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Fiction

Old Proud Mountain

By Georgi Tenev
Translated from Bulgarian by Angela Rodel

After every national catastrophe,
the intelligentsia always regrets siding with the people.

From an article in a liberal newspaper

Society achieves harmony only in moments of tragedy, in the face of fateful events. And conversely, spontaneous celebration, freedom from cares and even happiness disconcert us. Thus, what makes
us happy now?

From an article in a liberal newspaper

Translator’s note: The title of the story is taken from the title of the Bulgarian national anthem; the story itself is a surrealistic resurrection of Bulgaria’s pantheon of nineteenth-century revolutionaries in a dystopian, twentieth-century setting. The “passengers” are all major national heroes, while Vasil Levski, also known as “The Deacon,” is the supreme symbolic figure of the Bulgarian nation, the personification of idealism, humanism, and self-sacrifice.  

It was daybreak when they called the regional office. They said there’d been an accident.

“Where?” the sergeant asked.

The connection was fuzzy, the line was crackling from the snow. When he finally understood the answer, he immediately picked up the internal line. He roused the junior officer from his bed, then pulled on his boots and stomped through the on-call room. He woke the others, as well, and then went out to start the jeep. A sleepy officer remained in the on-call room and, so as not to fall asleep, began loading blanks into the ammunition clips.

The lieutenant was already waiting at the fork in the road, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyebrows were frosted over, his mustache was also frozen. On its tips hung little crystals of milk, which his wife had managed to foist on him before he set out. The lieutenant hopped in the jeep while it was still in motion and they floored the gas. The ambulance and the crane were already on their way up ahead of them. The accident had happened at the mouth of the gorge, right where the bridge came out of the tunnel and passed by the hamlets. What kind of accident exactly, it still wasn’t clear. The train? Or had one of the containers on the cable conveyor from the mine fallen? Or had a landslide undercut the forested slopes along the screes? But it was still early for springtime floods that ate away the soil and pulled up the roots of the trees—then what was it? It was early morning, it was too early to say. Some of them were dozing as they swayed on the hard seat. Others were smoking.

 

It’s immediately clear that the village is not exactly a village, it’s not even a hamlet, rather, a few jumbled houses built right on sheer slope. Each house hangs over the one in front of it, they are anchored to the hill. In the winter, their foundations, which are dug into the stone, creak. Through the airholes in the cattle sheds, which are as narrow as arrow slits, and from the second-story windows, there is one and the same view: white pines and winding hills. In the winter the hamlet grows deserted, as the road becomes impassable, even for tractors. The locals argue about whether it’s the highest inhabited place in the Balkans, but the truth is, it is one of the most inaccessible.

The police were driving along that very same road, winding and steep. The all-terrain vehicle with its blue light roared, spewing the scent of petroleum. It first caught up with the ambulance from the regional hospital. Further ahead, the tower crane bellowed, spitting black diesel fumes through its burned-out smokestack. The line of vehicles provoked dismay in random onlookers: the manager of the pumping station and a cold-addled hunter who was tracking a terribly stubborn winter hare for a second day.

Nearby, there was also a third solitary traveler. He flew straight down the clear-cut swaths on the slopes upon that technological wonder known as the Russian Beryozka snowmobile. He was the forest ranger, and behind him wobbled four freshly cut Christmas trees with sturdy green needles. Sprays of crumbly snow flew up from beneath the snowmobile’s treads. Forest Engineer and Head Inspector of the Regional Forestry Administration—that was his title. Now he was descending from his kingdom, sniffling, wiping the tip of his nose, and, from time to time, using his glove to smack the visor of his hat to knock the snow off it. Still, the snow kept falling, for the seventh day now. The engineer veered sharply to the side, the snowmobile’s two runners plowed into the snow drift. He eased up on the throttle and got up. He checked the Christmas trees to see whether they were tied on tightly enough, they were the reason he had gone out so early in the morning. His two cousins were waiting for him, without even turning off their cars’ engines—they would grab the trees and race back to the big city to their stressed-out wives. They would roast a pig, ladle sauerkraut out of barrels in the basements of their gray, many-storied apartment buildings, they would spank their children and take away their secretly bought fireworks. They would receive cold smiles from their eternally waspish wives instead of gratitude. For driving all this way in the dark to the mountain, over the impassable icy highways. Nagging their cousin there to chop down a few Christmas trees for them, the best ones. Then thanking him guiltily and on the fly, turning down a glass of brandy in the unplastered lean-to near the fence of the bachelor’s unkempt yard. At least the forest ranger didn’t have a wife yet—for better or for worse, the cousins couldn’t say. “What a fucking pain in the ass!” the forest ranger cursed aloud, taking out a small flask and taking a swig. He had taken another two Christmas trees down, as well, just in case someone else came crying to him. He stretched the nylon rope tight and secured the load. He took one more pull off the flask and got back on the Beryozka. Then he saw the cars—they had come around a bend and were slipping and sliding their way up the slope. He still couldn’t hear any sound, the snow had immersed everything in a mealy silence.

In silence like that, only the hopping of hares can be heard. There was definitely a hare nearby, but it was very sneaky. The smell of the machines had driven him up the hill, ruining the latest round of his game with the hunter. Because the hare was already on its way to giving up, to letting itself be killed. A hare’s fate is a heavy and sudden one. The thread of the hare’s fate is two-faced, because it is a pagan thread. Because the hare is sacrificed to many gods and has no other protector in the forest besides the white snow. “Ah, fate,” the hare said to itself, “your name is unchangeable! The udder you nurse me with is bitter! Your hand, which stroked my hare’s ears, is stern. Both your name and mine are unchangeable. It could be changed with one letter, with just a single solitary letter. And my whole appearance would change along with it. What if I were not a hare, but a pare? Or a nare? But if I were a spare, would you be any more likely to spare me from my wretched forest fate? I could be Zare, like some wise man from the East. Or motorized and mechanized like the forest ranger, with treads and runners, with bolts—I could be a metal bear! But would I be happy? Am I happy? Am I happy now? . . . ” When such thoughts grip the heart of the winter hare, he might find the following thought enticing: crossing through the hunter’s sights as if in slow motion, with slow, stretched-out movements, to extend full length in front of the rifle scope and—click! . . . But here he folded his long white ears, full of crumbly snow, and took off toward the ridge. “Thare, lare, kare,” the hare muttered to himself. “Ware—like some wildebeest! Dzare, like some Chinese hare! Teare—a Chinese hare drinking tea! . . . ” And pulling his legs up out of his tracks, he hid his nubby tail amid the pines.

