Best European Fiction 2013

by Unknown

  3.

  The next day Nevena Krusteva’s husband left work early and went to the address he’d written down.

  The house was enormous, with a small front yard and an overgrown arbor in the bushes. The yard and arbor were empty so the husband rang the front doorbell. For a long time no one answered, then steps could be heard, creaking on the wooden stairs, and a woman appeared on the threshold. She was well preserved, Mongol-eyed with raised cheekbones and rouged face.

  “Does Petraki Nikolov live here?”

  “Nikolov?” the woman pondered. “He was living here, but I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

  She managed a discreet yawn and shifted from foot to foot, throwing a quick glance over the empty yard.

  “Where did he work?”

  “He was the head of the Institute, but they kind of dismissed him …”

  “And you, what are you to him?”

  “It’s like, I was his wife …” she sank into thought again.

  “And you haven’t looked for him?”

  The woman stared at him questioningly.

  “Why should I look for him?” She crossed her arms, tired. “Haven’t I just told you what happened?”

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband didn’t know what to make of this. The woman in front of him looked too self-possessed to be lying.

  “Do you realize that your husband has become a rag?” he at last found the strength to ask.

  “It was in the cards!” The woman sighed. “I mean, that’s what happens once you get fired …”

  This time she made no effort to hide her yawn and pulled on the wire buttons of her dressing gown.

  “Please forgive my disturbing you!” Nevena Krusteva’s husband gave a slight bow and left. Behind him the door gave a lazy click.

  4.

  As soon as he got home, Nevena Krusteva asked him:

  “Well?”

  “It’s true!” Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

  Nevena Krusteva flopped onto the armchair and burst into tears, wringing her hands.

  “What a horrible story!” She couldn’t calm down.

  “Yes, indeed,” sighed her husband. “I never knew that people could turn into rags. It must be the result of some biological mutation …”

  “What sort of mu … tation?”

  “Biological! This rag used to be the head of the Institute. You don’t get to be head without being some kind of weasel.”

  “That’s all we need—spies in our house!” Nevena’s sobs grew louder. “I’m scared, I’m scared …” Her whole body shook in the chair.

  “There’s nothing to get upset about!” Husband reassured wife. “We’ll keep him under lock and key for a bit …”

  He pondered a moment before continuing:

  “Don’t do the dusting with him. It hurts his feelings.”

  Nevena Krusteva jumped up:

  “Let’s throw it out. Throw it out right now. It’ll do us some harm otherwise, you mark my words!”

  “What do you mean throw him out?” her husband protested. “We’ve got to help him.”

  “It’s always us doing the helping!” Nevena yelled. “Always us …”

  Her husband fell silent. He was already planning what he would do. He had a good heart and, what’s more, a fatalistic sort of feeling that the same thing could happen to him, which nudged him toward heroic action …

  5.

  The next day was Saturday; he went again to the familiar address. He rang three times and the same Mongol-eyed, tired woman appeared at the door.

  “It’s you again?” she asked and wrapped her dressing gown more closely round her body as if feeling the cold. “Come in!”

  The rooms were dark, with small windows and old furniture scattered about. Thick carpets covered the floor. Their feet sank as if into fine sand.

  “Sit down!” the wife said and pointed him toward a disemboweled couch covered in real leather.

  “Yesterday I told you,” said Nevena Krusteva’s husband, “that your husband has turned into a rag.”

  “I remember now,” his hostess interrupted him. “He sold himself to the devil!”

  A canary broke into song in the next room.

  “To what devil?” Nevena Krusteva’s husband asked, stunned.

  “There’s only one devil,” the woman calmly corrected him.

  “When did this … happen?”

  “When was it … ?” she thought for a moment. “It was five years ago! The devil came around one night and asked us if there was anyone looking to sell. He was out canvassing the neighborhood, collecting volunteers. I refused but my husband wasn’t so sure … I think that he agreed that very night.”

