(
C)
1988 - Bogomil Kostoff Avramov-Hemy, Author,
© 2005 – Adam Bogomilov
Avramov-Hemy, Translation
FLOWER WITH ROOTS
IN
THE HEART OF THE
EARTH
by
Bogomil
Kostov
Avramov
- HEMY
Every
evening, returning from my workplace, I had stayed at the cable car
station, with a head that is about to explode by the mental strain.
Something in my brain was wailing, singing and droning, but through
the long workday I didn’t have the time to go to the doctor. “What
for”, I said to myself, “if it’s bad, it’s going to be really
bad. If it’s for good, it will pass away”. But, my head was
singing its own song and this song could not be killed even by the
deafening sound of the oversized city, where I had unwillingly
landed.
Often,
the cable car was late. Amidst the night cold of the semi-lighted
station, I was tapping with feet and, because there was nothing else
to do, looking at the buildings around me. Contemporary, dark and
modern, they were futilely trying to smile at somebody with their
reflective windows and colors.
One
evening I found out that in the corner, next to the station was
standing, happily spared, a little two-story house with peeling walls
and with a small courtyard full of box-shrubs.
Every
evening now I looked at the spared house.
My
wish to cross the small yard, to walk up the seven stone stairs and
knock on the door, had grown bigger and bigger. Because every
evening, up there, on the second floor, a window was shining with
reflections from television channels.
In
the end of a sad winter day, the car was delayed.
Unexpected
snow had fallen. Kids were throwing snowballs at each other, and I
was sitting on the station thoughtfully as the strain of the workday
was echoing in my head. Where alien conceptions were trying to
overcome my own. When the cold froze my soul, and airplanes started a
combat in my head, I turned my back to the coming cable car. I
crossed the frozen, snow-covered box-shrub garden. And climbed the
iced stairs of the house. Up there, on the second floor, the window
still was mysteriously flickering.
I
pushed the button of the doorbell. Far, like amidst a deep cave, a
bell rang. Nobody appeared. I rang for a second, and for a third
time. Nobody answered. I carefully pushed the door and it suddenly
opened like an unsatiable mouth and absorbed me.
I
found in the corridor, under a light bulb sleeping in a lampshade of
glass flowers, a drift of fresh snow. My footsteps echoed in this
uninhabited stomach. A spiral staircase took me upstairs. I love
spiral staircases. I’m spiral staircase-mad. I have decided that,
when I solve the problem of all mine and foreign conceptions, I will
start building villas. With two bare hands and a place given as a
gift from the state, with bricks and tiles from old construction
sites, with broken window-frames from houses unneeded by anyone, I
believe that I will succeed. I can easily construct. And even easier
demolish.
The
stairs appeared endless to me. The sound of the television became
louder though, and that gave me hope. This house can’t be this dark
if a TV is singing in it.
The
staircase took me to an enormous living room, amidst which I found a
snow-white bed. On it lay a woman so familiar, I greeted her. She
nodded. Where had I met her? In this illusory world nobody can be
sure. Do they know somebody - or do they not.
The
woman was neither young nor old. About my age. Neither sick nor
healthy. She wasn’t ugly. She wasn’t beautiful, either. She
wasn’t shocked by my abrupt entering. Not even surprised. She
appeared to me delighted. But, I can’t be sure. Not until now I
presume that she had more than one visitor. Actually, it doesn’t
matter.
The
woman nodded again. I came closer, even more timid and nervous, and I
sat in the corner of the bed, wondering what is happening, being
sorry for the cable car I missed, cursing my love for old houses
without reflective windows, where light from high windows is
flickering over old box-shrubs.
The
woman raised her hand and stroked me.
I
have never felt such a weight on myself. Except maybe once, when,
near the sea, I had put on a deep sea diver’s ballast belt. From
this stroking all headaches suddenly flew away. The buzzing and
droning stopped. My thoughts about the contradictory conceptions
evaporated. But, fear haunted my heart. “Damn it”, I said to
myself, “after all we’re living in the 21th century”. I felt
that, under the sheets, the body of the woman was breathing. That
calmed me down. I looked at the TV screen that had filled a distant
corner. What do you think I found? Under the sounds of cold jazz, my
whole past life was playing in slow motion. All my insignificant
future. I shivered, scared, and the woman calmed me down with her
lead palms, quietly laughing. Yes, the woman was cheerfully laughing,
tapping me with a cold lead palm.
