It could be warm at -5

 

 

Шамандурата

Мъжът се изправи и погледна пред себе си. Морето се виждаше зад фигурите на малкото мъже и жени, уважили сутрешния плаж.
Целта му бе далечната шамандура, която маркираше рамките на залива, само че нямаше да му бъде лесно да каже това на жена си. Тя много се притесняваше, че нещо може да му се случи, ако отиде навътре. Моментът за плуване иначе бе повече от подходящ: нямаше много хора във водата, бе около девет сутринта, което означаваше, че водата ще е студена и ще може да плува по-бързо, и главната причина – моторницата не бе започнала да прави курсове в опасна близост до шамандурата.
- Къде отиваш – попита тя и вдигна поглед от „Сърцето е самотен ловец” на Карсън Маккалърс.
- Ще плувам малко. Може да отида малко по-навътре понеже моторницата още не е тръгнала.
- Недей – каза му тя загрижено, а лицето и се молеше.
- Не се притеснявай. Всичко е наред. Няма да ходя много далече.
- Нали няма да се бавиш – каза тя и го гледаше право в очите.
- Няма... не повече от двайсет минути.
- Моля те мисли за нас – за мен и за Мария.
Що за глупост - помисли си той, та аз винаги мисля за тях. Как не можеха хората да разберат, че малко по-навътре не значи един километър по-навътре, а само до рамките на залива.
- Не се притеснявай. Всичко ще бъде наред... след като ти казвам.
- Мисли си за нас – каза му тя и го изпрати с умолителен поглед.
Той и обърна гръб и тръгна бързо към водата. Губеше ценно време. Моторницата можеше да тръгне всеки момент с прииждането на нови хора на плажа, които искаха да се изфукат пред близките си и наистина трябваше да се побърза.
Той се затича леко и стигна до разбиващите се вълни върху мозайката от счупени мидени черупки. След това внимателно пристъпи върху тях за да не се пореже и постепенно нагази в студената вода. Водата като че бе малко по-студена, отколкото бе очаквал, но това също бе нормално след среднощната буря, разразила се над малкото курортно селище. Единственият начин да се влезе в такава вода, е да се влезе веднага с пълно потапяне на тялото. Внезапният студ се преодолява за секунди. С тези мисли предвид, той си сложи плувните очила, пое дъх и се плъзна напред. Студени вълни го обляха и кожата му за секунда настръхна, а лицето му изпита моментна болка от резкия студ. Пред очите му се разгърна зелена гора от водорасли, които се полюшваха плавно с движението на вълните над тях. Той се плъзна над тях като усещането бе все едно, е на самолет летящ с нисък бръснещ полет над зелена гора. Беше решил да плува само бруст до шамандурата. Така нямаше да се измори и щеше да може да наблюдава всичко, което се вижда под него. След като прелетя над гората си даде сметка, че не е видял обичайните обитатели на такива пояси от водорасли. Малките рибки може би бяха по-нататък. След още няколко загребвания, вече бе до първата шамандура. Там дълбочината бе около метър и петдесет и той го знаеше много добре. Без да губи време, продължи напред. Пътят до втората – далечна шамандура, не бе толкова малък, а освен това трябваше да се заслушва за постоянното леко бръмчене на моторницата. Ако тя тръгнеше, щеше да се наложи да се връща.
Той поемаше въздух и се впускаше напред, издишаше под водата и единствения шум, който чуваше бе този на мехурчетата излизащи от устата му. Моторницата явно още чакаше клиенти и това му даваше добър шанс за успех. В следващия момент, изведнъж видя малките рибки. Те ослепително блеснаха със светлината на отразеното слънце като огромно парче слюда и след това се стрелнаха като една в страни от пътя му. Той се усмихна мислено и загреба още по-мощно напред. Постепенно изчезнаха всякакви водорасли, започнаха да се виждат по-големи риби, попчета най-вероятно, доколкото той можеше да ги определи, а пясъкът под него се превърна в миниатюрни малки дюни образувани от непрекъснатото движение на вълните напред и назад. Той плуваше все напред с еднакво сравнително бързо темпо и скоро усети, че левия му крак бе като че ли леко изтръпнал. Това също бе нормално. Може би изтласкваше водата по-силно с него. За момент си помисли, че дори да се схване единия му крак, не би трябвало да има никакви проблеми да излезе на брега с плуване. С поредното изплуване над водата, погледна към целта си. Тя го зовеше, все така далечна, и той вложи всички свои усилия в движението напред. Внезапно се сети какво бе казала жена му и отново се усмихна наум. Трябваше да побърза иначе тя щеше да се притесни, а това бе последното нещо, което той искаше да и причини.
Пясъчното дъно се виждаше все така ясно, въпреки че дълбочината бе най-вероятно около три метра. Мина му през ум колко чисто бе морето толкова далече на юг. С плуването все по-навътре изведнъж усети как го прерязва като с нож по-студен слой вода. Явно бурята предишната нощ бе свършила работата си размесвайки водните пластове. Шамандурата вече не бе толкова далече. За секунда спря, обърна се и погледна към брега. Той изглеждаше дълъг, а чадърите за слънце приличаха на малки детски чадърчета нелепо забити в пясъка. Обзе го прилив на свежа енергия с приближаването на заветната цел. Скоро щеше да е при нея, да се обърне и да плува обратно, с което мисията щеше да е изпълнена. Това бе последния му шанс да стигне там, тъй като трябваше да си ходят същия ден.
Той увеличи темпото, вдишвайки и издишвайки по-бързо, дъното остана по-надолу от него, все така кристално ясно, така че виждаше и последната песъчинка на него. Оставаха не повече от десет метра до шамандурата сега, когато дъното изведнъж изчезна от погледа му. Той неволно се спря и се взря с очилата надолу. Виждаше се смътна черна тъмнина точно под него. Какво ли бе станало? Може би нов пояс от водорасли, а може би бе достигнал дълбочина от десет метра, когато дъното няма как да се види, дори и в такова чисто море като това.
Пое отново въздух и се спусна напред. Сега изведнъж искаше да стигне шамандурата, колкото се може по-бързо и да се връща веднага обратно. Не можеше да си обясни защо, факта, че не виждаше дъното вече, му се отрази по този начин. Оставаха не повече от 3-4 метра до шамандурата, когато изведнъж сърцето му заби силно и бързо. Той спря озадачен и напрегнат. Нямаше време да мисли защо това се случваше, защото сърцето му заблъска силно в гърдите и болезнено се заудря в плътните пластове море навсякъде около него. Усети лицето си да изтръпва, съпроводено от две ръце, които го хванаха за гушата и го стиснаха. Той се обърна трескаво към брега и го видя далече. Хората пъплеха, като че бяха лилипути, чадърите приличаха на топлийки. Слънцето светеше силно, а на небето нямаше никакъв облак. Той усети, че се задушава, а сърцето му биеше все по-силно и по-силно. Нямаше смисъл да маха с ръце. Докато разберат правилно сигнала му за помощ, щеше да е вече късно. Ако извикаше, нямаше да го чуят. Реши да се обърне по гръб и да си почине, но сърцето му заби още по-силно и по-бързо. Болеше го и му се стори, че всеки момент може да се пръсне. Изведнъж го прониза осъзнаването, че ще умре там, на няколко метра от така желаната шамандура в прекрасен слънчев ден и светът щеше да продължи своя ход - безразличен слънчев и щастлив без него. Щастлив, с изключение на жена му и дъщеря му.
Тази мисъл го накара да направи всичко, което може, защото нямаше никой друг, който да му помогне в този момент. Обърна се по корем и загреба към брега. Дъното бе огромна черна дупка, която като че искаше да го погълне и да заглуши завинаги биещото му сърце. Той затвори очи и се плъзна отново напред. Усети, че се придвижва напук на всичко, а така вече не виждаше черната дупка, зейнала под него. Пое дълбоко въздух и пак се спусна напред. Реши да се опита да диша много равномерно. Ако не друго, поне се придвижваше към брега, където го чакаше тя. Силата на волята му, като че започна да дава плодове. Той плуваше равномерно напред, а всяка идваща зад него вълна, му даваше нов тласък към брега. Сърцето му забави ход, но остана все така силно, биещо в гърдите му. Брегът наближаваше. Той погледна през очилата и видя отново дъното, все така чисто и сияещо със слънчеви сенки, които се преследваха една след друга. Той се усмихна и си помисли: няма да е този път, слава богу. Щеше да има още живот за него и щеше да бъде част от прекрасния слънчев ден. Щеше да излезе на брега и мисията щеше да е почти изпълнена. Скоро наближи първата шамандура и водораслите. Този път ги погледна, все едно бе част от тях, все едно се бе върнал от разходка из зелените гори под водата, където можеше да остане завинаги.
Излезе на брега, леко олюлявайки се. Бавно отиде до жена си, която бе седнала и го гледаше напрегнато.
- Май стигна доста далече? – попита тя.
- Да – каза той като се строполи върху хавлията си. Чувстваше се отпаднал, но сърцето му биеше силно и равномерно.
- Случи ли се нещо? – запита тя.
- Просто малка разходка малко по-навътре – каза той – казах сбогом на морето, засега.

