Street Without a Name

by Kassabova, Kapka

  ‘Do you mix with Bulgarians?’ I turn to Mehmet.

  ‘Yes, of course we mix, we live together, we struggle with the same problems. But you know, some people want trouble. Some people divide us. We all grew up together, no difference, but now some politicians… Those troublemakers, the Ataka guy and that Turk who talks about southern Bulgaria going to Turkey, they should lock them up together, let them be buddies!’

  The far right Ataka is a paranoid and xenophobic ultra-nationalist party in the best European tradition. Its leader Volen Siderov has declared many ludicrous things, but among them is that just as the demise of the great USSR was brought about by the Zionists, and the Holocaust was invented by the Jews, so the ‘long holiday’ of the Bulgarian Turks was brought about by Turkey. Because they really needed half a million penniless refugees from the Soc Bloc.

  The wounds have barely begun to heal, the stories of loss and separation barely told, but already the strident voices of revisionism are loud and crude, just like those busybodies with ‘spontaneous’ placards in the distant Sofia of 1989. Which is no surprise: they are the same voice, the same continuous screech of fear and hate, and today’s paranoid Siderovs are the malformed offspring of yesterday’s paranoid Jivkovs.

  We reach the top of the hill and get out of the car. Only the foundations are left of the mighty medieval Shumen fortress. We skip along the contours of stone rooms where people lived their small lives in the mountain air, here on top of this small, green world. Thracians, Romans, Byzantines, Bulgars, Turks, they all enjoyed the lush views from here.

  ‘Everybody passed through here,’ Mehmet muses, as if overhearing my thoughts. ‘So much folk passed through, and everybody destroyed. Destruction, destruction. I came here from school. School trips. They told us the Turks destroyed it, but we liked coming here because it was a day out. We never thought about the history.’

  We’re standing at the lookout point at the end of the fortress. Unreal, chlorophyll-green hills rise above the town huddled below like a handful of pebbles. Clusters of tile-roofed houses at one end, ugly monolithic buildings at the other.

  ‘What’s that?’ I point across the valley to where a gigantic granite monument squats on top of a hill.

  ‘The Monument to the Creators of the Bulgarian State. Built to commemorate 1,300 years of Bulgarian statehood,’ he recites.

  My Lonely Planet swears that out of many ugly, conspicuous monuments in Bulgaria, this one is the ugliest and most conspicuous, and I have to agree. Only Stalin deserves a monument like this.

  ‘We all built it back in 1981,’ Mehmet continues. ‘They told us to take time off to work on the site. It was Lyudmila Jivkova’s idea.’

  ‘Did they pay you?’

  He laughs, amused by my naivety, and a couple of golden teeth glint in his mouth.

  ‘Not only did they not pay us, they took money off our salaries because we weren’t turning up to work.’

  ‘Did everyone work on the Creators?’

  ‘Everyone. Every able-bodied man in Shumen was up there, mixing cement.’

  ‘So who’s up there?’

  ‘Oh, all the Creators. Khan Asparuh, Khan Tervel, Khan Kroum, Khan Omurtag, all the khans. And a big lion at the front…’ he does a lion’s paws impression with his hands ‘… guarding the Bulgarian State. Guarding…’ He trails off.

  I laugh and after a moment’s hesitation, he joins me.

  I am laughing at the Creators of the Bulgarian State with a Turk, and do I care? The nomadic Bulgars and their khans were an Asiatic people anyway, a bunch of talented barbarians who cleverly merged with those other talented barbarians, the Slavs, to form a hardy little nation of survivors.

  And after so many centuries of bad blood and mixed blood, after so many five-year plans and so many tons of cement, after so many tears and so much water under the bridge, it’s good to laugh together. After all, it isn’t the original State we are laughing at, it’s that State, the one which tried to dissolve the People into cement and built monuments like this with their sweat and blood. That State loved me, the child of ‘poor engineers’, as much – and as little – as it loved Mehmet.

  We get back into the car and slide down what feels like a vertical road. Mehmet drops me off at the Tombul Mosque. He asks for a bit more than the modest agreed price.

  ‘It’s still reduced price for you. Out of the generosity of Mehmet’s heart, reduced price.’ He winks and puts his hand on his heart, and I put the extra money in his palm. We shake hands and keep the peace.

