Through the Strings of Time

By Theofil Milos

People throughout the world are trying to flock to America seeking a better life.
Circumventing their way into United States, where promises that hard work will obtain their desired goal. Through the eyes of a new visitor in the States and some more seasoned arrivals, we can see how these immigrants abandoned their culture and embraced one of uncertainty. Grigorie a pensioner from Romania deserted by his two sons, coming to see how they fared. One lives in a prestigious city of Boca Raton Florida, succeeding in business only within few years and coming closer to living the American dream;. Grigorie after couple of weeks in Boca doesnt see whats so good about this life, his views clash with his son and some others who believe they are the lucky ones to be here. Together with his in-law Petru (who immigrated to America more than 30 years ago), they realized that these seekers of the good life have not done the right thing in abandoning their culture. The beauty, freedom, and happiness of the past cannot be brought back. Only through their ancestral music they could feel the reminiscence of their lost treasures, many times brought by the old antediluvian violin through her strings of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 15, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462841523

Theofil Milos

Born in a country that does not exist anymore, that country was called Yugoslavia, “The land of the South Slavs”. Yugoslavia was not only the nation of the Slavs; it had other ethnic groups, such as Hungarians, Romanians, Gypsies, and many others. Theofil was born and raised in one of those minority groups of Romanian descent. He experience almost ten years of happy village life, before his parents left for Austria. Spending almost two years in the German speaking country, then his parents migrated to New York City. In the Big Apple he played in the streets of Manhattan before his parents decided to move to Philadelphia. In the city of “Brotherly Love” he outgrew his teenage years, eventually winding down in the Sunshine State, where he received his History Degree from Florida Atlantic University. Today he is happily married, living and working in South Florida, where he remained for more then twenty years. “Through the Strings of Time” is his first novel.

Book preview

Through The Strings of Time

Theofil Milos

Copyright © 2008 by Theofil Milos.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Dedication

To my wife Ana, who stood by me.

Don’t give the sparrow in the hand for the crow on the fence

—Translated from a Romanian proverb

Chapter 1

A sudden rush of excitement flowed through Grigorie’s veins as he was moving through the crowd. Thinking what mankind achieved these days for people to be flying and traveling above the clouds. Heading in a single file toward the counter with his green sports bag on his left shoulder and ticket exposed in his right hand. Behind the counter, two young beauties were displaying their healthy white teeth with their smiles, greeting their passengers and motioning them to proceed to the left hollow corridor. Soon he’ll be up in the airplane gracefully soaring and gliding like the doves in the sky.

Traversing the enclosed passage, he came to on end where the airplane door became visible. Stepping inside, Grigorie felt his breathing became heavier. A neatly dressed gentleman and an elegant lady both clad in royal blue welcomed the guests. Good morning, tickets, sir came a demand from the young stewardess. He extended his right hand to the lovely brunette. She eyed the ticket and pointed to the back aisle. Number 22 B on your right, sir. Directly in front of him, there were few empty spacious seats, which seemed quiet comfortable. Just like the trains, Grigorie thought, this must be the first class. He headed back in a lineal file toward the second class. At least a dozen people were ahead of him. Most of the passengers in the back rows were already seated, the rest were arranging their bags in the overhead cabins. Suddenly the person behind Grigorie unintentionally stepped on him. Sorry, sir came a reply from the impatient teenage boy. Grigorie didn’t say anything, his eyebrows revealed a frown.

Reaching his designated seat, he neatly arranged his hand luggage above in the bag compartment, shut the door, and gently slid down in his assigned seat. Since all the chairs were identical, he wanted to make sure he was where he was supposed to be by double-checking the seat numbers. Assured that he was in his proper place, he heaved a little sigh of relief.

Excuse me, sorry, I have to go back came an excuse from a familiar voice behind Grigorie in the aisle. The boy that bounced into him earlier made his way from the back aisle (apparently missed his seat) and now was standing near Grigorie while placing his bag in the overhead bin.

I think that’s my seat, the teenager announced as he looked at the empty seat next to Grigorie, making a gesture to pass. Grigorie realized there was almost no space between the front and back seats, his knees almost touched the chair in front. He had no choice but to stand up and move out of the way to clear space for this kid to pass.

