by Ellis Shuman
There were times when Tomer took things to the extreme. “Bul-bul Garia!” he shouted, racing away from his father’s gentle voice. Ayala winced, knowing that bul-bul was the Hebrew slang word for penis. He shouldn’t be saying that in the house, she thought, yet her brother was never punished for his foul words.
It didn’t help when Ayala’s mother tried to comfort the boy by saying that his father was simply trying to pass along his heritage, a culture and language so different from her own. “What can it hurt?” she asked him, but he was too young to explain what was bothering him.
Tomer shrugged off all interest in his father’s past and made this pointedly clear when he prepared his Shorashim project during his Bar Mitzvah year. This school assignment called on each student to study his or her family’s roots and background. For Tomer this was a one-sided task. He dealt only with his mother’s family and their origins in Yemen. He didn’t ask his father any questions about growing up in Sofia, or whether any of the Bulgarian customs had accompanied the family to Israel when they made aliyah in the years after the State of Israel was established.
Avraham turned to his son and tried to discuss this blatant insensitivity, but the young teenager didn’t want to listen. “This is my Shorashim project!” he protested. “I get my characteristics from Imma. My skin is dark like Imma’s. The fact that I am Jewish is determined by her. Not you! That is why my Shorashim project covers her background and customs.” No one quite understood this reply.
Growing up, Ayala was nearly inseparable from her brother. They played at the park together and went in tandem to the beach. When she fell off her bicycle, scraping her knee and leaving a trail of blood on her shorts, it was Tomer who picked her up and bandaged her leg. He willingly escorted her to school each day and waited patiently for her at the entrance gate when classes were over.
Now, all these years later, Ayala regretted never asking Tomer why he had so strongly resisted a presence of Bulgaria in their shared childhood. Was it just that he preferred to identify with their mother’s Yemenite traditions and culture? Or was it something else? If only Tomer had joined her on the short visit to Burgas. If only he could have seen Bulgaria! If he had, perhaps he would have better understood their father, and his own background.
Ayala realized there were things about her brother she would never know.
* * *
Someone knocked at the apartment door. “Yavo,” Ayala’s father said, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.
“Yaniv!” Shoshanna said, happily welcoming her brother into their home. “What brings you here on Shabbat? Where is the rest of your family?”
“I came to speak to Ayala,” he told her after kissing her on both cheeks. “Where is she?”
“I’m here,” Ayala said, coming into the room. She kissed her uncle and joined him at the table.
“Can I get you anything?” her mother said, placing a plate of baklava in front of the unexpected guest. “Coffee?”
“Nothing. I ate at home.”
“Let’s give them a few minutes alone,” Avraham said, putting down his aromatic Turkish coffee and rising from his seat. “Come, I will help with the dishes.”
“You never help with the dishes!” Shoshanna exclaimed, following him into the kitchen.
“How are you holding up?” Yaniv asked his niece.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you really?
“No, not really.”
“I understand, Ayala. You don’t have to spell it out. I’ll see if we can get you reassigned to the case and back into the field, but these things take time,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper.
“You are helping us immensely, wherever you are. Even desk-based analysis in Tel Aviv assists us tremendously. Your work has been excellent and the people in charge know it.”
The words of praise were good to hear, yet Yaniv wasn’t informing her of an imminent return to Bulgaria, only that such an assignment was possible.
“Your parents would be very proud of you, Ayala, if they knew what you are doing, how you are contributing to the defense of your country. Tomer, he would have been proud of you as well.”
What did her brother have to do with any of this? Why did her uncle have to mention his name and bring back those painful memories?
Yaniv leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, I must be going. The little ones at home need me at bedtime. I’m not always around for them, but at least on Shabbat, I should be there.”
Ayala smiled at him. She watched as he stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye to her parents, refusing a last-minute offer to take pieces of baklava home with him.
“Shabbat Shalom,” Yaniv said, closing the apartment door behind him.
Shabbat Shalom, Ayala thought to herself. A Sabbath of peace. But her mind was far from being in a peaceful state.
17
December 2003
The entrance to the Red and White Massage Salon was lit up by a string of red lights; a small bell rang every time someone opened the door to enter. A weathered poster of an erotic dancer hung from one side; the girl’s obscenely proportioned breasts made her appear to be an outlandishly drawn cartoon character. Single men filed into the club, one by one. None of them appeared to be in a particular hurry or nervous about visiting the place. A short while later, the first of the men left, zipping up his jacket against the wind as he returned to his normal business. Probably heading home to an unattractive, inattentive wife, Boyko suspected, as he surveilled the doorway from across the street.
He had arrived in the Burgas port district shortly after midnight and cased the place for several minutes before stationing himself in a secluded vantage point in the darkened entranceway of a pharmacy. As he waited impatiently, he took a swig of vodka to fight the bitter cold, and to calm his nerves. After watching yet another man leave the salon, Boyko slipped the small bottle back into his pocket and crossed the street. He entered the building, adjusting his eyes to the dazzling gaudiness of the entrance hall. A petite hostess with auburn-colored hair and a see-through top stepped forward to greet him.
