Everything Has Its Time
By Valerian Markarov
Translated by Oscar Seecharan
“Everything has its time,
there is a time for every purpose under Heaven,
there is a time to be born, and a time to die,
a time to plant, and a time to uproot,
a time to kill, and a time to heal,
a time to destroy, and a time to build,
a time to cry, and a time to laugh,
a time to scatter stones, and a time to collect stones,
a time to hug, and a time not to,
a time to find, and a time to lose,
a time to be silent, and a time to speak,
a time to love, and a time to hate,
a time for war, and a time for peace.”
King Solomon
“Happy birthday, Dad!”
Entering the hospital wardroom with a light step, a young woman dressed in a green scarf worn over an elegant red coat of cashmere wool, leaned over the sick man and took him gently by the shoulder, softly kissing him on the cheek with her plump lips. The wardroom in which the man lay was small, the bulk of the space being occupied by an airbed which bent out of shape when nurses changed the patient’s position. Buttons on either side of the bed allowed for its angle to be adjusted, and likewise for it to be raised or lowered.
Opposite the bed on the wall hung a small flat screen television, around which hung various pictures, and under it several cushioned chairs were neatly arranged for visitors. In the corner was a toilet and shower cubicle with all the essential hygiene accessories. A single white bedside table had been squeezed in beside the bed, alongside a remote control to turn the light on and off, or to dim it, to control the TV volume and change channels, and, in case of an emergency, to call the nurse. On the wall behind the headboard, the yellow indicators of various pieces of electronic equipment and dials with monitors were blinking incessantly, and there was a sort of contraption to hold the drip, which most likely served the function of preventing excessive sleep in the daytime. The loud and constant beeping noise came from it, signalling to the ward nurses that either a tube was drooping over perilously, or that a medicine in use was about to run out.
The woman who had just come in looked about 25. She was of medium height and had an elegant body, and she had something enticing about her, something truly Celtic. She loved her beautiful hair of a stunningly and intensely golden-red colour, a source of pride. She obviously considered her hair to be a gift, which she carefully looked after and saw to without much hassle. She possessed a pretty face and a smooth nose. The eyes with which she looked out so openly onto the world were deep and green, underneath which on her cheeks were scattered a few soft and perky freckles. On her temples, one could see her translucent blue veins under her thin white skin. Most men would likely not have had her down as a woman of beauty, however, a short time in conversation with her would allow the more perceptive and well-mannered to note her charm and attraction, her impeccable taste and her perfect mannerisms, which told of a true woman, and her ability to speak with such eloquence. If only they knew that she could also dance excellently, play the piano and guitar, was keen on photography, and could ride a horse with all confidence!
“You remember what day it is today, don’t you?” she asked, keeping her gaze on his darkened eyes, “It’s the 17th March! You’re 65 today, Dad!”
“I prefer remembering that today is Saint Patrick’s Day,” he said with pride, “how was the parade? Did you take photos?”
“Of course, Dad. I went up to the balcony at Bullring in Digbeth just for you. I got a great view of everything from up there.” She started to flick through the pictures for him on her new iPhone 8, one after another.
“Bring it closer, yes, there… It’s a good job they didn’t colour the canal green” he said. “And the pubs presumably weren’t serving green beer…”
“Yeah, that’d be over the top. This isn’t New York or Boston. It’s enough that most of the clothes and decorations are in Irish green, white, and orange. And the beer flows like a river, so that’s fine!”
“So, how did it get going?”
“Like they always do, Dad, the Lord Mayor opened the festivities alongside St. Patrick himself.”
“He’s Mr. Important today!” chipped in her father, looking at the photos, “so pompous and full of himself!”
“Then there was the Leader of the City Council. He led the parade, of course. The band of flautists and pipers were next. Then there were Star Wars characters, then soldiers from the Irish Brigade. And look, here are some of the School of Irish Dancing’s highly talented girls…”
“Hmm, judging by the look of them, Erin, I’d say they’re future candidates for Lord of the Dance. Those outfits and curly wigs, they‘re not cheap, about 500 pounds a set!”
“Then there were the leprechauns in their green caftans, red hair, and red beards… There was a tractor from a museum there, and one of them was dancing on top of it… And here is a peacock, and a garden man.”
