КАК НЕ УБИХ ПАПАТА

7.
А аз, изобщо, се добрах до моя портокал, колкото да установя, че Панамския канал съвсем се е умирисал - политически в том числе, пишеше го на едно прясно парче вестник на пирона. Което пък идеше да ми каже, че из моето убежище се навъртат обиталци, политически грамотни, при това.

Обаче - ядец. Не познах. На леглото ми се опънал Джабе по най-отомански начин и си пийва фруктовка с чадърче. Чашчица, значи, на пода, чашчицата със столче и по ръба - солчица. И дъни на грамофона "Иракере" поради стилност и за уплътняване на обстановката. Иракерци са кубинска банда, благословена лично от ел компанеро Фидел. На тромпета и флигорната се надува Артуро Сандовал, спукал ми е стъклото на капандурата, което е цял сантиметър дебело.
И не свирят там разни емигрантски салци и други такива пюрета, дето на третия такт трябва да ритнеш настрани, че да си отръскаш крачола.

Това - Хорхе Варора, Пакито, че и самият Исус, на когото викат Чучо - такива работи пердашат патрия о муерте, че ако не им се разместиш пъргавичко в ритмиката, омотават ти сополите около врата и започват да стягат като една боа констриктор. Като колониална гарота стягат, подобрена версия, с брас секшън - докато се усетиш - прас, отишъл ти я атласа, я епистрофея. Абе, музика за пигмеи в синя джунгла - да скачат от клон на клон, а пък отдолу да мърда гондваналанд, да се люшка и да се чуди на колко континента да се разцепи.

Естетически погледнато, това си е суинг на куб. Кубът е лъскаво черен, в три четвърти и лек наклон, а по ръбчетата му - солени бучици от изсъхнала пот.

Джа-а-а-бе-е!

Джабето е от Коджаците, има мустак като на брат си, ама го суче някак си по-легионерски и го докарва рижав на цвят. Освен това не е изпращял съвсем, защото е още средношколец, обаче работи усилено в тая посока. И прави художествени грънци в Елин Пелин.
"Ио но сой но, ама си!", поздравява подрастващият и кара нататък - "Донесъл съм ти гений - да живее тука!"

Геният е Пентименто Беловарски - същински Моцарт на живописта. Само че Моцарт го натиснали на тригодишна възраст да дрънка на пиано и той започнал да композира собствена музика, защото - колко чужда музика можеш да изслушаш за три години върху цукалото, нали така?
С Пенти станал почти идентичен случай - тригодишен получил прорезна рана в Коми и отприщил такъв природен талант, че вапца с каквото и където намери, шедьовър до шедьовър. Принципно и той би следвало да прави грънци в споменатия Елин Пелин, обаче - не ще. Искал да си остане прост.
Иначе носи жълта пасторска брада, антимилитаристична. Кефи се, че няма да ходи войник поради Коми и си подбръсва горната джука; за сметка на това си е пуснал златен бамкел, съвсем хипстърски, като на Франк Винсент Запа. На това вече му се вика соул, което значи - душичка. Оттам нататък се сещам за един от записаните и изтрити маншетни изрази "Да сера на баща ти в бамкела!". Схващате ли обтекаемостта на формата? Не в устата, да речем, а заобиколно и в дълбочина.

Пенти си имал проблем. Трябвало да напише домашно, иначе щели да го зацафят, пък той не искал да пише, че и не можел на всичкото отгоре; искал да го нарисува.
"И какво ти е домашното?"
"За някакво каменарче."
"Че нали се мацате със шамот? И с каспичански каолин?"
"Туй не било от Каспичан. От Христо Смирненски било."
"Знаеш ли барем някой ред от него?"
"Ъхъ."
"Почвай."

Тъмносив късмет
Порязана буза
Кураж по ушите -
колкото щеш

Все едно го е писал Кандински.

"Ясна работата. Аз ще го напиша. Ти ще почерпиш."

Пенти черпи два билета за филма "Харлемските баскетболисти". Аз съвсем персонално и необратимо мразя спорта. Американския пък - даже не го и мразя. Вие представяте ли си, сто хиляди души да гледат как някакъв чичка цели топчица със сопа на цял един стадион. Точно така - и аз нямам толкова въображение.

Тоя филм, обаче, мога до го гледам по всяко време и от движение. Поради силното негърско присъствие. Все едно - да пуснеш Джимито Хендрикс дванадесет пъти под индиго на една никаква площадка и да му тикнеш в ръцете не китара с обратна захапка, ами една обла гума. То стойки, то чалъми - бе суинг, бе кейкуок - сучат се черните като нервюри на безмоторник, опъват се и се разтягат като ластик - все едно се намират в църква. А топката фигурира, колкото да влезе в коша - и туйто. Направо идеализиран образ.
Онзи, дето я е измислил тая игра е имал с абсолютна положителност нещо друго пред вид. Топката, значи, следвало да се вкарва в сандък. На една стълба до сандъка висял съдия и като влезела топката в сандъка, изкарвал я оттам и я показвал - ето я, влезе - попадение. Точно и културно.

Черните, обаче, разните афроамериканци, нямали сандъци поради расовата дискриминация. И окачвали някакви стари плетени кошове, дето не ставали за нищо; новите сигурно им трябвали да берат памука. Та, понеже били стари кошовете - издънили се. Направо уцелили луната с тоя номер - те и бездруго си нямали съдии да висят по таблата, поради памука и прочие. И замисълът за попаденията се изкълчил - играенето станало по-важно. Културна революция, във висша степен - ударила даже и лексиката. Сменило се името. Иначе досега щеше да се казва - сандъкбол.

И средношколецът Беловарски се издъни като споменатия кош. Каменарчето с късмета го били учили миналата година.

"Ти откога не си стъпвал в училище, бе, майчин и лелин!"
"От вчера."
Иначе - паметлив.

Изпитали го за граф Андрей Болконски. "Претвори се в образа на графа.", му казала даскалицата. "Какво е искал да каже авторът с образа и мислите на един смъртно ранен, под снежното, навъсено небе на Бородино…?"
"Ами, че… някакъв умира в калта по наполеонки."
На Пенти силата му е в детайла.
"Задачата ти е, да си представиш възвишените мисли между живота и смъртта, така както ни ги е поднесъл геният на Лев Николаевич Толстой."
"Да ме прощавате, другарке, ама не мога да си го представя. И в тази стая никой не може, и извън нея не може, и по цялата география - никой не може.
Яздил ли е някой, като този граф по тридесет версти на кон, докато му се омъне гъза? Живял ли е в свят без електричество, без баня-клозет? Че той не е знаел, че земята има полюси! А че е мислил на френски с руския си мозък? Пачето перо, грапавата хартия, неизбежните дуели? Човекът е бил православен християнин - какво знаете вие за това! Колко глави е разсякъл с кавалерийската си сабя. Колко?
И накрая го шибва парче олово, смачква се в първото ребро на пецелуда и отваря на гърба му дупка колкото тас за баня!
Вие уважаеми, не можете телесно да си ги представите всичките тези екстри. Затова хич не ми говорете за мисли и чувства. Няма да говоря и аз."

И, разбира се, го оценили по същество. Показва ми една елегантна и стилно изписана двойка: лебедова шия, гръд и барабани. И две чинели, тъжни като участта ми. Пенти прокарва нервен показалец по извивките.
"Виждаш ли колко е фина. Това е шията на Наташа Ростова. На първия бал."
Това вече съвсем не прилича на суинг. Това си е класика в жанра.

