Past East (provisory)

Soveja

Chapter 2: Soveja

“Wake up! Wake up!” Is Father, shaking gently my shoulder.

I am terrible sleepy and I want badly to remain in bed. Then I remember today is the big day and I go to Soveja with my father. I jump off the bed sheets and I start dressing the clothes my mother prepared for me on the bedroom’s table: a pair of new jeans and a stiff ironed shirt. Also is a wool pullover there. It’s the month of July, but in the morning is cold. When he’s sure I am awake, my father let me dress and he goes in the kitchen for coffee. I finish dressing myself and I find very uncomfortable the ironed shirt under the pullover. I walk in the kitchen and I sit on the bed, waiting for my father to finish his coffee. Mother shows up, in her night gown, with a crumpled by sleep face.

“Why don’t you make him a tea?” she asks, again in bad mood. “You drink coffee alone.” There is no milk because nobody can go to sit on the line early in the morning. I just drink a cap of tap water. “You don’t see how he’s dressed?” she continues the imputations, fixing my shirt cuffs and my collar. “He looks like a runaway.” My father says nothing but gulps the hot coffee fast and stands.

“Ready to go?” he asks me and he’s pushing me to the door, without waiting for an answer. My mother didn’t finish yet:

“Take care with him. And buy him something to eat. Don’t let him alone.”

“Yeah-yeah!” my father acknowledges, already descending in the stairwell.

Outside the air is crisp. It’s not really cold, but it feels unfriendly over the bare skin of the neck. The stiff shirt is not keeping warm. My father has problems starting the car. The cold engine doesn’t want to come alive. Despite the excessive care my father shows for his car, he always has problems with the starter or with the alternator. It’s something about the lack of Italian parts and the Russian replacements, but I don’t understand the technical dialect. My father turns the key again, and the screeching sound makes him swore. He swore long and hard. I think my mother contributed to the length of the cursing too.

“We have to push it,” my father grunts.

He tries again with some result. I go out and position myself at the back of the Fiat. The paint feels cold and smooth under my palms. My father is pushing from the door frame and, after the car has enough speed, he jumps inside and turns the key. The sound is different this time, but the engine remains dead. We push again. This time a little black smoke comes out thru the exhaust pipe. Cursing even lauder, Father turns the key again. The sound of running engine is pure music. We go. The dark is a shade thinner now.

The road is empty. The first twenty kilometers we meet maybe four cars and an old noisy harvester.

“They’ll start soon the harvest the wheat,” my father says. “Do you like it?”

My eyes are big watching the colossal machinery. I nod my approval. I was always fascinated by the big mechanical monsters. The harvester is three times taller than my father’s car and the driver is so high in his cockpit I can see only his feet. Father passes the harvester slowly, letting me time to enjoy the sight. The rusted assembly is shaking majestic, at my hand’s reach. I keep the window up. I can see a belt running disarticulated out from the harvester’s body. I turn my head as our car goes ahead the monster. I loved it. Now I can see the driver too: a small silhouette in his high chair, shaking like a wooden puppet with the whole monstrosity. I’ll give a good deal to be up there with him.

After a little more driving on the E85, we turn right. We follow a gravel path. Father slows down because the road is very bad. The sun is up now, behind us. The crack on the car’s windshield shines like a silver spider net. The whole area is planted with wines. The rows are running along the road and block the whole view. For five kilometers or so we see only green leaves in both sides. Pretty boring and I feel again sleepy. When we reach in Panciu, I am dozing.