Monday. I arrived in Podmilačje with two suitcases, a bucket of whitewash and a list of thirty items for my grandmother's house. Item one is the roof. A swallow is already sitting on it and does not look as if she plans to move. A stream runs beside the house and I named it Vrpca right away, the Ribbon, because it trails down the yard as if someone forgot to tie off a package. There was no one to agree with me, except a man in the next yard who was splitting firewood and did not lift his head.
Tuesday. His name is Đuro, the woman at the shop told me, and he does not talk. Not because he cannot, but because he has nothing to say. I always have something to say. I told him good afternoon over the fence. He nodded. I said it was nice weather for repairs today. He nodded again. I am writing it down: nodding is his whole vocabulary, but much more varied than I would have expected.
Wednesday. Today I named things. The stove is Mrs. Mara, because she complains every time I light her. The cat who sleeps on my window is Pošta, the Mail, because she is always bringing something, today a dead mouse. The wardrobe is the Court, because whoever opens it must rule on what gets thrown away. Đuro walked past the fence just as I was shouting at the stove. I asked him what his dog was called. He said: "Dog." That was the first word. I wrote down the date.
Thursday. Đuro climbed onto the roof uninvited and nailed down three battens. All day I told him about Sarajevo, about the archive where I work, about my ex who ate bread only on the left side. He said nothing, but twice he stopped hammering to hear me better. My theory: whoever is silent listens a hundred times more than whoever talks, so I, who talk, am lucky to have found the right audience.
Monday, a week later. I have gotten used to it. That is an unpleasant discovery. My morning begins when I hear the axe on the other side of the fence, and if it is not there, I go out on the porch and pretend to look for Pošta. This morning, without a single word, Đuro left a sack of potatoes and three apples on my doorstep. I gave the apples names. I ate them all, except Esad, who turned out ugly, so I kept him.
Wednesday. The dog has a name. Đuro said to me, his first whole sentence: "Call him what you like, he doesn't listen anyway." I named him Verdict. The wardrobe took offense, but Verdict listens to me. Đuro laughed. I am writing that down too, because his laugh is short and reminds me of a door that opens once and shuts at once, so the house doesn't get cold.
Saturday. Tonight he sat on my porch for two hours. I did not ask him anything. I let the stream talk in my place and watched the dark come down over the roof. When he stood up, he said: "You talk so I don't have to." I thought it was an insult. Then I understood that it was praise, the best I have received since I left the archive.
Sunday. The stream has lost its name. Đuro brought me a piece of oak board with a word carved into it, letter by letter: Vrpca. He nailed it to the post beside the stream. I never told him what I called it, and yet he knew. So he was listening the whole time, as I had claimed.
Monday. I went over the list. Thirty items, the roof done, the stove still complaining. I added a thirty-first in pencil under the others: stay through the winter. I showed it to Đuro over the fence. He read it, nodded and went to get the axe.