“Welcome to the Red and White,” she said pleasantly, extending her hand to touch him like they were old friends. “Have you visited us before?”
“No, this is my first time,” Boyko answered truthfully. “How does it work?”
“There is a cover charge of twenty lev,” she replied, all business-like. Only after he had forked over the money did the seductive smile return to her face. “You can sit down in here,” she said, directing him toward the tables positioned around a fully stocked bar. “Our hostesses will join you shortly. Please be a gentleman and offer to buy them drinks. If one of them meets your fancy, well, we have private rooms.”
“How much does all of this cost?” he asked.
“It depends what type of alcohol you prefer to drink.”
“No, not that part. If I take a girl, I mean, if one of the hostesses joins me in a private room, how much would that cost?”
“That would depend on the services rendered,” she replied mysteriously.
Of course, she couldn’t state the answer out loud, Boyko realized. Prostitution was illegal in Bulgaria, but its practice was tolerated. There were many clubs like this one in Sofia, Varna, and at the resorts. Advertised as massage parlors and strip clubs, the women who worked these joints would do anything—or so he had heard. Full-body massages, oral sex, and standard sex services were common, but men could easily find women willing to partake in anal, group sex, or even BDSM. Anything was available if you were willing to pay for it.
At least the clubs were far better than the prostitutes who stopped drivers on the country’s roads, ready to go the full distance in the woods for 25 lev. Boyko knew about those women only too well.
He sat at the first unoccupied table he found and covered his ears against the pounding beat of chalga, the overbearing Bulgarian pop-folk music with its horrific rhythms and overt
ly sexual lyrics. Come to think of it, the women idolized around the country for their chalga hits were as outlandish and provocative as many of the women in this club. Boyko couldn’t understand chalga’s popularity. The tawdry, loose morals of the uniquely Balkan beat encouraged the use of illicit drugs and sexual promiscuousness.
A woman was speaking to him, but he didn’t understand what she was saying. He moved his head closer to the buxom blonde at his side. Only after listening to her for a moment did he realize she wasn’t speaking Bulgarian. Of course not. The women here were foreigners, working in Burgas because business was good in the port city. Romanians, Russians, Moldovans, Ukrainians, Belarusians—who knew where these women came from. The sex trade was international and the flow of women was impossible to stop. Or so it seemed.
“I only speak Bulgarian,” Boyko informed the blonde.
“Bulgarian? Okay, Bulgarian,” the woman replied, and she slipped away into the dark.
A few moments later another woman, this one with an abundance of startling red hair, sat down next to him. She was dressed as absurdly as the blonde, but at least Bulgarian was her native language.
“I’m Candy,” she said, the forced smile on her face competing with her revealing décolletage for his attention.
“Candy? That’s not a Bulgarian name,” he said.
“No, but it’s a sweet one, isn’t it? Do you prefer local girls?”
“Most customers do not?”
“No. The men who come here prefer not to talk at all. Being with a foreigner makes it easier for them.”
“I am not like that,” he said, wanting to add that he did want to talk. But that would chase her away so he continued to play this unusual courtship game. “You are very beautiful,” he said, almost choking on the words.
“Thank you, kind sir. Now, why don’t you buy me a drink.”
He had heard about this ploy. Customers in the clubs were encouraged to buy the hostesses drinks, which were actually colored water without a trace of alcohol. While the men steadily became more and more inebriated, the women continued to ply them with drinks. When the men finally staggered to their feet, prepared to leave or to head into the back rooms to satisfy their sexual cravings, they were presented with exorbitant bills. There was no way to argue one’s way out of an expensive—and very embarrassing—predicament.
“I thought we could go somewhere,” Boyko suggested.
“My, you are certainly eager to get going! Haven’t had sex in a while, have you?” She reached forward and placed her hand on his crotch. “Hmm, I think you’ll need assistance down there. I’m pretty good at that. Would you like to join me in private?”
“Yes, please.”
He followed her leather mini skirt and long, fishnet-covered legs down the dimly lit corridor, past the other private rooms with their closed doors and the moans of anonymous physical release issued from within, to a booth all his own. She glanced back at him with a crooked smile, extended her hand, and pulled him inside.
Lit by a single light bulb, the room was hardly appealing, but its visitors rarely took time to appreciate the décor. A narrow cot was pushed up against one wall, covered by rumpled sheets that called out for laundering. On the other side was a single cushioned armchair. Off-white pillows were thrown casually on the wooden floor in a half-hearted attempt to give warmth to a frigid room.
“What is your pleasure?” she asked, her voice more squeaky than sensual.
“My pleasure?” Boyko repeated the question. He glared at the woman—at her heavily made-up face; at the pair of silicone-enhanced breasts threatening to pop out of her low-cut top at any moment; at her shocking red hair; and at her thin hands with extended fingernails that were slowly caressing his forearm. With her overdone, bogus beauty, she repulsed him, turned his stomach. The last thing he wanted to do was fuck her.
Candy treated him to a coy smile of invitation as she waited for his response.