StillintheNight 

A Banana Dress Colored in Tan

By Diyana Ivanova

Translated by Hristo Boev

Dresses remind me of colors, women and the movies. The banana dress, however, belongs to one dark-complexioned woman.

There she was, walking briskly materializing like a gauzy curtain into the street. She was like a child carrying the sea and the sand in her eyes in an impish and somewhat touchy way. Feminine and stunning, she made things definite with her exquisite body. Beautiful and abstracted she savored the evening breeze. Perhaps it was in the state of dizziness and finesse that someone had zipped up her dress, banana yellow in color. It was something in between orange and pink with this banana shade. She reminded one of a female daffodil but with her there, the world was more spirited reflected in her bright brown eyes. If she looked in a certain direction, she gave a special meaning to what she’d seen, shaped it and somehow turned it into ovals. Oval was her dominating form. Slender and quick-witted she struck one as a woman who understood the small and simple things in life, and was completely unaware of the ones belonging in the realm of the unearthly and celestial. Standing still by the beach, she seemed to float over the fairy tales with the known beauties and lovingly fall for monsters, which she then transformed into people. The low altitude of the place made her dizzy. The short banana dress she wore made her look unpretentious, lonely and fragrant.

Short, too short it was bordering on the indecent, but not quite. She seemed to skate along the quay as if winking at the speechless seamen there. It was impossible that you could accost this lonely ambler and offer her a cheap motel. Impossible. The shoulder-strips to the banana dress were a shade darker than the dress itself. Some bizarre short-cut seam ran across her breasts, too in a line that was three times still darker. Her stays bodily colored popped just slightly above her well-corseted bust. One could see the lace as well; if one strained the eyes, and there came it came, almost imperceptible, orgasmic. The lace strips melted into her flesh – a couple of shades whiter but creamy tanned by the sun. She walked. Few women are capable of this – wild, earthly, inspiring, loving, and somehow defying all laws of the sky and the earth. She exuded reason and passion. The impossible combination. The color she had on the dress really suited her. The peaked cap she had on her head, made her looks sporty barely concealing her short hair-style. She had beige sandals on her legs. She stopped and suddenly seemed to look at some point again. Then she made a sharp gesture fixing the position of her handbag on her and again the landscape was fascinating. No doubt it would be wild and desolate if robbed of her presence. The bums, fishermen and the seamen were used to her. I was still in the process of getting adjusted.

I came to look forward to her walks and couldn’t imagine this to be some routine. The beautiful dark-complexioned woman couldn’t be a habit or some part of it. Her walks were never enough for me although I could see her there every day at sunset, every summer in August.

Her eye seemed to lose color as she watched the sea. August was her month. It was the time when she parted from the people and the horror of the big city. She looked around. Everything she saw, she had known for years. Her radiant smile waved at the fisherman and then she smiled at someone on the quay, too. She gave a deep sigh. She loved the feeling of being along in this place. She loved the feel of the harbor and the wildness of the sea. She felt calm and somehow safe from the hubbub of the passing season here like a recluse and heretic daring to do something otherwise.

She was not looking for love at this time of the year. She knew that passion and love are elusive and come only once. The sea loved her and so did I. There was life and loneliness, tenderness and sympathy in her. As she walked, the girl, for indeed she was a girl, lifted her hands up in the air. This gesture of hers gave her away – it gave her an air not of a voluptuous flirt, but rather of a woman who knew where her strength was and who used it sparingly. She didn’t seem to be on the look-out for something particular. She was just taking a walk in her own way. I followed her and saw something curious. Banana-like and sunny she ran, dashing towards someone or something so suddenly.

The fisherman held out his hand and helped the girl in the banana dress into the boat. This somehow brought back the memory of her mother – of some years past. She wasn’t like her. There was something the summer was doing to her short brown hair. The locks of her hair appeared to take on a slightly reddish hue.

Her mother, by contrast, had a fiery red mane, not something garish, but rather subdued and billowy in waves reaching her waist.

“The little one is too smart not to see me through – I have to find a way to distract her one way or another,” thought the fisherman.

She smiled a banana smile at him and fixed him with her eyes. She had an insight; one had to grant her that. She could advance or retreat at will. There was something in her bearing resemblance to the liveliness of her mother, but she was also different in so many ways - more discreet as far as feelings go and more conquering. She was also somewhat unyielding and adamant when need be, but there was more to be discerned – there was some softness to her. He felt amused and kissed the girl on the forehead. She’d been coming here for years, first with his parents and then in big and rowdy parties. Then in several summers in a row, with different boys. For the last two years she had come here alone. There was some ritual in what she was doing. Her mother was different. She did not possess this straightforwardness her daughter had and lacked completely that playful look. The dainty girl seemed to be in fine possession of her feminine faculties – she would turn her head and look the other way when need called. Could anyone in the world ever break this girl? She knew that there were circumstances that could make her stoop for a moment but in the end she might as well prove that she’d only stooped to conquer. I watched the thoughts of the fisherman and the conduct of the girl at a distance in that peculiar play of inexplicable symbiosis that seemed to bond them. There was something that kept them together and at the same time pulled them apart. I felt I did not belong. Once again at sunset I liked this woman.

“Her smile is vaguely reminiscent of her mother’s, just ever so slightly, by the two dimples she had on the cheeks.

The red-haired one… I haven’t forgotten her yet,” the fisherman noticed as he thought back in time.

“I felt fine in the boat. I put on my cape – well padded on the inside so that it wouldn’t let in moisture. I knew I was in for a most beautiful evening far out into the sea. Then I felt there was someone else watching me. Those were a stranger’s eyes, not the eyes of my friends from the harbor or of the mariners chatting up to me. Who was looking so hard at me? I can always tell when someone’s doing just that. That look, it’s like the other moon, like the pain in the ribs, like a gesture exchanged between two people at the table, the little smile of the ones in love.

Someone had been looking at me like that for about an hour and seemed to be stalking me. I didn’t dare turn around. This is a rare thing with me, indeed for I can look wherever and whenever I like. This time around I felt absolutely helpless before the unseen power of that stare. I knew that if I’d turned around I would have seen something and then I’d need time to fall asleep. Not that I was running away from someone on the quay. There are so many boats in the area. Perhaps mine is somewhere out at sea and is not waiting for me moored to the pier. My friend, the fisherman, pushed the boat out, smoothly and neatly.”

And then the girl in the banana dress told the fisherman that some day she wanted to have a daughter.

“I watched the sea. The sun had already gone down. It was the moon that was shining now and the stars were twinkling clumsily. I blinked at the fisherman and smiled at him. I knew he liked that. One day I came from somewhere and cried before him. He treated me harshly then. Time had to pass before I knew why. If he’d shown sympathy he would have cried himself and shown weakness. I’ve been careful ever since for I intend to bring my unborn daughter here someday. Would she cry before him like I did, I wonder. Once I had the feeling that he’d be here after I’m gone. Only the fishermen are eternal. They are nameless, ageless. These boys seem to live someplace between the waves, the sun, the sky and the stars. Living on the edge, the very thought of it! Strong are his hands, but he has a steady and good heart,” thus thought the girl and breathed in deeply the vapors of the splashing waves.

They were silent and looked on the vast expanse of water. The sky was clear. There was no sign of an approaching storm. It was only proper for the girl to have the cape on her back for it was chilly in the evening.

“The sea is sometimes like a desert,” the fisherman thought. He looked ahead and swallowed his tears and then smiled at the girl in the banana dress who had huddled in the warmth of the cape, which he kept in the boat for her only.

The man was doing lengths in the swimming pool, every now and then asking her to jump in. A bunch of devils seemed to be chasing one another in her. She had never felt like that. It had to be blamed on the sea. Her life rolled like a film on a reel before her. The sea had whispered its secrets to her in August. She had learned a lot about herself, too. She’d realized certain things about herself. Others she had spoken. There were still others she was in no mood of talking about.

Her banana dress was ruined after last night’s sea trip. Nothing bad had happened during the trip but in the following hours in the café someone had spilled coffee on it and it would be no good until well washed. In the jeans she wore now she looked like a chimneysweep without a chimney. There was nothing else left for her to do but enjoy the sunrise. She remembered leaving the walnuts on the sidewalk. The hard brown shells looked like tiny scraps of life. Or could it be said that they were more like tortoise shells? Someone had broken them all.

