БУКВИТЕ - САЙТЪТ ЗА НОВА БЪЛГАРСКА ЛИТЕРАТУРА

The End of the Eternity

Явор Емилов Тодоров (явор64)

Раздел: Проза на чужд език  Цикъл:

"Wait, we will put away these logs otherwise they will catch cold!" - Yavor smiled again. He put down the manara as they call the ax in Tolovitsa and he started to rake up the kurpels as they call the logs here. He climbed the stairs and he dumped them in front of  the stove, on the earthen floor.
He loved to chopping firewood. To cook. To carry water from the fountain. To light the stove, to put water from the coffee and to lit a cigarette. With the kindling of the cigarette he commenced to thought.
Half a year had passed since he settled in Tolovitsa. He was walking nine days in Sofia, in the biggest cold, just around Christmas and the New Year. The day he hoboed by bus, he went in The Hally Market and the Central Universal Shop, then back off on the streets again. He had  nowhere to go. He took his pension and rode the train to the village. Then, probably from the exhaustion and lack of sleep, for the first time he realized what it is to hear voices: "We will give him, we will give him, and light rain we will give him..." - as a memory of a tale, as deep layers of history, fantasy and fairy tale,   history without beginning and end, conversations with his heavenly advocate, whose image of a general in an remote secret unit loomed before his eyes - big, huge, with blue eyes and blond hair, imperious.
One more night he strided in Vidin because he missed the bus in the new and unfamiliar place. From Makresh to Tolovitsa he hoofed because the bus driver refused to go forward. So he treaded for another seven miles. The road was bury under two feet of snow but he was thirty-five years old, in his prime, durable as the infinity itself. His eyes enjoyed the familiar places, more than two decades had gone from his childhood, from the vacation with his father, over here he knew every curve of the Vidbol, he knew the roads through the woods, where the mill of his ancestors was more than half a century ago.
Everything here was his property, the sky with the great lights and in the distance - Stara planina, the hills, the places and their names.As it was, Vankov`s meadows had the name of their clan but the cave Magura and the swamp was also to him, also the brooks of Svatbitsa and the Vrelskata bara was to him and also the remote and dispersed hamlet of Raynovtsi. They were to him also Armanitsa, Red Strand, Smart Glen and Hungry Field, as well as the Djuraka, Kleniaka and the Pashovo well, and all the neighbouring villages who had travelled - Shishmanovo, Rakovitsa, Podgore,Rabisha, Rayanovtsi, Oshanovo - he had set foot anywhere.
At four in the afternoon he came in Tolovitsa, astonished at the fairy-tale inside him, at that he was here, he was he, now and here, it was impossible to be so, accompanied by a special sense of melancoly and the end of the eternity. The end of the eternity was moving particularly the Canadian, as he called the general, his heavenly advocate,with whom he was in telepathic contact. Sometimes he was in telepathic contact with him, sometimes with Ralitsa, constantly thinking about her, because she had become a dominant deep in his brain and it would be forever.
The door of the house was broken, there was no need to coerce it, he came and settled. That was his home, that of his grandmother and grandfather, his father had been born in this knitter how the local people were calling them, plastered with mud willow branches, then limed and - ready.He had just returned.
He loved to take stock, a potty here, a jar there, or a pitcher, jiggle, chopper, the things of his grand mother in the chest, pictures from so long ago, two cook books, a few letters. He was closing his eyes and experienced all again - how many wanderings in the streets of Sofia, how many memories from Kurilo, the battle for survival which he couldn`t win, jobs which he has started for a while, until documents was requested from the employers and they found he had diagnosis - schizophrenia and the eternal story was repeated. He was closing his eyes and was drifting off into the fairy-tale, into the discussions with the Canadian, the man from the moon, who has said to to his father that he wanted nothing but to be the greatest scientist ever lived on Earth. The Canadian was naming Ralitsa "Empress of our race" and then genetic memories were unlocked, still the same, the story was unfolded again - about a bard and an Emperor, about an abduction and preparation for war, forever and forever.
At mornings he was going for water and walking along the house of Tsolo Todoroff. He was his heir and was proud of it. In this region the people was remembering well who was Tsolo Todoroff, coming in the pub, whooping: "Hey, peasants, slaves of mine! But I am a Turk also, although the last of the Turks so by law you are my slaves!". The house was beautiful, austere, with large veranda. They harnessed two buffaloes and two weeks dragged the main timber from the mountain. "Hey, peasants, slaves of mine!"
