Popov’s voice trails on and on, and Mister Dancho no longer hears it. Carefully avoiding Octobrina’s eye — he is sure she would give him a dark look for interrupting Popov — he slips quietly out of the inner sanctum. A few people in the main dining room nod, but nobody invites him for a nightcap. In the lobby, Dancho straightens his tie in the painting of the mirror out of force of habit. From behind the coatracks comes a muffled cackling, as if someone is laughing with a hand clamped over her mouth, but when he spins around the woman who checks coats in the winter has her head buried in a magazine.
At Club Balkan, Mister Dancho spots Katya in the hotel lobby; she looks right through him as if he doesn’t exist. He is about to say something sarcastic when her husband, the Minister, puffing on a cigar and heavy with the importance of being just back from Moscow, takes her elbow and guides her up the stairs toward the club.
Mister Dancho hesitates. He doesn’t want to give her the opportunity to look through him again. On an impulse, he turns and leaves.
The night is cool for August, the streets are empty and Dancho savors the walk home. He has a four-room apartment on the second floor of a building in what was Embassy Row before the war. Dancho bought it for two hundred thousand leva, about ten years before, from the widow of a prewar minister of agriculture. He is wondering what has happened to the widow as he unlocks the front door and absent-mindedly flicks on the hall lights.
A cold fright slices through to the bone.
The hall carpet has been rolled up. The drawers in the small hallway bureau have been pulled out and the contents have been spilled in a corner. The two antique light fixtures dangle from the wall by their electrical cords.
The living room is in the same condition. The drawers in the teak desk are stacked in a corner, their contents scattered on the floor. Feathers seep from slits in the sofa. The Persian carpet has been rolled up and some floor boards have been pried loose. Dozens of phonograph records have been pulled from their jackets and flung in another corner. His priceless pewter collection has been swept from the shelf onto the floor. The large painting Octobrina gave him for his forty-fifth birthday, two years before, has been cut from its frame and draped across the back of the sofa. The hi-fi speakers Dancho brought back from West Germany the year before have been dismantled. And the puppet of Mister Dancho, which the Dwarf gave him the night of the wedding, has been stripped down to bare wood and dismembered; amid all the disorder, it looks grotesque.
A middle-aged man with a hammer and sickle pin in the lapel of his sport jacket sits on the windowsill kicking his heels impatiently against the wall; Mister Dancho can see from the scuff marks that he has been there quite some time. A thin young man dressed in workman’s overalls, and a woman wearing an apron over her housedress, stand stiffly on one side of the room with downcast eyes; Dancho takes them for the obligatory “civilian” witnesses required at every arrest. Another man, younger than the one on the window-sill, with a round baby face, leans casually against the door jamb next to a large framed photograph of Dancho as a young man taking a curtain call. An “X” has been drawn in red across Dancho’s head.
Baby Face smiles and flicks his cigarette ash on the floor.
“That’s an Aubusson you’re standing on. Be a good fellow and use an ashtray.”
Baby Face sucks again on his cigarette, then lets it fall to the floor where he grinds it into the rug with his heel. Two more men come into the room behind Dancho.
“You are Anton Antoov Dancho,” Baby Face declares. He says it as if there is something wrong, or funny, or obscene about the name.
Mister Dancho nods grimly. He has not been called, by his first name and patronymic in twenty years, and they sound strange to his ears.
“You are to come with us,” Baby Face instructs him crisply. He permits himself to smile slightly and tilts his head to watch Dancho’s reaction. “It goes without saying, you are under arrest.”
“It goes without saying,” Mister Dancho repeats dryly. He forces himself to smile back at Baby Face. “Is it for this morning?” Dancho wonders if they are arresting the others too.
“We know nothing about this morning,” Baby Face says. “But there are other irregularities for which you must answer.”
He pokes with the toe of his shoe at a small pile on the floor. Mister Dancho can make out his ribbon of Czech flags, some Dubek posters, a thick wad of American dollar bills and another of British pounds.
