Vacations from Hell
Page 61

Dovka propped her head up with her hand. Her eyes were glassy. “Traditions are nice, though. They bind you together, remind you where you’re from.”
“Or keep you back.” I don’t know why I said it. I think I just wanted to take the opposing view.
“Exactly,” Baz slurred. His eyes were at half-mast. “Like last year, when I was dating Chloe? My parents got all bunged. And they’re, like, total liberals and everything, but they were freaked that she wasn’t Jewish. Like all of a sudden the menorah came out and my dad started asking if I wanted to go to temple Friday night.” He grinned. “I told him Friday was a different religious occasion: Doctor Who. Hey, it’s not my fault they don’t have TiVo yet.”
Mariana gave a thumbs-up. “TiVo!”
“TiVo.” Vasul nodded.
Everybody clinked glasses, shouting “TiVo!” till the old-timers shushed us.
“Still,” Vasul said when we’d quieted down again. “There are times when I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to come back here. It’s peaceful. It’s safe. No STDs, processed foods, pollution.” He paused. “No bombs.”
Mariana put her hand on his arm. “Vasul survived the terrorism in London. He was at Russell Square. He saw what happened,” Mariana explained.
“It could have been me on that bus,” Vasul said softly. “Feels like the world’s going to hell sometimes. Like nowhere is safe anymore. Except Necuratul.”
Everyone raised their glasses in a respectful, quiet toast. “Necuratul.”
Mariana said something to Vasul in their language. “Anyway,” she said with a sigh, “it’s a moot point. These people—our parents and grandparents, great-grandparents—they’re getting old now. When they die off, the village will die with them. All this culture will be lost. Especially if they’re relocated because of the power plant. I’ve seen it happen before. Diaspora.”
“That’s sad,” Isabel said softly, and I knew she was thinking about her own family forced out of Haiti and transplanted in American suburbs where they never quite got past the polite smiles of their white neighbors.
“Shit happens.” Dovka grunted. “Get over it. On with the new.”
Mariana rolled her eyes. “You’re right. This is getting morbid. I don’t want to get morbid. I want more wine.” She poured us all another round and raised her glass for the third time. “An offering to the future.”
“An offering to the future,” we all seconded, well on our way to getting completely plastered.
In the corner the older villagers eyed us warily, like we were something to be watched, something that might explode and take them out with us. They continued with their music, singing and playing in controlled measures. But our table started up with The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” giggling over the implications. We were younger and louder, and soon our voices drowned out the haunting folk song altogether.
The next day it rained like crazy. I’d never seen the sky throw down like that ever. It was a good thing Necuratul was on a mountain because I was sure we’d be flooded otherwise. Mariana, Vasul, Dovka, and the other people our age had left before dawn to get supplies for the festival. That was their job and they did it, hungover or not. Now, with the rain, it looked like they’d have trouble getting back.
“Bridge,” the tavern keeper explained in broken English. He made a whistling sound and gestured with his hands: gone. Without the others around the villagers weren’t overly friendly to us. Actually, I got the feeling they wanted us as gone as the bridge. Mariana’s mother ran the bakery. I popped in to buy some bread, which mostly consisted of my pointing and smiling and then laying down money for her to figure out. While she poked through my coins, I looked around the cozy shop. Two burly men sat at a heavy wooden table by the front window drinking steaming mugs of something dark. They stared outright. One guy said something to the other, and they both laughed.
“Just like the seventh grade cafeteria,” I muttered to myself, feeling my face grow warm. I kept my eyes forward, taking in the shelves of fresh bread, the plaster walls decorated with evil eyes and garlic, the arched doorway giving a glimpse of the ovens. Something pricked at me. I thought I saw a patch of red inside a partially closed closet. I squinted and suddenly Mariana’s mother was closing the door securely. She gave me a tense smile and flicked her gaze at my change. With mumbled thanks I was out the door with my bread, wondering if I’d really seen the forbidden color or not.