and, breathing heavily,
asked them:
– Do you want to be eternal?
It was only then, as he uttered these
words, that they felt the heaviness of his breath. The raspiness came from
deep within his lungs. It was fearsome to listen to the cracking and
whistling that stormed through his lungs and his throat. The girls were
puzzled both by his question and by his breathing. Sija Hadzibanova was the
first to come to her senses. She looked at her feet as if to check that
they were still there and then fled quickly. She darted out between the
potter and Gjuvezija Dubrovska. And Gjuvezija Dubrovska remained, dreamily
looking at the potter. She couldn't understand how in an instant her head
rested in his hands. She heard the click of the scissors and saw how a lock
of her bountiful hair alighted from her head and flew like a summer cloud
before her eyes. The potter tied the hair on one end and stuck it in a lump
of wet clay. He planted it into the clay. Then he asked for her name and
family name, for the date of her birth, for her birthplace... Gjuvezija
Dubrovska answered obediently without one sign of protest. Actually, she
did not know what she was doing.
On her way out a wave of warm air blasted
her and shook her bones like an earthquake. She almost fell, almost
fainted. When she recovered, she saw Sija Hadzibanova. She sat on a stone,
hunched and weary. Her jaw quivered, her lips trembled, muttering a faint
prayer.
– What's the matter with you, asked
Gjuvezija Dubrovska.
– I'm scared, said Sija Hadzibanova.
Gjuvezija Dubrovska reached for her hand
and tried to lift her up. The palm was sweaty and wet. It felt like holding
mud and silt.
– What's the matter with you, repeated
Gjuvezija Dubrovska, you are soaking wet.
– I'm scared, repeated Sija Hadzibanova.
You scare me too, she said, almost out of her mind. Her whole body
was quivering like a feather.
– Calm down, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska,
the fear's only in your mind.
– What did the potter do to you, asked
Sija Hadzibanova.
– Nothing, said Gjuvezija, he only cut a
bit of my hair.
– Maybe that's why I'm scared, said Sija
Hadzibanova.
– But he cut my hair, said
Gjuvezija Dubrovska.
– That's why I'm scared of you, said Sija
Hadzibanova.
– Look, started Gjuvezija Dubrovska, but
stopped short. Actually she didn't want to hear what she would say. The
fear of Sija Hadzibanova started to invade Gjuvezija Dubrovska. It gnawed
at her like a pox, like a horsefly. Suddenly she felt deceived and robbed.
Although she knew that hairs are often cut and even shaved, she understood
it as if a part of her head had been taken. And she began to feel her head
and search for the scar that the potter had made.
2.
When she returned, she believed that she
left more than just a lock of hair in Avanos, and that she had come home
completely empty. She soon felt something whirring through her head.
Something like a wind blowing through the dry leaves of a forest. My
goodness, she said, it's not lice crawling on my head. Maybe it was from
the dirty hand of the potter, she thought, or maybe it was from his
scissors. And she started to scratch above the forehead, behind her ears,
along the back of her head. Under her nails dead skin clumped, but she felt
no itch. As if she were scratching the head of another. But when she looked
at her hands, she couldn't believe her eyes: clumps of hair were tangled
around her fingers, as if from a sharp comb, a rake. And then she felt on
fire, seized by flames. She shouted:
– Mother, come and see!
– To see what, asked her mother.
– I have something in my hair...
– Don't be silly, said her mother.
– It's true, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska, I
can hear a sound. A snail grazing, a caterpillar crawling. And my head is
whirring, she said.
– Your head is whirring, said her mother.
– Look, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska,
stretching out her hands.
– What made you pluck your hair, you
wretch?
– Something else is plucking it, said
Gjuvezija Dubrovska.
– I don't see anything, said her mother.
– And I don't see anything, said
Gjuvezija Dubrovska, but I hear it. Some disease has invaded my head and I
can hear the trembling of the hairs.
– It'll pass, said her mother, there's no
muddy water that does not clear up.
– This isn't passing away, said Gjuvezija
Dubrovska, I'm afraid to touch my head. My hair falls off at every touch,
it drops like a falling dew, she said.
– How long has this been?
– I don't know, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska,
since yesterday or the day before. Maybe it started in Avanos when a potter
cut off a lock of my hair. And since then something keeps whispering: when
do you want to die and how long do you want it to take? And where do you
want to spend your life after death? And I know that a person dies all his
life. As soon as one is born one begins to die, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska.
Her mother stood above her and listened
speechlessly. She thought her daughter had a high fever and was raving in
delirium. She hid this thought but only asked:
– Who fooled you into leaving your hair
behind?
– The potter, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska.
He said: here you will remain eternal, always alive. Even after a hundred
or a thousand years. This lock of hair will justify you and always be
witness to your youth. It will never go gray or old.
– God forbid, said her mother. You let
her see the world, and she comes back without her head. How could you let
yourself be shorn like a sheep, you wretch, yelled her mother, biting her
lip and then reproaching herself for what she had said. She didn't know how
she could have let such words pass her mouth, words of curse and bad omen.