КАК НЕ УБИХ ПАПАТА

6.
Отворям споменатата врата и се втурвам презглава към сочната, необуквена реалност, която твори Алма матер. Реалността приижда на импулси, импулсите се раждат от къдравите розови и сиви мозъци, от свежите протеини на младата, хилядна, потентна интелигенция, половината от която - от женски род, множествено число.

На стоп! На стоп! По царските, бригадирските, затворническите, студентските, младежките пътища; удрям със стъпало по асфалта. По гладката му повърхност се плъзва лека, невидима вълна и краят й се накъдря в панамския ми нужник. По-о-ознава ме пътят, как само ме познава!

Но, макар да сме достчета с пътя - разперва пътят ръце и показва - значи ето толкова съм голям, от Драгоман до Свиленград съм се задръстил с мерцедеси и към момента никаква не може да текне живата, буйна кръв на народното стопанство. Към момента тече с двадесет километра в час сегментна метална змия, всеки сегмент - по един зелен мерцедес втора употреба, във всяка машина турчета, кадъни и кадънчета, а на кормилото - турчин без свидетелство за правоуправление, на покрива - бохчи.
Депортират ги от родната им германска земя, потокът пъпли неуверено, покрай колите се разтъпкват ефендита с броеници, деца играят, ядат, клякат зад храстите с пластмасова бутилка минерална вода в ръка. През двадесет-тридесет коли им съчувстват луноходи. И в насрещното платно пропускат само международни тежкотоварни превозни средства, военен транспорт и камиони с бира. Без никакво спиране.

Първият камион, обаче, на когото махвам, кове спирачките и ме прибира. И луноходите - нищо; даже май нещо се пипат по козирките. А пък шофьорът, или дявол го знай - водачът на моторното превозно средство ми вика, "Полковник, ти, както си седиш - тури си левия чепик на газта, а така! Толкоз стига, да не минава сто, щото има ограничения. А пък аз ще мина отзад да спретна по едно кафенце."
И напуща служебното си място труженикът, и се завира зад една завеса, дрънколи там нещо - пали спиртник. По едно време открехва завесата - "А, и придържай там, колкото стигаш с ръка кормилото…"

Бил се уволнил старшина от транспорта. Имал стаж, ама нямал години за пълна пенсия. "Аз не защото съм служил, нали така, ама гледам - полковник. Който и да е, ще спре… все пак, бойна униформа… Нищо не питам, нищо не питам. Та викам си - няма да спреш ли… ня-а-ма да спре-еш ли! Ей, сериозна работа са тия хиляда и триста години България…" И така нататък, и прочие.

Докато стигнем до града Пловдив, от който до София се ходи много лесно. Истина се ходи лесно, аз малко нещо съм строил пътя, ама не от центъра, в разните теменужени и студени есенни нощи в които ме изтърси замаяният о.з. шофьор, след което ми снесе вербална ориетация и карт бланш за действие - "Те ти, майна, Фильбьото - пред Тримоно - курви фраш!"
Аз не се ориентирах към Тримоно, поради финансови ограничения, ами се забих в някакъв амфитеатър и заръзсъждавах от коя епоха са трупали тука камъните, гърци ли са били, или ромеи да речем, като накрая - стигнах до заключението, че камъните са корави и за спане не стават.

Оскъдната местна интелигенция си правеше там наоколо разни хепънинги, като се подкрепяше с нещо налято в бирени бутилки. И си бяха сложили маските вече, напред бяха отишли с материала на програмата, един вид - някъде към крайното действие - нищо не можах да разбера, даже когато хорът се изкачи криво-ляво на сцената и гробовно изрече морала от цялата история. Защото класическият им хор се оказа хор от есперантисти.

Има такива хора. Съществуват като отделни единици в стройното ни трудово общество. Пият си кротичко и поединично, нищо им няма, песни не пеят, не те питат колко ги уважаваш, ами изведнъж - започват да говорят на есперанто. Та, във Филипополис си сложили нещо повечко спиртчец в бирата, що ли - и се сдобили наведнъж с цял хор. Антигоната въобще не звучи лошо на есперанто, обаче е вредно за здравето.

"Майна.", викам там на предполагаемия режисьор, дето по-малко се олюлява. "Имам един голям проблем."
"Ми, да ти го скъсим проблема, че да стане по-малък", вика ми майната и вади една чекия.
"Нямам къде да спя, бе, мой човек. С туй желязо ще ми решиш проблема бая за дълго време. А пък аз искам и да се събудя."
"Гледай го ти - искател!"

Погавриха ми се майничките. Изправиха ме подчаси върху хадилника в някаква кухня и ми устроиха Удсток. Пълна програма. Кросби, Неш и Стилс. И таман да се гътна - подпира ме някой изотзад.
"Ти пък кой си, бе?"
"Никой. Тук някъде свирели парчета от шейсет и осма. Вярно ли?


Сини, сини прозорци отвъд небесата
Жълта луна се втурнала в бяг
Големите птици пресичат, пресичат…
В душите ни - място за бродене
И сме безпомощни… безпомощни...

Накрая ми взеха униформата срещу един дочен панталон и избелял анорак, да са ми живи и здрави.
"За чий ви е тази униформа?"
Щели да поставят осъвременена версия на Софокъл. За отечествената война.
"С гръцки хор?"
"С гръцки."
Обаче им трябвал терк за да си ушият униформи на хора. Защото имало там един много силен момент с пробива при Драва.

КАК НЕ УБИХ ПАПАТА

5.
Горите тилилейски се оказаха бая далече за пеши ход, така че пердашехме си ние с Финдли на лунна светлина, а пък той с тая пуста немска краста - чете на глас произведението "Фауст" на писателя Гьоте, хем в оригинал и като достигне до някой възторжен момент, някакъв там - гешлосен - вири двуцевката и гърми във въздуха, зер, има си цяла торба патрони.
Аз припкам малко по-встрани, по левия фланг, за да опазя себе си и ракията от германската екзалтация, защото с дамаджаната сме в комплект. Още повече, че Стою Недин си беше вързал двата спусъка с тел. Все забравял, иначе, кой от двата бил дръпнал последно и като потеглел на празно - изтървал емоционалността на момента.

Недостоен бил такъв прочит за таланта на писателя Гьоте. Дава ми пример - "О, миг поспри, ти тъй си хубав!" - Ба-а-ам! със шишането. И мигът си остава на място.
"Абе, Стою", казвам му, "Като се усетиш, че стигаш към края на книгата - дай да ти извадя патроните!"
"Това, пък - защо?"
"Ами, човекът накрая иска светлина. И ти тогава - цък! Схващаш ли? Всички ще се съгласят, че е по-подходящо едно такова звучене."
"Не всички.", казва Финдли.

