Chapter 26: 23.

An uncomfortable truth, that's what Haroon Ibranov was. My aunt would have called him a s'ka, and there was no denying that he was one. His gaunt figure, his tattered jacket, his sarval that was too thin to wear outside in the November weather. Even his tobacco-stained teeth.

S'ka is not a word I can translate. The stress on the 's' stings with the same velocity as a viper, and it's just as venomous. I remember how the two syllables chafed against each other as they left my aunt's mouth—the way they had sounded like a word of caution as much as they did a scolding. I couldn't have been more than six years old at the time of the incident.

It was one of those rare years the snow reached passed our ankles. Fat snowflakes, which resembled cotton wads, settled on top of the two unmoving bodies outside the grocery store in Stan.

Hidden behind my aunt's skirts, the two men hadn't been visible to me when we had entered the store. I didn't notice them until I snuck away from the cash register where my aunt was catching up on the town gossip. I was striding over to the gumball machines by the store's exit with a coin in my hand when the automatic doors pulled apart, triggered by my closeness. In my hurry to distance myself from the frigid gust, I slipped on the wet linoleum floor. It was in those frightening, disorienting, seconds that I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. I startled, thinking that the figures beyond the doors were a figment of my imagination, but that wasn't the case. They were alive, and very much human—two men who sat huddled together on a bench.

Most of the things I knew at that age was not because I had lived to experience them, but because I had inherited the worldview of the adults around me. I couldn't tell you how I knew that these men were Brommian, I just did—instinctively.

The double doors closed in my face, yet my attention never strayed from the men's miserable frames. The thrill of spinning my coin in the machine and chewing away at the hardened ball of gum died on my palate, replaced by a tangy taste of pity. I sensed something was wrong by the way their heads slumped against their chest with even intervals. Their necks went from flaccid to rigid as they dozed off and lurched awake in cycles. They shifted and huddled closer together to keep warm.

The snow in the background was idyllic; pristine whiteness that had yet to be sullied. I was six years of age, which is to say, I wasn't as naive enough to convince myself that the men were sitting outside in minus celsius weather because they enjoyed the view. Another person might have found it in their heart to extend a helping hand. I, on the other hand, drew closer to the windows until my breath fogged the pane—content with watching from afar.

I grew up shielded in the fortress that was Ljerumlup. I didn't have the literacy to place what I was seeing in its right context: why were two grown men sitting outside in the cold? Why didn't they retreat inside?

One of the men, the one closest to me, had wrapped a knitted shawl around his head. His friend wasn't as fortunate. His dark hair was speckled white with snowflakes, some which melted atop his crown. Water dripped down the length of his matted hair. He wore a jacket, but no scarf, no hat, no gloves—nothing of substance to protect him from the cold.

The guy in the shawl was the first to startle from his restless slumber. He righted himself on the bench, pulled his knees up to his chest, and nudged his friend. The Friend woke with the same alertness as he had done times before and a fight ensued. They started yelling at each other, shoving and pulling, and just as quickly their heated exchange fizzled out. The Friend, clearly drawing a line, scooted away from The Guy in The Shawl. His shoulders were set in irritation. He repositioned himself, extending the other man a cold shoulder.

Seemingly wanting to console, The Guy In The Shawl pulled forth a dirty plastic bottle from inside his jacket. It was crumpled and bent in places—indicative of its reuse. He handed it over to his friend, who snatched it from his grip as if he had been offered gold. He put the rim to his nose and sniffed its contents. His breaths were deep and desperate and reminded me all too much of my last asthma attack.

My aunt had found me there, watching as his head lulled back in euphoria. Her approaching steps set off the sensors. My aunt, like my father, had a no-nonsense voice which made her inquiries sound like militant commands.

- What's the matter?

Either her voice or the double door pulling back, or equal parts of the two, alerted the men. Their attention shifted over to us. I froze. Swirling snowflakes landed and thawed on my flaming cheeks.

