The October Circle

by Robert Littell

  Octobrina reaches out and gently rests her hand on Popov’s arm.

  “Where was I? Sssssssss. Ah, the watch cover” — he looks around like a child who is afraid he has disappointed his listeners — “was my last but not least.”

  15

  “IT WAS very moving,” Valyo tells Popov. “Really it was.”

  “I hoped to have a poem ready …” Popov is visibly upset.

  Octobrina squeezes his hand. “But your lists are poems.”

  “Do you think so?” Popov asks eagerly. “Or do you just say that?”

  “Of course I think so,” Octobrina promises him. “Everyone thinks so. Isn’t that right, Valyo? Isn’t that right, Valyo?”

  Valyo quickly nods. “Certainly it’s right.”

  One of the soccer stars across the room laughs at a dirty joke, but he stops abruptly when Gogo catches his eye. The Dwarf, trailed by three of his Hungarians and Dog, pushes through the crowd at the door.

  “Coffee,” he tells Gogo. As usual the girls cluster around the counter eyeing the pastries. The Dwarf takes the Racer by the arm and pulls him into a corner. “The bastards are started,” he rasps.

  “How do you know?” Tacho glances through the window at Trench Coat, who is sunning himself in front of a barber shop across the street from the Milk Bar.

  “Kovel — he seen it with his eyes. Not one of them death papers is left to tell the story. All them others are still up there on the walls, but the Flag Holder, he been scraped off—”

  “But if they’re denying the” — the word doesn’t come easy to Tacho — “the immolation … they had to do that.”

  “More.” The Dwarf is impatient. “His photo gone. From Krimm. From Hotel Balkan. From War Museum — I seen that myself. From lobby of Central Committee building.”

  “What do you mean gone!”

  “Gone, goddamn. You understand word. Gone. Jesus, Tacho, sometime you give stupid question. Gone is gone. In Krimm, in Central Committee building, they hanged other pictures in place. In War Museum, in Hotel Balkan, they just gone. Hook still there. Wall all clean where picture was.”

  “My god,” moans Tacho. The full weight of what is happening hits him.

  “More,” insists the Dwarf. “Kovel got a daughter, and the daughter she been sent home from school this morning to bring history book back to school. She says they all of them been ordered return history books. She says it’s Party people, not school people, that’s doing the collection.”

  “The Flag Holder’s photograph is in that book.”

  “In front, before all the writing been started.”

  “It’s not possible …”

  “It possible.” The Dwarf’s face twists into a grin. “If they do it to him, they can maybe do it to me. But I not ever let them.” He tilts his head and looks curiously at the Racer. “You still thinking on that idea of yours?”

  “I’m thinking.” Tacho notices Octobrina casting worried glances in their direction. “Don’t say a word about what I told you to the others,” he warns.

  A short while later, Octobrina, the Dwarf, the Racer and Popov pile into Kovel’s taxi, which is double-parked around the corner from the Milk Bar.

  “That dumb Tomato,” snorts Kovel, glaring through the windshield at the policeman directing traffic at the intersection. “He’s the one what tried to give me a ticket.”

  “The thing to do,” Valyo ventures, “is to yell back at them. That way they know you are important and leave you alone.”

  “I tried that,” Kovel asserts.

  “What did it cost you?” demands Valyo.

  “Fifty leva,” Kovel replies with a smirk.

  The Dwarf taps him on the shoulder. “Cemetery,” he orders. “Flower market first.”

  Dog farts, and those nearest the windows rush to open them. Kovel rolls his eyes, and the Dwarf strokes the dog’s deformed head soothingly. “He only doing that when he upset,” he apologizes.

  “I do the same when I’m upset,” quips Kovel.

  “You’ll have to get a smaller dog, or Kovel will have to get a larger taxi,” Valyo says, but his effort at humor falls flat.

  The flower market is a splash of color against the gray side streets of Sofia. Kovel double-parks, blocking the narrow street. Horns blare behind him but Kovel turns and stares at the drivers until they stop. Octobrina hurries back with an armful of rust-colored chrysanthemums.

