A giggle during the Devine Liturgy would have been more appropriate than Haroon's croaky laughter. Lopija was also laughing but it was unclear whether it was because of the comedy that was lost on us, or because she had gotten the worst of the splatter on her. The side of her head glistened with greasy droplets, stuck to her short hair. The spoonâthe culpritâlay upside down on the table between Anja (who was wiping away bits of Haroon's serving from her cheek) and Haroon.
If this had been my family, if this scene had played out in our dining room at Ljerumlup, the whole ordeal would have been ignored, swept under a sudden change of conversation in an attempt to save face. The Karamovs, on the other hand, acted. Katka rose to fetch her sisters some napkins and a cloth to wipe the table. Breja insisted that Lopija get up and wash the stew from her hair, all the while, glancing worriedly over at Haroon.
It was Millin who reached over to pick up the spoon, and who repositioned his brother's limp hand on the table so that he had a chance to clutch the utensil once more. And it was only fitting that he did it because everyone else was frozen in suspense, trying to figure out what was wrong with the elder Ibranov.
It was as if his laughter had sucked the last bit of energy out of him. Haroon was slouched and tipped forward, his solar plexus dug into the tabletop. His neck fought to keep his head upright. It was painful to watch Millin's hand tighten around his brother's as he helped him lift the spoon to his plate. When they sat so closeâshaved head to shaved headâthere was no denying their blood relation. They had the same proud nose, square jawline, and narrow lips. Millin wore a black tracksuit jacket, and his brotherâthe yang to his yinâan oversized, off-white button-up shirt.
It might have been the unorthodox order, seeing the younger Ibranov taking care of the elder, or something in Millin's calm demeanourâindicative of how often he performed such tasksâeither way, it was uncomfortable being a silent observer. Of knowing something was wrong, and yet, not being able to figure out what.
Secret murmurs. Everyone being in on a skit. That's what it felt like when Yuri leaned into Krié and whispered somethingâa clueâinto his ear. Krié's expression filled with concern and pity. The murmurs in Brommin spread around the table. They rose to a crescendo; became cohesive words, and then full sentences. And I knew, because I had seen it so often in my own household, that the topic would shift and that the chance to get answers would be whisked away like a kite by the wind.
- What's wrong with him? I asked, desperately grappling with the context that was slipping between each cryptic look that was being exchanged around the table.
Haroon's eyes flicked up. For the first time, I understood the meaning behind: the eyes are the windows to the soul. His were pits of murky water, dirt-brown, and shallow. Droopy with drug-induced euphoria. His expression was a lingering echo inside a vacant house.
He laughed again, a gurgled laugher that sounded as if he was choking on mucus. And I was simultaneously staring at himâaware that the kitchen had fallen ghost-quietâand watching the two s'kier from behind a window in my mind's eye. My aunt's voice, a whisper, emanated from underneath a rubble of discarded memories like a distant chant. S'ka is s'ka born. S'kaiss'kaborn. Sskaissskaborn.
My eyes panned to Millin's scowl, and then over to Yuri's guarded expression. The divide was there; clearer than ever.
- D-Did something happen? I asked.
Millin's free hand clenched the tabletop.
- What is it to you, Konstanâ
- He's worried, Haroon interrupted, levelling his brother with a look that shut him up. He yanked himself loose from Millin's grip, which only served to deepen his brother's scowl. The force of his movement, coupled with poor coordination, resulted in the spoon slipping out of his grasp. He picked it up with slow fingers, exerting an effort that was hard to watch.
- He's worried about me, he rasped. A wry smile stretched his lips as if he found the whole notion of someone worrying about him ridiculous. He looked over at Krié, who was sat at the head of the table.
- There's nothing wrong with me, Haroon said, - that isn't wrong with everyone here. He righted himself on his seat and looked around at our apprehensive faces. His body was regaining vigourâslowly morphing back to his state in the hallway.
- I'm sick with life. Yes, the same thing that's keeping me alive is making me sick. Yesterday morning, I heard that the streams connecting to Viga contained lead and mercury levels seven times the national average. Can you guess where they're from? He laughed a dry rasp.
- And yesterday...yesterday, there was a whole report on a village outside Ghjéstan where livestock were dropping dead one after the other as if the Great Plague had been brought down.
