Grind

By Edward Vukovic

ZIVA'S LOVE OF COFFEE IS DOUBLE-EDGED. 

Throughout her life, she gives her talent to those desperate for a glimpse into destiny's promise. Predicting the future with chilling accuracy, she understands the cost and has sworn never to divine her own truth. 

Having fled the economic aftershocks of the Balkan war, s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922701411

Edward Vukovic

Edward Vukovic is a Melbourne-based writer and novelist. He currently works as a communications specialist and copywriter and has had work published across numerous publications. When he's not writing about his poor parenting skills or fantasy football or the Eurovision Song Contest, you'll most likely find him treading on Lego or shouting at the television, convinced the players on-screen will respond to his misunderstood genius.Edward is married to his wonderful and patient wife Vesna and is a proud father to his amazingly talented son Oliver.

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grind

Grind © 2022 Edward Vukovic.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in Australia

First Printing: March 2022

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922701381

Ebook ISBN- 9781922701411

grind

Edward Vukovic

To Ves

Without your unwavering support, kindness, and love, this story would never have been told.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Olivera for being an inspiration and the soul of the story.

Ziva

One

MY BROTHER IS AWAKE. I can hear him thudding his way into the bathroom. There is a chorus of hacks and vigorous spitting followed by the gush of running water. Another night of drinking has taken its toll. Elica is in the kitchen, in front of the stove as always, her grey-golden hair tied in a bun, a few strands curling about her ears. I watch her shuffle about, her hands moving swiftly over the hotplates, belying her graceless form. She is a strange woman to look at. Her movements as a whole appear mechanical, jerky, and clumsy, like one of those cheap toy robots. Her hips swivel as she walks, her legs lurch out from beneath her. She seems to slouch perpetually, thrusting out her groin like a magnet for men, the remainder of her body in tow. And yet her hands are skilled, out of sync with the rest of her, as if they are not actually hers. Sitting at the table, flicking through yesterday’s paper, I wait for her to speak.

Ziv, will you read for me today? She asks as she pours three cups of coffee. The murky liquid flowed sonorously into the tiny porcelain cups.

Sure, ‘Labour Gain Ground in Battle for Seats’, I chime, knowing she meant something else.

You know what I mean, Ziv, read for me. You haven’t done it in God knows how long. I have questions, I need to… know... she hesitates, her sure hands fumbling momentarily.

Need to know what, Elli?

I’m scared, Ziv, I…. Her lips tremble, straining to hold back her words.

Scared of what, Elli?

I’m… I’m pregnant, Ziv, she confesses, her mouth curling into an unsure smile.

That’s wonderful!

You’re not surprised? I smile and take her hand. I have seen pregnant women before. I’ve seen how their ankles swell, how they lean back ever so slightly, how their skin has more colour.

I am happy for you, for both of you. We embrace briefly, happily, and I gently rub her belly. She sighs and relaxes in her chair, whatever invisible weight upon her shoulders falling away.

Ivan wants this child, but… I’m not sure. We don’t have money for babies, Ziv; we barely have money for us. She fiddles with her spoon and, with downcast eyes, takes a sip of her coffee. I watch her drink. Her lips redden with the heat, her hands shivering against the cup.

I don’t know how we will manage. Now I’m pregnant, I won’t be able to work like I used to. Ivan will need to get another job… she stops talking and turns her head slightly like a dog does when it hears something in the distance.

Things will be fine, Elli, you will see. In our family, things are always fine. We make things work. It doesn’t matter what happens; we always make things work. I sip my coffee, calmed by its warmth.

I know Ziv, I… I just want to hear it after you’ve read it, you know. Quick before Ivan comes in, you know how he is.

Alright, alright, I’ll read for you. I slouch back into my seat and take another long sip. The flush of liquid rests momentarily upon my tongue, tickling it, then rushes to my stomach. Eyes closed, I feel the flash of heat running through my body. Shadows creep into view.