Накрая в осланеното утро, когато слънцето започва да топи сланата и да я обръща на измамна роса, а тежките росни капки да превиват и навеждат жълтите и сиви дълги есенни треви. Точно тогава, когато в продължение на цяла вечност капката се плъзва надолу, събира се с друга капка, после с трета и плавно нарушава закона за количествените натрупвания. Тогава, когато не знаеш колко трае спрялото време, никой не знае, защото - ето на - протяжно се влачи мъглата, на конци, мержелещите се очертания стават тъждествени със същността на всяко обемно тяло и курцхаарът не помръдва, а само стяга контурите си поради нечутото изпърхване на яребица.
Яребицата хвръква и се изгубва с цялата си неочакваност - прелита невидимото разстояние от мъгла до мъгла, за двете живи същества това е животът; не ежедневие, нито дори миг от животинския живот, защото както казах - времето е спряло - и ето, човекът получава цялото време на света и не смее да помисли - аз съм, аз съм времето. Защото дори и най-дребната мисъл да се появи, тя, мисълта, напира вътрешната страна на гледците със скорост огромна и, строшава ги. И нищо от горепосоченото не може да види човекът, и тунелът, който води светлината към сърцето опустява, а зрящият от то-насетне оглежда около себе си с помощта на офталмология.

После, първото осезаемо движение се появи в безцветност, като пораждаше с активността си цветовете, а активността му беше настъпателна и динамична. Размахвайки ръце през високите мокри треви, уверено и категорично сътворяваше пътя си търсеният от нас сталкер.
Размахът отхвърчаше розовите магарешки бодили и разпиляваше на капки мастилото на бъзовите плодчета, черните капчици пръскаха оскъден дъждец от сурова писменост върху изнемогващите снопове есенна растителност. И растителността се ускваше около стъблата си, прегръщаше се и полягаше върху коравата почва на пластове, неиздържайки тежестта на тази ненавременна жизненост.

Човекът, който не можа да пресече пътя си със своите търсачи, който остана неиздирен, спря и наведе острокосата си влажна гпава, протегна успоредни длани с разперени пръсти пред лицето си и просече тунел.
И дълбоко назад в просеката се видя как седмици, цялата есен, цял живот беше лежал вкопан в пръстта човекът, докато дочака съперник - елен многорог, сребърен великан, единственото същество заради което свети луната.

Човекът плавно прокара между мерника и равника идеална права линия, нейната истинност обезмисли и изтри целия формализъм на символната логика, а краят й опря в ствола на живота - великолепната артерия, издута от мощните тласъци на кръвта.
"Пах", каза тихичко човекът.
След това изправи ръст и тръгна към далечния северозапад, за да отдаде самостоятелно своето последно жертвоприношение.

Слънцето напече тревите, които моментално станаха жълти и хлъзгави, ние побягнахме по следите на видението, накрая на следата, в плитък ров беше положена винтовка. Под метала на цевта и под затвора - сгънати по военному гети, върху росния приклад - топла поуелипса от небръсната скула.
Финдли отвори празния затвор и вдъхна. "Никой не е стрелял с тази пушка. Дори не е зареждана с патрони." А пред нас бавничко се пълнеха с черна горска вода огромните следи на поликорна.

А снайпером лучшим на свете он был
Таким, что пули ему не были нужны…

Накрая на безвремието, на ръба отделящ земята от водата някой беше построил ханче. Трябваше да отворим вратата, да постоим, после да излезем. След дългото лутане в полската гора аз получих урок, разбрах, научих се, че не съществуват входове, през които се влиза, нито изходи, предназначени за излизане.

Вратата, ако я има, ако забележиш че я има, е само една единствена. Отваряш, прекрачваш прага, стоиш от другата страна, след това обратно - остарял с ден, с години, с минута даже - там, в обратното, всичко е различно. Не си помъдрял, нито узнал, нито дори полудял - просто всичко е различно.

Проверка. Положи длан върху стълб, дърво, някаква ос, изправен пилон. Тръгни напред, опиши два, три, тридесет кръга. Спри, огледай се. Всичко наоколо е променено, светът е друг, нещата са се случили на хората докато ти, ти си извършил пътешествие, за което пътешествие нямаш знание и спомен. Както за раждането и за смъртта си. Само дето околните те считат вече за глупак, за луд може би; може би.

Втора проверка. При нормални обстоятелства глупакът върши ненормални неща - ако постоянства - значи е луд. При ненормални обстоятелства, обаче, лудият взема правилните решения.

От вътрешната страна на ханчето бяха окачили огромно табло, странна кръвоносна система под стъкло - родът на Стою Недин. Започва от дядото с чантата, който захранва всички капиляри. Някъде в средата на тази хартиена физиология е вписано името на Стефан Караджа. Някои разклонения завършват, или продължават да растат безименно.
"Стою, тебе кога ще ти завъртят заглавието на таблото?"
"Когато защитя осми дан."
Финдли обира фасовете по пепелниците, аз стривам и размесвам тютюна по непостлания плот на масата, Финдли се бърка за хартийка.
"Ей, на оня, руснака, трябваше да му връчим тая депеша."

Разгъвам хартията.

Думата счастье произлиза от част. Да си част от нещо, от някого, от някъде. Само по себе си, то не съществува.

Това пише на писмото. Без дата и подпис. Свиваме по цигара.

"Видиш ли, мама, оня чичко?", чувам глас зад гърба си. "Като него да станеш! Толкова млад - и вече полковник!"
Край на пътешествието.

Любезни читатели, тази публикация прекъсва за кратко историята за атентата срещу папа Йоан Павел II. Прося извинение. Папската история ще продължи.

Dear readers,
This story is extracted from the novel "Zmey in Zmeyno". The novel is being edited at the moment and will be released in due terms. Please, write your comments. Thank you.

THE STORY OF A DOG THEREBIED BY STAGES

by Anton Abadzhiev


Seidulah, the dog was a black coloured Great Dane and in the very beginning –
property of comrade Khadir. Comrade Khadir was wearing grey cheviot suits with waistcoats, he was a member of the BAATH party, and spoke Bulgarian, Russian and English flawlessly not using the help of a dictionary. Formally he was a student in the faculty of philosophy of the Sofia University “Clement Ohridsky”.
In accordance with the constitution the church was separated from the state, so Saint Clement was devoid of his saintliness and was serving his duty “denomination of a university” under his civil name and by civic agreement.

Comrade Khadir often made long term absence from the academic processes in the Alma Mater, hitting the route to the Middle East and arranging some personal Arabic matters: collecting materials on Mideast philosophy for the term seminar, for example. If he had ever presented the collected issue a whole new department of the university library should have been built – so much time took this collecting; however he never presented anything.

The fact that in the rector’s campus there is nothing like erected library full of texts on Arabic philosophy is a special merit of comrade Khadir.

On the line of volunteer collaboration with order-support forces (VOS) the Iraqi was sharing a room in the Buggybed hostel with the private person Sandyu Tyufekchiev, who was an eternal student in the Institute of Forestry and Sylviculture. And, precisely, it was he who was breeding Dog Seidulah in the cold inhospitable corridors of the hostel under the indirect guardianship and the direct ration of Academic Hostels and Canteens. Some colleague-philologists explained that the dog’s name actually consisted of two words – “said”, which meant joy, and “Allah” which would mean – God. That happened to be useful information that would be put into practice later on in some rigid social circumstances.

