I went round to the Public Order building and this time I wasn’t quite so scared. I showed the letter to the policeman on the door and told him I wanted to deliver it personally. He saw me in as far as the door to room number six and handed me over to another policeman who was guarding that door. The new policeman took the letter in to the inspector and a few minutes later he was back.
‘You can go in,’ he said.
In I went, but I was that scared I could hardly walk. The inspector stood up from his desk, turned his eyes on me, and stared!
‘Bai Grozdan!’ he shouted. ‘Is it really you? You’ve changed that much, I hardly recognized you.’
I took another look at him – it was Josef Popov, my platoon commander from the war!
‘Sit yourself down,’ he said, ‘In the armchair. Relax, take it easy!’ And he started asking about our old mates: who’d been killed, who’d died, what the others were doing…. And meanwhile I was sitting on thorns.
‘Mr Inspector!’ I interrupted, ‘never mind about the dead, they’ve been taken care of. Just tell me why I’m wanted in room number three!’
‘Hold on a moment, I’ll go and find out.’
He left the room and a couple of minutes later he was back.
‘The district secretary has got his knife into you. It seems you’ve been stirring things up over some wood or other…. Not a word about this to anyone, mind!’
‘But do I still need to go to room number three?’ I asked.
‘You don’t need to go anywhere,’ he said. ‘You can return home. Lucky for you number six is more important than number three. And if any of your friends ever need one, I’m really a lawyer, remember. I’ve got a stand-in while I’m doing this job as inspector, so if you ever need help with a court case or anything, send for me, Josef Popov!’
At that moment he seemed more like Moses than Joseph – standing there, so handsome, with those black eyes of his, holding back the Red Sea and letting the children of Israel pass through!
When I got back to the village I made a point of walking past the local Council offices – so the mayor would see me. The treasurer was sitting outside playing backgammon with the secretary. He caught sight of me with my sprig of cranesbill tucked behind my ear like a gypsy bridegroom, jumped to his feet and rushed inside to tell the mayor. The mayor didn’t believe him and came out to see for himself.
‘You mean to say they let you out?’ he said.
‘What’s it look like? We’ve got laws in this country, you know,’ I answered. ‘You watch out they don’t lock you up instead!’
His mouth fell open and he glared at me like a mad dog.
I’d hardly got home when in came my brother-in-law the priest, grinning all over his face.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘my note did the trick!’
‘It certainly did!’
‘Now we’ll have to find some way of thanking Popvas-silev,’ he said. ‘He’s building himself a villa in Stoudnitsa, on the plot the Council gave him. Perhaps you could look him out some really nice stones for the foundations.’
‘All right. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ the priest went on, ‘the Council has passed a resolution to present the Minister of Agriculture with a plot of land in Stoudnitsa, so he can build a villa as well. If he accepts, he’s certain to have a road built, and a road would benefit the whole village. We’ll need to give him a hand too, of course, with stones and beams and things.’
‘I’ll take care of the beams,’ I said. ‘And as for you, you know what you can do? When the villa is ready you can present the Minister with your wife so all his needs can be satisfied …! What a load of idiots you are! Giving gifts and presents to one and all, just so the Council can make friends in high places and then stuff their pockets with stolen money!’ And I told him about the trick his district secretary had played on me, who had put him up to it and why. The poor old priest, he got proper scared.
‘But Grozdan!’ he said, ‘I’m a man of the cloth and I’m not allowed to get involved in things like that! The Bishop’s spoken to me about it once already. Told me to keep my mind on Holy Communion and candles. So you mustn’t be angry if I walk right past you on the street tomorrow and don’t even say hello. Us men of the cloth can’t take sides. And if you want my advice as a relative, I’d recommend you to steer clear of the Council and keep away from the village for a while.’
‘I’m not going anywhere! I’m staying put, come what may!’
All very nice to talk like that, but I had no idea what it meant to have not only the Village Council in the hands of robbers and thieves, but the District and County Council as well! First it was the forest warden who followed me wherever I went. If I cut myself a walking stick or collected lime-blossom to make some tea, I immediately got reported. And a dead branch for the fire cost me a fine. There wasn’t a piece of wood in the house, and I had to use dried cow dung on the fire. It was clear the village elders had called a kind of war council and had resolved to attack poor old Panayotov from all directions at once. If the warden couldn’t keep an eye on him, then the policeman would have to take over! If he took his donkey out to graze, he’d have to show his permit! And the fines and summonses came rolling in, until one day I said to the wife:
‘I’m moving out,’ I says, ‘up to the hut at Stoudnitsa, otherwise they’ll finish me right off with all their fines and taxes. Mind you stay inside the garden – there’s enough beans and potatoes to keep you going while this state of war continues.’
I slung a rug over my shoulder and off to Stoudnitsa I went. I wanted to get a closer look at the way they were doling out the council plots and stripping the municipal forest. If I couldn’t stop them, at least I could watch them at it!
At one point some engineers came to mark out the route for the new road through the forest. So the big nobs could drive all the way to their villas by automobile, and the merchants could stretch out their tentacles right into the very bowels of the forest, so to speak. Clearly the Minister had been bought off as well…. One shady deal after another!
