Dancing Bears

by Witold Szablowski

  “I was given three months’ pay in advance—then that was it, good-bye,” he recalls, and adds: “If you go out of my house, walk a short way to the right, and stand on the hillock, you’ll see what’s left of our collective farm. It was a beautiful farm, three hundred cows, a thousand acres, extremely well run! Most of the people working there were Gypsies, because the work was too stinky for Bulgarians. Now it has all fallen through, and instead of working, the Gypsies sit around unemployed. But the milk they sell in the market at Razgrad is German. Clearly it’s worth it for the Germans to have big farms but not for the Bulgarians.”

  In 1991 Marinov had to ask himself the basic question that every redundant worker has to face: “What else am I capable of doing?”

  “In my case the answer was simple,” he says. “I knew how to train bears to dance.”

  His father and grandfather were bear keepers, and his brother, Stefan, had kept bears ever since leaving school. “I was the only one in the family who’d gone to work at the collective farm,” says Marinov. “I wanted to try another life, because I already knew about bears. Lots of bear keepers got jobs at the farm, as I did. But I grew up around bears. I knew all the songs, all the tricks, all the stories. I use to bottle-feed my father’s two bears by hand. When my son was born, he and the bears were kept together. There were plenty of times when I got it wrong—my baby drank from the bear’s bottle, and the bear from his. So when they fired me from the collective farm, there was one thing I knew for sure: if I wanted to go on living, I had to find a bear as fast as possible. Without a bear, I wouldn’t survive a year.

  “How did I find one? Wait, let me light another cigarette and then I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  3.

  “I went to the Kormisosh nature reserve to get a bear. It’s a well-known hunting ground; apparently Brezhnev forgave our Communists a billion leva* of debt in exchange for taking him hunting there. So I was told by a guy who worked at Kormisosh for forty years, but I don’t know if it’s true.

  “First I had to go to Sofia, to the ministry responsible for the forests, because I had a friend there from school. Thanks to him, I got a voucher for a bear, authorizing me to buy one at Kormisosh, so from Sofia I went straight to the reserve. They knew of me there by hearsay, because my brother, Stefan, had been to them in the past with other bear keepers, and in those days he’d been a real star. He used to perform at a very expensive restaurant on the Black Sea, where the top Communist Party leaders used to go. He was on television several times. Lots of people all over Bulgaria would recognize him.

  “Stefan got his bear from a zoo in Sofia. A drunken soldier had broken into the bear enclosure, and the mother happened to have cubs at the time, so she attacked him and killed him on the spot. They had to euthanize her, as they always do if a zoo animal kills someone. Stefan heard about it and went to buy one of the cubs.

  “At the restaurant show, first came some girls who danced on hot coals, and then he was on. He’d start by wrestling with the bear and end with the bear massaging the restaurant manager’s back.

  “Then a long line of people would form, to have the bear massage them too. My brother earned pretty good money that way. Of course he had to share it with the manager, but there was enough for both of them.

  “So I went to Kormisosh. The forester asked me to pass on his greetings to my brother, and then they brought out the little bear. She was a few months old. They’re best like that, because they’re not too attached to their mothers yet—they can still change keepers without making a fuss. If you take an older bear away from its mother, it can starve itself to death.

  “So she’s looking at me. And I’m looking at her. I’m thinking, ‘Will she come to me or not?’ I kneel down, hold out my hand, and call, ‘Come here, little one.’ She doesn’t move, just gazes at me, and her eyes are like two black coals. You’d fall in love with those eyes—I tell you.

  “I took a piece of bread out of my pocket, put it in the cage, and waited for her to go inside. Again she looked at me. She hesitated for a moment, but then she went in. ‘Now you’re mine,’ I thought, ‘for better or worse.’ Because I was fully aware that a bear can live with someone for thirty years. That’s half a lifetime!

