Public Republic

Ivailo Dimanov

Photo: broma

It’s summer! The birds are singing, the July sun is shining, the kids play care free, without knowing one day they’ll grow up only to start paying heating and electricity bills.

In such weather some get married, others go to the scaffold (which is one and the same). As for me, I feel like a drink.

There’s someone ringing my door-bell. It is Kircho – a childhood buddy, bringing a bottle of grape brandy. A heaven-sent visitor!

I quickly get down to fixing some salad, taking my time, trying hard to think of a toast.

“Cheers! Here’s to our true friendship!”
“I am no friend of yours” – Kircho mumbles.
“How come?” – I am struggling for time, searching my memory. I don’t owe him money; as for his wife… no, I haven’t made it with her. He’s a friend, after all.

“What’s up, Kircho?”
“Don’t call me Kircho. Call me Priest Krustio, the traitor! The time is ripe to spit out the truth, I cannot bear it anymore. My police dossier will soon be opened, so you’d better hear it from me…”
“Hear what?” – I am at a loss.
“I’ve been the one informing against you! I’ve filled in eight big folders with reports to the authorities against you. Eight big folders! That makes twenty three pages more than “War and Peace”…”

“That’s a lot, buddy, you were never that good at school!”
“Good or no good, that’s it! Here, take my service gun and shoot me! Yet, I want you to know why you never made it to your adored Italy with that folklore ensemble.”

“Was it you?”
“It was… I reported that you had organized a coup against the Pope. Later, they really shot him. And the ball started rolling… Naturally, they gave me the “Sharp eye” order, second degree. Even my colleague Nikolay doesn’t have one. Then, they launched a secret, stable investigation on you. That’s the reason why you were fired from work, taken for a short military service during your honeymoon and your first poetry book had to wait for ten long years before getting published. Remember your dissertation failure?”

“Of course I do. How can I forget such a thing!”
“It was me again! I am to blame for your accommodation problem, for your diabetes and your being posted as a correspondent in the village of Kaspichan, instead of Paris…”
“That, too?!”

“Yes! I continued reporting against you even during the times of democracy. For example, I wrote that you didn’t like the poetry of Sugarev, nor did you attend the anti-communist rallies… Go ahead, take the gun and shoot me! Let’s say “NO” to fear!”

I listen to him petrified, charmed and perplexed at the same time. He laughs.

“If I told you why I did it, you’d laugh your head off. Remember those two girls from our class when we were in grade ten – Mimi and Tsetska – we used to date them? You pinned Tsetska, who had those big boobs. That’s something I could never swallow…”

I took the gun, but instead of aiming it at my best friend, I put it against my own temple.
Oh, dear, what an irony! Waste a whole life because of a pair of boobs!

Then “Bang!” I went!

Translated by Petia Tsenova