- Did you get your gum? The echoes of her kitten heels against the floor were a welcomed distraction from the embarrassment of being found out.

I turned to her and asked, - What's that thing? I hadn't pointed at them, hadn't even indicted towards them, but my aunt—in that adult way—seemed to instantly know who and what I was referring to. Her face tightened. The lines around her mouth multiplied as she pursed her lips.

- That yellow stuff in the bottle, I clarified. I realised it was the wrong thing to have asked when she swerved towards me. Her face was stricken; etched in wide-eyed terror. She seized me by the upper arm and dragged me out the door. I stumbled forward, trying my best to keep up with her long strides. Our feet plowed through the snow. After some pushing and maneuvering, she had me properly covered with her frame, out of the men's sight.

- Don't look back at those s'kier, she chided when I had, out of morbid curiosity, tried to sneak one last glance at them. With a quick pull of my arm, she had me facing straight ahead, at the white hills awaiting our ascent.

- They're the children of folks God has forsaken. S'ka is s'ka born.

Like the snowflakes whose fates were to settle on top of the piling mounds of snow, so too my aunt's words settled in my subconscious. They sedimented like dirt in clear liquid, only to be shaken and shoved to the front of my mind at the sight of Haroon.

We met him downstairs, standing beside Krié next to the under stair cupboard. I was in knots over being confined in the same space as his younger brother that the first seconds of seeing him, I saw Millin in his stead. Even though knowing, in the back of my mind, that Millin had never been that rail-thin. From the bird's-eye view of descending the stairs, their similarities were uncanny. Haroon was the same height as his brother and had the same short haircut.

In the end, what told them apart was their cadence. Unlike his brother, who had an assertive voice, Haroon spoke in a choppy, joking manner, as if everything he said could be interpreted as a double entendre. That day his voice had been filled with mucus, making his already slurred speech barely intelligible. I should have taken that as my first warning, but I was swept by a shower of relief at having been spared a confrontation with his brother.

- Konstantin! Krié called, his arms heavenward in surprise when we approached them. I felt my body tense. I was more conscious of the other set of eyes which turned to me than I was of Krié's.

Haroon Ibranov was smiling but his eyes were vacant. He said something that got drowned out in the boom of Krié's voice. I was too caught off guard to catch what had been said. Instead, I latched on to Yuri's father's mood and coaxed a smile that was at odds with the feelings that coursed through me.

I wasn't affiliated with the elder Ibranov in any way, but I had seen and heard enough of him to piece together an image of who he used to be. Being five years older than Millin, he predated him as a known troublemaker in Dronesk. Everyone who knew him held him with great reverence—especially those of us from the same middle school. He had paved the way for so many things that were popular when we were growing up. Everything from being the first to play ball with football shoes, to popularising imported walkmans and burning foreign music to CDs. He used to go around town telling everyone he had copies of songs which he swore hadn't been released yet. He claimed to know a person in Rujga who could get his hands on virtually anything you wanted.

The last I heard, he was messing about with people ten years his seniors—dodgy men. He wasn't seen in Dronesk much anymore. And when he was, he seldom left the flatlands. Haroon was a high school drop out. Not many of his friends had been accepted into a high school, but he had. Whether he had felt lonely or hadn't found an appeal in higher education was up for guessing, but the sentiments around town remained the same. Everyone who knew him used to say that it was a shame he had dropped out. Everyone believed he was destined for places other than where he ended up—in the coal mines.

The man who stood before me was at best a ghost of his past reputation. If I had tried harder to peer past his dishevelled appearance, I'm sure there would have been a resemblance to the teenager he had been at one point. But I couldn't look past his smile; his decaying teeth. His sarval was in tatters. His jacket was missing its hood, and was streaked and spotted with dirt. He wore the smell of the wind and the bitter November weather on him.