“I came here to talk to you,” he said, sitting down on the cot. “I’ll pay you for your time.”
“Talk! What are you, a cop?” She was furious, ready to barge out of the room and call for one of the muscled bodyguards who waited at the entrance to handle this sort of situation.
“I’m not on duty,” he said, raising his hands in innocence. “I want to ask you a few questions. That’s all. Here, take my money.” He took out his wallet and pulled out a few twenty-lev bills. “How much do you normally take?”
“I do not talk. If you want to fuck, fine by me, but I’m not up for police interrogations.”
“I am not asking you for any personal details, Candy,” Boyko said. “Just tell me who brings all the foreign women to the club. How did they get here?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” she responded angrily, but she took his money and sat down on the armchair.
“Surely you must know something, or you must have seen something.” When she didn’t reply, he drew more bills out of his wallet. “Candy, anything you tell me is confidential.”
“I can’t,” she stuttered. “Not here,” she said, nodding her head toward the ceiling over the room’s single door.
Boyko raised his eyes and understood what Candy was trying to say. There was a hidden camera in the room. Everything was being recorded! It was highly likely that many of the club’s clientele were being blackmailed, videotapes of their sexual indiscretions only destroyed in exchange for large sums of money.
Boyko took out something else from his wallet and handed it to her. “This is my business card,” he whispered. “It lists my personal phone number. Listen, Candy. I will pay for any information you give me. I’m not going to hurt you. I do not care what you do for a living. I just want some answers. And I will make it worth your while to talk to me.”
She had a confused look on her face. He knew she was wondering whether she could trust him, but one thing was obvious to him. Candy knew something, and she was willing to disclose what she knew for a price.
Boyko left the club, hurrying to his car in the lot down the street. He was going out on a limb here, acting independently without Zhekov’s permission. The failure to arrest anything more than a boatful of Ukrainian prostitutes along the coast three months earlier still upset him. If he could get a lead on the person who was ordering shipments of human flesh, he would achieve something quite substantial. He hoped Candy would come through for him.
* * *
Later in the week, Boyko was sitting at his desk in the Burgas District Police Directorate headquarters reviewing evidence connected to a string of jewelry store robberies when Candy called. At first, he didn’t recognize her voice, and although the name was slightly familiar, he had mostly dismissed the unsuccessful nighttime visit to the Red and White Massage Salon from his mind. He agreed to meet her at a small coffee shop on Ulitza Makedonia, in the center of the city.
“My name is not really Candy,” she informed him when she joined him at his table.
He looked up, startled. This was not the provocative, overtly sexual woman whom he had met at the club. Gone were the startling red hair, the overdone makeup, and the fishnet stockings. The woman’s generously proportioned breasts now seemed to be—from what could be detected under her woolen sweater—of a normal, respectable size. Her hands were still slender, but with the plastic fingernails removed, they didn’t seem so threatening. This woman was not particularly attractive, but at least nothing about her appearance was hideous or repulsive.
“My name is Mariana,” she told him. “I prefer not to tell you my last name.”
“That is fine,” he said. “Everything here is strictly confidential.”
“Listen, Detective Stanchev . . .”
“Call me Boyko. Everyone does.”
“Detective Boyko. I have a daughter. My husband left me and I need to support her. She is only five years old.” Mariana reached into her purse and pulled out a somewhat-faded snapshot of a young girl with a toothy smile and curly brown hair. Mariana held it o
ut to Boyko and waited for him to give it a moment’s inspection before taking it back and looking lovingly at the image herself. “It’s not easy being a single mother. There are always expenses.”
“Of course,” he replied, pulling out his wallet.
How much should he give her? She had yet to tell him anything, but her emotional appeal had touched a nerve and he felt he should help her, no matter what. He handed her a twenty lev note, indicating that there would be more where that came from, but only if she agreed to talk.
“The woman at the club, the foreigners—who brings them there?”
“Can I have something to drink first?”
He ordered for her and waited impatiently for the waitress to return to their table. He had already finished his shot of thick espresso, its caffeine burst fueling his impatience. Mariana looked around nervously, as if expecting one of the bodyguards from the club to appear at any moment. Finally, the coffee arrived. Mariana took her time adding two spoonfuls of sugar and concentrated for several moments on the spoon, and the mixing, before lifting the cup and taking a cautious sip of the hot liquid.
“The foreign women?” he repeated.
“I’ve talked to them, well, at least to the ones who speak Russian, which I studied in school. Their story is sad, very sad. They work like slaves, no time off, with huge debts to pay off. Who knows if they’ll ever get back to their homelands. It’s heartbreaking. I pity them because they are worse off than me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but who brings them to Bulgaria?” he pressed.
“They come by boat, from somewhere up the coast.”
“I know that part. Who is the person ordering them? Who arranges these things?”
“I do not know his name. He comes to the club, talks to the owner. It is always late at night. The women he brings never last long. They work until they’ve paid off their debts. Then they disappear. There are always new ones. This visitor, he arranges the deliveries. A constant stream of flesh, that’s what it is.”