Grandmother Vessa was coming, explaining how and what to cook. She narrated: "Tsolo Todoroff came with his family from the village of Belimel, near Montana. He was the second son. They were Tsolo, Vulko and Pavelcho. People were very poor. The roof of the houses were thatched. One night the Turks arrived. One of them became angry and picked up Pavelcho on his yataghan, slashed him in two. Tsolo was said and one year does not speak a word. After he killed this Turk, leaped across the fence and - in Serbia. He began work as a laborer in a rich Serb. They started to love each other with the daughter of the Serbian. But a bey asked her for his harem. They were wondering what to do and they married secretly. And when  the bey came with his people to take her to his harem, in the night Tsolo took a tin with coal-gas, splashed it over the resting places of the Serbian, scrabbled the safety-match and brought out Miroslava through the secret paths. They stopped only in Stip, Kostur, down in Macedonia.There Miroslava died in childbirth. Tsolo gave the little orphan to people. Years passed and he returned. He thought he has changed, got virile and could not be recognized. When he returned, he became a shephard. He drove sheep to Vidin, a tax to the Sultan. He allocated at one place the young lambs, at other - the young rams, at one place - the white, at another - the black. And the Turks called him. Tsolo was afraid, he bit his lower lip, he thought he was recognized. You`re very smart, giaour! I have not seen so much smarter giaour like you!" And right away he put to his shoulders a red robe and made him beglikchiya - to collect the sheep as tax. And Tsolo became very rich. He mounted a white horse and determined the boundaries of Tolovitsa. He had great possessions. And he gave for guns and powder. In 1850, the Turks cut off his hands only to accept that he was wrong. Then - his legs and they asked him:"Tsolo, acknowledge you was wrong when you went against the Sultan. Tsolo kept silent. And finally they cut off his head."
He loved to listen grandmother Vessa, to go to her house, she was making coffee. The old woman was regreting him. The old men who gathered in the pub at night were regretting him also. He was sitting always with Vankovtsi at a table, the clan connections here were very strong, unforgettable. The stove was booming, the old men was talking about the life before, he listened. About nine in the evening the pub was closing and he was returning to his fairy-tale, to the vicious circle  of the Canadian`s confessions, the uncertain telepathic connection with Ralitsa, to the irony to himself and the motion with hand: "Abe, schizophrenia! Schizophrenia and nothing more!" But every psychiatrist could tell him the same and he didn`t need that, the fairy-tale, though monotonous, was interesting, filled every moment of his thoughts, but didn`t prevent him to read, to play chess, to study English. He didn`t fetter anyone. He was even useful. He was splitting wood to the old ladies. He was grubbing gardens. He was cooking. In the summer he was going to the  lake, the "swamp" as the elders were naming it. He swam it for hour and a half, slowly, without hurrying. He loved going to the cave "Magura" Saturday or Sunday to drink a coffee in the motel. The life was flowing, dull and flat. But in the early spring the road fever was overwhelming him. All, the hidden frustration perhaps, the secret explorer in his genes, the desire to see new worlds, all were unlocked and he went on the road. But the main incentive was the fairy-tale the voices whispered in his mind and also that associations were unlocked this way.
They were all about her, about Ralitsa. In the beginning they were the associations - yellow, as her blond hair, blue, as her blue eyes, and this influenced his brain - it was like a meeting with her. It was for a fraction of a second. Apparently, these were deep brain structures that respond to stimuli, associated with her. What was this power of the subconscious, these brain centers, founding pleasure in this kind of game? Apparently it was the touch hunger, the chill that substituted the love communication and his secret ambitions to be something more and something different from what he was.
Sometimes he was also hearing the voices of her mother and father who were thinking about him and then it was hard to believe it was not telepathy, they exchanged a few lines connected in some way with him.
He wanted to be a scientist, erudite, a man who knows the answers of many questions. And when once a month he was going  to Vidin, he was entering in some of the Internet clubs and he was exploring his dream. He was always perusing the same site - en.wikibooks.org end he was saying to himself that some day he will be able to use it. But what can be read in several hours? So he was starting to play chess, always against a computer program and sometimes he succeeded to press it down because he was knowing one or two openings into which he could have tried to outplay the program strategically. But caught in severe position the machine protected itself with virtuosity.