She had never yelled like this before. She felt sorry and started crying. I
should be crying for you, mother, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska, who stood up
and embraced her. And then, embracing, they cried together.
Time passed slowly and heavily for
Gjuvezija Dubrovska. The days went by in suffering, the nights in fits of
insomnia. And when she did fall asleep, she would have eerie dreams. Her
head was constantly in the hands of the potter. He kneaded it like clay, he
placed it on the wheel and shaped it into various forms. It was horrible to
see how he moved her mouth onto her forehead, her eyes onto the back of her
head, and her ears under her chin. And how, then, with a swift move of his
thumb, he would put them back in place. Then he would put her head into the
kiln and bake it together with the other pots. And when she felt the heat,
she would awaken in a cold sweat. She told the nightmare to her mother, who
didn't know what to do. She sought help from God, took her to the clinics.
The dermatologists were surprised and puzzled: everyone had a different
diagnosis and prescribed different medicines. The roots of the hair need to
be awakened, they said, the soil needs nourishment. As if they were talking
about melons or a vegetable garden. They removed fat from her diet and
introduced vitamins and minerals. And then she swallowed everything they
gave her and rubbed on everything they prescribed. There was no
improvement. The rust in her hair remained: it gnawed, plucked and worked
without rest. Time went by very fast. And finally the doctors gave up. They
said: some insidious disease is eating the roots of her hair. Some unknown
parasite, some bug, a fungus, whatever...
– And the solution? her mother asked with
tightness in her throat and bitterness in her mouth.
– Every disease is a natural condition,
they told her, and one does not die from every disease.
Gjuvezija Dubrovska began thinking that
everyone was ridiculing her for her misfortune. There were days when she
didn't want to talk to anyone. She only stood with teary eyes looking into
an unknown distance. But most often she kept her head on her lap. In the
moments of deepest depression she didn't talk even to her mother. But her
mother never left her alone. And honestly, she had no one to leave her to.
Her father had passed away right after she was born and she never knew him.
But her mother clung to hope. She always believed that there was hope, but
it was necessary to find its address. Only those who have little faith are
hopeless, she said. And then she took her to healers, witch doctors,
herbalists. They blew, and spit, and whispered above her head, trying to
unravel the spell. But their remedies were of no use. Help usually comes
late, thought her mother, but to wait for it is a waste. And she never
stopped to wait. She started rubbing on wine vinegar. She had heard that
Jesus Christ, when crucified, asked for vinegar. Just to moisten his lips.
And his disciples, or his angels, brought it to him in secret, to bring him
back to life. Gjuvezija Dubrovska said:
– I saw his suffering, but he doesn't
want to see mine.
– He sees everything, her mother said,
but he chooses to see what is most urgent. There are greater misfortunes to
be seen on this earth, she said.
Gjuvezija Dubrovska's head stank of
vinegar for days on end. But her hair kept falling. Sometimes she was
seized by rage, and sometimes she fell into despair. Sija Hadzibanova
visited her at times, but stopped. She didn't know how to console her. Or
maybe she was afraid of the incurable disease. Gjuvezija thought that
people were disgusted with her. She said: how little beauty there is in
life, and how much pain. Only when people need you, she said, only then do
they remember you. She felt weak and helpless, forsaken and forgotten by
everyone. Her mother tried to encourage her with carefully chosen words.
There are worse things on earth, she said, but not all of them end badly.
God is great and merciful, and good follows every evil, she said, and
continued to rub her with other ointments. She rubbed her with camomile tea
and cattle dung. Gjuvezija's head stank of droppings and she thought she
had been dumped in some village dunghill. She was disgusted with herself,
but she never opposed her mother. And her mother was restless: she always
changed the remedies. She started to apply compresses soaked in mashed
nettles and birch bark, wrapping them around her head like diapers on a
baby.
– No, mother, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska,
my hair will never come back.
– Never say "never", retorted her mother.
But Gjuvezija Dubrovska's head grew
balder, more hairless every day. One could take count of the hairs, which
stood like blades of singed grass. One could pass a hand among them without
touching them. She started to fear looking at her image in the mirror. She
actually saw what she was most afraid of. Her eyebrows started to fall off,
then her eyelashes, and finally all the hair on her head. She saw only the
bald skin bruised with unpleasant redness and scabs. Then her mother said:
– You will go back and take your lock of
hair from the potter. The spell must be in it, she said.
– How am I to go like this, said
Gjuvezija Dubrovska, everyone will avoid me. It's enough to see me and run
away, she said.
– Wear a scarf, said her mother, it's a
custom there for the women to cover their faces.
– They also wear a third eye embroidered
on the back of their shirts, said Gjuvezija Dubrovska. To see in front and
behind, she said, to ward off the evil eye.
3.
One year later, almost to the day,
Gjuvezija Dubrovska returned to Avanos. The bus made a very short stop. She
got off and vanished into a large cloud of exhaust and hot dust that
trailed the bus. When the dust settled she noticed that she was the only
person who had gotten off. She squinted her eyes in disbelief. Little did
she know that she would find the city in front of her completely empty.