She felt him stalking her again, the same man from the quay, the one with the eyes of a stranger. It was the man from the swimming pool. He took her by the hips and then the legs and lifted her high up. Sure she knew him then and she knew what he was after. There was no resisting him. She felt in his arms light as a feather and then he threw her into the swimming pool. As she entered the water she felt holding in her hand a tiny bit of a walnut shell or was it the shell of a tortoise. Perhaps at least some bit of it could be saved for she knew as he jumped into the water, too that the next summer she would have a new life contained in the hardness of the tortoise shell, the taste of a walnut and the eyes of the stranger from the swimming pool.

The Exam

“Copying, of course, is not permitted. The same holds true for any other markings on any of the sheets of paper handed out for the exam. The invigilators are not allowed to speak to each other, make unnecessary comments, leave the exam room or in any other manner inhibit or compromise the exam,” the principal’s voice sounded loud and clear over the deep silence reigning in the crammed teacher’s room when a small soft voice whispered from somewhere next to me, “what happens if one of the two invigilators passes out?” I turned to the left and noticed the most beautiful female teacher I’d seen in years. She had a petite delicate body, which almost dissolved into the tattered armchair she was sitting in. Her head was graced with the shortest hair-cut I’d seen in the room. Her hair was practically nonexistent whether because she’d shaven it or for any other reason, I couldn’t tell. I was so astonished to see her there that for one long moment I thought I was dreaming. I really had no explanation as to how she’d turned up there. What on earth had made them hire her? They must have really been in a bad need to resort to this. So I thought but didn’t look again for it would have been inappropriate. Then I heard myself whisper back, “in that case I guess the other teacher will have to perform artificial respiration on the unconscious teacher till she comes to.” Why did I say this? I felt as if someone was giving me lines and I was just voicing them out. I noticed then, with the corner of my eye, how she beamed at me or so it seemed to me and then she said in the same soft-spoken manner, “you must forgive me for asking this but this is the first time I’m doing it as a teacher.” As I listened to her highly melodious voice where each and every note seemed to tinkle into place, another question crept up into the back of my mind and then surfaced over – why hadn’t I noticed her before? There could be only one explanation – we are studying in two shifts. She had to be in the other shift. The only time we could have met was on an occasion like this. But again, why hadn’t I noticed her then? You mustn’t think me a womanizer for a womanizer I am not! It was just that seeing her so startlingly fresh from the teacher norm produced on me the same effect as does the first snowdrop after a long cold winter. She was momentous. That’s the way I felt about her then and that’s the way I feel about her still. She boded well for the entire profession, our school, and strangely enough, I dared think, for me.

The next thing I heard was the rustling noise made by the envelopes being handed out to the different teachers and I realized I’d missed two-thirds of the instructions but that wasn’t a big loss as I’d listened to them for years and had involuntarily memorized them as they never varied even by a single word. Then the principal announced my name and then a name I hadn’t heard before. Sure enough, I saw her rise from the chair. My heart missed a beat. Could it be that we’d spend the next three hours in the same room? Come to think of it now, it was really ridiculous that I should have been so excited. The school was going to be out for summer and when we came again for the next school year, who could guarantee she’d be hired again. I thought the principal could as well have given it a second thought. Moreover, there was a good chance she could turn out a disappointment in every aspect in the end. My judgment could have been clouded and my dreams of our becoming more intimate could be nothing but castles in the sand washed away by the very first breaking wave of a real-life situation. I waited for her outside and then we went into the exam room. As we walked I found her rather thin and her eyes seemed to gleam and twinkle with a thousand tiny flames as she laughed at my feeble attempts to tell a good joke. The thing is when I’m embarrassed I always come up with corny jokes that make girls laugh for no other reason but courtesy or because they find me silly. She seemed to find my efforts to make fun admirable and my jokes truly original, though, which left me enthralled even before we entered the room. She did most of the talking inside giving all the instructions with me chiming in here and there. Then she said she needed to sit and I gave her a chair.

The exam was half way through when, as we were talking quietly violating the invigilators’ instructions, she suddenly reeled as she was seated on the chair and leaned back to support herself but missed the back of the chair. Fast and unexpected as this was happening, I think I must have noticed that her body was very frail and her talk hectic and erratic for I jumped to my feet and caught her falling in my arms. I was stunned not knowing what to think or do. I frantically wondered if I could leave her on the floor and call for help but, quickly dismissed the idea as it seemed too brutal for me. Then I squinted at the examinees and saw that they were petrified, turned to stone as if with the stroke of a magic wand. Barely realizing what I was doing I brought her head close to me with my hands and then kissed her on the lips. They felt dead cold. I shuddered. Had I kissed a dead woman? I then remembered what I’d told her. What I’d thought back in the teachers’ room to be another silly joke of mine was to become the stark reality later on. I took a deep breath and breathed it into her wet cold little mouth. With one of my hands I was pressing her chest and giving her the breath of life at the same time. Then it occurred to me that I was supposed to do one and next the other and so I did. Whether because of my first aid intervention or because of some other reason, she coughed and opened her eyes. I looked into them and read all the sadness in the world there. She slowly sat back down on to her chair.

“I’m going to be fine now. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps we should call the paramedics.”

“Yes, I’m sure. No need to call them. I’m gonna be OK, really. I just passed out as I told you I would. Remember?”

“Yes… I remember.”

“Don’t you worry about me then and let’s go on with the exam.”

After the three hours were over, the examinees left the room looking long at her before leaving.

“Let me take you home. Perhaps you need a rest,” I suggested.

“Yes, take me to some place,” she said panting a little, “home can wait. I’ll be there soon.”

We walked to my car. She seemed to be recovering and some warmth crept back to her face.

“Let’s go to the beach,” she said, “but some place where there are no people.”

She did sound strange. I felt it then but I was inextricably attracted to her. Perhaps it was the old attraction of the young man to the sick helpless prostitute from “Crime and Punishment” where Razkolnikov is pulled by the irresistible magnetism of Sonia, but this was different. She was no prostitute. I somehow knew this and I was no Razkolnkov, either. At least, I’d killed no one for that matter.

It was rather that I wanted to know more and get to know her and be with her. To the end. As I drove along the winding road by the sea in search of a secluded spot we chatted some more.

“I did scare you. Admit it.”

“I admit it.”

She laughed.

“You freaked out.”

“Not exactly, I tried not to lose my head.”

“Yeah, you did a good job although I would’ve come around by myself eventually.”

I played some music on the car radio and then as I saw the coveted spot I pulled over under a tree and helped her get out. We took off our sandals and walked on the sand. The sea was the way I liked it with medium waves breaking on the beach and turning into foam. I looked at her as she was smiling a sad smile and her big eyes glistened wet and teary. I looked back to the waves and then back to her and told her, “Have you ever thought that you truly look like the Little Mermaid? You know the fairy tale, Andersen?”

“I am the little mermaid,” she said, “very soon I’ll be nothing but sea foam.”

At this point I was really tired of listening to all these riddles.”

“What’s the matter with you, tell me?”

“Leukemia,” she said. “I could’ve died today. I might die tomorrow or tonight. It’ll be very soon. I know it.” This was shattering news but somehow I’d known it all along since her fainting that she was not going to be long in dying. I put my arms around her and pulled her close to me. Her body felt even more fragile as I felt hers pressed against mine.

“Is there anything I can do?” I said. “Why did you come to work?”

I was being incoherent but I couldn’t help it.

“You’ve done enough. Still, there is something you can do, but I’ll tell you about it later today. As to why I came to work. Well, you might say, I tried to get it off my head and be involved in this machinelike action to monitor an exam, or was it a last attempt at self-assertion? I really don’t know. I just felt I wanted to be among people, catch a last glimpse of this or that, be one of the many…”

“I don’t wanna lose you,” I said. “I… I want to be with you. I… I love you.”

“Really?” she didn’t laugh, she just looked incredulous and I must say I was also at a loss why I’d said this. And then I knew. I’d said it because it was true.

“Yeah, really.”

She gently pushed me off, looked at me and said, “I believe you.” And then she took off her top and before I could say a thing her bikini was lying on the sand around her feet. She stepped over it and said, “Come on now. Let’s do what lovers do.” I took off my clothes without taking my eyes off the most incredible woman I’d ever met and then we made love on the beach. Even as I was kissing her and penetrating her I felt she was on the brink of two worlds and then I forgot all about it and let myself go and it was then that she also lost her detachment and gave herself to me completely. Then we lay on our backs, my hand under her head, my fingers caressing her.

“You are not gonna die, you know,” I said catching my breath, “there’s life in you, more life than there is in people healthier than you are.