  The woman listened to the canary’s singing from the murky room nearby.

  “The devil was very convincing!” continued the woman, lost in her memories. “He said that anyway lots of people were turning into rags, but without realizing it, without getting any benefit from it …”

  “But the benefit, what was the benefit?” Nevena Krusteva’s husband interrupted, unable to restrain himself.

  “I don’t know,” the wife sighed. “They arranged to sign the contract the next day at the Institute.”

  She lay back.

  “But I can guess at the benefit …” she continued. “From then on, things went well for my husband. Quick promotion, I mean. We hardly saw one another, he was fantastically busy …”

  There was a pause.

  The canary stopped singing. No doubt exhausted.

  “Even so, he tricked him!” she sighed.

  “Who?”

  “The devil! He didn’t spell it out that becoming a rag meant exactly that. My husband somehow got the idea that the devil spoke in metaphors. You know how people say, ‘Look at that wet rag!’ … And it’s no big deal … People think up all sorts of nonsense …”

  “You don’t happen to know where that contract is now?”

  “No, my husband didn’t want us to talk about it! He insisted I’d dreamed the whole thing …”

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband shifted his weight noisily on the sofa. “And why did they dismiss him at the Institute?”

  “They threw him out … They didn’t dismiss him! That morning the cleaner saw a rag lying on his desk and threw it away. She didn’t realize it was Petraki Nikolov!”

  Above their heads a cuckoo chirruped. Ten times.

  “Don’t you want to see him?” Nevena Krusteva’s husband asked timidly.

  The woman gave him a frightened look.

  “No, no! I’ve got a weak heart …”

  “Even so, I could bring him around one day … Maybe he would feel better in his own home.”

  “Hardly,” the woman exclaimed. “He felt at his best in meetings.”

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband stood up.

  “If there’s anything new, I’ll get in touch again!” he said and offered his hand.

  The woman stood up too.

  “I can give you some advice!” she announced. “Don’t give him anything to drink … his liver’s swollen enough already after all those meetings …”

  6.

  In spite of this, Nevena Krusteva’s husband decided to go to the Institute where Nikolov had worked. On Monday, dressed in his best suit, he took a deep breath and slipped under the entrance arch.

  The porter stopped him. He was sitting in a glass cubicle, in a heap of newspapers, folders, telephone wires, and scattered scraps of everyday paper.

  “I’m looking for Petraki Nikolov!”

  “It’s not his day for appointments,” the porter muttered darkly.

  “I’m his cousin! I’ve just flown in from Paris … I’m bringing him a parcel from the sister Institute …”

  The porter eyed Nevena Krusteva’s husband suspiciously. He even rose from his comfy chair to look the visitor over from head to toe.

  “Petraki Nikolov isn’t here!” this guardian of propriety concluded in the same gloomy tone.

  “No,
no! I know he’s at work! I spoke to his wife …”

  The porter settled back in his chair and said: “Nikolov is in a meeting!”

  “It’s a question of national importance!” Nevena Krusteva’s husband said in a sharper tone. The porter got up to look at him again.

  Once back in his chair, the porter reached for the phone and demonstratively pressed three numbers. The phone gave a set of quick beeps.

  “Petraki Nikolov?” he drawled.

  “Petraki Nikolov is at a meeting in the center,” a strong female voice rang out.

  “Well, you see, they’ve brought a parcel here from the sister Institute …”

  “Let them bring it up!” the voice sang.

  The porter gently replaced the receiver, then thought the matter over, but eventually reached a decision:

  “Leave your identity card here! Third floor, room twenty-five …”

  The secretary was very charming.

  “Leave the parcel!” she smiled.

  “Can’t I hand it to him personally?”

  “Nikolov’s abroad!” she said.

  “But didn’t you say he was in a meeting … ?”

  “Either he’s in a meeting or he’s abroad!” the secretary smiled again. “He’s terribly busy. I haven’t seen him for half a year …”

  “In that case I’ll take it by his house …” Nevena Krusteva took a hesitant step backward.