I take hold of her now empty cup and circle its rim with my finger. A trace of coffee sticks to my skin. I look at it, enchanted by the dark, brooding texture. Elica is waiting, her hands fidgeting with themselves. A knuckle cracks under the pressure of the fingers above it. I can sense her nervousness, her anxiety; her breath is infrequent, sometimes drawn out and deep, sometimes shallow and rapid. I rotate her cup slowly, wondering, watching. I search the black coating for signs, for tiny images of metaphor, of life. Closing my eyes, I hold the cup in my palm; allow its remaining heat to radiate through my flesh. Elica shifts in her seat. I ignore her. If she wants me to read, she must be patient. These things do not work on a whim. They are gradual, precise. But to explain this to her now would only increase her anxiety. She knows this is how it works anyway.

I wander through the patterns of coffee; weave my way along hidden paths, watchful for signs, for that momentary glimpse of something, a spark in the din. I see a number, two numbers, four and seventeen. I note them in my head and continue my search. The coffee remnants eddy about like clouds of mud. Images form themselves and vanish in the same movement. I try to pluck them from the abyss, but they move so fast I cannot place them. Elica sighs, waiting for me to say something. I ignore her again. She has sat through this before and knows to wait, knows not to speak until I offer something. I search through the haze of mahogany, again expecting to catch a glimpse of something. An image forms this time, that of a bird. It is perched atop a streetlamp, its wings readied for flight. Its head is cocked as if its stare is fixed upon something. I cannot see what it is looking at, but it has a predatory air. I study it; watch as its movements direct my gaze. The lamp is on; its light shining onto a wet road, the weight of rain lingers in the air. I can smell it, that fragrance of wet tarmac. The bird waits and though it wants to fly, doesn’t, knowing that it is ensconced in the canvas that is the cup. I turn to Elica and notice her apprehension. She is fiddling with her napkin, fingers twirling it over and over, wrapping it around her hands and then unwrapping it.

I see a bird Elli, I pause. It sits on top of a lamp, a streetlight, like the ones outside. It is ready to fly but is waiting. You’re about to make a big decision, a successful one. It will be hard at first, but ultimately you will both be very happy. Elica, relieved, places the napkin beside her saucer and leans back in her chair.

"What about the baby Zivvy? Will it be alright?

There are clouds in the cup, storm clouds, it will be difficult, to begin with, money will be tight, you will argue a lot, but the pathway is lit up, and the bird watches over you. I look up at her, anxious, with nothing else to add, and she slumps a little, her lips curling momentarily, twitching. Make your wish Elli.

She takes the cup and presses firmly into its centre with her middle finger, a thin coating of coffee attaching itself to the tip. I take the cup back and twirl it again, delving for its secrets. Inside I can almost hear a drum beating, faint and distant, as if in the bowels of a mountain, growing louder, coming closer. I see rocks tumbling, large boulders crushing everything in their path. I shudder slightly; a spear of cold suddenly impales me. I look away and shake my head, my fingers loosen their grip on the cup, and it slips from my hands and tumbles to the floor.

Ziva! Are you alright? What happened? What’s wrong? Elica springs from her chair and clutches at my arm.

I’m fine, Elli, fine, I’m ok. I just… lost focus. I look at my fingers, stare at them dumbfounded, wondering why they suddenly lost strength. Elica holds the back of her hand to my cheek.

You’re cold, Zivvy. Are you sure you’re alright? Should I call doctor Skoropanovic?

No, no, I’ll be alright. I stand up, a little shaken and dizzy, and collect myself. I notice the shattered cup lying in ruin on the floor. Its pieces form a sinister jigsaw puzzle, each misshapen shard containing the same thing. A large black rock.

What are you women doing in here? What the hell is going on? Ivan bursts into the room, unshaven and red, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the broken cup on the floor. Who did that? We don’t have money to replace cups all the time. He moves to the cupboard and, in swift, practised movements, takes a bottle of rakija, unscrews the lid with his thumb and forefinger, skols and puts the lid back on.