 

The forest ranger takes another swig from his forester’s flask, without taking his eyes off the column of cars: an ambulance, police, machinery (the tower crane). Two or three hours later, a battered old Russian truck would pass by here, too, which was painful even to watch. It was called “the corpsewagon”—a formerly refrigerated truck whose freezer units had been removed. Flat shelves had been wedged in the body of the truck and covered with stainless steel, while canvas straps had been attached to the sides to tie down the bodies. A burned-out light bulb hung from the aluminum ceiling. The corpsewagon had originally been used to transport fish from the breeding pond at the old collective farm, then as a bread truck for the anti-aircraft division up above Smolni Bridge, and in the end—a corpsewagon. Today, that is its only function.

The machines struggled with the mountain, snow sent punctuated volleys against the windshields. Black and roaring, the cars sowed alarm. The forest ranger turned the snowmobile around and took off straight through the steep drifts. He was driving parallel to them. They noticed him. The police jeep slowed down and stopped. They explained to him briefly what was going on. The forest ranger cursed, glanced at his watch, then roughly untied the Christmas trees. He loaded up the lieutenant in their place, hit the gas and took off straight across the steep slopes. The snowy haze soon hid the silhouette of the snowmobile. Somewhere nearby in the forest a tree snapped and collapsed under the weight of its white branches.

Now up at the top, the forest ranger and the police lieutenant examined the site. The train car was lying twisted, crushed on both sides. It was resting against the icy slope, from which slices of ice had been stripped away, laying bare the roots jutting out of the earth and the edges of stones. At the other end—two broken trees, lying parallel to the body of the car, as if eavesdropping on something inside. Snow was piling up on top. Pine needles frozen in spheres, pebbles and ice, white ingots pressed by the landslide, mush poured on the iron belly of the train car. The parts, scorched by embers and oil, were slowly melting and sinking into the whiteness. It resembled a statue fallen into the ravine. Two of the locals were still fussing around it. They couldn’t help. Behind the darkened glass they saw the passengers’ bodies, dangling as if hanged. One of the village rescuers was dressed in an old striped jacket, his pocket stuffed full of snow. He had tried to crawl through the shattered window. Now the other was helping him brush off the snow and slip back into his fur coat. They were shepherds, dressed in a mix of work clothes and erstwhile formal suits. Their bags lay next to the scene, tossed off to the side near a sled with wooden runners resembling a trunk. Inside—a crate of bread and a few plastic jugs of cooking oil. When the forest ranger’s snowmobile pulled up above the ravine, on the edge of the highway that was as narrow as a creek, the two of them waved their arms and started pointing, as if the newcomers could have possibly missed seeing the train car. Later, in the frosty afternoon, the snow transformed into an impenetrable shroud, while the area around filled with human figures. They lit lamps and spotlights. Over and over, the tower crane tried, with a relentless screeching that echoed off the bodies of the frozen trees, to lift the car on its hook. The dogs tied up nearby did not cease howling hoarsely and intermittently. Some had come with the hunters who had turned up to help, others had been led by the militarized security forces at the telescope tower. In the end their howling became unbearable and the lieutenant ordered that they be taken away. Then the radio signal also managed to break through the fog. They heard voices over the walkie-talkie, through the muffling folds of the white ravines. It was the city delegation that was coming all the way from the capital—a police colonel, a major with two captains and a driver, doctors and ambulances, a van with tinted windows. The forest ranger started cursing again, but it was too late—the road along the steep slopes down below was already hopelessly jammed with cars and people. Then the forest ranger climbed up to the highest curve in the road. From there he could see the yellowing cone of headlights down below, the pulsating circles of the emergency lights. It immediately became clear to him: the cars were stuck, they couldn’t move. The tower crane, the only one that could possibly move them, was trapped up above, between the ravine and the cliffs. All around, the snow was piling up on the other vehicles, which had come to a halt after agonized tire-spinning. The forest ranger ran along the slope, slipped, fell on his ass, cursed again, and just like that, without getting up, slid down to his snowmobile. He revved up the Beryozka, turned its nose and impatiently, with a risky turn, headed downhill. For a whole hour, he brought the stranded delegation from the capital up one by one. A crowd had formed around the crash site. Someone had lit a fire, which smelled of petroleum, while half-burned rags and oakum flitted above its cold flame. 

 

The officer from the capital city ground his teeth and tucked his watch beneath the cuff of his sleeve. It had gotten late. He tried to move his lips, but nothing came of it, he merely felt a sharp pain from the stretching, his face was freezing. In his tailored greatcoat and tall lined boots, the mayor sensed that first his legs, and then his whole body was beginning to tremble. He could feel the skin around his nose and mouth hardening, despite the snowflakes that wet it. The pale beams of the lamps and headlights grew hazy in a veil of snow. The other officer, the colonel, had taken shelter with the security guards up near the telescope tower, and was trying to radio the base, but without success. Escape from this trap seemed impossible, the machines were sunk in the drifts. The snow wouldn’t stop, the pass was closed both toward the valley and toward the village. Through the darkness, something like a soft fog fell, from which they were unlikely to emerge. Not before the next morning, in any case.

The mayor from the capital asked for a cigarette. The police lieutenant gave him one, spinning his chapped, cold-blackened thumb for a long while over the flint wheel of his lighter. The mayor inhaled the smoke into his lungs and bent down toward the shattered window. He examined the black cocoons of the bodies dimly visible inside, suspiciously, as if he expected one of them to flinch.

