A Short Tale of Shame

[3]

They stopped again: Krustev wanted another coffee. It was a swanky place — a newly constructed white building in pseudo old-fashioned style, with decorative black half-timbering, red roof tiles, and a concrete wall with stones stuck into it, and if you went inside, it turned out that the whole back wall was glassed-in, overlooking a private breeding pool. They sat down at one of the characterless tables draped with white tablecloths. They were practically the only customers: three fat, swarthy men in warm-up suits sat at a table near the bar, silently smoking and slurping hot tripe soup, which filled the hall with the life-affirming scent of garlic and vinegar. If the ancients had created a sculptural group representing the hangover, that is most likely what it would’ve looked like. Although back then the men definitely wouldn’t have been in warm-up suits, but naked. Spartacus puffed his cheeks out, trying not to laugh. These bodies surely wouldn’t have pleased Praxiteles. Over the past few months he had gotten interested in ancient art, at first despite himself, since after he’d taken the year off he had started working at a tourist agency, they called him every week or two to lead groups or to help with the writing and translation of various brochures and info packets, that was perfect for him, unwittingly, however, the subject had hooked him and he had crossed some boundary beyond which he had begun thinking about aesthetics in ancient terms, understanding the codes and messages, and he was now capable of sincerely delighting in all those armless torsos and arrogant faces with wounded noses.

I’m not hungry, Krustev said, but it’s already past noon, so eat something if you want and don’t worry, it’s on me. Let’s get a trout a piece, Sirma said. Maya started protesting Krustev’s plan to treat them, but he just shrugged. If you want trout, I’ll go check out the breeding pool. They didn’t get it. To see what kind of shape it’s in, Krustev explained. You do know, right, that trout live in clear, running water. The breeding pool is a compromise of sorts, because, of course, it’s hard to build a pub right on the banks of a rushing river where trout spawn and to catch them straight from there; however, most breeding pools are full of mud, the water is stagnant, the fish don’t budge, and that, of course, affects their quality. Well, we’re not that fussy, Spartacus said, but in any case, I, for one, am not hungry yet. I dunno, this place doesn’t really whet my appetite. A sandwich and a thermos out on the grass, now that’s something else entirely, Maya agreed. So they remained in the dark as to the living standard of the local trout and drank another round of coffee. Spartacus sensed his body’s resistance to the artificially inspired liveliness. He had gotten up at six. He had eaten a roll, packed his bag and left, while his mother, as usual, had gotten up to see him off at the door with admonitions to be careful. They were meeting at Sirma’s studio and while riding there on the somnolent bus, he wondered at his own stupidity — why hadn’t he done like Maya, who had packed her bag the previous day, brought it over to Sirma’s and slept there. The two of them had overslept, of course: he rang the doorbell at length, Sirma finally answered with a yawn and waved him in. You couldn’t talk to her until she’d had her coffee. Then they had to eat breakfast. It was past eight when they left, and it took them another half-hour to get outside the city on the rickety, reeking bus and to set up their ambush. They got picked up quickly, as they always did when the three of them hitched together. The man was sleepy and noncommunicative, but he clearly felt better in their company, he was going to Philippopolis, but he circled the city and left them on the outskirts so they could more easily continue south, he smiled at them and told them to have a nice trip. They waited for the next car. It wasn’t a highway, mostly locals took this road and the few cars that appeared going their direction usually turned out to be packed to bursting with cabbage, empty crates, and mysterious black sacks. Finally some ancient Scythian junker stopped for them, a true relic from the times of the Eurasian Alliance, out of which leapt a jolly middle-aged windbag who cheerfully announced: Step into the Caucasian Ford! Loaded with four people and heavy backpacks, the Caucasian Ford sputtered down the road, while the windbag showered them with information about his personage. He was a writer (a member of the Association of Independent Thracian Writers), he had five published books — two novels and three collections of poetry — and now was writing his third novel, to balance things out, heh heh. What are you studying, kids? Llllllaw? Frrrrrrench? What about you, my girl? Arrrrrrchitecture?! Aha, a kindred soul! art is a magnificent thing, yes indeedy, but you gotta think about earning your daily bread, buuut! as it says in the Gospel, man does not live by bread alone, no sirree, he does not live by bread alone! he needs wine, too, heh heh heh. I, for my part, am a writer. Two