“Oh
my god, my god”, I said to myself, gasping. I’ve been so naïve,
I’m so naïve even today. As poor as I’ve been, I’m even poorer
now. How have I walked past with the good and the merited, to
strengthen the positions of all kinds of creative conceptions which
just waste tons of paper. And the life, this wasted life of mine, was
flowing like a river there, on the flat screen of the color
television set, but it didn’t shine with the colors of a rainbow,
but with the monotony of the uniformity. Sometimes evanescent sparks
flashed, but it was so sudden, unexpected and fragile, the woman just
shrugged with sympathy. All the time was heard the sound of wonderful
cold contemporary jazz. The woman and me tapped out feet with the
rhythm.
Then
something cracked. The music stopped. A thoughtful man appeared on
the screen, tapping his feet in the emptiness of the winter night. A
man with snow-white long hair. I ran to the mirror to convince myself
about the truth of what I saw. The woman’s hand attracted me again,
only to feel it even heavier, but not that cold. I stared at the TV
screen as an announcer with a serious face appeared on it.
The
announcer started talking about the fate of the world, concerned
about the fate of the people, but in his story I didn’t see neither
my own fate nor the fate of the woman nailed to the bed, forced to
watch TV all the time, day and night.
“Turn
on the lights!” the woman suddenly asked me, “Turn on the
lights…”
Her
voice sounded crystal-clear, and overcame the flow of actual
information. The voice was surprisingly melodic, and powerful. I
immediately obeyed. I started walking at the door, ready to run from
the fear. I flipped the switch. Behind me something rustled and I
turned around. I froze with surprise, wonder and envy.
From
the heart of the woman, slowly and gracefully grew a mighty flower.
Unknown and unseen. Incredible and absurd. Slowly opening its leaves,
and slowly uncovering a scarlet blossom. And quickly growing roots to
the floor.
The
roots shattered the floor and went down, down, down, to the heart of
Earth maybe, to reach it and embrace it.
The
flower grew large leaves. Opened its blossom. Released its mindlessly
wondrous aroma. Mightily set off to the ceiling. Smashed it,
spreading pieces of plaster. Then disappeared in the sky. The room
suddenly became cold, and the TV went black.
The
woman kept smiling guiltily, struck by sudden pain. I kissed her on
the head. It was cold, and blood erupted from her mouth.
“Go
away!” the woman whispered, her mouth spraying blood, “Go away!…
Go away!… Go to your conceptions…”
I
ran down the stairs, they were spiraling endlessly, to the heart of
Earth, where we have all came from. I quickly passed through the
corridor, frightened that one of the flower’s roots would pierce
the ceiling to stab me. The door was widely open. I shut it with all
my strength. I didn’t turn back. My face still felt the strange
weight of the unknown lady’s hand. A weight that even today I feel
whenever I hear words about conceptions and anti-conceptions.
On
the bus stop I sighed with relief. People were lined up by two.
Nobody turned back, why would they disrupt the nice order? Only I was
restlessly fidgeting, only when they scolded me I calmed down. I put
my hand into my pocket and found out that I haven’t got a ticket. I
asked the woman standing next to me for one. I put some money into
her hand. I felt the lead weight of that woman’s hand again. My
eyes met hers. It was the woman from the old house. Mysteriously
smiling. Understanding everything and everyone. With a heavy
string-bag in one hand, and a portable TV in the other.
I
accepted the ticket. I paid, and the touch of her hand suddenly felt
tender, warm and inviting, like her in all her beauty. When the cable
car came, I helped her get on. I glanced at the screen of the
portable TV in her hands. Even covered with winter frost, it silently
and invisibly worked. I looked at the old house I just had left. The
window was full of darkness.
I
often pass by that house. Spring and autumn, strange flowers grow and
dry on its roof. The apartment blocks around it are surrounding it,
even more and more ominously. Some day, it will also be destroyed.
Everything could be built on the site. But, will this fateful flower
grow?
I
pass by the old house sitting in the cable car, holding the seat in
front of me, as like an unexpected blow of wind could take me back
there. To walk up those endless spiral stairs again, to the heart of
Earth and back. And always, oh, always pain strikes into my heart and
my head starts ringing, buzzing and droning. Then, I say to myself
with a sadness few could understand, that this is probably a root of
that scarlet flower that connected earth, home and sky with roots,
stem and blossom.
29.05.2005
г.
6/30/07
9:04:55
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