БУКВИТЕ - САЙТЪТ ЗА НОВА БЪЛГАРСКА ЛИТЕРАТУРА

Game of Lady

Явор Емилов Тодоров (явор64)

Раздел: Проза на чужд език  Цикъл:

I drop in "At Rossi" before the meeting of the party in Ignat, I order the inevitable coffee and the game begins, the strange game of lady that looks like a phone call from one end of the scene, but, oh my God, the connection is weak and nothing can be understand, although we both know that the purpose of this love chess is only one - to made checkmate the lady who still made the first move, I'm sure she likes the poem, I give it to her with naivety played, with children's persistence and I leave knowing that I will be here again, remains the strange feeling that something important is happening, though nothing has happened, remains the memory of cherry jeans and shirt with gold thread, the videos on MTV which tell stories and move you somewhere else, where the stories are possible and perhaps the game is completed, the strange game of lady that I understand nothing. Ignat is perhaps desperate, but he doesn't show it yet, not a single initiative of the party is successful, Stoychovski has understood the fatuity of our efforts and come less and less, at the door the barking of the dog meets me and Ignat shows at the door, inviting me inside and propose me a cigarette. Sometimes I find unknown people, sometimes a girlfriend, Ignat is divorced, anywhere in the workshop are messed the irons he works with - decorative grilles, cast iron, at the desk there is a started book, the poem of his friend who tells for the conspiracy of the group from Orlandovtsi and its stay at "Razvigor" is also here somewhere, I read it very carefully. Ignat offers to drink a beer "At Rossi", he still is earning something with his knowledge of engineer in the metals and his works but I can not get anything with my translations. We are back again "At Rossi" and I look again to the girl behind the bar, it is a miniature, with cherry-eyes and humped nose and she smiles to me again. Here all know Ignat and greet him sometimes, we drink beer and talk about politics, although is pointless. Perhaps it is even more without sense to visit this cafe and greet the girl behind the bar, she's name is Ira: "Ira, as the Irish Republican Army!"
After two days I am here again and she smiles to me, I keep with me Lazar Tsvetkov, professor of comparative literature, we sit down and we order a beer and we play chess with our pocket chess-boards. The professor is enthusiastic chess player wholly skeptical with regard to democracy, although he was in prison and, as Ignat, he is in the book with the list of dissidents before the Tenth of November. He loves to argue with me and didn't forgive me that once in another cafe and before witnesses I won a chess game with him without looking to the board. He was compelled to treat me with a beer.
Ira runs folk-music on the radio, goes round the bar and warms herself on the stove, out the cold is below zero and Ira sings with the singer, repeating with her number of school-sentimental words, in the cafe we are just three, the TV which broadcast dumb images and the stove and I think that Ira is from the generation that knows nothing about "Pink Floyd" and never heard "Wish you were here", hardly know anything about "Deep Purple", "Led Zeppelin" and "Uria Heep". It is hard to believe that to the young of today all this does not mean anything. Now nothing is as before and therefore I am not the same, I lost illusions, have no hope and do not dare to dream, I stop at Ira just as habit, towed by the inertia. I dedicate her a poem but I suspect that the verses do not mean anything to her, Ira like most girls who I meet is a black hole that absorbs all energy and all information, but no energy and no information comes back from her, she is a body which represents the full sense of the words "thing in itself", no signal, no sign of feedback, except maybe a smile, that is no clear whether or not it is official or mechanical.
I hear brother Niki The Great, who says that does not matter, that she, the everlasting "She", also will beat her brains about why she is alone again tonight, why always happens the same, there is no checkmate of the lady in the love chess and nothing has happened, I just wasted my time in vain in the foggy winter night, this is another question that I have nothing to do with so much time except to sit downcast over my translations in my poor garret or to make my extremely long walk in the night, contemplating around and waiting the inspiration befall on me for a poem. I go again in my way, out, in the cold, where a street dog is following me, it seems like it is sorry for me, this black and scary dog with rabid dog muzzle, which, who knows why, seems to me like pirate captain of space, but even he, hard and tough, not wanting is lamentable about me, yes, in his eyes one can read pity, as if against his will. I walk in the darkness, I am looking after the pale halo around the street lamps in front of me and before my eyes emerge the cover of a novel that I have seen on the stalls in the square in the square "Slaveikov". Single, slightly stooping figure which is going far, along the gutter and some dark windows in left. I go away, alone and completely lost, as the "Virgin man", that was the name of the novel, and although I am not a virgin I go and I think that it is almost the same, that I am part of the lost generation, the next lost generation of Bulgaria.


2013-01-27