His mother, Emira, seemed to be ready to celebrate from the first light of dawn. Together with Esma and their helper, she bustled around the kitchen as though the president himself were expected for dinner.
Poor boy… she thought, kneading the dough and nodding to herself. Always eating that fast food of his over there in his America. What do they even eat? Boxes, paper, and something reheated. Let him eat properly now. Decent food. Homemade. Our food.
There was enough food for a wedding: pies, meat, vegetables in sauce, soups, fruit compotes, baked treats. It seemed that over those three days, Cross had not only gained a couple of kilos but also regained his taste for ordinary life back home. Kenan, meanwhile, shook his head whenever another dish arrived, although he had put on a barbecue himself for the occasion, setting up a grill under the canopy. The smoky aromas rose into the air and drifted through the neighborhood. Close neighbors joined the feast too. The men stayed by the fire, eating grilled meat and washing it down with whiskey or wine. Inside, the women and children celebrated the homecoming of the Begovich family’s fine son. Laughter and conversation filled the whole place.
Still, Kenan pretended to object.
“You’re going to overfeed him!” he said with a grin. “He won’t be able to fly back to America because he won’t fit in the seat.”
Deep down, though, he was pleased. The feast wasn’t only for Cross. Everyone was at the table: Kenan himself, Esma, and the children. He even joked:
“Well, let him come more often! Maybe I’ll put on a little weight from happiness too.”
His wife narrowed her eyes and tossed a spoon his way.
“You poor thing, wasting away! Nobody feeds you, do they? How many kilos do you weigh?”
“One hundred and twenty!”
Everyone laughed. Cross felt more than comfortable. He felt happy. Every part of him was at rest: his mind, his back, his chest. He wasn’t thinking, planning, or defending himself. He was among his own. And that feeling soaked into him like the smell of fresh bread into the walls of an old house. Sometimes a dangerous thought even crossed his mind: perhaps… he could stay? What was all the rest for? Money, deals, ambition. Everything here was simple. And clean.
The scents of home, of his native soil, of warm bread on the table, and of everything words could never capture brought an ache of longing, taking him back to being ten years old, when his mother was calling him to dinner again. Here, he didn’t have to explain who he was, why he spoke in a certain tone, or why he was silent. Here, one look from his mother could make the day brighter.
And there were the children. Three nephews and little Selma. All four believed that Cross had come into this world exclusively for them. He played soccer with the boys right there in the yard. Snow lay in a thick carpet, the air was dry and fresh, and the ball kept burying itself in the snowdrifts. But that only made it more fun. They ran, fell, squealed, and put together makeshift goals using a bucket and a shovel. Cross laughed with them until he cried.
Then Selma, so serious in her knitted hat with ears, dragged him off to build a snowman. They made a crooked little fellow with such a kind face, a carrot for a nose, two buttons from a coat, and mittens that, of course, had to be washed afterward. Cross tied his old scarf around its neck and said:
