Albena Stambolova - Everything Happens as It Does

She roamed the streets for an hour, twice crossed the Doctor’s Garden under tree branches weighed down by snow, climbed another two sets of stairs, rang the bells on several doors to no avail — and finally decided to return home. It was getting colder.

The tramcar was surprisingly warm and full of people. The first face she saw on entering the tram was that of Valentin. He started to make his way toward her, gesturing incomprehensibly and smiling. When he finally reached her, he kissed her in the middle of her blissful face, on her nose.

Where have you been in this freezing cold?

I was looking for you — was her answer, which provoked a nod of despair from Valentin. He explained that he was just about to go home to pick up some books.

Are you carrying rocks? Valentin tried to lift her bag. He knew the question was not going to receive an answer. He simply took the bag off his sister’s shoulder and bowed under its weight.

When they entered the apartment, it was still deserted. To their shared, unspoken relief. These moments, when it was just the two of them, were rare.

While Valentin was searching through his room and the bookshelves, Margarita sat down at the table with a small jug of wine and two glasses. After a while, Valentin settled next to her and started talking. Margarita was not listening to him, she was just looking at him blissfully, repeating to herself that she had found him. Where exactly was his garret? — It didn’t matter. One day she would find out. He kept chatting, carefully watching the expression on her face. This faraway, happy girl, his own crazy sister, the lovely Margarita. He felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her awake. But now was not the time. Now he just wanted to look at her and to talk, without getting her involved in anything, letting her be the way she wanted to be. Right in the middle of all kinds of things happening, staring absently.

The floor shook lightly. Valentin looked up and saw the ceiling lamp quiver. He lunged for their coats; books could be heard tumbling in the hallway; he yelled something at Margarita. She didn’t stir, but just kept smiling at him. Valentin became angry, grabbed her by the hand and felt her inert body resist. He threatened to leave her alone, they needed to get out because there was an earthquake. Margarita continued to look at him. Infuriated, Valentin slammed the door behind his back and ran downstairs, away from this madhouse where his mother was nowhere to be seen and his sister sat grinning in the kitchen.

By herself now, Margarita began to cry. She walked slowly to her room. The warm light of her grandmother’s lamp welcomed her back. She turned on the tap to fill the bathtub again. That was how she drowned her tears — with water.

The transparent liquid absorbed her naked body and her hair floated around her head like a halo. She felt fine. She heard Valentin ring the doorbell, he had probably forgotten his keys and was coming back now that the earthquake had stopped. When the furious bell fell silent, Margarita got out of the water, splashing some on the floor. Her wet feet pattered across the empty space and reached the door, which she opened only to discover that Valentin was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if she had gone out at all today.

Later that night, Margarita woke up and looked at the lit lamp by her bed. The light made her feel warm and safe. She stretched her arms and legs in different directions, like a starfish; no matter how far she stretched, the edges of the bed remained beyond the tips of her fingers. The bed is my ship, she often said to herself, my territory, my planet. The planet of the Little Prince. With his sheep. Margarita too had a plush sheep, though it probably lay somewhere, who knows where, under the piles of clothes on the floor.

She decided to take a stroll to the kitchen and, walking into the hallway, saw that the light was on. I must have forgotten to… Someone was in the kitchen, someone was sleeping on the wide couch her mother had put there. Margarita guessed immediately — it was Maria. When and how had she reappeared? It never even occurred to her to ask. No one could pose such questions to her mother. A full ashtray on the table and the little bundle with protruding, tiny, child-like feet under the enormous mass of hair. Margarita ran to the baby’s room — the baby was fast asleep, cradled in its baby smell. And Maria returned every night, taking the baby from the crib and breastfeeding it, holding it and singing lullabies, and then she’d turn into a swan again and glide down the river.

So now what? Everything seemed to be alright, but Margarita did not feel at ease. Usually things in her life were not alright; to be amiss was in the order of things. Her mother was sleeping soundly, unperturbed — he who can, let him try and wake her. You’re smoking too much, you’ll turn into a witch, her father used to scold her mother. But I am a witch, Maria would reply.

Margarita took the ashtray and tipped it over the garbage can. A few cigarette butts fell on the floor. She picked them up and then rinsed her fingers at the sink. Water drops spattered over her bare feet. She wondered whether she should cover her mother with a blanket or switch off the light. This way it could all seem real — someone real is truly asleep, in this real night, just like in other people’s houses. She didn’t dare do either. This fragile being, coiled up like a round bun, should not be disturbed, could not be disturbed. It was one of the first laws Margarita had learned to observe.

No breath could be heard from under the hair. Margarita felt a familiar fear rear its head — was her mother a living thing? A human being? But such a question could not even be formed. Something lay hidden in this tiny, motionless creature, curled-up like an unborn baby on the kitchen sofa, something that no one, under any circumstances, could reveal. Was she sleeping or not, Margarita had no way of knowing. And she had no way of finding out. Was her mother angry, did she feel love — no one ever knew. And no one was ever able to ask her such questions.

Margarita ran back to her room, silently closed the heavy oak door and turned the key in its lock.

Then she lay down on the bed and looked at the lamp.

The gentleman Mr. V., the lawyer, heard the car door close behind his back with a velvety thump. His chauffeur was going to wait for him, for as long as necessary. He saw the chauffeur light up a cigarette before he entered the apartment building. His wife’s daughter lived on the third floor in a seemingly endless apartment resembling an art gallery. With her big cat.

He rang the doorbell twice. Its pleasant lilt could be heard echoing through infinite empty spaces on the other side. Fanny opened the door and without saying a word led him into the living room, where, on a small corbel table, was a steaming pot of tea. Why do I always have tea, the gentleman thought to himself, but he was going to have some tea and with pleasure, as usual. Fanny put the tray on the dinner table and the two of them settled down with some buttered toast, jam and small jugs full of who knows what — probably milk or cream.

Mr. V. had an envelope with money for Fanny, but before giving it to her they had to have a little chat. About this and that and the other. Or the ins and outs. Or the polar bear cubs at the zoo. Or Fanny’s gallery and her cat Pavoné.

Fanny looked like a wild thing, of some northern species precious for its gray-white fur. Every time he met with her, Mr. V. went through two emotional stages: first, confusion at the sight of her exquisite pedigree features, and then, confusion again, at the simplified relationship he had with her. Her house was like the Snow Queen’s palace — ice-white and empty, the floors smooth like mirrors. Who polished everything here? Or maybe there was no need for polishing, so much did it feel like an ice palace. One could see one’s breath in winter.