Stork Mountain by Miroslav Penkov

same land I had returned to sell—for a handful of ruined houses, rocks, and brambles up in the godforsaken Strandja Mountains.
    For days on end his phone rang unanswered. “I give you my hand in friendship,” his student barked when at last Grandpa picked up, “and like a dog you bite it to the elbow!” But if Grandpa thought all profit would be his, he had another thing coming. “A signature, comrade teacher, doesn’t mean a thing!”
    â€œOf course it does,” Grandpa told me now on the terrace. “But a man needs to lawyer up first.” He rolled the dice: four and two—a point. We had just finished dinner—potato stew he’d cooked on the open fire with paprika and too much salt—and I was quaffing jar after jar of water.
    Five months after Grandpa purchased the houses of Klisura, the Turkish company began construction of the first wind turbine. “He simply had to brag,” Grandpa said. “The cocky fool. He called me up one night. His ministry had approved the construction and there was nothing I could do to stop them. And so I told him—a signature doesn’t mean a thing.”
    To pay for the lawyer Grandpa sold his apartment, packed up, and moved to Klisura. And why not? We weren’t calling him; we weren’t making any plans to visit. Why shouldn’t he enjoy fresh air, a scenic view?
    â€œYou have no shame,” I said. How many times in the past ten years had Father begged him to come and live with us in the U.S.?
    â€œThree. And four.” He read the dice and hit one of my unprotected checkers. “And what will I do in America exactly?”
    Once in Klisura Grandpa made “a real stink.” He contacted two newspapers, three radio stations, a TV channel. An old man protecting a historic village, fighting the greedy politicians to the death. It was a compelling story. Besides, he had a lawyer now to help him drive the point home: the land was his, regardless of how many permits the government had issued. And the hasty construction of what he referred to as “that phallic piece of junk the Tower of Klisura” was promptly stopped.
    â€œAll right,” I said. I rolled a five and reentered with the hit checker. “If this Turkish company is so well connected, why not build their farm right there on that hill? Each turbine a middle finger in your face?”
    Grandpa shook his head. That hill was part of a nature park. And so was the hill next to it.
    Then why not in another village? Surely there were others in greater ruin than Klisura?
    He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The warm gust picked up the smoke and carried it toward the house. Klisura , he said with a wink, as I no doubt knew already, was Bulgarian for gorge . The hills stretched on both sides of the village and formed a tunnel through which a current blew—not ferocious, but constant.
    â€œThe perfect spot,” I said.
    â€œ A perfect spot,” he corrected. “I have been told that there are turbines across the border, from here all the way to the White Sea. Like Klisura, ghost villages transfigured into wind farms.”
    For three years now, Grandpa and the Bulgarian contractor had waged a lawsuit. Just last week, the day I met him on the bus, Grandpa had been to town. But once again the hearing had been postponed, this time until the fall. “They prance me about like a circus bear. Every time I go to court they find some new reason to postpone. I pay my lawyer, I pay the court fees. Then the charade repeats. I’m bleeding dry. And now they’ve started coming here to put the screws on me.”
    â€œElif’s father?” I said. “How is he involved?”
    Without giving it much thought we had both brought our checkers to the home boards. A curious battle was about to unfold—whoever rolled the better dice would bear off first. No strategy or skill—just luck. I rolled a one and a