 

Botev, the poet-revolutionary, was dangling in the very front, next to the gray frozen glass, wrapped in his worn black cloak. His arms were not drooping, even though his body was fixed unrealistically in the air, hanging upside-down from the ceiling. Despite the opaque shroud and the cracks they could tell it was him, by the beard. The seat next to Botev was empty. Behind him—with tousled tuft of golden bangs, mussed by the car’s rolling and falling, scattered like the spread wing of a bird—was Levski, and it was difficult for all of them to even look at him. They didn’t even see whether his eyes were open, whether they were blue. Across the aisle from the Deacon were the next two, the first of them in a cassock. It was Paisiy: one of the priest’s hands was stretched out toward the ground, and the wrist looked pale. His monk’s rosary had fallen into the passage between the seats, but he wasn’t reaching out to pick it up. Next to him: Benkovski with his bandoliers and the straps that had held his pistols around his neck. The aiguillettes had frozen and were stretched as though by some invisible force instead of tilting downward from the weight. To the left there were more familiar faces, but at the end, one silhouette seemed to be hiding—there where the glass had been shattered and the window was pressed against the bared stones of the steep slope. The major bent down, he couldn’t see who it was, who was there at the very end, behind Volov and Stambolov. He strained, exhaled, and squeezed between the seats. Paisiy’s hand swung by his shoulder, perhaps he had bumped it, perhaps the monk had touched him or was even blessing him, but the major couldn’t turn to the side in the cramped space amid the pieces of glass like ice, ice like shards of a glass knife—his emptied lungs ached, but he could not breathe deeply if he wanted to continue. He wriggled a yard forward, pushed aside a torn flag with green brocade and a frozen lion with a paw lifted as if ready to pounce—now there was the unknown silhouette at the end. The major could now see him: he was lying behind the seat. Or it was simply a pile of clothing and there was no one there. No, there was someone there.

The revolver suddenly jumped out in front of his chest, with a click it cocked drily and suddenly. Levski’s face anxious, pained from an invisible wound. In his eyes the strain of his last ounces of strength could be seen, but his hand gripped the revolver without even trembling.

“Freedom or death!” the Apostle said.

The shot rang out, the bullet pierced the cold air as if in slow motion. “Freedom or death,” the slogan on the flag could also be seen as the thick cloud of gun powder shook the closed space. The major’s lungs could have exploded from the shock and from the shot, from the bullet and from the blast-wave under the frozen buttons of his uniform. So in the very front there was some doppelganger of Levski’s, dressed up like him as a decoy in case he needed to draw away the fire. So that guy up in the front hadn’t been Levski, only a trick, a shadow with closed eyes. The officer realized that only with his eyes closed could Levski have fooled them. If he had looked at them point blank, they would have recognized him by his blue gaze. Everyone knows the blue of his eyes. Blue like the beads used to ward off the evil eye. Vasil Levski’s eyes were now closing or the officer’s eyes were closing. In any case, the blue color of his eyes faded and the light gradually went out. Their reflection in the snow also faded.

 

One of the Sofia captains was dictating orders while the other was struggling to write them down in a ruled notebook. The letters kept coming out crooked, as if he was skiing slalom with the pen between the spots made from snowflakes falling on the paper. Nobody liked this procedure, but they all knew—it was inevitable. One by one, the bodies needed to be described. Their possessions and documents – needed to be removed and set aside. Only afterward would the victims be carried up on an improvised stretcher made of tarp. On the road, every bit as dead and now with its engine cut, the corpsewagon was waiting.

“ГОРДА СТАРА ПЛАНИНА” © Georgi Tenev. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Angela Rodel. All rights reserved.

English Bulgarian (Original)

After every national catastrophe,
the intelligentsia always regrets siding with the people.

From an article in a liberal newspaper

Society achieves harmony only in moments of tragedy, in the face of fateful events. And conversely, spontaneous celebration, freedom from cares and even happiness disconcert us. Thus, what makes
us happy now?

From an article in a liberal newspaper

Translator’s note: The title of the story is taken from the title of the Bulgarian national anthem; the story itself is a surrealistic resurrection of Bulgaria’s pantheon of nineteenth-century revolutionaries in a dystopian, twentieth-century setting. The “passengers” are all major national heroes, while Vasil Levski, also known as “The Deacon,” is the supreme symbolic figure of the Bulgarian nation, the personification of idealism, humanism, and self-sacrifice.  

It was daybreak when they called the regional office. They said there’d been an accident.

“Where?” the sergeant asked.

The connection was fuzzy, the line was crackling from the snow. When he finally understood the answer, he immediately picked up the internal line. He roused the junior officer from his bed, then pulled on his boots and stomped through the on-call room. He woke the others, as well, and then went out to start the jeep. A sleepy officer remained in the on-call room and, so as not to fall asleep, began loading blanks into the ammunition clips.

The lieutenant was already waiting at the fork in the road, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyebrows were frosted over, his mustache was also frozen. On its tips hung little crystals of milk, which his wife had managed to foist on him before he set out. The lieutenant hopped in the jeep while it was still in motion and they floored the gas. The ambulance and the crane were already on their way up ahead of them. The accident had happened at the mouth of the gorge, right where the bridge came out of the tunnel and passed by the hamlets. What kind of accident exactly, it still wasn’t clear. The train? Or had one of the containers on the cable conveyor from the mine fallen? Or had a landslide undercut the forested slopes along the screes? But it was still early for springtime floods that ate away the soil and pulled up the roots of the trees—then what was it? It was early morning, it was too early to say. Some of them were dozing as they swayed on the hard seat. Others were smoking.

