The Axe

The Axe

  a short story by Alen Kapidzic

  translated by

  Petra Pintaric

  cover design by

  Sanja Kapidzic

  copyright alen kapidzic 2013.

  The Axe

  Trees began to disappear at the end of November.

  In parks.

  The metal skeletons of park benches remained the rusted witnesses of the attack of tree-thirsty two-legged vultures. And the roots. Tiny. In craters. As if the parks had been under cannonade by a strange weapon that attacked only trees. All trees. With no exceptions. Pines, beeches, oaks, birches, plane trees, chestnut trees, etc. The cypress trees at graveyards weren’t spared the hunger for warmth. For life.

  "We’re running out of wood."

  "I know."

  "So what are you going to do about it?"

  "I don’t know."

  "You don’t know!? What do you mean?"

  "I don’t know."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like I said, I don’t know."

  "And who is supposed to know then?"

  He stared at the orange jumping game of raw energy through the blackened glass, the sight of it itself keeping him warm.

  "It’d be best if you got up, went down to the basement, got the axe and went out to get some wood!"

  He didn’t move. It was as if the words had been ravenously swallowed by a huge white worm. His dark brown irises bathed in the reddish-yellow flame.

  "Well?"

  The stress on the question after the overly stressed "l" plunged into his gut and made him nervous. The palms of his hands began to itch. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. The fire slid away from his eyes.

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing," he said, harshly stomping past her.

  "What is it?" she shouted at his back. "Am I supposed to go out in –20 degree weather and look for wood? "

  "Since you know what the temperature is outside, maybe you could put on another sweater and burn less firewood!"

  "I will wear what I want in my apartment, and not what some asshole intellectual who can’t even go out and find firewood tells me to! Do you hear me?!"

  He slammed the door.

  The door opened when he was halfway down the hall and she yelled, "Slam doors at home, at your mom’s and dad’s place!"

  "I am home. Unfortunately!"

  "Then go to hell and don’t come back, you pathetic asshole!"

  Slam.

  The screw rolled towards the doorstep, bounced off, jumped over the shaggy brown doormat and hit the floor. The nameplate on the door swung and then stood still. He put his hand on the metal doorknob of the stairwell door and looked at the white letters on the black background. His rage quickly vanished leaving a dusty whirlpool of sadness.

  He recalled that, in the past, their arguments were mostly about other women. He would come home from work and make a comment about one of his female students: what she wore, what she said, that she had a lip piercing, how she posed a question, etc.

  "Do you think she’s hot?"

  "That’s not what I said…"

  "What do you mean that’s not what you said? You just said she was hot!"

  "That’s not what I meant…"

  "Then what did you mean? That you’d fuck her? Is that what you meant?"

  "Come on, what’s wrong with you!?"

  "What’s wrong with me?! I know what you’re like! You’d fuck those little whores who blink their eyes at you and show you their boobs in the front rows! Isn’t that right? Professor. You jerk off to them, don’t you professor? You jerk off to them when I’m not home!" She would slap and/or smack him. "You perverted fuck!"

  He would get up with the desire to slap her, she would jump on him and it would all end up in vicious intercourse with biting, scratching, licking, until they both came at the same time, screaming and bellowing.

  Things would be peaceful for a while. Then they would do it all over again.

  Now they fought over firewood. They found a replacement topic and they completely left out the orgasms. The quiet flood of discontent crept in unnoticed like the autumn, dampening their love and stifling the heart.

  The door lock clicked behind his back and he heard the squeaking of ungreased hinges.

  "Godspeed, neighbour!"

  "There’s no hope for me anymore. Not even God can save me," he replied.

  "Oh come on neighbour, don’t be like that. God sees all and knows all and he helps us when we need it the most. Would you like to come in for a hot cup of tea? I just made a fresh pot," she said smiling, thus revealing her yellow plastic teeth.

  "Come in, come in!" she said as she opened the door all the way and stepped aside trying to convince him to come in, her old body wrapped in scarves and heavy multilayered blankets.

  "No thanks, I have to…well, you know, go get some firewood."

