Unexpected Gifts (32 page)

She woke up excited. No tapping. No treadmill thoughts. Just excited. Harry was due for breakfast at around ninish, and although pictures of Daria being overly faithful sifted through her brain, by seven thirty she was already glancing at the clock every fifteen minutes.

Petra picked up on her energy, following her around like a toy on a string, into the bathroom, into the kitchen, onto the couch, over to the desk and at eight forty-two, when the doorbell suddenly rang, both pet and owner flinched. So early?

She flung open the door to find Mike, his hands touching the outside door molding.

“What—what are you doing here?” she blurted out.

“Now, that's a nice greeting,” he chuckled, noticing no hug was forthcoming. “Well, um, look, Babe, I know you were upset at me. I just wanted you to know I am really glad Pete's back.” He by-passed her into the apartment.

“You came all the way over here to tell me that?” she asked, glancing at the time.

“Well, no, I also wanted to say I probably did take Ned a little bit for granted, I mean, maybe I shouldn't have gone to Steve so soon. But when all is said and done, look how much we got from him in return. We're well on our way to becoming famous!”

“We?”

“Whatever happens to me, happens to you, Babe.” He pulled off his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Wow! Now, that's a first,” he laughed, trying gather her in his arms.

“No, not now.
No!”
she practically screamed as the doorbell rang.

She frantically shoved his shirt back into his hands. “Put it back on! Put it back on,” she hissed as the bell rang a second time, in a
Shave-and-a-Haircut
rhythm.

He started to put it back on, but as soon as she ran for the door, pulled it off defiantly.

She opened the door a crack to an eager Harry.

“Hey, you! Are you ready for croissants, crème fraiche, and strawberry jam?”

“Oh, Harry, I…”

Widening the angle of the door, Mike stood behind her, bare-chested, scowling. “What the hell…
”
he began.

“What the hell is right,” Harry snapped and charged down the stairs.

“Wait! Wait,
”
she yelled, chasing him halfway down, but he was too fast, too angry. Trudging back up to her apartment, she faced an equally irate Mike.

“You wanna explain this?” he snarled, yanking his shirt back on.

“No, not now…” she said.

“When I think of all the girls I could have been with, all the tail I could be having right this minute…”

It was as if he had disappeared from the universe, No more psych class, no answering his messages, and according to Martha, no appearance at her house. In fact, it wasn't until two weeks later he even bothered to pick up his phone.

“Harry, Harry,
”
she said as soon as she heard his voice. “I swear I didn't ask Mike over. He just showed up…”

“With his shirt off? Look, Sonia…”

“Harry, I just want you to know, that night together was so important to me.”

“But not important enough, right? Look, Sonia, I've gotta go take Martha out. See ya around. Take care.” Click.

Maybe he didn't care all that much after all. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe, maybe, she ruminated as Petra settled onto her lap. She looked at the phone, and picking it up, dialed her mother who remained curiously noncommittal.

The next night she climbed into bed, determined to start Andrei's journals. She patted the spot next to her and instantly felt the light shake of Petra's jump up as she opened to his first page. It was in the middle of the second page she recalled the quaver in Harry's voice when he had said, ‘See you around.’

(Escaping Icons)

“All is disgust when a man leaves his own nature and does what is unfit.” -
Sophicles

Throughout my childhood, my father would lecture me on the history of our eminent Bulgaria; how, after the cruel Ottomans had turned much of our population into slaves under the devshirme system, the sultan's agents scavenged our villages, snatching young, attractive Christian boys away from their homes and turning them into Muslims. My father also admitted that although he did miss his mother at the time, he believed with all his heart that it was indeed this fortuitous venture that had shaped him into the person he would become, a highly respected history professor at the Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski.

“Look at what the Ottomans gave us,” he exclaimed on my fifth birthday, his index finger pointing towards the magnificient
Aleksandur Nevski Memorial Church
with the Byzantine gilded dome and belfry flickering in the midday sun.

It was my first real introduction to the icons and frescoes evident everywhere, from the God the Creator fresco rendered onto the ceiling of the belfry to all the passageways blanketed with such vivid-colored paintings, my head spun for hours afterwards. Every few minutes my father would loom over me, explaining each of the icon's and fresco's historical significance, and soon I couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was only my father's omnipresence locked into my brain forever.

I learned from my mother, forever wearing her embroidered blouses, all about Bulgarian rituals, how each season brought its own, significant festivals. She also introduced me to the Dancing Brown Bears, and I think it was perhaps one of the only times I remember seeing my father howl with laughter as these big mammals twirled around and around in their tailor-made folk outfits for the crowd's amusement.