novels and thrrrree! collections of poetry! Where are you heading, kids? To the Aegean? Well, isn’t that nice, but why’d you come this way, why not take the highway, here you better be ready to ssssslosh! around the curves, and besides, there’s not much traffic, goll dang it, not much traffic at all, this region has gone to the dogs, I’m from here, from the Rhodopes, from a vvvillage, Katuntsi’s the name of it, but I’ve long since moved to the city, but now! I’m off to see what’s going on in the vvvillage! to see the old house, well now my brother’s living there, the man retired with a capital R and up and went back to the vvvillage, and he was right about that, do y’all live in Sevtopolis then? Yes, Maya said patiently. Good God damn, the windbag said, but that Sevtopolis is one big mmmadhouse. The vvvvillage is nice, you can write there. Maybe there! is where I’ll go this summer to finish my novel. Spartacus politely inquired as to what the novel was about. I write about people, I do, the windbag warmed up, about ordinary folks with a capital F! But I think up some plots for ’em! All kinds of stories, this ’n that, all intricate-like, so there’s a thrrrill to it! — and just guess how I’ve twisted around this story with a capital S now! it’s a love story with a capital L, buuut! at one point the woman accidentally stumbles across her husband’s test results — HIVeeee! positive. And she just loses it, right, ’cause she is preggers with a capital P! And that’s just the first twist of many… Buuut! I won’t give away the ending so y’all will buy the book when it comes out! They promised to do so. Fortunately, the turn-off for Katuntsi came up quickly and the windbag left them by the exit. Well now, he said, what’d I tell ya? that Caucasian Ford did the job with a capital J, as did I right along with it! Well, happy trails! Buuut! tell your friends that a real live writer with a capital W drove you! If you ask me, Spartacus said as the Caucasian Ford puttered away down the dirt road towards Katuntsi, before becoming a writer, that guy was army with a capital A. The girls giggled. That was entertaining, said Sirma, buuut! we’re gonna be stuck here on this bumblefuck road for a good long time. However, they hadn’t been waiting more than two minutes when a shiny red car appeared on the road, they immediately stuck out their thumbs and the car stopped. A middle-aged man poked his head out the window and Sirma yelled: Where are you going? I don’t know, the man said. It doesn’t matter to me. Get in.

The mountains seemed to relax a bit, the road came out of the ravines, feeling freer and stretching its shoulders. The first border of the new Thracian state right after the Liberation ran through here somewhere, damn, what a lot of work, Spartacus said to himself, and plenty of dead soldiers until we managed to claw our way to the White Sea, a White Sea outlet at any price, that’s what it said in The Outline, the document signed by the leaders of the Thracian revolution, Thrace on three seas: the Black and White Seas plus the Sea of Marmara; he wasn’t proud of the military exploits, he was more ashamed of the bones scattered over the whole peninsula, while The Outline itself sounded a little like a geography textbook which listed the territories that had to be included in the future Thracian state, once they were freed from the Macedonian yoke, and besides the Aegean Region, special attention had been given to the Ludogorie Region, primordial Thracian territory, that’s what it said in The Outline, Spartacus shook his head, how well he remembered that text, back in school they had been forced to learn it by heart. In some other time, in some other history, perhaps things would have been different, but during the Liberation the European powers left the Ludogorie within the borders of Dacia and for the first half-century or so of its existence, the new Thracian state had waged three wars against the Dacians and one allied with them against Phrygia, not counting the wars against the remnants of Macedonia, as a result of which the unifier-king — with the help of Hitler, of course — had managed to unite with the Ludogorie as well, before the communists did him in and filled the Ludogorie with oil-producing roses; but after that, during their reign, the fertile brotherly Dacian people had settled in thickly alongside the oil-producing roses and began insisting that the region should once again reunite with Greater Dacia, or else break off into a second, independent Dacian state (the preferred variant, since in that case nearly a quarter of them would become ministers, diplomats, bankers and civil servants with a tendency to run to fat). When the communists attacked in ’72, things with the Dacians grew complicated and in the end a quick ethnic cleansing was necessary. Spartacus’s mouth twisted. Back in ’72, people would say, that was a long time ago, the Dacians started rebelling and got what they deserved, now, at least, they’ve quieted down. Maybe it really was a long time ago. Fifteen years before I was born, Spartacus thought to himself. Those were strange times.

