Chapter 7 #2
I raised an eyebrow at the low price and rooted through a pile of women’s clothing myself.
All the real name-brand stuff was old but looked good enough to wear.
I found a Victoria’s Secret leopard-spotted bra and thong set with a two-euro price tag.
I’d seen these in Chicago for ninety dollars.
I considered buying it, but the thought of used underwear made me itchy. I dropped it back on the pile.
After we’d scrounged through the marketplace, we followed Will down another alley.
We passed a mountain of rotting produce before coming to a red brick building that looked ready to fall over at any moment.
I heard music coming from the inside, with the same Middle Eastern vibe I’d heard everywhere else but without the annoying pop beat or rap lyrics .
“This is Irena’s house.” Will pointed toward the shambles.
She lives there? I thought, amazed that anyone would live in such a dump.
We walked around the corner to an old wooden doorway with green paint chipping off.
Two large dogs growled at us from inside.
I started back, but Will talked to them like old friends and petted one on the head.
The dogs stopped snarling and wagged their tails.
“Don’t mind them,” he said. “Come on in.”
A well-worn concrete hallway waited inside, leading to a flight of stairs. The only light trickled in from the open doorway. We climbed to the second floor. Water stains marked the ceiling, and wide holes punctured the walls. Why would anyone live in a place like this?
“This was a warehouse during communism,” my stepbrother said. “Irena’s dad worked here, and they let him move in after the old system ended.”
I nodded at the explanation. At the top of the stairs stood another door with more peeling green paint. Will pulled it open, and music flooded the corridor. I looked in at a room full of well-dressed locals, holding hands and dancing in a circle.
We entered, and the dancers turned to us with wide grins and excited laughs.
Irena stood in the center of the room, wearing an extravagant peach-colored gown.
Before I could say hello, a strange man in his fifties shouted “opa” and pulled me into the round.
I tried to resist, but the dancers dragged me along in a peculiar rhythm that matched the exotic music.
I gave Dad a terrified glance but saw he’d also been yanked onto the floor and looked as confused as me.
“It’s all right,” Will shouted over the music. “They want to welcome you with a dance.”
I nodded apprehensively and tried to steady my knees enough to follow along.
A heavyset woman in a kitchen apron led the circle, shifting her feet back and forth in a pattern that looked like something from a National Geographic documentary.
The dance seemed simple until I tried to imitate it.
The other Americans seemed equally perplexed.
Will, however, slid into the circle next to Irena, kicking his feet in perfect sync with the others.
I was sure we’d just landed on another planet.
When the music ended, the dancers clapped and shouted something I couldn’t understand.
Then they swarmed us like adoring fans meeting their favorite rock stars.
I shook hands with everyone in the room, some of them twice, I think, and exchanged at least a dozen two-cheek kisses with people I’d never seen before. Yuck .
Will introduced the heavyset woman in the apron as Irena’s mother, Miranda.
She had curly gray hair and a round, jovial face.
Beneath her apron, she wore a silver gown.
Her high heels made her taller than Dad, and I wondered how she’d managed to dance.
She was smiling and crying simultaneously, speaking to Elizabeth in a funny mixture of broken English and German.
Elizabeth blabbered something back, teary eyed herself, and the two women hugged. More Yuck.
Next, Will introduced a tall, thin man, who resembled Robert DeNiro, as Irena’s father, Petrush.
At least, I thought he said Petrush. I’d never heard the name before and didn’t want to ask him to repeat it.
Petrush didn’t understand a word of English and hardly said anything in Malegonian either.
His wife, however, spoke more than anyone else in the room, and I quickly assessed she was the family’s matriarch.
A blur of aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, old neighbors, and best friends introduced themselves.
They all tried to speak to us, but the language barrier meant we mostly just smiled awkwardly and shook hands.
After we met the twenty-five people in the room, my family settled in at a table while most of the others went back to dancing.
Miranda continued to lead the circle but disappeared into the kitchen every few minutes .
Irena’s cousin, Mira, spoke the best English in the family and sat next to us. She was a pretty woman in her early thirties, with long brown hair and a bright smile. “Why don’t you dance?” she asked, almost yelling over the loud music.
“We don’t know how,” I answered.
“Don’t you dance in America?”
“Not like this.”
A young girl brought a silver platter with sweets and tiny cups of coffee.
She set it in front of us and motioned for us to take something.
I picked up a coffee and took a sip. The robust flavor almost knocked me out of my seat.
I glanced at Mark and Kyle. They sipped and curled their lips, revealing dark grains on their teeth.
“This is Turkish coffee,” Mira said. “It’s a tradition here.”
“Aha,” I said, setting the cup back on the tray.
The girl returned with another platter full of shot glasses of a clear liquid that looked and smelled like vodka.
“This is rakia,” Mira said. “Another tradition.”
Everyone at the table raised their glass. I closed my eyes and downed mine with a quick gulp. It burned like liquid fire and almost made me gag. When I opened my eyes, the Malegonians gave me open-mouthed stares. Irena’s father nodded, wide eyed. “Bravo. ”
“You’re supposed to drink it slow,” Will whispered.
I noticed the others taking tiny sips from their glasses and felt my face flush.
“Oh,” I said, trying to mask my embarrassment. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a raging alcoholic.”
The serving girl poured me a second glass, and the Malegonians watched expectantly. I gave it the slightest of sips, and their expressions softened with apparent approval. One of the partygoers turned the music up to ear-bleeding level, and the wedding-goers pulled us from our seats to dance.
“It’s your turn,” Mira said. “Your family gets to dance!”
“But—” I tried to protest as they yanked us back onto the dance floor.
The beat of the music reverberated in my chest. The Malegonians formed a circle and eyed us expectantly.
I held hands with Dad and Elizabeth and hopped to the music in my pathetic attempt at imitating the locals.
Mark was the only one who grasped the basic step, kicking his feet to the erratic timing—a testament to the fact he’d been the drummer in Swamp Butt.
I was sure we looked like fools, but Irena’s family met our clumsy attempt with loud applause.
The music paused, and I darted back to my seat beside Mira.
“How long will the dancing last?” I asked .
She smiled, clearly mistaking my terror for enjoyment. “Don’t worry. Today is just the start. We have three days.”
Three days! I did my best not to gasp at the prospect of three days of circle dancing to strange, deafening music. I had to escape. There was no way I could endure this for three days.