About a week I’d spent up there at the hut, and all that time not a single warden or policeman anywhere around. Just Vancho the merchants’ agent who turned up once.
‘You still here?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean “still”?’
‘Just asking,’ he said. ‘No harm in that is there?’
And he went away again. That evening, just after dark, there was a knock at the door. I went to open it and found Licho, my uncle’s boy who looked after the village bulls, standing outside. Quite done in, he was, covered in sweat and white as a sheet.
‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he said. ‘But you must swear you won’t tell anyone. Swear by your children !’
‘Won’t God do?’
‘No, no! I’ve got a child myself and he’s dearer to me than anything else in the world!’
I did as he said.
‘Right now, what is it?’
‘They’ve hired someone to kill you!’ he said. ‘A Macedonian. Get out of here or by Sunday you’ll be dead !’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You’ll bet I am! And whether you’re in the hut or out in the wood, he’s sure to get you ! Leave, or you’ve had it!’
‘It wasn’t the mayor sent you, was it?’
The lad’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I came because I felt I had to!’ he said. ‘You do what you like. But I’m warning you, wherever you go, he’ll find you! That’s what they decided, anyway. They suspect you know too much, so they’ve decided to get rid of you. Well, I’m off!’ he said. ‘If they find me here, they’ll do for me as well!’
Then he turned and ran off.
‘Well, Grozdan,’ I thought, ‘now what?’
To be on the safe side I quit the hut and spent the night in the bushes. In the morning I decided to shin up a pine tree and keep an eye on things from there. The morning passed – nothing happened. Then the
afternoon – still nothing. Some sheep went up the road, then a deathly hush once more. At one point some birds flew up from a clump of young beeches across the way and the top of one of the trees started shaking slightly. I looked again, but it had stopped. The birds were still kind of excited though, and kept fluttering about and twittering. They’d got a nest in the beeches, most likely, and something had disturbed them. ‘There’s something there, all right,’ I thought. ‘Let’s just wait and see if it’s a snake, or a fox, or a man perhaps!’
The sun was already going down, the bushes were quiet again, and the birds had stopped their twittering. I was calmer too and I was just feeling like climbing down and having a drink – right thirsty I was – when something flashed in the bushes across the way, like a small mirror. I kept my eyes on the spot, and a moment later it flashed again. Then I saw a hand, then a head, with a scarf wound round it like the women wear, and the hand was holding a revolver. Whoever it was, he was trying to beat off the midges, and as he moved, the revolver flashed like a mirror. In the bushes, a mere sixty paces from my hut!
A cold shiver went down my back. ‘You’d better get the hell out of here, Panayotov my lad!’ I thought. ‘With that Macedonian around, your kids will be waking up in the morning without a father!’
I waited till it was dark, climbed down from the tree and turned tail and ran – over the hills and far away, down the valleys and across the plain to the town. It was morning when I got there, and as old Kyoibashiev had helped me out of a jam before, I made straight for his place.
‘What is it now?’ he asked. ‘Another summons from the Public Order lot, I suppose.’
‘Nobody’s summonsing me nowhere!’ I said, and told him what the trouble was this time. ‘They’re holding a pistol to my head! You’ve got to help me!’
The doctor thought for a moment. Then he polished his specs, stroked his beard and in the end he said :
‘If it’s a Macedonian you’ve got after you, there’s no one can save you. The whole area’s crawling with unemployed scoundrels who’d bump you off for a bag of flour without batting an eyelid. There are fresh murders every day and the police are powerless. They’re busy taking care of the Communists, so the other ruffians can do what the hell they like.’
‘Couldn’t Josef Popov help?’
‘Lay on a personal bodyguard, I suppose? The prison’s more than he can manage at the moment. There was four got out only the other day, so you’re the last person he’s going to worry about.’
When he mentioned the word ‘prison’ I suddenly had a brainwave.
‘But Dr Kyoibashiev, couldn’t you ask Josef Popov to lock me up in prison for a while? I wouldn’t have to worry about food, and I could stay there nice and quiet and protected by the State until the whole business blows over?’
‘That’s not a bad idea at all,’ Kyoibashiev answered. ‘The only trouble is you can’t get into prison just by asking. You’ll have to commit a crime of some kind. Steal something from the market, and your cell is in the bag!’
‘Oh no!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want to be called a thief!’
‘Think of something else then. And when you’ve done it, give yourself up to Josef Popov so they don’t break your bones up at the police station. I’ll ask him to do what he can for you. Goodbye Panayotov, and good luck!’
I had a plate of tripe soup and then left for the village. There were two things I had to do: say goodbye to my wife and commit my crime. The first would take an evening and the second two hours and a half – the time it took to get through a funeral. And what a funeral I was planning to give them!
I’d come down off the hills in the dark, and it was dark when I got back. The children were asleep, so me and my wife, we went to bed too. We had a nice night together and a good sleep, and when it was getting light I jumped up and said to my wife:
‘Draw the curtains and don’t go out till I tell you!’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see!’
I’d taught her to do as I said and all our married life we’d got on well that way.
