He woke up with the clear sensation that he had just spoken with her in French, and at that, using the formal “vous.” The astonishment reached him a little later, when he gradually began to wake up, realizing that French was not a language he could converse in, not when he was awake, in any case. He tried to recall what the conversation had been about, but only the tattered “Je vous remercie, Madame, je vous remercie de votre confidence” remained in his mind, and after some effort, not entirely pleasant, he gave up. In his mouth lingered a murky taste with hints of the improvised dish he had prepared for himself and the little one at lunch, relying mostly on hunger, which at some point should have drowned out the feeble protests of the boy, unaccustomed to sitting at the table without his mother. He shook his head like a dog coming out of a pool. Only now did he notice that his son was watching him from across the room with wide-open eyes, filled with fear and compassion.
“Did you dream of the eyes again, Daddy? Was it very scary?”
“No, this time it was something else. Why, did I scream in my sleep?”
“No, not exactly, but you were talking and tossing as if someone was strangling you. I got really scared.”
He lifted the edge of the blanket and pulled the boy close to him.
“Come on, get under. There’s nothing to be afraid of, you see, everything is fine.”
The little one readily curled up into a ball next to him, pulled his hand, and placed it on his belly.
“Daddy, tell me about the eyes again, please. I want to listen to you.”
“Ugh, I’ve told you so many times. You know they are made up, they don’t really exist, those eyes.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, just tell me again. I won’t tremble, I promise.”
“And tonight, when you’re alone in bed? Won’t you tremble then too?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Come on, tell me again, please.”
“Well, you actually know everything. They are two big eyes, yellow. And they glow in the dark, like headlights. I am very afraid of them, I try to run away, to hide somewhere, but they are always nearby and always find me, no matter where I crawl.”
“And what do they do then?”
“I don’t know, I always wake up at that point, I have never seen what they want to do to me. I only know that they are evil, very evil. And very scary, very dangerous.”
“And how many times have you dreamed them already?”
“Many. I don’t know exactly, probably several dozen times.”
“What is dozen, Daddy?”
“A dozen is twelve of something. ‘Several dozen’ means many times.”
“And what does Mummy dream of, Daddy? What is she afraid of?”
The pain slashed through him with such suddenness that his vision blackened, and for a moment-eternity, his heart faltered, sending spirals of fiery rings before his eyes. He coughed to cover his agitation, waited until he was sure his voice would sound normal again, then said something completely meaningless, not even knowing exactly what, just trying to sound reassuring. The little one fell silent, apparently satisfied with the answer, and soon breathed evenly. He carefully lifted the blanket, was about to get up, but the boy gripped his hand and asked drowsily:
“And will Mummy be back soon, Daddy?”
“Soon, soon. Come on, sleep now, I have to work a little.”
His legs, as always after sleep, were swollen and felt like stumps with roots that needed to be torn out with every step. He hobbled into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, looked at the wall clock before remembering that this was forbidden, and immediately received his punishment. It was only five o’clock in the afternoon, too early for her, she would probably return around eight or nine, if not late at night. Before his eyes involuntarily appeared the two camels he had photographed years ago at the zoo, mounted one on top of the other for hours, captivated, foaming, indifferent to the two-legged creatures hopping around them, literally sunk into each other. One in another, he corrected himself mechanically, then thought that he was starting to become more German than the Germans, angrily waved his hand, and dragged himself toward the study.
The computer screen flickered at him like a will-o’-the-wisp, such a tempter, you destroyed my family, God, how far will I go with this self-pity, at least others can drink Rakia, I’m not even good for that, pulled the tattered chair, what a circus, complete circus, sat down, buried his head in his hands. If I had hair, I could imagine myself looking like Sam Shepard, but that doesn’t work anymore either, anyway, he’s six-foot-three, where am I going, trying to compare?
His eyes suddenly filled and began to overflow, his mouth twisted, and a vein in his neck stretched painfully, straining to snap. He twisted his neck like a stubborn mule, stood like that until the vein settled back, pulled the keyboard toward him, then pushed it away again.
“Come for a bit to the bedroom, I want to talk with you.”
