Stork Mountain by Miroslav Penkov Page A

two, collected the measly checkers. Grandpa rolled a pair of threes, grabbed a handful, then rolled again. In no time he’d borne off half of his checkers. And in no time I’d found myself, once more, behind.
    The imam worked for the contractor. Not officially, of course, but he had been paid. His job was to put pressure on Grandpa, to get him to sign an agreement. The Bulgarian hamlet was full of ghosts, the imam had said, but the Muslim quarter was full of the living: men, women, and children. The wind farm would bring investments to Klisura, a fresh, new life.
    â€œAnd he is right,” Grandpa said. “The people of Klisura will benefit from the farm.”
    â€œBut you don’t care for the people?”
    â€œMy boy,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
    I really didn’t. Besides, what was there to understand? He’d swapped our land—beautiful, fertile fields that could have delivered me from debt—for heaps of rock and bramble, for desolate and ruined houses. And why? To save the memory of people long dead—the idiot Vassilko, the mayor, the village priest. I didn’t know these men. I didn’t care to know them. They were strangers whom Grandpa had chosen over me, his flesh and blood. He’d preserved the dead and betrayed the living—and not just me, his grandson, but also the people of the Muslim hamlet, who stood to profit from a wind farm.
    My heart was racing. I picked up the dice and rolled a pair of sixes. Grandpa blinked in disbelief while, with a shaking hand, I bore off almost all of my remaining checkers. I was an inch away from beating the old man. My rightful indignation was manifesting itself, if not in real life then at least upon the backgammon board. I rolled the dice so hard one popped out on the table, hit the jar, and bounced back. With a magnanimous wave, Grandpa allowed me to roll again. I did: an unfavorable value. I moved two checkers, but bore off none.
    â€œThey’re all waiting,” he said. “Hoping for me to die so they can seize my land. So let them wait.” A large, contented grin stretched his lips and quickly turned to laughter. He had rolled a pair of sixes. The game was over. He’d won again.
    I grabbed the jar and drank it dry. Another loss, another disappointment. And while I was refilling the jar from the earthen jug at my feet, the imam began to sing for the evening prayer. His voice enveloped Klisura like a fishing seine and I could almost feel its knots thick, inescapable against my skin.
    Lightly Grandpa closed the board; lightly he took my hand. His was as cold as well water. “My boy, with your arrival a favorable die was cast. The question now is who will play it?” Then he lit a new cigarette, stretched back in his chair, and smoked.

 
    FIVE
    TWO WEEKS AFTER I first set foot in Klisura, the storks returned.
    I was dreaming of America again. In my dream I was back in my apartment, back in my bed. I wanted to sleep but couldn’t. The tree outside my window was heavy with chirping birds, and the harder I pressed the pillow against my skull, the louder they screamed. “A good man has died,” someone said in English beside me. “They’re letting you know.”
    It was the girl from the station, the one who’d cut her wrist. She was naked, except for her face, hidden behind the sheet as if behind a headscarf. Beautiful roses began to blossom across the sheet, each petal the color of dark blood. “Who is the man?” I asked her. “Who has died?” She started laughing. Her voice was muffled, as if coming from deep underground. I knew I’d made a mistake. She wasn’t the girl I thought she was. “You know the man, amerikanche ,” she said in Bulgarian. “Now hear the birds.”
    I awoke startled, with the sun in the top corner of the window. The room was stuffy and the Rhodopa blanket soaked