Every afternoon he was reading his English dictionary. With this dictionary were related his hopes to be a personality, to have a self-respect and not to be the odd specimen he represented - sinner in the eyes of the old women who suspected him he came in the village to rape them.
One spring he started to run off a telepathic chess party with the professor from the chess garden. The professor was a sociologist but in fact he was busy only with higher mathematics and theoretical physics. He wanted to be like him. He experienced nostalgia for Sofia, for the chess garden, for the old way of life. He took the train to Sofia. He hoped to meet the professor, to talk with him.
Along the way the voices explained to him the train would derail. He came down at Vidbola station and went to the West, towards the setting sun, where should be the outcome in this difficult - not, but prohibitively difficult life which he was forced to live. He could cross the border with Serbia. He could go to Paris and earn money there as a street chess player. He could walked the Earth. To find the freedom he needed. To search for Ralitsa where he was aware she could not be, but to search for her. To communicate telepathically with the general or the aliens.
He kept on to the West. The alien from the cabin of his ship was overseeing him. It looked like he was feeling sympathy for people like him who were longing to penetrate in the secrets of the universe. He told him that if he encountered someone along the way he should be careful because that could be him.  Then he derided the probable interpretation of the psychologists - that every land boy have a phantasy that there is a big shaggy dog that keeps him. He explained to him that it was Alf who has appeared suddenly to him in the cab, teleporting himself around in funny way.
Yavor walked the whole night. He was thinking about Ralitsa. He was imagining how she signed before the general a document she was prepared to fly to Mars with Yavor. About four o`clock in the morning Alf sprang at his feet. He could not say he was not warned. It was a great red-haired, shaggy dog which was laying before his feet, about one meter in front of him. Yavor bypassed him, marched twenty feet behind him and turned around. He laid in the grass and began to observe. Alf got to his feet: "Say, Yavor, why did you not touch me? We raid for wolves, but..." He didn`t say all he had to say. He began to tremble, to vibrate and he melted in the air. He teleported himself. And that was all. The meeting has been held. And no one could say he was not warned.
Yavor did not try to put what has happened to logical analysis. Psychiatrist would say that it was a hallucination. Although what they know about hallucinations. The orthodox science rejects the unknown and the unknowable. The Big Foot. The flying saucers. The strange creatures. Everything. Yet the are facts. There is somewhere collected a huge amount of documentation, Yavor was knowing that. He could not explain what has happened. No one could explain it. He wended his way to the West. Tolovitsa was also somewhere in that direction. Maybe it was high time to go home.
He was walking through woods and fields. Here and there there was still snow. Imperceptibly the cart road turned into a small path twisting along the Vidbola, then behind the curve a large spot was shown. The trail ended here. He took out from his pocket his nunchaku. Obviously, he had to cross the river. "Come on, where's my nunchaku there and I will be!"  He uttered it as a conjuration and threw it at the ulterior shore. Then he boldly waded in the icy water. In the middle of the river the water was to his waist. He went ashore, picked up his nunchaku and went on through the snowy woods. He was imagining he was a commando and that a new technology for a telepathic orders was invented. The general was with him so there was nothing to fear. The road was  continuing with hours. At a point his intuition whispered to him that there were wolves in this dingle. He had to be away from them but he wasn't  afraid of them while his nunchaku was with him. A steep climb began. Then a drop. And suddenly a monastery appeared before his eyes. How strange. Monks might live here, glorifying God in their prayers and hoping for rescue, cut off from the world. He didn't want to pop in there. He continued his way down the slope of the mountain. Finally he reached the flat. In front of him  was another monastery.  In the yard a turkey was walking with important air. It was written with large letter - "Rakovitsa monastery - the female convent". Far, far from the wordly vanity he was also. But in a completely different way. Hermit in the name of science, this is what he would be.
Yavor didn't know such a case described in the literature of psychiatry. To be predicted to you that you will meet Alf and to meet him the same night. And yet, to  be predicted to you that you would not have toes. Because it was so. It was a very strong visual impression in which he had seen his body transparent and some grey-skin alien were impinging on the nerves at the bottom of his feet from distance. Then, when he was operated in "Pirogoff", at evenings, in the hospital room,  the memory of it was coming back.
