“I am not giving you this sweater. Not even to wash. I am not taking it off. It’s a present from my mother.”
Almira’s face shone in the moonlight, undisturbed. She stood tall and strong, looking straight into Saida’s eyes.
“I see, you are attached to that sweater. Fine. We can leave it aside for now. Try these things on, they don’t fit me anymore. I was looking for an opportunity to donate them to somebody who needed new clothes. You are the one.”
Saida didn’t move or say anything, and Almira went on talking.
“I understand. You don’t trust me because you had some bad experiences with people in the past. Can you try to believe me that I only want to help you? I don’t want to hurt you in any way. I know that it is difficult to accept help from people, having gone through so much hardship—but please try. I can’t help if you don’t trust me.” Almira lowered her voice and pointed at the pile of clothes. “How about this skirt and the green shirt? Green will look good on you.”
Saida looked down.
Not waiting for an answer, Almira collected all her clothes and disappeared into the night. She came back with a pail of water and a soap.
“Take this and wash yourself out there. Nobody will see you—it’s late and dark. When you come back, we can make dragon soup. It gives you the strength of a dragon. I learned how to cook it from my mother. She believed in the healing power of food.”
“Just like Baba,” said Saida softly.
“Oh, so you can talk after all. You can tell me about your grandmother while we eat. Go and wash yourself now.”
Saida took the pail and soap and stepped outside.
It had been a long time since she had had a good wash like this. The splash of water, freezing cold, felt brisk against her skin.
When Saida returned to the caravan, Almira was lighting a fire in the wood stove.
“There is a nightgown on the blanket there. And I forgot to say that my name is Almira. I live with my boyfriend, whose name is Rika. We have a guest staying with us in Guča—a boy, about twelve or thirteen years old. They are at the festival now, playing. When they come back, I will have to talk to Rika about you. For now, we are making soup.”
Almira put the pot on the stove and poured water in. They sat on two stools facing each other, peeling potatoes and carrots.
“Now we have to put all these vegetables in the pot,” said Almira, “and let it simmer for a long time.”
“Until it starts smelling like a devil,” added Saida.
“You know it?”
“My Baba makes it that way all the time.”
“Where is your mother, at home?” Almira asked.
“I don’t know where she is, not even where she lives. I was raised by my grandmother.”
Almira looked down. “I lost my mother when I was ten,” she said. “Before she died, she was sick for a long time. While she was healthy, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen watching her prepare food. Sometimes, she would give me small jobs like peeling potatoes, and I remember feeling very grown up and proud of myself. That’s how I learned to cook and bake.”
Saida nodded. “I never met my mother. I don’t even know what she looks like. Maybe I look like her. My brother, Nikola, and I never even saw a picture of our mother. I guess nobody ever took a picture of her. Baba would always get furious when she spoke about her. My mother abandoned us after my brother was born, and no one knows where she went.”
“Nikola? That boy staying with us is called Nikola as well,” Almira said. “What a coincidence! And your father?”
It can’t be my Nikola, Saida thought. Baba would never let him go to Guča. “There’s only one photograph of my father—a picture hanging in our kitchen,” she answered. “It’s covered in layers of sticky dust and fingerprints. So much so that you can’t make out his face anymore. He had a dark moustache and small eyes. He died in a street fight long before we moved to Cardboard City.”
“Then who took care of you when you were little?” asked Almira.
“Baba.”