May 3, 2017
© 1996 — Bogomil Kostoff AVRAMOV — Hemy
© 2000 — Illustration by Hemy
GONG FROM DRY DRYNING PIPES
- short story -
WE HAVE DWELT
an ancient desolated house, near the shore of the Black Sea. Its so high terrace was led over the nearby harbour quay. Thin fresh paint coated over any old badly visible frescos. The floor, knailed with wide thickly planks soundly squaked under ours steps. The street, very smoked but absolutely quiet, has got only seven lonely numbers. In the heavy, like of any ancient castle walls,wide rusted steel gates conducted to deeply secluded inner courts. Through the night, when the shore wind brushed off and covered the terrace with yellow authumn leaves from the nearly wild chesnuths, the sea waves discharged all of the treasured on the seabed bottom things, just at ours legs. The doors creaked out with theres unoiled from centuries iron joints. Remembering us that and the steel has got its final end against the sea. The wind was wailed through the empty windows and into the fireplaces. We have listen its crasy songs under the tiny wool blankets. Swallowing up ours tears. The Love has shown us, that it is not ethernal.
WE HAVE LEASED
the rooms through any third party friendly person. One such longdistant relative, concerned to do naive impression to the human environment. In this little marine shore town, with one singing fountain on the central square, with a harbour with only one heavy loading place, and the eternally cafe named nobody known why “The Old Lame Dog”, it had not been easy to got any flat for poor starting peoples like us. Through the summer, the authumn and the winter, over the town have swarm loudly crouds of tourists from all over the world. But the spring was been purposed only to the ordinary local citizens. Now, lending one ear against the cry of the night breeze, dulled just into the firmly family bed, we was been perhaps really happy.From all of these speedly disappered times, I have think that a poor man like me, to be really happy, is enough to have a lump of bread, a piece of willage made cheese, and a big tommatow both with a cup of linda tea. The rest came from the spirit of the place, like a sense. Independly from the crasy life of ours times in every spot of the contemporary world.
AT THE FIRST OF SATURDAY,
after midday,unknown steps have crossed the short dessert of ours open terrace. On the entrance anyone has knocked. To the doorstep was stood a ten years old boy.
- Is my mom here ? — diffidently sad the boy.
I have looking around. No another woman has got into the room.
The day was drew out to the end.
The street’s noise was felt down.
One by one, the forgotten steel gates have got strikes for the last time in this long summer shore heavy port day.
I invited the unknown guest to the table.
We have slowly-slowly snatched ours poor meal drinking the evening tea.
we have drink our linda tree tea with many sugar. Before go to the bed. Anna has got the children habit to read into the bed, forgetting me, forgettimg the world, but never forgetting the sea. To which she everytime has looks through the windows, listens it with all of her body.
- What is Your name ? — suddenly sad Anna.
- Zako… — answered the boy looking with wide opened eyes over her lump of bread and her cup of tee.
- What about such name ? — I have asked.
- Could You, please, stay with us to spend the night ? — sad sadly Anna.
- Oh, no madam, — answered the boy, — my father wating me in the cafe “The Old Lame Dog”…He wating me so nervously…He drinking and wating me …He wating me and drinking…
- Only colla ?
- He prefer cream coffe mixed with rakiya . . .
After a minute, looking into his just empty plate, he asked us again.
- Am I came from time to time here, Uncle Pet ?
- Why ?
- To search my mother . . .
The answer was mine.
- Naturally, boy of mine, naturally… — What I can respond?
Zako jumped up easy.
Sad good-by shortly.
The door banged after him like any bell.
We have casted a glance each others.
Anna to me — I to Anna.
Under the big lampade have flickering nightmots. Ordinary grey effemers, they have had flew around the white glass of the bulb. Theres touchings have put spots of any strange tenderly dust onto the bulb surface. And I have start think, that every touch to the all of thats small household everyday truths of each one from us, have drops the same tenderly unvisible durty dust cover over the hearts of us, over the souls of us. Which are not sparkling like electrical bulbs, but which are wasted away down in every of us.
ZACO STARTS CAME
every saturday evening to search its mother namely here, in ours empty newborn home. Who sad that the home is a casstle ? No one home in the world may be a casstle. No one… No one… Perhaps the soul is a castle, but only for a short period of time. Till anyone perforate the tiny plating of our ship of the dreams.
- I’ve live at father of mine now, — illustrated its presence the boy, over the regularly plate full of macaroni, well sprinkled with tomato juice onto the face.
- At first, — he follows, — we have live here, my mom, father and I…Then only the mom of mine has stay here and I…But now…But now…But now You are living here, Uncle Pet. Where is my mom ?
He was looking down to the bottom of the dish.
Its nose was been full of durty, like every time, with homemade tomato juice. And its hands were trembled over the tableclotch.