He took us to places like the Stone Wedding rock formation and the beautiful Valley of Roses, but it was the icons and frescoes that flamed his passion, along with his history lessons. Some days I listened to him lecturing on how I was probably descended from Spartacus through our Thracian lineage, and just like this wild, warlike fighter, I must embrace life as if I owned it. Other days he would corner me and begin a rant of how I probably wasn't from the Spartacus line, but the Hercules one. Either way, I was destined to be successful and strong.

More than once he interfered with my school grades when he felt they weren't good enough for someone of my intellect. It couldn't possibly be my fault; my teachers had to be the culprits. To my dismay and total humiliation on those occasions, I would watch him storm across campus at my secondary school, demanding to see my current professor as the Provost nodded his head and the students tittered.

Later, he made sure I was accepted at the best university because we deserved the best, didn't we? I shrugged in agreement and promised to become a doctor like he wanted, yet at what cost? Neither his icons nor his frescoes could answer me that.

She sat down at the table next to me with her two friends, chatting happily, ignoring me and my hungry gaze, until she dropped a napkin and our heads collided as I leaned down to pick it up for her.

“I do apologize,” I muttered, returning her napkin and rubbing my brow.

“Whatever for? You were simply being a gentleman,” she smiled. Soon, all three of us were past exchanging simple pleasantries and I began to find out more about this lovely creature.

Her name was Eugenia, and she and her companions were three of the only sixteen female students attending the Sofia University. Philosophy majors, the other two girls mostly listened while Eugenia expressed herself on a variety of topics. For instance, being Jewish, she didn't understand the obsession with all these icons. To her, they were simply glorious paintings with no hidden meaning other than the same kind of symbolism Passover or Yom Kippur held for her, and as for the Dancing Bears, the fact that they were forced to wear folk costumes wasn't charming at all to her. Didn't people realize how little respect these great sloths were being shown as living entities?

I leaned back in my chair and watched her through smitten eyes. Beauty
and
a brain. A free-thinker, as they were called in America. Someone with a mind of her own and several months later, in the middle of the Valley of Roses, lying in between the sequential rows of Damasks and drinking from a shared gourd of wine, I asked her to be my wife.

Having no family of her own, she let my mother plan a traditional wedding. The Thursday before, my mother implemented the ritual kneading of the
pitka
bread. As the bread rose, she told us, so too would a new family unit. The best man's job was to make the wedding banner that would be attached to a six-foot pole, felled from a fruit-bearing tree. Then, as was custom, he strung an apple wrapped in his mother's colorful scarf on the top of the pole, along with ribbons, ivy, and strings of puffed up corn kernels.

The morning of our festivities, I was sprinkled with barley for good luck, and two of my cousins fired their rifles up towards the clouds to ward off evil spirits. Next, I was supposed to ask for my parents' blessing and even my father admitted it was fine with him, the Jews were hard workers like the rest of the Bulgarians. Then, marching over to the boarding house where Eugenia was living, the maid-of-honor tried to place a veil on Eugenia's head. Two times my bride-to-be rejected the veil, but upon the third try, she accepted it. Then the two of us were led outside, where Eugenia tossed a plate topped with wheat, coins, and a raw egg up over her head. There was a hushed silence as we all listened for the breakage; the more pieces the smashed dish created, the greater the luck we would have.

Ten months later Adriana was born, eight years after that, Anatolie, and finally medical school for me, which surprisingly became my opium. I treasured the long, long hours of study and examinations for my diploma, and couldn't get enough of the grueling internship schedule that other doctors-in-training complained about. I was finally on the path of becoming the master of my own destiny, just like my father had told me, just like Spartacus and Hercules.

For the first time in my life, I made a good friend, a young intern named Borislav Grubo. He visited our apartment at least twice a month, bringing respectable wine and a way with the children. They adored him. He would also occasionally meet up with Eugenia and me at our favorite restaurant next to the Hotel Slobrinka, as we shared life experiences, politics, and extolled the virtues of being a doctor.

In fact, it was one Saturday night that Borislav, Eugenia, and I were at that very restaurant, sitting together at a table towards the back when two men entered. One of them was tall, dark, foreboding, with a handle bar mustache, shoulder length hair, and a long, snakelike scar running down his left cheek. His companion was the opposite—young, chubby, unkempt, as if he hadn't bathed for at least three days, with much shorter hair and a blonde fuzz glazing his pubescent face.

The tall one pulled the Maitre'd aside and whispered something to him as Eugenia leaned towards me and clutched my arm. “That man looks like a criminal,” she muttered.

Instantly, the Maitre'd started clapping his hands loudly. “Attention, attention, ladies and gentlemen. I have a question. Please be quiet for one moment.”

We all paused mid-speech.

“These two gentlemen are looking for a doctor. Are there any doctors here tonight?”

This was my Herculean moment. I spoke up, “We are doctors.”

