Valley of Thracians (12 page)

Chapter
25

It’s starting to get dark on a spring
night as I walk along the street to the home of my host parents, where I’ve
been staying for the past two weeks. I was just hanging out with Lance and some
of my other buddies at a neighborhood pub. We got pretty wasted while making
jokes that none of the locals even bothered to try to understand. Somehow our
sense of humor doesn’t carry over into Bulgarian.
Doesn’t
matter.
We had a good laugh!

In my backpack I’m carrying the language
textbook and my notes, but the grammar we learned today has totally escaped me.
I couldn’t concentrate as the teacher spurted out a stream of conjunctions,
verb cases, and rules of gender. Lance is adapting better to these foreign
surroundings than I ever will. He has an ear for new languages, and his simple
Bulgarian is free of the American accent that I can’t banish from my tongue. I
think he’s in love with everything Bulgarian, especially the women. And for
their part, the women here seem enthralled by the sight of a handsome
African-American male in their midst. None of them show the slightest interest
in me. Maybe they would notice me if I was capable of conducting a simple
conversation in their language. In order to become a Peace Corps volunteer, I
must pass my Bulgarian tests. I doubt if I’ll ever master the material I’m
taught in class.

I hurry toward the house, eager for
strong, black espresso. I swagger a bit, not only because of my fuzzy head, but
also because the sidewalks here—like the sidewalks all over this undeveloped
country—are broken, and no one bothers to fix them. I find it difficult
deciding where to plant my feet. I’ll be okay, I tell myself. Just need to get
to the house and drink that coffee.

And that’s when I nearly collide into
Boris.

I hadn’t noticed his dark shape standing
near the fence. He is smoking a cigarette, the tip sizzling red with each
vigorous puff of the strong tobacco. Boris is not happy to see me. He shoves
me, and his sheer strength nearly knocks me to the pavement. I try to steady
myself and shrug off what he just did. I smile at my host father and mutter one
of the only expressions in Bulgarian that I know.

“
Kak si
?”
I ask, laughing to myself at the
sound of the word “kak”.

Boris is in no mood for pleasantries. In
fact, he hisses at me, upset that I disturbed him, that I interrupted his
waiting. He didn’t want anyone to see him; that is apparent to me now.

I attempt to say the word for “sorry”
but all I can mouth is, “
Suh-zha
…” I
can’t remember what comes next.

His breath stinks from alcohol even more
than my own, which I’ve cleaned up a bit by having popped five Tic Tacs into my
mouth. The grin on my face vanishes as Boris steps forward to shove me again.
My knees are weak, and I stagger backwards.

Boris starts cursing. A wild flow of
quick Bulgarian comes spitting in my face. What have I done to upset him? I
step off the broken sidewalk to avoid his reach.

And then an old pickup truck makes its
way slowly up the street, its front lights off and its engine sputtering in the
dark. I move away quietly until I’m on the far side of the road, hoping that
Boris won’t come after me. Luckily, he’s distracted with the pickup’s arrival.
When it stops in front of the house, he steps forward, exchanges a few words
with the driver, and then goes around to the back and opens the tailgate.

As I stand unnoticed in the shadows,
Boris and the driver unload several big cardboard boxes and carry them to the
cellar door at the side of Boris’s house. I hear them descending the creaky
wooden stairs to a room I’ve never entered but where I know Boris makes his
super-strength homemade
rakia
and where Ralitsa
stores her pickled preserves. The men make repeated trips until the pickup is
fully unloaded.

Boris slaps the driver on the shoulder,
and the other man gets into his truck, fiddles with the key until the engine
catches, and drives off. Boris stands near the gate to his house for several
minutes, puffing on another cigarette. He has forgotten all about me. Then he
turns and goes inside. A few minutes later, my head totally cleared, I follow
him.

I take off my shoes in the hallway, slip
into my house slippers and walk as quietly as possible on the wood floor to the
kitchen. It’s quite late, but Ralitsa has saved dinner for me. She is standing
next to the stove, stirring something aromatic in a steamy pot. I apologize in
broken Bulgarian for missing the meal and ask for the black coffee I crave. I
thank Ralitsa profusely when she hands me a cup of the strong, dark liquid.

