Black Tulip

Orsolya Cseh

by Orsolya Cseh

Story

That long, hot summer, that’s how we referred to those few months when the fields beneath the Gyimes Mountains turned golden yellow.

You took me home to your parents’ house for two weeks. Your mother was already waiting for us beneath the intricately carved Szekler gate as we emerged on the dusty street, our backs burdened with the tube-framed backpacks. She served us steaming polenta with sheep cheese, topped with delicious, fatty bacon. Then your father came in from the field, resting his scythe against the wall, and after he had his lunch too, he pulled out his own tobacco and packed his pipe.

On Sunday afternoons, we smoked on the porch and drank cherry pálinka, your favorite fruit. Your parents grew fond of me, they said it often. Then they told cheerful stories from their own childhoods. Mostly your father could silently spin anecdotes on those long, scorching Sunday afternoons.

During those weeks, we explored the Harghita region. We climbed mountains, bathed in the creek, and munched on wild raspberries by the swaying grass on the plateaus. At sunset, from a hunting hide, we saw a mother bear with three cubs. Whispering, your eyes shining, you pointed out the animals. At dawn, we watched deers as they approached the creek to drink.

Evenings, you introduced me to your childhood friends. We drank wine and pálinka, while roasting apples and bacon over the glowing embers. When our food was gone, you taught me your region’s dance, while a Roma musician played your tune in the pub. You spun me around by my waist, the boys slapped their boot legs, and you all danced and jumped playfully.

At night, we sneaked out to the meadow. The sky was so clear that the Milky Way was visible above us. The sound of the creek echoed from afar as the cold water trickled among the rocks. We cuddled near the hay stacks. At dawn, the dark pine forest exhaled pink mist, and dewy grass lay beside us.

When we returned to university, the memories of summer slowly began to fade. Eventually, in late autumn, I broke up with you, because by then, I loved someone else. From then on, you never greeted me again. Whenever we met, you walked past with your head held high, a hurt expression in your eyes.

When the revolution broke out in TimiČ™oara in December ’89, I was already gone. A few days earlier, I had escaped to Hungary. Later, I heard from acquaintances that in the chaotic days of the revolution, they shot you in the head. You didn’t live to see the Iron Curtain fall, the very curtain you had fought to tear down.

In your hometown, they erected a plaque in your memory. The hero of the revolution. Since then, every spring, someone places a bunch of black tulips next to the stone slab.


© Orsolya Cseh 2023-09-18

Genres
Novels & Stories