When Kaludka
Mitreva heard the door bell ringing frantically, she felt a
desire to hide her head in the sand and keep low. Nonetheless,
she took courage and started shuffling on swollen feet towards
the entrance hall. Her attempt to console herself that it might
be someone else at the door was collapsing. Reaching the entrance,
she tried to put at least the shadow of a smile on her face.
Something told her that it was Ms. Mitsa—the older daughter
of the master who had kicked the bucket—and, now, the mourning
of his death would, for some days, pile together close and distant
relatives, just as honey gathers bees.
She realized that friendliness would not help her; the newcomer
would push her aside from the door and glare at Kaludka because
she had forgotten her key. Her anger was not subdued even by
the people gathered round the coffin. She nodded her head gracefully
at some of them, placed her frosted carnations on the dead man’s
breast, crossed herself and headed for the library, which had
also been her father’s study.
It was going to be a hard day. She had to put up with the mourners—some
of them complete strangers accompanying their relatives. Her
trembling hands groped for the lighter; it was rounded and elegant,
a jewel brought from Japan. She couldn’t find it and peevishly
stuffed the cigarette back into the box. She would have to ask
Kaludka for a match. It seemed as if Kaludka, by way of invisible
antennae, sensed the lady’s needs, and looked at her with
brows raised in question. She was ready to fulfill any wish
but was flapped away by a dismissive hand wave. The house maid
set out for serving the “God rest his soul!” treat.
Kaludka was her mother’s distant relative. Mano Simitov
had kindly taken her in to help with the household after his
wife’s death. The old man had been tough, bolt upright,
determined to live for ever. He had looked that way for several
months until he had the stroke that startled friends and enemies
alike. He stayed in bed, started lisping his speech and limping
a little with one of his legs, so he had needed someone to help
him. Kaludka, who was despised by his three children, turned
out to be the most needed person in the house. But Mitsa did
not accept her. She felt Kaludka and her thirteen-year-old grandson
had a hidden intention in selflessly looking after the sick
man and his big house and, by the way, she was not the only
one thinking that way.
Now, she made a pot of strong coffee, ran her finger along the
furniture to check that Kaludka had dusted, then lined up the
crochet work and miniatures precisely where she knew they had
been for years. Each time the doorbell rang, she looked through
the stained glass of the study to see whether Burian and Kalia
had arrived. Kalia was her younger sister, who was addressed
as 'Kala' by the home folks. They would never come together,
but their delay enraged her in that endless day of trouble.
She had been up since early in the morning, loaded down by funeral
duties: the endless bargaining with the undertakers, those vultures
who had got wind of prey before the old man had even stiffened;
settling on a grave; obituary notices; flowers...Mitsa threatened
them in her thought: “It's always been this way, but I'll
pay them back! Since they're younger than me, they've always
chosen the easy way!”
Grief and anger mingled in her chest. She had not seen Kala
for years and, now, she could not discern what teased her more:
Kala’s absence in Mitsa’s life or the fact that she
burdened Mitsa with all the duties of their father’s burial
in the hardest moment of parting with him.
They rarely met each other. The younger sister lived in a town
by the sea. She was engrossed in the routine of teaching and
in fear for her two children’s lives. Her daughter had
always had ailing health. Kala would come to the capital to
attend conferences and seminars, but they would always spot
each other on the railway platform at the last moment, just
before the departure of the train. They would shout at each
other directions and words, which the wind would blow away.
Mitsa did her best. She invited her sister to the big house
that had been built, with skill and creativity, by her husband,
the architect. A great gap opened between them after those words
uttered at their mother’s deathbed. If they were honest,
they were looking for mercy and comfort; but something had broken
in between them and would never be restored. In their childhood,
their souls flew side by side in the air, finding happiness
in running across meadows or playing the piano together. That
was a long time ago. Just the memory of it would flood her mind
and make her heart sink. The piano gathered dust after her only
son had gone abroad. The lady suffered. She had become a widow
at an early age and, now, she acquiesced to living without friends
because of her stubborn character.
Only Burian lived in the capital city. He was the youngest child
of the old contractor Mano Simitov. He was a self-taught sculptor
on whom nature had bestowed a certain dexterity and artistry.
Great success demanded other things, and he knew it. Rarely
did Burian stay in touch with his sisters, and most often when
Mitsa braced her energies to hold evening parties for 'friends'.
Most of the people were artists who turned out because of their
association with the architect or to derive benefit. Kala and
Burian had been getting on well but, recently, Kala appeared
worried and incommunicative, dispirited about her children and
family life.
