She opened her eyes and looked at him sideways, then looked at his glass and at the bottle sitting by his feet. She laughed.
What did you say?
Nothing.
What’d you say?
Nothing.
But you said something.
• • •
At night the locals came and took stones from the wall around the property. They turned off the coast road climbed up the hill on the dirt road and stopped in front of the fence with their headlights trained on the fence so they could see what they were doing. They came with pickup trucks and brought tools to loosen the stones and casually loaded them onto the beds of their trucks, slow and easy, taking their time. They were beautiful stones, big solid hand-chiseled slabs, they made you happy to look at and touch. The first night the locals came he yelled at them. Get lost, you buzzards, he shouted. You buzzards, you crows, aren’t you ashamed? There are still people living here, get lost. Buzzards. Get out of here. He shouted and cursed and at one point it almost came to blows. But eventually he got tired of shouting and cursing and fighting. What was the point? What difference did it make, today or tomorrow. What was the point. A soul that’s ready to leave will leave.
No use wasting our energy, he said to Niki. It’s a tactical move, see.
• • •
An idiot mayor, Niki said. You’re talking like an idiot mayor. That’s what I said. Like a priest and a mayor rolled up in one. Love brings luck, huh? Okay, Father, whatever you say. Pour me another martini.
She held the bottle between her bare thighs opened it tilted her glass and filled it up to the rim then looked over his head at the cloud of dust rising from the far side of the mountain. Eminent domain. Day and night the workers and machines kept at it, gutting the mountain, opening a new road toward the port. Lately at night when they sat under the olive tree they thought they could still hear the echo of the hum of the machines thought they could see red dust falling onto the trees, onto the fence, onto their faces and hair. And when they drank or ate they thought they could feel dust in their food and drinks thought they felt dust in their mouths and throats. Dust. They ate dust drank dust coughed dust sweated dust.
Eminent domain.
Lately at night they’d been dreaming. Dreams of Kyustendil — if you could call them dreams. Confused, anxious, unfair dreams. The kind where you keep trying to do something, you struggle for what seems like hours to achieve something important, something beautiful, something that in your dream you know will change your life forever, but in the end you fail. That was the kind of dream they’d been dreaming, unfair dreams. And they woke in terror, bathed in sweat, thinking they could hear the other person’s heart beating even louder than their own.
There were lots of times when he woke up screaming, and Niki would lean over and stroke his forehead his cheeks his chest.
Don’t be scared, she’d say. I’m here. Don’t be scared.
They would lie awake for a long time silently listening to the sounds of the night which was up as late as they were. The crickets and the cicadas. The rustle of the leaves and the sighing sea and all the sounds that frighten a person at night. The creaking of roofbeams, the hum of the fridge, a dripping faucet, something creeping along the floor or wall. Silently they listened to the night speaking around them and their skin crawled.
When day broke, much later, he said to her:
That’s what love is. To have the same dream at the same time on the same night with the person who’s sleeping beside you. Who’d believe it if you told them? The two of us are alone in the world. Even in sleep we’re in love.
She looked at him in the dark, then turned over so she wouldn’t have to see him anymore.
They’re not dreams, they’re nightmares, she wanted to say, but in the end she didn’t.
• • •
The ice cubes had melted. He went to get some water from the fridge. Bottled water, a euro and sixty cents per six-pack. Fifty euros a month. Six hundred euros a year. For months now they hadn’t been drinking water from the tap because it came out looking like rust. In the hall the plastic bottle slipped from his hand. His hands were shaking again. He walked past the old mattress leaning against the wall and went out and sat down on the cement.
I say we pull the mattress out here and sleep in the yard tonight, he said. It’s our last night here, we should sleep in the yard. What do you say?
Niki shrugged.
Do whatever you want, she said. I won’t be sleeping at all.
By now the hourglass was gone, the sea was darkening, a breeze had picked up. They sat for a long time under the olive tree listening to its leaves shudder in the wind. The stars trembled between the branches of the tree and he stared at them for a long time silently trying to think of what the stars looked like trying to think up something heroic, something romantic to say about the stars but in the end he gave up because they were only stars — they were only stars and nothing more.
• • •
Should I bring you a jacket or something? he asked.
Chuckwalla.
What’s that?
Bulgarian. It means love brings luck. Chuckwalla. Isn’t it nice? Say it: chuckwalla.
He gave her a quizzical look and Niki laughed and rubbed her forearms which were covered in gooseflesh.
I’ve been trying to remember since morning, she said. I’ve been trying to remember since when we were loading our things onto the truck and now I finally did. Chuckwalla. Turns out you were right, alcohol is an aid to memory. Wasn’t it you who told me that? Anyway. Whoever said it was right. I feel like singing. There’s no one to sing for us. No one to sing songs about us, the ones who are leaving now. Like the songs they used to sing in the old days. I know, you’ll say a lot has changed since then. And you’d be right, too. Back then a guy could sing at the station in Munich you left me and now what’s he going to sing, at the station in Kyustendil you left me? It just doesn’t sound right. Besides, who knows if there’s even a station up there. Are there trains in Kyustendil? Did you even ask? You didn’t, did you. That’s why no one is going to sing songs about us, the ones who are leaving now. But it’s fine, I’m sure they’ll say something on TV. That’s something, at least. At some point they’ll say something on TV for sure. About all the people who are leaving. I’m sure. Of course they will. That’s something, isn’t it? Better than nothing. Pour us another drink. I want to drink to the health of progress and development and eminent domain. To the health of the European Union and the free movement of people and products. Cheers to that.
He got up from the cement and stood in front of her.
Let’s go inside, he said. Let’s go in and lie down, okay? It’s too windy out here, it’s not a good idea for us to sleep outside. Come on. Get up, let’s go in. Get up. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.
Niki didn’t look his way. She was staring at the clouds that were getting bigger and blacker and blocking out every part of the horizon. A lightning flash carved across the sky. It looked like an enormous uprooted tree.
You don’t remember, Niki said.
What? What don’t I remember?
The chuckwalla. That documentary we saw. About the lizards. You don’t remember. There are these lizards in Mexico that when they get scared they hide in their nests and puff up their lungs with air so they’re as big as balls and no one can get them out no matter how hard they try. They’re called chuckwallas and I’m so jealous of them. I wish I could do that. The chuckwalla of Salamina.