I dropped it. It just fell from my hands, I say, looking up at him, barely aware of his comments. He snarls and sits at the table.

You been reading again, eh? Did my wife ask you to perform that mumbo jumbo witch bullshit again, eh? U pičku materinu Elica! How many times have I told you? I don’t want that shit in my house. He looks at me, his cheeks puffed and red, blustering like balloons in a sauna. And you, Ziva, while you’re in my house, I don’t want you reading. I never liked that old bitch or the shit she taught you. No good for anything. Fucking superstitious gypsy shit! He spits as he speaks, his words a semi-drunken slur of ageless hate and ignorance. Elica! Where’s my goddamn bloody breakfast fucken’?

She hurries to provide for her husband. I look at her and promise myself that I will never be that servile. Will never hurry like a mouse for a man, ashamed of myself and embarrassed of who I am. I turn and see the cup on the floor. Ivan watches me, says something, but I cannot hear him. He is a blur in the background of my mind. All I see is rocks. Big black rocks. It is cold.

Two

STANDING IN THE HALLWAY, the door closed behind me. I take in a breath, holding it in as long as I can, and let it out again, the bitter air stinging my tongue. I can’t stand it when Ivan talks about Baba. It saddens me that he hates her so. He always did. He distrusted her. I think because the other boys in the village used to tease him for having a gypsy grandmother. They would hound him, throw stones at him, chanting that he was the bastard child of Baba Yaga, the witch, and he’d fly into a rage, beating them until his eyes filled with tears. Years of being bullied and teased about Baba Zlata taught him how to fight. But Baba Zlata wasn’t a gypsy. Nor was she a witch. She just had the gift, or the curse, depending on how you viewed it.

I remember the last time I saw her read, just before she died. I was very young, maybe nine or ten, and it was the only time I saw her read properly. I was a child and didn’t really pay attention to grown-up things. And besides, my mother didn’t like me being around Baba too much. I’m not sure why exactly, but I think maybe Baba didn’t approve of my mother and was forthright in letting her know this. My mother cursed when my father would tell her that Baba was coming for dinner. Partly because she would have to work harder to clean the house and cook to Baba’s standards, but I also think because she just didn’t like her and just hated being in her presence. I don’t think she trusted Baba either. So for me, each visit to Baba’s house was treasured.

I remember it was winter, and it was very cold, and Baba was ill more and more those days. So I asked my parents if I could visit my grandmother and help her while she was ill. I was worried that the cold weather would be too much for her. My mother wasn’t very keen on this idea, but my father thought it was a wonderful gesture.

Baba’s house was small and sparse. She didn’t decorate it as other women did. Baba liked her house to be clean and less stuff made it easier to keep it that way. So there were no doilies or ‘mingeri gingeri’ adorning cabinets or mantelpieces, except for a solitary black and white photograph on the mantel. My Dedo. He was a handsome man, in his early twenties, tall and strong, with dark, intense eyes. Dedo Milan. He died in the war.

I remember sitting in a chair, my fingers clasped gently around a small, chipped teacup. They caressed it, sliding over its curves, along its ridges, intrigued by the warmth radiating through the china. I smiled and gazed at Baba. Her cow-brown eyes, lined with wrinkles, peered curiously at me over her glasses. I remember blushing as if guilty of touching something I shouldn’t. My hands leapt from the table and into my lap, but Baba just smiled, motioning for me to take the cup in hand again.

Stillness filled the room. Silenced by the murmur of boiling water, it seemed to be waiting. Baba sighed, shifting her weight momentarily, her calloused hands rubbing themselves slowly, assuredly. She leaned towards the fireplace, her head bowing, a wisp of hair escaping her scarf, and picked up the kettle. Baba didn’t believe in electric stoves. She said the drink should be made with real flames. It was more natural. The warmth of the hearth tickled her fingertips, bringing a smile to her face. She sat back down at the table and placed the kettle almost ceremoniously upon it.

