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Fiction

Tomato

By Zachary Karabashliev
Translated from Bulgarian by Angela Rodel
In this short story, Zachary Karabashliev chronicles one widower’s struggle to begin anew in another country.

June 11, 2010
My name is Christo Christov Christov and I’m here visiting my daughter. My daughter and son-in-law, that is. Radoslava. That’s her name, not his. They live in America, in the state of California. They got me a visa this spring and brought me here. Anyway.

I’ve started keeping a diary in this notebook—my daughter gave it to me. I’ve been thinking about keeping a diary for a long time, but I never had anything to write in one. Not that I had a diary and was sitting there wondering what to write in it, I didn’t have one, but I’m just saying that even if I had had one, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Whatever I had to say, I always shared it with Elena so I didn’t need to write it down. But Elena’s gone now. That’s why my daughter brought me over to America, because my companion in life, Elena, passed away. It’s been really tough on me, so I’m writing in this notebook now, but it’s really tough on me. I’m not going to talk about my wife herе.

***

June 13, 2010
I’m going to try not to write about Elena here, because when I think about her I get really sad, and if someday somebody finds this notebook and reads about what a woman Elena was, he’ll get really sad, too. For Elena. Not for me. As for mewhat about me?my daughter brought me here, supposedly to distract me or some such thing. Not that I would’ve turned her down if she’d invited me, but still, it’s one thing to get invited, and quite another just to have them arrange for your visa in a week and next thing you know you’re in America. But anyway . . . it’s not like I’m complaining or anything.

***

June 14
My son-in-law isn’t a bad guy, he just doesn’t understand a damn thing. What I mean is that he doesn’t understand a damn thing in Bulgarian. Not that I understand American, but still, I’m not married to Radoslava. I mean, if Elena hadn’t understood Bulgarian, I would’ve tried to learn a thing or two in whatever language she spoke. After all, she’s my wife, right? But anyway. What I’m trying to say ismy son-in-law doesn’t understand Bulgarian. Last night he came home, he’d gone to the grocery store and gotten this and that, and so I’m helping him put it away, right, and I see he’d bought some tomatoes, hydroponic, of course, not homegrown like back in Bulgarianow that’s what I call a tomato, when you slice one open, dew spills out… but anyway. So, I show it to my son-in-law, I tell him domat, I tell him. He says “tomato.” I tell him domat again. And he says “to-ma-to.” And then my daughter chimes in: “It’s a tomato, Dad. With a T. To-ma-to.” And I say to myself, Christo, old man, you just learned yourself your first American word. But I was too ashamed to say it out loud. Domat, with a “t.” Anyway.

***

June 17
I haven’t written in a few days, because my daughter was getting me a soshul. Soshul, soshul . . . I had no idea what this soshul was. She says, we’ve got to get you a soshul. And frankly, I thought they’d be giving me some vaccine or a pacemaker or something. But it turns out it’s a number. A soshul is something like the ID number we’ve got back in Bulgaria, but different. So they gave me a soshul. And the last four numbers of my soshul turned out to be 5447. Very nice. The first car Elena and I bought back in 1975 was a Russian Zhiguli, and the license plate number was BV 5447. A very nice number. A very nice car. Ivory. We were on the waiting list for a Lada, but we decided not to hold out for two more years and took the Zhiguli instead. It’s just like Lada, only an older model. But made by the same Soviet manufacturer. And we didn’t regret it. Elena and the kids and I made lots of memories with that car. We put lots of miles on it, I took them everywhere you can imagine.

***

Sunday,
My daughter took me to their church today. It’s sort of like a church and sort of like a gymnasium. Everybody’s all dressed up nice, they say “Hello,” polite folks, no doubt about it. We sit down. The guy up there in front is talking and they’re listening. Then they read their Bibles, get up, sit down, sing, hold hands. In short—good people, no doubt about it. After the service they take me to meet the priest. He isn’t like one of our priests with the tall black hats and shaggy beards, but a young guy in a suit, clean shaved. He looks me straight in the eye and smiles at me, talking to my daughter and nodding. And just as we’re leaving, right, he asks my daughter something, holds out his hand and says in Bulgarian—dovizhdane. With an accent, of course, but it’s still “good-bye,” plain as day. And I shake his hand and of course I know one of his words already, “tomato,” but I’m too ashamed to say it out loud, and I didn’t say it. So as not to make a fool of Radoslava and her husband, if for no other reason.

***

August
I’m keeping a diary because I don’t have anyone to sit down and shoot the breeze with. My daughter is at work all day. My son-in-law comes home and turns on the TV. My granddaughter is glued to the computer. Doing her homework. She sure studies a lot, my granddaughter. Talk about a good kid! Her name is Elena, she’s named after her grandmother. I’ll write about her, too, some other time. But she sure studies a lot. I tell Radoslava, she’s just like your mother, Elenashe was always reading something, learning something, studying something.

***

My daughter, Radoslava, works in a chemical laboratory. At the university.

***

August 24
My son-in-law and I drove to the store today. So we did our shopping and everything, then we loaded up the trunk and just as we were leaving the parking lot something suddenly started rattling in backrattle-rattle-rattle. My son-in-law stopped, we got out, looked it over, his back bumper had gotten caught on something and was just dangling there. It’s supposedly a new car and all . . . but anyway. My son-in-law starts pacing around, he calls someone on his cell phone, wondering what to do, scratching his head. So I tell him, wait, I say, don’t worry, we’ll fix this in a jiffy. And I go looking around the edges of the parking lot, searching for some baling wire to strap the bumper on—I mean, you could see where it had come loose, it’s not like it’s rocket science or anything . . . So I’m looking here and there for wire, but there isn’t a piece of wire in sight. Dang! I make the rounds of the whole parking lot, I even walk along the nearby highway, too—but there’s no wire to be found. So I start thinking to myself—how is it that in this big whoppin’ America there’s not a single little piece of baling wire? But I keep going, right, I don’t give up, I keep looking. However, at one point I notice that my son-in-law is walking along after me with this worried look. So I tell him—I’m looking for tel. He doesn’t get it. Tel, I’m looking for tel, I say again. And he says: What? That’s another word I already know in English. So I say tel. And I go like this with my hands, as if stretching out a snake: te-e-e-e-l. He still doesn’t get it. I look at him, he takes out his cell phone and makes another call, but I go about my business: I step over the guardrail and start digging through the nearby scrub—you can always find some wire along guardrails. Back home, baling wire’s one thing you’ll never be without. You might want for everything else, but there’s more wire than you can shake a stick at. You can find all kinds of baling wire where I’m from. And I’ve never asked myself where all this wire came from. But it’s always there when you need it. Here there’s no baling wire, not even along the guardrails.

***

August 25
So, my family comes from Aegean Thrace, what’s now Northern Greece, we’re Thracians. Back in 1914 they moved north near the Bulgarian town of Pazardzhik, and from there to Dobrudzha, in northeastern Bulgaria. But I’ll write about that some other time. But I can’t help thinking . . . that whole business yesterday has left me unsettled—what kind of country is this, with no wire anywhere?

***

Today the daughter said Dad . . . she said . . .

***

August 26
So . . . I’m thinking I should write more happy stuff here. There’s no use talking about sad stuff, plus I don’t hold on to the bad things. Well, I guess that isn’t exactly true—I remember the bad things, too, but why should I talk about them?