Baby Face casually picks up a schoolchild’s notebook and opens it at random. “ ‘The degeneration of the revolution in Russia calls into question not only the Stalinist phase, but also the Leninist model,’ “ he reads tonelessly. He looks up. “Who wrote that?”
“That notebook’s ten years — me, I wrote that.”
“ ‘The state lottery gives the people the one thing that the system has failed miserably to supply: something to look forward to the next day.’ “ Baby Face looks up. “Who wrote that?”
“I wrote that.”
“ ‘Communism seeks the common good. But who is to decide what is the common good? The Communist Party? Its version of common goodness bears a strong resemblance to self-interest.’ “ Once again Baby Face raises his eyes. “Who wrote that?”
“I wrote — “ Mister Dancho begins, but Baby Face is already reading the next item.
“ ‘Socialism and Capitalism have this in common: They have abandoned the pursuit of excellence.’ Who wrote that?”
“I wrote — “ Mister Dancho confesses loudly, but again Baby Face doesn’t pause.
“ ‘Marxism no longer knows anything.’ “ Baby Face looks at Dancho.
“Sartre wrote that,” Mister Dancho replies pleasantly. “Do you know who Sartre is? Perhaps you’ve come across the name in other material you’ve confiscated.”
Baby Face smiles and steps toward Mister Dancho and slaps him hard across the face. Then he grabs his lapels and pulls him close and hisses:
“You must learn not to fool around with the wives of ministers.”
Stunned, Mister Dancho backs away and looks at the witnesses, trying to catch their eye, but they both continue to stare at their shoes. The man on the windowsill starts throwing the things on the floor into one of Dancho’s leather suitcases. Baby Face tosses in the notebook and the other man clicks the locks shut. One of the men behind Dancho steps in front of him with an open pair of handcuffs. Dancho looks at them as if he doesn’t understand their function, then offers his wrists. The man snaps them on with a practiced motion.
“All right, let’s go,” Baby Face orders. He thrusts another cigarette between his lips and pats his pockets for his lighter. Mister Dancho produces a lighted match from thin air.
“How very elegant,” sneers Baby Face. He bends toward the match.
Mister Dancho raises his manacled wrists, but his hands are shaking so much that the flame goes out.
8
THE TELEVISION ACTOR Rodzianko used some of his precious Max Factor (a gift from Mister Dancho!) for the occasion. But no photographers have turned up and he is annoyed now at having wasted it.
‘Could you speak up, please,” the Prosecutor commands.
“Sure, sure,” Rodzianko replies quickly. He twists in the witness box toward the three judges. Directly behind them is a floor-to-ceiling portrait of Lenin arriving at the Finland Station. The geography of the courtroom is such that a witness is made to feel as if he is speaking directly to Comrade Lenin.
“Like I was saying, he stops by my table over at Krimm, see — “
“The he’ in question being the defendant, Dancho,” the Prosecutor interrupts. He points his finger at Mister Dancho, who is lounging, a guard on either side of him, in the defendant’s box. Dancho is wearing a blue blazer and light gray slacks, and is adjusting his cuffs.
Without glancing at Dancho, Rodzianko nods. “Dancho, right.” When he makes no move to continue, the Prosecutor prompts:
“You were up to where he stopped by your table at Krimm.�
�
“So he stops by my table over at Krimm, right, and he leans close to me so no one will hear, see, and he gives me a tip on the Paris, France, stock market.”
“That’s a lie, of course,” Mister Dancho points out coolly. The Lady Judge wags her finger at him, and he laughs and closes his mouth.
“And after he gave you the tip on the stock market?” the Prosecutor demands.
“After” — Rodzianko looks lost — “he says …”
Rodzianko’s voice fades. The three judges lean forward to hear better, and the Prosecutor coos:
“Could I trouble you to talk more distinctly, Witness Rodzianko.”
