When a Person Wants to, They Can

Ever since I retired, my wife, on her way out to work, would often wonder how hard it must be for me to mooch about aimlessly at home all day. She usually started her tirade at the front door. She said it in the tone of someone who blames mostly herself. Once she had finally left, I would begin the next episode of the film “Home Alone”. I had heard of people falling into depression after retiring. Evidently I wasn't one of them. Quite bravely I would open a beer, light a cigarette, and then alternate between writing stories, online games of chess and bridge, solving crosswords and listening to music, and by the time my wife came back in the evening I was already worn out, though I tried not to let it show**.**

One morning at the door, besides the usual things, she also said something new:

“And today try to do something useful!” With which she seemed to ruin the whole day – none of my pursuits went right any more. All that rang in my head was “Something useful”, and after the initial offence I took the brave decision that from tomorrow I would do only things for the benefit of the household, even to the detriment of my personal passions.

The next morning I beat her to it at the door and announced:

“Today I'm going to wash the curtains and clean the windows.”

When she came back that evening, I met her with wet sleeves but in high spirits, and told her that today my work had worked wonders. I gave her a tour of our “gleaming” flat, so she could see for herself that there was no need to blame herself any more and that I could do something useful too.

She was tired, but she followed me round and concluded that my work today had indeed been a wonder. But in the tone of “a wonder” = “I wonder what he thinks he's done”. Then she slipped in that I had managed, but this time in the tone of “Like the fox with its tail”. In my star sign we understand hints. I added “Like the dog in the field” myself. We Virgos don't like being underappreciated. We're ready to do ourselves in if it will earn us a bit of praise. It left a bitter taste. There was nothing to wonder about in the work I had done at home today! Still, with my typical self-criticism, I examined the windows and curtains again and saw that – yes, there really was room for improvement.

In the morning I got up early and made breakfast with pancakes and milk – fresh and sour. She praised me for buying milk made to the BDS standard and remarked:

• “When I fry pancakes, they come out either doughy or burnt, but yours are both doughy and burnt at the same time – how did you manage that?”

I bowed my head to decide which smile to put on. She started doing her make-up and said, somehow in passing, one of her favourite sayings:

• “When a person wants to, they can.”

After these two ambiguous statements of hers in one go, I needed a deeper analysis. I tucked my fox's tail between my legs, went to my “chambers”, lay down and stared at the ceiling, my best adviser. She usually said “a person” only when it concerned someone who lived properly. Hearing her setting off for work, I got up to see her out with a neutral expression, free of my characteristic guilty look. Despite the enormous (in her view) amount of time I had at my disposal that day, I only reached the conclusion at the very end that, once I'd finished fiddling with the curtains and windows, I would take on the drains of the sinks, the bathroom and the toilet. It was clear that I'd abandon every hobby of mine until I got a clear and unambiguous positive assessment. That evening, despite my delicate hints, she found nothing new in those rooms. The next day I gave the place such a hoovering that the carpets got thinner by at least a millimetre. That evening, to my delight, she said the house smelled unusually fresh today.

• “Well, how could it not, when these past days, after the windows and curtains, I've unblocked the drains everywhere and given it a proper hoovering?”

At first she remarked that it might be down to today's thunderstorm and all the ozone in the atmosphere, but she still added:

“But your activity here has definitely contributed something too.” She said it supposedly neutrally, but if you'd had as long a married life with her as I have, you'd have been thrilled too. She never praised anyone who hadn't earned it many times over with deeds, not words. It seemed I'd hit on the right direction, and I got a bit carried away dreaming of further successes and, with my inherent impatience, started sidling up to her affectionately, but she quickly parried my attempts at intimacy with: “Leave me alone now, I'm very tired and I've got a headache.”

The next day a bitterness was swelling inside me that my efforts seemed to be hitting a brick wall. By about 7 p.m. that feeling had taken the shape of a lump bigger than my Adam's apple, and I decided, for once, not to jump up and greet her at the door after work, but to pretend to be asleep.