The airplane was packed up. Almost every seat was full, and passengers were still coming and filling up the remaining seats. It looked crowded, getting full to the brim. Estimating the number of passengers, Grigorie tried to do a little math exercise in his head: Two plus four, that’s six, plus two equals eight. Eight times about 40, that’s 220, plus the passengers up front in the first class compartment, approximately 300 passengers. Grigorie became amazed at the amount of people that would be lifted up in the air at the same time. The weight of all these people the engine has to power in order to lift them up, Grigorie became overwhelmed.

It was getting warmer, and his breathing became more intense. There was lack of fresh air, especially with all the people consuming the same oxygen in that little space. Flying for the first time, he didn’t know what to expect. Grigorie never envisioned he’d fly in his lifetime. Yes, he saw airplanes fly above the sky but never expected to be in one. He decided he had to go and see his sons in America, no matter what happens, even if it means death; he’ll take that chance.

The teenage boy next to Grigorie lifted his arm and adjusted a round button device above his head.

What are you doing? asked Grigorie.

It’s an air adjuster, the boy replied. See, look. The boy extended his hand over Grigorie and twisted the ocular beige button. Fresh air flowed on Grigorie’s face.

Well, thank you. How did you know that? Grigorie asked.

This is my sixth time flying in the airplane, and I got used to it—all the planes are the same, the boy replied while extracting his CD player from his oversized jacket, not giving Grigorie a chance to probe for more details.

Is it possible to get used to flying? Do these frequent flyers have any worry whatsoever? Grigorie contemplated these thoughts. Still he knew that, after all, this is on engine, and the engine is man-made, and man is not perfect. He knew that a screw here and there can break, and it can break for no reason. It may just snap. How many things out of the ordinary happen to people? Like the belt buckle once it just snapped, broke without any evidence of erosion—or the cup, plate, jewelry, ornaments. It can just snap for no explainable cause. The unexplainable happens. He recalled the time when he went with his friends to the Black Sea resort during his younger days. While driving down the valley, the steering wheel suddenly lost control with the wheels. How Ion, the designated driver, turned pale as he cried out, I can’t control, I can’t control the car. I mean it, I can’t control the car, I mean it, look! He turned the steering wheel with both hands, left to right, displaying a terrified emotion. I’m not joking . . . Luckily the road had a big bend, and he was able to press the breaks and stop before the next turn. Later on with the help of the mechanic, they realized that a pin snapped somewhere in the shaft device that controlled the turning of the wheels. Ion asked the mechanic, Why did it break? Upon which the mechanic shrugged his shoulders and said, I don’t see any erosion . . . I don’t know . . . overuse I guess. Those words coming from an experienced mechanic echoed through Grigorie’s mind, I don’t know—I don’t know, as he was trying to sit calm.

But this is an airplane, not a car. The car is on land, and it can cause damaging consequences. The airplane is in the air, which is much more devastating than driving. There are no breaks in the flying airplane. One small device in the apparatus that malfunctions and it’s all over, everything smashed to pieces. Grigorie became concerned with these thoughts.

Looking at the youngster next to him, who was sorting through several CDs, Grigorie didn’t see any worries on the teenager’s face. Up front, most of the passengers were seated and pleasantly waited for the airplane to take off. Looking back to see how the rest of the passengers behind him fared, he saw that most of them seemed content.

Wrestling with the possibilities in his mind that—maybe these people who fly were more intellectually advanced, and he was a mere peasant, or he was the one intelligent and they were not. That’s why he was worried and the rest were not.

Being fifty-eight years old compared to the boy next to him, who seemed about thirteen or fourteen, it was not possible for this kid to know more about life and the unexpected dangers it can bring. Could it be that the rest of the passengers didn’t think about the possibilities that can occur in malfunctions of the engine? As he was dashing through these thoughts, the sign Fasten Seat Belt flashed; everyone buckled up. The elegant stewardess made her way through the aisle, checking to see that everyone obeyed the directions.

In front, another stewardess stood firm while the voice from the overhead speaker asked for everyone’s attention. She began to demonstrate what the voice announced: where emergency exit doors were located, how to use the oxygen mask, where to find the life vest, how to inflate the life vest, in case of emergency. Given all of these demonstrations, Grigorie was getting scared. Now he had doubts about flying.