 

It’s immediately clear that the village is not exactly a village, it’s not even a hamlet, rather, a few jumbled houses built right on sheer slope. Each house hangs over the one in front of it, they are anchored to the hill. In the winter, their foundations, which are dug into the stone, creak. Through the airholes in the cattle sheds, which are as narrow as arrow slits, and from the second-story windows, there is one and the same view: white pines and winding hills. In the winter the hamlet grows deserted, as the road becomes impassable, even for tractors. The locals argue about whether it’s the highest inhabited place in the Balkans, but the truth is, it is one of the most inaccessible.

The police were driving along that very same road, winding and steep. The all-terrain vehicle with its blue light roared, spewing the scent of petroleum. It first caught up with the ambulance from the regional hospital. Further ahead, the tower crane bellowed, spitting black diesel fumes through its burned-out smokestack. The line of vehicles provoked dismay in random onlookers: the manager of the pumping station and a cold-addled hunter who was tracking a terribly stubborn winter hare for a second day.

Nearby, there was also a third solitary traveler. He flew straight down the clear-cut swaths on the slopes upon that technological wonder known as the Russian Beryozka snowmobile. He was the forest ranger, and behind him wobbled four freshly cut Christmas trees with sturdy green needles. Sprays of crumbly snow flew up from beneath the snowmobile’s treads. Forest Engineer and Head Inspector of the Regional Forestry Administration—that was his title. Now he was descending from his kingdom, sniffling, wiping the tip of his nose, and, from time to time, using his glove to smack the visor of his hat to knock the snow off it. Still, the snow kept falling, for the seventh day now. The engineer veered sharply to the side, the snowmobile’s two runners plowed into the snow drift. He eased up on the throttle and got up. He checked the Christmas trees to see whether they were tied on tightly enough, they were the reason he had gone out so early in the morning. His two cousins were waiting for him, without even turning off their cars’ engines—they would grab the trees and race back to the big city to their stressed-out wives. They would roast a pig, ladle sauerkraut out of barrels in the basements of their gray, many-storied apartment buildings, they would spank their children and take away their secretly bought fireworks. They would receive cold smiles from their eternally waspish wives instead of gratitude. For driving all this way in the dark to the mountain, over the impassable icy highways. Nagging their cousin there to chop down a few Christmas trees for them, the best ones. Then thanking him guiltily and on the fly, turning down a glass of brandy in the unplastered lean-to near the fence of the bachelor’s unkempt yard. At least the forest ranger didn’t have a wife yet—for better or for worse, the cousins couldn’t say. “What a fucking pain in the ass!” the forest ranger cursed aloud, taking out a small flask and taking a swig. He had taken another two Christmas trees down, as well, just in case someone else came crying to him. He stretched the nylon rope tight and secured the load. He took one more pull off the flask and got back on the Beryozka. Then he saw the cars—they had come around a bend and were slipping and sliding their way up the slope. He still couldn’t hear any sound, the snow had immersed everything in a mealy silence.

In silence like that, only the hopping of hares can be heard. There was definitely a hare nearby, but it was very sneaky. The smell of the machines had driven him up the hill, ruining the latest round of his game with the hunter. Because the hare was already on its way to giving up, to letting itself be killed. A hare’s fate is a heavy and sudden one. The thread of the hare’s fate is two-faced, because it is a pagan thread. Because the hare is sacrificed to many gods and has no other protector in the forest besides the white snow. “Ah, fate,” the hare said to itself, “your name is unchangeable! The udder you nurse me with is bitter! Your hand, which stroked my hare’s ears, is stern. Both your name and mine are unchangeable. It could be changed with one letter, with just a single solitary letter. And my whole appearance would change along with it. What if I were not a hare, but a pare? Or a nare? But if I were a spare, would you be any more likely to spare me from my wretched forest fate? I could be Zare, like some wise man from the East. Or motorized and mechanized like the forest ranger, with treads and runners, with bolts—I could be a metal bear! But would I be happy? Am I happy? Am I happy now? . . . ” When such thoughts grip the heart of the winter hare, he might find the following thought enticing: crossing through the hunter’s sights as if in slow motion, with slow, stretched-out movements, to extend full length in front of the rifle scope and—click! . . . But here he folded his long white ears, full of crumbly snow, and took off toward the ridge. “Thare, lare, kare,” the hare muttered to himself. “Ware—like some wildebeest! Dzare, like some Chinese hare! Teare—a Chinese hare drinking tea! . . . ” And pulling his legs up out of his tracks, he hid his nubby tail amid the pines.

 

The forest ranger takes another swig from his forester’s flask, without taking his eyes off the column of cars: an ambulance, police, machinery (the tower crane). Two or three hours later, a battered old Russian truck would pass by here, too, which was painful even to watch. It was called “the corpsewagon”—a formerly refrigerated truck whose freezer units had been removed. Flat shelves had been wedged in the body of the truck and covered with stainless steel, while canvas straps had been attached to the sides to tie down the bodies. A burned-out light bulb hung from the aluminum ceiling. The corpsewagon had originally been used to transport fish from the breeding pond at the old collective farm, then as a bread truck for the anti-aircraft division up above Smolni Bridge, and in the end—a corpsewagon. Today, that is its only function.

The machines struggled with the mountain, snow sent punctuated volleys against the windshields. Black and roaring, the cars sowed alarm. The forest ranger turned the snowmobile around and took off straight through the steep drifts. He was driving parallel to them. They noticed him. The police jeep slowed down and stopped. They explained to him briefly what was going on. The forest ranger cursed, glanced at his watch, then roughly untied the Christmas trees. He loaded up the lieutenant in their place, hit the gas and took off straight across the steep slopes. The snowy haze soon hid the silhouette of the snowmobile. Somewhere nearby in the forest a tree snapped and collapsed under the weight of its white branches.