Sandyu Tyufekchiev became attached to the dog on an extreme level. The bigger grew the Seidulah – the greater grew his dumbness. In the concrete panel constructions the dog caught rachitis and ostheomelitis, both at the same time. His spine sprained like a barrel’s plank and the legs twisted and jerked like protruded pieces of damson cheese, confronting basic principles of zoology and canine logy. The forester cured him with enormous dozes of calcium and the dog’s legs indurate in quite a strange way. They set at naught the direction being followed by the dog, the factual motion and acceleration. It was considered a good achievement when the Seidulah was flying towards the targeted point in a special fillister trajectory, quite likely a side horse of a Russian troyka; then his long legs were blowing alongside the powerful distorted body.

And comrade Khadir disappeared. Undid his life in the Mideast.

Perhaps, while he had been crawling in his irreproachable suit through the desert, a roll of Arabic texts in his hand, while he was crossing the fruitless petrol biblical territories, Iranian bullet had met the young philosophical body. Evil tittle-tattlers gossiped that ill wishers had unbrotherly deposited off the sixth floor this remarkable comrade. To disprove the rumour one Columbian student with radical, daresay, left orientation drained a bottle of Vietnamese vodka and the same quantity of Cuban rum. Afterwards he launched himself off the seventh floor and landed alive and kicking over a sparsely covered with rose flower garden. All week long thorns were being taken out of the radical heroic butt’s parts, and he went down in the underground university slang as the first Columbian spaceman.

Just for a case an obituary was pinned on the entrance door, noticing ”Comrade Khadir diseased”, and Sandyu and Seidulah remained orphaned.

& & &

Once an angry young author wrote that there was nothing in the very midst of a wherever civilised territory. Namely, there was something to exist, but the existing was in a superior level wild and good-for-nothing in comparison with its surrounding and stretching themselves towards the borders organised areas, population and cattle. As well as the closely following them ways of manufacture, living standards, culture and quality of them various behaviours and activities.
He wrote that in connection with the pronouncement of definite people that it was they who lived in Central Europe, while the others, you see, more likely – aside.

Whoever five-grade school scrub has the ability to open the atlas and see that in the centre of Asia are situated Karakum, Kisilkum, Taklamakhan and Mongolia with the inevitable outcoming industrial and intellectual results. The central part of the States is marked by the severe Dodge City. In the middle of Antarctic a bare axis is sticking up, while close by the borders of the pole there exists a Bulgarian orthodox chapel. Pygmies dwell the midst of Black Africa, and a special breed of monkeys inhabit the region as well; they were filmed in the late seventies by some Japanese researchers. Everyone can observe those apes walking on two hind legs, speaking with a dozen and a half words and whatever pottery is given to them – they break it. And so on. Etcetera.

Following the scheme, the centre of Bulgaria is dwelt by shopp settlers. The names of the villages are: Hawksville, Eagletop, Zmeyno and Badger – all of them nice and the mostover – meaningful.

The same average unfledged student knows that the history of some country’s population consists of unbreakable and graduating processes of national revivals. That means, from something permanently dead beat with its up to date policy and not long for this world – to something that will be put life into, will stir around, will erect and somehow pull it through. However, if some wise and bearded intellectual is asked how a gradual process of revival is to be made in Badger, daresay, the bearded intellectual will be non-committal in answer.

At the time of the consecutive process of national revival, Sandyu Tyufekchiev was fulfilling the duties of a complex functional brigade’s foreman. The brigade was specialised in repairing the tennis courts of the Park-Hotel “Moscow”. So he was lying in the shade of the difficultly grafted sequoia gigantea, was tippling light ale from a green bottle, and was helping Dog Seidulah delouse and deflea. The Seidulah got addicted to tennis, just like a Pakistani gets addicted to cricket; a strange and difficult sport which is distinguished by its quite unrecognizable rules. Those tennis balls, which flew over the high fence of the court, fell in the decorative thicket around and were very hard to find. The dog, however, found them with precise exactitude, fetched them to his master and buried them in the roots of the giant tree. At the end of the working day, Sandyu unburied twenty to thirty balls and sold them back to the owners for two a buck.

The end of this idyll came, when some superior functionaries localised the origin of comrade Tyufekchiev (a shopp, a settler) and burdened him with the task to behead the process of national revival in this very central part of the country as a person aware of the region’s specifics. Beyond all questions these office-holders were not any bearded intellectuals, but just the opposite, so they recommended him not to follow any constructive continuity, but to make a rigid and functional approach. The rigidity of the approach was supposed to be observed and controlled very closely. The slightest signal that he anyhow loosened things would assure him a life staying in a very central institution.

That’s how Sandyu Tyufekchiev got a deputy-mayor’s promotion in an region of bestial names, and to get a bit rid of the fear that had reasonably caught he took a decision to start the reviving process with improves over his own identity.
“I willingly declare my wish to have my name changed.”
“Done. Something sound-like?”
“What sounds like any closer to Sandyu?”
“Well... Ghandi, for instance. Mahatma Ghandi, Radzhiv Ghandi...”
“You better change your own name to Radzhiv! Okay? Give me something closer by meaning!”
“Tyufek, in Bulgarian means a firearm. In Russian it is “pushka” – very close to Bulgarian, as you may see. What would you say about Pushkov?”
The statistics shows that inspiration averagely impacts foresters more often than people of any other professions – dentists or markscheiders, daresay.
Sandyu took a deep breath, released it an said quietly and decisively,
“Pushkin! Book me down as Alexander Pushkin!”

It took pretty longer to rename the dog, which name was conspicuously Muslim. Moreover the dog didn’t have the ability to plead for himself, so a lot more documents had to be presented to issue a dog’s passport. As a final result, after having given the name a rightful and reasonable meaning in Bulgarian language, Dog Seidulah got an official paper for his existence with a sealed photographic picture of himself. Down below the picture it was typed: Dog. Breed – Great Dane. Hair of the dog – black. First name – Godjoy. Family name – Coujo. Owner – Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

& & &


The deputy mayor of four villages Alexander Pushkin arrived in his entrusted region in an amazing and dramatic way. And, namely, he arrived in a bus of national make, whose roof luggage racks were topped by installed landing rubber boats and unknown to him technical equipment. Actually those were red-and-white surveying rods and hubs, properly packed in green military holders. A team of students-engineers, dressed in camouflage clothes of the same material, would use as a starting point for their practical training course the same region, following the bed of some river. All the travellers had been starving for quite a long period. The villages they passed through had been deserted, or were being deserted at the time of their approach. It happened just once when onto a single scorched by the sun square timidly appeared several inhabitants and stood at a distance. “Bread! We only want to buy some cottage loaf!”, joyfully shouted the students and bounced against the dwellers. “Bulgarians! Don’t you see we are Bulgarians?! Look at us, people!”, answered the population in despair and ran to reach single survival along the narrow goats’ paths, abandoning the dwelling place.

Sandyu Pushkin quit the unsuitable and annoying transport and went to observe his region on foot. Beside him Dog Godjoy was doddering along the unwonted and inadmissible forestry and cliffy surroundings, with no tennis courts, which tired him a lot.

Young people had left the villages seeking for job or leisure in towns. That happened long time ago, and that was the main characteristic of the supposed to be dwelt places. The older ones had followed them; they had settled and stayed with their sons and daughters to raise grandchildren and to be looked after themselves. By the reason of their fear of, daresay, asylums which major subject was gerontology where they could easily be accommodated, the gramps and grannies did not ascribe their rural estates prematurely to their future inheritors. The heirs, on the other hand, without being owners used that very same property illegally as country villas. Nevertheless, it was not a legalised villa zone, and nobody was aware of what it was going to become, and after whatsoever was to become, whoever would ask for an amount to be paid for they didn’t know what; according to this precise reason they hated the official, who had freshly thronged in a bussful of rodders and hubbers, and started brewing him mischief.

