The October Circle Page 16
“On the contrary, there is no way it can get out.”
The Racer spots them as he descends the marble staircase of the Central Committee building. One, in green socks, is reading the sports page of Narodna Mladej under a giant photograph of the Flag Holder leading the way into Sofia. The second, wearing a trench coat, is chatting with the duty officer at the check-in desk. The Racer tosses his visitor’s pass on the desk — he has a fleeting impression that the duty officer no longer regards him politely — and pushes through the door into the street. When he stops for the traffic light at the corner, Green Socks and Trench Coat are a dozen paces behind him.
The Racer swings aboard a trolley heading down Ignatiev toward the stadium, and hands two stodinki to the ticket taker. The old man deposits the coins in his worn leather pouch, pulls a ticket off the roll, punches it and hands it to Tacho. Green Socks and Trench Coat climb up behind the Racer and flash laminated identification cards at the old man, who hardly glances at them as he punches their tickets. The trolley jerks into motion.
“ ‘Bout time they switched to buses,” the man next to the Racer mutters conversationally, and he is insulted when Tacho makes no answer.
At the stadium, Tacho pauses before the entrance to the locker room. His racers are changing into their sweat suits.
“Eight days,” Tacho reminds them quietly, meaning there are only eight days until the big race. The racers usually respond with yelps and shouts. Today they are strangely silent, embarrassed almost.
At his office door, Tacho inserts his key in the lock. It takes a moment for him to realize that it doesn’t fit. He looks at the key. It is the right one. He tries again and turns away, puzzled. Green Socks is lounging at the far end of the tunnel that leads to the stadium. Tacho looks back at the lock. It gleams against the gray of the door. A new lock! The four riders file past the Racer, wheeling their ticking racing bicycles toward Green Socks and the stadium.
“We want you to know how sorry we are,” Tony murmurs as they pass. The others mutter agreement.
Thinking they mean the Flag Holder, Tacho nods his thanks. On a hunch, he asks:
“Sorry about what?”
“About you being suspended as coach and all,” replies Boris. “The Federation people came around this morning and kind of told us.”
“We’re gonna win,” vows Evan. “We’re gonna win, and we’re gonna let everyone know it was you that made us win. Isn’t that right, you guys?” The others nod in agreement.
“Sure you are,” Tacho tells them. “Sure you are.”
His eyes narrow with the first faint inkling of a crazy, wild dangerous idea.
The idea is still percolating when Tacho stops by the funeral parlor on his way back to the Flag Holder’s apartment. The chore is a painful one, but he must make sure all the arrangements are in order. The parlor occupies the ground floor and basement of a rundown, prewar house in a part of the city that used to be, but no longer is, fashionable. It is bracketed on one side by an appliance store full of Russian refrigerators and Polish gas heaters, on the other by a pastry shop with large peasant baskets full of loaves in the window.
The director of the funeral parlor, an extremely tall man by the name of Ivkov, wrings his hands as he talks to the Racer. He reminds Tacho of a doctor scrubbing up for an operation, and he wonders vaguely whether it is an occupational gesture or a tick.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this,” Ivkov is saying, washing away on his hands, “but our hearse is hors de combat.” He laughs nervously. “We have taken it upon ourselves to substitute an open pickup truck — draped for the occasion in black, to be sure, to be sure,” he adds quickly when he sees the expression on Tacho’s face.
“And the coffin?”
“The coffin has been attended to, but I’m desperately afraid the only thing available on such short notice is a simple pine box.” Again he laughs nervously. Tacho notices the black curtain at the far end of the room sway slightly — or is it his imagination? “You understand that nothing in the way of” — the director picks at his words as if they are morsels of distasteful food — “cosmetics is possible.”
“I understand.” Tacho stares at the curtain; it sways again, but there is no draft.
“I should tell you too, there is a problem with the funeral band,” Ivkov continues. “It has been requisitioned” — Ivkov clears his throat—”by the Commissariat of Public Parks to give a concert to old people.”
“Has that ever happened before?” Tacho inquires.
“It is very common, yes,” the director answers without conviction.