“No? If you say so.”

She smiled at me and for the first time since we met there wasn’t in her a single vestige of sadness.

We then got up, I took her hand and we ran to the waves splashing on the beach. I kept holding her hand and looked at her face, which was radiant and animated. It was just the eyes that still gleamed their dark foreboding but we were past caring now. We frolicked around in the water, kissed and hugged and swam a little. Then we stood still and I knew that we’d be together always, me, her and the sea.

Every time I go to the seaside I always take time to go to our spot. There I watch the sea foam and I know that she’s there and I see her in the water, I feel her pressed against me. She’s smiling, laughing and we are making love in the water, me, her and the sea.

SoPeaceful 

MyWaterfallPlurality 

It's so hot to be at the top:) 

I Love My Car 

Среща с баракуда

Някога в далечната 1995 бяхме решили да отидем на море, аз и двама мои колеги от университета, които още бяха известни като Гологлавия и Голямата Носовка. Как те получиха своите прякори е дълга история.
Това, което има някаква връзка с разказа е, че вторият избягваше да плува по гръб, защото спасителите се бъркаха и даваха сигнал за акула, а първият винаги отиваше на море без приятелката си за дадения момент, защото се надяваше да удари нещо на място и само след неуспех и се обаждаше по телефона и тя пристигаше за да спасява сухия режим. Аз нямах приятелка, която да чакам и можех да плувам по гръб, без да предизвиквам допълнителни усложнения, така че се наслаждавах на престоя си в студентския лагер „Академика” близо до студентския лагер „Ботев”, разположени в някога много тъмния участък между Равда и Несебър.

Началото на престоя ни започна многообещаващо. След чакане от около 3 часа да ни дадат ключове за бунгалото, отидохме да видим дома си за следващите 10 дена и видяхме, че единия прозорец бе разбит частично, до степен до която, предполагам един себеуважаващ се крадец не би се и поколебал да продължи. Като споменахме за този проблем на администраторите там, ни обясниха, че всъщност e имало кражба точно в това бунгало в предходната на нас смяна, но ние да не се безпокоим. Вероятността да бъде разбито същото бунгало била много малка. Разбира се, такъв незначителен факт въобще не можеше да ни обезпокои. Влязохме в бунгалото и започнахме да си оправяме багажа. След около 5 минути погледнахме едновременно какво прави другия и видяхме, че всеки държеше чифт непрани чорапи. Там всеки един от нас бе решил да повери скромните си средства за 10 дни, които изключваха много неща, едно от които бе вземане на такси. Още от началото двамата ми съквартиранти съставиха програма за прекарване на деня която изглеждаше горе-долу така: 11.00 – ставане; от 11.00 до 12.00 сутрешни процедури, тоалет и т.н., от 12.30 до 13.00 подготовка за плаж, 13.30 – 14.00 – ходене пеш до Несебър за да се донахраним след скромния обяд в стола. 14.00-14.30 – обяд отново. 14.30 – 15.20 пристигане в Слънчев Бряг – там ходехме на плаж в компанията на небългарски говорещи типове на шезлонги с всякакви екстри за предотвратяване на слънчев удар и изгаряне. След 2 часа там под яркото слънце (ние бяхме единствените незащитени от всякакви лъчи и топлини, поради цените на чадърите, шезлонгите и другите екстри) следваше завръщане в Несебър. Оттам пеш, разбира се, до лагера. В 17.00 – местен лагерен плаж до 18.30. В 19.00 – вечеря в стола на лагера. 20.00 – донахранване в Несебър. След това следваше разхождане в Несебър до 22.00. После с рейс до Слънчев Бряг и след това в дискотека от типа на „Айсберг” (не знам дали я има още). Някъде към 1.00 през нощта завръщане в Несебър (пеш) – такситата биха изчерпали финансите ни само за едно пътуване. След това завръщане в лагера и оттам на дискотека в самия лагер – някъде от 2.00 до 5.00 сутринта. След това спане до 11.00 и после отново. Тази скромна програма трябваше да бъде спазвана до последната точка. Естествено моето съгласие не бе предвидено. Аз като нов в компанията им трябваше да спазвам установените правила. Само след 2 дни обаче се предадох, в смисъл, разболях. Вдигнах температура и легнах на легло. Суровият режим на циркулиране между изброените точки предизвика бунт в цялата ми душа и организъм и трябваше да вдигна бяло знаме. Естествено и двамата погледнаха на моето нещастие присмехулно. Бе ми изнесена лекция за това, че не ставам за никакъв лагер, че трябвало да им кажа, че не мога да се справям с дълго ходене, че ме отегчава черната музика, и че в Айсберг, най-много от всичко към 1 през нощта искам отдавна да съм заспал. Аз им казах, че толкова мога и въпреки, че съм малцинство, имам известни права дори и те да бяха да остана на легло и да боледувам на спокойствие.

Този малък скандал даде начало на нов период на отношенията ни в лагера. Те казаха, че не съм малко дете и мога и сам да се гледам като съм болен и заминаха на следващия ден в обиколки на близките местности, а аз с наслада се отдадох на почивка. Температурата малко ми пречеше да прекарвам самотата си по по-добър начин затова се разходих из района в търсене на някаква медицинска помощ. Попаднах на майка – студентка, която разхождаше малкото си дете. Тя бе и моето спасение, защото ми каза точно какво да пия, за да се възстановя бързо и даже ми даде няколко хапчета за начало. Аз и благодарих и след около два дни лечение бях доста по-добре. Тогава точно моите хулители вдигнаха температура и се строполиха в хоризонтални позиции на леглата, а аз реших да се огранича с плажа в района на лагера. Явно програмата се бе оказала прекалена дори и за такива печени гларуси като тях.

- Не ходи там - ми каза Голямата Носовка - четохме във вестниците, че в залива на лагера е забелязана баракуда.

- Е и какво от това – казах аз.

- Ами как какво – допълни Гологлавия – може да те изяде – а после кого ще обвиняваме, че не се справя с нашия режим, а?

- Едва ли точно мен ще изяде – казах аз.

- Всички така си мислят, докато не бъдат изядени – каза Голямата Носовка и направи гримаса. Да не мислиш, че тези дето акули са ги изяли са знаели за това?

Тук трябва да отбележа, че в резултат от реакциите на хората към плуването му по гръб Голямата Носовка бе развил фобия от акули.

- Абе остави го да върви – добави Гологлавия – то както се е видяло няма да има мацка в леглото ми, ами да се обадя на мойта, че да ме подкрепи. Таман ша спи в неговото легло.

Последната реплика ми прозвуча малко грубо. Не че се засегнах много, но да бъда изпратен на смърт с такива думи на явно безразличие, това бе малко много за мен. Затова реших да си направя по-дълга разходка до плажа и многото му вълноломи. Отидох до най-близкия и видях, че е пълно с хора във всякаква форма на голота и с тела лъщящи на слънцето като тюлени. Сметнах, че ще е по-добре ако плувам по-късно, когато има по-малко хора на плажа. Много обичам самотното плуване, когато аз и морето сме едно. Тогава намирам себе си там – в малките рачета в черупки на охлюви, в леко движещите се пясъчинки с идването и оттеглянето на прибоя. Мога да плувам навътре докато не започна често да срещам медузи и после да плувам обратно и да се съсредоточа в това да не бъда ужилен по пътя до плажа. Седях и гледах как вълните идваха една след друга и се разбиваха в краката ми като ги оплискваха с нежни пръски. След това се оттичаха и оставяха след себе си зрънца от пясък и малки водорасли. Изтегнах се на една удобна скала и скоро се унесох в сън. Лекият бриз галеше кожата ми, а свежия морски въздух напоен с йод и мирис на водорасли ми подействаха като пълна упойка. Когато се събудих разбрах, че съм изгорял и че влизането в морето няма да е най-добрата идея. Бе вече седем часа вечерта, а от това следваше че трябва да се ходи на вечеря. Общо взето колкото и да се променя човек, нещо от преди остава и навика да вечерям в лагера, въпреки че бе новопридобит, бе един от любимите ми. Видяхме се в стола с другите двама. Те ме огледаха подигравателно.

- Нещо страни от нас май, а? – каза Голямата Носовка

- Да не си ходил на среща с баракудата – попита Гологлавия.

- Не съм, но ще отида – отвърнах аз.

- Ама ти сериозно ли? – запита Гологлавия – да звъня тогава на мойта да идва.

- Аз си мислех, че вече си и звъннал вече.

- Не е така приятел – каза Гологлавия – приятелите преди всичко.

- И преди жените дори – допълни Голямата Носовка.

- Ти да не се засегна от одеве? Майтап да става – додаде Гологлавия. То вярно и ние не сме съвсем наред след тия дни, ама шъ съ опрайм.