My intuition told me something was off when I extended my hand to shake his outstretched one. It was hard to pinpoint what. The impressions were vague, drowned out by the feeling of wrongness which wasn't being reciprocated by the two parties around me. Yuri and his father were regarding me as if having Haroon Ibranov and I under the same roof was an everyday occurrence.

I felt their expectation—a physical weight pressing down at the base of my throat. I knew the drill. I was expected to perform; to say my name, to make my handshake firm, to look Haroon in the eyes, to smile. I might have breezed through it with such ease that I now in retrospect have no recollection of it—or I might have stood there, holding Haroon's hand without a single word leaving my mouth. Yuri's expression didn't change. He was unreadable. I remember staring at Haroon, wondering if the person before me was who I thought it was, confused as to why I was the one holding his hand.

A bone-chilling sense of desertion struck me like a flash. I was a child again, holding on to mother's skirts for dear life, afraid she would thrust me into the company of the other kids at the party. My stomach revolted. Breja's herbal brew sloshed around and threatened to come up my throat.

Haroon let go of my hand. The sudden chill when my clammy palm met the air pull me back from inside my head.

- You need some ice on that bruise boy, Krié said. - I would ask how you got it-, he spared his son a pointed look, - but I was told not to ask questions.

I glanced over at Yuri who made a noncommittal sound.

- A wrestling match, I said, turning to his father.

Their confusion was palpable. But given enough time and silence, the human mind will find a way to transform even the most ill-timed statement into a wry punchline. I witness this transformation take place. It started with a quirk at the corner of their mouths, and soon enough, all three were trading awkward chuckles.

- With what son, a tractor? Krié asked.

- No, he corrected after a beat, - a wolf, considering the time of night you stumbled in. Guided by nothing but moonlight I heard.

- Madame said something similar.

- Did she now? Krié's eyes crinkled at the corners. There was a smile on his lips, albeit it a faint one. And even though I myself registered the light-hearted quality of the conversation, I couldn't stop the stray tendril of my mind that worried whether I was being rude. The decent thing would have been to offer an explanation why I had slept under his roof. But that would require far more than what my anxiety was willing to bargain.

- Don't worry, I said. - You should've seen the other guy.

I tried to remedy the awkwardness of my failed bravado with a smile, but it did more damage than good.

Yuri shook his head. He wore a lazy grin that showcased his canines. It was clear he was taking my unease with delight. My toes and scalp tingled. All at once, I became aware of having kissed him, of having had his chest pressed against mine, and confessing all the things I had confessed. There couldn't have been a more inappropriate time to get aroused. I was sure I would have been staring at him, completely struck, giving myself away, if Haroon hadn't put his hand on my head and attempted to ruffle my hair.

I inched back from the stranger's touch, but it wasn't enough to perturb his action.

- It's good to see...it's really good to see, he said as his hands moved in my hair, - the youngsters are alive and well, getting into trouble. This town has become so goddamn boring lately.

He was looking at me from under droopy eyes—distant—and I got the impression that he wasn't holding my gaze. Before I could confirm my suspicion, his eyes panned over to Krié. I was saved from having to answer him by Yuri's hand on my forearm.

- We're starving Papa, I'll come around and show Ru the kennel but we really need to eat, Yuri said.

- Zda, go ahead. He pulled off his gardening gloves and dusted off the dirt from his stained knees. He was still in his boots, and I realised we were standing a few meters from the front door, which probably meant that they had entered not too long ago. It became evident when Krié bent to unlace his boots and Haroon started unzipping his jacket, and the hallway became cramped from the movements of disrobing.

We chose that moment to depart from the men's company. I felt the weight of Haroon's gaze as Yuri pulled me towards the kitchen, and into the arms of the music and the aroma of delicious food. I wanted to ask Yuri what Haroon Ibranov was doing at their place, and moreover, what was off with him, but my thoughts never made it into words.

- I know this song.

The melody of the guitar strings had been there in the background all along, but it was only as we drew closer to its source that the familiarity hit me. I wasn't aware that I had stopped in my tracks until Yuri did the same. He turned towards me.