Now up at the top, the forest ranger and the police lieutenant examined the site. The train car was lying twisted, crushed on both sides. It was resting against the icy slope, from which slices of ice had been stripped away, laying bare the roots jutting out of the earth and the edges of stones. At the other end—two broken trees, lying parallel to the body of the car, as if eavesdropping on something inside. Snow was piling up on top. Pine needles frozen in spheres, pebbles and ice, white ingots pressed by the landslide, mush poured on the iron belly of the train car. The parts, scorched by embers and oil, were slowly melting and sinking into the whiteness. It resembled a statue fallen into the ravine. Two of the locals were still fussing around it. They couldn’t help. Behind the darkened glass they saw the passengers’ bodies, dangling as if hanged. One of the village rescuers was dressed in an old striped jacket, his pocket stuffed full of snow. He had tried to crawl through the shattered window. Now the other was helping him brush off the snow and slip back into his fur coat. They were shepherds, dressed in a mix of work clothes and erstwhile formal suits. Their bags lay next to the scene, tossed off to the side near a sled with wooden runners resembling a trunk. Inside—a crate of bread and a few plastic jugs of cooking oil. When the forest ranger’s snowmobile pulled up above the ravine, on the edge of the highway that was as narrow as a creek, the two of them waved their arms and started pointing, as if the newcomers could have possibly missed seeing the train car. Later, in the frosty afternoon, the snow transformed into an impenetrable shroud, while the area around filled with human figures. They lit lamps and spotlights. Over and over, the tower crane tried, with a relentless screeching that echoed off the bodies of the frozen trees, to lift the car on its hook. The dogs tied up nearby did not cease howling hoarsely and intermittently. Some had come with the hunters who had turned up to help, others had been led by the militarized security forces at the telescope tower. In the end their howling became unbearable and the lieutenant ordered that they be taken away. Then the radio signal also managed to break through the fog. They heard voices over the walkie-talkie, through the muffling folds of the white ravines. It was the city delegation that was coming all the way from the capital—a police colonel, a major with two captains and a driver, doctors and ambulances, a van with tinted windows. The forest ranger started cursing again, but it was too late—the road along the steep slopes down below was already hopelessly jammed with cars and people. Then the forest ranger climbed up to the highest curve in the road. From there he could see the yellowing cone of headlights down below, the pulsating circles of the emergency lights. It immediately became clear to him: the cars were stuck, they couldn’t move. The tower crane, the only one that could possibly move them, was trapped up above, between the ravine and the cliffs. All around, the snow was piling up on the other vehicles, which had come to a halt after agonized tire-spinning. The forest ranger ran along the slope, slipped, fell on his ass, cursed again, and just like that, without getting up, slid down to his snowmobile. He revved up the Beryozka, turned its nose and impatiently, with a risky turn, headed downhill. For a whole hour, he brought the stranded delegation from the capital up one by one. A crowd had formed around the crash site. Someone had lit a fire, which smelled of petroleum, while half-burned rags and oakum flitted above its cold flame. 

 

The officer from the capital city ground his teeth and tucked his watch beneath the cuff of his sleeve. It had gotten late. He tried to move his lips, but nothing came of it, he merely felt a sharp pain from the stretching, his face was freezing. In his tailored greatcoat and tall lined boots, the mayor sensed that first his legs, and then his whole body was beginning to tremble. He could feel the skin around his nose and mouth hardening, despite the snowflakes that wet it. The pale beams of the lamps and headlights grew hazy in a veil of snow. The other officer, the colonel, had taken shelter with the security guards up near the telescope tower, and was trying to radio the base, but without success. Escape from this trap seemed impossible, the machines were sunk in the drifts. The snow wouldn’t stop, the pass was closed both toward the valley and toward the village. Through the darkness, something like a soft fog fell, from which they were unlikely to emerge. Not before the next morning, in any case.

The mayor from the capital asked for a cigarette. The police lieutenant gave him one, spinning his chapped, cold-blackened thumb for a long while over the flint wheel of his lighter. The mayor inhaled the smoke into his lungs and bent down toward the shattered window. He examined the black cocoons of the bodies dimly visible inside, suspiciously, as if he expected one of them to flinch.

 

Botev, the poet-revolutionary, was dangling in the very front, next to the gray frozen glass, wrapped in his worn black cloak. His arms were not drooping, even though his body was fixed unrealistically in the air, hanging upside-down from the ceiling. Despite the opaque shroud and the cracks they could tell it was him, by the beard. The seat next to Botev was empty. Behind him—with tousled tuft of golden bangs, mussed by the car’s rolling and falling, scattered like the spread wing of a bird—was Levski, and it was difficult for all of them to even look at him. They didn’t even see whether his eyes were open, whether they were blue. Across the aisle from the Deacon were the next two, the first of them in a cassock. It was Paisiy: one of the priest’s hands was stretched out toward the ground, and the wrist looked pale. His monk’s rosary had fallen into the passage between the seats, but he wasn’t reaching out to pick it up. Next to him: Benkovski with his bandoliers and the straps that had held his pistols around his neck. The aiguillettes had frozen and were stretched as though by some invisible force instead of tilting downward from the weight. To the left there were more familiar faces, but at the end, one silhouette seemed to be hiding—there where the glass had been shattered and the window was pressed against the bared stones of the steep slope. The major bent down, he couldn’t see who it was, who was there at the very end, behind Volov and Stambolov. He strained, exhaled, and squeezed between the seats. Paisiy’s hand swung by his shoulder, perhaps he had bumped it, perhaps the monk had touched him or was even blessing him, but the major couldn’t turn to the side in the cramped space amid the pieces of glass like ice, ice like shards of a glass knife—his emptied lungs ached, but he could not breathe deeply if he wanted to continue. He wriggled a yard forward, pushed aside a torn flag with green brocade and a frozen lion with a paw lifted as if ready to pounce—now there was the unknown silhouette at the end. The major could now see him: he was lying behind the seat. Or it was simply a pile of clothing and there was no one there. No, there was someone there.

The revolver suddenly jumped out in front of his chest, with a click it cocked drily and suddenly. Levski’s face anxious, pained from an invisible wound. In his eyes the strain of his last ounces of strength could be seen, but his hand gripped the revolver without even trembling.

“Freedom or death!” the Apostle said.

