Ana
The water glided off my shoulder, washing the foam from my mum’s homemade soap, whose flowery fragrance would last for the entire night. Placing the water ceramic jug on the grass, I stepped out of the trough. The soft breeze touched my body as I pulled on my linen dress.
Droplets of water dripped from my hands, falling on the grass, resembling the morning dew in my wake.
After bathing myself, I stepped through the narrow corridor of the house.
Halting one second, I admired the picture of The Ox Cart.
My mum acquired it at a fair before Angelica and I were born, to bring colour into her house.
It wasn’t the real painting, but a reproduction, admired by every neighbour who crossed our threshold.
I always imagined the man who wielded the cart to be my father. It had the same type of hat, the same brown coat, but instead of two oxen, our cart had two horses.
Passing by the kitchen, which was empty, my feet carried me straight to our room.
The hand-woven wool carpet brushed my toes. It depicted a large yellow flower in the middle of it, its petals falling on the edges.
Angelica’s slender body spun around, her feet ready to dance the night away.
“What are you going to wear?” I asked, taking my long hair and making two braids out of it. Securing them with the only two silk ribbons I had, I watched as the sun started to hide itself.
“This dress,” she wheezed. Angelica inhaled, stopping herself from prancing, holding a dress with embroidered birds on its waist.
I helped my sister take off her garments and pulled the strings to make it look slimmer. Not that she needed it.
She inhaled once loudly, and as soon as I finished with the dress’s strings, she started to swirl around the room again.
“You will get dizzy if you do not stop,” my mum chastised, but on her lips grew the most warming smile. Her sun-kissed skin crinkled as her sky-blue eyes watched my sister trying to braid her own hair.
“Let me help you,” I said, following her through the chamber.
She turned this into a game of chase and started laughing.
“You’ll get sweaty, girls!” Even my mum didn’t take herself seriously then, joining our laughter.
We circled the room for a good amount of time until both of us were left breathless.
My eyes stopped on the large map of our country, Romania.
Its yellow paper was worn out by time. The brown of the mountain was replaced by a faded ivory.
When we received the map, Angelica and I promised ourselves that we would visit our land.
She mentioned the Goat Meadow and the Hollowing Waterfall from the Bucegi Mountains, to breathe the fresh air and to drink the coldest of waters.
I would have loved to arrive at the sea in the Constan?a area.
I could only imagine how the salt would cling.
In the end, it would be just a dream. Angelica would get married, thus leaving us behind. Leaving our dreams to die.
Without a doubt, our father would have dragged us back by the hair. We couldn’t find work either. Nobody hired women unless for serving in a tavern filled with males like my father or selling their bodies.
Shaking my head from the horrors passing through my mind, I went to my sister and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “Now, can I help you?”
Her smile touched my heart. She was the most astonishing young woman in the village.
Even if we sold produce at the market, we wouldn’t be able to buy the livestock that would help us have revenue.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and plastered a smile on my lips. Braiding her hair, I noticed a red mark on the back of her neck. Memories from two nights ago flooded in when Angelica and I forgot to close the horses.
He did that… Maybe it was a good thing if Angelica left the house. She could finally be safe.
I secured Angelica’s hair with a red ribbon my mum dyed last week with radish juice.
“You two are my most prized gift of all time. You are the air that I breathe, remember this, my sweet, loving daughters.”
I forgot that Mum stood in the threshold, watching us. Her blue eyes were filled with unshed tears, with love on full display.
Her blonde hair was tied back in a single braid. The garments she wore had darker colours than ours, her vest did not have any embellishment, and her skirt looked ragged. She always used to tell us that it was better for us to be dressed as she was already married.
To the devil himself.
That was what Angelica always said. My heart always clenched when the Red One was mentioned. It was as though we would invite him into our house.
Every time I went to church to confess my sins, Father Neagu would listen to my darkest thoughts. They always involved my father. I never wished him misfortune, just for him to leave us alone.
Father Neagu told me that I could step away from my faith, thinking such ideas. He would always give me prayers to say at night, which would help my mind and soul to repent.
I smiled at my mum and went to hug her lean body, her arms wrapping around both of us.
My sister and I loved her so much that we tried our best to avoid Father’s wrath for her. She was the one we could go and cry to for any tiny reason, and she would always have a piece of advice for us.
My eyes glanced over the only clock in our house. Its golden-painted wood was gleaming in the afternoon sun, announcing that we would be late if we didn’t hurry.
“Are you ready? I don’t understand why you would use your best clothes for this day! Not even your sister could turn a man’s head. What makes you think you would do any better?”
My heart jumped at hearing my father’s voice and belittlement. I broke the hug with my sister and my mum, and I didn’t dare look at him.
I caught a glimpse of Angelica. The disappointment in her eyes said more words than any of us. Her mouth started trembling, and she turned her back on us, her shoulders shaking.
“Let’s go ahead, Anghel. The girls are still getting dressed,” my mum said, her voice soft, as it always was when trying to avoid his wrath.
“And who the hell is going to help us carry all the unnecessary food you prepared, hm? Out of my pocket!”
