TRANSLATED BY PAUL CURTIS DAW
[BULGARIA]
IANA BOUKOVA
FROM A as in Anything
“The Teacher Came Back Drunk”
In memory of Krum Atsev
The Teacher came back drunk. He had lost one of his sandals. The sharp gravel forced him to step with his bare foot in the grass and with his shod foot on the path, leaving a one-footed track. “Funny,” the Student would have thought, had he seen it the following day, “how a shortcoming can unexpectedly turn into an advantage.” His missing sandal even helped him to keep himself in check, to follow the line of the path without swerving and without staggering. “Indeed,” the Student would have further thought, “how deliberate his tracks look. Reminiscent of one hand clapping.” He would have thought other things as well. He was definitely a student gifted with an active imagination.
But now the Teacher was standing on the threshold, swaying. It looked as if the threshold he had stepped upon was the only hard strip of land, before and beyond which existed only empty space of an unknown depth. He was trying to remain upright upon it on his own, without assistance, without leaning or grabbing on to anything, only with the movements of his elbows and shoulders, and in those efforts of his there was a certain humility and a certain resigned dignity, the Student thought. His eyes were not red, nor was his gaze clouded like that of drunkards, it was merely turned aside, in a direction different from that of his actions. In the end he managed to keep his balance, took off his one remaining sandal and hurled it at the group of students. The others ducked with stifled cries, only the Student stayed still and the sandal hit him on the forehead. The wooden sole was not only heavy, it also had sharp edges, and it cut his eyebrow. A thin stream of blood started trickling down, filling his eye with red, but the Student did not wipe it away. He felt like he’d been chosen.
During its flight, the sandal’s unfastened strap had hooked a little bowl of ink and overturned it on one of the drawings. It was the Student’s own drawing, imperfect in any case. The ink poured down it like a diagonal curtain with long tassels, gradually covering the cone-shaped mountain with its truncated peak: first its snows, then its dark slopes, then the bare trees at its foot, the river and the two human figures—an elderly man and a younger one talking by its banks. Only little islands of the drawing remained, hinting at its content, allowing the viewer to presume that the ink had destroyed a perfect composition, because the human eye tends to find virtues in what is hidden, rather than shortcomings. It was the only possible way his drawing could look beautiful and the Student felt gratitude towards his Teacher.
The Teacher went over to the hearth and grabbed a log. “How beautiful it is that even the lowliest object,” the Student thought, “acquires meaning in the human hand. It becomes a tool, an instrument.” It was an entirely nondescript log, crooked, gnarled, with one knot, out of which jutted the sharp remnant of a broken-off branch. A loud noise ensued when the Teacher swung it: containers shattered to pieces, paper was torn, the rods of the screens were smashed. The others ran away shrieking. The only ones not making a sound were the Student and the Teacher. It was a dialogue without words. The Teacher was speaking to him. To him alone. Without budging from the spot, the Student almost knew what would follow.
The first blow shattered the wrist of the same hand he used for drawing. A tough lesson, but well-deserved, since he had lost his self-control and raised his arm to shield his face. The second blow tore his ear with that same sharpened remnant of a branch. The Student caught the scent of his own blood in the air and the scent of fermentation from the Teacher’s clothes. “Fermentation is a sign of maturation,” he thought. He knew there would be only one more blow. He felt so unshakeable that water could not wash him away, nor could the wind erode him, not could the sun desiccate him. It was as if what happened only to the great Teachers was now happening to him. The moment disintegrated into an endless multitude of instants. And in one of them, he managed to grasp his final thought: that most likely the Teacher was not drunk at all, not in the least.
“Tea in the Snow; or, A Brief Delay in the Town of N.”
And it’s always this and that, and my dearest Misha, and my most obliging Mihail Sergeevich, if only you would drink a little tea, if only you would sit for a bit, my heart aches to watch you pacing the corridor. These things happen, it has happened before, and the newspapers said there were no casualties, just a little patience is all that’s needed, while you, Sir, are like a little child, up and down the corridor …
And he’s always got one eye on the landscape, hoping to catch some movement. But come on now, what movement? Everything’s frozen, everything’s stiff, as stiff as a dead man, what movement could there be?
While he’s like: If only you would sit down a bit, Mihail Serge’ich, we could chat a bit, get to know each other, that’s how people meet each other, it’s always by accident, due to the circumstances, a bit of patience is all that’s needed. While you are like a little child, immediately bored with everything, despairing over everything, you say you’re stiff as a dead man, what are these exaggerations? Exaggeration is a bad thing, Mihail Serge’ich, mark my words, it is the root of all evil—not foolishness, not treachery, but exaggeration and nothing else.
