The Physics of Sorrow

by Georgi Gospodinov, Translated from the Bulgarian by Angela Rodel

  I watch this couple as the day, which is leaning toward its end, obligingly offers me the threadbare metaphor of its sunset. I watch with the full indiscreetness of the situation, then turn my back and slowly head down the hill, having forgotten that just a short while ago I had been planning to get a coffee at the top.

  I walk down, thinking about all the European towns huddled like chicks around such a fortress-hill. The hills of Graz, Ljubljana, Zagreb, Thessaloniki, Rome’s seven hills, which I’ve always confused with the teats of that she-wolf, as if she were lying on her back, hills as wolf-tits. I see myself running across them, always at sunset, at different ages.

  I remember hurrying to catch a sunset in Lisbon, running up the steep alleys of São Jorge, I reached the top with my last ounce of strength “and suddenly it’s evening,” as that poet wrote. Everything swam before my eyes, I passed out, when I opened my eyes three elderly ladies and a stern-faced nun were leaning over me. I hadn’t blacked out for long, as the ocean was still glowing beneath the final glimmers. I let myself lie there for a few seconds, my eyes swimming, like a sunset marathoner who has collapsed just before announcing his news . . . But there is no news. I’m growing old.

  (58)

  Animals eat up time. They lick at it like the blocks of salt they’re given, they nibble away at it like a donkey nibbles at blades of grass, they suck out its fruity marrow like wasps . . . The twentieth-century donkey, the eighteenth-century donkey and the thirteenth-century donkey do not differ in any away. Could it be the same with people? No. I can recognize a face from 1985 and tell it apart from faces from the 1970s and the 1990s, to say nothing of previous centuries.

  (793)

  Aya, at three and a half, draws a picture of me in pen. She hands it to me, takes another a look at me, thinks of something and quickly takes the paper back. I forgot to draw those lines on your forehead, she says.

  And thus we age.

  (42)

  Telomeres get shorter and cells die every second . . . The truth is that science is still searching for the mechanism of aging . . . The most important cells, brain cells, never regenerate . . . I am a walking graveyard. Perhaps that’s why I so devotedly tour all the cemeteries of every city . . . there is harmony in bringing together your own, second-by-second death with the death of the world.

  (66)

  Grandma, I’m not going to die, right?

  (3)

  A PAST-TIME MACHINE

  The last time I went back to T., I noticed some strange things. They had restored the monument from the 1980s on the town square. I could have sworn it wasn’t there a week ago. I remembered that monument well. A man with a long granite garment, perhaps a cassock, an overcoat or a royal mantle. And with the most nondescript face you’ll ever see. On all important historical dates it somehow inexplicably took on the features of the corresponding hero who was to be honored. On February 19, it became Vasil Levski, on June 2 Hristo Botev. It was also a Bulgarian tsar, most often Simeon, sometimes a monk from Mount Athos, sometimes a partisan guerrilla commander. It was most often saddled with the task of being Georgi Dimitrov or some other (local) communists. A universal monument. It had its overcoat, noble forelock, and high forehead—the minimum requirements for every hero back then. Now they’ve cleaned it up and I could even see that a fresh wreath of braided carnations with two red ribbons had just been placed at its base. I also noticed that the newspapers arrived a day late, the shop clerks had become sullen like back in the day, there was no Internet, while the stores sold only two types of salami and frankfurters.

  Given all of this, plus my fruitless experiments on the elementary particles of the past, I was gripped by a gnawing suspicion, which I tried to defang by turning it into a supposedly made-up story.