  Tombul or the ‘plump’ Mosque is the biggest in the Balkans and the prettiest in Bulgaria, and it is prayer time. The smartly dressed teenager at the entrance gives me an explanatory folder typed in several languages, and asks me for money.

  ‘How come,’ I protest, ‘all the churches and mosques in Bulgaria are free, except yours?’

  ‘This is a heritage monument,’ he says pointedly. ‘It’s listed.’ But I’m not having it. Something about his cocky manner bothers me. He behaves like he owns the place. Like he owns the country.

  ‘So is Rila Monastery.’ I force myself to smile. ‘And still it’s free.’

  ‘OK, you can go in for free,’ he relents and smiles too. I suddenly feel mean. ‘But hurry because it’s prayer time.’

  The mosque is splendidly decorated and renovated, and above the gate a poem in Arabic immortalizes the builder. Next door is an enchanting courtyard, an expired school for dervishes, and a library. The imam’s voice quietly summons the faithful to prayer, and when I peek inside the mosque again, I am greeted by the bottoms of twenty or so men and boys, a strangely disarming sight. I close the gate quietly, and rush back to catch the last bus out of town.

  The unshaven men in worn-out jackets are still at the bus station, smoking and glancing at their fake Rolexes, as if Godot’s arrival were now imminent.

  ‘Ah, here you are, I’ve been looking for you.’ The bearded driver manqué from this morning suddenly materializes again. ‘Do you still need a driver? I’ll give you a good price. Where are you going?’

  Back out of the Memory Hole, please. How much for that?

  13 In the Enchanted Garden

  On the Black Sea

  On the train from Burgas to Sofia, I sit in a full second-class compartment with Michael. An extrovert elderly couple sit by the window, facing each other. The man reads a tabloid newspaper and supplies a running commentary for the benefit of the compartment.

  It’s 2004 and Bulgaria has the most eccentric prime minister in the world: His Majesty Simeon II of Saxe-Coburg Gotha, the exiled tsar. He made a triumphant return from Spain in the nineties, wooed the desperate population with vague but grand talk of ‘fulfilling my historical duty to Bulgaria’, formed a party modestly called the National Movement Simeon II, and won the elections in 2001.

  ‘Listen to this,’ says the old man. ‘King Simeon went to Athens for the Olympics. And there, in downtown Athens, he ran to catch the bus, leaving his wife behind. What a gentleman! Is that why he studied how to be European for fifty years in Spain? Is this how Europeans behave? Give me a break!’ He snorts dismissively.

  His wife has dyed short hair and a plunging neckline.

  ‘We voted for him, hare-brains that we were!’ she joins in. ‘Do you know what his favourite phrase is? I’ll tell you when the time comes. A woman asks him the time, and he goes “I’ll tell you when the time comes…”’

  A thirty-something couple in the corner laugh. They hold hands the entire time and look very happy with life in general and their suntans in particular. She has bleached hair, and her horsey but handsome boyfriend looks like a Gypsy who’s going places.

  ‘He had the so-called 800 days plan,’ the old man continues, while fashioning a cone-hat out of the newspaper. ‘To improve the standard of living. It’s now been over 800 days and, guess what, he’s improved his own standard of living by reclaiming all the royal estates.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say: every people deserve
their king,’ the middle-aged woman from the corner sums up grimly.

  She has a heavy Tartar face and thick ankles, and embarks on telling us in monstrous detail about her health problems, son problems, money problems, native town (Pavlikeni), and how other people are wrong about everything, starting with Simeon II and ending with her husband who voted for him. ‘Me, I always vote for the Socialists, at least I know who I’m dealing with,’ she concludes, and makes herself even more unpopular.

  The old man, now wearing his paper hat, whips out a pack of cards. Lulled by the rocking of the train and the music of a language he is tired of trying to decipher, Michael falls asleep. Nobody has spoken to him, but as soon as he nods off, the young couple strain to look at the cover of his language book lying open on his lap.

  ‘Teach yourself Bulgarian for Germans,’ the horsey man whispers to his girlfriend.

  ‘He’s not German,’ I say. ‘It’s just the book.’

  ‘Where is he from?’ The old woman peeks from behind her cards.

  ‘New Zealand.’