The shot rang out, the bullet pierced the cold air as if in slow motion. “Freedom or death,” the slogan on the flag could also be seen as the thick cloud of gun powder shook the closed space. The major’s lungs could have exploded from the shock and from the shot, from the bullet and from the blast-wave under the frozen buttons of his uniform. So in the very front there was some doppelganger of Levski’s, dressed up like him as a decoy in case he needed to draw away the fire. So that guy up in the front hadn’t been Levski, only a trick, a shadow with closed eyes. The officer realized that only with his eyes closed could Levski have fooled them. If he had looked at them point blank, they would have recognized him by his blue gaze. Everyone knows the blue of his eyes. Blue like the beads used to ward off the evil eye. Vasil Levski’s eyes were now closing or the officer’s eyes were closing. In any case, the blue color of his eyes faded and the light gradually went out. Their reflection in the snow also faded.

 

One of the Sofia captains was dictating orders while the other was struggling to write them down in a ruled notebook. The letters kept coming out crooked, as if he was skiing slalom with the pen between the spots made from snowflakes falling on the paper. Nobody liked this procedure, but they all knew—it was inevitable. One by one, the bodies needed to be described. Their possessions and documents – needed to be removed and set aside. Only afterward would the victims be carried up on an improvised stretcher made of tarp. On the road, every bit as dead and now with its engine cut, the corpsewagon was waiting.

“ГОРДА СТАРА ПЛАНИНА” © Georgi Tenev. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Angela Rodel. All rights reserved.

ГОРДА СТАРА ПЛАНИНА

След всяка национална катастрофа,
интелигенцията винаги съжалява, че е била с народа.

Из статия в либерално списание

 

Обществото постига хармония само в миговете на трагедии, пред лицето на смъртоносно събитие. И обратното, спонтанните празници, безгрижието и дори щастието, смущават. Следователно, на какво се радваме сега?

Из статия в либерално списание

 

Беше призори, когато се обадиха в областното управление. Казаха, че е станала катастрофа.

– Къде? – попита сержантът.

Връзката не беше чиста, от снега кабелите пропукваха. Като разбра какво му отговарят, вдигна вътрешния телефон. Разбуди в леглото младшия офицер, после обу ботушите и изтропа през дежурната стая. Вдигна и останалите и се зае да пали джипа. Един сънен старшина остана в дежурната и за да не заспи, почна да зарежда халостни патрони в пълнителите.

На разклона лейтенантът вече чакаше с цигара в устата. Веждите му бяха покрити със скреж, мустаците му също замръзнали. На върха им личаха кристалчета от мляко, което жена му беше успяла да налее на тръгване. Лейтенантът се качи в движение и дадоха газ. Линейката и кранът бяха потеглили нагоре преди тях. Катастрофата е станала на устието на дефилето, там, където мостът напуска тунела и минава край махалите. Каква точно катастрофа – още не можеше да се разбере. Влакът? Или откъснат фургон от въжената линия. Или свлачището, което продънва скатове гора по сипеите. Но беше рано още за пролетните бързеи, които подкопават почвата и измъкват корените на дърветата – тогава какво? Беше рано сутринта, беше рано да се каже. Някой задряма, клатушкайки се върху твърдата седалка. Други пушеха.

*

Веднага се вижда, че селото не е село точно и не е махала дори, а някакви скупчени къщи право върху отвесния хълм. Всяка е застъпена зад предната, крепят се по наклона. Зимно време основите им, изкопани в камъка, проскърцват. През отдушниците на оборите, тесни като бойници, и от прозорците на вторите етажи, се вижда една и съща гледка: бели елхи и извити хълмове. През зимата махалата се обезлюдява, а пътят става непроходим даже за тракторите. Местните спорят дали това е най-високото населено място на Балканите, но истина е, че е едно от най-непристъпните.

Полицаите пътуваха по същия този път, извит и стръмен. Всъдеходът със синята лампа ръмжеше и пръскаше миризма на нафта. Първо застигна линейката на областната болница. По-напред фучеше кулокранът и бълваше черен дизелов дим през прогорения си комин. Автоколоната събуди смут сред случайните зрители: стопанинът на помпената станция и един подивял от студа ловджия, който за втори ден преследваше ужасно упорит зимен заек.

Наблизо имаше и трети самотен пътник. Спукаше се напряко по просеките на склона, върху чудо на техниката, руската моторна шейна “Берьозка”. Той беше горският, а зад гърба му се клатеха четири прясно отрязани елхички с жилави зелени игли. Изпод веригите на шейната изскачаха фонтани рохкав сняг. Горски инженер и главен инспектор на райнонната лесничейска администрация – това беше титлата му. Сега слизаше от царството си, подсмърчаше, бършеше върха на носа си и от време на време удряше с ръкавица козирката на развързаната ушанка, за да изтупа полепналия сняг. Все още, вече седми ден, снегът продължаваше да вали. Инженерът зави рязко настрани, двата плаза на шейната заораха в пряспата. Отпусна ръчката на газта и се изправи. Провери елхичките, дали са вързани достатъчно здраво, заради тях се беше вдигнал рано сутринта. Двамата братовчеди го чакаха без дори да гасят двигателите на колите – щяха да грабнат елхичките и да хукнат обратно към големия град при изнервените си съпруги. Ще пекат свинско, ще наточат зелева чорба от мазетата на сивите си многоетажни къщи, ща напляскат децата и ще им вземат купените тайно фойерверки. Ще получат от вечно кривите си жени студена усмивка вместо благодарност. Да бият път по тъмно, до планината, през непроходими ледени шосета. Да врънкат там братовчеда да им насече елхички, най-хубавите. После да му благодарят гузно и набързо, да откажат чашката ракия в неизмазаната пристройка до оградата на занемарения ергенски двор. Понеже лесничеят жена още нямаше, за добро ли, за лошо ли, братовчедите не знаеха. “Ай, че шибана работа!”, изруга на глас горският, извади малкото шише и отпи. Беше смъкнал и други две елхички, ей така, да не би да му приплаче още някой. Опъна найлоновото въже и притегна товара. Дръпна още една глътка от шишето и прекрачи “берьозката”. Тогава видя колите – бяха се задали зад завоя и катереха наклона с буксуване. Звук още не се чуваше, снегът потапяше всичко в сипкава тишина.

