Not that long ago, in Macedonia, there was a man. He lived in a small town on a cobbled street in a wooden house. In it, he had a wife and a bear. He also had a job–not in the house, but at the metal smelter in the town’s centre. It was that or nothing else. So it was unfortunate, then, that the products and by-products from the metal smelter contaminated and poisoned the town’s riverand air and earth. But that is a whole other story. The point is that the man had the wife and he had the bear. And both of theirnames were Menka.
The first, the wife, had always been a Menka, ever since the man had known her. She was his valentine-faced childhood sweetheart. They had just been married.
The bear, on the other hand—still a cub—had been nameless, as far as the man had known, when he’d first found it in the forest in the surrounding mountains not long after the honeymoon. Then, it had seemed abandoned, so he’d picked it up and taken it home and called it Menka too–because it was a girl. And because, even though he could sometimes be serious, he very much liked a joke. And this was a very good joke, he thought. To have two Menkas–one for a wife, and one for a bear. A great, great joke.
His friends thought so too. Hilarious! The friends who also worked at the metal smelter. Those same ones who every Fridaynight went over to the man’s wooden house to play cards, and bluff and bet, and lose and win, and laugh and shout and swear.This they did each time with high, high spirits. And so, of course, eventually, inevitably, at some point in the evening they’d all gethungry and thirsty. Then, the man would call out, ‘O Menka! O Menka! Bring us some pretzels and peanuts and beer.’
And Menka would come–one or the other. But which? The man could never be sure. Sometimes it was Menka the wifewho’d push through the door wearing a thin, worn smile across her no-longer-valentine face. At other times it was Menka thebear, still a cub but growing up fast, who’d lumber in on her hind legs carrying the pretzels and the peanuts and the beer on asilver tray, a wedding gift.
When that happened the man’s friends would laugh and laugh. They’d slap each other on the back, fold in half at theirmiddles, wipe the tears from their eyes and say, ‘O brother, what a good joke. A great joke. Really, it’s the very, very best.’
Then, eventually, inevitably, when it was late and the games were over, the friends would have to leave. They’d go backhome to their wives–if they had them–or to their mothers who still washed their socks and boiled their eggs. But none wenthome to a bear.
And so life carried on as it always did in its seemingly small, ordinary way.
Weeks, months, years went by and Menka the wife’s marriage to the man matured in its way. As could be expected, Menkathe cub, the bear, grew up, too, as bears tend to do. The men went to work at the metal smelter. They didn’t like it but what elsecould they do? The metal smelter and its products and by-products, unfortunately, continued to poison and pollute the town’sriver and air and earth. A chemical spill here, a chemical spill there, no one seemed to care or notice. Again, that is a whole otherstory.
The point is that Friday night cards nights, they always rolled around. And each time they did, it could be guaranteed, it could be relied upon one hundred percent that at some point in the evening the man and his friends would get hungry, thirsty. Thenthe man–he always did–would call out, ‘O, Menka! O Menka! Bring us some pretzels and peanuts and beer.’
And Menka would come. But which? Which one? That joke never grew thin.
If it was Menka the bear who came lumbering in, the men, without fail, without fail, would slap each other on their backs.Their sides would split open. Their guts would hang out and stain the seat of their pants. O, how they’d laugh and laugh. But whyexactly they did laugh, not the man nor his friends could’ve said–if they'd been asked. But nobody did ask. So they didn’t have tosay.
All the friends had to do, when it was late, once the games were over, was go home to their wives or their mothers, but noneto a bear. And the man, all he had to do, was climb the creaky stairs to the bed where Menka the wife lay. Once there, all he hadto do, then, was pull off his pants and shirt down to his boxers and socks and lean over and whisper into his wife’s ear, ‘O Menka,O Menka. Are you awake?’, hoping to get some loving. And sometimes he would and sometimes–increasingly–he wouldn't.
Like this, life went on ordinarily, seemingly, until one cold winter’s night. It was a Friday. Cards night as usual. Everything thesame. The bluffs, the bets. The losses, the wins, the laughs, the hunger, the thirst. It was late. It had become so. The games weredone. The man’s friends had just left. And as usual, the man, a little drunk but not too much, was beginning his ascent of thecreaky stairs to where Menka the wife–why wouldn’t she, she always had–would be lying in their bed.
He climbed and climbed, wobbling as he went. Even so, still he was confident, he took it for granted, the way things wouldwork out. But when he reached the door to the room that they shared, he opened it to find, to his shock, his surprise, that noMenka did lie in the place she should have–though the covers on her side had been pulled down, and the lamp had been left on.It shone–and the window had been opened wide. Why? He did not know.
‘Menka?’ the man asked, quietly, almost to himself as he looked towards the window to see that outside snow, the first ofthe season, fell. Light and white, it made no sound. Falling. Snow. Outside the open window.
But the man did not bother to close it, that window. The cold, he didn’t seem to feel it. Instead, by the light of the lamp, hepulled off his shirt and pants down to his boxers and socks. And then he pulled down the covers and got into his side of the bed,thinking that Menka the wife would be along any moment. But she wasn’t.
And so, after some time had passed–too much of it as far as he was concerned–the man called out, ‘O Menka! O Menka!Where are you? Come keep me warm!’
Then, quickly, he turned off the lamp. He’d never done that before. And he waited. And he wondered–but which one?–whichMenka would come? Of the answer, he could not be sure.