Abruptly Tacho turns to leave. Ivkov leaps ahead to open the door for him. “Concerning the note,” he says. He coughs discreetly and hands Tacho an itemized bill. Tacho glances at it — the total comes to one hundred forty-five leva — and hands it back.
“The Dwarf will settle with you.”
Ivkov actually bows. “We are at your disposition,” he says.
Tacho departs without closing the door behind him. He is afraid the closing of it will become an expression of his emotion, and it will come off its hinges.
The Racer intends to pack the Flag Holder’s personal effects in a carton and take them back to his apartment, but the door to the Jewish Centre is locked. A handwritten note taped to the inside of the glass so that it can be read on the outside says:
“Closed for repairs.”
As Tacho turns away, he almost bumps into the Scream Therapist. “I remember you,” the Scream Therapist insists. “You were at the Dwarf’s wedding.” He looks toward the door of the Jewish Centre.
“It’s closed,” Tacho tells him. “For repairs. There’s a note in the window.”
“Damn,” the Scream Therapist says. “Say, I don’t mean to be crude or anything, but you wouldn’t happen to know the disposition of the Flag Holder’s apartment.” He lowers his voice. “I’ve pretty much decided to stay in Bulgaria, and I’m going to need a roof over my head. I’d be willing to pay a pretty penny if I could get the inside track on it. Say, where are you going. Hey, come back.”
Valyo, the Dwarf and Popov are in the living room of the Flag Holder’s apartment when the Racer arrives — Valyo and Popov on the worn sofa, Bazdéev pacing back and forth in front of them with giant dwarf steps. Kovel is drinking beer at the kitchen table, reading in the Party newspaper about the new coach for Stambolij-ski, his favorite soccer team. Octobrina and the American girl are in the bedroom with the Rabbit. Tacho looks in for a moment. Melanie smiles sadly at him, and the Rabbit jumps from the bed to grab his hand.
“Tell me, you, how could he do this thing to me?” she pleads. “Tell me, for I am begging the answer. How is it he could do this thing to me?”
The Rabbit shivers and sinks into his arms, drained of energy, and he helps her back to the bed.
“He used to say he was a man without a mirror image or a shadow,” the Rabbit says. “You were there, Tacho. Tell me — did he cast a shadow when he …” She sobs, but the sobs are tearless, as if her ducts have gone dry.
“Take comfort, Elisabeta, he cast a shadow the length of the square — “ The Racer is unable to say more.
“Take comfort,” Octobrina tells her. Her voice is soft but strong; secret strengths are flowing through her like underground streams. “It was a thing ripe with hope — “
Elisabeta hardly hears her. “How is it he could do this thing to me?” she asks again. “The whole thing is beyond comprehension — “
Back in the living room, Tacho talks to the Dwarf near the window. Down the street he can see Green Socks and Trench Coat lounging against the window of a garden supply store. Over their heads, in giant red letters, appear the words “Chemical” and “Fertilizer.”
“There are problems,” Tacho says. He points out Green Socks and Trench Coat, and explains about the band and the hearse. The Dwarf nods his large head.
“I am organizing all,” he frowns. “Kovel. Dog” He starts for the door.
“There is no way it can get out.”
He must talk to the American girl.
“But I want to attend the funeral,” Melanie insists.
“This is just not possible,” Tacho tells her. “You must understand that everything here has changed.” He takes her by the shoulders. “Melanie, you must do as I tell you.”
She nods reluctantly. “Is it sure you’ll come?”
“If I don’t it’s because I’m arrested,” he promises. “Now you must remember everything I have told you.”
“I remember.”
“Good. When you get there, take a guide and ask many questions about the history and the architecture. Make notes of what he tells you. They must think you are a student.”
“What if they have seen us together? What if they won’t let me leave Sofia?”
“They have only just begun following me,” Tacho assures her. “They cannot know about you yet. Just walk out of the building as if you lived here. As long as you are not with one of us, they will leave you alone.”
“What will you do about Mister Dancho?”
“Yes, what can we do about our dear Dancho?” Octobrina echoes, joining the conversation.
“About Dancho,” Tacho admits heavily, “there is nothing that can be done.”