August 27
Today they took me downtown. Skyscrapers, cars, noise . . . What made an impression on me was the fact that there are no stray dogs roaming the streets. Of course, there’s plenty of homeless people. They’re sprawled on the sidewalks, twisted up in filthy blankets, on top of flattened cardboard boxes—a sorry scene. There are many street people, but no street dogs. But anyway.

***

August 28, afternoon
Back in the day, me and Dragan, this accordion player . . . Back in the day, there was this accordion player, Dragan. But criminy, how he can play! Or how he could play, rather. Dragan has passed on, he died before his time. He . . . now why the heck did I think of Dragan just now? The weather is really muggy today.

***

September…
I walked my granddaughter to school, which is eighteen minutes away, first you go up and then turn right at the intersection with the stoplight, you head down two more blocks and you’re there. Like I was saying, I dropped my granddaughter off and on the way back, I kept on going down the street—there are some really peculiar trees here. They’re something like sequoias—they’ve got this really strange bark, grayish, brownish, but smooth like dolphin skin. I’ve only seen a dolphin one time, on the Black Sea, the waves had spit it up right on the shore—maybe it was sick, injured, or old or something—it could hardly move, but it was still alive. But I remember its skin—smooth, soft, grayish. And the bark of those trees reminds me of that dolphin’s skin. And I also thought about Elena. But anyway.

So I’m walking along, and little by little I reach the upper street. And I see an old lady and an old man—maybe Japanese, maybe Chinese, I don’t know what they are, I can’t tell, but definitely from the Asian race, and they’re coming down the sidewalk toward me, right, and it makes an impression on me—polite people, no doubt about it, they greet me just like that with a nod. And I nod back at them. Not that it’s any big deal, but it makes me feel good that they greet other people. But I’m really missing Elena again. I’m done writing for today.

***

September 8
So I gather there’s a canyon beyond the school. Last night it somehow came up and my daughter was saying: “The canyon this, the canyon that.” And of course, I got all interested and started asking her about that canyon, and she snapped at me and started warning me off it—it was too far away, I had no business there and so on. That I’d better not go there and get lost and not be able to find my way home . . . This sort of rubbed me the wrong way, but anyway.

***

September 12
I dropped off my granddaughter at school and started heading back home. But I didn’t feel like going home—what’s there to do sitting around the house all day? So I started going down that same road, taking my own sweet time. I came across that Japanese couple again, they nodded at me again, I nodded back at them. They were walking slowly, side by side, taking a stroll. What else do those folks have to do but stroll around? They went on their way, I went on mine. And so I headed down the street, walking just like that, with my hands clasped behind my back. Years ago I used to wonder why old people walked like that, slightly stooped over with their hands behind their backs, but look at me now—I catch myself walking with my hands clasped behind my back. And so I’m just strolling along, but I keep my eyes peeled for baling wire. I tell myself—I’ve got to find some wire, there’s got to be baling wire somewhere in this country. A nice, orderly country, or so they say, everything spick-n-span, but you can’t find a single piece of wire on the street. So I’m looking. Wire, wire, wire, any baling wire here, any baling wire there? Nope, no wire. But I’ve gotten it into my head. And when I’ve gotten something into my head, there’s no letting it go, back in the day, Elena would say, Christo, when you get something into your head . . . enough about Elena . . . anyway. So I make it to the canyon. I look at it from up above. So they call this a canyon, huh? If you ask me, it’s just a big ravine. Full of shrubs, low-growing trees, I can even see some kind of beech tree down there, but not like ours, it’s shorter and the leaves are stiff and small. In short—a ravine. OK, so it’s a ravine all right, but of a different sort. Because back home, the country folk throw trash into the ravines. The city folk do, too. To us, a ravine is an eyesore, an ugly business. I remember, back in the day, when they built the new apartment buildings in our town—we called them “the new buildings,” and that’s what we still call them, never mind that thirty years have passed since then—so, like I was saying, they built the new buildings on the other side of the ravine. And the people from the new buildings threw their trash into the ravine. Just like the people from the old buildings. But anyway.

***

My son-in-law is going on a business trip tomorrow. I gathered that much.

***

September 18
I dropped off my granddaughter at school and again followed my usual route, taking my own sweet time, I saw the Chinese folks again, we nodded at each other again and smiled. Looks like we’re about the same age, but there’s two of them, so they’ve got an easier time of it. The neighborhood here has been greened up real nice, I’ve noticed that they water it all night, because if they don’t, everything will burn up.

So then I see a little bird on the neighbors’ fence—it looks a bit like the titmouse we’ve got back in Bulgaria, but different. Gray, with a very smooth, dark, rounded little head and a sharp black beak, but with a white belly and a long tail. I stop about five or six feet away and look at it. And it looks back at me. And at one point it goes: chirp. But its whole body shudders when it says “chirp.” And again: “chirp.” Back where I’m from, birds aren’t quite this friendly somehow. “Chirp, chirp chirp,” watching me from the corner of its eye. “Chirp.” I take a good, hard look around and when I’m sure there’s nobody in sight, I say “chirp” right back to it. It says: “chirp.” I say: “Chirp.” It says: “Chirp, chirp.” Me: “Chirp, chirp.” Then it flutters a little ways off and again goes “chirp.” I followed, “chirp.” It goes “chirp”, flies a little ways off, and I follow after it “chirp.” And with a “chirp, chirp” here and a “chirp, chirp” there, I’ve reached the canyon before I realize it. The bird goes “chirp” one last time and disappears into the canyon.

So I just stand there and stand there waiting for the bird to come back, I keep saying “chirp” few more times, but the bird doesn’t answer.

Then I walk along the guardrail until I find a little path and before I know it, voila! I am on my way down into the ravine. I take my own sweet time heading down that steep path, I’m being careful, right, so I don’t trip and fall . . . And, what do I see? Another America. Some dry brush that looks like our hawthorn back home, but it’s not; a little further down a juniper bush, again all dried up, but I know juniper when I see it. Some tall reeds, and when I say tall I’m talking three times taller than me, the wind is rustling through them—sh-sh-sh-sh-sh. The birds are twittering, the flies are buzzing, the air is different, it smells like dust clouds, like a country road. People have left it like that, just like it has been since time immemorial. So I walk down that path, further and further down, I’m breathing harder and harder, it’s like I don’t know where I am anymore—in the country, in the city, in America, or back home.

Just a hundred yards up: highways, houses, sidewalks, cars. Here: wilderness. At one point I reach some willows—they’re willows all right, but again not exactly like ours, they have smaller leaves. Under the willows there’s a little creek, gurgling between the rocks. I wade right into it bold as brass—and keep going down the path. But then it swings back up. I keep following along it, following along until I reach some old train tracks. The scent of the rails hit me, the scent of trains, of Kaspichan. Elena’s sister lived in the town of Kaspichan by the train station and we’d always take the train there to celebrate New Year’s, that’s what made me think of it. I thought I’d heard a train whistle around here a few times, I’d asked my daughter where the train tracks were, but she said I don’t know or care. They’re just freight trains, she said, nobody here takes the train. Why not? I asked her. Why don’t you take the train? Because people here have cars. Yeah, cars with their bumpers hanging off of them, I said, but just to myself, of course, I didn’t say anything like that to her. Anyway. I find the train tracks. I notice that the gravel isn’t like ours, it’s made of gray and reddish pebbles. But bigger than ours. I continue on down the dusty path, it curves up slightly to the north and keeps on going, always parallel to the train tracks.