And he’s always shoving tea into my hands, the sixth cup in the last two hours. I piss in the snow and don’t leave a trace, the droplets merely sink into it, leaving no trace, damn this life to hell, you can’t leave anything behind, not even a tiny yellow trace, nothing.
And he keeps going on and on and his bald forehead shines, as if reflecting the light from some unknown source, who knows, maybe it’s gleaming with its own light: If only you would say something, Mihail Serge’ich, don’t leave everything to me, I might slip up while speaking and offend you, but even if I were to say everything perfectly correctly, you’d still get offended, that’s just how you are, a bit proud. I can read your face as if I was looking at myself in the mirror, of course, you’ll pardon me for saying so, because who am I, yet I know you, it’s as if I was looking at myself, how your very soul is bored to tears and your fingers are constantly moving, as if pressing down keys in the air and every note is out of tune, I know them, those sour notes, oh yes, I know them very well, that despair …
That’s just how it is, I sit here and listen to him, what else can I do. If only the lady from Compartment 6 was here, but the Tatars made off with her. Who knows, it must’ve been the Tatars, they came out of the snow all covered in snow, nobody saw from where, tossed her on her back over their horses, only her white boots were left kicking in the air. But it’s not my job to go saving damsels in distress. Not that he lifted a finger, either, he just watched with tears in his eyes, he loves nothing more than to watch and sigh: Oh, if only Lydia Petrovna (the lady from Compartment 6) were here to sing for us a bit, what a voice, it doesn’t caress your ears, but grabs you by the throat, it goes straight for the throat, like a lynx …
Well, that’s what the lady’s life was meant to be, short. Because everyone only lives as long as they’re in front of my eyes, afterwards, when they’re gone, it’s as if the earth has swallowed them up, as if they’ve turned to dust. Isn’t that right?
And he kept harping on his same tune: Oh, Mihail Serge’ich, that’s not honorable, it’s base, it’s downright base to the other person, for the one to talk while the other merely passes judgment and counts up errors without saying a word.
Whereas I could tell you everything. About your childhood, for example, your childhood was—how shall I put it—heroic, your clenched little fists, your loneliness, your pride, you needn’t hide such things, you needn’t be ashamed, they are beautiful, even majestic.
And later, your military overcoat, that overcoat fit you to a T, you can still see it in the set of your shoulders, you even miss it, as much as you hate to admit it, you miss the discipline, because when it’s like this, we have to do things precisely like this, and when it’s like that, precisely the opp
osite, yes indeedy, now you have to decide everything for yourself. And you miss the sword, even the sword, it kept your hand busy, now what to do with that hand, the fingers are in the air and everything’s out of tune, alas, Mihail Serge’ich … Cigarette?
So do I have anywhere else to go? I do not. They’re playing cards in the neighboring compartment, but what would I do there, they’re already four and I’d be the fifth. Sometimes they even pop in here for a cup of tea, it’s rather awkward, but what else can they do, perhaps at the end of the day I am in a privileged position. Besides, after being stuck for so long they’ve forgotten how to speak like men, all they talk about is cards, “ten of diamonds” they say and smile at you to pour them a cup or at best muster up some “queen of spades” if they want to say something about art.
Of course, all hell’s broken loose, the other wagons are full of the lower classes, the broad masses, if you will, are having a gay old time, they’ve paired off and gotten married, had children, they aren’t fazed in the least, they’re going about their lives, they’re hardy folks, but what good does their hardiness do me?
And him: You oughtn’t to talk like that, my turtledove, you really oughtn’t. It’s bad. Your head is full of nothing but fantasies. But the world is rich enough as it is without our fantasies. Now, take Lydia Petrovna, say, what imagination could have thought her up, those eyes, that bust, and her poor little lips all bluish, bitten, but on the inside, from the outside nothing shows, she says nothing, a proud woman.
Ah, my poor Mihail Serge’ich, you even wrote poems when the time was right for it, poems are a good thing, comforting, they soothe a man’s soul and he looks more kindly upon the world, as much as he might complain and curse, he still speaks to it amicably, as if to an equal.
I get up again to go outside, the curtains in Compartment 6 have been drawn, she must be asleep, most people wake up when the motion stops, while she’s the opposite, she always wants everything her own way, she must be asleep, all covered up by her coat, and her coat is a fluffy thing, a dead thing, only her white boots are sticking out.
There is no trace, of course. On the way back the fellows in the neighboring compartment are shouting over one another. Don’t people constantly talk like that, with their cards ready? You lead, I match you, I play trump, you double trump me. And he says I’m imagining things!