“Louder. Right.” Rodzianko takes a deep breath. “After he gives me the tip on the Paris, France, stock market, he tells me he’s going to cable his broker in the morning. Naturally, this surprises me, right, because I know what everyone knows, which is that speculating like this is strictly illegal. So I ask him how he can cable his broker without getting into trouble. And he says he is going to cable him in code”
“Shame, shame,” cries Octobrina from her bench in the back of the courtroom. The Racer, sitting next to her, whispers in her ear and she sinks back.
Dancho’s Defense Attorney, a polite old man with thick-lensed spectacles, approaches Rodzianko and peers up into his face. “Have you known Mister Dancho a long time, Witness Rodzianko?”
Rodzianko plays to the audience. “Everyone in Bulgaria’s known Mister Dancho a long time.” Some in the court start to laugh, but the Lady Judge looks sharply in their direction, and they stop instantly.
“Have you known Mister Dancho to joke a lot; put people on — I believe that’s what you call it these days. Have you known him to do that sort of thing?” the Defense Attorney inquires.
“Sure,” Rodzianko concedes. “He’s a very funny man.”
The Defense Attorney tilts his head and in an almost apologetic tone puts another question. “Did it ever occur to you that his remark about sending a cable in code was a joke?”
Rodzianko hesitates. He looks at the judges, who stare back at him, and then at the Prosecutor, who is busy shuffling notes. The overhead fan that hangs from the ornate ceiling stirs the warm air in the courtroom. Sunlight splashes the sill. “No,” Rodzianko murmurs. “It never occurred to me.”
Mister Dancho snorts loudly and one of his guards puts a hand on his shoulder.
Punch, Dancho’s portrait-painter friend who has switched to landscapes, takes the stand next. He closes his eyes and tells the judges that Mister Dancho tried to commission a portrait of the Czechoslovak revisionist Dubek. His eyes still shut, he goes on to describe how Dancho produced small Czechoslovak flags from the bosom of an actress.
“And what was the tone with which he produced these flags?” the Prosecutor asks.
“Mister Dancho is a magician,” the Defense Attorney objects. “He has been producing odd things from odd places for twenty years. How is it that one of his performances can be described as having a tone?”
The three judges whisper among themselves. Then the Lady Judge, who is also the chief judge, says:
“The witness is directed to respond to the question.”
The portrait painter steals a look at Mister Dancho. Dancho smiles at him and nods. The portrait painter clamps his eyes shut again. “He produced the Czechoslovak flags in a way that indicated his support for the counterrevolution taking place in that country.”
“Czechoslovakia is a Socialist ally,” Mister Dancho calls. He can’t keep from sneering. “How is it you can make a crime out of producing the flag of a Socialist ally?”
The next witness never takes his eyes off Mister Dane ho from the moment he enters the courtroom. “Now it’s my turn,” he mutters as he limps past the box containing the accused.
“Who is it?” Octobrina whispers to the Racer.
“It’s the Police Informer Dancho ridiculed in the Milk Bar. He was carrying a violin case then, remember?”
“State your name and occupation,” the Prosecutor orders.
The witness identifies himself as a violinist with the Sofia Philharmonic.
“Were you in the Milk Bar on Rakovski Boulevard on or about — “ The Prosecutor names a day and an hour.
“I most certainly was.”
“Can you tell the court why?”
“Yes, yes, of course I can tell you why. I was asked to drop by on my way home by my block captain. Apparently there has been a good deal of illegal gambling going on there, and the block captain asked me, as a loyal Party member, if I could — “
“Did you encounter the accused during the course of your visit there?”
“I most certainly did. I have done reporting for the Party on a number of occasions. Apparently that … that … that magician knew about my contribution.” The witness leaps to his feet. “He held me up to public ridicule. He made me the butt of his humor. He incited them against me—”
“That will be all — “
“He ridiculed me for my loyalty to the Party — “
“Thank you,” the Lady Judge says. “You can step down — “
“He s-s-s-s-tarted to 1-1-1-1-laugh — “
The old waiter Stuka shuffles toward the witness box after the Police Informer has been helped from the courtroom. He starts to say something to Dancho as he passes.
“It’s all right, old man,” Mister Dancho tells him gently. “I understand.”