And then I see one length of chain-link fence and I say to myself—your luck has finally turned around, Christo, old man! I run over there and guess what I see next to one of the stakes in the fence? Baling wire. Rusted, about two or two and a half yards long—exactly as much as I need, with a little extra just in case. This find really makes my day. I take that wire, wind it into a ring and hightail it out of there. And all is well and good until the path forks at one point. Which path should I take, I wonder, which path—OK, how about the one leading to the right and downward? I come across another stand of willows, and then another creek, this time bigger than the one before. I walk a little further along the river and just as I look around, trying to figure out how to splash my way through it, what do I see? A tomato plant. Not too large, not too small, but hale and hearty. A tomato plant. With one tomato on it. A tomato! A real tomato. I can’t begin to describe how happy that makes me. I look around for more—I think maybe I have wandered into somebody’s garden, but no. I haven’t. It’s just that one plant, who knows how it’s ended up here in this wilderness and has taken root, hunkered down and even borne fruit. I sit down to rest and to feast my eyes on the little savage. How did it manage to find a spot in the ravine that is both near to the water yet off the beaten track, and on a southwestern slope to boot? Nature. I tell myself: I ought to dig up this rapscallion here and replant it in my daughter’s back yard among the flowers—she’ll never know the difference—but I wonder if it would take? And then, when my son-in-law gets back from his business trip—tomato.

I guess I hadn’t realized how time had passed and how the day was fading behind the ridge. Maybe I’d worn myself out, maybe the sun had gotten to me, I don’t know, maybe there’d been a solar flare, but here, since I don’t understand what they’re saying on TV, because they don’t speak Bulgarian, I have no idea when there are solar flares or not. Back home the TV would always tell us when there were solar flares, so we wouldn’t wonder why our blood pressure was too high or too low. Anyway.

The next thing I remember I’m standing by a highway. My daughter and son-in-law’s house is just up the hill on the other side of it—I can see the traffic light where I turn right and seven minutes later I’m on their street. But I have to cross this highway. Four or five lanes in one direction, and just as many in the other. And the cars are whizzing past—fyoom, fyoom, fyoom, fyoom, lots of cars, lots of noise. I’m waiting, waiting for the right moment. I tell myself, Christo, old man, you got to fix this mess, you’ve got to get home before your daughter comes back. But that must be what all the cars are thinking, too—of getting home to their daughters. Fyoom, fyoom, fyoom. I take a deep breath, jump over the guardrail and make a run for it. Christ almighty, I don’t rightly know how I make it to the center island. Fyoom, fyoom, fyoom. And the big semis are bellowing—raar, raar, raar, as if trying to blow me clean away. But I’ve already heroically made it to the highway’s center island, so I step over the guardrail and wait—I’ll make it over to the other side, too, I tell myself. I again lose track of how long I’m standing there. Next thing I know I’m hearing sirens and there are two police cars, their lights flashing, meow-meow, they are saying something on their megaphones, one squad car has stopped on one side of the guardrail, the other on the other. The police officers get out, a whole four of them, one is really husky, a black fellow, along with a younger man, another middle-aged but tough policeman with a mean stare, and a womanhas the meanest stare of all. Dang. And they come over to me all careful like, talking to me. The tough one points at my hand and hollers something, he’s barking at mebut I have no idea what he’s saying.

I lift my hand with the baling wire and tell him tel. He starts barking at me again. Tel, I say. What else can I do, since I don’t know the word for tel in English? So I turn to the black fellow, who seems more kindhearted, and say tel. There is a CB buzzing on his shoulder, jabbering something at him. He leans his head down toward it, listening, but keeps his eyes fixed on me.

They send the young officer to close off the lane closest to the guardrail, the lights on the squad cars are still flashing, I notice how the cars around us immediately ease up on the gas, the traffic around us suddenly slows down.

The policewoman steps toward me; she is saying something, too, but it’s no use, I can’t understand. I point toward the hillI want to say that I’m visiting Radoslava, and my granddaughter goes to school and studies so hard, and my son-in-law is on a business trip, and they brought me over here and gave me a soshul, and all because my companion in life Elena . . . but anyway. I want to explain that I found this baling wire down in the ravine, I didn’t steal it, just say the word and I’ll give it back if need be. I hold the wire out to the policewoman, thinking to myself: Geez, all this hullabaloo over a stupid piece of baling wire.

And then I hear: “Dad, Dad!” I look: on the other side of the highway, Radoslava, my daughter Radoslava is waving at me with both hands just like thatwavingnext to her car, which is stopped by the embankment. “Dad!” she yells. My little daughter. And I raise my arms and wave back at her. The policewoman looks at my daughter, looks at me, looks at my daughter again, then at me, looks at the wire in my one hand, then nods at my other hand, pointing and gesturing, as if to say: what’s that you’ve got there?

Then I lift the root with the red domat high in the air, I lift it triumphantly and yell, so even my daughter across the highway can hear me. “Tomato.” I yell.

“To-ma-to! Tomato.”

© Zachary Karabashliev. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Angela Rodel. All rights reserved.

English Bulgarian (Original)

June 11, 2010
My name is Christo Christov Christov and I’m here visiting my daughter. My daughter and son-in-law, that is. Radoslava. That’s her name, not his. They live in America, in the state of California. They got me a visa this spring and brought me here. Anyway.

I’ve started keeping a diary in this notebook—my daughter gave it to me. I’ve been thinking about keeping a diary for a long time, but I never had anything to write in one. Not that I had a diary and was sitting there wondering what to write in it, I didn’t have one, but I’m just saying that even if I had had one, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Whatever I had to say, I always shared it with Elena so I didn’t need to write it down. But Elena’s gone now. That’s why my daughter brought me over to America, because my companion in life, Elena, passed away. It’s been really tough on me, so I’m writing in this notebook now, but it’s really tough on me. I’m not going to talk about my wife herе.

***

June 13, 2010
I’m going to try not to write about Elena here, because when I think about her I get really sad, and if someday somebody finds this notebook and reads about what a woman Elena was, he’ll get really sad, too. For Elena. Not for me. As for mewhat about me?my daughter brought me here, supposedly to distract me or some such thing. Not that I would’ve turned her down if she’d invited me, but still, it’s one thing to get invited, and quite another just to have them arrange for your visa in a week and next thing you know you’re in America. But anyway . . . it’s not like I’m complaining or anything.

***

June 14
My son-in-law isn’t a bad guy, he just doesn’t understand a damn thing. What I mean is that he doesn’t understand a damn thing in Bulgarian. Not that I understand American, but still, I’m not married to Radoslava. I mean, if Elena hadn’t understood Bulgarian, I would’ve tried to learn a thing or two in whatever language she spoke. After all, she’s my wife, right? But anyway. What I’m trying to say ismy son-in-law doesn’t understand Bulgarian. Last night he came home, he’d gone to the grocery store and gotten this and that, and so I’m helping him put it away, right, and I see he’d bought some tomatoes, hydroponic, of course, not homegrown like back in Bulgarianow that’s what I call a tomato, when you slice one open, dew spills out… but anyway. So, I show it to my son-in-law, I tell him domat, I tell him. He says “tomato.” I tell him domat again. And he says “to-ma-to.” And then my daughter chimes in: “It’s a tomato, Dad. With a T. To-ma-to.” And I say to myself, Christo, old man, you just learned yourself your first American word. But I was too ashamed to say it out loud. Domat, with a “t.” Anyway.