  “I paid thirty-five hundred leva for her, but I didn’t regret a single penny. She went straight to my heart at once. That money was my payoff from the collective farm, plus a little more that I’d borrowed. In those days you could buy a Moskvich car for about four thousand.

  “But I couldn’t afford a Moskvich as well, so I went part of the way home with the cub by bus, which was an immediate pleasure, because all the children were interested in my bear and wanted to pet her. I took it as a good sign. And it showed I’d gotten a really great bear, friendly and lovable. And then I thought, ‘Your name will be Valentina. You’re a beautiful bear, and that’s a beautiful name, just right for you.’ And it stuck. Valentina, or Vela for short.

  “Then we had to transfer to a train, and Vela traveled in the luggage compartment. The conductor didn’t want a ticket for her; he just asked me to let him pet her. Of course I did. But I also insisted on paying for a ticket. That’s what I’m like—if you owe something, you have to pay, and that’s final. I always used to buy Vela a ticket, like for an adult person, without any discount for petting her. There was just one occasion when the conductor insisted. He said someone in his family was in the hospital, and he regarded the bear as a good sign, as good luck for that person. I could see it mattered to him, so that one time I didn’t pay up.”

  4.

  “The biggest problem I had was with my wife. Because I went to Kormisosh without telling her. And when I suddenly appeared at the front door with a bear, she went crazy.

  “‘Are you out of your mind? What sort of a life are we going to have?’ she screamed, and came at me with her fists flying. I gave in to her, and left the house.

  “I’d always done my best to live in harmony with my wife, and I can’t say I wasn’t upset at her for screaming like that, but I did understand her to some extent. The life of a bear keeper isn’t easy. Of course, he can earn a living. You see this house? It’s still standing thanks to our Valentina. On a good day at the seaside I earned more than I did in a whole month at the collective farm.

  “But it’s a job that has its price. You have be on the alert the whole time to make sure the bear doesn’t go wild and harm you—Vela was with us for twenty years, but you could never drop your guard for an instant. You don’t know when your bear’s instincts might awaken. A man I know in the next village, Ivan Mitev, had had his bear for fifteen years. He bought her at the circus, so you might think he’d never have any trouble with her—her mother and grandmother had never known freedom, so her instincts should have been well suppressed. Until one day Ivan failed to tie her up properly, and she broke loose, killed three hens, and ate them. How she did it, I don’t know. Vela sometimes had hens flapping around her head while she slept, but it never occurred to her to eat them. But it happened with Mitev’s bear. Once her instincts had awoken, she started attacking people—the keeper, his wife, and their children. She kept trying to bite them. Suddenly they had a major problem. Unfortunately, a bear has no sense of gratitude and won’t remember that you’ve fed it corn and potatoes for the past fifteen years. If it goes wild, it’ll start to bite.

  “On top of that, bear keepers aren’t exactly welcome among people. We’re not respected. I had a problem with this for ages, and I never, ever performed with Vela either here, in Dryanovets, or in the neighboring villages. Only when I reached Shumen, and that’s almost forty miles away from us, would I take out my gadulka, or fiddle, and start to work.

  “So when I brought the little bear cub home, my wife knew perfectly well how it would all end. Women are very wise, and the moment she saw that shaggy little creature she also saw the people who’d laugh at us, the nights we’d spend out in the rain, and us tra
iling from yard to yard in the hope that someone would toss us a few pennies.

  “But I knew my dearly departed wife, as well. And I knew that if I put up with her outburst of anger, she’d soon come to love the bear like her own child.

  “I wasn’t mistaken. By the time the first winter came, she was urging me to make Vela a shelter as soon as possible or the animal would freeze. And whenever it rained, she took an umbrella and ran to the tree where Vela was tied up, to make sure the little bear didn’t get wet. If she could have, she’d have kept her in the house, the way some city folk keep dogs.”

  5.