- Лекувате ли се – попитах ги аз.

- То нашто няма лечение. Трябва да се поосвестим малко и пак напред – отвърна Гологлавия.

- Аз мисля да плувам тази нощ – внезапно казах аз.

Не знам защо го казах. Може би консуматорския им подход към любимото ми море ме принуди да изтърся нещо нерационално и авантюристично.

Двамата ме огледаха изпитателно.

- Ти малко си се чалнал май – каза Гологлавия. Какво толкова има в нощното плуване.

- Слушай R.E.M. – Night Swimming. Там е отговора – казах аз.

- Не е лошо парчето – каза Голямата Носовка.

- Лошо или добро – аз искам да имам внуци – каза Гологлавия. Затова и работя по въпроса. Първо трябва да дойдат децата, после децата на техните деца. Ама мацките нещо не са ми навити тук.

- Може би като ни виждат тримата малко се плашат. Като го изяде него баракудата, ще имаме по-голям успех – каза Голямата Носовка

- Кутсуз си ни ти – отбеляза Гологлавия – миналата година още първия ден бях забил едно девойче, ама сега имам само няколко отказа. По-добре иди поплувай с баракудата, ако те нападне, плувай обратно. Ако оцелееш, ще си герой, ще те пишат в местния вестник и ще ни посочиш като верни приятели. Рейтингът ще ни се качи и успеха пак ще ни навести.

- Мерси за благословията – отвърнах и станах от масата.

- Къде отиваш? – попита ме Голямата Носовка

- При Баракудата - отвърнах.

След което бързо излязох от стола. Вече не можеше да има връщане назад. Бях говорил твърде много по въпроса и това, което тръгна просто като реплика, се бе превърнало във въпрос на чест. Изчаках да стане още по-късно и към 9 вечерта си облякох банските, сложих си и късите панталони отгоре за прикритие и с кърпа в ръка тръгнах към плажа. Всеки срещнат можеше да си помисли, че отивам до душовете, докато аз само смятах да мина покрай тях и да отида на плажа. Плажът изглеждаше празен. Бе наистина много тъмно, а светлини имаше само от отдалечените барчета. Нагазих в пясъка и си свалих сандалите. Пясъкът бе студен под краката ми. Мина ми мисъл през главата, че няма да мога да видя разните отпадъци от плажувалите следобеда и мога да се набода на стъкло, но после тази мисъл бързо изчезна като се заслушах в нежния прибой и видях как морската пяна се разлива до краката ми почти смътно открояваща се огряна само от луната. Оставаха ми само няколко крачки още. Усетих как сърцето ми заби. И преди бях плувал нощем. Щях да мога да виждам пред себе си защото имаше пълнолуние и луната оставяше лунна пътека точно пред мен, която изчезваше в хоризонта. Изглеждаше като пътека, която трябва да се последва, пътека постлана с лунно злато. Не бях решил колко далече да плувам. До шамандурата бе малко, до варелите навътре, които маркираха границите на залива твърде далече. Някъде по средата бяха медузите, които нямаше как да видя, но щях да усетя когато ме ужилят. Въобще перспективата не изглеждаше изцяло привлекателна, като се има пред вид, че някъде в този район, плуваше и баракудата, ако въобще я имаше. Оставих сандалите си на няколко крачки от мястото, което достигаше прибоя и навлязох във водата. Изведнъж почувствах как отново се сливам в едно с морето. Водата бе топла като чай, а нощта спокойна и тиха. В ушите ми зазвуча Night Swimming – night swimming deserves a quiet night.
I’m not sure all these people understand.

………… the recklessness of water… they cannot see me naked……Последното ме накара да се усмихна. .... Could not describe night swimming... Още няколко стъпки и водата бе до кръста ми. Ходилата ми стъпваха върху равен пясък без счупени черупки на миди или рапани Бях се постарал да избера място, където бях влизал през деня и знаех, че няма и камъни на дъното. След това поех дъх и се пуснах плавно по пътеката. Морето ме прие и аз поех към луната. Поемах дъх и се плъзвах надолу. Плувах бавно бруст, а ръцете ми правеха широки вълни пред мен. Правех няколко движения и после спирах и се оглеждах и ослушвах. Нощта бе безмълвна освен приплясването, което правеха малките вълнички. Скоро бях до шамандурата и си мислех да продължа нататък, когато чух ясно силен плясък някъде до мен. Огледах се трескаво, но не видях нищо. След това отново го чух. Като че бе от голяма риба, която искачаше от водата и после падаше обратно с цопване. Без да чакам да разбера повече, се обърнах и заплувах най-бързия кроул, който съм плувал през живота си. Стигнах до брега след доста повече загребвания, обаче – морето както винаги не искаше да се раздели с мен. Излязох на брега задъхан и клекнах. Дишах тежко, но се почувствах щастлив. Не бях устоял на тръпката. Отново бях станал част от великото тайнство на морето и може би бях срещнал, а може би не, един от неговите страховити обитатели – баракудата. Затърках се с кърпата, която бях взел, за да се сгрея, после отидох до душовете и си взех дълъг душ. В съвсем добро настроение се върнах в бунгалото като вътрешно се смеех на себе си и страховете си. Бях сигурен, че бях изтълкувал плясъка погрешно. Можеше и да го е направила шамандурата, или просто вълна да се е ударила в друга. С тези мисли и лека усмивка на лицето влязох в бунгалото. Двамата вътре ме гледаха много странно от леглата си.

- Какво има? – попитах аз. Нещо не е наред ли?

- Ама ти си ходил и се върна – зяпна Гологлавия.

- Как е баракудата?­ – попита Голямата Носовка и леко потрепери

- Поиграхме си малко във водата – отвърнах аз, като се опитвах да не се смея – и след това я пуснах обратно.

- Ама ти сериозно ли? – запита Голямата Носовка – няма как да си я хванал.

- Хванах я и още как.

- Като си я хванал защо я пусна обратно – подигравателно каза Гологлавия.

Защото искам и утре да се срещнем с нея – казах им, легнах в леглото и веднага заспах. В мига, в който затворих очи се потопих в морето, в приглушената лунна светлина и леките вълни. Плувах все напред, а лунната пътека ме приканваше да навлизам все по-навътре и по-навътре. Водата ме обливаше и масажираше тялото и лицето ми. След около 100-на маха спрях и се обърнах по гръб и се отпуснах в най-мекото анатомично легло на света. Отворих очи, а солената вода ги подразни леко като навлезе малко в тях. Луната грееше точно над мен оградена от безброй звезди. Бе така спокойно и тихо. Виждах всички познати на мен съзвездия – Голямата мечка, Малката мечка, Орион и тогава в лекия плясък на вълните зазвуча night swimming deserves a quiet night...
I’m not sure all these people understand...

Pazardgic Verses

The town is always near

The fence is always gray

The sky’s not always clear

To make me wanna stay

The night is always foggy

The morning’s foggy too

We are always groggy

And rest is here a taboo

Here the thing is marching

And that’s what we do

We are also starching

Everything that starches true

The sergeants-major are screaming

Their bloody orders, ‘tis true

Or they are rather mumbling

Things that come undue

.

We happen to be a-crawling

In the mud ‘tis true

Harsh winds are blowing

My lost liberty I rue

Besides, some here are stupid

Others appear to be dumb

Most here are pushed

By the deeds of ignoble scum

This dump I’ll be leaving

My time will be done

An end to this deceiving

An end to all this scum

Yet now the town is near

The fence is really gray

The sky’s not always clear

Yet I’ll have to stay

‘Tis a heavy cross to bear

Through a ruthless time of loo

How I wish I were there

Where there are other things, too

January 1999

I Love it Misty at the Top:) 

The Rhodopies at Their Best  

Love

Lots of things have been said on the subject, especially recently. According to biologists and chemists love is a chemical reaction, which like almost all such reactions, stops when the reacting elements are consumed. Maybe so, there are some things, however, I just don’t want to know. Could it be said then that my daughter, who has the biggest love for me, although she’s barely a year old, and who starts crying the moment I’m out of her sight, who will feed me a piece of bread if I give it to her, just because she wants to make sure I’m so much cared for as she is, who will nestle herself in my arms and hug me ever so gently until time itself stops, loves me in a chemical sort of way?

I just don’t think so. There are certainly people who love chemically, I have to agree with that. They have always stipulated that they cannot be sure of their feelings tomorrow because the love they feel may disappear just like the disappearing cat from Alice in Wonderland. In this case maybe we really have this newfangled phenomenon in action. And they feel so much the happier now that it has been scientifically supported. For those scientifically advanced mortals I have this proposition – that they start raising money for the following invention – a love-gauge that will truly show the amount of the reacting elements that they think they have, and it’s very likely that they really do, which will save them many an awkward moment in a relationship.