Over the next few days, I continue my
routine of attending Bulgarian classes, hanging out with Lance and the other
recruits, trying to impress the local Bulgarian girls, and eating Ralitsa’s
tasty cooking. Her freshly baked
banitsa
in the mornings is enough to keep me going for hours, and there’s always
something just as delicious waiting for me at lunchtime. In the afternoons,
when I have time and patience, I help Rado, my host-family brother, practice
his English. I pointedly ignore his insistence on learning curse words. My job
in this country will be to teach the English language, but I doubt if swearing
will be included in the curriculum.

I rarely see Boris. He is usually still
asleep when I leave the house in the mornings, and he sometimes returns for
dinner after I’ve already eaten. I prefer to avoid him whenever possible. I
haven’t given a second thought to the recent nighttime incident when I bumped
into him and his anger.

Late one afternoon, Ralitsa gives me the
key to the cellar and asks me to bring her a jar of pickled cauliflower. She is
in the kitchen preparing dinner, and I’m sure the entire neighborhood can smell
her fried fish. Boris hasn’t yet returned from his construction job, and Rado
is at a neighbor’s house watching dubbed American-television sitcoms.

I go outside and breathe the fresh
spring air, noticing that the sun is still high in the sky. The days are
getting longer with promises of warmer weather. I wonder how hot it will be in
the summer and whether Lance and I will get a chance to travel to the Black
Sea. I’m dying to check out the beaches. I’ve heard that Bulgarian women are
very liberal and don’t mind topless sunbathing.

I walk around to the side of the house
and unlock the cellar door. The rank odor from beneath the house stings my
eyes, and I hesitate momentarily. The homemade
rakia
must be in an advanced
stage of fermentation, I assume. I bravely descend the narrow wooden stairs,
searching for the wall switch.

The cellar is a tightly packed storage
area, with wooden shelves along the outer walls bearing the weight of Ralitsa’s
preserves. The
rakia
is contained in huge wooden barrels at the far side of the room, and I don’t
want to get any closer. The center of the cellar floor is an open space filled
with the cardboard boxes I saw Boris and the driver unloading from the pickup
truck the other night.

I approach the nearest shelf and search
for pickled cauliflower. Jars of various fruit preserves are lined up in rows,
with undecipherable labels declaring their contents. Apparently my host mother
specializes in making jam. The quantity of what’s stored in the cellar is
overwhelming.

My eyes return to what’s stacked on the
concrete floor. What’s in these boxes? I wonder. My curiosity gets the better
of me, and I fiddle with one of the cartons. If I lift the side slightly, I
will be able to glance at its contents without leaving a mark that the box has
been opened.

I’m shocked at what I see inside the
box. The carton is filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of small packages
containing designer watches. I see labels for Rolex, Seiko, and Swatch. I open
one of the packages, and sure enough, there is a timepiece positioned
fashionably against its cardboard backing. Without thinking, I lift the side of
another carton, and inside I see the Casio and Tag Heuer logos. Another carton
is full of Nautica and Omega watches.

There is no way for me to know if these
are actual brand-name items or counterfeits, but they certainly look like the
real thing. I can’t fathom the total value of all these watches. This is a huge
shipment, I realize, and it’s sitting in my host family’s cellar!

I smooth down the flaps of the boxes,
hiding any indications that I had peeked inside. I return to my original
mission of selecting a jar of pickled cauliflower and head back to the cellar
steps.

And that is when I see Boris at the top
of the stairwell, peering down at me with his stern face framed by the light of
the late-afternoon sky.

“Ralitsa asked me to get this,” I say,
holding up the heavy jar as I begin climbing the stairs. It’s only after I
reach the top that I realize I’ve spoken to Boris in English, which he
obviously doesn’t understand.

As I emerge from the cellar, Boris
pushes me, and I slam against the brick wall of the house. He shoves me again,
and I drop the cauliflower, the jar fragmenting into slivers of glass and
pickled vegetables as it hits the ground. Boris grabs me, securing me in place
as he raises his fist. I close my eyes, preparing my body to absorb the shock
it will suffer with the impending blow.

Ralitsa shouts at her husband, and the
blow is not delivered. She approaches us, and Boris hesitates. Finally, after a
long, breathless moment, he mutters something and lets me go. I straighten up
but realize that my feet are wobbly, as shaky as if I had actually been
punched.

They quarrel for several minutes before
Boris slinks off. Ralitsa watches her husband depart with a frown on her face.
Then she turns to me, puts her hand on my shoulder, and asks me if I’m okay.