Tuning off the sound of the lecturing stewardess, Grigorie’s hearing became silent. He visualized the water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, all dark surroundings, cold water gushing from all sides, people drowning, end of life—end of everyone’s life. They will all die together, this group all destined to perish. There in the midst of the dark glow, a glimpse of his sons appeared to Grigorie. He didn’t see them for eight years. How would they look now? Would they be the same as in the pictures? The strength and courage slowly crept back in Grigorie with the love of his offsprings.

By the time he was alert, the plane was already speeding forward. The engine roared. Looking out the window next to the boy, he saw the plane rising above the ground. The power of the engine had Grigorie thinking, Now two, three, five stories above the ground and still rising. Intensely leaning against the backseat, he closed his eyes. Summoning God, God, I know I have sinned, but I didn’t do anyone any harm. Please don’t let this plane break down. All I want to do is see my sons. Sweat beads on his face became visible as he mumbled those words.

Opening his eyes, the plane seemed to level off. Looking over the small window beside the teenager, he saw white clouds floating. Unintentionally, one of the CDs dropped on Grigorie’s lap from the youngster, who apparently tried to shuffle several of them between his fingers. Grigorie picked up the CD carton next to his left thigh and looked at the cover. A picture of overweight young adults in oversized baggy clothes stared at Grigorie. The one in the middle was white, with tattoos all over his arms, rings in his eyebrows, orange hair sticking up like a porcupine, large unfitting clothes, his hands in his chest gesturing the sign of a revolt. The other two were black, one on each side of the rebel, with red bandanas wrapped over their foreheads, a thick silver bike chain flashing across their chests, hands revealing rings on their fingers. The pose seemed definitely shocking and disgusting to Grigorie. He did see some of these groups on the Romanian MTV, but he couldn’t understand why these young people like this music. It all seemed like lots of noise and shouting.

Making the movement to hand back the CD to his young neighbor, Grigorie asked, Is this one of those rap groups?

Yes, it’s the Big Dogs. They are the best, the boy replied.

They are from America, Grigorie noted.

Yes, they are from the west side.

What do you mean from the west side? Grigorie asked.

There is the east side and west side rap, this group is from the west side, the boy tried to clarify.

Is it in the same country America, United States of America? Grigorie tried to understand.

The boy grabbed the CD from Grigorie’s hand, rolled his eyes in an amazing gesture voicing yes.

Grigorie looked at the kid up and down, thinking what an attitude he’s got. Disheveled hair, strands running every way, the oversized pants and jacket, now made sense where he picked up the trend. He seemed only about thirteen or fourteen and traveling alone. Is it possible to travel alone at this age? He must be an American with a Romanian descent. Probably he came to visit some family members—an uncle, aunt, or grandparents—and was now going home to his parents in America. He was determined to find out.

Do you live in America? Grigorie asked in a demanding voice.

Yes, the kid replied softly.

Where in America do you live? Grigorie inquired in a commanding voice.

In New York, came a submissive answer.

Were you born there?

No, I came with my parents three years ago.

And who did you visit in Romania? Grigorie waited for a reply.

The boy hesitantly replied, My grandparents, while averting his eyes downward, away from Grigorie’s stare.

Satisfied with the answer, Grigorie decided not to frighten the little one any longer. He tried to befriend the youngster. He only wanted to know one more thing about him, his name. Revealing a smile, Grigorie asked, And what’s your name?

Elvis.

Elvis. Amazed, Grigorie wanted to make sure, Like the singer?

Yes—my parents liked Elvis so much that they named me after him, Elvis retorted.

He remembered how his friend, who was a generation younger, managed to smuggle the Elvis record across the Yugoslavian border. They used to sing and dance to You ain’t nothing but a hound dog. He was a good American singer. I liked Elvis myself, Grigorie said, nodding his head in remembrance.

How Elvis brought rock and roll to the world stage. Those were songs that were from American culture, which influenced the world with their ideals and values. Freedom, liberty, justice, pursuit of happiness, that’s what America is known for. But these new rap songs are not the same. To Grigorie, it’s not even music (at least the ones that he heard). Music is a melody, which one can hum and whistle to. Can one whistle the rap melody? For Christ’s sake, it doesn’t even have a melody.