  “When I brought the cub here, the worst trouble I had was from a major in the militia—or had it been renamed the police by then? I can’t remember—those changes happened so quickly that no one could keep up with them. When he found out I had a bear cub, he came and said, ‘Citizen Marinov, I’ve heard you’re keeping a bear at your place. I’ll give you seven days to get rid of it.’

  “I tried arguing, saying, ‘But Mr. Major, what do you mean? I bought it legally. I have a receipt from the Kormisosh park. Anyway, thanks to your economic transformation they’ve taken away my job, so let me do something else!’

  “But the major refused to listen. ‘You’ve got seven days,’ he said. ‘And that’s my last word on the matter, Citizen Marinov.’

  “It was suspicious, because there were six other bears in our village at the time, including the one belonging to my brother, Stefan. So why was he picking on me? I don’t know. Maybe he’d had enough of the bears. Or maybe he wanted a bribe. I didn’t bother to ask. It was all legally aboveboard, so there was no reason for me to give him anything. I went to Shumen, to see the people who represent the Ministry of Culture, and I asked them to call Sofia at my expense, and there they confirmed that I had all the necessary documents. You couldn’t keep a bear illegally. A vet had to examine it, and the Ministry of Culture had to confirm that my program would be of high artistic quality. The ministry confirmed that I had all the papers, in Razgrad they issued me an extra bit of paper, and the militia major was told to leave me in peace.

  “And he did. All he said was that he’d have his eye on me. I saw him twice more, and then he disappeared.

  “All that remained was the training. There are two schools of thought about it.

  “There are bear keepers who take the harsh approach. They beat the bear, drag it by the snout, and kick it.

  “I was never one of those. In the first place, it’s contrary to my character—I’m the mild-mannered type. Second, my father never stopped telling me that God sees all. He gave you the bear, and if you treat it badly, it’s as if you’d insulted God. I believe that, because it has happened very often to many different bear keepers. Sooner or later, God will repay you for your evil.

  “A bear that’s been beaten will be just waiting to have a go at you. I knew a man who used to hit his bear with a firefighting shovel. Whenever it saw the shovel, the bear kept its distance. But the one time the man went near it without the shovel, it bit him, very badly too.

  “Another piece of proof is Ivan Mitev, the man whose bear learned to eat hens. He did the stupidest thing imaginable. He panicked. He asked a hunter for help. They let the bear go in the direction of the forest, and then the hunter shot and killed it. And a few months later Ivan himself was dead. His heart. I tell you, God can see what you’re doing to your bear, and sooner or later he’ll pay you back.

  “I would never have hit a bear. And certainly not Vela. My God! Just the thought of it brings tears to my eyes. I’d sooner have tormented myself than her.

  “So in that case, how did I train her? Easy. I just took her a short way out of the village, brought out my gadulka and some candy, started to play, and tried to persuade her to stand on her hind legs. When she did, she got a piece of candy.

  “She caught on very quickly. Only later, when spring came, did I start to teach her more complicated things. For instance, I’d say: ‘Now, Vela, show us how the bride kisses her mother-in-law’s hand.’ And she’d give all the ladies a beautiful kiss on the hand, which got us very big tips once we were traveling around the country.

  “We had a famous gymnast named Maria Gigova, who was very popular, even after her career was over. Sometimes Vela and I would find a place to stand in the middle of a town and I’d say, ‘Now, Vela, show us how Gigova won her medals.’ And Vela would hop about, folding her paws exquisitely, and to finish she’d make a bow. People laughed, clapped, and took pictures, and we earned a few coins.

  “There was also a guy called Yanko Rusev, a weight lifter from Shumen, an Olympic gold medalist and five-time world champion. I’d say, ‘Show us, my dear, how Rusev lifted weights.’ And she’d squat down, arrange her paws like a weight lifter grabbing hold of the bar, and pant heavily.

  “And when our great soccer player Hristo Stoichkov started playing for Barcelona, I’d say, ‘Now, Vela, show us how Stoichkov fakes a foul.’ And Vela would lie down on the ground, seize hold of a leg, and start howling dreadfully.