The villages were all alike, yet lovely with a detached beauty and the patina of the old days. Instead of tarmac the narrow curving streets were covered with cobble flagstones of many centuries, deeply dug into the ground. The roofs were overlaid by cracked alongside slab stones. Golden lichens stroke roots upon the slabs stones and at the parts where they were moss-grown, field poppies grew as well. Wild growing goggle-eyed plants and black and orange sunflowers were raising heads in the neglected and desolated yards. The houses were blindly staring with their windows pasted up with old editions of “Daily Labourer”; the stone eyelids of the overgrown eaves were growing heavy over these glances. Here and there broken bargeboards had caused cataract. Over the greyish and weathered planks of the gates were pinned packed in nylon obituaries. The nylon had been cut off sacks, which used to host azoth fertilisers for it was thicker and more resistible to any atmospheric influences.

To be on the safe side, comrade Pushkin read the names of the diseased ones, and he found nothing suspicious but the name Koumbya (nicknamed Verybally; it was printed in the obituary), and being unable to unriddle it, booked down the name just in case for the report he was supposed to work out. Finally he somehow managed to settle in an oblong lime washed building that was facing the main road. On the very next day he found a bucket of couch paint and in a metre-tall letters scribed on the outer side of the white wall a slogan which said: “LONG LIVE THE INTERNATIONAL STATUS!”

That happened at the time when the deputy mayor Alexander Tyufekchiev - Pushkin had entered the first phase of his insanity, which was bringing him to revelation.

The official in charge of the national revival process had found himself in full isolation shortly afterwards. The population driving along the main road obviously agreed that the international status was living long and hadn't kicked the bucket yet, and being glad that someone had taken care about its present condition took no beed of what he was eating and drinking that someone, neither where he was situated. But the hungry official in charge had already developed an outrageous behaviour. He was barging into the unlocked houses firstly, then by and by started housebreaking the less rampart cottages. There he was rummaging about for food and dragged up the found one to his brick headquarters. Those incursions were executed mostly by night.

He lacked liquor and bread. In the houses he could only find a single bottle of sweet mint or rose liquor. But in the huge yard baskets he frequently discovered corncobs; he shelled the sweet corn and produced rough flour with a hand maize-mill. The mash was mixed with dried and milled wild pears, which he swept down from the roofs of the barns; there were no fruits on the ground. The fruit on the ground had gone rot and disappeared. He made several attempts to bake bread, but the lack of experience as well as the clumsiness adopted from his previous administrative activities made bread shapeless, crumbly and tasteless. So he started stirring hominy with salty water; he took salt from the blackened knobs spilled around the yards. The knobs having been continuously and ecstatically licked by large and small specimens of horny cattle, looked like sculptured by Henry Moore. He badly needed sugar or anything sweet. As there were no fruits in the orchards he minded they had been picked for making jam, brandies and jars
of stewed fruit for the winter.

& & &

DENUNCIATION

Having been instructed VR007/23, I report that the official, passported Alexander Pushkin, heading the process of revival in Zmeyno and the region, fulfils activities of criminal character and casts a stain on revival’s aims and perspectives. The mentioned official is involved in housebreaking and bursts in another people’s property (houses), and having been not satisfied uses the lavs of all households on schedule. Bedsprings are being systematically and shamelessly confiscated in the manor.
Furthermore, the official Pushkin destroys parts of buildings and removes materials (marble slabs) from the destroyed places. Whether he will use them for private purposes I could not ascertain, but I report the above-mentioned has encompassed metal outfits and defences. I can only construe these fortifications as acts of planning military activities. I need specification of the forces, arms and personnel staff under the command of the official Al. Pushkin attached.
Agent: Air Nymph

Some petrified stuff in boxes with the fabric label “25 years Turkish delight” seemed to be an encouraging result, which result he didn't dare to eat but enticed Dog Godjoy, who kept himself apart of the hominy, started to get off and to howl. After having smelt the delight the dog squeaked in the way of having been hit and fled away.

The desperate Alexander Pushkin went seeking for him throughout the forestry bearing hopes to find and pick up some raspberries or blackberries. On a sunny meadow he discovered several beehives of a simple make – cone baskets, impregnated with clay; fighting his fear he kicked them. There was no honey. The cones were full of dead bees. In the model ants make their cemeteries the bees had stuffed themselves in their empty wax hexagon cells and had sealed the corridors. Thus ants cram in the long corridors closing the entrances of their formicary and die to quit the access to the inside, having understood they wouldn't find forces to fight the outside danger.
Wax combs were collected for candle making but no wild growing fruit were discovered.

In some spontaneous manner Sandyu broke to large pieces the blistered bark of a white oak tree; there must have been woodworms or maggots. The robust naked trunk appeared underneath so grey and dry that it seemed no bark had covered it, but the stem itself had been covering somewhat for tens of seasons; probably something inside, as the leaves were showing green in some hard and thick viridity, which opposed reality. And it was then he noticed that despite forest’s greenery there were neither insects nor spiders in the forest, and neither lizards nor birds to eat them. And he hadn't stumbled into molehills; so life under earth had also subsided!

Squeezing the dead wax under his armpit Alexander Pushkin ran in a blind muddle through the bushes and kept running until he reached the pump in front of his headquarters, where he fiercely pushed its cast-iron handle. After whopping gurgling and hiccupping the faucet prickled a half cupful of rusty water. There was no well under the pump. Up to the moment the pump had used the hardly leaking meagre remains in the water pipe net.

So water was coming from a catching, out of some natural waters which were captured upon a time. But this verily captured water used to run first-hand there, to the brick headquarters, to be recaptured once more and after that passed to the population. This scheduled water supply seemed to establish reasonable control over the consumption of drinking water. Indirectly the schedule trained to a respectful attitude towards the system which had built the reservoirs and installed the water pipes, in the way that everybody suitably had water for use either in-house or outside in the yard. If the system hadn’t existed the population would have started building fountains and digging wells for satisfying needs and Lord’s forgiveness. But they hadn’t built fountains for the simple reason – the village was built on a height, over a solid rock, the population hadn’t managed for centuries to even dig a well in the lowlands.

“A hollow bloke you are, Sandyu!”, Alexander Sergeevich accused himself suddenly and in a loud voice. And after having specified this fact bolted in a nervous trot at a venture along the narrow cobbled lanes turning his head in a guilty conscience to the left and right side, searching to catch a glimpse of rain water cisterns which were supposed to be in every yard.

And the rain water cisterns were devices manufactured from welded sheet of thick tin, predominantly in cubic shape, daresay, topless. That means – fully open at the top to catch the falling moisture from heavens with a mouth wide open. These ugly and suitable instalments collected snow and hail, either, and their toplessness kept them off cracking by winters’ chill. Experiments pointed those ready-made boilers, and whatever ironsheet receptacles with lids, manholes, or mere narrowings did not stand the severe winters. When ice bulged them from the inside – they
got ruptured.