Looking ahead, he saw an obese woman toiling with the paper bag in front of her seat. The seats seemed tight for an average man. Grigorie seemed sure that she had more difficulty being comfortable than the rest of the passengers. Now she took out the package, unwrapped it, pulled out some sort of cookies, and carefully began to munch it. How does one become porcine that way, if not by eating? Grigorie thought, The evidence speaks for itself.

Trying to relax by closing his eyes and forming pleasant thoughts. He saw himself in front of a mustachioed man at the American embassy. The feeling of triumph evoked in Grigorie as he was handed the stamped visa. After all those years of trying, he finally succeeded in obtaining the right to come to America.

It took Grigorie five trips to the American embassy in Bucharest in order to obtain his visa and permission to come to the United States. The first time he went, he was fifty-one years old, still in his working years. He wanted so desperately to come and be present at Adi’s wedding. He had all the necessary documentations: the passport, the guarantee letter, as well as the wedding invitation (documenting that his son is getting married). It all came down to the decision made in the American bureau. The principal concept and procedures of who and how one gets a visa is still not clear to Grigorie. It must be some sort of format, a law the American embassy abides by—or could it be that it all comes down to the determination of one person? I like your green eyes, okay, I’ll give you a visa, or I don’t like your dark complexion. I won’t give you a visa, ha ha ha ha . . . Grigorie was bedazzled by these thoughts.

During the Ceausescu regime, where everything was controlled by a network of spies, the power of one man rose through the annals of Communism to become a dictator and be fully in charge of over twenty plus million souls. Every Romanian knew his place, what one can and cannot do. Grigorie as well as others knew that they couldn’t travel freely and visit outside the Iron Curtain countries unless the Communist Party granted special permission. Recalling how the western world made a big fuss about Communism, oppressing their citizens and not letting them travel freely as they pleased. Then there was no problem obtaining a visa from the western embassy. All one had to do was bring a passport and report to the American embassy; then they would delightfully issue you a visa. The problem back then under the Communists was that one couldn’t get a passport. Therefore no passport, no visa. It was the Romanian government that the people despised and condemned for not getting the proper documentations to travel. The capitalist western world kept pointing the fingers and blamed the dictatorial governments. One could especially hear this on Radio Free Europe, It’s the Communists who are suffocating their own people, every man has the right to be free, to travel freely when and where he wants to, no one has the right to stop you from going where you want to go and see the world . . . Funny how things change, thought Grigorie. Back then if you could swim across the Danube, or dash across the border into Yugoslavia, the western countries would wait for you with open arms, without having any documentations or visa. But now, no one seems to make any fuss about this since we are no longer Communists. Emotional repugnance washed over Grigorie as he recalled the stale woman at the embassy turning her head left to right, telling him, No visa. Thus he missed his son’s wedding.

Suddenly, a tremor and a swift drop woke Grigorie from his meditative state. Sounds from electronic bells were repeatedly ringing from all sides. Another swift drop, he felt as if his guts were about to come out. The airplane was shaking left and right, descending again. He was trying to figure out where the airplane was. Looking at his watch, it’s eight fifteen. They were flying for hours. He thought they must be somewhere over land, perhaps Germany or England. More rattling and descending. Could this be it? What is one to do? He was looking at Elvis next to him, who seemed unperturbed as he was listening to his music. Heat rose to Grigorie’s head. What can he do? When the airplane hits the ground from this altitude, there is probably no survival. But he did hear of such people who survived the airplane crash. In the 1970s when a Yugoslavian airline fell, a stewardess was the lone survivor. Bobby Charlton, one of the great football players from Manchester United, survived the airplane crash (back in 1958) when the team made their way back to England from the European Cup game played in Belgrade. He must think quickly. Looking ahead, he couldn’t help seeing the obese passenger, second row in front of him (now she had stopped eating). The idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. That’s it. What else is there? The best chance for survival is to jump on the overweight woman and grab on to her. Grab on to her and hold on for his dear life. What else is one to do? It’s not the best chance, but the only chance. The fat of the woman would act as a cushion pad; that’s his only choice of survival. Common sense, there was no other choice. He got ready to unbuckle his seat belt just in case the plane would go down, so he could dive into the poor obese woman, who seemed frightened herself. Grigorie started breathing forcefully through his grinding teeth. Slowly the tremors decreased, and the drops stabilized until they stopped. The voice of the pilot was heard apologizing for the disturbance, cautioning the passengers for more inconvenience ahead and for everyone to keep their seat belts on. As he was trying to calm down, Grigorie was wondering if this was part of the normal trend in flying.