Only, in anticipation, his heart beat a little faster in his chest. Excitement made his blood pump triple-time through his veins.Giddy with desire, he congratulated himself. Now this–this–having two Menkas, one for a wife and one for a bear, was not just agood, great joke that he could not have explained even if he’d wanted to. It was a thrill, a chance, a risk. Like bluffs and bets orlosses and wins. Like playing cards on Friday nights–but much, much better. In the dark, he waited as outside the open windowsnow, the first of the season, fell.
And soon, soon Menka–but which one? which one?–did come. She was coming. The man could hear her footsteps climbingup the creaky stairs. And then there was the bedroom door clicking open and closed. The man heard that too. Then there was theweight of her, of Menka–but which one? which one?–on the bed as she sat and then lay.
The man’s heart beat faster still.
What a thrill, what a thrill.
And then he reached out to the Menka, to whichever one she was. In the dark, he drew that Menka close. He caressed herskin–or was it fur? But how soft it was. He kissed her lips, her open mouth. But what sharp teeth she had that bit at him. Ouch.And how warm her body that received him. And how low the growl in his ear. And how sharp the nails that clawed down hisback. And how strong the thighs that gripped him tight, tighter.
‘O! Menka! O! Menka!’ the man cried out.
And then it was all over.
The man lay flat on his back. He gasped for air. He took great gulps of it, saying over and over again the same, ‘O Menka. OMenka. That was amazing. That was amazing.’
But Menka–still, which one?–said nothing.
‘Menka?’ said the man.
O, what had he done?
‘Menka my wife?’ he begged. ‘Speak to me.’
But Menka would not.
And so, even though he would rather have rolled over and slept and woken to another ordinary day, something inhim–curiosity? courage? shame?–made him reach over and turn on the lamp to look the truth square in the face. He wasprepared.
But there beside him on the bed, under the cover and on the sheet, was only Menka the wife, his wife, his childhoodsweetheart with her once again valentine face. Drowsily, she smiled at him. She stretched her arms above her head. She yawnedlong and loud. Ah! That was the sound she made. But, still, she did not speak.
It didn’t matter. The man, overwhelmed with relief, kissed her nose–‘O Menka!’–he kissed her eyes–‘O Menka’–he kissed hercheeks. He wept and said, ‘I’m so happy to see you. You see, I, I, I thought ... I, I, I hoped ... I, I, I feared ...’
Menka the wife, the woman, only put a finger to her husband’s lips to shush him, his stuttering, his stammering. And then,and only then, did she do a strange and out-of-the-ordinary thing.
She closed her eyes. She squeezed their lids as if to gather her energy, resolve and will. And then, when she opened them upagain–wide and bright, they sparked with life–she took one great leap and landed to stand, naked, before her husband, on herfeet on the rug at the foot of the bed.
There she said, ‘Well, tell me, my husband. What was it? What did you think and hope and fear? I wonder. Could it havebeen this?’ she said as she proceeded to unzip a skin-suit that began at the top of her head and ended at a place between herlegs–to reveal Menka the bear.
Menka the bear! How could it be? How could it be?
The man’s jaw hung slack. His eyes blinked in his head. And the back of his throat went dry, horribly so. There was no way he could answer the questions that were being posed to him.
‘Or was it this? Was it? Tell me, my husband. Is this what you thought or hoped or feared?’ said Menka the bear in the voice of Menka the wife–it really was very confusing–as she quickly, expertly, as if she’d done it a thousand times before, proceeded to unzip her fur-suit which began at a place at the top of her bear head and ended at a place between her bear legs–to reveal another Menka, altogether, of sorts.
And then that Menka unzipped and revealed.
And that Menka unzipped and revealed, too.
As did the next, and the next, and the next.
Too many Menkas appeared out of and into every kind of suit or skin or get-up or costume both imaginable and unimaginable.
These Menkas, they also did something else. It was only logical, even the man thought so himself. With each unzip and each reveal, they got smaller and smaller still–just like Russian babushka dolls–until standing before the man on the rug at the foot of the bed was the very last Menka, tiny, a speck, a wisp.
And she too said, in her tiny Menka voice, just as every Menka before her had, ‘Well, well, my husband. Tell me. Tell me, please. Is this what you thought or hoped for or feared?’ as she too unzipped–and revealed–nothing.
Nothing.
There was no Menka left.
There were no Menkas anymore. Just the pile-up of suits and skins and get-ups and costumes. But they too–bang–woof–poof–went up, spontaneously, dramatically, in a flash and a puff of smoke. And that was that.
And though the man tried to find her on that night and on the many that followed, under the rug, in the fridge, out on the cobbled street, running, running, calling her name, he never did. The wife, the bear and every-Menka-else were never heard of or seen again.
So life went on–it had to–it always did. Seasons came and went, years.
The man matured in his way. Inevitably, eventually, he wrinkled, he sagged, he moaned, he ached. Even so, he still went to work at the metal smelter, along with the others, the other men, his friends, until one day, unexpectedly, it was boarded up and closed down and marked with signs saying DANGER! TOXIC! STAY OUT! But, once again, that is a whole other story.
Only Friday night cards nights, they remained. It was just that now the man and his friends had to get their own pretzels and peanuts and beer. But that wasn’t that hard. They got used to it. Harder was finding something to laugh about. Instead, they became philosophical.
‘Brother,’ said the friends to the man. ‘Things can only get better. There’s talk the Germans will be opening up a new factory in town, soon. Still, even so, no matter what happens, it’s not good to be alone. You should find a new wife. You really should.’
But the man only shrugged his shoulders and, poker-faced, looked at the hand he’d been dealt. Without saying a thing, he shrugged his shoulders one more time, and laid his hopeful, reckless bet.