A Short Tale of Shame. Angel Igov

no, Sirma said, anyway, what does breaking up mean, what does leaving mean, you, me, and Spartacus are much closer than we could ever be with anyone else, and a single fuck isn’t going to change that. Maya felt a warm wave engulf her, she surely blushed, her stomach clenched, she wanted to say something fitting, but she couldn’t, Sirma had articulated what she had been thinking the whole time, what she had wanted to be, and now here it was alive and real, the truth itself; just then her phone buzzed, it was a text from Spartacus, it’s really lame here, the sea is choppy and you can’t swim, Chris Cornell has a new band, the album’s coming out this fall.

      [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.