I put on my hat and crept out through the gardens to the church. Then I climbed up the bell tower and rang the bells three or four times like we did when someone had died. I’d been sexton once, so I knew how. Then back home through the gardens. My wife didn’t know how to take it at all:
‘Have you gone off your head or what?’
‘You shut up and keep quiet!’ I told her. ‘Better still, if you can, cry! Maybe this’ll help!’ And I slapped her twice round the face. ‘If that’s not enough, perhaps you’d like to know that I’ve got one foot in prison already, and tomorrow it’ll be two!’
The slaps didn’t have any effect, but the bit about prison, that set her off! And while she was crying inside I nipped into the neighbour’s garden and started picking myself a bunch of asters and marigolds. The neighbour saw me and started shouting:
‘What do you think you’re doing in my garden? Who told you to come stealing my flowers?’
‘They’re for a funeral,’ I said.
‘Who’s died?’
‘Never you mind, God rest his soul!’
And all the while my wife was crying her eyes out upstairs, wailing like a pair of broken bagpipes.
Very soon the whole village knew about the funeral. And the priest came rushing round.
‘Grozdan,’ he asked, ‘what’s happened?’
‘You better not come in,’ I said, ‘or you’ll lose your neutrality. You wait at the church! Life’s for the living, and the dead can take care of themselves! And you can send someone out to dig the grave!’
The priest left, and I went out into the yard, took a saw, an axe and some nails, and in half an hour knocked together a coffin with a lid. Then I carried it into the house, put what I wanted inside, closed the lid and decorated everything so prettily a heart of stone would have wept to see it. In the meantime quite a crowd had gathered outside. I heaved the coffin onto my shoulder, and with my wife walking behind still wiping away her tears, set off for the church. Some of the men wanted to help me with the coffin, but I wouldn’t let them.
‘Out of my way!’ I shouted. ‘Me and the councillors are at war! You lot are neutrals!’
If only they’d known who I was burying, but they didn’t, and they all came running after me to church to see who it was.
The service came to an end, and then the priest said :
‘Raise the lid for the final kiss.’
‘All the kissing will be done at the graveside!’ I told him.
And when we got to the grave I opened the lid and took out the calendar of the Democratic Union, with a picture of the Prime Minister and his band of ruffians on the front.
‘Villagers!’ I shouted, holding up the calendar. ‘Today the Union is being buried! All these fine gents you see on this calendar here, washed and scrubbed and wearing collars and ties, they’re ruffians and bandits, from the Prime Minister right down to the very last warden! This Union of theirs,’ I yelled, ‘it’s a huge plot to rob the people! And that’s why today, I, Grozdan Panayotov, am burying it for ever. Down with the ruffian Union, long live truth, freed from its chains!’
I dropped the calendar into the coffin, shoved the coffin into the grave, grabbed a shovel, and started filling in the hole.
Everyone stood and gaped, like they’d been turned to stone. The priest looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Some policemen came running up, but the service was over by then, hallelujahs, speeches and all. They tried to grab me :
‘In the name of the law, you’re under arrest!’
‘Like hell I am!’ I roared, swinging my shovel. ‘You can stuff your laws! Get back!’ I yelled. ‘Or there’ll be another funeral before the day is out!’
I scared them off and then, without going home, I beetled round to the Public Order building, room number six. ‘I confess that I … etc., etc….’ Three days in the guard room and then straight to the district prison! Two and
a half years I got, but after the putsch in May ‘thirty-four they let me out.
I returned to the village, but there was nothing left of the municipal forest. They’d stripped the lot. The treasurer had opened a hotel in Stoudnitsa, the mayor had bought a ten-acre vineyard in Bryastovo and the warden had built himself a house…. And all I had was my naked conscience and a half pension. Aye, it cost me dear, did that conscience of mine! But that’s the way it is – a conscience has always cost more than black caviare!
I was up in Stoudnitsa this summer and who should I meet there but Popvassilev, the former secretary of the District Council. All mangy and moth-eaten he was, like an old fox. His villa had been taken over by the State and two rooms was all he’d been allowed to keep. He recognized me and grinned as if nothing had happened.
‘We’ll be back!’ he said. ‘We’ll be back!’
‘Like hell you will!’ I told him. ‘Over my dead body! I buried you and your Democrats back in ‘thirty-three! The Communists laid a gravestone over you in ‘forty-four, and only the Second Coming will bring you back to life again! Democrats!’ I said. ‘A gang of ruffians, if I ever saw one! Thieves and robbers, the lot of you!’
Getting Wed
Mention the word ‘Oakwood’ and you drive a dagger into my heart. But it’s my own fault I got a name like that and there’s no one to blame but me.
It was all because of a girl. Hatte she was called, and the hill opposite our farm belonged to her father, Soulyu-man Roany. He had his fields up there, his sheepfolds and everything. That’s the way it was with all the farmers in Lukavitsa at one time. Each farmer had a hill to himself where he could live as he pleased, and they only came down to the village to the mosque on Fridays or for the Bayram. The rest of the time they spent up there on the hill – being born, getting married and having children - everything!
Wild Tales Page 14