I assure her I haven’t been hurt and
point to the ground to apologize for the shattered jar. She shakes her head and
leads me into the house. I sit down at the kitchen table while she turns on the
kettle to prepare me a cup of herbal tea.

I’ve had it, I tell myself. I will pack
up my bags tonight and leave this hell hole in the middle of the Bulgarian
countryside and head back to the States. Enough of trying to be a Peace Corps
representative—I can’t deal with the locals! My nerves are totally shot, and my
hand is shaking as I sip the hot tea. I stare down at the table, barely feeling
Ralitsa’s hand as it tenderly caresses my shoulders and my head.

After I finish the tea, I withdraw to my
room, slam the door, and light up a joint. I lie on my bed and close my eyes,
waiting for the weed to do its magic. The earthy aroma fills my lungs, and
immediately I feel its buzz right above the ears and in my forehead. The high
comes on very quickly, confusing and bewildering me initially before settling
in to relieve my stress. I hope the joint will unburden me from all worries.
Then I remember I’m running low on my supply and will need to find some money
to purchase more. I put that thought aside and take deep breaths. My mind is
light; the weight has lifted.

What would I gain if I quit the program?
I ask myself, surprised that some sane thoughts are filtering into my mind as I
chill. I am not a quitter, I vouch. I don’t want to return to America, a move
that would be seen as a sign of failure by everyone. I can make this work. I
can learn basic Bulgarian. I can figure out how to handle these unusual customs
and traditions. I can avoid Boris and make sure not to get him angry. I can
deal with this. I wonder if I will be able to convince myself to stay when I’m
no longer stoned.

Chapter
26

In the spring, the only traces of
lingering snow are on the distant peaks. The meadows are cloaked in tiny purple
flowers, popping up seemingly overnight. Tree branches that were previously
barren now flaunt their budding foliage as if it were expensive jewelry. The
birds are noisy, flirting with each other as they soar high overhead. The air
is fresh and heavenly, the purest of gifts delivered each day. It’s still a bit
chilly when I take my early-morning walks, thoroughly enjoying the exquisite
beauty of undisturbed nature.

As beautiful as this wooded valley is, I
long to leave my mountain cabin. I desperately search through the fragments of
my mind for the clues that will allow me to reclaim my life.

I can’t say how long I’ve been here.
Time has no meaning for me; it is a casualty of my injuries. I can recall
surviving the recent winter, but I cannot say if this was my first winter here
or my third. It has been a long time, of that I’m certain, but I cannot
quantify the period of my isolation. Time goes on, and I live a life of
solitude as its captive.

Physically, I’m in pretty good shape. I
have a set of weights inside the cabin, and every morning I exercise for almost
thirty minutes before tiring. I lack any semblance of physical stamina; that is
why my walks through the meadow are short and never lead me far away. There is another
reason I don’t stray into the hills. Serbia is just over the ridge, I’ve been
told. I don’t want to cause an international incident by crossing the unmarked
border.

The only part of my body that bears
testimony to my injuries is my head. Luckily, the external sores have mostly
healed, but I still suffer the most excruciating headaches. They are throbbing
and intense like the fiercest migraines. I’m not sure what triggers them or how
to prevent the pain. When the waves of darkness come, I fear that my eyes will
pop out of my head. My hands and feet freeze up and my face becomes pale, as if
I’ve been transformed into a living ghost.

The pains are unilateral, only occurring
on the right side of my head where I was struck. The only thing that I can do
during these attacks is to lie on my cot and wait for the anguish to subside. I
pop two of the pills that Katya brings me, not even sure that they do anything
to relieve the pain. I cover my face with a wet washcloth, and pray for sanity
to return. Eventually the darkness recedes and vision returns. I remove the
cloth from my forehead and regard my surroundings with hesitation, as if a
monstrous being waits to come for me again. But I am always alone to deal with
my injuries and headaches.

The most serious symptom of what I
suffered is not the migraines, for as horrific as those are, they are temporary
and eventually relief arrives like a long-lost friend. What worries me more is
the damage inside my mind. My memories have abandoned me, leaving me without my
identity. I am confused and afraid. I don’t know if tomorrow I will remember
what has happened today, and in most cases, this is a fear that actually comes
true.