The cubature varied up to two tons, in accordance with the size of the scrounged from the town’s factory sheets. A larger size a cistern shouldn’t posses, as the same was raised on a timber scaffolding at least two metres above earth, so that the attached rubber hose, under the atmosphere pressure, could pass the water downwards freely and powerfully in the most natural way, without extra devices.
During summer water warmed pleasantly; it was called sunny water. Women loved to put nylon around the scaffoldings and to take showers with this water a lot, for it was mild and their hair became beautiful, that was what they said. At this very same time men loved to repair slab stones on the roofs.
Therefore, while female population was turning all sides round in the nylon encompassing, at times nicely bending down, at others stretching arms above head playing with the water spurt, the male population was lying over the hot roofs and was smoking cigarettes.

& & &

RIDER TO LETTER OF INSTRUCTIONS VR007/23

We possess confirmed information by the locals the official Tyufekchiev has reached the ordered location accompanied by a uniformed command. The command had in possession precise military optic devices, which suggests high quality of arms and specific military entrainment. Massive war games must not be tolerated. Localisation and isolation of the official S.T. / A.P. preferable. Extremely follow the instruction (see: by stages).




No metal water collectors were seen in the yards and they were not in being. Scrap men had cut all the collectors and made off with them.

However, every household had in possession four hundred-litre plastic canisters, which had to serve as water reserve in case of disrepair and droughty year. The population collected damsons and blue plums in those canisters for distilling brandy, being careful to keep one of them filled with water, according to the regulations, disposing it close to the gate in a blatant way of easy approach and needless inspection. For that reason the deputy mayor just inspected three of the drums. On the run dry bottom of the first drum he discovered a flat, covered in black pellicle skeleton of a dead frog. The rest were empty.

It seemed all of a sudden that summer had lasted quite too long. As a child the official had a lucent hemi-sphere with a naive three dimensional peasant cottage figures in it. When he swayed the figure, bluish darkness fell upon the village, and amongst the darkness, coarse snowflakes frisked about the trees and swept away and over the houses. During a long summer, while mountaineering, he found out that he had been carrying the snowy village in one of the bags of his rucksack. There had some time to pass until he, a kind of sentimentally, thought over, so – it came the way that through the durability of a long and hot season he hadn’t given the village a minute of repose; he had submerged it in darkness and snow-whirls, into a deep, severe, harsh winter. And the meanest thing was he had done it through negligence, unpremeditatedly, in deep unawareness. But what if he hadn’t been overwhelmed by those sloppy sentiments? He wouldn’t have paid attention to any unhealthy reflections beyond his character.

At this very moment, however, he felt himself placed under a quite alike hemi-sphere, only, instead of snow whirls; upon his head was unloading its swelter a scorching and fruitless summer. And somewhat towed him to the firmament, towards a bald and horny height, which did not verily peak, but it was the village that had sheltered itself down its footage, seeking for certitude and protection.

On his way he ran his fingers along the leaves of the bushes and the trees. Hazel bushes, hawthorns, juniper and joint weed, barberries and brambles, low red linden trees and mountain ashes, all these plants were growing on greater heights, off the thick forest, on places where the wind or some wild animals had taken their seeds, and oaks and the mighty beech species did not suppress and overwhelm them in their broadshaddowed footage. The texture and the sturdiness of the various leaves were identical in touch. They were alike the greenery of a domestic autumn pear tree - thick-skinned, sturdy and unsusceptible. All those awry chancres on the leaves had stopped enlarging and the affection had coiled inside the malady formation out of hunger, for the green mass had stopped serving as a food and did not supply strength neither for health nor for disease.

Sandyu collapsed faint feeling over the wild thyme and the catmint, and out of habit rubbed his bottom parts against the herbs to elicit opiating odour around. Instead of that a smell of ozone and wet litter foliage exhaled from somewhere. And in likelihood rumbling was heard in a far long distance. Scratching with his hands and slipping down feet and knees the man mounted the stones to the highest possible level and stared around. Kilometres round the Zmeyno territory were wreathing a brilliant shower of rain. At the side of the clouds its colour was violet and downsides it was turning to silverish, and grey at the time it reached the ground. The shower was circling, at times it stretched into ellipse, but when the narrow insides of the ellipse touched the land belonging to the village, pulled scaredly aside and stretched in another direction.

Sandyu felt himself dizzy, something clued inside his mouth, the Turkish word “susuz”, hell knows why, scraped throughin his head. Very slowly, paying great attention he followed by a glimpse how a released off the clouds high-powered store of energy was approaching by and by in a wriggling way his own territory and hanged above his head in the shape of long fingered hand. Thus, with its parted fingers the hand bore a resemblance to the inside of a cone, or to a poorly organised pyramid. For quite some time between the peak of the cone and earth’s surface an enormous quantity of electricity held place, which brought sight to the air and the smell of quartz lamps and physiotherapy. Then the fingers folded and from the tip of the pointed forefinger somewhat powerful and scary blasted in a severe crackle and thundered the horny throne of the official.

Firstly, some tichy stone studs stitched into his flabby uneventful face, nothing trembled on it. Then stormy dust made his hairs, raised already, anyway, by the electrical charge bristle up like wires. Finally, the rock cracked, as the crackling went upwards out of the dug black hole in the basis, strained the granite a bit to the left and right bouncing its route to the top, soared in a zigzag, and reaching his leg-between, stopped.

A burnt spot had formed above the mentioned hole, partly melted rock, some places only blackened by smoke. The spot extended in longitude to the height of a human and acquired damsel’s features. The features fidgeted for a while, made certain efforts to fill a human being’s shape and in the end, stepping straightway upwards, pushing her bare toes directly into the lead of the crack, before the deputy mayor climbed a miss in dishabille, dressed in leather belt and a cross-belt. Her hair was dressed in a knot, due to regulations, somewhat in Spanish way and on her belt was hung a holster, holding a “Makarov” make pistol.

“Senior sergeant Nymphet”, presented herself the armed official. “Please, place your signature onto this letter of advice which binds you to submit at disposal a report on the execution of the ordered activities until the end of summer. After reference you are strongly advised to abandon your place of location, or otherwise you will be collected under escort by stages.”

The proxy of the revival processes got excited. “Begpardon, how come... by stages, what do you mean? Shall you unfold me gradually... bit by bit... it seems literally – firstly the body, then... the head... It is a letter of a document I sign, after all! And what about my soul you are harassing... is it in the end, namely.... as a separate organ? For... in the likelihood... I do not believe this summer is to ever end! I can prove it!”
“The letter of advice does not content a paragraph to make provision for your soul.” answered the sergeant of a peachy female gender. “Sign it.”

Off the scruff of her neck she pulled a black raven’s feather and pushed it into his hand, he unwillingly scribed: A.S.Pushkin, and leaned back to watch how the maid will perform the turn right about. However, instead of facing right about, the armed official suddenly flipped arms the way she was up to flutter, she didn’t fly up, though, but her flight a kind of bent to deepness; before collapsing a complete abyss the senior sergeant trumpeted her lips in a kissing way and said, “Never say die; courage, comrade Pushkin!”

Then the hole swallowed her and somewhere out of the bowels of the earth a distinct chatter of a departing railroad handcar was heard.

