THE DEATH OF THE GARDENER
Old Grulica rode a donkey early in
the morning toward the gardens, smiling about something all the way. It was
August, the most beautiful month of the year. It’s the time figs ripen in
Paskvelija. There is really no month more beautiful than August, the old
woman thought. But she also had a personal reason to think so.
"Grul," old Grulica said, "what a beautiful day!"
"It’s August, girl," old Grul said, winking with his big,
bright eye.
"It’s August," old Grulica repeated, also winking.
"When figs turn ripe," Grul added. Then he took the donkey by
its reins and went along the dry ditch toward the gardens.
They went slowly along the ditch that took them to their
garden, wondering why the soldiers were aiming their guns at their little
fig trees. For a moment, Grulica was even afraid they would shoot. She
called angrily: "Hey, are you drunk…"
When they reached the fence the officer stopped them. The
soldiers blocked their way.
"Officer, what's with you this morning?" old Grul asked.
The officer didn’t answer, and the others still held their
guns as if they really wanted to shoot out the small, bright eyes of the
figs.
"These dogs are crazy," old Grulica said.
"No, really, soldiers, what's going on?" old Grul said,
confused.
The soldiers stood like statues.
"You fuckers," old Grulica swore. "Open your fucking mouths."
She leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder and in a
cheerful voice said:
"August is the most beautiful month in the year, officer...
It’s when the figs get ripe… You want a fig, boy?"
The officer stomped angrily as if he wanted to murder the
ground under his feet.
"I’m asking," Grulica said calmly, pretending she wasn't
understood properly. "I’m asking if you want a fig…"
"Cut it out, you hag!" the officer said.
She looked at him devilishly and smiled. Oh, how old Grulica
knew how to put on an act. With a gentle smile she asked:
"You really don’t want a fig?"
"No," said the soldier, swearing at old Grulica.
"That's weird," Grulica said, and she giggled. She could
barely say:
"Do you hear this, Grul?… A man who doesn’t want a fig…"
The soldiers surely didn’t expect this. They showed their
teeth and waved their guns. Finally the officer muttered:
"That's the last time, you hag."
"She was just joking," old Grul said. "Weren’t you?"
"Of course, Grul," the old woman said. "I always joke with
men who don’t like figs. It’s damn funny…"
Before she could finish, the other soldiers got her off the
donkey and took her to the barracks, across from the garden.
Confused about what was happening, old Grul ran after the
soldiers.
The commander of the barracks paced the office, waving his
hands this way and that, as if he were looking for something he lost in the
room's stuffy, heavy air. When the Gruls entered he struck a stern pose and
gave an order in an unusually squeaky voice:
"Here." He pointed to the corner across from him.
The Gruls had the habit of doing the opposite of what they
were told. They had that feeling at this moment, and it kept getting
stronger, pulsing in the veins of their old bodies. They didn’t even move,
they just kept holding hands as they stood by the door. The soldiers shoved
them in vain.
"Fools," old Grulica said to her Grul.
The commander stepped toward the door, cursing. The Gruls
waited for him calmly, wondering what they might have done wrong.
Every year, every August, when the figs turned ripe, the
Gruls would come to the garden to guard their small ripe figs. They
protected them as if they were their own eyes, though they didn't do them
much good. The people of Paskvelija knew about the grief of the old couple
and didn’t try to convince them not to carry on with this game, which would
last as long as they lived. And until the first autumn rains came and the
rotten figs fell, the Gruls didn’t leave the garden. That was the time the
boys came back from the army. They also expected their son, though they
knew he would never come back. But the month of August, every August, lured
the old couple. Maybe he will return, August whispered and the bright eyes
of the figs promised.
Sometimes they got drunk and would speak constantly about
August, about the most beautiful month of the year. Grulica would stagger
over to the guard of the barracks and talk to him endlessly about August,
figs, and mostly about her son. The guards always kept silent as if they
were mute. That made the old woman irate. She would say angrily:
"Listen, boy… I also have a son who’s a soldier… But he was
never as dumb as you."