I know, instinctively, that I should go
to the nearest American embassy and file a report as a lost, very confused
citizen who can’t find his passport. But I am as incapable of making this
journey as I am of seeking medical attention on my own. Katya has warned me
that if I leave the safety of my mountain cabin, those who caused my original
injuries would seek to harm me again. Instead of reaching Sofia where I could
get
help,
my battered body would wind up floating in
the chilling waters of a Balkan stream.

When Katya arrives in the afternoon, I
am glad to greet her. She has brought not only supplies for the week but my
laptop as well. Due to the lack of electricity in the cabin, Katya has agreed
to lug the laptop to the nearby village to recharge the battery so that I can
enjoy three or so hours of computer usage before it again runs out of power. Once
a week she takes the laptop to charge, and a day or two later she returns.
While this is hardly the perfect solution, it’s the only option I have to power
up the computer.

Katya says there’s a café in the
village. I wonder if it has an Internet connection. Is that too much to hope
for in rural Bulgaria—an establishment modern enough to have Wi-Fi? Every time
I suggest accompanying Katya to the café, she reminds me that I’m not
strong enough for the journey. She insists that I remain in the cabin and never
complains about carrying the heavy laptop back and forth just so its battery
can be charged with new life.

Lacking the Internet, playing solitaire
on the laptop is one of the few options I have to keep busy and exercise my
mind. There are a few different versions available, but I prefer spider, for
some reason. To liven up the action, I change the color of the deck before each
game. It’s a pretty lame situation, but I can’t concentrate on anything for any
length of time.

I sit at the wood table and use the
laptop pad to flip the cards. An ace appears, and then I get a red queen.
Watching the cards fit into numerical order gives me a sense of accomplishment.
I play only one or two games before powering down the laptop. I know that I
must budget my computer time to save some battery life for the next day. The
hours pass.

“Did you take your pills?” Katya asks
me.

“I don’t have a headache today,” I
reply, rubbing the sore side of my head.

“You need to take them every day,” she
insists.

I dutifully comply, swallowing two of
the blue pills. Sure enough, as if to punish me for my hesitation, an ice-cold
wave of pain descends on my temples a bit later. I can’t determine what the
hour is or how long ago Katya left. The only thing I can do is swallow two more
pills and lie down in the dark to wait for my head to clear.

One late-spring day, someone knocks on
the cabin door. During the harsh winter months, no one ventures into this area
because these mountains are not suitable for skiing, but occasionally, when the
weather is warmer, hikers trek along the highland paths. They avoid getting too
near the Serbian border but from time to time approach my cabin with curiosity.

When I hear the knock, I immediately
freeze in place. Has someone seen me through the windows? Luckily, there is no
fire burning; no traces of smoke are rising from the brick chimney to provide
evidence I’m inside. But has someone heard me clicking on the keyboard as I
play my virtual card game?

A chill shoots up my spine, and I fear
the worst. I am living in this isolated cabin for a reason. My life is in grave
danger, and no one can know that I am here. The only person who is aware of my
existence is Katya, and I trust her with my life not to reveal my location. If
I open the door to what is probably just a friendly hiker, the whole world
would soon know about me. Tales of the crazy, solitary American man with a head
injury living in a mountain cabin would pass like wildfire from one hiker to
the next, and soon enough the story would reach those who would seek me out and
cause me real harm.

Another knock, but I cannot allow myself
to answer the door. Hopefully this unexpected visitor will quickly give up and
go away. I sit nervously at the table, hoping that no one will peer through the
windows and see me. A long period of silence follows, and I wonder if I’m alone
again at last. And then another pounding wave of darkness begins building in my
head. I realize that I need to immediately go and lie down.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, I
take cautious steps toward the bedroom. The floor boards creaks beneath my
feet, and I hope these sounds do not carry outside. There hasn’t been anyone
knocking at the door for some time. My head is a jackhammer of riotous pain,
and it will take time before the effect of the painkillers I swallowed kicks
in. Things are starting to go black in my mind, and I fear that I will pass out
before I reach the cot. I force myself forward, no longer caring if my steps
are quiet.

At that moment, there is a loud crash.
One of the cabin windows shatters with the projectile force of a large stone.
Fragments of glass land in a sparkling array on the floor, glistening like
diamonds. As I continue my slow progress toward the bedroom, I feel the sharp
prick of a shard through my stockinged feet. Ignoring the pain, I reach the
other room at last and collapse on the bed. And then everything goes dark.