& & &


Meanwhile and in a definite moment the inhabitants of the villages bordering Sandyu Tyufekchief’s region of national revival met the broad prospective to breed at large N numbers of dogs thoroughbred or not, being not under the threat of poisoning, shooting and mass executions (the dogs). Whilst the urban type of population commenced pure-breeding Lassie, Doberman, mittel and risen schnauzers, neurotic pinchers and enticed Pekinese dogs, given motion by the dim idea for their feeding and applicability, village farmers proceeded pragmatically. In villages people started growing the newly invented and prospective breed “Bulgarian shepherd”, which was expected to bust the international market in short terms, and be sold at high rates and prices out of, daresay, unknown reasons. Being much more skilful and having worked out the animal process peasantry enforced the principle of artificial selection, choosing and keeping but only the female puppies of extreme health and outappearence, aiming offspring to breed true. For quite some time dog-breeding proved to be a thriving privately farmed agricultural branch of the national economy, which the unsuccessful in penetrating in the cores of the deep rustic mentality government had put obstacles to, in the most ill-minded and bureaucratic manner. Animals needed no pasture, cattle-pens, folds, extra mash, milking, vaccination and so on; practically they were growing by themselves anywhere under open skies. Food remains from the canteens attached to schools, plants and hospitals were the basic source dogs were being fed on. And on, till these institutions quit functioning and existence. With which act was put an end to the vehement in its growth precious Bulgarian breed. And precisely at the moment it was found that it was not precious, but more likely - price-less, namely, worthless - dogs could not be sold at two for a buck. The saying, “Let your mum crop Spotty to knit you socks”, gained bright vitality.

To cap it all, it turned out that Bulgarian shepherd was a blind branch of the Caucasian dogs. Not fulfilling their shepherd’s duties, this breed developed all the negatives of the above mentioned curs, namely - excessive hairiness, wideneckness, obstinacy, bloodthirstiness and ignorance. Rustic gene engineering, aiming output of over all dimensional specimens attached to the latter characteristic omnivorousness and voracity.
The only way to develop this pat situation remained misunderstood and misused. That was a merit of the genetic type of the Bulgarians.

It is indisputably well known how much Bulgarians had given to the world. The Asian calendar. Unigodness. Yurt-construction. Yoghurt and rose oil. Alphabet. The computer. Plane bombing. Revival, considered basically. And the Chinese martial arts. Shao-linners until present days have been folding around their legs Bulgarian, daresay, puttees.

With all these achievements, it was found out that an average over-ingenious Bulgarian does not accept willingly foreign approaches. And stomachly does not accept them, even under conditions of severe deficiency and starvation. The only sensible way was the acceptance of the Chinese approach; the peasant and urban offspring in the form of sausages for instance could have been feeding the famine and penury stricken for many years. The starving ones preferred feeding themselves and the offspring on imported pedigree canned food.
And at the end gave the chuck to Lassie and Co. onto the city streets, providing imperishable overjoy to the nature-lovers, who began to seal their ears at highest rates. Peasantry released throughin the forests the fittest and dying of hunger female specimens, left them wastepasturing, and after a while started organising wolfhunt shooting parties.

And still there exist witnesses kicking and living to tell stories about packs of starving wolves. Alive eyewitnesses to tell stories about packs of starving female Bulgarian shepherds, however, do not exist.

Moreover, a female dog is, daresay, a bitch. Despite its predominant ability of survival, concerning, to say - wolves, either sole or in a pack, the bitch has an inevitable problem - it needs a mate, a dog of male gender and sex.
And it was the moment when as a rogue appeared Seidulah, the dog. Having escaped from his master he became a non-returner and started living in dog’s paradise. Bulgarian shepherds loved the Great Dane Seidulah a lot. On his side he responded to their feelings respectively. As a result throughin the woods blustered wild lots of creatures with baldish flanks, possessing long and rough rats’ tails. Their hard hairgrowth shielded their necks and noddles. Their individual characteristics comprised the fact that enface they looked alike various kinds of construction techniques.

Say, that is the way myths were being born. That was the way “The Origin of Species” was written. And postwards there follow theories, evolutions, revolutions, and fight, starvation, werewolves, apartheid and various “istics” and “isms”. Although it is nothing else but life itself.


& & &


DENUNCIATION

Following instructions VR007/23 I report the observed person screens a bed sheet in the building of the former community cultural club (also cinema), where he permeated by housebreaking and places behind the improvised screen a lantern working on wax candles. I, myself, had the chance to be invited to take part in one of his occupations, and I report that in duration of two hours the official was staring at the light circle, was laughing and having liquor “Mint” straight from the bottle. Being asked what he was exactly looking at, the official giggled and answered - “Leningrad Heavens”. Having been not referred to the matter, waiting for instructions,
Agent: Air Nymph

The official in charge of the revivaling process remained very satisfied when he managed to book down such complete and neat information. That’s why before duskfall (wax candles hadn’t worked, anyway) he set out routelessly through the loose deciduous forest, paying attention not to get himself completely lost and eventually carrying a torch, self-made from winded round a stick rugs, soaked in couch paint. In his other hand was clanking a zinc-coated bucket. Bordering his region was curving a brook at the width of a string; it was there that he was able to pour some water. He was executing this activity at high caution, because the water string frequently got scared and lost; there just remained wet sand for days long.
For that reason, having put the bucket under, he stepped aside deadening with bated breath, in a squatting position, and even trying to look at another direction.
Somewhere between his stomach and midriff, however, was creeping and sweating a cold amphibious loathsome creature which name was fear. And every jerk was piecing together some rotten and unhealthy thoughts which were not just loitering throughin his head but, to cap it all, were gaining a volumetric and intrusive imagery.
“Say, that Cyrlian photography, for instance.” Sandyu Tyufekchiev was talking to himself. “That guy, Cyrlian - a nice fellow, a Soviet scientist. Perhaps, even an Armenian. To say, almost a colleague. So, placed the comrade scientist a green leaf onto some photographic paper and copied it, with all its lineaments and nerves. And then cut a piece off it, get rid off - made it no more; left just the half of it. And then placed the remaining part, the only half part, namely, onto the paper again. And here came the result! The very same leaf appeared in the picture, unbroken, the whole of it, in its previous compact image, just like nothing had been cut off it. And the missing piece, with all its veins tended to project its image on the plate, and was probably crying - Here I am, although you reported me missing! The most important thing is that it was true; it appeared full size, with no disturbances. What was projected on the photo picture, professedly it was not intact, but only the kept half of it? Perhaps, some of those non-material energies which – chop, chop - couldn’t be cut off. Namely, there was something spiritual in a simple tree leaf, which was also being attempted, thereby... by stages... What happens to a human, then? Does he need any placement on a paper? Or just on a negative?”

Having reached this stage of his thoughts the amphibian usually stopped fidgeting, but hollowness forced its way, and he felt himself as if blowing another man’s bagpipe, without having got used to its sound or the way it should be played. Then Sandyu generally lit the torch, raised the flame high above his head and went shouting strong, “Seidula-a-ah! Seidull-a-a-ah...! Where are you bogging up, you, Godjoy? Do come back, loopy thing... Aha-a-e-e-y! Bears gonna’ eat y-o-o-u-u..., sonofabitch!”

Alexander Sergeevich had numerously called after the dog in the due way, according to his passport’s name, but the Seidula did not perform any reaction at the sound of Godjoy. And he didn’t react after his own name, either, and he was not in sight any longer, and the soul of his master was swelling with tears.