Obviously, everything has its price, and it is not necessarily the price to be in money, but there was something else there and it was a fortune, because only someone who could read thoughts and who knows his most intimate dreams  and plans could make such telepathically prediction, because the truth was that he just wanted it - this room in the protected housing, the computer and the Internet - to though maybe in vain, as a "end in itself" but to satisfy his endless scientific, namely scientific, curiosity and inquisitiveness. But if this was so then also the schizophrenia was not a schizophrenia but something else.
But what? And he was thinking back to his memories, to his first time, which in the specialised jargon of the psychiatry is called a "debut" and he was retrospecting those special feelings and associations that the language does not have enough words invented and therefore it is difficult to talk about them.Yet psychiatrist were somehow aware of such conditions, one of them asked him whether the behaviour of the others wasn't a little like "theater", another psychiatrist, for more convenience, called the associative links to ads and videos, to melodies and texts heard on the radio "the signs". Although it was a unedifying designation because these moments were containing the particularity of the poetic and thus they turned him after in real poet. And once a psychologist told him that there is a speculation about the humanity as incorporated  in an "united energy-information field." As if all  individual psyche are included in this field and in certain sections it could be obtained abnormalities that violated the homogeneous energetic structure of the field and the reaction to this abnormalities is given in the rough, vulgar, materialistic term "schizophrenia".
Another hypothesis was that which was explaining the crop circles with something like an underground, magma Solaris, a thinking Ocean who gives meaning modelling plasma interactions and even trying to communicate with these cereal characters, which are now one of the  most striking and unexplained phenomena.
The hypothesis of the orthodox science was that of the biological clock of the brain, that produces, of course, any kind of substances and, as each clock,  is disrupted sooner or later, and, in particular, under the influence of other organs in the body and the gland secretion and in situation of some kind of hunger of centers responsible of the pleasure  it is not only upset but it starts to  give "internal" drugs, like endorphins.
And some call this - "the biological clock." Because schizophrenia is diverse in the clinical practice, some experienced fears, deprived of reason, the so-called paranoia, and others, and this is the most often, are hearing voices,  sometimes laughing at them or calling them with names. 
But this was something completely outwardly, something that certainly can be touched, seen or heard.
To got a notice that you will have a meeting with a stranger. He was knowing also that recently many people with research interests and inclinations, that is people like him, had Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Aliens are the biggest challenge to modern science, the biggest mystery. He had read several books on the subject. There were many modern hypothesis that we, without knowing of it,  live in their virtual reality. We are their game of civilization, a game that runs on strict rules. The flying saucers and the ancient mysteries of the archeology , the myths of the Dogons are the veiled message, the hint, the irony.
Recently the so-called "channelling"  has acquired popularity - you sit comfortably in your chair at home and you communicate telepathically with representatives of extraterrestrial intelligence from distant worlds.
The first time the border police officers stopped him a few miles from Rakovitsa. He has moved into the forbidden territory. Bur something still was driving him there. Yet to the West, along the Svatbitsa river, near the water catchment area, and then up through the icy waters of the stream, it was more comfortably to walk this way because giant beeches were rising around and in the same time the dogs could not smell his trail.  Craftily, quickly and efficiently. He was knowing how to outwit them and, also, the times were now such that they didn't invest so much zeal.
Maybe he wanted to follow in the footsteps of Tsolo Todorov. Up in Svatbitsa, that terrible Svatbitsa, up in the steeps of the Balkan, with the genes of a traveller in the blood, through ancient wild forest, through beautiful desert places, on cart paths, crossing streams and meadows, in Serbia, in the same places which before one hundred and fifty years ago had caressed the eyes of Tsolo and now were caressing his own eyes, up - to feel the raw splendour of the mountain, the thrill of the wild, always in the direction of the sunset and to a remembered star.
Maybe it was a part of his practical dream, a part of the business for which he was dreaming. He called it "my Canadian dream" and even wrote a draft, twenty pages long, which was supposed to serve as a business plan that a bank could finance. A project for rural tourism in which nothing was left to the accident. How the tourist would kill and flay a lamb, how he would hew down wood and ignite a fire and how he would ride a horse and a cart or a surfboard on the dam. How he could pay an extra charge for the ethnographic moment, to plow a few furrows with the ass, to mow a few swathe, to buy a book with local recipes. But he had not the boldness to cross the threshold of a bank. He was ashamed by his hobo clothes and by the heaviness of the stigma because he knew what the attitude of the society towards people with schizophrenia was. And Bulgaria was such a country where nothing was possible in the ordinary people's lives not onlybecause of the corruption but also because of the lack of traditions in business. Such a country where they condemn you to misery without any chance to  get out from it. So these trips were part of the dream and also a delayed flight from Bulgaria and a journey to nowhere because he was going to nowhere and never had any special goal. It seemed mostly as an escape from this lifestyle with its little but unreachable dreams - for a new stove, chicken in the yard and a goat in the stables.