  He opened his eyes with the vague sense that he was awakening into another dream. Could his empathy, which has shown no sign of itself over the past twenty years, be reawakening? Outside he could hear the high school marching band, sounding exactly like it did back then, he could have sworn that they were playing the very same instruments he remembered from his school days. He himself had once played the tuba, standing in the back row next to Nasko with the cymbals, Nasko the Candy Nut with the Blubber-Butt, as his full nickname went. Mr. Blubber-Butt was always a split-second late, a hundredth of a beat behind, which was almost inaudible to the ears up on the platform, but which set Comrade Brunekov, the singing teacher, on pins and needles, and all of us in the band registered that alarming pause, that crack in the music. In the end, the cymbal would nevertheless crash and the simultaneous sigh of relief added yet another note to the march. But that was so many years ago . . .

  Now the music was again thundering down below, all guns ablaze. In the end, it seemed that he had managed to do what he had been trying to do for years—to bring back part of the past, just a little slice, to enter into it and never leave it again. Your body can’t escape from the memory and you remain in your childhood forever. To a certain extent, it’s merciful.

  He also might be going crazy, everything might just be in his head. He got up and slowly went over to the window. He stood there for a moment before drawing aside the tatty curtain, then abruptly yanks it away. Down below school kids really were marching around, in the same uniforms as fifty years ago, men and women in suits and long gray trench coats were standing around them. The marching band was doing its routine, while the sun showered its glimmering rays into the brass instruments, which had been shined with putzing polish in advance. He hadn’t thought about putzing in ages. A little farther on stood the platform. He got dressed quickly and went downstairs. They were all real, three-dimensional, living, the men with crew cuts, the women cold-curled, they smelled of strong, cheap cologne, green apples, and once-ubiquitous “Ideal” soap.

  They must be shooting a film, how could he have fallen for it? Somewhere here the whole cinematographic machinery would reveal itself. The trucks with the generators, the cameras, the dollies, and slider tracks . . . He carefully looked around. There was no sign of any equipment, they had hidden it that well. But still, a bearded director with a megaphone would have to appear out of somewhere shouting “Cut!” and making everyone go back for a second take. The demonstration continued, however, the music was playing, the band had marched quite a ways ahead. On the platform, bored people in dark suits waved to the enthusiastic squads of marchers. Twenty or so kids in blue neckerchiefs broke away from the parading ranks and, guided by their teaches, ran over to the platform holding bouquets of carnations. The dark suits took the carnations, patted the children on the heads and kept waving. There were carnations everywhere, just like back in the day, he thought to himself. They were perfect for every occasion—party meetings, demonstrations, weddings, and funerals. In the latter case, you had to make sure they were an even number. The set designers had done a good job. They clearly had a nice, fat budget, yet another one of those stupid co-productions. He couldn’t help himself, he turned toward an elderly man wearing a suit that looked like it had been sewn in the ’70s with a pin on his lapel.

  “Excuse me, but what are they filming?”

  “What are they filming? Who’s filming?” The man looked around anxiously.

  “Uhh . . . it must be some movie. What’s with this . . . demonstration?”

  “Don’t you know? Today is September ninth.”

  That really was the date, but it hadn’t been a national holiday for the past twenty years at least. Bewildered, he begged the man’s pardon and stepped away from the crowd. He now noticed that his clothes also differed quite a bit from the others’. Against the backdrop of the sober brown of their trench coats and suits, their macramé sweater-vests, and the older women’s headscarves, he looked as if coming from another, hostile—or so he thought—world. His short red jacket stood out like a sore thumb, while his jeans and sneakers, in all their casualness, looked strange amid the sharp creases all around him. He ducked off to the right, wanting to stroll for a bit through the deserte
d side streets. The warm September sun was shining. The faint scent of roasted peppers wafted from somewhere. Flags were hanging from some of the windows. On one corner, a swarthy grubby man of indeterminate age was selling funnels of sunflower seeds, just like back in the day. The funnel is an ingenious invention, his father had loved to say, the cone gives a sense of height and volume, yet the inside holds a much smaller amount, the ideal shape for commerce. He bought himself a funnel. It was made of a piece of old newspaper. Just like in the old days, he thought yet again on that day. Once upon a time, everything could be made from old newspaper—from a painter’s cap to a lampshade. As a rule, everything could be made from everything you had at hand. He could read parts of words, numbers and percentage signs on the scrap of newspaper, which was certainly from back then, with that unmistakable ink and font. If this is a movie shoot, they really have thought of everything down to the smallest detail. He was the only thing that didn’t fit the set at all.