Until that dogs’ howl came to hearing, ceaseless and evil, coming in concomitance from all directions encircling and sounding louder and higher. That same howling which tremorred all the window glasses in the village and brought the already tormented natural and public sources to incredibility, and effacing any chance of gradual motion and activities of remembrance.
.
& & &

DENUNCIATION

Having received instructions VR007/23 and holding fulfilment I report the official Alexander Pushkin, also Sandyu Tyufekchiev, having been authorised in charge of a deputy of the revival process in his region, brooks serious misdeeds, concerning results of the process he is in charge of. And namely,
1.At night time in the region of his entrusted areas torch-enlit processions take place mostly throughin the forestry areas.
2. The mentioned above processions are being accompanied by continuous and uncontrollable shouting slogans and Turkish names.
3. The supposed organiser of those activities develops the same on religious background, continuously threatening with God’s Joy (find a citrate attached) who is to hard-hit all. The repetitious sound of a-all-a-ah is being distinctly heard.
Despite that, the scandalous retorts are being pronounced in Bulgarian; the causes are not far to seek - they are manifested towards the local population, to, which should be inspired fear and dread.
N.B. As far as my suspicions go, the official A.P. /S.T. is taking part in the mentioned above activities straightly and personally, evidencing undoubtful treason.
Looking forward to being instructed,
Agent: Forest Nymph



CIRCULAR LETTER classified B... /199…

Ordered immediate shortage of payment amount, concerning revival process observers. At the time of winning and thriving democracy, revival process does not exist. It must be replaced with restitution and privatisation in short terms. (Find instructions attached). In relation to ex-official S.T/A.P. to be interned to first mental ward of the central department by stages and to be duly certified.

Signed: (unreadable)


& & &

And on, and on the uncountable pack was giving sound to the upper depicted chilling howl. The mysterious lid of timelessness fallen over the village of Zmeyno had commenced arising, though it was not arising as an overturned, daresay, night-pot would, but was stirring about, curling and curving its edges, in accordance to the kind, the power and destination of the motioning forces. That’s why the monstrities did not keep running in a precise circle, they were not even performing the rounding of a swinging and wildly scared herd, but were keeping some compulsion moving vertically obeying itself to the dense changes of atmospheric pressure. Therefore, while running they were combating against some isobars and isobaths, as well as against the multiplying and visible only to them forest and field life; for that reason most of them were being thrown away injured, plucked off to the roots and crippled, and again in doubled bitterness and howl rushed backwards and joined the vertigo of the mad dogs’ chain.

КАК НЕ УБИХ ПАПАТА

4.
И хайде-е на автостопа, че се бях придобил със сериозни емоционални и психически недостатъци без автостопа. Аз там съм си гений - хайуей стар, ако ме разбирате какво искам да кажа. Лабораторията по психология и по психиатрия на БАН ми е наброила сто хиляди километра стоп за засечено време, като им отворят досиетата - ще видите кой е хузху'й и няма да ми се правите повече.

С белите (белите!!) ризи и вратовръзките аз го докарвах малко на Ален Делон, а пък Стою, с неговия германски - на Клаус Кински.
Доближава ни една молотовка, спира с гръм и трясък, шофьорът и той по бял (бял!) потник с масурчета кир под мишница. Няма начин да не се види кирта, защото човекът си е отворил прозореца, пее си нещичко и си тактува по покрива на молотовката.
Отваря вратата, казва любезно, "Опрем ти го, лаесе, о гъзо майчин!" и сладко-сладко ни поканва да се сместим.
Според един мой познат точно така трябвало да започва филмът "Волният ездач", ако го били снимали в България.

Само че тоя си ни прекара през Родината без да спре да думка по тенекията отгоре, почти до селото. Той си бил от Бургаско, само от време на време, според думите му, прескачал до Видин, за да облагородял семката.

"Финдли, какво е това - лаесе?"
"Ами нещо като партер."
"Да ти се не види и швабския!"

Плюя си на маншетите и размазвам псувните с пръсти.

Ами, да - човекът си е чисто несравнимо качество, натъпкано в потник. Взе горно до и не спря, докато не ни изтърси на отбивката за селото.
Това да не ти е Хари Халер и разнимити вълци из степта. То даже и суинг не е, ами е влашко-гагаузка кръстоска, действаща в недрата на продукт излязъл от завода имени молотова по линията - север, северозапад. Само като го усетиш в далечината, залягаш с челото напред в кукуруза. Целият - едни дълбоки лилави страсти - като патлажан.

"Дайт'ми да'й спуша една цигара,
за да забравя аз мойте, твойте, нeйните очи-и-и!"


А пък Долното Паничерево, нищо че е долно, го нашарили по влашки образец. Влахът като види бордюр, започва да го боядисва в черно, бяло и жълто, на ивици, защото е по-близо до Европа. И тука боядисвали хората, но понеже не са дотам близко до Европата а, да речем - до розовото масло - отказали се от жълтото, ама пък посадили рози. И всичките се кръстили Стою и Неда, освен ония, дето са се кръстили Недю и Стоя.

Та, такава една многовековна Стоя, евентуално Неда, дето може човек да я събере в две шепи, ни изкомандва да се съблечем, изгори ни дрипите, натисна ни да да си изстържем мръсотията, провери ни за прободни и пушечни рани и ни задяна с по един костюм от репертоара на казанлъшката опера.
На Финдли, значи, нали е учил немски, му се паднаха арнаутски дрехи с гайтани и ямурлук, а пък моя милост се завря в полковнишка униформа, ботуши, поясок - както се полага.

И в този момент ми се отваря черепа по шевовеге, обаче не по посока на физиологията, ами някак си по-вътрешно, както на Чапаев когато пресметнал, че нула и половина плюс нула и половина - правят литър. И по този повод питам,
"Коя година сме днес, бабо?"
А пък тя - "Защо ти е таз година, бре, сине?"

И очите й измити, измити - търкаляло се през тях време и пространство, остъргало всичко, не оставило капчица за сълза и прашинка, за да се завъди корен от нея. Само едни картинки и движение останали, и те се завъртят и спрат, и после пак се повторят, а разлика и подробности - като да не си личат.
И се вижда как съблича баба Стоя все едни и същи мъжки дрехи, пука им въшките на огън, пере мръсното и кръвта, мие едни бели, та сини тела, ни живи ни умрели. И по дрехите и по телата кърпи, където има скъсано, с един и същи бод, с една и съща губерка; после, облечени вече, ги провожда я към гората, я към гробищата.

Много кратко време му остава на наблюдаващия за да различи, че в тая репетентност, все пак - различни са всичките тези мъже в споменатото време и пространство - хайти, хайдуци, обирджии, четници, комити, шумкари, горяни, поборници и страдалци всякакви; и един англичанин, свален от въздуха долу на земята от военно въздушните на негово царско величество сили, за да не пуска бомби по главите на населението, или да прави дупки колкото един гьол, та хората да го кръщават - езерото Чърчил.

Бабата връчи на съименника си туловка дванайсти калибър и една торба патрони, а на мен - дамски пистолет, хляб и дамаджана с ракия. Да сме намерили някойси вдън горите тилилейски, че се криел и не могли да го намерят, а пък трябвало да си ходи в Москва. На местните никакъв не се появявал и нишан не давал къде да го търсят, от много време насам.

"И като как изглежда тази персона?", питам, защото не си мълча.
"Ами, един такъв - квадратен."