Baba Dunja's Last Love

Baba Dunja's Last Love by Alina Bronsky, Tim Mohr Page A

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Authors: Alina Bronsky, Tim Mohr
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fulfilling his marital duties.
    â€œYou should have thought about that,” I say mercilessly. He blinks. He could almost make you feel bad, but old men who seek younger women should consider in advance what they are getting themselves into.
    â€œI wanted it to be you,” spills out of him, but I don’t want to talk about it, it seems rude to Marja.
    He leaves, his back more hunched than usual. I bet his rabbit heart is galloping wildly.
    Next, surprisingly, comes Mrs. Gavrilow. She sits down on my chair and says she has heard something. Her way of beating around the bush gets me worked up.
    â€œYou heard right,” I say. “We will soon celebrate a wedding here in Tschernowo.”
    â€œBut isn’t it somehow immoral?”
    â€œThe engaged parties are both of age.”
    â€œThe question of age is exactly what I wanted to get at.”
    â€œThe law doesn’t bar anyone from marrying after they reach a certain age.”
    â€œBut where will they live?”
    â€œWhy are you asking me, Lydia Iljinitschna? I’m not the mother-in-law. The engaged couple has plenty of square meters of space at their disposal.”
    Suddenly Mrs. Gavrilow roars with laughter, and the tension in her face dissipates.
    â€œAch, it’s fine with me. At least she’ll be out of the way.
    I look at her. Marja’s strange words about being raped by Gavrilow come back to me. Marja is not a woman who places any value in being handled delicately. And Mrs. Gavrilow is anything but stupid. Perhaps she can even speak German.
    â€œGod help him,” she says, with schadenfreude in her smile.
    A little later Petrow comes by and, before he even enters the house, recites a love poem. And then another. By the third I’ve had enough.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œWe’re going to celebrate a wedding, and if things keep going like this we will soon hear the patter of tiny feet.”
    â€œThen the sky really would fall.”
    â€œIsn’t it all wonderful, Baba Dunja?”
    I answer with a look that makes him cringe. I’m not sure which of his moods bothers me more.
    â€œOkay,” he says. “You don’t think it’s wonderful. You’re jealous.”
    â€œNot me,” I say. “But some here in Tschernowo will be able to sleep better as a result.”
    Petrow has to sit down as his strength is waning. The skin of his face is waxy and clings to his skull. It looks as if it might rip if Petrow were to smile too broadly.
    â€œYou need to eat something,” I say. “Otherwise you’ll lose your strength too quickly.”
    â€œApparently, there’s someone in India who subsists on sunrays.”
    Petrow stands up. He takes a few steps and then falls onto my bed. I’m actually not thrilled that my bed is now communal property that anyone who happens to stop by feels free to sit on without asking. But if I shoo him off it he’ll fall flat on the floor. They’ve already removed quite a few of his organs; it’s a wonder that he’s still able to be such a bother.
    â€œI’m sure I’ll cry at the wedding,” he calls from my bed as I leave my house. “I get more sentimental every day, have you noticed?”
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    What I would never trade for running water and a telephone in Tschernowo is the matter of time. Here there is no time. There are no deadlines and no appointments. In essence, our daily routine is a sort of game. We are reenacting what people normally do. Nobody expects anything of us. We don’t have to get up in the morning or go to bed at night. For all anyone cares, we could do it the other way around. We imitate daily life the same way children do with dolls, or when they’re playing store.
    At times we forget that there is another world where the clocks move faster and everyone is plagued by horrible fear of the earth that feeds us. This fear is deeply rooted in the other people, and

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