В тишина като тази се чуват само скоковете на зайците. Заек наоколо наистина имаше, но той беше много хитър. Миризмата на машините го подгони нагоре по хълма, като му развали последния рунд от играта с ловеца. Защото заекът беше вече на път да се предаде, да се остави да бъде убит. Заешката съдба е съдба нелека и съдба внезапна. Нишката заешка е нишка двулична, защото е нишка езическа. Защото заекът се кланя на много богове и няма друг закрилник в гората, освен белия сняг. “Ех, съдба”, казваше си заекът, “изменливо е твоето име! Горчиво е твоето виме, с което ме кърмиш ти! Строга е ръката ти, галеща заешките ми уши. И твоето име е изменчиво, и моето. Би могло с буква само, с една единствена буква да се промени то. И целият ми облик с него. Ако бях не заек, а паек? Или ако бях баек? Ами ваек ако бях – щях ли по-малко да се вайкам за сиротната си горска съдба? Бих могъл и саек да бъда, като мъдрец някакъв източен. Или моторизиран и механизиран, като горския, с вериги и плазове, с болтове – гаек можех да съм! Но щастлив ли щях да съм? Щастлив ли съм аз? Щастлив ли съм сега?…” Когато подобни мисли налегнат сърцето на зимния заек, той току-виж намерил за привлекателна тая мисъл: да мине като на забавена лента през мерното поле на ловеца, с бавни изпружени движения, да разпери цялата си дължина пред обектива на мушката, и – щрак!… Но тук той сви дългите си бели ухи, пълни с рохкав сняг, и пое към билото. “Шаек, лаек, маек”, мърмореше си заекът. “Хаек – като някакъв хипопотам! Цаек, като някакъв китайски заек! Чаек – китайски заек пие чай!…” И отлепяйки крака от следите си, скри своята трътлеста опашка между борчетата.

*

Лесничеят отново отпи от лесничейското си шише, без да изпуска от поглед автоколоната: линейка, полиция, механизация (кулокрана). Два-три часа по-късно оттук щеше да мине и корубестата газка, която е мъчително дори да гледаш, а името й е “труповозката” – бивш хладилен камион с демонтирани агрегати. В каросерията са набутани плоскости, обковани в неръждавейка, със занитени отстрани брезентови колани за връзване на телата. Под алуминиевия таван виси изгоряла крушка. Труповозката е била камион за риба на развъдника в бившето ТКЗС, после хлебовоз към артелната на зенитното поделение над Смолни мост, а накрая – труповозка. И днес това е единствената й функция.

Машините се бореха с планината, снегът пращаше пунктирани стрели върху стъклата. Черни и ръмжащи, колите създаваха тревога. Лесничеят обърна шейната и подкара пряко през стръмните преспи. Пое успоредно. Забелязаха го. Полицейската джипка забави ход и спря. Обясниха му накратко каква е работата. Горският изруга, погледна си часовника, после развърза грубо елхичките. Натовари на тяхно място лейтенанта, натисна газта и хвана напряко по отвесните склонове. Скоро снежната мъгла скри силуета на шейната. Някъде в страни в гората пропука дърво и се срина под тежестта на белите си клони.

Вече горе, лесничеят и полицейският лейтенант огледаха мястото. Вагонът лежеше усукан и притиснат от всички страни. Опираше в заледения склон, откъдето филии лед се бяха откъснали и оголваха стърчащите от земята корени и ръбове камък. В другия край – две пречупени дървета, полегнали успоредно до корпуса, все едно подслушваха нещо вътре. Отгоре се трупаше сняг. Замръзнали на топки борови игли, дребни камъчета и лед, пресовани от свличането бели слитъци, кашата посипана върху железния корем на вагона. Обгорелите от сажди и масло части бавно се стапяха и потъваха в белотата. Приличаше на паднала в дерето статуя. Наоколо още се суетяха двама от местните. Не можеха да помогнат. Зад помътнелите стъкла виждаха висящите като обесени тела на пътници. Единия от селяните-спасители беше облечен в старо раирано соко, джобовете му натъпкани със сняг. Беше опитвал да пропълзи през строшения прозорец. Сега другият му помагаше да се изтупа от снега и да се навре отново в шубата. Бяха овчари, облечени в комбинации от работни дрехи и някогашни официални костюми. Настрани стояха захвърлени торбите им, край една шейна с дървени плазове, подобна на сандък. Вътре – каса хляб и няколко пластмасови туби за олио. Когато моторната шейна на лесничея застана над дерето, на ръба на тънкото като рекичка шосе, двамата размахаха ръце и почнаха да сочат пред себе си, сякаш новодошлите можеха да не видят вагона. По-късно, в мразовития следобед, снегът беше се превърнал в непрогледна пелена, а наоколо се изпълни с фигури. Запалиха лампите и прожекторите. Кулокранът опитваше отново и отново с жестоко скърцане, отекващо в телата на замръзналите дърветата, да повдигне вагона на куката си. Завързаните на разстояние кучета не спираха да вият продрано и пресекливо. Едните бяха дошли с притекли се на помощ ловци, други ги доведе военизираната охрана на кулата с телескопа. Накрая воят им стана нетърпим и лейтенантът нареди да ги махнат. Тогава и сигналът на радиото проби мъглата. Чуха се гласове в радиостанцията, през заглушаващите дипли на белите дерета. Беше градската група, която идваше като делегация, чак от столицата: един полицейски полковник, един майор с двама капитани и шофьор, лекари и линейки, микробус със затъмнени прозорци. Горският се разпсува, но вече беше късно – пътят по острите наклони долу беше безнадеждно задръстен с коли и хора. Тогава горският се покатери на най-високия завой. Оттук можеше да види жълтеникавите конуси на фаровете в ниското, пулсиращите кръгчета на сигналните лампи. Веднага му стана ясно: колите са затънали, не могат да помръднат. Кулокранът, който единствен би могъл да ги помести, беше заклещен тук на високото, между дерето и скалите. Наоколо снегът затрупваше останалите машини, спрели след мъчително буксуване. Лесничеят изтича по наклона, подхлъзна се, падна по задник, изпсува пак, и така, без да се вдига, се свлече до шейната. Запали берьозката, изви носа й, и нервно, с рискован завой обърна надолу. Цял час качваше един по един закъснелите столичани. Около мястото се образува тълпа. Някой беше запалил огън, от който миришеше на нафта, а над студения му пламък излитаха недогорели парцали и калчища.