- Every saturday, early morning, my father say me “Go to Mom, boy, he has a need to see You once time a week, she love You much more than me…Go to Mom…Go to Mom…Go to Mom…”
- Really ! …
- He believe, that my mother has live till now here, in ours old home…You know, Uncle Pet, the father of mine is a great believer…Isn’t it ! …
- Who knows . . . Who knows . . .Who knows . .
- But she isn’t here, as I see… Isn’t here…Isn’t here…Where she could be, Uncle Pet ?…
-It is summer, boy of mine…It is summer…
Felt down a desperate silence.
Am I have the power to call any elses truth ?
Am I have the power to cut the others fatum’s mistakes ?
Am I have the power to do any fatal dessicion ?
My own life also was been a great international mistake.
My own conclussions, I have known very well, never done help to myself, never used to help someone.
- Now, — sad ours new friend instantly, — now I go off…But, Uncle Pet, if my mom came again here, please, hold up her and call me immediately…
- Why ?
- I want say her some words … Mine words … Own words.
- Sure, my boy, sure… Don’t worry please, don’t worry …
His steps bolted away through the deserted terrace. The gate raped.
I’ve speedly crossed the rooms. Peeped out through the window over the street.
jumped up and down between the street’s walls, sloging with a club the dry dryining summer pipes. And they have ecoed like lonely cooper chirch bells. When I have removed far away, the quietnessly of the left desolated house, has swadled me, like a warmly wool blanked from Bucharra. When I have returned back to the darkened like an oil spot midnight street space, in me resounded and rerumbling the strange sounds of the rottened from rust dry drining pipes. Oh, I sad myself then sadly, when everything will be change to be of plastics? To complete the balance of the silence in this such false deeply durty world. All of these strongly kid’s hits, have rumbled into mine mind long time through the night, till the unsleept morning, while the sun call me with its first beams sparkling over the sea surface and the wide empty golden sand beaches. To play its strange reflections in the empty spaces of the old dusty homes. And, believe me, all of these others strokes till now have lashed and broaken the old heart of mine, the tired mind of mine, slanghtering my old body, when I have meet any unknown lonely boy, to beat the innocently rusted dry dryning pipes on the streets of our small shore town. Small like me, but great with the boys battling with its reality through theres nacked mitts.
All of these soundly cooper bells, call me again and again, just when I have hear sweet words about the brisky future of the new comming generations.
But, what I can do indeed ?
THROUGH THE NIGHT,
I awakened up from the crasy screams of the dissatisfied herring gulls. And have listen closely to hear the steps of the unknown boy named Zako. To catch again the percussions on the splited dry dyining rain pipes. But, only the wind easy-going wispered its new stories. It has thrown the early felt down leaves of the old linda trees on the stoned floor of our terrace faced to the sea. From all of these has been seems to me, that any youth unknown woman has stay around me, that she quietly and softly shouted herself and to me the name of my strange new friend Zako.
I’ve skept out from an unbearable agony.
I’ve lightened all of the home lights.
The old jevish house bursted and flashed like an abandoned wrecked ship. I suppose, that from the sea, it has looks like really wrecked abandoned from the crew ship. But a house never may be a ship, because it has not build to swim.
The terrace wasted.
The wind chased the waves to the shore.
The wind pushed in wispering strange songs between the nearly warehouses, buildings, and saved small fishing boats sheltered between them.
In the most distantly corner of the restlessly family bed, Anna has opened her sleeplessles eyes. To send me a look full of blame. That times she thinks that I never could sense it.
I have burned down the lights. The home obtained again its dark reality.
I have came back gropingly to Anna, nearly her vibrating warmth, scared into the night from the imaginary lonely gongs.
Zako has came by habit every saturday evening.
His slowly steps, well tempered and resignated, were been the only omen of the relevation between the deadly level of the povetry.
- Mom, — every time repeated the boy, staying against any unreal object filled up years after years the wide spaces of all of these high rooms, — was loved music like a crasy…She liked very much music and mirror…mirrors and music…
His face was not expressed anything.
The motion in his voice absented.
The gaze of his was been deserted.
In such of time I have remembered “The Youth Parissians” of Gonkur, these possessions of the boarding schools. But our streets never been any boarding schools. Why the results are same ? I have think that the main reason is the loneliness of the generations. Independly where are they, whose are they, how they have live. The crasy information mashine which is looks ours madly century, perhaps is provided only at this — to do lonely concwistadors
from all of us, but before of this, from ours gurls and ours boys. It is more easy . . .