They could just say: “Look honey but they are going. How prudent of me to take a look today! I could have loved you another day or two. Now let’s spare ourselves the effort and let go.” Wonderful, isn’t it? In combined use with the already existing and well working love-getter it would be simply indispensable.

For those benighted laymen who don’t know what this is I can provide a brief explanation – the love-getter is an electronic device which can be tuned in to sex or morning coffee and the person who has the same tuning and is within reach will receive an audible signal in his/her gadget. Then he or she will start closing in on the similarly tuned creature and they will do their thing.

When I shared this news with a friend of mine he said: “but what about the thrill of the moment, the suggestive unknown, the fantasies we start building?”

I told him: “All that be damned. Live in this world man, or tomorrow we could be the only people out of tune and then we’d have to communicate between ourselves only and I don’t want to convert myself now. I’m just a little too old for a newly made homosexual.”

He said I was right and asked me where he could get it. I told him to wait a little longer until my suggestion was carried out, of which event I don’t have the least of doubts and then we could safely step into the ever changing world and be happily modern.

What about my daughter? I think you may ask yourself this question. I know that her love isn’t and won’t ever be scientifically challenged. I can also picture you asking another question: “How could I know that?” To this I’ll say I just know it and I’m happy to be able to say it. Whoever is unable to produce this simple sentence needs to rush and go find the inventor of the love-gauge. I’ll claim no author’s rights for the patent.

A Telephone Conversation

Let Be be Finale of Seem
The Emperor of Ice-cream

a one-act play

Characters: George, Petya, Vessela and Ivan

The stage is dimly lit to create the impression of night time. There are two rooms at the opposite ends of the stage. There is some distance between them.

In the room right stage there is not much. It is a harsh room, very scantily furnished: there is a bed, a desk, and a chair at it. There are no bookshelves so that all the books are on the desk in disorderly piles. It is obvious that not every time when they are used are put back where they were previously. The books are primarily English classics but there are some modern names, too. There is a cat sleeping on the bed.

In the room left stage there are a lot of things: the bed is king-size; there is a huge built-in many-sectioned bookshelf with very few books on the rows, the latter being occupied by pots containing different anointments. There are some textbooks on the lowermost row. On the topmost one there is a stuffed bird with its wings spread as if soaring in the air, but it rather looks like a shot bird with its bill being open and the beady eyes glazed as if in a desperate cry for something irretrievably lost – its life.

In both rooms there are telephone sets. Both rooms are profusely lit.

In the room right stage there is a boy. He’s about six feet tall. He has auburn hair, brown eyes and oval form of the face. His beard is stubbled. It can be inferred that he has not shaved for a few days.

In the room left stage there is a petite girl with a lithe body and long blond curly hair that almost reaches her waist when her head is tilted backwards.

She is reading a school lexicon lying with her face down on the big bed, her legs moving scissors-like in the air. He is holding a book. He is reading “A Zoo Story” in a volume of American Drama. As he reads and turns the pages his face takes on an intense look, fretted on the text. Then, suddenly, he lets the book go of his hands and sits back on the chair. He stands up and walks around the room with the air of not knowing why he is doing it, lost in deep thought. Then he goes back to his chair, sits down and opens the book where he left off. He reads the same passage, his face acquiring a more relaxed, philosophical expression. While he has been doing all this she has been reading the lexicon leafing randomly through the pages. Every now and then she chuckles or gives a guffaw of laughter. She is still in her previous position.

He leaves the book once again, stands up and goes to the window, which is facing the audience.

Snow is falling and some snowflakes stick to the window as they fall and melt. There is a small electric fire in his room. Now and again he shakes with cold. As he watches the snow he does not shake. He seems checked in a spell-binding moment, fascinated by what he sees. Then with a decided expression he goes back to the chair which is near the window. The telephone is on his desk. He picks up the receiver, thinks a little and then puts it back on the set. Then picks it up again and dials a number. It rings in the room left stage once, then twice.

She jumps off the bed and goes to pick it up. It is a wireless on the desk. After the second ring he hangs it up again. She picks it up, a slightly bewildered look on her face.



Petya: “Hello! … Hello” (the bewildered look still on her face; then she shrugs and hangs up).

George picks up the phone again. There is no signal. It is dual and the neighbors are using it at the moment.

George: “Fuck!” he curses. Puts it back. Goes back to his chair and picks up a volume of Keats. Petya in the other room picks up the phone and dials a number.

Petya: “Hello, can I speak to Maria, please? Yes, I am a classmate of hers. OK, I’ll wait. Hey, is that you? No, I just thought it was your sister. Well, your voice is OK. Yes, I’m glad I found you in. No, I don’t mean to say that you just sleep there (she laughs). Yes, I know him. He’s been following me around ever since, yes. Do I like it? Are you nuts? No, I don’t like him. Shall I be honest with you? I think He’s crazy, nutty as a fruitcake. I really wonder why it is only crazy boys that get hooked on me. What do I mean crazy? Well, you know it means people with mental aberrations, mentally deranged, don’t you? The word means,” (and she picks up a piece of paper), “a deviation from the normal. I looked it up in the dictionary. I needed a scientific term for his state so you, normal people, don’t get confused when he’s being discussed. Do you know he’s calling me every evening? No, I don’t find that sweet. On the contrary, I think it’s disgusting, most abominably wicked. Yes, sure I know better. You better thank God you don’t have to deal with such guys. Oh, how I wish I met a really nice man with a big limo and good manners!

He’s always talking about books. Well, it’s poetry, mainly and other kinds of stupid stuff, too. You know, once I asked him if he could live on poetry and almost imagined his stupid face taking on a grave look of determination and he goes like: “It is a thing that keeps your spirits higher in a trouble. Besides, it’s a wonderful way of communing with people long dead. He says they were alive once, and loved, and had their own problems to solve. They always had hard lives mainly. Who? What’d you mean who? The dead poets, of course. Well I told him: “Listen! I don’t care a whit about them. I have my own life with my own problems to solve, and I told him it was a good thing they were dead coz if they were alive they’d still be writing more of their mind-boggling garbage, and it’d be in our textbooks, and I’d have to study it. Well, he said in this aspect I was like Huckleberry Fin. No I don’t know who he is. He’s Tom Sawyer’s closest friend? Tom Sawyer is a character from a book, too? He says I’m like a character from a book? That I don’t worry about dead people being no akin to me? Why, that’s only normal, isn’t it? If I worried about all the dead guys in human history I would waste my days away crying over their most unhappy lots. No, tonight he hasn’t called me, yet.

George leaves his book again, goes to his bed, his face brightens and he curls on it with his eye on the winter picture framed by the window. The snow has stopped falling and the crescent of the moon fills up the window frame against a starry night.

Petya: “No, we haven’t met since we finished the typing course but I was a fool to let him give me a tape to listen to. It’s … Oh, I have to look at the cover. No, it’s not important, really, and I didn’t like the band anyway. But let’s change the topic, shall we? I’m already sick of having to talk to him every evening and now I have to talk about him. Don’t you think you are a little hard on me, huh?

Oh, you’ve bought yourself a marvelous dress? How I wish I could see it! When can we meet? Is Monday OK with you? No? (Her face is sullen). Yes I see. How about some time on Tuesday? No? Yes, I see. No, I can’t on Wednesdays or Thursdays. On Fridays I’m busy all day long taking courses in programming, sewing, piano and Maths, and at the weekend … me, my family and I go skiing. Well, I’ll see you at school then, as usual. OK, bye! (She hangs up).

She goes to her enormous bed and lies down with a pondering look.

George is on his bed, too. A burgeoning smile moves a corner of his mouth and he looks again at the window. The moon is there and the starry night, too. It is very quiet. He sits up with his knees to his chin and puts his arms round them.

(Shiny happy people by R.E.M. is played out). George picks up a phone and dials a number.