***

June 17
I haven’t written in a few days, because my daughter was getting me a soshul. Soshul, soshul . . . I had no idea what this soshul was. She says, we’ve got to get you a soshul. And frankly, I thought they’d be giving me some vaccine or a pacemaker or something. But it turns out it’s a number. A soshul is something like the ID number we’ve got back in Bulgaria, but different. So they gave me a soshul. And the last four numbers of my soshul turned out to be 5447. Very nice. The first car Elena and I bought back in 1975 was a Russian Zhiguli, and the license plate number was BV 5447. A very nice number. A very nice car. Ivory. We were on the waiting list for a Lada, but we decided not to hold out for two more years and took the Zhiguli instead. It’s just like Lada, only an older model. But made by the same Soviet manufacturer. And we didn’t regret it. Elena and the kids and I made lots of memories with that car. We put lots of miles on it, I took them everywhere you can imagine.

***

Sunday,
My daughter took me to their church today. It’s sort of like a church and sort of like a gymnasium. Everybody’s all dressed up nice, they say “Hello,” polite folks, no doubt about it. We sit down. The guy up there in front is talking and they’re listening. Then they read their Bibles, get up, sit down, sing, hold hands. In short—good people, no doubt about it. After the service they take me to meet the priest. He isn’t like one of our priests with the tall black hats and shaggy beards, but a young guy in a suit, clean shaved. He looks me straight in the eye and smiles at me, talking to my daughter and nodding. And just as we’re leaving, right, he asks my daughter something, holds out his hand and says in Bulgarian—dovizhdane. With an accent, of course, but it’s still “good-bye,” plain as day. And I shake his hand and of course I know one of his words already, “tomato,” but I’m too ashamed to say it out loud, and I didn’t say it. So as not to make a fool of Radoslava and her husband, if for no other reason.

***

August
I’m keeping a diary because I don’t have anyone to sit down and shoot the breeze with. My daughter is at work all day. My son-in-law comes home and turns on the TV. My granddaughter is glued to the computer. Doing her homework. She sure studies a lot, my granddaughter. Talk about a good kid! Her name is Elena, she’s named after her grandmother. I’ll write about her, too, some other time. But she sure studies a lot. I tell Radoslava, she’s just like your mother, Elenashe was always reading something, learning something, studying something.

***

My daughter, Radoslava, works in a chemical laboratory. At the university.

***

August 24
My son-in-law and I drove to the store today. So we did our shopping and everything, then we loaded up the trunk and just as we were leaving the parking lot something suddenly started rattling in backrattle-rattle-rattle. My son-in-law stopped, we got out, looked it over, his back bumper had gotten caught on something and was just dangling there. It’s supposedly a new car and all . . . but anyway. My son-in-law starts pacing around, he calls someone on his cell phone, wondering what to do, scratching his head. So I tell him, wait, I say, don’t worry, we’ll fix this in a jiffy. And I go looking around the edges of the parking lot, searching for some baling wire to strap the bumper on—I mean, you could see where it had come loose, it’s not like it’s rocket science or anything . . . So I’m looking here and there for wire, but there isn’t a piece of wire in sight. Dang! I make the rounds of the whole parking lot, I even walk along the nearby highway, too—but there’s no wire to be found. So I start thinking to myself—how is it that in this big whoppin’ America there’s not a single little piece of baling wire? But I keep going, right, I don’t give up, I keep looking. However, at one point I notice that my son-in-law is walking along after me with this worried look. So I tell him—I’m looking for tel. He doesn’t get it. Tel, I’m looking for tel, I say again. And he says: What? That’s another word I already know in English. So I say tel. And I go like this with my hands, as if stretching out a snake: te-e-e-e-l. He still doesn’t get it. I look at him, he takes out his cell phone and makes another call, but I go about my business: I step over the guardrail and start digging through the nearby scrub—you can always find some wire along guardrails. Back home, baling wire’s one thing you’ll never be without. You might want for everything else, but there’s more wire than you can shake a stick at. You can find all kinds of baling wire where I’m from. And I’ve never asked myself where all this wire came from. But it’s always there when you need it. Here there’s no baling wire, not even along the guardrails.

***

August 25
So, my family comes from Aegean Thrace, what’s now Northern Greece, we’re Thracians. Back in 1914 they moved north near the Bulgarian town of Pazardzhik, and from there to Dobrudzha, in northeastern Bulgaria. But I’ll write about that some other time. But I can’t help thinking . . . that whole business yesterday has left me unsettled—what kind of country is this, with no wire anywhere?

***

Today the daughter said Dad . . . she said . . .

***

August 26
So . . . I’m thinking I should write more happy stuff here. There’s no use talking about sad stuff, plus I don’t hold on to the bad things. Well, I guess that isn’t exactly true—I remember the bad things, too, but why should I talk about them?

August 27
Today they took me downtown. Skyscrapers, cars, noise . . . What made an impression on me was the fact that there are no stray dogs roaming the streets. Of course, there’s plenty of homeless people. They’re sprawled on the sidewalks, twisted up in filthy blankets, on top of flattened cardboard boxes—a sorry scene. There are many street people, but no street dogs. But anyway.

***

August 28, afternoon
Back in the day, me and Dragan, this accordion player . . . Back in the day, there was this accordion player, Dragan. But criminy, how he can play! Or how he could play, rather. Dragan has passed on, he died before his time. He . . . now why the heck did I think of Dragan just now? The weather is really muggy today.

***

September…
I walked my granddaughter to school, which is eighteen minutes away, first you go up and then turn right at the intersection with the stoplight, you head down two more blocks and you’re there. Like I was saying, I dropped my granddaughter off and on the way back, I kept on going down the street—there are some really peculiar trees here. They’re something like sequoias—they’ve got this really strange bark, grayish, brownish, but smooth like dolphin skin. I’ve only seen a dolphin one time, on the Black Sea, the waves had spit it up right on the shore—maybe it was sick, injured, or old or something—it could hardly move, but it was still alive. But I remember its skin—smooth, soft, grayish. And the bark of those trees reminds me of that dolphin’s skin. And I also thought about Elena. But anyway.

So I’m walking along, and little by little I reach the upper street. And I see an old lady and an old man—maybe Japanese, maybe Chinese, I don’t know what they are, I can’t tell, but definitely from the Asian race, and they’re coming down the sidewalk toward me, right, and it makes an impression on me—polite people, no doubt about it, they greet me just like that with a nod. And I nod back at them. Not that it’s any big deal, but it makes me feel good that they greet other people. But I’m really missing Elena again. I’m done writing for today.

***

September 8
So I gather there’s a canyon beyond the school. Last night it somehow came up and my daughter was saying: “The canyon this, the canyon that.” And of course, I got all interested and started asking her about that canyon, and she snapped at me and started warning me off it—it was too far away, I had no business there and so on. That I’d better not go there and get lost and not be able to find my way home . . . This sort of rubbed me the wrong way, but anyway.

