by Maria Genova
Once all the lights went out in the camp and the television in the communal space leaned forward threateningly. 'Run, the Americans are attacking us,’ a shocked student shouted out. ‘Stand still! The party will watch over us. Stand still!’ the comrade shouted at everyone. We stood motionless and did not know what to do. The party did seem to be protecting us, because there were no more tremors. The earthquake that we had mistook for an imperialist attack had last for only a short while.
I hated the shooting lessons. Not that I was a pacifist, but I hated it when my classmates would hit the bulls eye and I didn’t. Perhaps I preferred a pistol to the awkward rifle, although I did not know this for sure because I had never held a real pistol. By chance I was given the opportunity. Not during our military training, but during a holiday at our villa in a mountain village, where the majority of the suburban elite had a second home.
An exciting young man finally came to the village. Trajan was an artist and quickly made a few nice portraits of me. This was too much for my parents. They started following me and decided how long I could spend with him when I went to bring or pick up a music tape. That was a big mistake for their part, because since the biblical tale of Adam and Eve and the apple every sane person knew that forbidden fruit was the sweetest. But perhaps my parents did not believe the story, or maybe they were atheists. Religion is opium for the people, the communists would advocate and that is exactly what my parents believed.
Once they started to see Trajan was forbidden fruit I was even prepared to do the impossible so that I could spend more time with him. Artists are often special people, because they think in colours and patterns instead of words. What I found special about Trajan was the amount of chest hair he had. Surely a close relative of the apes, my mother would have said. But I found this beastly trait extremely sexy. It stimulated all of my primitive instincts.
‘If you can use me as a naked model?’ Even though Trajan studied at the Academy of Arts, I had not expected this question. At least not so soon.
‘If you want me to take my clothes off, then you’ll have to do more than just ask,’ I replied.
‘I want to paint you naked before I try to win your heart. Just imagine if I’m lucky, then our emotional bond will influence the entire painting. I want to capture you on canvas pure, without any ulterior motives.’
The same afternoon Trajan showed me round his studio. His collection consisted of portraits of a few people I did not know, a number of naked studies and many landscapes. During painting lessons at school I found getting the right perspective the most difficult thing to achieve. In Trajan’s landscapes the perspectives were so natural and striking that they seemed deeper and wider than the canvasses. I recognized the steep rock face that was conquered by tough mountaineers every weekend.
‘If you pose patiently, I will give you the painting that appeals most to you.’
I still hesitated, because I thought it was rather exhibitionistic to pose naked.
‘What will you do with the painting?’
‘I will hang it in my room. I promise that I will never sell it or exhibit it.’
I let myself be persuaded and took my clothes off, while he got his easel and brushes. I had no rational explanation why I did this. Why did I have this urge to experience everything I had not yet experienced?
Trajan’s voice interrupted my train of thought: ‘I was hooked on your smile from the first moment I saw you, but your breasts are even nicer.’
‘I don’t think you can compare those two things,’ I said somewhat irritated. ‘And I want you to concentrate, because I don’t want to pose for too long.’
He stopped talking and set to work.
The result exceeded my greatest expectations. I thought I was prettier in the painting than in real life.
Trajan was also very happy with his work.
‘Thank you for posing,’ he said and suddenly grabbed hold of my face. The taste of his lips worked like an anaesthetic. Trajan lifted me up and placed me on the couch where I had been posing. He slowly started to lick my toes. ‘A foot fetishist’ flashed through my mind, but it felt like a deep delight. His lips came higher and the warmth quickly spread through my entire body. His method was pushy and subtle at the same time, just like a roller coaster that slowly crawls to the top before diving down below at great speed. The climax was hidden down below in the depths.
I suddenly panicked that I was losing my mind in a labyrinth of lust and cast him a despairing look.
‘Don’t talk,’ Trajan whispered as if he understood my silent message.
‘Mer, please, I know you want me. I will do anything to keep you here. I will fulfil all your wishes.’
‘All my wishes? Then I want my own painting, not another one.’
He frowned.
‘I would rather keep it myself, but I believe I had already said yes.’
For the next few minutes I let myself go and enjoyed the intense pleasure flowing through my body. His touch brought out the nicest and most primitive feelings in me. Perhaps I would have to pay an emotional toll later for my bodily pleasure, but at the moment I did not want to think about it.
‘What if your parents come to pick you up?’ Trajan suddenly asked.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you. I don’t think my parents would come into a stranger’s house to call out to their daughter. They don’t consider that polite. I think I will get into big trouble for coming home late, but it’s worth it. The worst thing that can happen is that we will not be allowed to see each other anymore. But my parents have been checking on me for a while and we have nowhere to turn. Something has to change. Sometimes you have to risk everything to get somewhere. Unfortunately, you can also lose, but these are the rules of the game.’
‘What’s the chance that this will be our last time together?’ Trajan asked.
‘I have no idea. That also depends on my parents’ mood.’
