Mali's year

A grey sky looked down on the grey ground. As far as the eye could see, everything was grey.

A treacherous muddy river made countless bends between its banks.

At Harry's bend, the water was constantly churned by the heavy wheel of a mill, scarred by storms and the sun, in the same desolate colors as its sad surroundings. On a cliff above, a dozen unfenced houses stood in a group.

All day, all night, day after day the mill pounded with maddening monotony.

In the summer, the sun blistered and burned the whole valley, and in the winter the wind moaned incessantly.

The sky was quiet today. The sun shone painfully clear and burning.

At the well, a woman was following a traveler with her eyes. People take on the reflection of the environment in which they live. The life of that woman at the well is also a grey reflection of a never-ending more of the same.

Has her heart ever tingled with joy? Did she ever know what it's like to feel love? Has she ever experienced moving emotions?

Could it be that she is not aware of how poor her existence is? How infinitely and pitifully bare her life is?

She was a beautiful woman, with copper-colored hair and velvety but apathetic eyes. Indifference combined with expressionless perfection: ice cold.

Mali is one of those women whose figure is enough to arouse admiration. Twenty years ago, she became Harry's wife. She was just a tall and shapeless girl then, with a great smooth mass of hair the same color as the sunset.

They were still strangers when Harry took her to his little untidy house, which required the presence of a woman. He needed a woman to cook, wash and sew for him. and so, he married Mali.

He decided that his wife had to work just as hard as him and live the same life as him.

Mali never complained. With the years a sadness grew around the corners of her mouth, as her starving soul began to yearn for something different.

Mali had had enough. And once, and only once, she couldn't resist breaking free from her displeasure. She had to cut herself loose, from the dull routine, which made the measure of her days. She craved the company of people, to be in the rush of life, and to bask in its warmth. She longed to enjoy life. To dance. Harry never allowed her to go to the neighborhood ball. Once she had gathered enough courage to ask him, but Harry had burst out laughing and mocked her. To Mali, it felt like he'd whipped her. The light went out in her face, and she'd never alluded to pleasures after that. She did her job, cooked the coarse food their meals were made off. Repaired Harry's clunky clothes, washing, ironing, cleaning; frozen in her miserable existence by Harry's indifference.

Harry prided himself on his wife having enough to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over her head. Claimed he never drank, nor did he hit her. What more could a woman desire? And so, Mali became the epitome of indifference and apathy.

Until the day a construction expert came to the village, bringing a young assistant along with him. The engineer left the village after a few weeks, but Bratt, his assistant, decided to stay a while longer and invited himself as a board-in guest with Harry and Mali. He was a courteous and gentle man, who spoke four languages, and was quite easy on the eyes. His original intention had been to generously reward Harry for his hospitality, which he kept repeating over and over: money would be sent or transferred from home. But there was always some kind of delay. Unforgivable and of course the postal services were to blame. Embarrassing and obnoxious, but since there weren't any hotels for miles around...

 Bratt always had a story on the tip of his tongue. Harry, who normally used to be so surly and rude to others, was completely under the spell of this swindler and even granted his slightest wishes. He even equipped him with his horse and best saddle so 

Bratt could go hunting deer in the woods.

Once a year, Harry had to go into town for a day or two to sort out his administration and taxes. And as usual, Mali had to stay at home. But this time Bratt was there. He was, after all still boarding with the couple.

When Harry returned a week later, he found his house in immaculate condition; he hadn't expected otherwise, but Mali wasn't there. She was gone. And so was his money. His wife was gone, and the money he had hidden behind the pantry was gone. His money and his wife, that was the order, in which Harry thought about his loss. Harry's anger wasn't so much about losing his wife, but his money...

He turned into a man possessed by demons. He broke everything Mali had ever touched and tore all her clothes into a thousand pieces. For days, he ranted like a madman and cursed like the devil.

Mali left a letter for Harry to find, saying she would be gone for a year. Bratt had gone with her and casually reported in a postscript that she had taken the money.

She had always been a good wife to Harry, worked hard, and never got a dime from him. She couldn't take it anymore...

In a year, she would come back and resume her role as a good wife, as she always had. And that Harry, never should expect her to apologize.

Mali was not a cruel woman by nature. But she was ignorant and blinded by the opportunity she had seen to enjoy a year of unlimited freedom, and all the joys that would entail.

It seemed ridiculous that a young attractive man, educated and with refined tastes, would leave with a woman uncouth in manners and language and so much older than him. It looked very strange to the world indeed, but the fact remained that Mali and Bratt had run away together.

The villagers were curious, but Harry forbade anyone to ask questions. The truth eventually came out. The people of the village may have been slow-witted, but they were not stupid.

Bratt and Mali were seen in town. She looked years younger than before. Her face glowed with joy, and she was dressed tastefully.

Bratt treated her with graceful reverence and was completely devoted to Mali. Anyone who saw them could have sworn that the two were a couple and fond of each other.

Bratt, however, was far too enamored with himself and the environment that met his extravagant tastes, to harbor true feelings for any woman, let alone true love.

Despite Mali's beauty, she was hardly the person to give a man like Bratt lasting affection. Bratt, in turn, was smart enough to keep people at bay.

Mali was in love with a new world and intensely happy. As long as the money ran lasted, Bratt was a fitting and well-presented accessory, in the effervescently fascinating interlude in her life she'd allowed herself.

The year had run its course, and after twelve months Mali said goodbye to Bratt without any pain. She had to go back to her old life.

One day the villagers saw Mali again. She came back as suddenly as she had left.

She settled back into the old routine while the sweet words of a dream whispered in her ear incessantly. She went about her work as before, and every now and then she allowed herself to surrender, with reckless abandon, to the crazy memories from another world. Her memories. Her dream world. Hers!