Tearing off a chunk of his semaal, Haroon continued, - We're all sick...I'm more susceptible is all.
- Zda, Krié agreed with a nod. - The air's heavy with whatever they're releasing into God's sky.
- Believe me, they won't do anything about it. Not when it's us dying, when it's us birthing children with blue eyes and black hairâno disrespect to you madame, your children are all beautiful and healthy, Haroon said, his gaze landing on Breja. And then, in a way that was intended to be surreptitious but failed short of the mark, he stole a glanced at Katka.
- I'm talking about families without a drop of the coloniser's blood. Lineages of men and women with hair and eyes as dark as the jurra wool, suddenly birthing handicapped children with wan complexions and blue eyes after God knows how many miscarriages.
When Breja grimaced, Haroon urged, - Tell me that that's the course of nature. It's not! It's not normal, and it's all because of whatever the government is dumping into our soil and water. No doubt so that they can cease our land once we've spawned deformed childrenâtoo sick and too weak to defend ourselves.
The room fell into an ominous silence, heavy with the weight of each person's stifled thoughts.
- You're wrong, said Millin - in speaking about the government as if we don't have a representative sitting amongst us.
Millin's gaze found mine across the table. He wore a faint smile.
Seeing his brother's puzzled expression, he asked, - Didn't you know? Ru's the count's son. The way he said itâmimicking his older brother's drawlâwas as if he was exacting revenge for a strife buried under their fraudulent civility. It was there, afloat on their facial expressions, in Millin's set jaw, and his white knuckles when he gripped his spoon and brought it to his lips. His smile widened. He liked having the upper-hand, liked seeing his brother's expression somber up as Haroon fell back against the backrest.
- He's as rughar Bikjaru as they come, Millin said, fixing his scorching gaze on me.
- What did your father say about your bruises? I can't say I've ever seen him smile, even when he's on TV he's so...Arash. He couldn't haveâ
- Millin...stop.
- What? Millin asked, returning Yuri's pointed look with an indignant one of his own. Yuri glanced at me. His eyes danced with an intangible emotion. Just as quickly, his head turned back to Millin, who was saying, - We're all thinking it.
- We are, he insisted when Yuri continued to glower at him.
- No, we're not, Anja said, - and if you'd paid more attention in class, you would know that Ru'sâ
- Does it bother you? I asked. My emotions felt lodged in my oesophagus; as visceral as a clog of bolus. And then I smiled because smiling came effortlessly, more so than concealing the panic that was chewing away at my composure. Smiling was what we did in my family when situations got awkward. The secret, the Konstantin touch, was to make the recipient feel as untethered as you felt without giving your insecurity away. One corner of my mouth climbed higher than the other.
- That I'm Bikjaru Arash?
Millin's smile slid off his face. I reached for my glass of pomegranate juice in a surge of confidence, but the tremor in my hand was worse than I had feared. I stopped short of reaching the glass and retracted it under the table. If Millin took notice, he didn't divulge it on his face.
- I mean, I said, drying the moisture from my palms on my trousers, - it's odd considering Adriana is just as rughar Bikjaru as I am.
I forced my tongue around the harsh Brommin syllables for the word pure. Rughar was bastardised from our ružjar, which the Brommian used to patronise our clan system. Ružjar was in a way a double-edged sword. A sense of pride to us, but to the Brommian, a reminder of a war that was better left forgotten inside the few history books that still told it.
- Adriana...Benofs? Millin asked. - Her father is the mayor, isn't he? Your...distant uncle or something?
- Konstantin Benofs, I corrected when his brow furrowed. - We're cousins.
- What about her? He asked.
My stomach shrunk in on itself and disappeared into the vortex of icky foreboding that engulfed it.
There it was, laid bare in all its glory for me to behold; his ignorance. An ignorance so oblivious that to hurl my growing anger and frustration at it would be misdirected.
I reached for my glass. I had to expend the energy itching on my fingers, and so I gripped it and downed quick gulps of juice. The realisation that it was me, that it had been me all along, slid down my throat and intermingled with the astringent aftertaste of preservatives. Millin didn't hate the Bikjaru so much as he hated me. He didn't have a problem making out with my cousin, although he had evidently forgotten all about itâthe problem was me. It had always been me, and I had known it. But now I knew it. The realisation settled in my body differently this time. It foamed in my chest, took up so much space, filled my whole beingâand yet weighed so little.
