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Authors: Zoran Zivkovic
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and could see what Madam Vera was buying. She chose a wide copper bracelet, a necklace of amber-colored uneven stones, and clunky plastic earrings.
She doesn’t intend to wear those, does she? wondered Madam Olga. Regardless of the fact that it was costume jewelry, even if she weren’t dead, these pieces certainly would not suit her. She would have to be at least four decades younger to wear them. At her age she would look vulgar.
Madam Vera took a large bill out of her coat pocket and placed it on the box without a word. Her purchase was certainly worth much less. The seller’s lips curved suddenly into a smile. He did not reach for the money, however, nor did he return any change. He continued to stand there without moving, staring blindly ahead.
He didn’t move until Madam Vera was several steps away and Madam Olga was before him, ready to follow her. He pushed himself away from the wall.
“Madam,” he said. She jumped, even though he said it softly, and looked at him in confusion.
“Just a moment,” he continued, as he ran his fingers over the objects in the box. He quickly found what he was looking for. He handed her a small oval brooch in a mock gold frame, with the profile of a girl.
“This is for you.”
She had never worn costume jewelry, or brooches. But she would offend him if she refused it. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with the leaflet she was still holding. It made it hard for her to take her wallet out of her coat pocket. But this turned out to be unnecessary.
“It doesn’t cost a thing,” he said with a new smile, as though seeing her predicament.
She took the brooch, but thought she should make herself clear. She couldn’t accept a present from a stranger just like that. But Madam Vera had just disappeared around the next corner.
“Thank you,” she replied hastily, returning his smile, then ran after her.
As she turned down the side street, she saw Madam Vera getting into the first of two horse-drawn carriages waiting for tourists. She said something briefly to the driver, who nodded his head and then signaled the horse.
Madam Olga had no choice. She rushed to the second carriage. It was obviously free, though good manners still required that she ask… But there was no time for good manners. She climbed up and sank into the soft seat covered with a plaid blanket.
She leaned forward, uncomfortable at having to order the driver to follow the first carriage. Tourists certainly don’t ask such things. What would the man think of her? But before she had a chance to open her mouth, he cracked the whip. The horse whinnied and broke into a trot.
She thought of asking for an explanation, but when she rose up a little in her seat, she saw that the first carriage was not far in front of them. This was for the best, she concluded. The less she had to explain, the less awkward she would feel. The important thing was to head in the right direction.
What she was unable to do, though, was decide what was the right direction. She rarely visited this part of town. In addition, when she sank back into her seat she couldn’t see very much. All she could tell was that they had come out onto a boulevard.
They were hugging the right edge of a busy street lined with chestnut trees. Night had fallen in the meantime, and the streetlights created bright islands in the yellowing treetops. Madam Olga rose up from time to time to make sure they were still following the first carriage.
It was not until they rushed through an enormous wrought iron gate with gold-tipped spikes that she knew where they were headed. When they left the asphalt of the boulevard for the stone blocks that lined the paths and roads in the cemetery, the carriage wheels started to make a different sound.
She should have suspected as much. Indeed, where else can the dead end up but in this place? She, however, had no reason to be there. She didn’t like cemeteries, particularly not this late in the day. She cleared her
She doesn’t intend to wear those, does she? wondered Madam Olga. Regardless of the fact that it was costume jewelry, even if she weren’t dead, these pieces certainly would not suit her. She would have to be at least four decades younger to wear them. At her age she would look vulgar.
Madam Vera took a large bill out of her coat pocket and placed it on the box without a word. Her purchase was certainly worth much less. The seller’s lips curved suddenly into a smile. He did not reach for the money, however, nor did he return any change. He continued to stand there without moving, staring blindly ahead.
He didn’t move until Madam Vera was several steps away and Madam Olga was before him, ready to follow her. He pushed himself away from the wall.
“Madam,” he said. She jumped, even though he said it softly, and looked at him in confusion.
“Just a moment,” he continued, as he ran his fingers over the objects in the box. He quickly found what he was looking for. He handed her a small oval brooch in a mock gold frame, with the profile of a girl.
“This is for you.”
She had never worn costume jewelry, or brooches. But she would offend him if she refused it. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with the leaflet she was still holding. It made it hard for her to take her wallet out of her coat pocket. But this turned out to be unnecessary.
“It doesn’t cost a thing,” he said with a new smile, as though seeing her predicament.
She took the brooch, but thought she should make herself clear. She couldn’t accept a present from a stranger just like that. But Madam Vera had just disappeared around the next corner.
“Thank you,” she replied hastily, returning his smile, then ran after her.
As she turned down the side street, she saw Madam Vera getting into the first of two horse-drawn carriages waiting for tourists. She said something briefly to the driver, who nodded his head and then signaled the horse.
Madam Olga had no choice. She rushed to the second carriage. It was obviously free, though good manners still required that she ask… But there was no time for good manners. She climbed up and sank into the soft seat covered with a plaid blanket.
She leaned forward, uncomfortable at having to order the driver to follow the first carriage. Tourists certainly don’t ask such things. What would the man think of her? But before she had a chance to open her mouth, he cracked the whip. The horse whinnied and broke into a trot.
She thought of asking for an explanation, but when she rose up a little in her seat, she saw that the first carriage was not far in front of them. This was for the best, she concluded. The less she had to explain, the less awkward she would feel. The important thing was to head in the right direction.
What she was unable to do, though, was decide what was the right direction. She rarely visited this part of town. In addition, when she sank back into her seat she couldn’t see very much. All she could tell was that they had come out onto a boulevard.
They were hugging the right edge of a busy street lined with chestnut trees. Night had fallen in the meantime, and the streetlights created bright islands in the yellowing treetops. Madam Olga rose up from time to time to make sure they were still following the first carriage.
It was not until they rushed through an enormous wrought iron gate with gold-tipped spikes that she knew where they were headed. When they left the asphalt of the boulevard for the stone blocks that lined the paths and roads in the cemetery, the carriage wheels started to make a different sound.
She should have suspected as much. Indeed, where else can the dead end up but in this place? She, however, had no reason to be there. She didn’t like cemeteries, particularly not this late in the day. She cleared her
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