It felt like the last time. Trajan whispered sweet nothings in my ear. After his warm fluid spread out over my stomach, our bodies continued to shake for a while before they came to rest. Was forbidden fruit always so sweet? Would I ever see him again? I groaned in silence. My mouth still twitched from excitement. He stroked me softly and took in every detail of my body in deep concentration, as if he was scared I would disappear forever.
I stood up to get dressed. Even though I did not want to go home, I still hoped I could salvage the situation. I grabbed my shirt that he had thrown on top of a cupboard and saw the pistol.
‘Ha, now you’re mine,’ I joked. I grabbed the pistol and pulled the trigger.
‘Don’t, it’s real!’ Trajan jumped up yelling.
My hands suddenly went weak. Trajan grabbed the pistol and looked at it.
‘Luckily it was not loaded this time, but normally it has real bullets in it.’
‘Sorry, I was being stupid. I thought it was a toy gun.’
‘My uncle is a high-ranking officer in the communist party. That is why he is allowed to have a gun,’ Trajan mumbled.
It was a weird way to say goodbye. On my way home I realized that I nearly had a death on my conscience. The next moment my parents declared Trajan dead. I was not allowed to see him again. Because I realized my parents were deadly serious I accepted this.
In the same week, not only was my young love for Trajan wiped away, but also the centuries old hills in front of our house in Plovdiv. Not the high one with the granite statue of Aljosha, but a smaller hill where all the neighbourhood children played. There was no statue on the small hill in front our house and that was a good argument to blow up our playground. We weren’t sure exactly what they wanted to build there, but according to the rumours it would be one of the many cultural party buildings.
The police closed all the surrounding streets and told us to go away. A powerful explosion damaged the roofs and windows of most of the houses in the vicinity. I was surprised that I had not been injured, because it was raining stones where I was sta
nding. From a distance, we saw a trailer from a truck fly into the air. It looked like a horrible action movie with a touch of science fiction.
My parents never received any compensation to repair the damages. Neither did any of the neighbours. No one dared to complain. They weren’t sure exactly where to go and what the consequences would be if they did. The worse thing was that it was all for nothing. We were left with a damaged roof and broken windows, but the granite hill was mostly intact. Only my favourite rocks had been blown away and with them a piece of my childhood memories.
Fireflies and discrimination
Meanwhile Olga lived on cloud nine, but she finally fell off it with a thud.
‘He’s married and she’s pregnant,’ she mumbled nearly inaudibly through a sea of tears.
I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Is that why he doesn’t want to see you anymore?’
‘Yes,’ Olga nodded and almost choked on her tears.
This was a delicate situation. A philosophical chat would not help her now and I did not know how to comfort her.
‘Love is a gamble,’ I heard myself say. ‘You lost this time, but next time you’ll go home with the jackpot.’
Olga looked up: ‘Do you make this rubbish up on the spot or did you read it somewhere?’
‘I’m making it up on the spot because I don’t know how to comfort you. Perhaps you need a break. An acquaintance of mine has a nice house on the Black Sea and has invited me to stay with him for some time. He’s a pianist. I have no idea if he’s musically gifted, but he is physically. He once confided in me that his penis is 26 centimetres long. Man are natural boasters when it comes to their best friend, but there has to be some truth to it. I think Vladimir is waiting for a beautiful young woman like yourself. He just doesn’t know that you’re coming, but I will let him know.’
‘Wait, do you mean that I am just going to go to a complete stranger’s house?’ Olga asked, who has suddenly seemed to forget her heartbreak.
‘You spent time with a complete stranger in the toilets, so in any case the location will be better.’
‘But I’ve never met the guy!’ Olga protested.
’26 cm sounds very interesting,’ she added a little while later. Her eyes shone, but no longer from crying. She clearly saw room for a new adventure.
‘How are you going to get us together?’
‘I’ll tell him I’m coming with a friend. When we go to buy tickets at the station I will suddenly become nauseous and I’ll go home to rest for a few days. You will go ahead to meet him and wait for me there. Once you’re in the train I’ll phone Vladimir to let him know what’s happened. ‘
Olga didn’t have to think about this for much longer. After the disastrous ending to her relationship she was in the mood for some fun. She had come to the right conclusion herself: there’s no point crying over spilled milk.
Vladimir was disappointed that I wasn’t feeling well at the last minute.
‘Better one female visitor than none at all,’ I joked with a pretend weak voice. ‘Just wait until you see Olga!’
Olga phoned a few days later.
‘I’m not sure if you want to know, but 26 cm is better than sixteen,’ she told me excitedly.
‘I didn’t want to know that,’ I replied. ‘The only thing I want to know is why you sleep with men so quickly. It doesn’t show much self-respect. It’s like you don’t realise your own worth.’
‘On the contrary, ‘ Olga retorted. ‘Only women who know their worth, allow themselves such pleasures.’
Olga obviously did not believe in monogamy.