A handsome man of about thirty, Burian watered his patience
with Mavrout wine in merry crowds of friends or passing female
acquaintances while he waited for glory. His nights sometimes
stretched into day, so he got up around noon looking pallid,
heavy with apathy and weakness. Other times, he sprang to life,
flitting around, delighted or tenaciously silent, and then his
relatives knew he was about to do something stupid.
After Mitsa’s second call to remind him about the day’s
importance, he arrived, bedraggled and unshaved. His casual,
reddish velveteen jacket was worn to a shine on the shoulders
and elbows, and was inappropriate for a funeral. His older sister’s
initial impulse was to send him home to change; but she thought
he might get lost in the afternoon and miss his father’s
burial. He had brought a bottle from the contractor’s cellar
and accompanied every drink with a gesture like crossing himself
and the words “May God, have mercy on my father’s
soul!”
Mitsa left him alone and went to the sitting room to look after
the guests and inspect Kaludka’s work. She had already
served lunch and was serving coffee from their mother’s
favorite coffee set, the fragile Sevres china cups. As it usually
happens, people and voices mixed together. The initial haughtiness
of the town relatives was giving way; they were patiently and
indulgently putting up with the gurgles of the country folk.
This was where the boy who had risen to eminence as a successful
contractor had started. Mitsa’s exasperation overwhelmed
her for the third time on that long day when she saw the maid’s
grandson, a thirteen-year-old boy with large eyes who could
not speak yet was loved deeply by Simitov.
The doorbell announced the arrival of her younger sister, late
as always, mere minutes before the dead man’s body was
to be carried out of his home. Mitsa tried to overcome her displeasure,
but she felt apathy in her sister’s hug; even now, Kala’s
mind was elsewhere, far from any feeling.
She shook the wet out of her smart hat over the carpet, gave
her umbrella to her sister, and made for the room where the
man’s body lay. She returned after lighting a candle and
leaving flowers on the body.
“Dad’s gone, Kala!” Mitsa groaned with a heavy
heart. This time, she really meant it.
“We are all mortal, sis. At least he saw life! May God
give us strength to reach his ripe old age!”
“You are right, Kala!” the older sister responded,
seized with an uneasiness creeping through her veins.
“He’s dead but we’re alive, so let’s get
down to it now that I’m here!” the younger sister
said in a business-like manner. She looked at Burian, who looked
back through dulled, half-closed eyes.
“Let’s do it now. It’s much better to settle
it than drag the thing through the courts!” Mitsa agreed;
Kalia’s compliance raised her suspicions.
“You, sis, have a big house in the center of Sofia, inherited
from your husband. Let Burian and I split the inheritance!”
“Don’t even think about it! I took care of him: I
was at his side when he was ill, even with a slight cold, and
especially after his stroke! You and Burian could never be relied
on. You have always been far away, at the seaside, and he
was wasting his time with his friends!”
“Who? Me? How dare you say that! Dad died lonely and didn’t
want to see either of you hypocritical vultures! I will take
the ground floor; he promised it to me! To turn it into a studio!”
The little brother instantly became sober and his eyes sparkled
maliciously.
“Much good it'll do you! You’ll drink it away! Let’s
allow him the ground floor, sis, and each of us will take a
floor. We’ll toss for the furniture; it’s antique
and I’ve already worked out how it will go with what I
have at home! It could be used to furnish our villa, too!”
The older sister attempted to bring the argument to a peaceful
end, but her words faded when Kaludka opened the door and announced
that it was time to carry out Mr. Simitov’s body.
They sat in the dead architect’s Mercedes on their way
to the cemetery, silent, their eyes vexedly averted. They looked
at neither the hearse nor the driver, a family friend who had
fully replaced the widow’s husband in everything.
It had been raining, on and off, all morning. The earth was
muddy and the people’s shoes sank. As they walked among
the graves looking for their father’s, Kala and Mitsa drew
level, and the older sister’s nacreous lips hissed a reminder
to Kala: “We have an agreement, sis, haven’t we? We
should go to a notary no later than tomorrow, before Burian
finds out!”
The rain lashed heavier. The mourners opened their umbrellas
and looked reproachfully at the priest, who was diligently reciting
the requiescat. Their feet squelched in the puddles. The wind
swelled their raincoats.
After they had thrown the flowers into the grave, they headed
for the bus. Then, a shriek made them turn around. It was inarticulate
and pierced the pelting rain. It came from the mouth of Kaludka’s
grandson, who had jumped into Simitov’s grave with a white
carnation in his hand. The flower had stuck by the dead man’s
head.
The undertakers hauled the boy out with ropes. He was covered
with mud and held the stalk of the flower in his shaking hand.
