As it turned out, there was nothing really that important to share. All Zoya, who had called the meeting had to say was – «Mother has agreed».
This was a significant step and the happy news could have been communicated over the phone but there's the brother to consider. It seems ever since the first words of going to Santa Lemusa were barely out of Zoya's mouth her brother's antennae had started to feel the air around her to the point they were by now quite bloated having picked up signals of all kinds of useless information that Zoya knowingly dropped, somewhat enjoying the cat and mouse game which she was clearly in control of. Still, she did not want to chance it for in trying to keep a hold on the situation he rarely let Zoya out of his sight. After all someone, preferably a male, and who else but him as he was the eldest, had to keep an eye on things.
Father is a soft touch especially with Zoya who he has lovingly nicknamed «poolaki» – the slowly dissolving sweet saffron wafer lining his mouth to accompany the several cups of freshly brewed tea he drinks throughout the day. When, in fact, and this was clear for all to see, he is the one who dissolves and is quite unable to make any informed decisions around her.
With mother, now that was another matter. Having been put through the paces when she was a young girl she was well informed, forewarned even, as to how her sassy younger child now a budding woman must be handled. She more than had her hands full with Zoya. Just the other day she had caught her browsing the internet looking at some store's catalog of skimpy swimwear. I bet she is going to ask her cousin in the US to somehow try and send one across to her, she thought. «I need it for the beach» – Zoya had said giving her a deadpan you-are-so-not-with-it look.
Mother's approval was indeed hard to get and so it felt like all three of us had received a blessing to take things further.
As if on cue she said, «we have to stop at the bakers, promised mother I would buy fresh bread for tonight». This, stopping at the local baker’s shop had also become a regular ritual and part of our meetings in the square. She insisted that this sangak was the best even though it was just the same as from any other shop. We made the detour negotiating the labyrinth of alleys to get to the baker. Led by our noses being reeled in by the aroma of freshly baked bread, we would have found our way there with our eyes shut. Fortunately there were not many people waiting which meant we could get our parcels packed and get away fast from the heat of the oven.
But, as usual, Zoya took her time to decide.
It was then it struck me that this is not just about the bread – the old baker’s good-looking son is part of the alchemic yeast to the flour magic. And the charms of this young man who brimmed with such confidence as he kneaded the dough so deftly had started to work on Zoya.
The family had better not learn about this, I thought. No, definitely not. Imagining every baker on the island possibly laying a claim to her daughter’s heart, mother’s «yes» could soon turn into a very firm «no»…
First Publication: 18-4-2011
Modifications: 1-1-2012