“The accused will refrain from speaking to the witness,” the Lady Judge warns.
“How long have you been a waiter in the restaurant Krimm?” the Prosecutor begins.
Stuka glances at Mister Dancho. “Twenty-seven years, sir.”
“You know the accused Dancho?” Again the Prosecutor points theatrically toward the defendant.
“Mister Dancho is a great man,” Stuka insists.
“No doubt. No doubt. Now, on a great number of occasions, Mister Dancho has made you the object of one of his — how shall we call them — tricks. Can you describe that for us?”
Stuka clenches his lips shut.
“Perhaps he hasn’t heard the question,” the Lady Judge coaxes.
The Prosecutor moves closer to Stuka. “I asked you to describe for us the so-called tricks that Mister Dancho was always pulling on you.”
Still nothing from Stuka. Finally Dancho tells him quietly:
“Go ahead and tell them, old man. It’s all right.”
Stuka looks at Mister Dancho, who nods encouragingly again. “Mister Dancho would put his hand in one of my jacket pockets and pull out money …” Stuka’s voice trails off.
“Pull out a thick wad of bills — is that not correct?”
“ — pull out a thick wad of bills, yes.”
“And he would pretend he discovered the money in your pocket?”
“And he would pretend he discovered the money in my pocket, yes, that it was my tip money.”
“What kind of bills were they?”
Again Stuka peers at Dancho. Again Dancho nods. “United States of America money. Great Britain money. There were others I didn’t recognize.”
“But they weren’t our own Bulgarian leva?”
“No, sir.”
The Lady Judge has a question. “Were you aware, when the accused pulled these bills out of your pocket, that possession of foreign currency is a violation of Article Twenty-eight, subletter B of the Revised Penal Code?”
“Article Twenty-eight …” Stuka looks around in confusion.
“Were you aware that possession of foreign currency is against the law?” the Prosecutor explains patiently.
“If you say so,” Stuka replies.
“That will be all,” the Prosecutor says. When Stuka makes no move to leave, he repeats:
“You can go now.”
The three judges order a midmorning recess. When the trial resumes, the clerk calls the name of the next witness. “Maya Drakanova.” Mister Dancho looks blank; he can’t place the name. A tall gir
l with her hair tied up in pigtails, and wearing clothes that emphasize her youthfulness, makes her way to the witness box.
“Who is she?” Octobrina whispers to the Racer.
“I never saw her before in my life,” he replies. He looks pointedly at Dancho, but Dancho only shrugs.
“You are Maya Drakanova?” the Prosecutor asks.
The girl nods shyly.
“What is your age?”
She answers in a low voice, barely glancing up at the Prosecutor. “Sixteen come next month, your honor.”
“Do you know the accused, Mister Dancho?”
The girl turns angrily toward Dancho. “I’ll say I know him. He’s the one what made indecent advances at me.”
There is a murmur from the audience. The Lady Judge lets it go on for a few seconds, then gavels for silence.
“It was this way,” the girl explains without being prompted. “Me and my girl friends was hanging around the lobby of the Balkan like we sometimes do to get autographs, which is our hobby — autographs, I mean — and Mister Dancho here, he walks in. I seen him on TV, and right off I asked him for his autograph.”
Mister Dancho remembers her now and rolls his eyes skyward.
“And did he give it to you, this autograph?”
“I’ll say he did! He unbuttoned my shirt down to here” — the murmur from the audience rises to a growl — “and wrote his name on my chest with his pen”
“Pervert,” someone in the courtroom calls.
“I never been so humiliated in my whole entire life as when he done this thing to me.” Maya has her claws out now, and the illusion that she is an innocent child is rapidly vanishing. “I mean, I jus’ hope — “
“You can step down,” the Prosecutor interrupts, but she plunges on:
“ — you do something to him so he learns real good he can’t go ‘round humiliating innocent people like they was animals or something. I mean, who the hell” — her voice turns shrill — “who the hell does he think he is anyhow?”
The October Circle Page 12