Sitting stiff, his muscles still contracted, the heart racing. Conscious of his breathing, he began to inhale and exhale deeply until he could hear the pounding of his heart slowing down. Twisting to his right side, fishing for a handkerchief with his hand in his left pocket. Gently unfolded the ironed white cloth and started wiping his face as Elvis rolled his eyes again in witnessing something bizarre.

Contemplating how much more he has to put up being confined in this crammed space till he gets to his son. Soon the airplane would be over the Atlantic Ocean like a fly flying over the pond," that’s how Grigorie foresees the situation.

Directing his thoughts to Adi and the place he was going to be for at least several weeks. The house his son already acquired in a short time. Is it somewhere close to the center? Probably not since the centers are much more expensive. Perhaps a short walking distance from the center. Picturing Boca Raton, a city by the ocean with cobblestone streets, people outside strolling, coffee houses next to each other jammed with people sitting outside in the open terraces enjoying the pleasures of life, the ocean breeze—fresh, healthy air sweeping through the city. Somewhere under the shades, people playing cards and chess during their leisure time. Soon he’ll be there to witness and partake in those pleasures of life.

Memorizing the map of the North American continent; there are only three countries—Canada to the north of United States, Mexico to the south. The difference between Canada and United States was not clear to Grigorie, for both countries derived from the Anglo-Saxons. At least that’s what he was taught in fourth-grade geography. The Mexicans descended from the Spanish. Latin culture just like Romania, recalling the words of Mrs. Radulescu. In comparison to the states, Romania, which is much smaller, borders Romanians (since it was always conquered, carved up, and minimized in her history). Depicting the country on the map, the lines outlining her borders are just imaginary, for there are Romanians who live and carry on the culture far behind her margins.

The United States is almost as big as Europe; every state is like a country of Europe. Florida is a peninsula as big as Italy. Realizing the norm of America, he was repeating Big, big, big . . . to himself as he began to slumber away.

Chapter 2

On his knees smoothing the cement compound, he had three quarters to go before the job was done. Grabbing a tile behind him, he gently placed it symmetrically on top of the cement. It took three hours to complete one quarter of the job. He figured eight more hours, and the condo will be finished. He realized he needed to speed up and cut the time down to six or seven hours in order for him to shower and clean before he heads out to the airport. There is no one to be seen, the sheet workers left earlier. Alone with his work, he thought how proud his dad will be seeing the things he has achieved. Not too many get to have and make the things he’d done. In six years, he’d made more than his father could ever dream of accomplishing. Adi calculated the things his father possessed in Romanian lei and converted them to the mighty American dollars. The house his father owns doesn’t cost more than $8,000; the apartment in the city perhaps is $10,000, plus a few acres of land about $4,000. All in all, his dad’s possession was worth about $22,000. Adi could make that in five or six months. This is what America is for Adi: the land of opportunity, and the only place in the world to make it big.

He was always on the go, touring several European countries before he came to America: Hungary, Austria, and Germany. Italy didn’t appeal to Adi as Norway did. He had a better opportunity to be exposed to if he remained in the Scandinavian country, but he knew he wouldn’t settle there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he visualized that life was much better in America. The States became the ultimate destiny for everyone. When the coach mentioned that they received permission to play a tournament in America, he knew his chance had arrived. He was only seventeen, and he had experienced traveling with the junior soccer team since he was fourteen. This made his father proud. The patriarch of the family gloriously saw his son off to the train station and knew that he would always come back.

This time, his father never heard from him until few months later. Contemplating how to explain the decision he made to remain in America, Adi finally called.

Dad, don’t worry I’m fine.

Son, why didn’t you call me before? You know how worried we were!

I’m sorry. I’m in Philadelphia—I have a job.