Borislav was cackling as Eugenia tugged hard on my sleeve. “What are you doing?” she rasped. As they approached our table, she was practically moaning. “Don't do this, Andrei. You're not quite a doctor yet. Please,
please
, don't do this!”

I was fascinated with the tall man's scar as he towered over us. “You two are doctors?”

“Yes,” we replied.

“There is a, well, a young lady who is very sick next door. Please come with us.”

Eugenia whispered into my ear. “Andrei, I have a terrible feeling about them.”

I whispered back. “You are being foolish. We'll just take a look and if it's bad, simply send her to the hospital. What's the harm? Borislav and I are almost doctors. Just a month away, really.”

I had never seen her eyes so frightened. “Remember at our wedding, when I threw the contents of the plate up and over my shoulder?”

“Of course. Listen, I have to go.”

She pulled me even closer. “It only broke into two pieces.
Two
pieces, Andrei. Do you realize how much bad luck that is? Remember, your father's symbols, his icons.”

I gave her hand a light stroke before getting up. “All right, gentlemen, lead the way!”

The hotel suite portrayed true opulence. Persian rugs in each room, two crimson velvet-covered sofas supported by massive mahogany-rolled legs, Chippendale side tables, Tiffany lamps, and long, heavy curtains covering the windows in true European/ Byzantine grandeur.

“Where is the lady in question?” Borislav inquired.

The tall, unpleasant man grinned. “Inside there,” he indicated, flipping his thumb back towards another room. He strode over towards the door and pushed it open for us.

There, on a table next to a gigantic bed, was a single flickering lamp casting a diffused light over the naked body of a young woman lying fetal-style on the mattress. She was moaning softly in rhythmic waves, and as we approached the bed, we could see blotches of burgundy red on the sheet spread out underneath her lower body. I placed my hand on her feverish forehead as she gazed up beyond me, her eyes already glassy.

“What in the world happened to this poor girl?” I managed.

The rotund young man giggled. “He had his way with her, that's all.”

“Who's he?” Borislav queried.

The tall man cleared his throat and looking down, muttered, “Colonel Asenov.”

The
Colonel Asenov, for whom everyone cheered during military parades as he rode by on his magnificent white steed? Borislav and I gaped at each other.

In the bathroom, someone was turning the faucet on and off, humming some tune, and watching the two men chatting in the corner as if everything were perfectly normal, I could feel my blood bubbling up through my chest into my head. Borislav was already at the girl's neck, desperately trying to feel a pulse moments before I, too, sprang into action. I began blocking the blood diffusing out of her vagina with one of the towels tossed onto the bed, but when her moans mutated into short, weak beleaguered breaths, I realized it was her final attempt to stall the inevitable.

“Just who does he think he is?
”
I snarled.

The two men looked nervous.

“Did you hear me?” I was her avenging angel. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Borislav putting his right index finger up against his mouth.

“This is outrageous,” I continued. “This girl's life should not be in vain.” I had never felt so powerful. “He mustn't get away with this!” I slammed my fist down on the bed, the wretched girl's body jiggling up and down.

I noticed Borislav wasn't the only one to escape. The men had already begun their fast exit from the suite when all of a sudden, the bathroom door swung open with a bang, followed by the scrape of two booted heels scuffing across tile.

“Your name. Tell me your name,” growled the colonel in full uniform, his bloodshot eyes matching the blood residue caked on his high collar.

“Andrei Balakov,” my voice boomed, as harsh as his.

He paused. “Balakov—Balakov. Are you related to the famous history professor?”

I drew myself up taller, fuller, and shook my head once.

He stood motionless, scrutinizing me for a good five seconds. “You may leave, Andrei Balakov,” he said, with a slight smile.

Eugenia was already home in bed, biting her nails when I slipped in beside her. “Well?”

“You don't want to know. I'm so exhausted. I promise I'll tell you everything tomorrow.”

“Oh, Andrei, I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't have…” Eugenia said over breakfast, looking down. How weak she seemed, how unsupportive. On Monday afternoon, I would go to the police station to report Colonel Asenov on my own and not tell her, I decided.

Monday morning was beautiful, the slight breeze like a tickle, the shimmering leaves on our campus trees barely twitching. I walked along the brick pathway to my monthly meeting with the other interns, sunlight covering me like a light shroud. I turned my face upward towards the warmth and smiled just as I felt my arm being grabbed.

A man with a walrus mustache yanked me over to the park and throwing me up against a tree, pummeled my stomach.

“Listen, Andrei Balakov,” he snarled as I lay doubled over on the ground. “Your career is over. You are no longer welcome anywhere in Bulgaria, do you understand?”

I managed a croak. “Whaaaa?”

“Do you
understand?”

Limp as Adrianna's favorite rag doll, I tried to speak.

“And by the way, I have another message from the Colonel…”

I looked up.

“…if you care about your family—your wife, your children, your parents, you'll leave the country immediately!”