***

September 12
I dropped off my granddaughter at school and started heading back home. But I didn’t feel like going home—what’s there to do sitting around the house all day? So I started going down that same road, taking my own sweet time. I came across that Japanese couple again, they nodded at me again, I nodded back at them. They were walking slowly, side by side, taking a stroll. What else do those folks have to do but stroll around? They went on their way, I went on mine. And so I headed down the street, walking just like that, with my hands clasped behind my back. Years ago I used to wonder why old people walked like that, slightly stooped over with their hands behind their backs, but look at me now—I catch myself walking with my hands clasped behind my back. And so I’m just strolling along, but I keep my eyes peeled for baling wire. I tell myself—I’ve got to find some wire, there’s got to be baling wire somewhere in this country. A nice, orderly country, or so they say, everything spick-n-span, but you can’t find a single piece of wire on the street. So I’m looking. Wire, wire, wire, any baling wire here, any baling wire there? Nope, no wire. But I’ve gotten it into my head. And when I’ve gotten something into my head, there’s no letting it go, back in the day, Elena would say, Christo, when you get something into your head . . . enough about Elena . . . anyway. So I make it to the canyon. I look at it from up above. So they call this a canyon, huh? If you ask me, it’s just a big ravine. Full of shrubs, low-growing trees, I can even see some kind of beech tree down there, but not like ours, it’s shorter and the leaves are stiff and small. In short—a ravine. OK, so it’s a ravine all right, but of a different sort. Because back home, the country folk throw trash into the ravines. The city folk do, too. To us, a ravine is an eyesore, an ugly business. I remember, back in the day, when they built the new apartment buildings in our town—we called them “the new buildings,” and that’s what we still call them, never mind that thirty years have passed since then—so, like I was saying, they built the new buildings on the other side of the ravine. And the people from the new buildings threw their trash into the ravine. Just like the people from the old buildings. But anyway.

***

My son-in-law is going on a business trip tomorrow. I gathered that much.

***

September 18
I dropped off my granddaughter at school and again followed my usual route, taking my own sweet time, I saw the Chinese folks again, we nodded at each other again and smiled. Looks like we’re about the same age, but there’s two of them, so they’ve got an easier time of it. The neighborhood here has been greened up real nice, I’ve noticed that they water it all night, because if they don’t, everything will burn up.

So then I see a little bird on the neighbors’ fence—it looks a bit like the titmouse we’ve got back in Bulgaria, but different. Gray, with a very smooth, dark, rounded little head and a sharp black beak, but with a white belly and a long tail. I stop about five or six feet away and look at it. And it looks back at me. And at one point it goes: chirp. But its whole body shudders when it says “chirp.” And again: “chirp.” Back where I’m from, birds aren’t quite this friendly somehow. “Chirp, chirp chirp,” watching me from the corner of its eye. “Chirp.” I take a good, hard look around and when I’m sure there’s nobody in sight, I say “chirp” right back to it. It says: “chirp.” I say: “Chirp.” It says: “Chirp, chirp.” Me: “Chirp, chirp.” Then it flutters a little ways off and again goes “chirp.” I followed, “chirp.” It goes “chirp”, flies a little ways off, and I follow after it “chirp.” And with a “chirp, chirp” here and a “chirp, chirp” there, I’ve reached the canyon before I realize it. The bird goes “chirp” one last time and disappears into the canyon.

So I just stand there and stand there waiting for the bird to come back, I keep saying “chirp” few more times, but the bird doesn’t answer.

Then I walk along the guardrail until I find a little path and before I know it, voila! I am on my way down into the ravine. I take my own sweet time heading down that steep path, I’m being careful, right, so I don’t trip and fall . . . And, what do I see? Another America. Some dry brush that looks like our hawthorn back home, but it’s not; a little further down a juniper bush, again all dried up, but I know juniper when I see it. Some tall reeds, and when I say tall I’m talking three times taller than me, the wind is rustling through them—sh-sh-sh-sh-sh. The birds are twittering, the flies are buzzing, the air is different, it smells like dust clouds, like a country road. People have left it like that, just like it has been since time immemorial. So I walk down that path, further and further down, I’m breathing harder and harder, it’s like I don’t know where I am anymore—in the country, in the city, in America, or back home.

Just a hundred yards up: highways, houses, sidewalks, cars. Here: wilderness. At one point I reach some willows—they’re willows all right, but again not exactly like ours, they have smaller leaves. Under the willows there’s a little creek, gurgling between the rocks. I wade right into it bold as brass—and keep going down the path. But then it swings back up. I keep following along it, following along until I reach some old train tracks. The scent of the rails hit me, the scent of trains, of Kaspichan. Elena’s sister lived in the town of Kaspichan by the train station and we’d always take the train there to celebrate New Year’s, that’s what made me think of it. I thought I’d heard a train whistle around here a few times, I’d asked my daughter where the train tracks were, but she said I don’t know or care. They’re just freight trains, she said, nobody here takes the train. Why not? I asked her. Why don’t you take the train? Because people here have cars. Yeah, cars with their bumpers hanging off of them, I said, but just to myself, of course, I didn’t say anything like that to her. Anyway. I find the train tracks. I notice that the gravel isn’t like ours, it’s made of gray and reddish pebbles. But bigger than ours. I continue on down the dusty path, it curves up slightly to the north and keeps on going, always parallel to the train tracks.

And then I see one length of chain-link fence and I say to myself—your luck has finally turned around, Christo, old man! I run over there and guess what I see next to one of the stakes in the fence? Baling wire. Rusted, about two or two and a half yards long—exactly as much as I need, with a little extra just in case. This find really makes my day. I take that wire, wind it into a ring and hightail it out of there. And all is well and good until the path forks at one point. Which path should I take, I wonder, which path—OK, how about the one leading to the right and downward? I come across another stand of willows, and then another creek, this time bigger than the one before. I walk a little further along the river and just as I look around, trying to figure out how to splash my way through it, what do I see? A tomato plant. Not too large, not too small, but hale and hearty. A tomato plant. With one tomato on it. A tomato! A real tomato. I can’t begin to describe how happy that makes me. I look around for more—I think maybe I have wandered into somebody’s garden, but no. I haven’t. It’s just that one plant, who knows how it’s ended up here in this wilderness and has taken root, hunkered down and even borne fruit. I sit down to rest and to feast my eyes on the little savage. How did it manage to find a spot in the ravine that is both near to the water yet off the beaten track, and on a southwestern slope to boot? Nature. I tell myself: I ought to dig up this rapscallion here and replant it in my daughter’s back yard among the flowers—she’ll never know the difference—but I wonder if it would take? And then, when my son-in-law gets back from his business trip—tomato.

I guess I hadn’t realized how time had passed and how the day was fading behind the ridge. Maybe I’d worn myself out, maybe the sun had gotten to me, I don’t know, maybe there’d been a solar flare, but here, since I don’t understand what they’re saying on TV, because they don’t speak Bulgarian, I have no idea when there are solar flares or not. Back home the TV would always tell us when there were solar flares, so we wouldn’t wonder why our blood pressure was too high or too low. Anyway.

