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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 07 | volume II | February-March, 1999



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 07February-March, 1999
Prose

The Girl from Malesh

/11
p. 1
Dimitar Baševski

    I even told them there. I don't remember, I said. Would you be able to recognize him? No, I wouldn't. Then that's too bad, go away, they said to me. We made a report. Just in case, they said… Why don't you take it, eat it, eat, please.
    And you, why don't you eat?
    Leave me alone. I just want to look at you. If only there were somebody to come to me… It was dark, how could I recognize him? And besides, he disappeared quickly.
    He didn't tell you anything? He didn't say anything tender to you?
    Oh, come on. Something tender! I just saw his shadow as he was leaving…
    The girl started crying. She covered her ugly face with her tears and moaned. Here, she said then, I'm burning inside. She caught hold of my arm and wouldn't let me go. The pupils of her eyes dilated from the fear of being left alone now, when she had most hoped that she could talk as much as she wanted. But now, heaven help us, nobody could stop her.
    Anna, you should come, you should come sometimes, she says… I'm like that when I'm alone, I cry sometimes… It smells of mold, here it's not something you can clear away, mold is mold, it stinks… Thank God you're here… Eat, if only for my sake… My father died, didn't you know? I bathed him alone with my own two hands as if he were just born and I put him in the grave…
    She wipes her tears and sniffles. She has become very ugly, uglier than she used to be. Only you, she says to me, were good to me. And your father was a good man, your mother was… Then she stops talking.
    I see her in front of me, she sniffles and shudders. In a way she still looks as she did several years ago, and in a way she doesn't. I remember when she came to our home for the first time. She sits in one corner of the kitchen, she doesn't show that she's tired; she's quiet and she looks at her bowed legs. Sometimes she dares not actually to look at us, but just to look away secretly to the extent that she can see part of the floor and our feet swinging under the kitchen table. She was clutching a small bundle in her lap. Empty, we saw later –






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