The Odd Man

Bora

He was an odd man. He lived alone in a small duplex guesthouse behind my neighbor at the end of a gravel driveway. One room and a kitchenette. He was tall and thin, and his strides were long. He would glide down the driveway as if dancing across a stage, his long arms stretched out in a T, the tiny rocks crunching under his feet. He would look up at me, staring at him from the window of our den, and wave, always smiling, happy he had an audience. He didn’t own a car, so he walked to the nearby market for the things he needed. He didn’t seem to need much. On Monday evenings, he set up a weekly folk dance in the gym at the park across the street. He wore a Serbian folk costume, a hand-embroidered shirt and cotton trousers, a woven belt, a gold-threaded vest, a snug cap, and leather shoes that curled up at the toes and carried a small metal cashbox across the street. He set up a long table at the gym’s entrance where he collected a small entrance fee. He placed a portable stereo on a table alongside some Serbian folk albums. Soon, men and women arrived, dressed from a scene in a fairy tale. One Monday night, I crossed the street to have a look. The old-fashioned streetlights were on, and the park’s bright strobes illuminated the basketball courts. It was the music that called to me, instruments I had never heard before, and songs in a language I didn’t understand. I stood at the edge of the open doors, watching the men and women move their feet in their curly-toed shoes, holding each other’s hands and dancing in circles, dancing in a way I had never seen. The man smiled and gestured for me to come inside. I didn’t move. I recognized a tall, brunette woman with dark red lips. She had visited the man in his guesthouse. Her walk on the gravel sounded different from the man’s, and I noticed. I watched her walk back to the guesthouse and, a few hours later, leave. I didn’t hear any music. He was an odd man.