But perhaps every time was strange — wasn’t it strange that he was now riding with Elena’s father, the Beautiful Elena, she was surely the only person who had seriously threatened the unity of their trinity. Maya had brought her to them. She had introduced her ecstatically as her best friend from grade school. Damn, said Sirma. Elena was pretty, artistic and a half-Slav. Her father had once been the guitarist in Euphoria, and now he was really rich. They had learned all that gradually, however. Sirma didn’t like her right from the start, or perhaps she sensed that her presence would create problems. They had long since stopped hanging out at the monument to the Scythian Army, the gathering place had shifted to the Terres Garden and Elena showed up there regularly. She brought all kinds of strange people with her: guys with dreadlocks, Slavic girls with blonde braids, they played folk instruments, gadulkas and kavals, while the rastas thumped on their djembes and blew into their didgeridoos. The first time he saw a didgeridoo, Spartacus didn’t realize it was a musical instrument. The long, twisted wooden tube looked more like something the Titans would have used to play cricket. But Elena’s friends had somehow figured out how to extract a bass-heavy, monotonous, hypnotizing sound from it, which spread like fog at the foot of the trees. Spartacus had tried one once out of curiosity — he couldn’t get a peep out of it. They explained that you make the sound by vibrating your lips quickly. That seemed exhausting and he gave up. Then at some point the rasta guys and the Slavic girls gathered up their instruments and quit coming, but Elena stayed. Maya often showed up with her at their meetings, their trio seemed to be tending towards a quartet. Spartacus and Sirma argued several times. You can’t ask Maya not to have any other friends, Spartacus would say. I’m not asking anything of the kind. Don’t you have any other friends? Don’t I? It’s just that us three, what the three of us are, is different. I don’t bring my other friends along when I’m with you. But come to think of it, why not, Spartacus objected, if your idea is for us to share everything, then we should share our friends, too. I’m gonna share one thing with you, Mr. Friendly, Sirma would say, you’re into that little Slavic kitten, when she starts yowling and making eyes at you, it’s like you’re not even there anymore. Are you already screwing her? Listen, Spartacus would say, do I stick my nose into who you’re screwing or not? We made a deal about that waaay back when, I really hope you remember. Then Sirma would shut up and back off. Her nameless Philippopolis fling from the seaside was the original sin in their alliance, the step that had made their threesome possible, it was only then that they had realized what threads they had woven between them and how they could continue on from there. Except that — Spartacus now thought in the car (and funny that he hadn’t given it any thought earlier) — that original sin had stayed between him and Sirma, what did it have to do with Maya, viewed objectively, she simply did not share that tie, her foundation was missing the first thread. Perhaps that explained her sudden ecstasy over Elena. Where had she found her anyway? Some German lessons? Nice fucking place to meet, Sirma would snort. Hey, you go to drawing lessons, Spartacus would counter. Just imagine meeting your best friend from grade school there. Oh, and I’d just pinch her cheeks with joy! Sirma would say. Of course, he hooked up with Elena and then not only Sirma, but the two of them simultaneously went crazy with jealousy. He, in all sincerity, didn’t understand it: until then they had never gotten jealous over those sorts of things and at the end of the day, wasn’t it at Elena’s last party, in the house of the person who was now driving them to the sea, that Maya had thrown herself at that blond Slavic guy and for a whole week they had supposedly been going together, even though she surely had not told him exactly how things stood in their trio. I’m not jealous of your hook-ups, I’m not even jealous of your boyfriends, Spartacus would fume, but Sirma would reply, what, is this a signed and sealed contract? You’re the one, Spartacus would strike back, who wants to make it like a contract and if you keep this up, you’ll ruin everything. No, you’re the one who’ll ruin it, you’ve already ruined it, she would growl, while Maya stood aside, glowering, her arms folded across her chest. He should have trusted their female intuition even back then. They seemed to have realized that, between him and Elena, things would get serious before he himself had even realized it.