  “Fall flowers are the most beautiful,” she sighs. “They have an inner life” — she smiles thoughtfully — “a still life. Spring flowers are brighter, but their brightness is superficial. They have an outer life. A restless, gossipy life.”

  “There’s an old Russian poem about fall flowers,” Popov says. He rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t seem to remember how it starts.”

  Kovel parks alongside the iron gate of the cemetery and settles down to read the sports page. The others make their way past row upon row of graves.

  “This is right,” calls Ocrobrina, in the lead and cradling her bouquet. “I remember passing that statue. Doesn’t she have a demonic smile? Whoever honored her certainly didn’t like her. Here, this way. Maybe the headstone will be up.”

  They come to the part of the cemetery that borders on lush farm fields. Octobrina looks around, confused. “But I could have sworn …”

  “It was over here,” Tacho observes grimly. He looks down at the gravestone of a mother and child, both of whom, according to the legend, died in childbirth. The stone, which is weatherworn, is dated January 12, 1942.

  The Dwarf calls to a gravedigger weeding in the next row of graves. “We bury some person here, old man — “

  The man — bending the way the peasants do: from the w ist — straightens up. “You must be makin’ a mistake,” he replies coolly. “That there’s been ‘round long as I been ‘round.”

  “How long is that?” Tacho demands.

  “Long enough.”

  Tacho kicks at the soil, which is freshly turned, with the toe of his boot. “This is a new grave.”

  The gravedigger shakes his head. “You can see from the stone it ain’t no new grave. It was me what turned the earth this mornin’, if you’re a-wonderin’ about that dirt there.”

  Tacho notices Green Socks leaning against a gravestone four or five rows away. It is hard to be sure at that distance, but he appears to be smiling, as if at some private joke.

  Octobrina touches the gravestone with her fingertips; the flowers she brought dangle from the other hand. “They’re … trying to turn him into a nonperson,” she says, hushed. “As long as we’re around, they won’t be able to do that, will they?”

  She studies their faces, one after the other, for confirmation. Finding none, she slowly clamps her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh!”

  16

  “WHY ME?” Kovel whines. “I keep my nose clean. I don’t never say nothing political. What did I do to deserve this?”

  He casts a long fearful glance toward the back seat, where the Dwarf’s dog, Dog, is curled up in a silky brown tangle. (In the shadows, there is no way to tell head from tail.) “And what in god’s name am I going to do with a dog that farts all day?”

  “Dog’s the least of our problems,” the Racer tells him absently. Totally absorbed, he stares out the front window of the car, focusing on the raindrops running down the glass. Kovel reaches into the glove compartment for the windshield wipers and climbs out to put them on. When he gets back in, he runs them three or four times. As the world comes back into focus, Tacho snaps out of his reverie.

  “How did the Dwarf know they were coming for him?” he asks.

  “Someone telephoned — one of his circus friends, maybe,” Kovel guesses. “He got a lot of friends, you know. He slammed down the receiver and dumped that damn dog of his in my arms and pushed me out the door and told me to watch the house from the next block and if anything happened to find you.”

  “Well, you found me,” Tacho mutte
rs glumly. He reaches back and feels the dog’s shirred flesh stir warmly under his touch.

  Kovel runs the windshield wipers again. “He said for me to give you a message.”

  “What message?” the Racer demands. Kovel chews on his lip and Tacho shakes his elbow impatiently. “What message?”

  Kovel peers into the Racer’s face. “Run.”

  “That’s all — just run”

  “He told me to tell you to run,” Kovel repeats softly.

  The Racer thinks for a moment. “How long after you left did they come?”

  “Twenty minutes maybe. Twenty-five on the outside. Three cars and a paddy wagon. Oh sweet Jesus, them poor little girlies started bawling like it was the end of the world when they seen the wagon waiting for them.”

  “I wonder if Angel warned — “

  “He never came out, you know.”

  “What do you mean he never came out?”

