The bed’s covered in satin sheets with a bit of a sheen. Or they had a sheen, but not anymore. Mom chose them from the ones in her chest, saying she’d only used them a couple of times. First time away from home and in a new place, won’t hurt to have something that smells of home, she’d said. It will help you sleep.
I can’t move. If I try to lift my head, the fog comes down with a terrible pain that rips and burns everywhere. I can’t feel my hands but I can see them above me, dripping with blood. They’re cuffed to the iron headboard and my mouth is stuffed with some type of leather gag. It’s difficult to breathe. Every part of me is broken. Mom’s fine sheets are rumpled, doused and dappled in brown and red blood and feces and other bodily fluids.
It’s the morning after my wedding and my wife’s gone, having left me tied to the bed. She told me as she was leaving that she was never coming back. She said it with an evil laugh. I know Mom would save me, but she can’t because she doesn’t know where I am. I can’t call her with a gagged mouth and tied hands, and besides, I don’t have a phone. Mom wouldn’t let me have a mobile phone. She told me I’d get brain cancer from any radiation near my head.
This was all Mom’s idea. It wasn’t me who wanted to get married. I was happy with my quiet life in our village. She became obsessed with marrying me off. Yesterday was the same, she was fussing outside the courthouse where we got married, having packed three bags full of food so that I’d last until the morning. She told my wife that I’ve always liked to eat. And made us swear that as soon as we were awake we’d return home so that she could make us a proper breakfast. She saw I was nervous and said I’d be all right, nothing would change, except now I had a wife and she’d live with us. Only one night away from home and we’d see each other in the morning as usual. Oh dear, did she get that wrong? I haven’t had a single bite to eat. My wife started torturing me as soon as we got here. It’s likely that before starving I’ll bleed to death or my wounds will get so infected that I’ll die of blood poisoning. There’s no one who knows where I am and I doubt anyone will come until my corpse starts to smell. It’s not my wife’s home and the marriage ceremony was just an act. That’s what the woman said before she left.
I’ve slept next to Mom every night until now. She wouldn’t let me go on class trips or to church camps even though we did go to church regularly. When I turned eighteen I asked her for a room of my own but she just laughed and pooh-poohed me, reminding me how scared I am of thunder. She said that somebody had to make sure I didn’t masturbate, pour my seed into the ground. She made such an awful face that I didn’t mention my own room again. I was scared she might really get angry. And, of course, I knew she was only thinking of what was best for me. She’d always told me I was very sensitive, not like other people, that I need to be protected from the evils of this world, from temptation and sinful thoughts. How did she not see this coming? The first night away from home and this happens.
I’ve had a nice life with not too many worries. Mom’s looked after things. I wasn’t keen on leaving the village or home, things have been peachy. I’ve had enough to eat and clean clothes. That’s everything a man needs, Mom told me. Once one Friday I did want to go into the city to go barhopping but Mom wouldn’t give me money for the bus, so that took care of that. I wouldn’t have known when to press the button. Would’ve gotten lost. So I stayed home to watch television as usual and it wasn’t too bad. We kept a tally of how many questions each one of us got right. Mom said it’s far easier to stay at home and she was right. She never went into the city. There’s nothing there for people like us, she told me.
When I turned forty a couple of years ago, Mom changed her mind all of a sudden. She started nagging and braying and was always in a foul mood, especially when she was cooking or washing my socks or underwear or sweeping the front. Just find a wife, she’d say. Get married. Good to have a daughter-in-law. Find one. And so she went on. I did answer back once. Where am I going to find her? I said. You don’t even let me go to the shop on my own, someone might lure me into the kafana to drink and smoke. It was brave of me to say that. Usually, I just listen to her in silence, because she does lose her temper and that’s what happened this time too. She boxed my ears and started weeping, telling me I was blaming her for my own uselessness, an old woman who’s given me everything. And how could she look after me if she got worse? I’ll be seventy soon! she shouted, as if I didn’t know. And you need a wife! One who does your washing, your shopping, keeps a tidy house, and feeds you. Young, strong, and modest.
I realized she was right, I could see she was old and ground down by her rheumatism. She was thinking of what’s best for me, but it did make me anxious. A wife. What am I supposed to do with a wife? I asked her. I wouldn’t know what to do. All sorts of slightly shameful thoughts started swarming in my head. Phooey, she said, and told me she’d give me advice. I’ll look after you and won’t let her treat you badly. It’ll go without a hitch. Just find the right one, she said, looking worried.
Some years passed with her asking around, putting out feelers, telling people that her son was looking for a wife. He’s a good man, she said, who doesn’t drink or fight or run around. But there was no one really suitable for us. The ones she had in mind had left the village a long time ago. The remaining few weren’t good enough for her. They went out in the city, their faces thick with makeup, looking for someone richer and smarter. And I don’t know how to dance. They wouldn’t understand, she said with huffy contempt. Whores, the lot of them, thinking they’ll get ahead and don’t realize that if someone’d have them, they would’ve snapped them up a long time ago. Past their sell-by date, sour and off, she complained. I didn’t like her speaking ill of others even though she didn’t really say nice things about anyone. There was one, a divorced lady who returned to our area, who Mom was interested in. I faintly remembered that she was one of the few who’d left me alone. I thought that I could build a marriage on that basis, but it all fell apart. Apparently, she was already going out with somebody, about to be engaged. Mom was furious. The bitch is lying! she shouted with her eyes ablaze. How could no one have seen anything in the village? Somebody would have known because there are no secrets here. That evening she calmed down and told me she wouldn’t have wanted a divorced woman for her dear son, that something must be wrong with the bitch since the previous husband up and left. There was nothing to add. I was happy that we couldn’t find anyone.
Then one day everything changed. It was one of those hot days where the air moves slowly, the cornfields breathe heavily, and the sun’s your enemy. I’d stayed in all day. Mom had gone to the shop and I was waiting for her to come back with sweet treats. I was sitting in the kitchen listening to the radio, without a care in the world. As soon as Mom came back I knew something had happened. Her hands were shaking as she spooned coffee into the džezva and she had a big smile across her sweaty face. I’ve got a great idea, she said, putting a cup on the plate.