The Ghost Writer: The Village Victory

A village called Victory is just down the way. Take the President George W Bush road and you get to the village called Victory. There, off the road, to the right lies an empty village. It’s Victory.

Victory has friendly people, ugly roads, and a dead center Square.

Off the main road lies the House of Sewing. The house is a typical one. Made of wood, a triangular-square roof, two floors, big windows, and a little garden in front. It looks nice. It’s Victory.

The people greet me warmly. They come from the garden. Their eyes open wide and show that they are pleased to have guests. It’s Victory.

Inside four women work hard and an older man with a beard, sunglasses, and a cane sits on the couch by the woodstove. When he talks, he does not look at you. The women are sewing. The man with sunglasses sits by the fire, holding a young child in his lap. The old woman with a mustache, a big nose, blank eyes, and black clothes sits on a stool staring into space. It’s Victory.

Among the four women stands a young one. Maybe fifteen. She’s got a face of a child, a smile of innocence, and the responsibility of a mother. It’s Victory.

The men want coffee. The four women stop sewing and prepare the coffee, and bring a chocolate bar. The men talk. About highland mountain life, the good old days, and the wrongs of today. It’s Victory.

Then man with sunglasses takes the money. The fifteen-year-old counts it to make sure it is all there. A shake of hands. Our time is finished. It’s Victory.

We drive away. As we do so, the smiling innocent child waves goodbye, holding the young one in her arms. “Who is she?” I asked. “That’s his wife, and she’s holding her son.” It’s Victory.

This is the village Victory