She had said it in a tone that obviously aimed to poke him in the ribs, but these things had stopped disturbing him a long time ago, he no longer even knew exactly when, so he snorted, quietly, and went – but not without having delayed himself long enough, let her still not think that she can make him jump with that crackling-from-dryness Prussian tone, we too are Prussians, the Prussians of the Balkans, that was not said by me, by the way.
She had squeezed herself into jeans, tight as plumbing pipes, how does she even manage to bend her knees in these shackles, still, she looks like a model, even at this age, how many people must think that I am a lucky man? He sat down, looked at her in expectation, calmly, businesslike, now she will start rubbing him down because of some forgotten comma in the last manuscript, mm-hmm, everything has its price in this world, including one’s own translator.
“I want to tell you something. Already for quite some time now.”
That sounded somewhat ultimative, unusual, and for a moment he got startled, but hurried to push back the cold feeling. Okay then, go ahead, let’s push this scene behind our backs as soon as possible.
“You … are no longer … the only man in my life.”
He stood up again, he was never able to sit when this scene started to thrash before his eyes, it was not quite like then, the burning inside had somewhat diminished, and along with it – the energy, thank God, there is no perpetual motion machine in this world, but still, the jab was still tangible, sitting down was out of the question, and that meant, now let’s roam from room to room.
“You are not the only one. You are not the only one. You are not the only one.”
A few hours later, he had found himself in the park, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, turning laps on the jogging track, without even remembering how he had ended up there. He realized it because some little girls on the grass were bursting into laughter every time he passed by them, and only then did he realize that he was waving his arms like one of Don Quixote’s windmills, and shouting something incoherent, now in German, now in Bulgarian, throwing punches in all directions. He didn’t even feel ashamed, he just got terribly angry at the little ones, how can they be so stupid, Lord, were we also like that back in the day? He went home gloomily – she had already prepared the boy for bed, unusually early, but it seemed that the kid also felt that something was not right, because he had obediently tucked himself into his little bed, two frightened little mouse eyes above the blanket.
“I will go out, I have work. Don’t wait for me, I will probably be late.”
The world was collapsing faster than a person could pronounce the word “flood,” he obediently closed the door behind her back, tried to work, tried to watch TV, tried to go to bed, tried to fall asleep. Too many tries. In the morning, when she finally came back, he made an effort to breathe deeply, even though he was sure that he could not deceive her. For some reason, he had the feeling that she was grateful to him for that.
“I have always told you that size doesn’t matter. Now, as the end approaches, I want to confess to you the truth: size does matter.”
This I must frame on the wall someday, the most remarkable thought I have ever heard from her.
And then: Is it really so important to know everything? I have always thought that there is something masochistic in you, really. By the way, fine, since you insist so much.
He was absorbing the information – this impersonal word somehow helped him to stay distant from what she was telling him – with the thirst of an anemic cactus, completely dried out and bent, completely covered with invisible, or maybe even visible, who cares, thorns. He even took off his shirt, so that she could show him exactly where the tattoos of the other one were, by the way, he has them in other places too, but about that, I really don’t want us to talk, he is terribly strong, sometimes I have the feeling that he can lift me with just one hand, but otherwise, he is very kind, very affectionate. Do you really want me to tell you all this? Yes, he really carries a knife with him, at any time of the day or night. Nonsense, what should I be afraid of? Didn’t I already tell you how affectionate he is?
She was pronouncing the word with the buzzing of a little bee, overloaded with nectar and honey, affffectionate, affffectionate, afffffffectionate. And if you only knew how well he can cook! You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to let someone serve you in the kitchen. By the way, you can, of course. What does it matter where I found him? Oh, what the hell – since you so much want to cause yourself pain: I found him through an ad. Yes, exactly. One of those ads. So what, will you tell me now how depraved I am? Thank you, I have had enough of civility. Now I finally want to experience something real, something strong, do you understand that, something strong? I’ve had enough of your civility up to my throat, I want savagery, I want strength, I want life! Enough with the artificial, cellophane emotions. I want to live now, here and now! And I don’t give a damn about your eternity! I don’t give a damn, do you hear me?