I looked over at Yuri, who I had been aware was watching me. Did you know? my eyes asked. The question at the tip of my tongue engraved itself on the tender skin around his eyes.
I remembered all the times Yuri had chosen Millin's side when we were younger. His irises reflected back the glistening laminate floors of our middle school gymnasium. A day as vivid in my memory as if it had taken place yesterday. I was surrounded by the Flatlanders. The air was humidâstifling. Their bodies were sticky from the effort that had placed them second in the football tournament. Millin's cheeks had been painted all the wrong shades of red. His hands had clenched his emotions until they smothered in his palms. He had closed his eyes, I remember because in the following second a glob of spit decorated my brand-new tennis shoes.
Had you always known?
My anger, pending like a distant storm in the far-off horizon, lost its momentum at the sound of Haroon's slurred speech.
- I've always wondered about that...the aristocrat thing. If your father is a count, does that make you a count? He asked. - How come there aren't any princes?
- No, he's not a count, Anja said, seemingly exasperated on my behalf. - If he was, then he would be called Count Konstantin, but he's obviously not because his father is still alive. She brushed away the stray hairs from her face and leaned in to peer at her father at the opposite end of the table.
- Papa, you're doing our nation a disservice by prioritising these boys' football matches instead of their education. Turning back to me, Anja said, - God knows they could use it.
- Don't be too hard on them, Krié said, at the same time, Millin quipped, - What? You can't be serious.
- I am, Anja countered. - Everyone knows the titles are decorative, an ideaâ
- Football is all we have left! It's the one thing they haven't taken yet. Do you really think we would be sitting here if weren't for Nursultanov scoring four-three in the Olympics '88? They would have...
Our eyes caught and the rest of his words plummeted to their death in our midst.
- Football's our salvation, he said after a beat.
Anja's face scrunched up.
- Yeah, okay, make that face, but deep down you know it's true. They determine our worth by how usefulâ
- So what, Haroon, sitting between the two of them, cut off. - the aristocrats wait for theirâNo, the sons have to wait for their fathers to die in order for them to inherit the title?
It was the first sign of clarity he had shown since sitting down to eat. Mulling over his own words and chuckling, he added, - It sounds like something the Bikjaru would do.
Harron said some more, but his words got drowned out by Millin's and Anja's continued bickering. In the pause that ensued when both conversations came to a halt, Millin said, - No, you're right, they teach us everything we need in school. That is everything useful to keep us in our place. To speak, but never speak against them. To voice our opinions but never those against the state heads. We're here. We're alive and breathing, citizens just like them, but in their eyes, we're only as valuable as our patriotism. If we so much as express views of istomliat we become beasts, ungrateful brutes who, "bite the very hand that feeds them."
There was a pause as everyone, even Katka and Surimna who had been having their own conversation in Brommin to my right, digested his words. The quiet in the kitchen encapsulated Millin's fervour and held it suspended over our heads. Each second that passed aroused a restlessness that was felt, even by me. And if I felt it, a tingle on my sternum, then imagine the magnitude they must have felt.
- Not now, not when we have Abdul-Beron, Yuri said. - We're going to become independent. That's a God-given right.
Millin slapped his back and smiled a smile that was mirrored on the Karamov's facesâthe widest of which belonged to Krié, who tapped a quick celebratory rhythm on the table with his spoon.
Istomliat, independence, Abdul-Beron, they were all words that could have been mistaken for a conversation at Ljerumlup had the context not been glaring back at me. I thought back to Mr Benofs's colourful adjectives whenever he talked about the Brommian resistance, and how quick he was to dismiss the idea of an independent Brommian state in Rujga Province.
- They don't have the grit, Mr Benofs would say, leaping on one of his favourite tangents, - an open negotiation of independence would mean that they would have to get out of their dilapidated shacks and actually work for once in their lives.
- I think not! Every nation's health is marked by the grit and aspiration of its youth...so far, the inbred country bumpkins have only proven themselves capable of loitering and hooliganism, oscillating between the two states. So tell, what autonomy do they speak of? What would such a ludicrous place look like?