And immediately he starts in again: You love cards, Mihail Serge’ich, oh, how you love them. You’re only listening to me now with half an ear, you’re following the game. Who plays what, who bids what, you even imagine that you can guess who’s holding what and, when someone makes a mistake, your nostrils shrink up, as if you’ve caught a whiff of some bad smell, oh no, you don’t forgive other people’s mistakes. Now, if you only had a little something, anything, you’d join in right away, you’d bet it right away, but you’ve been left with nothing, nor can you ask anything from me, as we well know, and well, whatever Lydia Petrova had she already gave, it’s over and done with, what more can you ask of her. But you, sir, always imagine everything like that, coldly, as if you were outside of it, as if it didn’t affect you at all, oh Misha, my turtledove, you are a tortured soul, you are …
I hold the cup of tea in my hands and every time I bend down to take a sip, my face nods in agreement. This is no way to drink, having to dunk your face in with every sip. It’s enough to put you off it completely.
You always twist things like that, my dearest, always imagine them distorted, misconstrued, and now here we are, the train is stuck in the snow, big deal, you just need a little patience, but you immediately turn it into a metaphor, you’ve brought the broad masses into it. The broad masses are a dangerous thing, seductive, don’t get started with them, not even like that, for effect, believe, I know about such things …
He’s really started waxing sentimental, one of his eyes has started watering like mad when he looks at me and I don’t like it, I don’t like it one bit.
What were we talking about, oh yes, you somehow twist everything about, Mihail Serge’ich, and now here’s the other thing: so the Tatars carried her off, you lost sight of her, or so you say, as if the earth just swallowed her up, her coat was dead, you say, (dead, eh?), you must finally learn to call things by their real names, to hear them at long last, and for me to hear them, too, it’s been torturous for me, too, my turtledove, all these hours I’ve been drowning you in tea. And afterwards your soul was desolate, you were in pain, it’s not enough for you to be desolate in the city, now you’ve set out for the steppe, you need landscape, you say, your emotions are ambitious, my dear, nothing’s ever enough for you, you always want more, while your little heart is so weak, it can’t hold out, in your place …
Here I should’ve jumped up and once, twice, right in the kisser, but I sit there motionless and somehow everything goes dark before my eyes, and wouldn’t you know it, the dirty bastard was right on about that, too, that “my little heart is so weak,” and I scream, even though no sound comes out, but he hears everything: There’s no such place, scum! There is no such place any longer and there never will be again!
TRANSLATED FROM THE BULGARIAN BY ANGELA RODEL
[CROATIA]
SVEN POPOVIC
FROM Last Night
“First Steps”
You said, when all is possible,
nothing is real.
—S. Mraović
SHE TOOK HER FIRST steps in the snow. They melted away. As if she left no trace on the ground. She’s twenty-one now and isn’t really there. I don’t mean to say she’s distant, but she simply has this feeling that everything that happens to her isn’t real. Like it’s happening to someone else. And she’s just an observer. Because she felt like nothing was real, she sometimes had to touch certain objects or people to make sure that they were there and wouldn’t dissolve like dreams do when you open your eyes.
It’s been some twenty years since she took her first steps in the snow. It appears to her sometimes that the days have also dissolved like dreams do when you open your eyes. No sequences, no logical series. Only cracks in Technicolor. It even seemed to her it was all just a dream. In summer, she would lie in her bed and smoke. So heavily that her room would get foggy. At her side always some novel. A Dostoyevsky, a Kafka, a Murakami, a Kamov. She didn’t bother reading poetry. Sometimes she would just lie there, brown hair flowing all around and beneath her. She would close her eyes and think of oceans and words that summoned up the eternal. She wouldn’t go out until the sun dropped. In winter, she would go to cafés. She would sit by herself. Smoke an entire pack. That amounted to some hundred and fifty pages and two or three cups of coffee.
She met him mid-fall at her university. He was tall, with a bit of a slouch, much too smug. Loud. Always at the center of attention. Nonetheless he disagreed with most people and had difficulty fitting in, despite his charm. In his own way, he sometimes wasn’t there either. He insisted he was constantly surrounded with wondrous occurrences, but still it sometimes seemed that he clung to romantic illusions about the past. She would see him hanging out with his friends. Always laughing. Charming punks. The word was they listened to nothing but vinyl LPs together and only watched movies in old theaters. They were constantly starring in their own movies with witty dialogues and the perfect background music. He wanted to be a rebel. She found him completely insufferable. They hooked up at a house party thrown by a mutual friend. He caught her by surprise, using the most idiotic line she had ever heard.
Have you ever kissed to a Smiths song?
Best European Fiction 2017 Page 4