Tom Kuka

WINNER

Kurbatka Doesn’t Do Coffee Readings

Sadije had shoved her daughter between her legs and was snipping away at the girl’s long tresses with a pair of shears meant for goats. The child wailed inconsolably, but the woman paid her no heed. Her son leaned against her hip, his head already bare, and he played with the spoils of his sister’s jet-black locks that now littered the floor.

In the garden, Di Hima had made himself comfortable under a tree, a flask of raki in his fist. The sunlight hit his eyes, so he kept his lids partially closed. His shirt was half-open, and the beaming rays above him along with the heat of the raki radiating from within his chest produced a warm sensation that lulled him to sleep. What a shame that the girl had chosen that precise moment to erupt into an ear-splitting wail in defiance of her mother.

– I don’t wanna, ma, I don’t wanna…

– Shut your mouth and don’t make a peep!

– Why are you doing this to me? It hurts, look, there’s blood on my head…

– Didn’t I tell you to shut it!

– Da, but I like my hair! Tell her, please!

Di Hima opened his eyes. He shook off some of the torpor he had sunk into.

– Leave the girl alone, Sadije! Her hair is not the problem!

– Don’t you go getting involved in things that don’t concern you. I know what needs to be done. Otherwise, her hair will be infested with lice in no time. Her skull might be bare, but at least it will be free of lice.

– Light of my life, what are you even talking about? Where did this story about lice come from? You’ve done everything short of washing the kids with lime!

The young boy grabbed a tuft of hair from the floor and tried to swallow it. Rushing to him, Di Hima removed the hair from his son’s fist, but the boy started wailing too. The sound of the children’s simultaneous cries was rather too much for a man who had spent the past days lazing in the sun.

– Who poisoned your mind with these thoughts, woman?

– Our kids are the only ones around with hair still on their heads. Everyone else has shaved their little ones’ scalps bare…

Sadije resumed her massacre with renewed vigour. Using her left hand to pin her daughter’s head down to prevent her from wiggling around, she ran the goat shears with the other through her bangs. The little girl understood that the battle was lost, so she had stopped screaming and resigned herself to now merely sobbing.

– It’s a plague, Sadije, a calamity. It has nothing to do with lice. Listen to me…

– The calamity does its own thing, I do mine.

Once the woman realized that her daughter had accepted her fate, trapped as she was between her mother’s legs, she made swift work of the girl’s long raven-black curls. Di Hima stared at his daughter who had just escaped her mother’s clutches.

– Aaa, now that’s more like it. You look so pretty! Where had that face been hiding! – her father teased her.

Di Hima was laughing heartily, invigorated perhaps by the sunlight that bathed his garden. The girl threw her father a searching stare, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether his remark was meant to be a taunt, or if his words were serious. Strips of short hair marred her exposed head here and there, as if waves had emerged from underneath her scalp. Her eyelids had dammed her tears for the moment, while she wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Her mother began to snip away those few shreds of hair that still remained, although this time she used a finer pair of scissors.

– Sadije, you’ve made our kids look like sewing needles…

– Lord, why? They look great!

– Yes, of course, you’re right. This one over here, ears as big as a donkey, and the girl with those black eyes, barely bigger than coat buttons…they sure look great.

Di Hima smiled and caressed his wife’s cheek with two fingers of his oversized hand.

– I had to. Those fleas would suck them dry otherwise. And the kids would see nothing but nightmares filled with ghosts all night long. Now that their heads are smooth like shiny bowls, the sun will warm them all the better and their dreams filled with daisies instead…

– Who told you this, light of my life?

– My granny, may her soul find peace!

– Well, sure. I’m sure you’re feeling better now that you’ve made our kids look like…

– Say, don’t they look good, right? – Sadije asked, trying to make peace.

– Yes, of course they do. Everyone’s a skilled barber when it comes to shaving the hair all off.

Sadije laughed at this, though she conceded nothing. Once she was done with her daughter, she grabbed her son and lifted him from his armpits, and laid him on the grass a few steps away, before proceeding to clean the debris of her previous battle. She swept every lock of hair into one corner and gathered them carefully inside a tattered piece of clothing.

– Shouldn’t leave any lock to the wind, or the children will lose their wits, she murmured almost to herself.

– Really?

– Shouldn’t bury it either, that’s how they get headaches.

– Since when?

– Others shouldn’t see it, or they’ll be cursed.

– Would you look at that… and what should you do with hair?

– Burn it, of course.

Meanwhile, she lit a match and set the whole packet ablaze. Di Hima couldn’t stop smiling as he watched his wife obey some precepts that she’d picked up from Lord knows where. The children rejoiced at the sight of the sudden flame and leapt to their feet.