  ‘He’s very nice.’ She wobbles her head approvingly.

  ‘Ah, New Zealand,’ the old man says competently and puts his cards down. ‘Lamb is very cheap there.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I agree quickly.

  ‘Is it true that they drive on the other side of the road there?’ the horsey man asks.

  I confirm that it’s true.

  ‘I thought so.’ He grins, satisfied. ‘It’s because it’s an island. All islands drive on the other side of the road.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I lie.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘They drive on the other side in Britain as well,’ I say tentatively.

  ‘Well, that’s because Britain is an island too,’ he explains, and his girlfriend looks at him admiringly. You can’t argue with that.

  ‘What is New Zealand like?’ the old woman enquires.

  ‘It’s nice. Beautiful country, civilized people.’ Then, seeing the wistful faces, I hasten to add, ‘They have their problems, of course.’

  ‘Well, every country has its problems,’ the old man says, ‘but theirs are problems of a different order. A rich country’s problems.’

  I must protect Michael from the accusation of wealth.

  ‘Well, not that rich. There are richer countries. But the main wealth of New Zealand is its natural beauty. And its farmland…’

  ‘That’s right,’ the old woman interjects, ‘they know how to exploit their farmland. What did we do with ours? Turned it into a giant factory. Crushed the agriculture. Industrialized it. Now it’ll take decades to sort out the mess.’

  Everyone agrees sullenly. The Tartar-faced woman starts extracting sandwiches from a bag, biting into them with determination. Everybody else follows suit. The old couple produce a bottle of warm beer and a huge salami. They cut slices and offer them around on the tip of a knife. ‘Bavarian,’ they announce proudly. The happy couple produce some home-made pastries which they offer around too.

  ‘It’s good that he’s asleep and can’t see us with our salami and stuffed pastries.’ The bleached woman smiles sheepishly.

  ‘Oh, on the contrary, he loves that sort of thing,’ I say. But she doesn’t believe me.

  The old man goes to the toilet and returns at once, scandalized.

  ‘Have you seen the toilet?’ he cries out in anguish. ‘It has to be seen to be believed. No toilet seat, all rusty, stuff all over, words fail me… How are we going to get into Europe with this toilet? Tell me, how!’

  It’s a rhetorical question, so everybody shakes their head indignantly. Even the munching Tartar woman is speechless.

  ‘Don’t translate this for your husband.’ The bleached woman turns to me. ‘It’s too embarrassing.’

  ‘One way or another, he’ll see for himself,’ the old man concludes and takes off his paper hat, defeated.

  ‘It’s OK, really.’ I smile reassuringly. ‘He’s seen much worse in his travels.’

  When Michael wakes up and goes to the very same abominable toilet, an anxious silence descends on our compartment.

  ‘I told you,’ the old man frets, ‘sooner or later, he’ll see.’

  The train stops and a sweaty woman with stuffed bags bursts into our compartment, heading for Michael’s empty seat. But she doesn’t stand a chance.

  ‘It’s taken!’ everybody cries in a chorus of solidarity. The old woman puts a protective hand on the empty seat and gives the new arrival a dirty look.

  When Michael returns from his toilet ordeal, all eyes are on him.

  ‘So?’ the old man enquires. He’s the compartment’s spokesperson.

  ‘How was the toilet?’ I ask Michael.

  ‘Horrendous.’ He grins cheerfully. ‘Straight out of Trainspotting.’

  ‘What did he say?’ The compartment leans forwards expectantly, all ears.

  ‘He said he’s seen much, much worse in other countries,’ I translate. There is a collective sigh of relief.

  ‘A very nice young man.’ The old woman wobbles her head affectionately and pats Michael’s thigh. The mood picks up.

  When we arrive in Sofia, a lifetime and a bursting bladder later – for I too attempted visiting the toilet, and Trainspotting has a long way to go – the old couple push the remaining half of the salami into my hands. I protest. I know how much a salami like this costs: about five per cent of their combined pensions.

  ‘No, take it, for your boyfriend to see for himself what outstanding deli foods we produce in Bulgaria,’ the old man insists. ‘To have some nice memories from here.’

  ‘I thought it was Bavarian,’ I say, and accept the salami. It would be rude not to.

  ‘It’s after a Bavarian recipe,’ the old woman explains. ‘But it’s made in Bulgaria. Look.’ And she points at the label which is indeed local.