George: “Hello, is Vessela in? Yes, sure I recognized your voice. Oh, I am sorry. You should take an aspirin. Oh, you already have. I’m really sorry for calling you so often. I really am, but bear with me. Tonight’s a special night for me. I have gotten a poetic lift. I have decided to write a play. The title is “A Telephone Conversation”. No, don’t worry. You won’t be in it unless, … unless you want to. No, you don’t and your only hope is that it doesn’t get published? Well, it is my utmost displeasure to inform you that I have every intention of writing it, and finishing it, and getting it published even if I have to pay for the expenses myself. You know I have this option of writing a critique on a problem from Contemporary American Drama or of writing a play that will, in some aspects capture the prevailing motifs of it. Isn’t that great? I had an idea long ago about a play with a title “A Telephone Conversation” and now all I gotta do is just sit down and act upon it, now that at least one major problem has been solved. What problem? Isn’t it self-evident – I have found audience! Of course, she’ll read it. She’s gonna have to. No, I wouldn’t call this self-confidence. I just feel I can do it and you know I even cracked a joke. I said I was going to write it with the hope that it would be included in the syllabus for the next exam in American Drama. On hearing this the Drama teacher almost laughed her head off and she doubled up so I got concerned about the physical preservation of her organism. No, sure, I’m not saying she is an animal. Well, in a sense we all are, aren’t we? I mean not in a sense, but of course you know it as well as I do: we have our pulmonary, adrenal, cordial systems; we catch diseases, we fall sick, and eventually (a pause) we die like all animals and human beings. But anyway all we know now is that a few characters are not going to profess orphanage coz they’ve found their author. Oh, I’m sorry for being so … so worked up, but I’m not apologetic. Well, if we assume that I am it is not more than usual. What are you saying? Can’t you just speak up? Oh, I’m sorry. I got so heated and caught up in philosophical reflections that I … yes, I forgot about your throat. Do you think … yes, I can finish my sentences. I’m not only good at repeating myself and finishing someone else’s sentences. Oh, you know I’ve started using this to my advantage. When someone listening to me interrupts me with a whimsical smile and tells me: minutes for commercials like you do I actually never wait that long. I upstage him and say it before that person has the time to and he or she is disarmed. You are asking me if we can hang up now. OK, we will. I’m not in a hurry. It is you who are. The ear-piece is hurting you? I see. Do you think we could … meet for a cup of coffee? (He utters the words almost by rote). Yes … I see. Simply because we have never met outside school I thought that probably we could … well, you don’t have to apologize. I’m not as dumb as I look! Bye!”

(And he hangs up with an abrupt gesture as if the receiver were a snake and he had been forced to hold it in his right hand. He walks round the room nervous and panting).

George: “Damn!” (He goes back to his chair and takes up a volume of Keats. He reads out loud): “When I have fears that I may cease to be …” (he leaves the book on the table).

George: “But I have no fears at all. Isn’t that strange? I have even begun to talk to myself and I’m not afraid! I know Petya thinks I’m crazy. Only she has never let herself go and say it. Maybe I’m crazy, after all. Then everyone else is normal. I am a freak! The only thing missing here is the raven and … and … the lost Lenore. These things that are missing here are not tangible … and yet they should be here. (He goes to the telephone, picks it up and dials a number. In a minute he is through.)

George: “Hello, is Ivan there? Hi! How are you doing, pal, same old huh? Keeping indoors because of the snow? But I saw it cease. A snow storm now, a blizzard you say? Then I’ll tell you you are a geezer, old man, not to say a gizzard. If not at anything else I’m as good a doggerel maker as I can be. (He laughs. He looks at the window. The snowflakes are whirling wildly as if in a host of suicidally minded night insects around a burning candle.)

George: (with a change of tone) “Well, I made a mistake, I admit, but I swear to God I saw it cease. It has never ceased? Not for a single second? That cannot be. Am I imagining things only? I must be getting cracked! Tomorrow I’ll be a fucking fruitcake! Well thank you for saying so but that doesn’t change the situation in the least, does it? Did I tell you about … well, never mind. Nothing significant really. Actually I was just wondering if we could meet some day during the week or maybe next week. We haven’t met for two years, after all. Oh, I see you’ve got your exercises. No, I’m not going to tell you this. This time I’ll just say goodbye. (He hangs up glaring at the telephone set)

While he has been having the two conversations Petya in the other room has fallen asleep. He turns around and faces the window. It is a wonderfully quiet night out there. The moon fills the window frame. He stares at it trying to see every detail visible to the human eye.

George: “They say if you stare, if you gaze close enough at it you can see the brim jagged. If I see that I’ll be sure I wasn’t imagining things when I saw it cease. Yes, yes I think I can see it. (strains his eyes even more). No, I can’t see anything like that. It was just my eyes. They are blurred now. (he turns around and faces the audience and it can be seen that two rivulets of tears are streaming down from his eyes. He wipes them with his hand. Goes to the desk and picks up the receiver.)

George: “Petya, please be home! (music is played: “… and I call you, I call you on the telephone. I’m only hoping that you are home so I can hear you when you say those words to me and whisper so softly. It goes down to silence. While the music is played the telephone rings three times. The music starts when George picks up the receiver. The telephone rings free. Petya moves uneasily in bed. At first she feels around her pillow, then on the desk which is close to her. Finally her hand happens to be placed on the receiver. She picks it up without opening her eyes.)

Petya: “Hello” (in a voice as if coming from another world, the world of the Never Never Land)

George: “Hi! It’s George calling. Did I get you out of bed?

Petya: (opening her eyes still lying in bed) “No, you didn’t. You just woke me up.”

George: “I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

Petya: “Mad as a charging bull since you are asking. You are in luck that I’m too sleepy to be able to yell, and scream, and holler like I want to till your ear-drums burst out.”

George: “I’m really sorry for … for calling so often.”

Petya: “The only way to show that you really are is stop doing it. Do you have the slightest idea what the time is?”

George: “No, but I can look now.”

Petya: “I’ll be so good as to spare you the effort. It’s 10.30.”

George: “I didn’t know you went to bed so early. Actually I remember you telling me you never went to bed before midnight.”

Petya: “I told you this?”

George: “To the best of my memory, yes.”

Petya: “Your memory is playing tricks on you then because I never said any such thing.”

George: “Well, to really prove how sorry I am I’ll tell you straight out why I called.”

Petya: “I bet ‘twas coz you felt like giving a lecture on Huckleberry and me not caring about people who aren’t akin to us.”

George: “Oh, you’ve found out about him?”

Petya: “Yes, I have. I have a net of informers working for me night and day, breaking their necks to keep me informed.”

George: “Aren’t you being a little tautological?”

Petya: “What? Are you playing smart? You want to show off or something?”

George: “To the best of my understanding of the situation, no, I don’t.”

Petya: “That is even worse. You don’t want to do something but are doing it all the same.”

George: “I’m sorry for doing things I don’t want to do.”

Petya: “Say this one more time and it’s gonna be the first time you’ll have said it.”

(George is silent.)

Petya: “Why did you stop talking?”

George: “I was thinking.”

Petya: “A penny for your thoughts?”

George: “I was wondering if we could… (he utters the next word after a pause) MEET.”

Petya: “You know I’m very busy, don’t you?”

George: “Yes, I do. But I thought that you could probably squeeze me into your curriculum.”

Petya: (laughing) “You know we are far apart. You are not my next-door neighbor. There are miles between you and me.”

George: “Even if I were your next-door neighbor there would still be miles between us but the distance could be melted.”

Petya: “How do you mean miles and what is all this talk about distances, anyway?”

George: “Let me remind you that it was you who started it.”

Petya: “Even so. What I only meant was that you couldn’t just stop by. I live at the opposite side of town. Meeting me in the center is impossible because I have no business there and the only opportunity that you have is to talk to me while I’m waiting for the bus to take me home and I have every reason to believe that you wouldn’t like that. What you would like to have instead is someone who can listen to your … how to put it?

George: “Let me disembarrass you…” (Petya interrupts him.)

Petya: “What language are you using?”

George: “English.”

Petya: “I didn’t mean that.”

George: “I know what you meant.”

Petya: “Do you?” (snappily)

George: “Yes, I do.”

Petya: “No, you don’t, you with your stuck-up, pompous literary language.”

George: “Can I finish the sentence that sparkled off all this?”

Petya: “I don’t care so you can go on anyway”

George: “You meant to say that I need to have someone to listen to my erratic reasoning.”

Petya: “Not that I’m less in the dark now but never mind. All I meant to say was that you use big words that kill the meaning. Couldn’t you simply say: “to help you out?”

George: “I sure could, but I love the sound of words, too.”

Petya: “You sound-lover, please keep in mind I’m not up to discuss any of your crazy ideas.”

(Here the connection breaks.)

George: Hello, hello. Petya, can you hear me?”

Petya: “Hello, hello.” (She hangs up)

George dials frantically her number again. The phone in Petya’s room rings once, then twice. She picks it up.

George: “The connection broke.”

Petya: “It’s tiring to listen to you. Couldn’t you simply say: the goddamned phone fucked up? That would’ve only made communication easier and more desirable?”

George: “Yes, I guess, I could. But I swear only when I’m alone.”

Petya: “I find that stupid.”

George: “Swearing is stupid if you ask me. The fact is, however, life only encourages it.”

Petya: “Did you happen to look at your watch while we’ve been talking?”

George: “I have no watch to look at. Besides, I think we should use every moment and try to turn it into a pleasant sensation coz our time’s limited, you know.”

