‘The Souring of Milk’ by Sophie van Llewyn
You need to relieve your pregnant belly from the burden of gravity for at least an hour. Hot water fills the great bronze tub, the one you inherited from your great-grandmother.
The tub is a remnant from a time when convoys of mules and oxen hauled luxury items: silks, rosewater, handcrafted combs and other trinkets, up the steep mountain roads to your village. It was before the elders cut the television and radio chords connecting you to the outside world. It was before the few men who survived the Great War assembled and rolled a huge boulder with the power of their minds, corking the only access road to your village. It was before the elders began to drone respect and honour your husbands, love and cherish them, we would be lost without our men – resembling the scratched records you didn’t play anymore on the pickups your grandmother still kept in her home as decoration. And it was certainly before the men gathered around a table on a porch beneath a vine, leaving all the hard work to the women.
Your thoughts rise and scatter like steam ascending from the tub.
Your life is hard. You have to cook, clean, shear the sheep, tend to the vegetable garden. But the hardest work of all is watching the souring of milk: the curds are used to make the cheese, the whey for milk beer. If you fail you will be beaten, and not by weather.
The water purls in your ears, melts your limbs and plucks at your outlines. You never want to leave your aquatic nook. The daughter in your womb hears your thoughts and hums in approval. Your hand on top of her, a roof deflecting life’s blows. She begins wriggling underneath, like a spoiled cat. The protruding contour of a foot, the outline of a shoulder conjure a smile upon your face. Any day now, you’ll be able to wonder at the wisdom in her eyes. The weight of the day dissolves in the tepid water. Your eyelids grow heavy.
*
A jolt in your womb tears your eyes open. You shiver in the water. You want to reach for the faucet, attempt to reverse the chilling process, but your belly is stuck. You feel the spine of your daughter stretched between the parted lips of the tub. She is lying across, preventing you from moving. You pet her awake, tell her it’s time to get out of the water. She says that a shroud covers your eyes and you must wash it with your tears. You tell her you are cold, but she pretends not to hear you. You reach for the towel and try to wrap it around you, but the water insinuates itself between skin and cloth, like a gentle summer breeze, carrying it away.
Your husband comes in, carrying a pair of shears. The handle is rusted, the colour of burnt bricks, but the blades shine like mermaid scales in the fading sunlight. He grunts. You forgot to pick them up from the blacksmith woman. She called his name on his way back home.
You tell him you are stuck, concealing your daughter’s involvement in the debacle. He says you have no business being in the tub. After tugging at your arms while you grimace and hold back a tear, he calls the plumber woman.
There is nothing the plumber woman can do without hurting your baby. She whispers, your daughter must come out by herself.
Before leaving, the plumber woman opens the drain and the hot water faucet. Within minutes, the water reaches the perfect balance. It is ever flowing and yet stays the same, as warm as a mother’s embrace.
*
Your neighbours come to see you. They bring you baked cheese and milk vodka to console your husband. The two shepherdesses hold your hands, one on each side of the tub. The baker woman fidgets with your towel. The widow next door reiterates the promise that the women will help you with your chores. After all, it’s nothing you wouldn’t do for them. You see tears of sympathy glistening in their eyes. It can’t be much longer now, you say. The baby is due in a few days.
*
You were wrong. It’s been weeks and the baby is still in your womb.
Dirty plates clutter the bathroom floor, unstable towers made of burnt clay. The cries of your unmilked sheep, the blunt thump of overripe tomatoes smashing on dry earth keep you awake at night.
Your unborn daughter reports what your friends say behind your back. You are lazy. How convenient. They are not your servants. They wish they could spend at least an evening in a bath tub without somebody complaining.
Your husband brings you food: bruised apples and raw fish. You don’t ask how he came by the fish. You eat it whole, bones and tail and scales. You start feeling a blunt pain like a fist in your lower back. You think, this is it.
*
Sleep has been eluding you for weeks, chased by your sheep. Even when they’re not crying, you can hear their pain. There is a growth above your bottom. It’s flexible, scaly, and its tip opens like a fan. You ask your daughter if she doesn’t feel sorry for your flock. She tells you that if she allows you to go out, she will be much busier feeling sorry for herself. She tells you that you need to cry more.
When the young widow next door comes into the bathroom, you grab her by the starched apron. She says she has no time to help you, that she must tend to her own sheep. She needs a man. The men in your village are like flies. A large flock is as good as thick honey.
You promise to give her the bronze tub when you leave it. It can’t be long now.
A good tub is priceless in your village.
That evening, you’re lulled by the sounds of water boiling, windows squeaking under rags, pots clanking in the kitchen, the pleased bleating of your flock. But the draught, slipping broken laughter underneath the closed door, startles you awake.
*
You might have made a mistake. Every time the vacuum cleaner starts, you feel a tornado rising. At night, you hear the young widow’s stifled screams and your husband’s grunts.
Men are a precious commodity in your village. For every seven women, there are only three men. Men might be even more precious than bronze bath tubs.
Your man hasn’t come to see you in weeks.
*
The young widow comes into the bathroom. Your arms are flapping, broken banners in a storm. Your screams, banshees wailing. You cry, get out of my life.
She doesn’t even turn. Flaunting a black garbage bag, she sweeps your powder, your face cream from the shelves. She places a red toothbrush next to the sink. It’s the flag of the conqueror and she is twisting its pointy end in your bleeding heart.
You used to manufacture toothbrushes out of horsehair and wood before your husband came to live with you. You were very good with your hands. Your husband enjoyed that.
You scream, this is not your house! You try to rise, pushing hard in your arms, holding your breath so you may squeeze your belly out of the tub. You pant from the effort like a woman in labour.
Your baby says, if you don’t settle back down, you’ll make my back snap. Do you want that?
Your body grows limp. You sob.
Between the tears, you see that the young widow is wearing fishnets. Her hair is arranged in a loose bun and she is wearing a red lipstick. In spite of all your tears, you can’t help but wonder where she got her lipstick.
After she is gone, you stare at your own reflection in the water. Hollowed eyes, long fingernails, limp hair. Your tail, as thin as a silk scarf, is now knee-long.
*
The young widow brings in the veterinarian woman. She says she can give you an injection, so that your womb will push out its overripe fruit.
Your husband watches from the threshold.
The young widow squeezes his hand and whispers something in his ear.
Your daughter tells you what she said: Finally. We’ll have the tub to ourselves.
*
You realise that the big prize, your husband, might not be much of a prize after all, that you are the most hated woman in the village, just for having taken a long bath, that this is not the world you want your daughter to live in.
That night, you sing the baby out. Your daughter has deep blue eyes and a tail that glints like mother-of-pearl. You drape your own tail over your feet. Underwater, you’re beautiful again. Your long, dark hair floats around you, a deadly trap. You’re Medusa and Aphrodite at the same time. You take the baby in your arms and slide down the drain. You travel through pipes and drains, creeks and rivers, until you reach the sea.
From issue #5: autumn/winter 2017
About the Author
Sophie van Llewyn was born in Romania. She now lives in Germany. Her debut Bottled Goods (Fairlight Books, 2018) was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2019.