  ‘We make very good deli foods these days,’ the Tartar woman confirms authoritatively.

  Then everybody in the compartment shakes hands with Michael, as if sealing an important trade deal between Bulgaria and New Zealand.

  Today, the bus from Burgas isn’t half as much fun as the train that summer. There’s no salami, no newspaper gossip, and the few passengers stare out of the window or talk on their mobiles. Except the red-haired man in the aisle next to me, who has been looking intently at my Lonely Planet.

  ‘You read in English?’ he finally ventures in an Irish accent. I give him the short version.

  ‘And are you going to Nessebur to see the sights?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I don’t have time to see any sights. I’m an investor. I’m having a look at some new apartments in Sunny Beach and Elenite. I’ve already got some apartments in Golden Sands. There’s a lot of building here, it’s an exciting time for investors.’

  ‘Do you like the sea, then?’ I glance at his cadaverous skin.

  ‘No, not really.’

  He’s from Dublin, he owns a car export company, or something to that effect, and when we arrive in Nessebur, he informs me stiffly that he’s staying in the five-star Hotel Bulgaria in Burgas, under this name and room number, and I should feel free to give him a call if I’m at a loose end tonight. No end could be loose enough, I think as we exchange pleasantries and shuffle off in opposite directions.

  Walking the length of the isthmus that connects ancient Nessebur to the mainland, I have a panoramic view of what’s on the opposite side of the bay: high-rise resort ghettos where our investor is inspecting properties right now.

  Little Nessebur is an oasis in the wasteland of quick glitz and concrete that the Black Sea coast has become. The Russian and Bulgarian mafias enjoy some fruitful deals along here, and Turkish and Greek businessmen have bought up the odd hotel complex or five, or fifty.

  The latest gangster crime along the coast took the shape of a seaside resort complex in Strandja National Park. It was the brainchild of the brilliantly named Crash Construction Company, and it promised to deflower the
last stretch of unspoilt beaches and coastal woodlands. But just as the Eco-Glasnost movement of broad-spectrum intellectuals in the 1980s heralded the birth of democracy, so the successful eco-protesters of 2007 heralded the birth of civil society and interrupted the construction. Just how democracy existed for seventeen years without civil society is another question.

  Back to Nessebur, which in the high season is overrun by bus loads of lobster-red Britons and Germans, and smug new-rich Bulgarians and Russians. But now it’s late summer, the trees are heavy, and the wood-panelled upper storeys of old houses lean over the streets with their window shutters open like the arms of gossiping women. The pink-white city walls and semi-ruined medieval churches are disdainfully beyond human reach. If left alone, Nessebur would happily live in a parallel time of its own. It’s been a long time in the making – since the Dorian Greeks arrived in the sixth century BC, built the city walls, and called the town Messambria.

  Nessebur’s beauty rival is Sozopol. They sit symmetrically on each side of the huge Burgas Gulf, and stare each other down. But there are two differences between them. First, unlike Nessebur, which is an open-air museum, Sozopol lives in its own present tense. Second, Sozopol was a place where my parents felt relaxed, once a year, for two weeks. It has always been a hang-out for painters and, on contact with Sozopol, even a scientist with a head full of neural networks like my father instantly turned artist.

  I sit on the steps leading down to the small Town Beach, trying to come to terms with what I see. What I see is a humble strip of sand. The Town Beach was once a vast terra incognita of bodies and umbrellas where I undertook exploratory missions, armed with a plastic sand bucket. Is it because we were the size of our mother’s leg that the world seemed so big? Or does the magical prism of memory magnify everything when we look through it?

  Either way, I see a tomboyish ten-year-old sitting under a beach umbrella with Lorna Doone, and stealing glances at a blond German boy. I see my father with his oils and canvases, sketching a naïve picture of this beach. So naïve that twenty years later my mother declined to hang it in the living-room of their house in Auckland. We have the entire Pacific outside our door, she said, we don’t need this any more. Sozopol is different, my father insisted. But he didn’t insist much and, gradually, his old paintings were demoted to the damp oblivion of the rumpus room. This isn’t art snobbery on my mother’s part. The rumpus room (out of sight, out of memory) is her only remaining defence against a rising tide of loss.