Petya: “Yes, it is because right now it’s 11.30 which means we’ve been talking about nothing for more than ‘n hour.”

George: “You didn’t understand me but I’ve never been understood so I’ve become accustomed to it.”

Petya: “Let’s cut this short, shall we? I feel sleepy again and since you awoke me most brutally you should let me fall asleep again now to undo the evil that you’ve done.”

George: “Yes, I’ll be hanging up now, soon. I only wanna tell you one more thing if you can endure that.”

Petya: “I’ve endured more ‘n that but the thought that it’s gonna be the last of the least as you like to say will pull me through.”

George: “Yes, it’s true I like to say least but not last because I believe in the small things. I believe life is made up of small, very small little things and they should be treasured because each is unforgettable though they repeat themselves and the pattern has been set for centuries.”

Petya: “Be short, please coz I’m dying for sleep.”

George: “I just wanted to tell you that I had decided to write a play with a title “A telephone Conversation.”

Petya: “You’ve changed your mind?”

George: “Yes, I have, I changed my mind in half an hour.”

Petya: “Not that I believe you can do it. I mean write a piece a drama that is worth reading… but…”

(George interrupts her.)

George: “Excuse me for interrupting but you but plays are written to be staged. Something that is not worth reading may prove worth seeing.”

Petya: “That leaves you in the middle of nowhere for whatever you write will never be staged and you know it very well.”

George: “Yes, I know it. The most staggering thought is that I was too naïve to believe there was something I could tell to the audience, but I’m through with naiveté now.”

Petya: “I’m glad to hear you’ve grown up in practically no time. You talk sense now but anyway, tell me what you were going to write about.”

George: “Why would you want to know about something that will never be, about something that was nipped in the bud? Who cares about the still-born babies? Maybe had they seen the light of day, they would’ve grown to be people of talent and genius! How about the tens of millions of people who fell victim in the world wars? And the most recent example - Saraevo? How many of them could have written something of significance? How about the babies who were never born to have the chance to grow up, that were thrown away with the condoms or killed by the pills? How about the people who never thought they had something to say to the reader that would prevail through the centuries to come? How about the people who just lived their lives like never written books?

Petya: “Just let off the steam, will you? I’m in no mood for jeremiads if that’s the word a brain might use for such sort of bitching. The world is business and business is the world. Whoever is not doing business is wasting their precious time.”

George: “Do you think Socrates was wasting his time?”

Petya: “Was he a businessman?”

George: “No, he never did business in the sense that you used the word. His business was to talk to the youths of Athens.”

Petya: “Did he make money off that?”

George: “As far as I know he never took money for his talking to them.”

Petya: “What? Roaming the streets like the raving mad people on the pedestrian way? I’m worried about you. I guess it’s your studies that are telling on you so and if you don’t stop thinking about them in these terms the time when you’ll be doing the same is not far off.

She yawns and looks at her watch.

Petya: “Jesus! It’s midnight! Thanks God my parents are asleep and can’t overhear this. Could they hear it they’d decide I was crazy and the next thing they’d do is send me to some lunatic asylum or something. (She yawns again.) But tell me what your play was going to be about before I fall asleep.”

George: “OK, if you insist. It was going to be about the impossibility of NORMAL COMMUNICATION, the fact that people never take time off from their schedules to MEET someone and in this way confine communication to the phone only knowing that they can hang up any minute and go back to their precious business. The thing is that they expect the other person to make the first step if he or she wants to meet them but it’s never them to make the compromise. It was going to be about people crowded their lives with minor things – business and when the time comes to look back on a life lived, when everything rolls before their eyes like a film on a reel, they will know that there’s nothing worth remembering they’ve done. They will know they’ve missed wonderful moments, they will know that all their lives they’ve been nothing but cogs in a machine, in an assembly line, that they’ve reduced themselves to mechanisms that are replaced in due time – when they’ve worn out – that is when they retire…”

Petya: “Hey, chill out! Aren’t you generalizing a little too much? I don’t have this problem for instance. If I never meet someone it’s because it’s never convenient; because I’m considering not so much the time that I’ll waste but rather the time he or she will and I don’t want that to happen.”

George: “You remind me of Big Hugh the Miller.”

Petya: “Is he a character from a book again?”

George: “Yes, he is.”

Petya: “I should have guessed so. And don’t you ever dare to compare me to a character or characters from a book again! Behind a character or characters from a book, behind the reality shown there there’s only one mind – that of the author and however good he is at comprehending reality he can never put down what he has gathered as information or impressions, and what he has gathered is infinitely small compared to what he hasn’t, to life in its diversity and all.

As for the people wasting their lives, as you said, by working hard, I think that you fail to understand the mechanical progress, which is our future. All we can do is help this progress speed up. Besides, I don’t think that people on their deathbed, if that was what you were implying, are sorry for not talking night and day, around the clock, to other people.

And finally, to prove you wrong to the last, about the wonderful moments missed, about treasuring every moment, I prefer to know that there will be a few such to be treasured. Good things in life should be few so when they come they can be understood. If there were not more bad things in life we would never know about the good ones.”

George: “You are entirely wrong and your stand is refutable. Life with all its fragility and the irrevocability of death are to testify in my behalf, let alone all the other arguments that could be stated.”

Petya: “You’re a frigging dreamer and my only hope is that life you’re constantly referring to will hammer some sense into your head but I have no more time to waste in foolish talk. It’s half past twelve and I feel so exhausted. We’re gonna have to stop this.”

George: “Sure. Just let me ask you one question.”

Petya: “Go ahead but be short!” (yawning)

George: “Did you notice the snow cease?”

Petya: “No, I didn’t. I was asleep, remember?”

George: “Yes,… I remember… I see. Bye and once again my apologies for ruining your sleep.”

Petya: “Stop being so fucking apologetic! That makes me sick. Bye and forget about what’s in the books! Live in this world!”

George: “Bye.”

Petya: “And before I’ve forgotten, please don’t call me so often. It’s a huge waste of time, yours and mine.”

George: “I won’t.”

Petya: “Do you promise?”

George: “Yes, I promise, to never call you again.”

Petya: “Bye.” (He hangs up. She hangs up.)

Petya: “The frigging dreamer with his crazy ideas! Said he’d never call me again. He’d better keep his promise.” (She goes to her bed, sits down and clasps her head with her hands. George looks at the window. The winter is there in full blast. Howling wind can be heard. Dogs can be heard growling in the dark mingling with the wind. More and more it seems to him that the snowflakes are night insects whirling around a burning candle eager to put and end to their precarious existence. He watches them spell-bound, enthralled in a trance. Slowly he turns around facing the audience. Goes to his cat. Starts stroking its fur. The animal stretches its forepaws and starts purring.

George: “What will happen when you grow old and die? How much I will miss you! But I’ll never let that happen. If I go before you go I won’t be missed. You with your wonderful way of living have found the sense that has escaped me ever since I was born.”

He opens the drawer of the desk and takes out a pot containing sedatives. Pours himself a glass of water and gulps down a handful of them choked by them as they momentarily congest his throat.

After he has swallowed them serenity sweeps over his face and takes hold there. He faces the audience. (After a pause):

George:

I have been lately often told

That Good Things never last too long

That Good Things in fact are short,

Or there is something wrong.



I know I’ve got to buy it

I seem to simply have no choice.

Yet, I think I know a bit this voice inside me

That cries out NO!





The feeling of being a Misfit

The sensation of never doing the right

Of this world I must be rid

Before I have even lost the fight.



Still I want to live in this world

Tasting all my victories and defeats

Gulping down every single word

Following the fate of Keats.



I’ve always been a stranger here

And as a stranger I must leave

But somehow I have no fear

Of the spell I must weave.



I’m looking into the future

Looking forward to the day

When Good Things will last Forever

And Bad Things will have too short a date.



And this Day will surely come

When the states will be gone

When the people will be free as the Sun

And the Earth will be as One.



At this Day I’ll secretly rejoice

From the petals of a Buttercup

Having appeased the self-same voice

That now tells me to cut out this Crap.



As he says the last words things begin to spin before his eyes. Everything swims in an eddy and he needs to sit down fighting the symptoms of an oncoming eternal sleep. He tries to preserve his posture, but he can’t and tries to lie sideways, but he can’t for he loses balance and falls over to the edge of the bed and then down to the ground. His eyes blink once, then twice, and then pressed by the heavy sleep of eternity, the eyelids close firmly never to be opened again.

In the other room Petya is brushing the dust off the stuffed bird fighting sleep, too.

Music is played:

Good bye cruel world. I’m leaving you today. Good bye, good bye, good bye. Good bye all you people. There’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind. Goodbye.





Curtains fall

January 1997