Our holiday home in the mountains was the perfect place to forget all problems and ethical dilemmas. My sister and I ran through the tall grass on the fields, plucked bright red poppies and purple irises and passed the time catching beetles with shiny wings. If we found hedgehogs, we would find them a meal of grasshoppers. I loved chasing the chickens on the street, until one time a brave rooster attacked me. That aggressive animals picked at me three times in a row and after that I was frightened of those unpredictable village animals. Especially the sheep. When I ran, the whole herd would gallop after me. The farmers yelled, like I was trying to take their herd away, while I was actually trying to make those stupid animals go away.
When we couldn’t be bothered looking for insects, we usually played war: Russia against America. We didn’t throw nuclear bombs, but apples, pears and plums. There were fruit trees in abundance in the village. They often grew next to the road or in fields that weren’t owned by anyone. The communists had expropriated all the land from its owners, because no one was allowed to have more than his neighbour. Everyone was equal and everyone earned roughly the same wages, if you were a welder or a professor. Despite this my parents would never let me marry a welder. They didn’t want some foul-mouthed labourer in the family, who would wolf whistle at every attractive girl.
My well-educated parents thought it unfair that a brain surgeon did not earn more than a hairdresser. This didn’t worry me. I still hadn’t decided if the inside or the outside of a head was more important. Olga was convinced that it was more beneficial to take care of the outside. And if both were equally important, then equal pay seemed fair. Besides, not many people complained about their wages, because everyone could make a decent living. That is why a profession was often seen as a status symbol instead of a source of income.
There were officially no social classes in Bulgaria, but villagers, low-skilled and Turkish people were not held in high regards. The gypsies were seen as the garbage of society. They stink, they lie and they steal.
The low-skilled were also discriminated against. Under communism everyone was able to study free-of-charge and if you did not profit from this then you were not smart. Prejudices are always black and white. If you did not continue your education, you were immediately labelled. I was discouraged from having low-skilled friends.
‘Ignorance is not contagious!’ I protested even though I knew there was no point in discussing this type of topic with my parents.
‘It might not be contagious, but it is hereditary,’ my parents said, who always stuck to their guns when it came to upbringing.
This didn’t worry me, because I was not yet ready to settle down and raise a family. I liked playing with different types of boys and make a game out of trying to guess from which social class they came. The difference could usually be found in the use of swear words. The rough types had mastered the art of regular swearing without repeating themselves. Sometimes they sounded awful, but they compensated their foul-mouthed vocabulary with their well-trained bodies, aggressive courting techniques and beautiful guitar playing.
In the evening, we would often sing English songs on the village square. Western music was sold everywhere, even though we were not allowed to watch English-language television channels. We played Queen, sang Beatles songs and thought we were the happiest youth in the world. We walked hand-in-hand, listening to the crickets chirping and enjoying the beautiful views when we climbed the hills. It was an innocent type of romance: so pure and unspoiled as could only be possible in a village. The big city had different rules. Romance was much tougher there and usually happened in bars and disco’s. We didn’t need disco lights in the village: we would catch fireflies and stuck them to our foreheads with a little bit of spit. The fireflies would go on and off the whole night and when we were bored of them we would let them go.
Travelling with a secret weapon
The magical slot machines in Las Vegas had no time to be bored. A shower of falling coins created a unique sound. Thousands of hands pulled the handles of the slot machines in fluid movements in the choreography of this modern music video. I saw Las Vegas as a form of art, as an ode to the human search for happiness.
Through the flashes of my childhood memories Las Vegas could not be seen as an art form but hell on earth. Life in a capitalist country had to be awful. The labourers were exploited, the politicians fought and no one was sure they would
still have a job the next month. The only achievement of the Americans had been the invention of the dollar. The exchange rate was not realistic in Bulgarian banks, but it was on the black market. On the streets, Western tourists would get as much as five times more Levs for their dollars. Of course, that was prohibited, but the traders had already bribed the police to look the other way.
It was forbidden for Bulgarian citizens to have dollars, except if they had earned them themselves when abroad. With a few dollars in your pocket you were considered rich and you could go to the special dollar shops where you never had to queue. However, it was extremely difficult to get a travel visa, because all citizens were classified as potential political refugees. My father was one of the ‘lucky few’ who had been allowed to travel for several years through many different countries. He thanked this on the happy combination of being a talented musician and a party member. If he had only been a party member, then it would probably not have been possible and if he had only been a talented musician then he would surely not have been allowed to travel abroad.
The company my father was part of primarily served the noble cause of spreading the rich Bulgarian culture abroad. The stage performances were spectacular with nice props, beautiful music and patriotic texts. Even dissidents who had had to abandon their fatherland couldn’t prevent drying a nostalgic tear.
Dad was a loyal member of the communist party, but because of his many travels abroad he started to doubt the justification of the system.
‘Communism is a nice idea, it all sounds honest and just, but some things just don’t add up,’ he said. ‘The Western stores are full of products that we have never even heard of. Everything is nicely packaged to grab your attention and the customer is always right. When you enter a store, they even ask you if they can help you. Our salespeople don’t even care if they perform good or bad. They get just as much money and are never fired. The party believes you don’t need any stimulation to do your job well, but unfortunately that’s not the way people work.’
