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Uncle Radu, who was about one hundred and two if he was a day, started playing then. I use the word playing lightly. It was more like he was skinning the accordion, because the sound it made was the sound of an instrument in pain. Mariana and Vasul lost it, hands over their mouths, their eyes watering. Mariana’s mother flashed her a disgusted look. But Uncle Radu kept playing. Another man picked up his violin, and one of the women started singing. The tavern keeper walked around the tables clapping his hands, but the kids joined only half-heartedly, and when that song was over and the next one started, they lost interest and went back to drinking, playing quarters, and having arguments about alternative bands and indie films.
“I’ll hear about this later,” Mariana whined.
“When my grandmother saw my clothes, she clucked her tongue and walked away,” one of the girls at the end of the table said.
The guy next to her stubbed out his cigarette. “There are moments when my parents stare like they don’t know what to make of me. Like they’re a little disgusted, a little afraid.”
Mariana cut in. “Every generation fears the one that comes after. Our music, our clothes, our aspirations. Our youth. It’s like they know we will do what they can’t anymore.”
“Sometimes my aunties will speak in Creole when they don’t want us to know what they’re talking about. It’s like they’re messing with us on purpose,” Isabel said. “Makes me mad crazy.”
Vasul laughed. “Mad crazy,” he imitated, and Isabel broke into her most smitten grin. John knotted his fingers with hers and gave them a kiss to make his claim clear.
“I’ve been home just a few hours and already my parents are asking when I’m going to settle down and give them grandchildren,” a girl named Dovka complained. “I’m twenty-one! I have a DJ gig at a club in Bucharest!” She turned to John. “Don’t you hate it when they do that?”
“My parents don’t really give a shit as long as my grades are good and I don’t get arrested. They just give me money so I’ll go away and stop interfering with their golf games and Pilates sessions,” John said with a bitter laugh, and I felt kind of bad for him. It was like his parents woke up one day totally surprised to discover they had kids, so they just hired a fleet of people to take care of them.
“What about you, Poe?” Mariana asked.
I shrugged. “My parents are okay. Annoying but good-hearted. I don’t think they’re afraid of me. The state of my room, maybe,” I joked. “Mom’s from Wisconsin. She talks funny and loves the Green Bay Packers. My dad’s a professor, plays too much Tetris when he should be grading papers, collects vintage Stax LPs. My grandmother still holds on to the old ways some.”
When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me about being in the internment camps during World War II. And when it was too much for her to talk about, she’d just end the conversation with, “Fear leads to foolishness.” Then she’d teach me Japanese calligraphy, guiding my brush gracefully over the paper. Later we’d go to McDonald’s. She loved their fries.
Dovka propped her head up with her hand. Her eyes were glassy. “Traditions are nice, though. They bind you together, remind you where you’re from.”
“Or keep you back.” I don’t know why I said it. I think I just wanted to take the opposing view.
“Exactly,” Baz slurred. His eyes were at half-mast. “Like last year, when I was dating Chloe? My parents got all bunged. And they’re, like, total liberals and everything, but they were freaked that she wasn’t Jewish. Like all of a sudden the menorah came out and my dad started asking if I wanted to go to temple Friday night.” He grinned. “I told him Friday was a different religious occasion: Doctor Who. Hey, it’s not my fault they don’t have TiVo yet.”
Mariana gave a thumbs-up. “TiVo!”
“TiVo.” Vasul nodded.
Everybody clinked glasses, shouting “TiVo!” till the old-timers shushed us.
“Still,” Vasul said when we’d quieted down again. “There are times when I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to come back here. It’s peaceful. It’s safe. No STDs, processed foods, pollution.” He paused. “No bombs.”
Mariana put her hand on his arm. “Vasul survived the terrorism in London. He was at Russell Square. He saw what happened,” Mariana explained.
“It could have been me on that bus,” Vasul said softly. “Feels like the world’s going to hell sometimes. Like nowhere is safe anymore. Except Necuratul.”
Everyone raised their glasses in a respectful, quiet toast. “Necuratul.”
Mariana said something to Vasul in their language. “Anyway,” she said with a sigh, “it’s a moot point. These people—our parents and grandparents, great-grandparents—they’re getting old now. When they die off, the village will die with them. All this culture will be lost. Especially if they’re relocated because of the power plant. I’ve seen it happen before. Diaspora.”
“That’s sad,” Isabel said softly, and I knew she was thinking about her own family forced out of Haiti and transplanted in American suburbs where they never quite got past the polite smiles of their white neighbors.
“Shit happens.” Dovka grunted. “Get over it. On with the new.”
Mariana rolled her eyes. “You’re right. This is getting morbid. I don’t want to get morbid. I want more wine.” She poured us all another round and raised her glass for the third time. “An offering to the future.”
“An offering to the future,” we all seconded, well on our way to getting completely plastered.
In the corner the older villagers eyed us warily, like we were something to be watched, something that might explode and take them out with us. They continued with their music, singing and playing in controlled measures. But our table started up with The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” giggling over the implications. We were younger and louder, and soon our voices drowned out the haunting folk song altogether.
The next day it rained like crazy. I’d never seen the sky throw down like that ever. It was a good thing Necuratul was on a mountain because I was sure we’d be flooded otherwise. Mariana, Vasul, Dovka, and the other people our age had left before dawn to get supplies for the festival. That was their job and they did it, hungover or not. Now, with the rain, it looked like they’d have trouble getting back.
“Bridge,” the tavern keeper explained in broken English. He made a whistling sound and gestured with his hands: gone. Without the others around the villagers weren’t overly friendly to us. Actually, I got the feeling they wanted us as gone as the bridge. Mariana’s mother ran the bakery. I popped in to buy some bread, which mostly consisted of my pointing and smiling and then laying down money for her to figure out. While she poked through my coins, I looked around the cozy shop. Two burly men sat at a heavy wooden table by the front window drinking steaming mugs of something dark. They stared outright. One guy said something to the other, and they both laughed.