The next thing I remember I’m standing by a highway. My daughter and son-in-law’s house is just up the hill on the other side of it—I can see the traffic light where I turn right and seven minutes later I’m on their street. But I have to cross this highway. Four or five lanes in one direction, and just as many in the other. And the cars are whizzing past—fyoom, fyoom, fyoom, fyoom, lots of cars, lots of noise. I’m waiting, waiting for the right moment. I tell myself, Christo, old man, you got to fix this mess, you’ve got to get home before your daughter comes back. But that must be what all the cars are thinking, too—of getting home to their daughters. Fyoom, fyoom, fyoom. I take a deep breath, jump over the guardrail and make a run for it. Christ almighty, I don’t rightly know how I make it to the center island. Fyoom, fyoom, fyoom. And the big semis are bellowing—raar, raar, raar, as if trying to blow me clean away. But I’ve already heroically made it to the highway’s center island, so I step over the guardrail and wait—I’ll make it over to the other side, too, I tell myself. I again lose track of how long I’m standing there. Next thing I know I’m hearing sirens and there are two police cars, their lights flashing, meow-meow, they are saying something on their megaphones, one squad car has stopped on one side of the guardrail, the other on the other. The police officers get out, a whole four of them, one is really husky, a black fellow, along with a younger man, another middle-aged but tough policeman with a mean stare, and a womanhas the meanest stare of all. Dang. And they come over to me all careful like, talking to me. The tough one points at my hand and hollers something, he’s barking at mebut I have no idea what he’s saying.

I lift my hand with the baling wire and tell him tel. He starts barking at me again. Tel, I say. What else can I do, since I don’t know the word for tel in English? So I turn to the black fellow, who seems more kindhearted, and say tel. There is a CB buzzing on his shoulder, jabbering something at him. He leans his head down toward it, listening, but keeps his eyes fixed on me.

They send the young officer to close off the lane closest to the guardrail, the lights on the squad cars are still flashing, I notice how the cars around us immediately ease up on the gas, the traffic around us suddenly slows down.

The policewoman steps toward me; she is saying something, too, but it’s no use, I can’t understand. I point toward the hillI want to say that I’m visiting Radoslava, and my granddaughter goes to school and studies so hard, and my son-in-law is on a business trip, and they brought me over here and gave me a soshul, and all because my companion in life Elena . . . but anyway. I want to explain that I found this baling wire down in the ravine, I didn’t steal it, just say the word and I’ll give it back if need be. I hold the wire out to the policewoman, thinking to myself: Geez, all this hullabaloo over a stupid piece of baling wire.

And then I hear: “Dad, Dad!” I look: on the other side of the highway, Radoslava, my daughter Radoslava is waving at me with both hands just like thatwavingnext to her car, which is stopped by the embankment. “Dad!” she yells. My little daughter. And I raise my arms and wave back at her. The policewoman looks at my daughter, looks at me, looks at my daughter again, then at me, looks at the wire in my one hand, then nods at my other hand, pointing and gesturing, as if to say: what’s that you’ve got there?

Then I lift the root with the red domat high in the air, I lift it triumphantly and yell, so even my daughter across the highway can hear me. “Tomato.” I yell.

“To-ma-to! Tomato.”

© Zachary Karabashliev. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Angela Rodel. All rights reserved.

Tomato

ТОМАТО

11 юни, 2010

Аз се казвам Христо Христов Христов и съм тука на гости на дъщерята.  На дъщерята и зетя, де. Радослава се казва. Не зетя, а дъщеря ми. В Америка, в щат Калифорния живеят. Изкараха ми виза пролетта и ме докараха тук. Както и да е.

Започвам да си водя дневник в този тефтер – дъщерята ми го даде. Аз от отдавна все си мисля да си водя дневник, а все няма какво да пиша в него. Не че съм имал дневник, та да съм се чудел какво да пиша в него, нямал съм, но казвам и да бях имал – същата работа. Каквото имах за казване, все с Елена си споделяхме и съм нямал нужда да го пиша. Но Елена я няма вече. Затова и дъщерята ме прибра в Америка, защото моята другарка в живота, Елена, почина. Много ми е тежко и пиша в този тефтер сега, но ми е тежко. Няма да споменавам тука моята съпруга…

 

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13 юни, 2010

Ще гледам да не пиша за Елена, защото като мисля за нея много се омъчнявам, а и ако някой човек един ден намери тоз тефтер и прочете каква жена беше Елена и на него ще му стане мъчно. За Елена. Не за мене. Мене – какво ми е – дъщерята ме взе тука, уж за да съм се поразасеял, незнамси какво. Не че ако беше ме повикала щях да откажа, ама все пак, друго е като те повика човек, а не така да ти изкара виза за една седмица и хоп в Америка. Ама…както и да е… не, че се оплаквам нещо.

 

*

14 юни

Зетят не е лош човек, ама не разбира от дума. Имам предвид – не разбира дума български. То не че аз разбирам американски, ама пък и не съм женен за Радослава. Аз нали, ако Елена не разбираше български, щях пък малко от малко да понауча какъвто там език говори. Жена ми е, нали. Ама както и да е. Искам да кажа – зетят не разбира български. Снощи, връща се той, ходил на магазина, носи едно-друго за ядене,  и аз, нали, помагам му да ги нареди, взел едни домати, оранжерийни де, не градински, каквито имахме ние – е-е-е, домат да ти види окото – като го разрежеш вътре – роса… ама както и да е. Та, викам на зетя, викам му “домат”. Той вика “томато”. Аз пак “домат”. Той – “то-ма-то”. Дъщерята и тя “Томато е” – вика, татко. С “т”. “То-ма-то.” И аз, нали, викам си на ум, бай Христо, първа дума научи вече. Ама ме досрамя да я кажа на глас.

*

17 юни

От два три дена не съм писал, ама защото дъщерята ми изваждаше сошъла. Сошъл, сошъл… а аз не знам какво е сошъл. Трябва – вика – да ти вадим сошъла – вика. Аз, право да си кажа, мислех, че ще ми вадят я мъдрец, я някой вътрешен орган. А то било номер. Сошъл е все едно ЕГН, ама по-друго. Моят сошъл излезе 273 – 02 – 5447. Много хубав. Нашият пръв автомобил “жигули”, с Елена го купихме през 1975 беше с регистрационен номер ВБ 5447. Много хубав номер. Много хубаво Жигули. Слонова кост. Имахме вноска за Лада, ама не изчакахме още две години и взехме Жигули-то. Не съжаляваме. Много спомени имаме с тази кола с Елена, с децата… Много ходехме, къде ли не съм ги водил.

 

*

Неделя,

Дъщерята ме води днес на църквата им. То е хем уж като църква, хем малко прилича на физкултурен салон. Всички, нали, прилично облечени, поздравяват се, възпитани хора, което си е. Седнахме. Отпреде човека им говори, те слушат. После четат от библиите, стават, сядат, пеят, държат се за ръце. А бе – уважителни хора, направи ми впечатление, което си е. След службата ме заведоха при попа им. То не е поп да кажеш като нашите, с калимявка, с брада както си е, ами едно младо момче с костюм. Гледа ме в очите, усмихва ми се, говори с дъщерята, кима. И вече, нали, като тръгваме, пита дъщерята нещо, подава си ръката и казва, на български – “довиждане”.  С акцент нали, ама чисто. Аз му стискам ръката и нали вече знам една дума – “томато”, ама пак ме досрамя да я кажа на глас. Да не излагам Радослава и зета, не за друго.

 

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Август

Водя си дневник, защото няма с кого да седна една дума да си кажа. Дъщерята по цял ден на работа. Зетя като се върне гледа телевизор. Внучката пред компютъра. Пише си домашните. Много учи внучката. Значи такова свястно дете! Елена се казва, кръстиха я на баба й. И за нея отделно ще пиша. Но, много учи. На Радослава й викам – като майка ти, викам, Елена. Тя все нещо ще чете, все нещо ще се образова, ще учи. И така де.

*

Дъщеря ми, Радослава, работи в химическа лаборатория.