Maya and Krustev discussed the advantages and drawbacks of the resorts on the three seas, which the authors of The Outline had dreamed about during the nineteenth century. Krustev preferred the White Sea, thanks to its Mediterranean ambience, while Maya preferred the Black Sea, because it still had wild and untouched beaches. Spartacus had grown up with the Sea of Marmara, his grandma and grandpa’s village was there, and when he was little they had always gone somewhere around there, by the way, Krustev said, now everything is totally different from when I was your age, I’m not sure if it’s for better or worse. Sirma spewed out a caustic diatribe against runaway construction. They’ve destroyed a lot of places, Krustev agreed, on the other hand, you’ve got to keep in mind how much richer the country has grown thanks to tourism. Spartacus at least kept it well in mind — at the moment wasn’t it his job to drag fat American retirees and ruddy German grannies around to Thracian sanctuaries, Hellenic acropolises and Roman baths? The retirees and grannies looked, clucked with forced enthusiasm, and asked when they would eat, while at the same time their children and grandchildren drank themselves blind on the astoundingly cheap alcohol in the big concrete resort complexes. Spartacus, along with half of the country, earned a not-half-bad salary from these people’s boredom. But unlike half of the country, Spartacus could not fathom the fun in being dumped with a load of tourists in some poison-green hotel, frying on the beach and buying trashy souvenirs by the bagful. It’s the same all over the world, Krustev shrugged. Mass tourism… They’ve got to have everything organized for them, right? Sirma said. Even their free time is regimented, hup-two-three-four! Breakfast at nine, one hour on your stomach, one hour on your back, an hour of swimming, lunch at noon, a two-hour nap, an hour of TV, cultural attractions at five, dinner at seven, a bottle of brandy at nine, a cheap Thracian whore precisely at midnight. Krustev snorted. At the end of the day, Maya said, you keep them under control that way. The question is, however, said Krustev, who is doing the controlling? Society, Maya said. That society looks a little hazy to me, Krustev said. We all know that our personal life is under threat, that they manipulate us, that they make us clones. But who are they, the ones doing it? Just show them to me and their game is up. But how can you fight an enemy who is invisible? Well, you don’t fight, Sirma says. That’s precisely the trick: you refuse to play their stupid game. I’m out, man, I’m just out and I don’t give a shit. Which, in fact, is hardly the best choice, Krustev noted. But it’s the only possible one, Sirma said. I can’t change the world, Spartacus agreed, but I can change myself. And when you’ve changed yourself enough, Krustev asked, but everybody else stays the same, what do you do then? There are exceptions, Spartacus said. Here are two exceptions and that’s enough for me. He hugged Sirma and pinched Maya lightly on the neck. And with that he managed to put an end to the subject. Krustev’s question was worth pondering, however: he asked himself the same thing quite frequently.

The man was strange. According to what he had told them, he had simply felt like hitting the road, so he checked his credit cards, threw some luggage into the car, and took off. He had no concrete goal, he had just driven wherever he felt like, and that’s how he had ended up on that road in the Rhodopes. After the Caucasian Ford he was definitely a good catch. Spartacus had fallen asleep almost immediately, and when he woke up Maya had suddenly blurted out to him that Elena’s dad was driving them. He was drowsy and didn’t catch on at first. Maya had turned around in her seat and was looking at him insistently. Nodding at him knowingly. Elena’s dad. Now that was slightly dubious luck. And so as not to talk about Elena, Spartacus had started jabbering on about the driver’s former band (whose first album really was very good, but afterwards they sold out) and that kept the conversation farther from his daughter. But his curiosity was immediately piqued: a forty-year-old man with a solid business who suddenly up and jumps in his car and takes off for who knows where? Perhaps he was running from something, he imagined how police cars with wailing sirens would suddenly catch up with them and a crazy chase would be on through the mountain roads, and in the end they would all plunge into a river, their bodies mangled before finally drowning. Krustev had said that he would drive them to the port in Datum, and when Sirma had suddenly invited him to continue on with them on the ferryboat, he and Maya had both turned around and looked at her, good thing Maya had managed to get a hold of herself quickly and cover it up by saying that she had just been thinking the same thing. Krustev had suggested that they might be bored with him, Spartacus had immediately denied it, not only out of politeness, he would gladly chat with him about ’80s music, but in his mind he had said to himself: now we’ve really put our foot in it. The lesser problem was that the whole idea of hitching fell by the wayside, it was as if they had their own car with a personal chauffeur. But now a fifth person was traveling with them as well: Elena.