  Carried away by such thoughts, he didn’t notice the two uniformed men who had been following him for the last few minutes, without bothering to hide it. When they suddenly jumped out in front of him, they gave him a good scare. Then he noticed that the uniforms they were wearing were not exactly like modern police uniforms. With those ridiculous jackets and big peaked caps, those belt buckles, well yes, they were gendarmes from the socialist era. This reassured him a bit, anything could happen in a movie, and could happen like in the movies, without any particular consequences. Your passport? I don’t have it on me. It’s back at the hotel. How long have you been here? Two days. We’ll be forced to take your down to the station. You have not completed the obligatory registration with the local office of the Interior Ministry, you’re sauntering about in provocative attire on a national holiday, not taking part in the event. He let them stuff him into the Lada, Jesus, where did they dig this thing up, and drove off. There most likely weren’t any cameras in the car and he thought that here they would finally put their cards on the table. He smiled and with a wink asked the sergeant who was sitting next to the driver: When will they show the movie? The cops looked at each other, then the sergeant turned around and with a well-aimed swing punched the arrestee between the eyes.

  The building they brought him to had just been built, but architecturally it recreated late Happy Socialism from the 1980s, roughly hewn marble, wood and frosted glass. Blood trickled down from his split brow. The man who came out of the building wearing a suit immediately ordered them to get him medical attention, a nurse appeared from somewhere, put on a Band-Aid, found some ice, and led him into an office with a leather couch.

  “Sorry, they got a bit carried away. I had explicitly told them not to touch a hair on your head. They can be real brutes sometimes, just like back in the day. Just don’t tell me you don’t remember me”—the man across from him took a bottle of brand-name whiskey and two glasses out of his desk drawer with a practiced gesture.

  There was something familiar about that face, soft, babyish, looking ready to start bawling at any minute.

  “Baby Cakes, is that you?”

  “It’s me, Swift-Footed Stag.”

  My (I didn’t know it was me, God damn it) schoolmate Baby Cakes, one of the gang back then, the eternal butt of our jokes, we didn’t even give him an Indian name. He carried Chingachook’s bow and quiver of arrows.

  “So you’ve bought up the whole town of T., you’re the one . . .”

  “When did you get here, when did you learn all the gossip? Yes, I occupy several posts, mayor, party secretary, chief of the gendarmerie.”

  “And why did you have to arrest me?”

  “Oh, I have more than enough reasons. But above all, I wanted to see you, shame on you for coming here and not giving me a call . . . Because of the good old days. You’ve rented out a house to write in, and just imagine the coincidence, the same one you used to live in. I’m happy that you look back fondly on those years.”

  “What’s with that baloney downtown, are you shooting some kind of a movie? You haven’t become a director, too, now have you?”

  “No, it’s far more serious than that. I’ve launched a project. In short, I’m turning time back thirty years. Nothing has changed here in any case. I’m creating the world’s largest museum. A museum of the past, of socialism, call it what you will. The whole town, every day, round-the-clock, a total museum. Actually, ‘museum’ isn’t exactly the right word, everything is live. Everyone keeps being whatever he was then, and we pay him for it. I foot the bill for everything. We don’t pay them much, but we don’t ask much of them, either. Just for them to stay the same. They’re nostalgic for the olden days in any case. We’ve cut off the Internet, TV, we sell newspapers only from back then, actually we reprint the old editions in reverse order, we’ve imposed penalties for telling political jokes, we’ve reintroduced the people’s militia, party meetings, demonstrations. I invited those who had been secret service informers to get back to work. I also pay a few folks who used to grumble against the government to keep doing it. Those sorts of things create atmosphere.