I looked at him. His linen trousers were dirty from the morning's work, and his wide leather belt was stained with mud. Even his tall boots weren’t spotless. The only pristine piece of his clothing was his hat. Dark with colourful beads attached to it, a gift from my grandmother.
The only thing in the house he thought was precious.
I saw my mum’s face crumple, her eyes going to her feet, touching repeatedly the stiff, ironed skirt.
“I will,” I quipped, rushing to grab my opinci, which I had cleaned a while ago.
My father grunted about being irresponsible and ungrateful brats, grabbed my mum’s arm and got out of the house.
Taking my embellished waistband and securing it on the dress, I turned to Angelica. Her face was red from crying, and her eyes were swollen.
“Don’t listen to him, Angelica! You’re the most beautiful, smart, kind and loyal girl in the village. You will get married, and you will have the life you dream of,” I assured her. She was staring at the place where my father had left.
Her eyes filled with tears again, and she threw herself into my arms. “I cannot believe that the man who gave us life behaves like this… I cannot love such a man, Ana.” Her voice broke at my name, her body started shaking again.
She sniffed, her eyebrows furrowed. “If the man I marry is a good man, I will take you and mum away from here!”
My hands touched her shoulders, breaking the embrace. I brushed her tears off her face with my thumbs. Her idea warmed my heart. However, it was just an idea, as all of them were.
My father was the only one who could work for our family. Our mum tried to sell her food at markets, but she would be dragged back home and placed behind a spade or a shovel. We could not win.
Still, I smiled and nodded, placing her braid over one shoulder. “Let’s go,” I urged, grabbing my shoes and going out the door.
The lump in my neck would not go away, making me imagine all sorts of scenarios.
I couldn’t distinguish between all the feelings that were trying me. Fear that neither of us would get married, and the excitement that we would attend another Girls’ Fair. That, for a few hours, we could enjoy ourselves.
Or the feeling that something was about to happen.
Getting out of the house, I admired once more what our small farm looked like.
The main house was larger than a hut, the three tiny wood-framed windows covering almost half of the exterior wall.
My father’s grandparents built this house when they were younger; back then, it was the newest in the village.
Before my mum moved in, the roof was covered by wheat straws, which were stomped on with the feet. But those were replaced by thick, red tiles.
On my right was the food pantry and the summer kitchen, where chickens roamed free in search of food. The barn was next to their coop, together with the firewood, which would get delivered at the end of the summer.
I went straight to the summer kitchen and took each wicker basket with the food my mum cooked and loaded it one by one into the cart. The hot air of summer touched my skin, beads of sweat from the effort appearing on my forehead.
“Move faster!” my father shouted at me from the barn, loading a fresh batch of hay for the cows. “Not that you’ll get married,” he laughed, the sound making me writhe in my own skin.
Swallowing, I grabbed the last two baskets and placed them as well as I could in the cart.
The same baskets were borrowed by our neighbour when her husband passed away. For the wake, my mum cooked so much food that it lasted until the funeral, which took place three days after. For every child that passed the threshold, my mum, Angelica, and I would give caramels, saying bogdaproste.
We had to carry the baskets to the church, where the sermon took place. At some point, every person had to kiss my neighbour’s husband’s body, as a final goodbye, before lowering him to the grave. Everyone from the village threw me, and Angelica looks, because we wouldn’t do it.
Even Father Neagu watched us as if we had committed the greatest of sins. Seeing his dark eyes, I swallowed and kissed the hand of the dead, not wanting to offend anyone.
I bristled, remembering the iciness of the skin. Since then, I couldn’t attend any other funeral.
The wooden planks that sustained the passenger benches squeaked under my feet as I ascended into the cart. Angelica followed, taking a seat opposite me. Her eyes were still red, but her nose was no longer runny.
I couldn’t say any comfort words to her as my father was circling the cart, checking the wheels. He mumbled about too much food, holding his cigarette between his lips. With the corner of my eye, I noticed my mum’s shoulders straightening.
How much this woman has endured...
Two horses were tied to the cart, their neighing covering my father’s foul words.
They were dressed to the nines as well. Their mane was brushed and decorated with red bands on which were pinned blue, yellow and red tassels.
My father took the whip, and the horses started their trot.
With one swift move, Angelica moved onto my bench. “Do you think he is right?” she whispered in my ear.
The cart wobbled on the pebbles, moving us from left to right. I shook my head once, my eyes on my father’s nape.
“No, I do not think that, and I never will,” I replied, my voice barely audible. My eyes tracked as the other neighbours loaded their own carts, but not many had daughters who had to be wed.
From our village, Angelica and I were the last ones.
The houses passed by quickly, their tiny windows reflecting the sun in them. Our neighbours were watching our cart from their porches, some leaning on the wooden pillars, and some waving at us from their yards.
My gaze moved to my sister as a small smile broke over her lips.
“As long as we are together, Ana, we will be just fine,” she says, her eyes roaming over my face.
“We will be just fine,” I echoed, my hand covering hers.
I prayed for Angelica to Saint Ana, to find a good husband who would respect her and cherish her soul. I prayed for myself. To live my life, to find love and to be loved in return.