It had happened the classic way: the two of them had gone to get beer, the usual route from the grassy lawn to the convenience store and back, and somewhere along the way, in the flower-scented darkness, Elena had simply collapsed into his arms, he had reacted instinctively, then pulled himself together a bit and carefully set the bag of empty bottles on the path. Elena pulled him towards a nearby tree, leaned against it and kept kissing him with — that’s how it had seemed to him then and he even remembered it now — slightly exaggerated passion. Her mouth had a very slight taste of beer and menthol cigarettes. The night itself controlled his hands, they were no longer his. Nocturnal fingers along her spine; a cold shiver. Was it then that she had said it was high time, and he couldn’t figure out what she meant, or had it happened on the way back, because after they bought beer they stopped again to make out on a bench along the way, he didn’t know how much time had passed since they had left, because his hands were the hands of the night, and the whole park was giving off its scents, brought to a boil during the day by the sweltering sun, he didn’t know how much time had passed, but when they got back to the meadow Sirma and Maya were gone. Hey, how could they, Spartacus said, when you think about it, Elena said, we did take a pretty long time, and actually I think it’s better this way. And they made love in the meadow, then they left the beers there, just as they were in the bag, and he took her home and they made love again, quietly, in his room, they slept only two or three hours and in the morning they silently snuck out, hungry, sleepy, and intoxicated by the mingled sweat of their bodies, they ate donuts at the taxi stand, then she caught one and headed off towards her big house outside the city. In principle she had a key to the office of one of her father’s companies, a small office for a small firm, not involved in his big deals, so she could sleep there when she was out late in the city. Her parents didn’t ask many questions. Spartacus couldn’t help but admire them. He shook his head and stared at the crown of Boril Krustev’s head. He had not yet started balding. Now that was awkward, precisely this person driving them, that is, it was awkward for Maya and Sirma, while for him it was more likely painful, at times he had the feeling that some rope of thorns tied him to the man sitting in front of him, who drove so quickly and confidently and spoke little, but Spartacus had started getting a sense of him, as if he were clinging to the three of them. Maybe back then, two years ago, Elena, too, had tried to cling to them, perhaps that night when they had gone to get beer (come on, let’s go get beer, she would say after that, sly little flames lighting up her eyes), she had slept with him twice so as to weasel her way into their group, into their inviolable trio, and then she had gone with him, so as to go with them. No one else had showed that much ambition and it hadn’t even crossed Spartacus’s mind that it was theoretically possible for their triangle to become a square. You’re sick, Elena had told him, haven’t you ever had a normal relationship? The last hills of the Rhodopes were now spilling over into the green Aegean fields. They passed a car with Macedonian plates. Soon thereafter they came out onto the main road to Datum. Maya was telling Krustev something about her elementary school, Spartacus started listening, of course, it was something about Elena, it was only logical… And then she moved, Maya concluded. Yes, Krustev confirmed, we bought the house then and sent her to a closer school. Otherwise I would’ve had to drive her and pick her up every day, he added apologetically. Spartacus tried to imagine Elena in third grade. He couldn’t. But maybe, it suddenly occurred to him, maybe there isn’t just one Elena, there are lots of Elenas and every one of the four of us here in the car knows one of them. He looked out through the window, but the fields outside had nothing interesting to offer. Hey, Sirma said, penny for your thoughts?