Once he had looked at the clock, of course, he could no longer stop, here, again. Barely half an hour had passed, the relativity of time is something so obvious, strange why people need a whole Einstein to grasp something so obvious, so painfully obvious… Half past five, Lordi.
Strange why he still felt so restless, exactly today, on such a beautiful, such a radiant day. Because he was shutting himself inside like a badger, of course, instead of going outside, taking a walk, buying himself one of those magazines with such ads. Aging Balkan man, one meter sixty, with at least ten excess kilograms, seeks a maiden for mutual entertainment, fun guaranteed, discretion as well. Pure and simple as dew in a non-industrialized zone. Now it’s my turn to buzz like a little bee, see what fancy words I can come up with.
The slamming of the front door made him jump, he hadn’t expected her so early and got a little angry at the involuntary, warm like fresh pee joy that flooded him from inside. He shrank into the chair and waited until she went to the bedroom, after all, he had no desire to look at her satisfied face, let her first breathe in the lemony breath of the hateful apartment, let her sour a little.
Something fell heavily outside, he got startled again, hesitated for a moment, then cautiously stuck his nose through the door, saw the body lying on the floor, froze, threw himself forward, knelt beside her, took her in his arms. Her head was bleeding like, yes, exactly like a slaughtered pig, he had never seen so much blood, feverishly took off his shirt, wrapped it around her head like a rag, still didn’t understand where the blood was coming from, but it couldn’t be from her throat, otherwise, she wouldn’t be here now, Lord, what a computer I am, will I ever stop recording everything or not? How did she even drag herself home, at any cost I have to clean this up before Pavel wakes up, otherwise, we will surely damage him for life, quickly, think, think, think!
She groaned heavily, obviously coming to her senses. He began kissing her wildly, stupidly, terrified, got smeared with blood almost as much as she was herself, felt ashamed, dragged her toward the study, leaving behind a not-so-narrow trail of blood, laid her on the floor, rushed into the living room, grabbed some pillow, flew back, placed it under her head. She was looking at him with frozen, shock-filled eyes, a bit frog-like, almost comical.
He grabbed the phone and frantically started dialing, but she suddenly recovered and whispered hoarsely, no police, no police. What police, I’m calling an ambulance, he snorted furiously, what’s wrong with you, where does it hurt? In response, she only opened her clenched palm, and now it was his turn to freeze on the edge of fainting, because in her hand, shriveled like a dried mushroom, sat a severed human ear, left.
Still, he managed to stammer out the address to the ones on the other side of the line, with effort suppressed the rising remains of his meager lunch, and set about wiping the floor in the hallway, furious, horrified, and filled with a venomously-vindictive satisfaction, all at the same time. She lay in the other room, quiet as a little bee with clipped wings, only occasionally groaning, but not in a feigned way—trying to suppress the horror, and in the end, that made him break down crying, he sobbed like a child, tears blinded him and got in the way of cleaning properly, faster, faster, just before Pavel wakes up, for God’s sake, if he sees all this, at five years old, count him damaged for life.
They came surprisingly fast, German mechanics in its most precise execution, no stupid questions, no commotion, immediately injected her with something, she suddenly relaxed and calmed down, one of them put the ear in a plastic bag with some liquid, like a little fish from a pet store, one-two-three and they were already gone. He barely managed to tell the neighbors to take care of Pavel, those guys will leave without him like nothing, she was desperately repeating nur keine Polizei, nur keine Polizei, they said nothing, but in their eyes flickered dozens of unspoken questions, full throttle, floor it, floor it, and a blue siren on the roof.
***
Before his eyes, with oppressive persistence, the image of her kept spinning, just as he had left her at home – looking somewhere to the side, expressionless, maybe pretending not to hear him, or maybe her hearing really was damaged, or perhaps it was the bandages, serves her right, let her lie there now, wrapped like a mummy. In any case, the doctors had done a real miracle, the ear was in place, sewn on like new, of course, it was visible if one looked closely, but under the hair, nothing could be seen, he barely restrained himself from telling her that she was still lucky, it could have been the nose.