Where?

In Philadelphia next to New York

Oh, son, you don’t know how glad we are to hear from you.

How is everyone else? Adi asked.

Fine, fine, we are all good, healthy, and safe here. What about you? What kind of job do you do? Grigorie was concerned.

Construction, we repair houses, all six of us from the team work and live together.

Impatiently Dorina tugged at her husband’s shirt, trying to get into the conversation and hear her son’s voice.

Son, here’s your mother, she wants to talk to you.

Mom, don’t worry I’m fine, working and live in Philadelphia. How is Marin?

He is right here, we are all right hear by the telephone . . .

Hey, bro, how is it over there? asked Marin.

Listen, Adi spoke in a serious tone, I don’t have enough time, but I will call you at six in the morning at Uncle Levis. Try to be there.

Soon Marin became the second to desert his family, without the slightest thought of deception from his parents. Both brothers knew they had to have a strategy to conceal the flight, for their father wouldn’t support the exile of another son. That was done through several calls at their uncle’s house, who always left the house to his nephews’ disclosure. Weeks after Marin left to join his brother, Grigorie felt betrayed by his sons. That’s how many youths of Romania abandoned their parents in secret and headed into the dream of their perception.

Six were sleeping in the two-bedroom apartment in North East Philly, and the arrival of Adi’s brother made it seven, way too crowded for all of them. With the help of an older acquaintance who frequented Stana’s donut place on Rising Sun Avenue, Adi managed to get the apartment for a cheap monthly price. The only problem he was told was that it was in a deteriorating neighborhood, a bad neighborhood. This information came from Vasa and his employees.

The new houses on Sixth Street looked like a scene from the third world countries: dilapidated porches in front of row houses; crooked railings taken over by rust; boarded-up doors and windows (here and there); a mattress, chair, coffee table tossed out in the street; the whole neighborhood seemed unkempt.

Adi moved four doors down from Balan, who advised him about the apartment. Balan was happy to have someone of his own kind (Romanian) whom he can speak to. Willing to help the new arrivals, Balan donated a bed, an old couch, and a table that he kept stored for years in the basement. Adi arranged the apartment for both of them to be livable. Four hundred dollars a month plus electricity wasn’t so bad for him and his brother to split the amount in half. It was a start. Later he’d figured out his next move.

Every morning at six, a member of Vasa’s crew would pick the brothers up in front of the house and take them to work. In the beginning, his task was to knock down the old Sheetrock walls. Later on he progressed in restoring the new walls up again. Adi worked like that six days a week, putting in ten to twelve hours a day. The only time he had off was on Sundays and two to four days, depending on how fast Vasa acquired a new task; for once they finished a project (which lasted anywhere from seven to eight weeks), they had to wait for him to get another project. Adi received a fixed rate of two hundred dollars a week, which he considered good pay since he didn’t have any working papers or legal documents to remain in America.

When Vasa heard that they wanted to stay in the States, he picked all six of the junior players in Ridgewood, New York, and brought them to Philadelphia. He promised them that they’ll get a job and a place to stay together; he kept his promise. Vasa became their new coach and their supporter, whom they looked up to. Even though most of them were minors, not all quite eighteen yet, they felt lucky that they found someone like Vasa. Knowing that soon in a couple of months they’ll be of the legal age and have an advantage to start out a new life where everyone in the world dreamed of being—in the United States.

Coming home from work exhausted, sore, and dusty, the brothers got to clean themselves. Marin went to the shower first while Adi checked to see what was in the refrigerator. The doorbell rang. Adi looked at the watch; it was seven forty-five. Consciously Adi approached the door as he tried to figure who it could be. Looking through the peephole, he saw Balan, the old man, smiling at the door.

Boys, it’s only me, Balan.

Opening the door, Adi greeted the visitor, Hey, as he nodded his head, stepping aside and making way for the elder to enter.

Well, boys, I saw you being dropped home by Miron, and I came by to invite you to a lamb dinner I prepared, Balan announced proudly.

How did you know we were hungry? I was just about to boil some sausages, but hey thanks, Adi replied.

It’s my pleasure to have you guys over, retorted Balan.

Twenty minutes after, Adi and Marin were over Balan’s