In the dark I heard that, after she came in, she went to the toilet, then to the bedroom to get changed, and finally back to the kitchen, where she switched on the TV. The seconds dragged on. With pain I realised that the toilet, the wardrobe, the TV and the fridge had already been attended to by her, unlike me, the useless one.

I was wrong – a moment later she peeked into the darkness of my room and, seeing me stir, called out cheerfully: “Having a nice little nap? Ah, who's got it as good as you!”

For the next few evenings I sprang up briskly to greet her as sweetly as possible, but that's how it had always been, and even the jokes I'd prepared in advance did nothing for my image in her eyes, which was heading for “damage”. I had to try something new, but what?

Realising that I had to lighten her load even more, I decided that I would no longer just go into the kitchen to tell her I'd eaten, but that besides doing the shopping I should also cook. I couldn't hold back and told her about this decision that very evening. Instead of being pleased at the news, she got worried. I had the feeling she liked the idea, but not the person carrying it out, and that she was mentally searching for a dish with a minimum of ingredients, so that if they got wasted, so what.

I told her Google was full of recipes. She should trust me – there was no way I could get them wrong! And that the best chefs are men, and in the end she gave in. In the morning at the door she said just one lean “Bye”.

I immediately found a recipe for wine kebab, which I loved, and which we hadn't had for ages. In my opinion the kebab turned out superb, but I didn't dare eat before she came back. I served it the way not even a Turk had ever served it. She praised me for getting the amount of salt right (in fact, that was mainly what interested her in a dish), but said I had put in a lot of bay leaves – in such quantities they were poisonous – and she ate only a little. She finished off with some white cheese.

The next day at lunch I finished off the kebab, after which I cooked chicken with rice and vegetables. That evening she first asked whether I had thrown out the wine kebab. I confirmed it and served her the chicken with rice, which I had browned a bit in the oven. She praised it – the rice had gone mushy, it was a little under-salted, but it was edible all the same.

On the third evening I greeted her with what was, in my opinion at least, a killer “Tas kebab”. She started on it, but at some point stopped and declared that something smelled to her – I should look on Google to check whether I hadn't mistakenly cooked a “Tush kebab”. Once again she finished off with white cheese. I started getting annoyed that, with such good dishes, we were wasting good money on cheese.

On the fifth evening I floored her with such a tasty tripe soup, with so much garlic, that the next day she didn't dare go to work. Still, she praised me – because I hadn't washed the tripe properly, it smelled very nice to her: of the village, of pig and even, somehow, of patriotism.

On the seventh morning I announced that today it was the turn of Chirpan-style meatballs, which for me are simply a piece of cake – I put in lots of parsley, then mince, rice….

My wife gave me a look. Her brown eyes were at that moment dark blue – exactly like the Eye lake in Rila. I paid her a compliment, which was left hanging.

She held her gaze on me far too long. Her eyes became like the barrels of a double-barrelled shotgun, and she said slowly and syllable by syllable:

• “Don't you dare c l e a n or c o o k ever again!”

• “But wasn't it you who wanted me to be useful? You can't deny I made an effort!”

• “You'll be most useful to me if you go for a walk every day for at least an hour, cut down on the cigarettes and the beer, and don't greet me with a walk as if there's a swell on your ship right now. Just do what I tell you, please!”

After which her eyes turned dark brown again, like those of a fawn looking reproachfully at the hunter who has just shot it.

Some men would welcome such a statement from their wives, but not me. Strolling sedately on my own around little parks and complaining together with other old codgers didn't appeal to me. Even my usual daily pastimes now seemed rather dull. My life was at a crossroads, and each of the directions promised new torments and doubts. Luckily I was an optimist, and I remembered how my wife and I, when we were young, used to roam the mountains and that's where we were happiest. We called them “our estates” and loved to “check on” them often. I said to myself: “And what's stopping us now?”

On Sunday we drove to the Buddhist “Stupa” in the village of Plana, and then to the nearby observatory, which my wife had never seen before. When I sidled up to her that evening, she didn't have a headache.

Before I fell asleep, my patroness the Virgin Mary winked at me. It seemed she too was telling me that when a person wants to, they can.