  “He never came out.” Kovel’s eyebrows arch up. “I passed an ambulance coming up the hill when I was going down.”

  Tacho collapses against the window. “He said he would never let them do that to him,” he remarks weakly.

  On the corner a horn sounds. Tacho looks around. They are parked on a side street off Don Dukov, which is clogged with morning rush-hour traffic. “I’ve got to try and warn the others,” he says urgently. “Wait here.”

  Oblivious to the rain, which is light but steady, Tacho crosses the street to a workers’ lunchroom with a bank of telephone booths along one wall.

  “The trouble is I never like nothing from Column B,” a middle-aged man is yelling in the first booth. “Can you hear me now?”

  A young woman is reading from notes in the second booth. “Disintegration of the ozone layer. Right. Thickening of the polar ice cap. Right. Drying up of the monsoons. Right. Slowing down of the earth’s — “

  In the third booth, an old man is studying a pocket chessboard. “Bishop to rook three,” he says. “Same time tomorrow?” The old man smiles savagely as he hangs up, and tells Tacho happily:

  “He was expecting probably pawn to queen’s knight five! Ha! Life is full of its little surprises.”

  The Racer settles into the booth, leaning against the folding glass door as he tries to collect himself. All around the telephone are scribbled numbers: “Zlatarov 90.25.14” and “Kitka 38.16.16” and “GG 24.12.56” and “Airport Inter 27.27.07.” He dials Valyo’s apartment. There is a strange clicking noise, and then nothing. The same thing happens a second time. Tacho retrieves his coin and dials the Flag Holder’s number. A man answers, and Tacho hangs up immediately. An old woman taps impatiently on the glass door with a coin, but Tacho turns his back on her and tries Octobrina’s number. The phone rings four, five, six, seven times. He is about to hang up when Octobrina answers.

  “Octobrina,” Tacho blurts out, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “They’re here,” she tells him with measured dignity, “they’re on the earpiece, so don’t say where you — “

  Octobrina gives a sharp cry of pain and the phone clicks dead.

  The old woman is tapping on the booth again, and Tacho turns on her, trembling. “What do you want?” he yells, his face livid, and she backs away in fright.

  Tacho frantically dials Octobrina’s number, but there is a busy signal. He tries again, and again there is a busy signal. On a hunch, he dials his own number. On the first ring a man answers.

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s this?” Tacho demands.

  “The Racer,” the man says casually. “Who’s this?”

  “This is the Flag Holder,” Tacho replies, and he chops down with his forefinger to sever the connection.

  The old woman with the coin is still there as Tacho emerges from the booth. “What do you want?” she mimics. “What do you want? What I want is to use the phone, what do you think I want?”

  Tacho brushes past her without replying, and she follows him onto the street. “Rude is what you are, all you young people,” she shouts, her voice rising hysterically. “Rude, rude, rude.” People turn to stare at Tacho. “You’re nobody,” the old woman flings after him. “You think you’re somebody, but you’re nobody.”

  At the taxi, Kovel waits nervously, both hands gripping the steering wheel. “Did you get anyone?” he wants to know.

  Tacho slides in, ignoring the question. “There still may be time to find Atanas,” he says. “He was supposed to work the morning shift — he may be on the streets.”

  They begin cruising the side streets off Hristo Botev near the Russian Monument: Mihailov first, then Hadfrdimov, then Blagoev. As they swing into Hristo Botev again, Tacho touches Kovel’s elbow.

  “Slow down,” he orders. “Look — next to the cinema.”

  A uniformed militiaman is on duty in front of the Lamplighter’s print shop, and two workmen in overalls are boarding up the plate-glass window, which has been splintered. People on their way to work stare curiously, and the militiaman motions for them to go on about their business.