– And what about the barbershop, woman? How do they manage with all those mountains of hair that accumulate over there? Wouldn’t the hair risk being swept away by the wind, trodden under people’s feet, or dragged by cats to the garbage bins?

– Man’s hair. There is nothing to it, – Sadije continued her spiel.

– What do you mean, there’s nothing to men’s hair, ma’am?

– Because men are brainless! – the woman exclaimed, settling the matter.

There were many things that Di Hima missed, but it was the memory of having his head rubbed in the barbershops of Vienna that truly brought him to his knees. He couldn’t enter the Opera with his hair sticking everywhere above his ears. So, before a visit, he would take a seat in one of the chairs of a master barber in Stephansplatz and spend an hour like so, with the barber above him, first taking care of his rather long sideburns and then his beard. He would put hot towels on his cheeks, a white cream that made his skin as smooth as a baby’s, and then spruce him up with a fragrant cologne that lingered on his skin for three days straight. Finally, the barber would massage his temples, making Di Hima almost fall asleep on the spot.

The harsh sound of someone banging on the big door of the house dragged him violently away from the cradling reverie of his memories. Di Hima buttoned himself up, wiped from his face the sense of candour that had enveloped him and put on his usual demeanour. The knock was vigorous, but unhurried. He opened the door. Tom Kuka stood before him, all tall and straight. The desolation of death had embedded itself into the visitor’s skin since time immemorial. No one could recall a time when he hadn’t been surrounded by this black shroud. During winter, he wore a raven-black jacket. Now that it was summer, here he was again: the same dark jacket, a white shirt, and a jet-black necktie.

Tom Kuka greeted him with his hand on his heart. Behind him, the death carriage stood waiting.

– Why’d you tire yourself by coming all the way here, Tom? We’re all still alive…

The man seemed unperturbed by Di Hima’s jab.

– I don’t collect corpses without being asked to, so no need to fret. Something else has brought me here…

Di Hima stepped aside and the man entered the garden. Tom brought his hand to his wide-brimmed hat to salute Sadije and then turned towards his host.

– Kurbatka of the River Bank is gone…

– Gone? Who cares if she’s gone. Safe travels for her!

– No, she has left this world. For the other.

– She isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last. You know that better than I do. The only one with a job in this place is you.

– She didn’t leave like the rest…

– How did it happen?

– I found her with her throat sliced open. Someone got rid of her. I was told to bury her, but when I found her like that, I figured I’d inform you. I know you’re all alone now, but they cut her throat, do you get it?

– I do, Tom, I do…

Di Hima shoved his hand into his pocket and dragged out his tobacco box. He opened it and took out two cigarettes that had been rolled a while back. He extended one to the eternally mournful guest, but the latter refused.

– I don’t smoke…

– It skipped my mind…

Di Hima lit his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He thought for a second.

– The dead are piling up. The calamity is taking them away. Why should I care about this affair?

– The calamity is one thing, but someone cut her throat, do you get it? Why should a human being do the work for the Calamity?

Di Hima dropped his head to contemplate what he had just heard.

Kurbatka of the River Bank was infamous. There was no man left whose coffee cup she hadn’t read. Yes, because women in this city would often leave no stone unturned to find out what their men were up to. They would cover themselves from head to toe with a veil and bring Kurbatka the coffee cups that the men had drunk from. She would stare at the cups for a spell, but wouldn’t open her mouth without first hearing the sound of metal chime on the silver tray. The sound alone was enough for her to understand how many her guest had dropped. No one could fool her or give her less than what she was owed. It was then and only then that she would being to unravel men’s dirty tricks. And if any man had lost his marbles and decided to chase after some whore’s tail, or gamble, the coffee cup would lay everything bare for the world to see.

But that wasn’t all Kurbatka had to offer; she could tell you the day your mother-in-law was ready to kick the bucket, if the wife had been cunning enough to steal her cup. She could tell spinsters if luck was coming their way, or when the blister that had formed inside their inner thigh and made every step sting, was ready to erupt.

Many were the things that Kurbatka had been able to uncover; in fact, she was the one who unmasked the story about the imam who drank raki in secret, and about the loan shark who inflated his interest rates. Many didn’t like her, there were a great deal who hated her, but to go as far as slashing her throat… that was excessive.

Di Hima didn’t say a world. He left Tom Kuka standing in the yard and went to grab his coat.

– What is the matter, husband? – Sadije asked, worried.

– Someone murdered Kurbatka of the River Bank.

– Qyqa! Who?

– That’s why they called on me, they don’t know who did it, – he smiled at her.

– I’ve never been to see her! – his wife added.

– I know, my love. You love me too much.

– A lot, – Sadije replied, her eyes welling up with tears.