  "Come in for some tea, neighbour. I’ll lend you some firewood if you don’t have enough. This winter won’t last forever."

  The thick cups kept the tea warm, guarded it, much like guards that guard a castle.

  "Mmmm! This is good tea."

  "It’s homemade."

  "Really?" he asked in disbelief.

  "Yes, I picked it last summer while I was on a pilgrimage, then I dried it and here it is!"

  He was fascinated by the tea. It tasted like summer.

  "What kind of tea is this?"

  "Thyme. It’s good for the nerves," she said smiling, her wrinkles folding one over the other.

  "I should give a litre or two to my wife."

  "We all need some."

  The ceramic bottom of the cup scraped the saucer.

  "Don’t be angry with her, she’s still young."

  "Yea."

  "She’ll learn in time," she said, closing her eyes, images from the past coming back to her.

  "Yes…" remained unspoken as the old lady nodded her head.

  They sat in silence.

  He stared at the greenish-brown liquid, observing the precious heat as it disappeared forever into the cold air of the living room. That’s when he noticed that it was noticeably colder than in his apartment and that it was impossible to open the windows because they were wrapped in curtains, cloths, towels, and taped with self-adhesive tape. There were blankets at the bottoms of all the doors. It seemed that the old lady ate, drank, slept, and lived in the living room. The fire was barely burning.

  He wrapped his hands around the cup more tightly.

  Sip.

  The comfort of the heat trickled down into his stomach.

  "Isn’t it a bit cold in here…?"

  She smiled and replied, "I’ll put on some more firewood for my guest."

  "Oh no, no…that’s not what I meant…"

  The doors squeaked and a log was placed in the fire.

  "You didn’t have to…" he said uncomfortably staring at the floor.

  "It’s fine, neighbour, it’s fine…I should probably keep a better fire going in here anyways to warm up my old bones, but instead I’m frugal as though I’m going to live to be 150 years old!"

  They smiled at each other.

  "Does your family come visit you?"

  "Do you visit your folks?"

  He blushed.

  "It’s already much warmer, isn’t it? These old fireplaces are great. You throw in one piece of wood…" She took a sip of her tea.

  "You know," she said in a grave voice, "I wasn’t the greatest towards my daughter when things were still alright. I didn’t like her guy and so I told her that. Maybe a few too many times. And so they stopped coming over. Lydia and I never fought, you know? I would talk and she would remain silent. Then I would repeat myself thinking that she didn’t understand what I was saying or that she didn’t hear me.
And so, they stopped coming over."

  "I’m sorry…"

  "No need to be. It’s my own fault. I realized that when it was too late. Lydia had phoned me to ask if I needed anything. I told her I was fine on my own and that if they hadn’t bothered keeping in touch until then, that there was no need for it in the future either. I hung up the phone. Two days later my phone connection died. It started snowing. You know how it was…"

  He looked forward to the snow much like a little child does. The snowflakes. The white carpet that grew higher and higher by the hour and covered the roads, the sidewalks, cars, garbage containers, kiosks. The silence that it brought with it and the way in which it calmed the city down. Forever.

  "That’s when I realized that I was a stubborn old woman, but it was too late. The phone lines were dead. We were snowed in. We couldn’t budge."

  They both took a sip of their tea at the same time.

  "Are you bored?" she asked suddenly.

  "No, no! Not at all! Please, do go on!"

  "Long story short, her guy came by a few days later when the snow had stopped and brought me bread, milk, flour, water, salt, and brought up some firewood from the basement. I didn’t say a word to him. I couldn’t, you understand. I merely shook his hand as he was leaving."

  She fell silent. It seemed to him as though she was struggling not to cry, but the old woman smiled, her eyes closed, and said, "They come by almost every week."

  He took the last sip of his tea and stood up.

  "More tea?"

  "No, thank you. I really should get going."

  "I won’t keep you then! I’m glad we got to have this chat. Come by again. And don’t worry about your young wife…she’s still…well…young. If your love is strong enough, everything will be fine."

  He unlocked the lock. He reached behind the door and felt the handle of the axe. He wouldn’t turn on his flashlight – he had to be frugal. How much