- This song...it's that...? I asked.

- Ageh Ye Ros?

- Yeah.

- Does your mother still play this? I strained my ears. My gaze fixed on the patch of light that spilled into the hallway from the kitchen. I let the singer's baritone croon lull me back to the memories of all the afternoons I had spent at his house. All the make-believe games he and I used to invent, and all the kingdoms we built in his living room. This song, If One Day, was a constant fixture in the Karamov household, it was his mother's favourite.

- The exact same CD, the exact same radio. Yuri smiled.

A burst of breath escaped me.

- I know, Yuri said, - you'd think that Lopija would have broken it by now but that thing is made out of metal.

- No..., I shook my head while I tried to rein in my grin. - It's...nice...

- ...familiar.

- It's a headache.

I chuckled at his dismissive tone. And when Yuri didn't join in, when he purposefully let my awkward laughter fade out, there was only the far away noises on each end of the hallway, and the pregnant silence between us.

- He...uhm, we found him wandering the market. The mirth in his eyes turned melancholic. I realised why when his gaze fixated on a point behind me. I itched to turn around, but Yuri's expression grew guarded. He drew a step forward—cornering me.

- Millin–, Yuri sighed. He closed and opened his mouth in a struggle to get his thoughts out.

- Don't, he whispered at last, - just don't speak to Haroon, okay?

- Why? I thought I knew why but Yuri's serious tone demanded the question be asked. Curiosity tickled my neck and I couldn't resist turning around. Haroon's thin silhouette was hunched forward in an intense conversation with Krié. For a flash of a second, I saw him like I used to see him—from afar with his back extended to me—in the schoolyard when we were younger. The difference was striking.

- What happened to him? I asked.

- Shhh, Yuri hushed. His gaze darted towards Haroon before he put a hand on my arm and nudged me towards the kitchen. - Don't worry about it. Come, let's eat.

I couldn't judge whether I was worried about Haroon or myself, truth be told. Seeing the way my limbs were moving on their own accord, and my mind was grinding; sweat trailing down my back with the fruitless effort of trying to read his thoughts. The boy whom I had kissed. The same one who was leading me to what would be the most awkward meal of my life.

I had always been partial to the scent of freshly baked bread. My favourite was the Brommian flatbread baked with saffron. I remembered its scent but I couldn't place it over the fragrance of other spices until I saw Breja putting the yellow dough on the gas stove. I trained my eyes on her skilled hand flipping the bread with a pair of tongs, in an attempt not to lock eyes with the person I knew had already noticed me.

Everything else in the kitchen seemed more interesting than Millin who sat at the table. Katka was going around and setting down the plates. Surimna was at her heels with the cutlery. Lopija, because she was the youngest, was already seated and was eating.

Anja and I had locked eyes the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Even the boisterous commotion hadn't been enough to distract me from Millin's profile. Anja stood beside him. The two had been engaged in a ping-pong-like match of words, talking over each other—laughing. That was until Anja directed her attention to Yuri and I. The polite thing would have been to smile, to greet her, but the way my stomach was staging an uproar wouldn't allow me. I saw her own greeting die on her lips just before I looked away.

For ten arduous seconds, the scope of my vision encompassed Breja's back and the stove counter-top. The mother of five swayed to the music as she flipped the bread and stacked them up on a plate. Yuri strode up to her and stole her attention by pecking the air near her temple. He said something in Brommin. One arm came around his mother's shoulder, the other reached for the stack of flatbread. Breja, perceptive, swatted his hand away.

- Where's Ru? She asked him. - I told him to come downstairs. Did he—

Breja fell silent when she turned and found me standing at the threshold. Her face lit up. She was just about to say something when she swerved her head in the opposite direction.

- Anja!