He left in the early spring. Twenty years ago one could see rampant wheat reaching the horizon in all directions and now everywhere nothing but   impassable overgrown weeds. So he was always  leaving early in the spring. Again along the familiar paths near Svatbitsa, the little river with the poetic name where Tsolo
was going to his terrible svatbitsa (little wedding, also synonym of rebellion), to his greatness and his Calvary. Movement filled him with cheerfulness, with meaning, the changing of pictures, the cloud's games synthesized in him internal drug.
The "channeling" was accompanying him all the way. Sometimes with slight irony: "Samurai! Samurai!" At dusk he was already in Serbia. The Earth seemed to fly under his feet. He entered into a Serbian village then he entered in a house asking bread. A Serbian countryman looking fifty years old didn't refuse him. He asked him where he was going."Always to the West! - he said. And he hit the cart paths again.The very same night he faced a phenomenon resembling to the descriptions of Carlos Castaneda.
Behind his back something was panting and walking in his track. He had no time to fear. He turned into the path on the right, he walked fifty meters and he stopped listening. It seemed the evil was over. He had the feeling he got away with death.
Death and sex are so closed so he thought about sex, about the possible sex with Ralitsa or another girl.  The sex was something without a presence in his life. Maybe it was the trivial explanation of the schizophrenia, so simple.
He welcomed the morning exhausted but happy. He didn't want to leave the  mountain. She satisfied the hunger of his senses. And he went again in the mountain paths. He was certain now that something, he didn't know yet what exactly but something would take place.
The tale whispered to him a story for war and eternal stalking between two alien races, too busy with their conflict. He kept going around, relaying on his intuition. He knew the Bulgarian border police might call the Serbian police. In Tolovitsa people were speaking also the border was monitored by satellites. Poor people were fluxing from Asia and Africa with the goal to reach the European Union.
Several times he passed by the little house of Baba Yaga which was probably a hunting hut, raised on steel legs. Little logs were scattered before it.
At four o'clock it started pelting rain. The cart roads turned into rivers. It was hard to see through the diaper of the rain. They stood in his way on narrand he barely barely distinguish them.ow mountain path. They looked like dogs but they were not dogs with their gray skin and sharp faces with no sensory organs. It was dim and he was barely distinguishing them. He made a few steps towards them as though he was not sure whether they were really there. One of them touched his ankle. Now he was sure they were there. This time there was no warning from above, only he had the feeling someone was following him in a flying saucer. Maybe they were the pets of the aliens, the so-called "small greys".
The rain was pouring all the night and he was walking as if the ground was flying beneath his feet and he had the feeling he was pulling the world with a rope over his shoulder.  "If I ever have grandchildren, - he thought, - I will tell them one day how once I pulled the universe over my shoulder." He had the feeling the space was pulsating as if after The Big Bang expansion it was time of shrinking, a momentary condition lasting only that night during which everything was contracting, becoming miniature, with high density.
That could be interesting for the General. The theme which was conquered his mind was the end of the world.  One afternoon he was sitting in his room in Tolovitsa, he was watching the violet sunset and he could hear the general making out again his calculation. He wanted to calculate when the end will come. And he wanted they would be together at the end, recording any indication of the equipment. As the physicians who dictate to their assistants the last sensations before they die.
Yes, everything has its price. Now he was sitting in his little room before his computer. In Internet there was at least one place where one could indulge in the study of the science. It was achieved, there was just a little time before the start. And everything else, whether the individual psyche is not just a perception of the "World I" which find something extraordinary in your own "self", whether this"World I" had the material form of Solaris or something else, are we part of the virtual reality of the aliens, was this schizophrenia a form of communication with the "World Superego", all this, though important, have remained in the background now. He had to finish several books to improve his English. Then- the math. There was only a few months to the start.


2013-01-04

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