lemon rakia for breakfast

i dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor and quietly opened the apartment door. it was always chilly there, especially in the kitchen; you could sometimes see your breath coming out in faint clouds on particularly cold mornings, but i can’t remember that ever bothering me. it was my first home, my home, and all its faults and flaws were buried under the feeling of impending discovery and adventure that came with this new and unfamiliar freedom.

i went to make myself a cup of coffee and while the water was boiling i leaned against the edge of the kitchen sink facing a big window above it. our neighbours that lived across the street had a huge flat screen tv, so wide and tall that i could clearly see whatever they were watching whenever i stood there washing the dishes; but not that morning. it was barely half past 6 or so and the whole street was still frozen in time.

a man in his mid 30s sporting a buzz cut walked into the kitchen and paused by the big round table in the middle as the two of us witnessed the morning crispiness be replaced by the smell of fresh coffee. ‘coming back or going out?’

‘back,’ i said.

‘of course,’ he let out a husky chuckle and proceeded to gather whatever he fancied for breakfast that morning (more often than not it used to be tea, cigarettes, and some kind of meat) . ‘why do i even ask anymore…’

‘have a good day at work!’ i said before retreating into my room to get some rest after whatever juvenile social function i had partaken in that night.

‘thanks. sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.’

prodan had a slight lisp, and that lisp intertwined with his bulgarian accent, and poured out of his mouth like smooth honey, like a pleasant melody played on a century old piano with dishevelled keys that surprised you at first. he didn’t like to talk a lot, but he never seemed opposed to any particular topic or conversation; he was more curious than vocal, and with that curiosity came a certain kind of calm of speech. he had 17 years on me but he always let me be as young as i had to without the age difference towering over me. he let me be as young and as weird and as shy as i needed to be at 19, and he always sat at the kitchen table watching me patiently, sipping his beer or whiskey and taking my gibberish in as though it was his responsibility and his pleasure; as though i was the radio and he had switched me on with a promise to hear me out. it always seemed to me like he had an astounding amount of patience; i’ve never once heard prodan raise his voice, not when talking to his girlfriend martina, not when talking to our other roommate ioana, not when talking to me, and not to anyone else. he barely ever complained about anything, and even when he did, his words were soaked in light-hearted irony and slightly askew smiles.

there was absolutely nothing magical about prodan; he was the most ordinary 36 year old man one could meet. he worked at a garage and he hated seagulls because of every seagull shit stained car he had to deal with. he was barely taller than me and he thought lithuanians were giants because of every tall lithuanian boy i had brought home with me. he loved to sit in the kitchen and have a drink and he’d often ask me to join him for one and i often did because he never drank too much. he had a brother who made lemon rakia and he was always close to that brother which i know because he loved telling me stories from his childhood whenever i showed any interest in them. he often distractedly washed everyone’s dishes and he’d pat me on the back for doing a good job cleaning the floors because he liked order and tidiness. he’d make a point of putting aside some food for me whenever he was cooking meals without meat because he knew i was a vegetarian. he loved to quiz me on music because we had both grown up on the beatles and we had both grown into pearl jam.

martina once told me that she gradually learnt to love all the music that prodan and i would listen to and talk about incessantly throughout that year that we all lived together. she told me she’d never before stopped to listen to it with prodan; i wonder if she ever felt like he was too quiet and too patient sometimes, too passive almost, like he was a perpetual spectator instead of participant.

approximately four years, four months, and thirteen days ago i was sitting on the newly carpeted floor of my bedroom in an apartment on pitfour street, house number 13. there was no bed frame yet, just a single mattress, and the only other things there were my two suitcases. i was sitting on the floor in a funny shaped room with no curtains, and i was looking for socks in one of the suitcases while listening to a song called guaranteed. i was sitting on the floor with the door left ajar and i felt relieved; it had been over a week since i had come to scotland and i finally had a place i could start calling home. i knew close to nothing about the three people i had just moved in with, and i was thinking that eddie vedder’s lyrics sounded like the perfect soundtrack for the closing credits of the first episode.

all of a sudden prodan pushed the door open and poked his head into my room. his sparkling eyes immediately found my phone on the floor before me – the source of music that i only then realised might have been playing a tad too loud.

he didn’t say anything for a second, so i opened my mouth. ‘sorry, do you want me to turn that down?’

‘no! i was actually going to ask you to turn it up! i love that song! i love eddie vedder!’

“got a mind full of questions and a teacher in my soul, and so it goes.”

and just like that, prodan gave me a moment – a bookmark memory – that i will never lose, that i’ve kept marked on the back of my hand all this time. just like that, i got the strongest, strangest feeling that i was exactly where i was supposed to be and that i was going to be just fine. and so there was absolutely nothing magical about prodan, except for the times he impeccably chose to participate in the play.