*

Офицерът от столицата скръцна със зъби и скри часовника под маншета на ръкава си. Беше станало късно. Опита да размърда устни, но от това не излезе нищо, само усети остра болка от разпъването, лицето му замръзваше. Във вталения мундир, макар и с високи подплътени обувки, майорът усещаше, че първо краката, а после и цялото му тяло започват да треперят. Усещаше как кожата около носа и устата се втвърдява, въпреки мокрещите снежинки. Бледите лъчи на лампите и фаровете помътняваха във воала на снега. Другият офицер, полковникът беше се прибрал при охраната, горе до кулата на телескопа, и опитваше да се свърже по радиото с центъра, но неуспешно. Изглеждаше, че измъкването от този капан е невъзможно, машините бяха забити в преспите. Снегът не спираше, проходът се затваряше и към долината, и към селото. През тъмното се спускаше нещо като мека мъгла, от която надали щяха да излезат. Не и преди следващата сутрин.

Майорът от столицата поиска цигара. Почерпи го полицейският лейтенант, като дълго въртя почернял и напукан от студа палец върху колелцето на запалката. Майорът дръпна дим в гърдите си и се наведе към избития прозорец. Огледа черните пашкули на мержелеещите се вътре тела, недоверчиво, все едно очакваше някое от тях да трепне.

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Ботев се виждаше най-напред, до сивото замръзнало стъкло, завит с черния си износен щифел. Ръцете му не бяха отпуснати, макар и тялото да се крепеше нереално във въздуха, обърнато надолу, висящо от тавана. Въпреки матовата пелена и пукнатините, се разпознаваше, че е той, по брадата. Седалката до Ботев беше празна. Зад него, с разрошен перчем от златисти коси, разсипани при преобръщането и падането, пръснати като разперено крило на птица – там беше Левски и на всички им беше трудно да го погледнат. Даже не видяха дали са отворени очите му, сини ли са. През пътеката, до Дякона бяха следващите двама, първият от тях с расо. Беше Паисий; едната ръка на отеца се проточваше към земята и там китката изглеждаше побеляла. Монашеската броеница беше паднала в прохода между седалките, но той не посягаше да си я прибере. До него – Бенковски с патрондаши и пистолетно ласе, препасано на шията. Ширитите замръзнали и изпънати като по невидима сила, вместо да се наклонят надолу от тежестта. Вляво имаше още познати лица, но накрая един силует като че се криеше – там, където стъклата бяха пръснати и прозорецът затискаше обелените камъни на острия скат. Майорът се наведе, не можеше да види кой е той, кой е там, най-открая, зад Волов и Стамболов. Напрегна се, издиша въздуха от гърдите си и се провря между седалките. Ръката на Паисий се залюля край рамото му, може би той го побутна, може би монахът го докосна с пръст или пък го благослови, но майорът не можеше да се обърне настрани, в тясното пространство и между строшените парчета стъкло като лед, лед като късове стъклен нож – изпразнените от въздуха гърди го заболяха, но трябваше да не диша дълбоко, ако иска да продължи. Промъкна се метър напред, издърпа едно разкъсано от падането знаме със зелен ширит и замръзнал лъв с вдигната лапа като преди скок – ето го непознатият силует в края. Майорът можеше сега да го види: беше легнал зад седалката. Или пък са просто купчина дрехи и няма никой там? Не, има някой. Револверът изскочи пред гърдите му, петлето щракна сухо и внезапно. Лицето на Левски, напрегнато, с болка от невидимата рана. По очите се видя напрежението на последните сили, но ръката стискаше револвера без трепване даже.

– Свобода или смърт! – изговори Апостолът.

Изстрелът изпращя, куршумът пръсна студения въздух някак със забавяне. “Свобода или смърт”, видя се и надписът на знамето, когато сгъстеният облак барутна пара разлюля закритото пространство. Гърдите на майора можеха да се пръснат и от изненадата, и от изстрела, от куршума и от топлината на ударната вълна под замръзналите копчета на униформата. Значи, най-отпред в редицата е бил някой двойник на Апостола, преоблечен за заблуда, в случай че се наложи да привлече удара. Значи онзи отпред не беше Левски, а само уловка, сянка със затворени очи. Офицерът разбра, че само със затворени очи Левски е можел да ги заблуди. Ако ги гледаше в упор, щяха да познаят по погледа и по синия цвят. Всички познават синия цвят на очите му. Сини като мъниста против уруки, очите на Васил Левски сега се затваряха или очите на офицера се затваряха. Във всеки случай, синият цвят на очите му примря и светлината постепенно угасна. Угасна и отражението й в снега.

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Единият от софийските капитани диктуваше, а другият се мъчеше да записва в разграфената тетрадка. Буквите ставаха все неравни, сякаш правеше слалом с химикалката между петънцата от падащите по хартията снежинки. На никого тази процедура не беше любима, но всички знаеха – неизбежно е. Едно по едно телата трябва да бъдат описани. Вещите и документите – да се отделят настрани. Чак след това жертвите поемат нагоре, върху импровизирана носилка от платнище. На пътя, също така мъртва и сега вече с изгасен двигател, чака труповозката.

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