14
THEY START from the rear door into a strangely quiet, strangely deserted street, at the hour specified in the funeral permit — 7:00 A.M. Two militiamen take up the point position, as if this is to be a military patrol through enemy-occupied terrain, and as one of them passes the Racer he whispers:
“Please understand, we are only following orders.”
“Everyone is always following orders,” Tacho retorts, and smiling in a way that is new to him he steps off holding aloft the placard the Flag Holder carried at the demonstration nobody saw. On one side is the famous photograph that every schoolchild in the country recognizes from his history book. On the other is a hand-lettered slogan which reads:
Cover the whole world with asphalt. Sooner or later a blade of grass will break through.
Behind Tacho comes the circus band (on loan to the Dwarf as a “personal favor”) in embroidered jackets with black armbands and high plumed hats. The kettle drummer sets a funereal rhythm — boom, boom, boom, boom — with elegant flourishes of his drumsticks. The hearse (which the Dwarf “organized” from a nearby village) comes next: an ancient black-and-gilt vehicle dating back to the Turkish Yoke, with a glass compartment for the coffin, drawn by two high-stepping spotted circus geldings with braided manes and white plumes dancing from their nodding heads. High on the buckboard seat, holding the reins nonchalantly in his outstretched hands and eyeing with supreme indifference the shuttered windows and the closed doors that line the route, sits the peasant who came with the hearse.
Elisabeta walks directly behind the hearse, mesmerized by the coffin which jounces as the wagon wheels bump over the cobblestones. On one side of her is Valyo Barbovich, wearing a silk scarf to protect his throat from the chill; on the other, in morning clothes, is Atanas Popov, his left shoe squeaking with each step. Close behind them comes Octobrina, lost in the folds of a great black shawl. The Dwarf in full clown regalia, struts at her side — he is once again Bazdéev the King of Clowns, confronting the empty streets with his painted angel’s face and his mocking smile and his wild eyes — “the eyes,” Octobrina once said, “of an animal trapped inside a body it finds odious.” The blind dog, Dog, sulks at his feet, jerked forward, when he lags, with a leash made of a string of sausages.
Skipping along behind, two abreast, arms linked, come the Hungarians, wearing single layers of flowered chiffon through which their pink limbs can be clearly seen. Kovel, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, the Fat Lady, the Tattooed Man and the Juggler bring up the rear.
For the first two blocks, everyone makes an effort to ignore the obvious. Finally Valyo explodes. “Somebody’s gone to a great deal of trouble for this funeral,” he cries bitterly, and Octobrina, behind him, remarks:
“In a perverse way, it’s really a sign of respect.”
But the emptiness of the street seems to taunt them, and the Dwarf, more sensitive to such things than the others, thrusts out his deformed chest, curses in Hungarian and barks at the circus band:
“Louder, louder, so they will know who is it we bury.”
Kettle drum thumping, horses prancing, the cortege follows the militiamen through the back streets in the general direction of the cemetery. As they turn into Pavlovic, a shutter somewhere above them squeals on its hinges and then slams shut, and the petals from a dozen roses rain down on the hearse. Octobrina gathers up a few handfuls and tucks them into a fold of her shawl. Half a block further along a bouquet of wild thyme falls at Elisabeta’s feet, and then a Soviet army medal from the Great Patriotic War, with a note pinned to the ribbon that says:
“We will never forget him, never!”
Popov scoops up the thyme and the medal and opens the glass door of the hearse and places them on the pine coffin.
On Pavlovic, across from a vegetable market normally crowded with shoppers at this hour of the morning, the old waiter Stuka steps from a doorway that smells of urine and lifts his cap at the cortege. He is wearing a single campaign ribbon on his chest from a war few people remember. The militiamen eye him angrily, and a woman shouts to him from the darkness of the hallway:
“Grandpa, come in — they will mark your name.”
But the old man stands his ground, his cap raised above his head in salute. “Excuse me,” he fumbles in a husky voice as the Racer draws abreast. “Excuse me for Mister Dancho.”
“Go in, old man,” Tacho urges and the woman, hearing that, darts out and pulls Stuka back into the hallway.