It was no surprise that Breja turned to her daughter, the whole room did the same. Anja's frame was shaking with laughter. She was bent forward, gripping her stomach. At the sound of her mother's stern voice, she put a hand to her mouth. Little did it hinder the mirth which found its way between her fingers.

Millin leaned back in his chair with a big fish-eating grin on his lips. He watched the confusion he caused (for there was no doubt in my mind that he was the cause of Anja's hysterics) unfold.

Anja straightened in a last attempt to pull herself together.

- Yes, Mama, I'm on it. Her lips were pressed together. Breja wasn't having it.

- Now! She scolded.

There was more to that conversation as Anja walked over to her mother's side, but it all got drowned out by Millin's presence. I couldn't look away once our eyes caught. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I had been the butt of his joke. The remnants of their laughter still lingered. The joke lost its innocence to the silence which enveloped it. It unraveled, morphed into something to be enjoyed at my expense. Its cruelness nestled in the concaves of Millin's dimples. It swam in his dark irises. His mirth was self-satisfactory.

- Did you at least get a few good jabs in?

I frowned. Not understanding his question until he tapped his cheekbone with his forefinger to highlight my black-eye. When clarity dawned on me, he said, - I must say, it makes you look tougher.

Anja, who at that moment walked back to the table, holding a steaming pot, added, - You've looked better, but he's right. It's not that bad.

- Are you crazy? Katka interjected. She stood at the other side of the table, a silent observer to our conversation. All three of us were cast disbelieving looks, though Anja and Millin took the brunt of her heat.

- Look at him. It's horrible. Whoever did that has ruined his face forever.

Katka looked around as if to rally supporters to her claim. The only person to respond was Surimna, but even then with only a giggle.

- And what's up with that shirt? She asked, veering her judgment towards Yuri.

- Don't look at me. That was his own choosing. Besides-, he looked over at me from where he now slouched against the counter, - there's wrong with it. It's clean.

The way his eyes racked over the orange long-sleeve, searching for faults he wouldn't be able to find because of his crass taste in fashion, made me smile my first genuine smile since I got downstairs.

Katka rolled her eyes at him. - It belongs in a bin.

- You belong in a bin, Yuri retorted. It was obvious that this was an exhausted fight between them because there was no heat in either of their faces.

- Kids, Breja interrupted. - Set the table and be done with it so that we can eat.

It became clear everyone had an assigned task because the madame's voice was like the ignition needed to get the engine started. Everyone fought the movement of the ticker to get the last bit of preparation in place, save for Lopija and me.

- Ru, don't just stand there, go on, sit.

Not a fraction of a second was wasted looking my way. Breja hurried passed me to the threshold and called her husband from the door.

- Krié! Food!

Everyone gathered in the kitchen. The aroma of the mutton stew (frugumnar) was steaming from the pot, and for the first time, I let myself feel the hunger that was too shy to announce itself. The table was set with saffron flatbread (semaal), dried prunes and apricots, pomegranate juice, and a thick mixture of soured milk (fiir) sweetened with date syrup.

The arrangement around the table might have appeared as happenstance to the naked eyed—a bit of luck and misfortune—but I knew better. I notice the way Millin had cornered Yuri, giving him no option but to sit three seats away from me, tucked between his father to his left and Millin on his right. That left me between Breja and Surimna, seated diagonally across from him. Millin had his brother, who he so courteously pulled out the chair for, to his right.

It's easy to state now in hindsight all the things I should have changed. I should have been more assertive. I should have pulled Yuri to my side. The truth is that all sense of caution had flown out the window the moment the rich aroma of spices wafted up my nostrils. The feast on the table only served to root my feet to the floor. Besides, what was I to do? Leave at the first sign of discomfort?

The meal started with a word of grace before we all delved in, stuffing our faces, gouging on the delicious food. All conversation died at the hands of gluttony. Everything was fine at first, but then Haroon dropped his spoon. The cling that resulted from the steel hitting the ceramic plate still rings in my mind like an overture to a horrible nightmare.