"Yeah," old Grul repeated with pride. "My son never got
angry. It's like you weren't born of woman."
"Shut up," the guard ordered.
"Easy, soldier, easy," old Grulica said to calm him. "I still
have something to say. If you really want to know, the czar himself ought
to talk to me."
"The czar himself, for sure," old Grul chimed in. "Even he
should know. My son was really a good boy. Meek as a lamb."
"Are you listening, soldier?" old Grulica said, a quiver in
her voice.
"He was our only child," old Grul said.
"And now we don’t even know where his grave is," the old
woman said.
"He died in a foreign country," old Grul said.
"You hear, soldier?" the old woman whispered. "I’ll even tell
your czar this. One day my Grul and me, we’ll get drunk, and he’ll see!"
"He’ll run away without his crown, that czar," Grul said.
"Without his crown, him and his queen, and they'll have nowhere to hide."
"I swear to God," Grulica said. "One day we’ll get drunk and
he’ll see…"
Satisfied, they would return to the shade of the small fig
trees. And he would once again be in the garden, they would hear his
whistling, his damn good whistling, carrying the water through the furrows,
from one tree to another.
The commander’s voice startled them.
"Do you have any children?" he asked.
It was becoming unbearable in the office. Grulica wiped her
damp forehead with the palm of her hand, looking at her Grul. He smiled at
her sweetly, taking her towards him as if he wanted to embrace her.
"We do," the old couple said with one voice.
"How many?"
"His name is Spasko," Grulica said quietly.
"Where does he live?" the commander strained to ask.
"Here, with us," old Grul said.
"In the gardens," the old woman said.
"You’re lying," the commander said. "You bastards!"
"It’s true," Grul said calmly. "That… and that we are
bastards."
"You're bastards," the commander said.
"You're a bastard," old Grulica said. "You and your czar."
"You’re not drunk now," the commander said through clenched
teeth. "You’re not drunk now, are you?"
"No," Grulica said. "We’re not drunk now."
The commander swung his arm toward the defiant face of the
old woman. Before he could reach it, Grul grabbed it in his hands.
"No you don't," Grul said. "As long as I live, there'll be no
…"
Grul didn’t finish. The soldiers had knocked him to the
floor. Grulica calmly knelt down next to him and took his head in her
hands. She didn’t scream, she didn’t talk, only her lips quietly mouthed
Grul’s name as if she wanted to wake him up so they could go to the
gardens.
The commander ordered the soldiers to remove him before the
people started gathering in the gardens.
"Through the back door," he ordered.
A soldier opened the back door. When he looked out, on the
road he saw all the gardeners, as if they had crawled out of the ground.
They were approaching the barracks. And they didn’t walk very fast. When
they came quite close, the guard remembered procedure, but it was too late,
and he remained frozen on the spot. The other soldiers looked like children
crazed with hunger… They firmly gripped their guns in their hands so they
wouldn't fall on the ground. And the people came closer and closer…
"Dogs. There've never been so many of them," one of the
soldiers said very quietly.
The heroes’ hearts were in their throats. The people were
coming quietly. Nobody could stop them. They understood each other without
words. They stopped before the door, and men, women, and children pressed
together as if they were one great tree, the tallest tree in the valley.
The officer, standing at the door, was dropped to his knees
by the advancing people, and he was hit by the hot breath rising from their
bare throats. He looked toward his soldiers, but he couldn’t see them, they
had melted under the gardeners' bare feet.
"He cursed the czar," the commander said in confusion. "He
threatened to kill him."
The people didn’t even look at him. Pressed together, they
took old Grul’s body. Then they slowly moved to the Paskvelija cemetery.
It was August, the most beautiful month of the year. August,
when figs turn ripe in Paskvelija.