 

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24 август

Със зетя днес ходихме на магазина с колата. Напазарихме, нали. Натоварихме багажника и като тръгнахме да излизаме от паркинга по едно време, нещо като изхърка отзад – хърррр. Спира зетя, слизаме, гледаме, бронята му отзаде виснала. Уж нова кола, пък… ама както и да е. Зетя взе да обикаля, обажда се на жиесем-а си на някого, чуди се, мае се. Викам, чакай, викам, недей да се притесняваш, ще оправим работата. Тръгвам да се оглеждам отстрани по паркинга по бордюрите, да намеря някоя тел и да вържа бронята – то нали се вижда откъде се е откачила, не е да кажеш да е нещо… Търся аз, търся, тука тел, там тел, няма тел никъде. Бре! Избиколих паркинга, отстрани покрай шосето – няма и няма тел. Викам си – как така, коскоджам’ти Америка – да няма тел. Ама прдодължавам, нали, не се отказвам аз, търся. Гледам обаче, зетя тръгнал подире ми с един обезспокоен вид. Викам му – тел търся. Той не разбира. Тел, викам търся. Той “уат”. “Уат” означава “какво” на английски, тази дума я знам също вече. Викам “тел”. И правя ей така с ръцете си, все едно че опъвам змия – “те-е-е-е-е-л”. Зетя не разбира. Гледам го – вади пак жиесема, пак се обажда, ама аз си знам моето – прекрачих мантинелата и почнах да ровя из шубраците наоколо – покрай мантинелите винаги ще излезе някоя тел. По нашия край – тел да искаш. Друго може всичко да е, ама тел има навсякъде. А тука и покрай мантинелите няма тел.

 

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25 август

Значи, моят род е от Беломорска Тракия, тракийци сме. През 1914 година се изселват нагоре към Пазраджик и оттам – Добруджата.  По този въпрос отделно ще пиша. Ама пак си мисля сега… мене ме притесни тази работа вчера – каква ще е таз държава без тел?

 

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Дъщерята днеска вика… татко…

 

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26 август

Значи… тука мисля да пиша повече весели работи. От тъжни работи файда няма, а и аз не лошо не държа в себе си. А бе не е точно така – помня и лошото, ама защо да го приказвам?

 

27 август

Днес ме заведоха в центъра на града. Небостъргачи, коли, шумно… Което ми прави впечатление е, че няма бездомни кучета по улиците. Значи, бездомни хора има много – лежат по тротоарите, усукани с едни мръсни одеала, по едни разпрани кашони – лоша работа. Бездомни хора има, а кучета няма. Ама както и да е…

 

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28 август, следобед

Навремето с Драган акордеониста… Имаше един Драган навремето, акордеонист. Така свири значи! Свиреше, де, искам да кажа. Отиде си Драган, без време си отиде. Той… а бе защо се сетих за Драган сега? Днес, много задушно времето.

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Септември…

Изпратих значи детето до училището, което е на осемнайдет минути пеша, така нагоре се минава и после завиваш вдясно на кръстовището със светофара, оттам надолу и на две пресечки е. Та, оставих детето и на връщане, продължих още надолу по улицата – има едни много интересни дървета тук. От рода на секвоята са – много особени кори имат – сиво, кафяво, а гладки като делфинови кожи. Един път само съм виждал делфин, на Бяла, на самия бряг го беше изхвърлила водата – болен ли беше, ранен ли беше, стар ли беше – можеш ли разбра – едва мърдаше, но още жив. Та съм запомнил кожата му – гладка, нежна, сивкава. И тези кори на дърветата ми напомнят на кожата на тоз делфин. А и за Елена си спомних. Ама както и да е.

И вървя аз, полека лека, и съм стигнал до горната улица. И гледам една баба и един дядо – японци ли, китайци ли, не ги знам какви бяха, но от азиатската раса, и нали, вървят насреща ми по тротоара и, направи ми впечатление – възпитани хора, което си е, поздравиха така с глава, кимнаха ми. И аз поздравих, така с глава. Не че нещо, ама – хубаво ми стана, че поздравяват хората. Ама пак ми домъчня за Елена. Спирам да пиша за днеска.

 

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8 септември

Оттатък училището има каньон. Снощи стана въпрос нещо и дъщерята вика каньона това, каньона онова. Аз, нали, интересно ми стана, питам я за тоз каньон, тя, спона ми се малко – далеч било, нямал съм бил работа там. Да не съм съм бил ходел, да не съм се бил объркал да не мога да се оправя и да се върна… Не ми стана хубаво, ама както и да е.

 

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12 септември

Оставих сутринта детето на училище и тръгнах да се връщам. Ама не ми се прибира – какво да стоя вкъщи по цял ден.  И тръгнах пак по същия маршрут, полека лека. Пак срещнах японците, пак ми кимнаха, аз пак кимнах. Вървят бавно, един до друг, разхождат се. Какво ще правят хората, разхождат се. Те по пътя си, аз по пътя си… И тръгнах аз надолу, вървя ей тъй, ръцете си съм ги хванал отзад, едно време все се чудех на старите хора дето вървят тъй леко пригърбени и с ръце на гърба, а ей ме на сега – и аз тъй се улавям – с ръце зад гърба. И уж си вървя, ама все се оглеждам за тел. Викам си – трябва да намеря тел, все някъде ще има тел в таз държава. Уредена държава уж, всичкото й наред, а една тел не можеш да намериш по улиците. И търся. Тел, тел, тел, тука тел, там тел – няма тел. Но закучих се аз. А като се закуча, няма отърване, Елена, навремето… ама стига все Елена да споменавам… както и да е. Та, стигнах и до каньона. Гледам така отгоре. Каньон, та каньон. А то, ако питаш мене е едно голямо дере. С храсталак, нискостеблени дървета, вижда се и бук така долу, но различен от нашия, по-дребен и листата му са корави и дребни. А бе – дере. Дере, дере, но е различно. Защото у нас в деретата селяните си хвърлят боклуците. И гражданите и те. Дерето, за нас е грозна работа. Помня, навремето, когато построиха новите блокове в нашето градче – “новите блокове” им викахме, те сега още така им викат, хем че са минали над трийсет години – та построиха новите блокове от другата страна на дерето. И хората от новите блокове си хвърляха боклуците в дерето.

Дойде ми на акъла сега таз работа с даскала… Резил. Ама , както и да е…

 

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Зетя утре заминава в командировка. Така подразбрах.

 

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18 септември

Оставих детето на училище и пак по познатия маршрут, полека лека, пак видях китайците(а може и японци да са хората), пак си кимнахме, усмихнахме се. На една възраст сме като гледам, ама те двамата се водят, по-лесно им е сигурно. Озеленен е квартала тука, прави ми впечатление, напояват всяка нощ, пръскат пръскачките вода цяла вечер, то ако не пръскат, всичко ще изгори.

И виждам на оградата на комшиите едно птиченце – прилича малко на нашия синигир, ама по-различно. Сиво, с много гладка, обла тъмна главичка и остра черна човчица, а с бяло коремче и дълга опашка. Спрях се на има-няма два метра и го гледам. И то ме гледа. И по едно време каза ей тъй:“цък”. Ама цялото му телце потрепери като каза “цък”. И пак – “цък”. По нашия край не са така дружелюбни сякаш птичетата. “Цък, цък, цък.“ И ме гледа с едно око. “Цък”. Аз се поогледах, поогледах и като се уверих, че няма никой наоколо и аз му казах “цък”. То “цък”. Аз “цък”. То “цък, цък”, аз “цък”, “цък”. После подхвръкна малко по- напред, пак “цък”. Аз – подире му, “цък”. То “цък”, прелети малко, аз – подире му – “цък”. И “цък” тук, “цък” там – гледам оказал съм се неусетно пред каньона. Птичето каза за последен път “цък” и изчезна.