The cortege reaches the corner where Pavlovic turns into Petrohan. Here the pavement ends and the road becomes butted dirt, and the houses, single-story rundown frame boxes, are set back from the road to allow for a garden in front. The cemetery is just beyond, and as they draw near, the huge iron gates swing open, though nobody can be seen pulling them. As the Racer passes through the gate, a figure springs from behind a tombstone. Instinctively, the Racer thrusts the placard out as if to ward off an attacker, and one of the horses neighs and paws the ground with his front feet.
It is the Mime, barely breathing, his head lowered as if he is about to charge. The white pancake make-up on his face is streaked with tears and he bows to the ancient hearse and falls into step behind the Fat Lady.
The militiamen lead the cortege past rows and rows of headstones to the far corner of the cemetery, where the first field joins it. The Minister’s male secretary is standing near a rectangular hole which seems to yaw open, a pile of dirt on one side, two worn leather straps across it.
“But there is no stone,” Elisabeta whispers urgently.
“And no one to help us,” adds Valyo.
The Racer calls to the Minister’s male secretary:
“Are there to be no gravediggers to help us?”
The secretary, whose steel-rimmed eyeglasses have turned to silver in the sun, only shrugs and motions with his jaw as if to say:
“Get on with it.”
Tacho, Valyo, the Juggler and the Tattooed Man pull the pine coffin from the hearse and lower it to the ground. Octobrina puts her arms around the Rabbit’s waist and hugs her tightly. Four members of the band lay down their instruments and take hold of the ends of the leather straps. The coffin is laid over the gaping hole on the straps and lowered into the grave. The straps are pulled free. The Racer, pale, trembling, walks to the edge of the hole and tosses in a handful of dirt. The sound of it falling on the wood strikes him as an obscenity.
“My friends— “
Tacho lowers his head and brings his hand to his eyes. Valyo r
eaches forward and touches his shoulder.
“My friends—” Tacho begins again, his voice reduced to a whisper. “I … I have no words.” He shakes his head and steps back from the edge of the grave.
Octobrina takes his place and looks for a long moment at the coffin. She blinks back tears. “Another still life,” she cries and flings open her shawl, scattering rose petals onto the coffin. She almost manages a smile and returns to her place alongside the Rabbit, who sinks to her knees and fills each hand with dirt and moans dully:
“Lev, oh Lev, oh my Lev, my Lev.”
The Mime appears suddenly at the head of the grave. He crouches and from the dirt creates, as a sculptor would, an imaginary candle. It is dark and he feels around the earth for an imaginary match. Finding it, he lights the candle and holds it high and slowly looks around. Then he lowers the candle and moistens his fingertips and presses the wick between them, and the people gathered around the grave can almost hear the hiss as the flame is extinguished.
The Dwarf strides forward and tosses onto the coffin the flowers and bouquets and medals that Popov gathered along the way. Then, tilting his great head, he hurls curse after curse at the sky in Hungarian.
The Hungarian girls, hanging back, start to blush and giggle.
Popov runs a finger under his collar to soothe the red welt on his neck as he steps to the edge of the grave. He reaches into his pocket to turn up his hearing aid.
“It was my intention — “ He falters. “I had hoped — “
He adjusts his pince-nez and removes his ledger from his pocket. “Sssssssss. One mother-of-pearl lorgnette handle. One ostrich plume. One stuffed humming bird without its tail feathers. One child’s coloring book with an inscription that reads, ‘Little Bibo, nineteen thirty-seven.’ “ Popov’s eyes peer over the top of his pince-nez. “The Flag Holder was in Spain then, I think. Sssssssss. Where was I? Ah. One sheet of Czarist stock certificates. One rear cover from a silver Audemars Frères pocket watch, with an inscription that reads, For F.M.R., from his loving parents, on his graduation from Bucharest University, June twenty-fifth, nineteen twenty-four. Magna est Veritas et prevalebit.’ “ Popov looks up, seeing nothing through the tears welling in his eyes. “That means, truth is mighty and will prevail.” He smiles weakly. “Perhaps that was so in nineteen twenty four. It was a very long time ago and I don’t remember. I used to have a motto. My motto was, ‘Nulla dies sine line a.’ That means, not a day without a line. That was before they … before they … that was before they destroyed all my … all my …”