Lacking were the crowds of people selling or buying as well as the piles of
pottery in which all languages of the world mingled. She stood alone on the
road like a blinded owl. Dust nibbled at her eyes and sand scraped in her
mouth. Her shadow had escaped from under her feet and she couldn't see it
anywhere. There was bright sunlight everywhere, but it didn't explain
anything. The sun was hung high in the sky, as if it had always been there,
as if it had never moved from there. It was some other sun, much bigger
than ours. Bigger, at least, than the sun Gjuvezija Dubrovska knew. Good
Lord, she said, have the people fled before me, or have I entered a
deserted city? But the road sign could not have been lying to her: it still
bore the name Avanos. With a confused expression she walked
aimlessly along the empty and winding lanes. Then she noticed that all the
gates and windows of the houses were closed. Not a living soul appeared,
not a single breath of life. Not a single dog to bark, nor cat to scurry. A
heavy silence pervaded everything, producing a sickness of the soul. Time,
as everything else, was stopped, nothing was moving. Even her breath
stopped, tying itself in a knot. She ascended to the potters' shops, but
their shutters were drawn. Good Lord, she repeated, could the whole town
really have moved? While wandering around she had a feeling that someone
was following closely behind her heels. At times she could even hear the
footsteps. But when she would turn, there was no one. I must be hearing my
own footsteps, thought Gjuvezija Dubrovska. In such silence one can hear
anything. Even the beating of your heart can sound strange, even your
breathing. . .
She mustered courage to knock at a gate,
but no one answered. Then she stood before another gate wondering whether
to knock. When she was about to do so, she felt as if somebody were
watching her from above. She glanced from the corner of her eyes. But when
she raised them towards the window, there was nothing. Only the wing of one
window was ajar. It was the only open window in town. At least it seemed so
to her.
She swerved toward a lawn among the
houses and began to shout: Hey! Is there not a living soul, is there not a
living soul? She yelled at the top of her voice, but no one replied. Only
the echo of her throaty voice returned from the steep and winding lanes.
She cried: is there not a living soul, and only the last word came back to
her. The other words stayed trapped within the blind walls of the town. She
didn't know what else to do. She was seized by panic and started to run
down towards the bus station on the road. She believed that some bus would
pass and take her away from there. She knew that everything in the town was
mysterious and threatening, and the only reasonable thing to do was to
flee. But while running down the street, again she felt someone running
behind her. The footsteps she heard remained at the same distance. It
dawned on her that her flight must be caused by a pursuer. And she kept
running, panting, not knowing how to restore her torn soul. Sweat trickled
down her sleeves and loins. Her scarf was drenched and her eyes filled with
salty drops. The salt gnawed even deeper at her pain. It burned and pinched
her entire head.
When she arrived at the bus station on
the road, a long time passed without her turning around to see who was
behind her. Standing like that she merely asked:
– Excuse me, is this Avanos?
– "Avanos", she recognized her own voice.
When she turned, she was terrified: ten steps away she saw herself.
Gjuvezija Dubrovska stood before Gjuvezija Dubrovska. They looked into each
others eyes without saying anything. The one nothing to ask, the other
nothing to answer. Was it so because they were different? Because the
Gjuvezija before her still had bountiful hair and wore no scarf. She had
the same summer dress and the same open sandals on bare feet. She even had
the same smile on her face that blushed from the wine of the potter. The
only thing missing to repeat the scene was the presence of Sija
Hadzibanova. So Gjuvezija Dubrovska beheld herself from the year before.
Truly, she saw herself as if through a cracked or steamy mirror, but she
thought it was a result of the heat. At first she felt joy at not being
alone in the town, but then she noticed that the elongated shadow of the
other stretched as far as herself. Whereas Gjuvezija Dubrovska had no
shadow. Ever since she returned to the town, she had never seen it. Despite
the strong sun her shadow did not appear. Could it be that all she had and
was, had been taken by this one from Avanos? A person without a shadow is a
dead person, Gjuvezija Dubrovska told herself, realizing that one of them
was one too many. And suddenly she began to feel faint, too heavy, her body
failing, out of control. Her head began to spin, her legs to grow limp, her
whole body to become numb. She melted in the heat, shrinking like a candle.
And the one before her began to fill her entire vision, growing, extending
almost to the sky. Standing like that, dizzy, she felt stronger than ever
how unbearable life is when one leaves it. And before she vanished
altogether, with her last crumb of consciousness she realized that the
eternity that the potter promised her was something that passed from one
place to another. Moreover, she understood that she had come there to die
before her own eyes, to witness her own death. But she also saw where her
life remained.
And then the sparrows flew low, like
stones tumbling down the road. Who knows from where they came or why they
were here, to the place where the ember of Gjuvezija Dubrovska's life faded
to ash.
Translated from Macedonian by Zoran Anchevski and Richard
Gaughran
1
Cappadocia is famous for the churches and dwellings of the early
Christians.
2 A city in Anatolia, central Turkey.
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