  “Some bear keepers used to weave in political material. Something about the Communist leader Zhivkov, something about his people, something about other governments. Especially when Zhivkov fell from power, that’s when there were hundreds of jokes about him.

  “I never liked that. First, better not to fall foul of the authorities, because I hadn’t forgotten about the major, who was just waiting to have a go at me. Nobody knew if the new regime would last for long, but the major seemed set to last forever.

  “Second, I’ve always been a staunch Communist. Before the war, a Gypsy was a nobody. It’s entirely thanks to the Communists that after the war we were given rights, jobs, and apartments, that our people learned to read and write, and that the Bulgarians started to give us a bit of respect.

  “The Bulgarians, too, did better under Communism. On Saint Gregory’s Day, the tradition in this country is to kill a lamb. Almost everyone in our village used to have the money to buy one and to eat it on this special day. Nowadays, only a few people in the entire village can afford to do that. At the collective farm, which once employed several dozen people, there are only three workers now. And sometimes they pay them—sometimes they don’t. When I hear people saying what a criminal time the Communist era was, it makes me feel bad, because I remember it quite differently. For me, Communism was a wonderful time. I’m sorry I didn’t have a bear then. People were in better moods. They were happy. But nowadays there’s nothing but frustration. Everyone’s chasing his own tail.

  “Look, that young man standing outside my house is my grandson Ivan. The brightest of my boys. He’s just graduated from high school. He got good grades on his exams, so he’d like to go on to college. If his grandpa still had a bear, he’d get in the car or on the bus, and for as long as he lived he’d keep doing the rounds from Varna to Burgas, just to make the money for that boy’s studies. And maybe in a few years we’d have an engineer in the family. There have been cases of the kind among bear keepers.

  “But I don’t have a bear, so it’s a waste of breath—the boy’s passed his exams, but instead of going to college he’ll have to look around for a job.

  “So I’ve never laughed at the Communists—though one of my friends made fun of Tsar Simeon, who used to be our prime minister. When he took over the government, he promised to improve life for all Bulgarians within a hundred days. And my friend used to take his bear and say, ‘Show us, my dear, how Tsar Simeon improved life for the Bulgarians.’ And the bear would lie down on the ground, cover its head with its paws, and roar terribly. That was an excellent trick—it showed very well how life has changed in Bulgaria since they got rid of Communism.”

  6.

  “Apart from tricks, people wanted the bear to massage and heal them. If someone was very sick and the doctors couldn’t help him anymore, he would come to the bear keeper and have the bear lie down on top of him. Peop
le believed the illness would pass into the bear, and that it would be able to cope with it because it was big and strong. And I’ll tell you, there was something to it, because when I used to tour the fairs, each year I’d stop by at the very same villages. To this day I can still remember the dates of all the fairs in our province: Rusokastro, May 6. Kamenovo, May 24. Boyadzhik, June 2. And so on.

  “And at those fairs I often saw people who the year before had looked as if they were at death’s door, but if Vela had lain on top of them, they’d gotten better. They came to say thank you, and brought her candy. And I often used to hear: ‘It was your bear that saved my life.’

  “Massage is another thing too. Nothing’s as good for backache as a bear. The person lies facedown. Then the bear puts its paws on him and moves them from top to bottom. The lady who brought you to see me, the community leader, will probably remember the time I brought Vela to massage her father. She was very small then, and she was so scared something awful was going to happen to her daddy that she cried and cried. We had to pretend I was leaving the house, while her mom took her into the other room, and only then did we do the massage. And it helped. Healing was the only thing I agreed to do in my own village. Performances, never—I was too ashamed. But you can never refuse to heal someone.

  “But if Vela was sick, I treated her myself. I knew exactly what was ailing her. I could see when she felt unwell. She and I had a better understanding than I’ve had with many a human being. I only had to look at her and I knew what she was trying to tell me.