Public Republic

By Evelina Lambreva Jecker

Photo: pensiero

All her girlfriends had a pet. All were benevolently spending fortunes on them.
Mrs. Friedrich was the doting parent of a ten-year old Angora cat. The cat had regular appointments with a hairdresser and a cat manicurist, who would cut her claws with extreme care, while a special dentist, joined by the cat’s vet, would perform teeth cleaning exclusively at her home.

Mrs. Singer was raising a hulking dog with sad nostalgic eyes she was constantly trying to read for his next wish, so that she can fulfill it that same moment. She would take him to a doggy school, and together they were members of a select club that was organizing a variety of entertainment games for dogs and their owners. Mrs. Lutz had two hamsters she fed organic diet only and was extra careful to make sure they did not overeat. To be completely sure she provided the right diet and nutrition, she would often take them to the vet’s office.

Mrs. Kristen would constantly clean the cage of her favorite rat and would proudly introduce him to her guests as he crawled out of her sleeve onto the armchair during the afternoon tea party.
To the general amazement of her girlfriends, Cornelia Spillman had no pet. She had a favorite bum. When her girlfriends got a whiff of this detail, they eagerly criticized her for ill-conceived charity and immature commiseration so long as the state was providing enough care to all bums. One should not give money to these people who then went and spent it in bars and acquired rather bad habits. She’d better find a pet that would not interfere with anybody and would exclusively bring her joy.

Cornelia Spillman was headstrong and the least inclined to accept suggestions from anyone. Every morning for the past seven years, on her way to the street-car stop she passed by an old bum with a long beard and clotted, disheveled hair. He would try to trick some resemblance of a melody out of an old violin, but the instrument was producing such terrible creaking sounds, as if trying to tell the passers-by, “Come on, give me a franc to stop this!” As soon as this thought dawned on Cornelia, she grinned inside and started to drop one franc a day into his hat. The man soon noticed her and, upon seeing her, would crack up a friendly smile.

One day Cornelia Spillman decided to strike up a conversation. She asked him about his name, his living accommodations and whether he had enough to eat. His name was Mr. Stoerlie, the bum said, he had a room in a dorm nearby, had been a horse-keeper in a wealthy estate before falling ill and was now living off a small disability pension. Yes, he did eat and had enough food, but could never take a couple of days off to go some place. He felt most heartbroken during the summer months in the deserted city as people fled to far away countries and unknown worlds.
Years passed this way. Mr. Stoerlie, who could be found at his usual station at the street-car stop all year around, would sometimes disappear for a two-three months and reappear again.

“Haven’t seen you around lately, Mr. Stoerlie,” Cornelia Spillman would say when she would see him again.
“I was in the lock-up again for three months, gracious madam,” the bum answered.
“You? In the lock-up? But why, what have you done?”
“What do you mean why, Mrs. Spillman! For begging, you know the laws!”
During these conversations, the people would look at them either disapprovingly or derisively, and hurry past. This spring, Mr. Stoerlie disappeared again. It was late fall already, and he was still not around. He must have managed to save some money by begging and gone some place, Cornelia Spillman thought as she was boarding a street-car. November came and went, and the city was in full preparation for Christmas, but there was still no sign of him.

One Saturday morning, the postman rang the bell and handed her a registered letter. It was sent by some Virginia Holmer, a person and a name altogether unfamiliar. Cornelia Spillman opened the envelope. Out of it fell a chamber concert program for the Cultural Center and a concert ticket for a seat in the special theatre box. “My God, what is this and who is sending it to me?” Stunned, she read the letter out loud:

“Dear Ms. Spillman,
My name is Virginia Holmer and I am writing to you to fulfill a dying wish of my favorite uncle Bernhard Stoerlie, who passed away two months ago.
I lost both my parents in a car accident when I was 19. Since then, my uncle Bernhard became my guardian and cared for me. I wanted to continue my education in the Conservatory, but he could not provide for me on his disability pension. Then I took up a waiting job at a bar and he took up begging. On his death bed, my uncle insisted that I let you know that all the money he had gotten from you over the years he had invested in my education and had not wasted a franc. This fall I graduated as a violinist. Uncle Bernhard did not live to share this happy moment. This is why I would like to sincerely invite you to my first concert. I would be very happy to meet you and express my gratitude in person…”

Translated from Bulgarian by Zoya Marincheva