Almira broke the watermelon and cut it into red and juicy slices. Could there be anything better? A slice was gone in a couple of bites and then, her favourite part—throw it over the fence! Her arm stretched high as she aimed into the horizon. A sudden shout on the other side of the fence made her shiver and move away from the fence—the watermelon rind had hit somebody.
Almira shifted her focus to the trip. In less than an hour they would be on their way to Guča, a busy town pulsing with life, especially during the trumpet festival when people danced all night.
Almira stretched again and threw another watermelon rind over the fence. She felt perfectly at peace with the world, just like she did after having a glass of fresh, cold stream water. She was twenty-one and this would be her first trip to Guča without her father, a well-known trumpeter, who had performed at all the important music festivals in Serbia. After Almira’s mother had passed away, she was the only one to accompany her father to the festival. After her mother’s early death, her father worked nights playing in restaurants and slept in the morning. Almira did all the cooking, cleaning and taking care of her younger siblings. When all the housework was done and the younger children were asleep, Almira liked to sit at the kitchen table and make jewelry. She would sell it at the Sunday market. That’s how she met Rika.
“Good morning.” A short bony Romani woman stood there calmly holding a boy’s hand. He wore a white shirt and an embroidered brown vest. It was the boy who had come the day before, the one Rika promised to take to Guča with his parents’ permission. Rika said the boy had a talent for music. The woman had dark angry eyes and her eyebrows were close together. She had deep wrinkles all over her rough, dark brown skin. The boy stood still beside her, his pale sad eyes downcast.
The woman rubbed her neck and pulled a watermelon seed out of her shirt.
“If I catch that devil who threw the watermelon rind over the fence! Nowadays you can’t even walk in the fields without being hurt. I came to see the man whose name is Rika about taking my grandson to the trumpet festival in Guča. Isn’t that his name, Nikolche?”
She turned to the boy, and he nodded.
Almira worried that the woman might realize that she was the one who had thrown the watermelon rind over the fence. She looked around the trailer—the knife and the tray were still there, soaked in red juice and littered with watermelon seeds.
Almira finally spoke up. “Who should I say is looking for him?”
“Ramina from Cardboard City. Everyone calls me Baba, and you can call me that too. The boy’s name is Nikola.”
“Wait here. Rika will be back right away. I will get some cold water for Nikola and make coffee for you.”