I sat still, not daring to talk, to ask questions, following my grandmother’s slow, methodical movement. Columns of steam rose from the kettle, sliding up to the ceiling. Baba brushed aside her greying hair and delicately poured the hot liquid into the same cup I had been playing with. It flowed black, splashing against the gleaming ceramic. Darkness flooded the cup, blocking out the bright, shining veneer. She leaned back in her chair, looked up at me and smiled. We sat for a minute or two in silence. I inhaled, inviting the sweet aroma in. Baba placed the pot back down on the table and waited patiently.

I took the cup, marvelling at how warm it felt in my hands and took a sip. The coffee slid down my throat, twisting like a panicked snake, engulfing my senses. I wanted it desperately, needed it, to warm me, to understand what it was like, to learn. Baba always let me drink coffee, despite my parents forbidding it, and I always felt guilty for doing so. She nodded and poured herself a cup, letting it sit for a moment, letting it breathe. She massaged one knotted hand with the other as I watched, delicately sipping the dark liquid in my cup, recoiling each time the heat touched my lips. With a wince, Baba flexed her hands, picked up her cup and drained the contents in a single gulp. The coffee must still have been incredibly hot, but this didn’t seem to worry her. She then placed the cup face down on a clean, white cloth that I hadn’t noticed before.

It needs to dry, she said, and after a minute or so, lifted the cup, revealing an intricately woven storyboard smeared over the small porcelain canvas. Finish your coffee Ziva, then I can teach you.

I took another sip, but the coffee was still too hot. Baba Zlata clucked her tongue and looked like she was about to start talking when a knock at the door stole her attention.

Get the door, child; we have visitors, she said, waving her hands.

I did as she said, knowing that asking me again would inflame her temper. In my haste, I bumped against the corner of the table, bruising my thigh instantly. Moaning, I opened the door and found a young couple on the doorstep, shadowed by the chill of the night. They stepped inside without acknowledging me at all as if I were a ghost. The young man took off his hat, revealing a kind and handsome face under a mop of black wavy hair. His wife was pregnant. Her round belly, comforted by a blanket, protruded from her coat. The baby was near, maybe only a few weeks or so to go. The man smiled as he gave me his coat and sat by his wife at the table. They exchanged greetings with my grandmother, holding each other’s hands firmly, anxiously.

Sasho, what brings you and your lovely wife to my house this cold night? She is in no condition to be taken out in this weather. What is on your mind? Baba Zlata demanded, smiling at the man opposite her.

I know it is late and cold, Baba Zlata, but there has been a pain growing in my heart. I must know if our child will be safe and strong. I want a son Baba Zlata, a good and healthy boy. I need to... The man spoke quickly, nervously stumbling over his words, unsure how to finish.

Why come to me, Sasho? Surely the doctors can tell you the condition of your child. They are skilled in the arts of medicine. I am but an old woman and know nothing of these matters, she chuckled, shaking her head. Sasho lowered his head, ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at his wife, who was gently, rhythmically rubbing her stomach.

I’d rather you told me why I came, he sighed finally, hunched over the table. Baba Zlata nodded, grinning, her face illuminated momentarily by the flickering firelight.

Ziva, come and fetch me my blanket. It is cold in here, the old woman asked, readying herself.

Sitting in the corner, masked by shadow, I picked up an old embroidered blanket that was folded on a chest beside me and gave it to my grandmother. The blanket was heavy with age. The pattern, swirls of red and orange, yellow and green, was perfectly symmetrical. It was soft and warm to the touch. A single black eye stitched perfectly into its centre seemed to glare at me through the darkness. Baba Zlata took it and nodded for me to sit beside her, placing it across her lap. She seemed to wink down at the black eye draped over her legs and waited patiently for me to take my place.