  In short, you don’t do a damn thing, you loaf around all day and take home a paycheck in the end. Just like back then. But I’m merciless if someone breaks the rules, my gendarmes are like the ones back in the day. You got a first-hand taste of that, incidentally. People are happy. Do you have any idea how bad unemployment in the neighboring towns is? Rich clients come here and order themselves a demonstration or a party meeting. Everyone wants to go back in time. I’ve built the ultimate time machine. I even have visitors from abroad. Come on now, cheers, and welcome back!”

  “Cheers. So what about the whiskey?”

  “From Corecom, the hard-currency store. Like I said, we’ve thought of everything.”

  “And why are you doing it? If it’s for the money, there are more conventional ways of making a buck.”

  “I’ve got money, although I never turn it down. That’s not the reason, though . . . Let me be frank with you,” he refilled our glasses, “I don’t feel like living in modern times. Nothing but shit . . .”

  “There was plenty of shit back then, too.”

  “Maybe, but to me it smelled good. The world is already bugging out big time, there’s no way you haven’t noticed. I want to invite you to join in. I want you to come up with . . . days, everyday life. I know that’s a tall order. The holidays are easy, those I can manage. But these folks need a script for daily life. I’ve already got some clients interested in that.” He went over to the bookshelf and pulled out a few of my books. “I’ve got them all. You gave me the idea to a certain extent, I’m indebted to you.”

  “Oh no,” I try to protest. “I never gave you the idea of bloodying up my brow.”

  “That whole inventory of socialism was a brilliant idea, along with the stories from back then, too. I use them as a handbook, we recreate a lot of those things. People drink Altai soda and cider, we brought back those old bottles of Vero dish soap. We’ve already got a few manufacturing workshops up and running here in town.”

  “This is a nightmare, okay, I’m going to wake up now . . .” I have the worrisome feeling that I can’t control the plot of the story or even my own lines.

  “No, this is a story that you just think you’re writing, but actually, you’re inside it. I’ve known you since childhood, you’ve always been a space cadet, it’s not hard for you to flit off somewhere.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Let’s just say you’ve been invited to join in your own project. Don’t forget that it’s your idea, I’m only the manager.”

  He takes a sip from the glass, I barely touch my lips to mine.

  “We’ve got some more serious plans as well. The Doctor will arrive shortly, I’ve given him the Yellow House, we’ve fixed it up. He’ll be doing experiments there. Regression therapy . . . regeneration of cell memory . . . a sanatorium for the past, gentle electroshock stimulation . . . He’ll explain it to you better himself. But we u
rgently need fabricators of the past.”

  For a moment it crosses my mind that some Anti-Gaustine has implanted himself in Baby Cakes. And my every thought occurs to him sinisterly turned upside-down. For the first time, I want to stop, to give up, to jump ahead in time. Turning back is not always innocent. The past can be a dangerous place.

  “Quite dangerous,” Anti-Gaustine’s voice adds. “Incidentally, the Yellow House is not far from here at all and if we open the window, we’ll hear a very familiar . . .”

  I didn’t hear whether he said “voice” or “howl,” because I got up and hurled myself through the window headfirst. That always helps with nightmares.

  THE MINOTAUR’S DIARY

  I have no idea how much time has passed since I’ve been here. I don’t remember whether I came in by myself or whether someone locked me in. The darkness is so thick that time has gotten lost. Only in darkness is there no time. I don’t know how old I am. I’ve been forgotten. I feel like pounding on the door until they hear me and open up. There’s only one unsolvable problem and therein lies the whole horror. There is no door.

  Here’s what I’ve discovered. It’s so obvious that it’s almost impossible to see. The deoxyribonucleic acid of every living creature with its double helix is structured like a labyrinth. A vertical labyrinth that unwinds in a spiral. The genetic instructions for all forms of life are written in a labyrinth. So that means it’s the perfect form for preserving and transmitting information. That’s why DNA has remained encrypted for so long. We are made of labyrinths.