It occurred to me that Mr Benofs had never had to eat at the same table as the people whom he scorned. Six terms as mayor granted him immunity to situations where his ideas might be seriously challenged. He would therefore never witness what I witnessed that day; Brommian faces rejuvenated with conviction and hope.
My understanding of the conversation tapered off as more and more of it dipped into Brommin. Yet, words such as Abdul-Beron and istomliat made it evident that they were still on the topic of independence. Their voices grew louder as each person tried to make themselves heard over the others'. Millin and Yuri forked off on a tangent. They turned to face each other; their gesticulations wide, their frustration and fervour prominent on their faces.
They talked about the expropriation of Brommian properties in the flatlands, and of the government gentrifying their lands and driving out their businesses. One example was brought up several timesâfarmland near the highway, connecting the East Villages, Dronesk, and Rujga being bought up. They talked about Abdul-Beron as if he was God's gift to earth, although Haroon was quick to share his cynicism.
- He can't help us any more than those before him, he said. - His integrity will crumble under their bribes. We can't afford to wait for someone to save us. We tried that, it failed. We have to save ourselves now. We have to organise ourselves, the sickle in one hand, the hammer in the other.
The conversation grew even more heated after that. Our senses, which had us all salivating over the food, dulled to the point where no oneâexcept the childrenâso much as considered reaching for their spoons. What little comprehension I was clunging to slipped through my fingers like sand.
The more I observed them, rendered bare of all understanding, the more unsettled I grew. Words I didn't have the heart to voice irrigated my tongue. I'm not going to lie, I thought it. I thought that they were deluded. And even though in my heart of hearts I knew I would never do it, the thought of scoffing crossed my mind. Is this really what you believe? I wanted to ask.
A Brommian independence was as far removed from reality as the Loch Ness Monster, and I didn't have to strain my mind to know that both were equally fictitious. My father used to say that what separated a sane person from an insane wasn't the thoughts in their heads, rather their inclination to act on them. To believe that the Red Socialists were capable of winning the election was one thing, but to act on the conviction that the Brommian could carve a piece of our land for themselves was pure insanity.
This is why no one takes the Brommian seriously, I wanted to say. But I kept my thoughts to myself and forced myself to finish off my plate of dried fruit, fiir, and bread. In between bites, and Surimna telling me about the kennel her father had built for their mutt, Inu, I caught Yuri's fleeting glances. Each time our eyes met, my stomach would wring with nerves.
- Ru, you'll take a look, won't you? Surimna asked, tapping me on the hand. Judging from her look of annoyance, it wasn't the first time she had tried to grab my attention. I had to fight the urge to return my gaze to Yuri's, to the smile I knew would be stretched on his lips.
- Yeah, I answered back. Surimna, like her older sisters, wore her dark hair in a loose braid. She had always resembled Katka more than anyone else, and not by chance. She wore her sister's hand-me-down dresses, styled her hair in the same manner, and on occasion, like now, she filled in her thick eyebrows with a bold, black eyebrow pencil. Yet despite her best efforts to emulate Katka, her childlike innocence was not lost on me. Her excited eyes and her plump cheeks had yet to be corrupted by the mock indifference of adolescence.
- I'll check it out, I promised her. Her excitement tripled and she went on to tell me everything that I had missed of Inu's growth since my last visit. I listened to her with half an ear. The other half of my brain was preoccupied with decoding the cryptic glances Yuri was sending my way. He was turned towards Millin. Every time he risked looking at me, I was sure Millin would notice and do what he always did, engulf Yuri in his overbearing presence.
The remains of whatever joke they had shared gleamed in Yuri's eyes when he glanced at me for the thousandth time. A mirth, as much a stranger to me as he was in that moment adorned his face. He was happy, content, at ease. I looked away, down into my glass. When I looked up again he had turned his attention back to Millin.
I couldn't place the sense of loss which ached in my chest. For the first time, the idea of istomliat, a Brommian liberation, was at the forefront of my mind, and the longer I avoided Yuri's gaze, the more incessantly it scraped at my thoughts. What would a Brommian state look like? And did Yuri really want that? Did he know what it would mean for me? For us? For all the Arash and the Brommian in Dronesk? Nothing would ever be the same.