  “I doubt you’ll find him …” The secretary’s response was not quite as friendly now as she tapped at her keyboard with all her fingers.

  Her visitor closed the door behind him and set off down the corridor. A clerk appeared hurrying toward him.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Petraki Nikolov!” Nevena Krusteva’s husband said.

  “He’s in the lab.” The clerk didn’t want to stop. “No, no … Actually, there’s a committee meeting today … Or else he’s abroad …”

  The clerk slipped into an office.

  7.

  As soon as he got home, Nevena Krusteva’s husband decided to begin a frank dialogue with the rag. Nikolov wasn’t sitting over the sink but had climbed up on to the sideboard, where the Krustev family kept its water glasses.

  “Don’t touch me!” the rag shrieked and gazed in horror at the rest of the rags lying in the cardboard box underneath him.

  “Silence!” shouted Nevena Krusteva’s husband, hoping to restore a semblance of order to the kitchen.

  He sat down at the end of the table, poured himself a glass of grape rakia, and drank it. “The way things are going with this rag, my liver’s going to be in trouble too,” he thought, and filled up his empty glass.

  “What’s all the noise about?” he asked.

  “They want to make me dirty!” the rag Nikolov explained hoarsely. “They want to force me to wipe the dishes. I mean to say, I’ve worked in the Institute, after all, and I’m not going to let them treat me like a …”

  He was going to say “like a rag,” but swallowed instead.

  “I had an official car … a secretary …”

  He’s got good reason to cry his heart out, thought Nevena Krusteva’s husband … I’ve never seen a rag sobbing.

  Nikolov got a grip on himself and continued:

  “And stop pouring yourself that horrible drink. Haven’t you got any vodka at least?”

  “I have,” the host replied mechanically. “I save it for guests!”

  He got up and from the living room brought a brand new bottle of Zubrovka and opened the top with a snap.

  “Pour me some!” implored the rag and flopped on to the table.

  “How’s your liver?” asked the host, as though in passing.

  “Can’t you see?” Nikolov answered angrily. “It’s like an old rag.”

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband sighed and poured fifty grams of vodka over the rag. He judged it a sufficient dose to loosen any inhibitions.

  “See here,” he began. “I’ve been looking into your situation. I’ve gotten to know you, so I’m doing away with any formality. Your situation is really serious, friend, but you’ve got no one to blame but yourself!”

  The host waited for his words to sink in before continuing:

  “You’re the one who signed a contract with the devil!”

  The rag Nikolov quivered. “How did you find out?”

  “They told me at the Institute!” his host lied.

  “So they’ve found out there?” Nikolov let out a heartbroken sigh.

  “Most of them guessed long ago that you’d sold your soul to the devil.”

  “So they found out about Nichev?”

  “Yes about Nichev and about …” The host continued to lie out of his noble feelings of sympathy.

  “And about Boyanov the former deputy director,” Nikolov murmured even more quietly.

  “Yes!” his host nodded emphatically.

  The rag fell silent. “It’s all over with me …” He let out a heartrending sigh and asked for more vodka.

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband did not refuse him.

  8.

  To find the devil is devilishly difficult.

  After he’d taken a physical description from the rag Nikolov, Nevena Krusteva’s husband went out to look for him.

  But he couldn’t find him.

  Exactly the opposite happened. One evening the devil himself appeared in front of the man.

  He didn’t look at all like the devil, except that his skin was dark. He was wearing a tracksuit with a silk scarf round his neck.

  “You’ve been looking for me,” said the stranger. “In connection with the rags?”

  At first Nevena Krusteva’s husband didn’t catch on. He wondered if his wife had sent an old mattress to be reupholstered—but then, his guest didn’t look like a workman.

  “In connection with the rag Nikolov,” the stranger clarified.

  Only now did his host understand. He invited his guest into the living room: his wife had gone to visit a neighbor, and Nikolov, daydreaming in the kitchen, could not be allowed to overhear their serious conversation.

