Miroslav Penkov - East of the West

I dug up the two jars of money I had kept hidden in the yard and caught a bus to town. It wasn’t hard to buy American dollars. I returned to the village and lay carnations on the graves and asked the dead for forgiveness. Then I went to the river. I put most of the money and Vladislav’s picture in a plastic bag, tucked the bag in my pocket along with some cash for bribes and, with my eyes closed, swam toward Srbsko.

Cool water, the pull of current, brown old leaves whirlpooling in clumps. A thick branch flows by, bark gone, smooth and rotten. What binds a man to land or water?

When I stepped on the Serbian bank, two guards already held me in the aim of their guns.

“Two hundred,” I said, and took out the soaking wad.

“We could kill you instead.”

“Or give me a kiss. A pat on the ass?”

They started laughing. The good thing about our countries, the reassuring thing that keeps us falling harder, is that if you can’t buy something with money, you can buy it with a lot of money. I counted off two hundred more.

They escorted me up the road, to a frontier post where I paid the last hundred I’d prepared. A Turkish TIR driver agreed to take me to Beograd. There I caught a cab and showed an envelope Vera had sent me.

“I need to get there,” I said.

“You Bulgarian?” the cabdriver asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, shit, it matters. If you’re Serbian, that’s fine. But if you’re a Bugar , it isn’t. It’s also not fine if you are Albanian, or if you are a Croat. And if you are Muslim, well, shit, then it also isn’t fine.”

“Just take me to this address.”

The cabdriver turned around and fixed me with his blue eyes.

“I’m only gonna ask you once,” he said. “Are you Bulgarian or are you a Serb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, then,” he said, “get the fuck out of my cab and think it over. You ugly-nosed Bulgarian bastard. Letting Americans bomb us, handing over your bases. Slavic brothers!”

Then, as I was getting out, he spat on me.

•

And now we are back at the beginning. I’m standing outside Vera’s apartment, with flowers in one hand and a bar of Milka chocolate in the other. I’m rehearsing the question. I think of how I’m going to greet her, of what I’m going to say. Will the little boy like me? Will she? Will she let me help her raise him? Can we get married, have children of our own? Because I’m finally ready.

An iron safety grid protects the door. I ring the bell and little feet run on the other side.

“Who’s there?” a thin voice asks.

“It’s Nose,” I say.

“Step closer to the spy hole.”

I lean forward.

“No, to the lower one.” I kneel down so the boy can peep through the hole drilled at his height.

“Put your face closer,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment. “Did Mama do that?”

“It’s no big deal.”

He unlocks the door, but keeps the iron grid between us.

“Sorry to say it, but it looks like a big deal,” he says in all seriousness.

“Can I come in?”

“I’m alone. But you can sit outside and wait until they return. I’ll keep you company.”

We sit on both sides of the grid. He is a tiny boy and looks like Vera. Her eyes, her chin, her bright, white face. All that will change with time.

“I haven’t had Milka in forever,” he says as I pass him the chocolate through the grid. “Thanks, Uncle.”

“Don’t eat things a stranger gives you.”

“You are no stranger. You’re Nose.”

He tells me about kindergarten. About a boy who beats him up. His face is grave. Oh, little friend, those troubles now seem big.

“But I’m a soldier,” he says, “like Daddy. I won’t give up. I’ll fight.”

Then he is quiet. He munches on the chocolate. He offers me a block, which I refuse.

“You miss your dad?” I say.

He nods. “But now we have Dadan and Mama is happy.”

“Who’s Dadan?” My throat gets dry.

“Dadan,” the boy says. “My second father.”

“Your second father,” I say, and rest my head against the cold iron.

“He’s very nice to me,” the boy says. “Yes, very nice.”

He talks, sweet voice, and I struggle to resist the venom of my thoughts.

The elevator arrives with a rattle. Its door slides open, bright light out of the cell. Dadan, tall, handsome in his face, walks out with a string bag of groceries: potatoes, yogurt, green onions, white bread. He looks at me and nods, confused.

Then out comes Vera. Bright, speckled face, firm sappy lips.

“My God,” she says. The old spot grows red above her lip and she hangs on my neck.

I lose my grip, the earth below my feet. It feels then like everything is over. She’s found someone else to care for her, she’s built a new life in which there is no room for me. In a moment, I’ll smile politely and follow them inside their place, I’ll eat the dinner they feed me— musaka with tarator . I’ll listen to Vladislav sing songs and recite poems. Then afterward, while Vera tucks him in, I’ll talk to Dadan — or, rather, he’ll talk to me: about how much he loves her, about their plans — and I will listen and agree. At last he’ll go to bed, and under the dim kitchen light Vera and I will wade deep into the night. She’ll finish the wine Dadan shared with her for dinner, she’ll put her hand on mine. “My dear Nose,” she’ll say, or something to that effect. But even then I won’t find courage to speak. Broken, not having slept all night, I’ll rise up early and, cowardly again, I’ll slip out and hitchhike home.

“My dear Nose,” Vera says now, and really leads me inside the apartment, “you look beaten from the road.” Beaten is the word she uses. And then it hits me, the way a hoe hits a snake over the skull. This is the last link of the chain falling. Vera and Dadan will set me free. With them, the last connection to the past is gone.

Who binds a man to land or water, I wonder, if not that man himself?

“I’ve never felt so good before,” I say, and mean it, and watch her lead the way through the dark hallway. I am no river, but I’m not made of clay.

When Grandpa learned I was leaving for America to study, he wrote me a goodbye note. “You rotten capitalist pig,” the note read, “have a safe flight. Love, Grandpa.” It was written on a creased red ballot from the 1991 elections, which was a cornerstone in Grandpa’s Communist ballot collection, and it bore the signatures of everybody in the village of Leningrad. I was touched to receive such an honor, so I sat down, took out a one-dollar bill, and wrote Grandpa the following reply: “You communist dupe, thanks for the letter. I’m leaving tomorrow, and when I get there I’ll try to marry an American woman ASAP. I’ll be sure to have lots of American children. Love, your grandson.”

•

There was no good reason for me to be in America. Back home I wasn’t starving, at least not in the corporeal sense. No war had driven me away or stranded me on foreign shores. I left because I could, because I carried in my blood the rabies of the West. In high school, while most of my peers were busy drinking, smoking, having sex, playing dice, lying to their parents, hitchhiking to the sea, counterfeiting money or making bombs for soccer games, I studied English. I memorized words and grammar rules and practiced tongue twisters, specifically designed for Eastern Europeans. Remember the money , I repeated over and over again down the street, under the shower, even in my sleep. Remember the money, remember the money, remember the money . Phrases like this, I’d heard, helped you break your tongue.