IN ONE VERY, VERY LONG NIGHT,
I fruitlessly listened to hear the voice of the tiny gongs from the dry draining splited raining pipes. The silence of the night was been only a durty piece of nilon, under which I have winow my dreamns with a difficulty. Any heavy tension was beem closed over the both of us. One light from an aroma candle lifted to the ceilings. At the window net against the shore moskitos, a tile salamander from time to time has whistled its deadly shrilling song. It periodically stick out its sharp tongue, to pierce the arrested from the light night butterflys. On the paint easel, slumbered the canvas of Anna. But my thought was run to Zako. Straying alone through the town streets. Breaking out the old dry dryning rain pipes. And such manner wrestling out an unknown but so soundly pure song. The song of the non understoods, the song of the lonelinessles, the song of the homelessles boys. And also and of cource, the song of the future society common bed. But I’m not very shure. Infact, Anna was been pregnat, and her pregnacy has went to her suxessfull houres.
May be You have know, how the mothering changed the woman.
May be You have know…
Ours voices resounded out of the home, scampering away through the terrace entrance, felt down into the bottomlessly yards, fully filled with great pieces of rusty shiping scrab.
When the sun winced in and soars the clouds of home dust, I opened eyes. Setting its nose to the netted window, Zako was been drowsed staying up. I have wistling silently. The boy winced. Send me a desperately glance to me, but before all to the woman into the bed.
- It is Anna, — I sad sadly, — You know boy, it is my wife…
- But, where is my Mom, Uncle Pet?…
- It is Anna, — I repeated slowly again and again, — You know boy…
- Am I see in the another room ?
- Please, check in !
Zako and I attentively cheked the rooms. Opened the wardrobes. Examined the painted canvas one by one. Over theres collored faces, known and unknown peoples have been perished from love and from pain. Ann was been really one from the greatest tallents of our small town, named before centuries Whitetown.
- But, where is my Mom, Uncle Pet ?
- It is Summer, boy of mine… It is Summer…
The eyes of the boy shined for a while. Then they again have sunk into a deeply, deeply dark. Is it was been the darkly face of the love? I don’t know. I don’t know…
- I want to say her, — sad suddenly the boy, — I want say her, Uncle Pet, “Mom, I am tired to search You, Mom, I am tired enough…”
The boy’s voice was been silently but strangly raw.
I have meet his eyes.
He endured my glance.
A glance of one ready for everything old age man, wating a baby from his second wife by law, and because of this forgotten his first borned boy same age of Zako.
I have believed to see any sunshine into the Zako eyes. But it was been impossible. Only in the corners of the eyes precipitated a little bit moisture, and I have bend down and kissed feeblenessly the boy. I have know that never, never, never we could meet again.
Then, from the boy’s throat has bursted out one softly cry. Any evil flame drained out his tears. He run away, out from our home, where he was been well wellkomed, but only for a short moments of time. Out from ours politeness delicacy, the most cheep thing which I have show to everyone.
I have rushed after Zako, but very late and somehow slowly. Any unvisible string was bindeded my legs, and now, I have think, that it was been any mental string pushed from Anna.
Zako crossed the narrow street, beating to the old durty dry dryning rainy splitet pipes. And the pipes, and the street, have sang the most odly, crasy, and loudly sadly song.
One song with an inception, but without any end.
I HAVE LIVE
alone on the same address till now.
The ceiling of the ancient jevish house heavy dripling.
In the raining days, don’t mention the stormy days, from the terrace cames waves of waters. I have not desire to nail any threshold. In any case I am so weak to battle with the elements of the marine nature.
Anna has left me immediatelly after the born of ours boy. It was been very lond time ago. Thus longly time, that I forgot the reason. But for a divorse every reason is perfectly.
Sometimes, when I have a rest under the high midnoon sun on the terrace, turning over end over, page after page, where are slept the litigations of the poor local mariners, and the seaguls made theres low flew over me, I have remember again about Zako.
The ships have joined the harbour solemly and slowly, sparkling onto the face of mine the blinding whiteness of the eternal human dreams. Between which may be and the dreams of Zako.
The coffe has boiling up, owerflow into the spirit-lampad to blow out or to die out.
I hardly listen to catch again the steps of my one-time friend Zako.
But, nobody has came…
the foots of my ten years old son climbed up the staircase with a great loud. They have came to me, and I have awaken easyly. The light from the ocean going ships covered both of us with theres white, brilliancy and transparently canopy of love. The wind, this most powerfull marine magician, take out from my hands the shaft of thickly used papers, to send them to the devils.
I have open my eyes. For mine son named also Zakko. For the berted ships. For the crasy durty world. For the unreached dreams of mine. I have embraced the young boy, thus as before mane years I have embraced one unknown saturday evening guest. Before to lost it for ever.
But behind of him, over there, in the gloomy uninhabitated corridor, I have search to meet the really Zako’s shadow. I’m shure. Any time, he’ll returns. And it is the reason, not only the povetry, to don’t left this old jevish house near the beach, over the port, between the rusty warehouses gates, where the breeze has chase the dreems of the olds, and the hopes of the youths.
my son over and over, again and again, every saturday has starts to late. Where he may lost itself, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. He is a brave boy of mine, and of Anna also.
But, independly from this, I’m deeply confused.
Oh, yes !
I’m deeply, deeply, deeply confused…
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