  The devil lit a Kent cigarette and crossed his legs.

  “I’m really pleased you’ve come!” the host began. “I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

  “I know,” the devil waved his hand. “I’ve been very busy recently.”

  “I think we can work something out.”

  “Yes?” The devil perked up.

  He took a form out of his attaché case.

  “Sign this and everything will be okay!”

  “What’s this?”

  “A contract! You sell me your soul, and in return …”

  “In return for fast promotion, luxury …” the devil’s host finished the sentence … “We’re not on the same wavelength, I’m afraid. I was looking for you because of Nikolov. Nikolov worked in the Institute. He was the boss!”

  The devil smiled.

  “But he still works in the Institute. And he’s still the boss!”

  “But I checked,” his host exploded. “They told me in the Institute that …”

  “Nikolov’s abroad,” the devil helped him out.

  “Yes!”

  “Because he really was abroad.”

  “But his wife …”

  “Says she hasn’t seen him?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, she wasn’t seeing too much of him even before!” the devil laughed.

  Nevena Krusteva’s husband didn’t understand anything. “Well, and so what is that thing in the kitchen?”

  “A rag!” the devil’s answer was brusque. He put out his cigarette. “Look, the whole thing’s not quite what you’d expect. I’ll be frank with you! Recently we’ve fallen behind with the plan. With us there’s been a significant shortfall, we just don’t have enough souls. So, I’m sure you’ve heard how, these days, people are constantly getting caught up in self-improvement schemes. And what happens as a result? It’s very simple. When they face the inevitable moral crisis, I appear and
suggest they sign a contract. Then after a while I take their souls from their bodies. Recently we included a new clause which means we then turn the bodies into rags. It’s less wasteful than just letting them die. You can bear witness yourself that there’s no difference in the quality of the rags.”

  “Aside from the fact that they talk!” the host interrupted, a little sarcastically.

  “A small defect at first sight, but just think: we’ve created sentient rags! That’s nothing to be sneezed at …”

  The devil fell silent a moment, was about to light another cigarette, but held back.

  “Even so, please, I beg you, make him a human being again,” the host pleaded.

  “Human being?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s never been a human being!” The devil shook his head. “How can I make something out of nothing? That’s not in my power …”

  The devil gave a guilty smile and finally lit his second cigarette.

  In the growing silence, they could hear through the wall a sigh that was deaf to the world. The rag Nikolov was getting ready to sleep.

  TRANSLATED FROM BULGARIAN BY CHRISTOPHER BUXTON

  women

  [UNITED KINGDOM: ENGLAND]

  A. S. BYATT

  Dolls’ Eyes

  Her name was Felicity; she had called herself Fliss as a small child, and it had stuck. The children in her reception class at Holly Grove School called her Miss Fliss, affectionately. She had been a pretty child and was a pretty woman, with tightly curling golden hair and pale blue eyes. Her classroom was full of invention, knitted dinosaurs, an embroidered snake coiling round three walls. She loved the children—almost all of them—and they loved her. They gave her things—a hedgehog, newts, tadpoles in a jar, bunches of daffodils. She did not love them as though they were her own children: she loved them because they were not. She taught bush-haired boys to do cross-stitch, and shy girls to splash out with big paintbrushes and tubs of vivid reds and blues and yellows.

  She wondered often if she was odd, though she did not know what she meant by “odd.” One thing that was odd, perhaps, was that she had reached the age of thirty without having loved, or felt close, to anyone in particular. She made friends carefully—people must have friends, she knew—and went to the cinema, or cooked suppers, and could hear them saying how nice she was. She knew she was nice, but she also knew she was pretending to be nice. She lived alone in a little red brick terraced house she had inherited from an aunt. She had two spare rooms, one of which she let out, from time to time, to new teachers who were looking for something more permanent, or to passing students. The house was not at all odd, except for the dolls.