There were now two extra cups waiting on the table for visitors that were not expected. When Baba put them there, I don’t recall. She could move quickly for an old woman. I remember wondering what it was that Sasho and his wife wanted, wondering what Baba Zlata would see, but more importantly, what she would say. I had seen Baba read before but had never really paid attention. I liked visiting Baba Zlata because she let me drink coffee, her house was always warm, and she told magical stories. She also baked the best apple pie in the village. It was only now that I was older and started to understand the stories about her that I became interested in Baba and not just her pie.

Baba poured a steady stream of coffee into the waiting cups, splashing it over the china, masking the tiny cracks of time. Sasho and his wife sat watchfully. He tried to stifle a nervous cough. Coffees poured; my grandmother motioned for me to remove the pot, and with a nod of her head, instructed Sasho to drink.

He did as he was told, and his lips, blue with cold, reddened swiftly as the coffee trickled down his throat, warming his belly.

It is a good one this one, Baba Zlata remarked, pouring herself another cup. I mixed flavours, added a little something to it. She told me later that she never read her own cup. She didn’t need to learn about her future. I remember asking her why and she told me that she already knew it. She took a sip and waited for the couple’s reaction. Following her cue, Sasho sipped from his own cup again and looked up at Baba, a question on his lips.

Is it almond? he supposed, hopeful. My grandmother shook her head gently, finishing her share.

No, Sasho, it’s too sweet, Sasho’s wife said. Is it cocoa Baba Zlata? She guessed, taking another sip. Baba nodded. Cinnamon too, I think.

Do you like it? I thought a little extra sweetness and spice would add to it tonight. After all, the cold weather begs for something warm and agreeable. Well done, Maria, now twirl your cup slowly, allowing the remnants to cover the white. The more you cover, the more can be read.

Both Sasho and Maria did as they were told, the cups all but covered by thick brown residue.

Now place them upside down on the saucers. They must dry like any canvas must, Baba Zlata instructed, her smile never wavering.

I sat in the dancing shadows behind them, closer to the fire, watching excitedly. What would Baba see? I thought. What tales will she tell of Sasho and his wife? I think I wanted to know the baby’s fate, as much as, if not more, than its parents did. But in particular, I wanted to absorb everything, to understand how Baba did what she did. I wanted to learn how to read myself. Baba Zlata told me that I could once when I was helping her cart some firewood into her house. She said that I had it in me and that when I was ready, she would teach me. But only if I would help out around the house, like I was then, help with some chores as she was but an old woman who couldn’t manage anymore. She also promised to make me coffee and pastries. I said yes instantly, despite my mother’s warnings.

I watched as the three adults crouched conspiratorially over the table, over the untold secrets of their lives. Baba Zlata took Sasho’s cup and twisted it slowly in her hands. She waved her hand above it, crisscrossing over it; a sign of divinity. Peering into the cup, she murmured thoughtfully, nodding then shaking her head.

Sasho, she said suddenly, startling all of us. I see a man standing on a platform, his head hidden by shadows. Sasho shifted in his seat while Maria squeezed his hand. Beside him is a large horse; its leg is broken. And over here, look, Baba whispered, pointing with her little finger as she held the cup so Sasho could see for himself. Here is the letter, T. Do you know anyone of this name, any men who work with animals, a vet or a farmer perhaps? Sasho shook his head, his brow furrowed with thought.

I craned my neck from the shadows behind my grandmother, straining to see what was inside that cup. And as if she knew what I was trying to do, Baba hunched over the table more, obscuring whatever small view I had.

What does that mean, Baba Zlata? What are you telling me? Sasho’s eyes were desperate.

I see wasted effort as if you have been striving hard to achieve something, straining with all of your heart, and no matter how hard you work, you cannot reach it. You are limiting yourself by trying too hard, by breaking yourself.

I have been working hard to start a new business, my father wants me to take over the butcher’s shop, but I do not want to do it his way. I have been working long hours and have been away from Maria a lot, repairing the shop.

"It’s true; hard work sustains us. But you need to be careful, Sasho; sometimes we can extend ourselves