Аз постоях, постоях, та като намерих една пътечка и хоп – надолу в каньона. Полека, полека, по стръмната пътечка, внимавам, нали, да не се изсуля, да падна… И – какво да видя – друга Америка. Едни сухи храсталаци, на нашия глог приличат, ама не е глог; по-надолу хвойнов храст, пак изсъхнал, ама познавам хвойната аз. Едни високи тръстики, като казвам високи имам напредвид три човешки боя високи, вятъра шуми в тях – “ш-ш-ш-ш-ш-ш”. Чуруликат птици, мухи бръмчат, въздуха различен, мирише на прахоляк, на селски път. Оставили са го, хората да си е каквото си е било открай време. Вървя аз по пътечката надолу, спускам се, спускам се и дишам по-начесто така, и сякаш се пообърквам знам къде се намирам – на село ли, в града ли, в Америка ли, у нас ли… Горе само на стотина метра – шосета, къщи, тротоари, коли. Тука – дивота. По някое време съм стигнал до едни върби – уж върби, ама пак различни от нашите – с по-дребен лист. Под върбите – едно кротко ручейче, църцори между камъните. Прегазих го аз и смело, смело – продължавам по пътечката. Тя пък взе да поизвива нагоре. По нея, по нея из прахоляка, докато стигнах до една железопътна линия. Замириса ми на релси, на влак, на Каспичан ми замириса. На Елена сестра й живееше в Каспичан и там ходехме да празнуваме Нова Година, та се присетих.  Значи, аз чувах отвреме навреме влакова свирка тука, питал съм и дъщерята през къде минава влака, ама тя вика, нито ме интересува вика, нито знам. Това са товарни композициии, тука, вика никой не се вози на влак. Защо, питам я няма да ползвате железопътен транспорт? Защото имали били коли. То пък едни коли, дето им висват броните, си викам аз, ама на ума си, на нея не й казах нищо. Както и да е. Намерих железопътната линия. Чакълът, направи ми впечатление не е бял като нашия, ами съставен от сиви и червеникави камъчки. И по едри от нашите. Продължих си аз по прашния пътя, той възвива така малко на север и продължава все успоредно покрай релсите.

И тогава гледам един участък, ограден с мрежа.  И си викам – тука вече дядо Христо, ти излезе късмета. Спуснах се аз и какво да  видя – покрай единия от коловете на мрежата – тел. Ръждясала тел, около два, два  и половина метра – таман колкото ми трябва, а и да остане. Много ме зарадва таз находка. Взех аз телта, понавих я на кравай и – да ме няма. Хубаво ама по едно време пътечката се разклонява на две. Коя да хвана, викам си, коя да хвана – хайде, викам, тази надясно и надолу. Стигнах пак един върбалак, а после и една рекичка – по-голяма от предишната. Повървях още малко покрай рекичката и таман взех да се оглеждам как да я прецапам и виждам какво? – един доматов храст. Не много голям, нито много малък, малко поовяхнал, ама здрав. Доматово растение. И на него – един домат. Домат! Истински домат. Брей как се зарадвах. Огледах се наоколо за още – викам да не съм попаднал в нечия градина – не. Не съм. Само този храст, кой знае как попаднал там в пустоща и се хванал, вързал, та и дал плод. Поседнах аз да почина и да му се порадвам на тоз дивак. Как си беше намерил място в дерето, хем до вода, хем по-настрани и на склон с югозападно изложение. Природа. Викам си, тоз нехранимайко да го извадя оттука, да го засадя на дъщерята отзад в градината из цветята – хич няма да се усети – дали ще се хване? И заетя като се върне от командировка – домат.

И не съм усетил как е минало времето и деня превалил баира отсреща. Дали нещо съм се поуморил, дали ме е хванало слънцето, не знам, може и изригвания да е имало, а тука като не разбирам какво казват по телевизора, не знам кога има, кога няма изригвания. Както и да е.

После вече помня само как съм пред една магистрала. Четири, пет платна в една посока, и още толкоз в другата. И коли фучат – фиу, фиу, фиу, фиу, много кола, много нещо. Чакам, чакам удобен момент. Викам си, бай Христо, трябва да я минеш тая бела, да се прибереш в къщи, докато не се е върнала дъщерята. Ама сигурно всички коли и те така си мислят – да се приберат в къщите си, при техните си дъщери. Фиу, фиу, фиу. Поемам аз дъх, прескачам мантинелата и бегом. Бре, как стигнах до средата, не знам. Фиу, фиу, фиу. А големите тирове като избучат – буу, буу, буу – аха да ме издухат. Ама нали стигнах героически аз до средата на магистралата, прекрачих мантинелите и зачаках – викам си и до отсрещната страна ще го докарам. Колко дълго съм стоял там – пак малко ми се губи. После чувам сирени и гледам две полицейски коли – бурканите се въртят, мяу – мяу, говорят нещо по високоговорител, една полицейска кола спира от едната страна на мантинелата, другата от оттатъчната. Слизат полицаите, четирима на брой, единият много едър, чернокож, едно по-младо момче, друг на средна възраст, здрав такъв и гледа лошо, и една жена – тя още по-лошо гледа. Бре. И ме приближават така внимателно, говорят ми. Този, здравият, сочи ръката ми и вика нещо, лае насреща ми – не го знам какво казва.

Аз вдигам едната ръка и му викам “тел”. Той пак лае. “Тел”, викам. Ама като не знам как е “тел” на английски! Черният, той по-добродушен ми се стори, към него се обръщам – “тел”, викам. А на рамото му, една радиостанция жужи нещо, приказват му оттам. Той понавежда глава, слуша, ама очите му в мене.

По-младото момче го изпратиха да отбие пътното платно до мантинелата, бурканите на полицейската кола се въртят, автомоблите нали, прави ми впечатление, веднага намаляват скорост, движението около нас рязко се забави.

Полицайката пристъпва към мене, говори ми и тя нещо, ама като не разбирам. Соча аз къмто квартала на баира – искам да кажа, че съм на гости на Радослава, защото тъй стана, че моята другарка в живота… ама както и да е… искам да обясня, че таз тел съм я намерил долу в дерето, не съм я откраднал да кажеш нещо, и ако трябва ще я върна. Подавам аз телта, викам си наум – айде холам за таз простата тел…

И тогава чувам “Тате, татко”! Гледам – от другата страна на шосето, дъщерята, маха с две ръце ей тъй, до колата й, спряна отстрани на банкета. “Татко!”, вика. И аз вдигам ръце и аз й махам. Полицайката гледа дъщеря ми, гледа мен, гледа пак дъщерята, пак мен, гледа телта в едната ми ръка, мята глава към другата ми ръка, сочи с пръст и ми прави жест тъй, един вид – какво е туй, дето държа в нея.

–  Томато. – Вдигам аз тогава корена с червения домат високо във въздуха, вдигам го победоносно и викам, ама и дъщерята отсреща да ме чуе. – Томато. То-ма-то! Томато.

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