To Pavel, they only said that mom had a headache and that if he wanted her to get better quickly, he had to be very obedient and not try to constantly climb onto her lap. And she, otherwise, was behaving, hmm, with astonishing dignity. Go and say that suffering does not ennoble people.
Alcohol doesn’t help, of course. He hadn’t drunk alone for years, even more so in some rundown bar at the other end of Berlin, two streets away from there. But there was no other way. His body was still shaken by uncontrollable spasms, his hands were trembling, in his palms, he could still feel the coldness of the metal pipe wrapped in a newspaper – God, what things one learns from crime novels? – with which he had been smashing in front of him like a madman, once or twice even with closed eyes, until the other one fell to the ground and stopped moving. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
And then he had kicked the motionless body – yes, yes, yes, with immense pleasure, kicked, kicked, kicked, take that, take that, take that, until his own body allowed him no more, barely dragged himself to the nearest bar, ordered in the most Humphrey Bogart-like voice he could muster, Korn, doppelt, and then began methodically pressing the burning liquid down into himself, go on, go on, go on, otherwise, you will never manage to erase from your memory that motionless body, yes, you’re probably already fit for Abu Ghraib, Lord, how far I’ve come!
And she had refused to speak. He couldn’t extract a single word from her, kneeling by her bed, clutching in his sweaty palms the hand she had helplessly left in his, please, please, please, tell me what happened, what exactly happened, God, I want to kill someone, no, don’t smile like that, every person is capable of murder, in this we are all equal like wheat stalks, yes, I know I can’t stop with this wordy tongue of mine, and what do you even understand about tongue, except when it’s stewed with onions, but yes, yes, yes, today I want to kill someone.
Well, now he had done it. No satisfaction, no pleasure, no erection in all of this, only polaroid pictures jumping around his head like colorful paper streamers on the tail of a kite, hop-hop, hop-hop. And schnapps doesn’t help, fact. Everyone knows it, and yet everyone tries. Just like with love. Or with hope. God, help, I really am starting to lose it, Lord!
Or maybe he should simply go to the police, now, right now, before they start blaring it everywhere. Tomorrow the tabloids will be filled with grim photographs and headlines set in three hundred-point Walbaum, in red, as if the retouched blood in the pictures wasn’t enough already.
“He didn’t make it home, he was prevented by death.”
Or “Who says death was a master from Germany – this time it came from Bulgaria.”
Or maybe just “Innocent victim of predatory instincts.”
Nonsense, unfathomable are the ways of newspaper eloquence, here as everywhere else. Bild-Zeitung just needs to stay true to its name and stop chattering, the pictures are entirely enough, who even wants to read in this time of universal pictorial saturation? The Gutenberg revolution – canceled. Universal renunciation of literacy, who needs reading when floods of servilely smiling, ever-ready-to-help images are chasing you everywhere?
And that one surely is still lying there, in any case, no sirens can be heard, everything is quiet and calm, Lord, how I love Berlin’s June! He has learned to repeat the name of God with or without reason, you become like those you gather with, Gottchen, yes, that’s how his mother-in-law says it, while his mother never used to say Bozhichko, no, we are different, we don’t like to be sentimental, pity that with the years I am drifting further and further from my roots, but what does any of this matter now, Gottchen, Gottchen, Gottchen.
He got up with effort, gave a whole five-euro tip to the waitress, who looked at him not so much with gratitude as with pity, intuitively found his way to the bathroom, then to the exit, the June evening embraced him like a cradle, like a perfect lover, he staggered uncertainly in the first direction that came to him, does the U-Bahn run at this hour, no way I have enough money for a taxi, anyway, who even cares, hey…
“Hey”, growled someone behind his back, an exact echo of his inner voice.
He turned around, tried to focus quickly, but in the dark, it wasn’t easy, then his pupils suddenly widened and forever sealed the dimly gleaming blade of the knife.
Across from him, watching, somehow coldly, even impartially, were the yellow eyes from his dream.
You can find the Bulgarian original here.
