Georgi Gospodinov - The Physics of Sorrow

As a child I despised that blabbering mother who had deprived her son of such power. But now I understand her. She refused to allow him to be taken away from the human species. Unlike Pasiphaë, the Minotaur’s mother. The miner-angel was morose, withdrawn, never said a word. As if by killing the angel within himself, in the end he had managed to obliterate the human as well.

The underground angel’s son was a few classes ahead of us, unusually tall, he went to Sofia to play basketball, then left for America.

THE UNDERGROUND ANGEL’S SON

My father was a miner. In the dark, at five in the morning, he would go out to the mine. They would bring him back by truck at dusk. Both in the mine and outside — in the dark. He didn’t remember what day was. Only one time he didn’t go to work and lay all day in his room with the curtains drawn, he couldn’t stand the light.

That’s how I remember him, he would come home at night, gloomy, not saying a word, on the table a big salad and a bottle of brandy. As if he weren’t here at all. I’ve heard that story about the wings, maybe it’s true, mute as an angel. He would turn on the TV, but not watch it. He would eat the whole salad, and drink half the bottle. He never said anything. He’d go to bed. And start all over the next morning.

The happiest day of my life was when the coach from the city came to see which of us would make good basketball players. They picked me because I was already a beanstalk, tall and wiry, with hands like shovels. My mother started bawling, my dad just patted me on the back. I got the feeling that he wanted to say something, he took a breath, but he hadn’t spoken in so long that the mechanism down there was most likely rusty, he cleared his throat, something creaked in it and he went to bed. The next day I took my duffle bag and left for the sports boarding school in the city. I trained like crazy, because I knew what awaited me if I was forced to go back home. I stayed late after practice, lifting weights, jumping rope, practicing free throws, everything. I didn’t have an ounce of talent for that game, actually I didn’t have an ounce of talent, but I just kept busting ass. like a miner. And I made the team, because I was ripped, I gave my all, I didn’t spare my strength. And when some guy showed up after 1989 from some amateur American club to buy up cheap Eastern European players, I didn’t hesitate to go. I knew I had no chance playing basketball there, I’d never make the cut. I just needed to get as far away from here as I could, from my father, from his bottle and his sullenness.

If I’d stayed, I would’ve turned out like him. I left, played for a year or so, they sent me packing — they really put up with me longer than they should have — so I started driving one of those big, long trucks, as long as a train, with smokestacks up on top. Lots of work, but good pay. You can’t find a wife with a job like that. I take off early at 5 A.M., then sleep at a truck stop somewhere in the evenings. Busting ass from darkness to darkness. Then I sit down, drink four beers, eat two Big Macs, and sleep like the dead. Every day. One night I dreamed about my father. He was driving my truck. And in the morning they called to tell me how it had happened.

H.K., age 48. He had come from Dallas to bury his father and settle his estate.

MALAMKO THE CAB DRIVER AND HIS HAPPIEST DAY

Swarthy, curly haired, a bit over twenty, wearing a pleather jacket, an incarnation of Michael Jackson from the ’80s. And, of course, a picture of Michael himself up by the mirror. This story starts with my getting into the cab. As if he was only waiting for a listener.

Bro (this is my role and name in this story), if you only knew what a babe got into my taxi today! Pushin’ forty, but a babe, I’m tellin’ ya. Maybe she was 38 or 39, who knows. A hottie. When she got in my cab, I felt downright ashamed to be driving this old Opel.

We’re at a stoplight. I, too, cast a glance over the car, the threadbare upholstery, the cracked dashboard, the overpowering scent of vanilla coming from the pine-shaped air freshener.

That woman was not meant for this car, Malamko goes on. She needs a Cadillac, pink. And she’s got tits on her. So she gets into my cab and says drive wherever you want, that’s what she says. She’s just gotten a divorce from her husband. She tells me everything, from beginning to end. How they got married, how many years they were together, how he turned out to be a slug. She’s like, he turned out to be a slug. I dunno what a slug is, bro, but it’s gotta be bad. A snail, I say. Huh? A slug is a snail without a shell. Really? Well, what’s so bad about a snail without a shell, hmm. And he’d been messing around with some other women, but she’d found out — in short, he’d screwed up big time, royally. A huge tragedy, like something straight out of a Turkish soap opera. And so I’m just nodding, bro, and driving, I don’t even know where I’m going. I can see she’s in the midst of a spiritual crisis, so I just drive and listen. And the more she talks to me, the more she’s checking me out. She’s givin’ me signals, right that minute she’s giving me signals. I get this kind of stuff. Stop here now. We’ll see each other again, she says, you can be sure of that. Then she starts digging around in her purse, that goddamn, slug-sucking son of a bitch took my cash! She’s cursing, but even cursing fits her to a T, like a fancy necklace, like a brooch, a bona fide babe no matter which way you look at her. No worries, I tell her, money doesn’t matter. Pay me back next time. What’s your name, hon, she asks me. I’m like: Malamko. Let me give you a kiss, Malamko, she says, and leans over and grabs my head and plants one on me right here (pointing to his cheek) before I know what’s going on.

He looks in the mirror to see if there’s still a trace of that kiss. The stoplight has turned green, the drivers behind him start honking. I’ll give you a call soon, she says, slams the door and disappears. Now there’s a real woman for you, bro, the real deal.

Silence. But how’s she gonna find me, I don’t know. She didn’t take my number or anything. Maybe she remembered the number of the cab and will call the dispatcher to ask. There’s no other Malamko working for us.

He falls silent. This question gnaws at him. This is my place to intervene, as a bro.

Listen, Malamko, I begin in my deepest voice. When a woman wants to find someone, she’ll turn the world upside down. In such cases, only clichés help. I’m probably quoting some novel, some bad literature, God damn it. Let it do some good in consoling a handsome young Gypsy.

(The truth is that I’m thinking about how that woman is getting free rides all around Sofia with that sob-story about the slug-husband. But who am I to ruin the happiest day of Malamko’s life? And the fact that I’m even thinking this and he’s not makes me a ten-times bigger loser. Lucky Malamko.)

I’m a really lucky guy, eh, Malamko says after a short pause, as if having read my thoughts in the mirror. Such a pretty woman, and she likes me, Malamko, of all people. Who cares if she’s 30 or 35, she might be even younger. I’m a player, I don’t go looking for faults.

I gave him the biggest tip I’ve ever given. Actually, it wasn’t a tip, I bought the story.

I add it here now, in the capsule of this book, who knows, maybe that babe will read it or someone else will tell her that Malamko is waiting for her, she should give him a call. Let literature do some good, goddamn it.

THE STORY SELLER

What exactly are you? A writer? I’m always running into writers. My grandfather was one, it must be karma. A month ago I was invited to a wedding. And who do you think turned up at the same table? Can you guess? They put me right next to Salman Rushdie himself. Yes, yes, the man himself. With the little round glasses and the goatee. To tell you the truth, I’ve always thought that the people they show on TV, the most famous ones, don’t actually exist in real life, they must be some kind of computer animation or hologram. Don’t you doubt the existence of Madonna or Brad Pitt even a little? Anyway. I sat down next to him, we shook hands, he said his name and my mouth hung open. The writer? As if a whole slew of celebrities lurked behind this name. He was even a bit flustered and mumbled something — you could say that, yes.