  “Maybe Popov’s gone home already,” Kovel ventures after a while. “Maybe — “

  “Pull up,” Tacho yells excitedly, and before the taxi comes to a stop he bolts from it and dashes back to the corner they have just passed to look down Košut. A garbage truck, surrounded by three or four police cars, is blocking traffic halfway down the block. Popov stands with his back to the truck; his hands, manacled at the wrists, droop in front of him,. A militiaman is grilling him harshly, but Popov, who wears the uniform of a garbage collector, stares back at him with great serenity. Tacho is suddenly sure that he has turned off his hearing aid. Another militiaman kneels nearby, inspecting the contents of a small canvas sack; he lifts each item and lays it on the sidewalk. There is something made of stained glass, a rolled-up canvas, a stuffed bird, an oval picture frame, a toy airplane. A civilian looks down at the collection, touching with the toe of his shoe each item as he checks it against a list in a pocket ledger. Women with their hair in curlers lean from the windows of the surrounding apartment buildings (daylight arrests are rare; they will have something to tell their husbands) until a detective looks up at them; instantly the heads retract and the windows slam down, the shades right after them.

  “What did he do with all that junk he collected?” Kovel asks— he has come up behind the Racer to see what is going on.

  They turn and walk back to the taxi. “He made lists of what he found and read them to us every day … Octobrina said he was taking inventory of his epoch.”

  “Inventory of his epoch,” Kovel snickers, “that’s a laugh.”

  “It’s no joke, friend. His lists were his poems. They destroyed his real poetry during the period of the cult of the personality. After that, Atanas wasn’t able to invent images, so he rummaged for them in garbage cans. The things he collected he brought to his apartment. Octobrina said he had a whole wall papered with pages from some old bankbooks he found. He was a beautiful, brave, lost old man.”

  “What are we going to do?” Kovel asks once they are back in traffic. He himself is calm now, almost resigned.

  “Take me up to Vitoša,” Tacho tells him, looking toward the mountain. “Then you go to militia headquarters and turn yourself in. You weren’t involved with us, and they’ll probably go easy on you.”

  “Oh, Jesus, you think so?” Kovel grasps the straw eagerly. “You think they’ll understand I’m only just a taxi driver with a yearlong fare?”

  “I think they’ll understand, yes,” Tacho reassures him. To his own ear, he doesn’t sound very convincing.

  Kovel drives down Hristo Botev, then turns into Aleksandâr Stam-bolijski. Behind them police sirens wail. Kovel casts a frightened look into the rearview mirror. As the taxi turns onto Avenue Vitoša, the first police car screeches to a stop in front of the Hotel Balkan. A crowd is gathering at the foot of the steps leading to the hotel, and the militiamen have to shoulder their way through it to the entrance.

  Trap
ped in the great revolving door with the corroded brass handles and the gold lettered “BAL AN” in English on the glass is the Mime. His white pancake make-up is flaking off; patches of pink skin appear like freckles. Faces press in on him from either side of the glass. One of the militiamen hefts his handcuffs. The Mime reaches up and starts slapping his palms against the glass as if to see how far it extends. His eyes grow panicky. His hand motions become quicker. He searches wildly for an opening, a door, a window, a crack, but there is nothing but solid glass. Eyes bulging in terror, he scratches at it with his nails. His fingertips begin to bleed. Backing into the narrowest corner of the door, the Mime opens his mouth and screams a silent scream that makes the faces pressing in on him wince.

  “You need money, clothes — “ Kovel says.

  The taxi is parked at the end of a dead end street high on Vitoša; according to a nearby billboard, garden apartments will be constructed here as part of an intensification of the state building program.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Kovel yells excitedly. He races around to the trunk compartment and pulls out a bag full of sweaters. “I got them from a guy who got them from his wife’s sister, who works in a sweater factory. Here” — Kovel holds one up against Tacho’s chest to check the size— “I got to get rid of these before I go to the militia anyhow.”

  Tacho takes off his jacket and pulls the sweater over his head. Then he puts the jacket on again. When he reaches for his wallet, Kovel grabs his hand by the wrist. “Listen, no, wait a minute,” he exclaims, shaking his head in embarrassment.

  The Racer offers his hand to Kovel. “We won’t meet again. You have been a friend to all of us. For that, thank you.”