flourish, feeling gallant and generous.
“Oh, no, not necessary,” Dimitar said as Irena reached for the twenty leva note and stashed it in her purse. She told Chatham to sit, to make himself at home, to speak with Dimitar, to get acquainted. Then she left.
Chatham and Dimitar sat near the table in the ladder-back chairs, not quite facing each other. They looked at the table, at their fingers, out the window at the cloudless sky. Chatham felt the sharp edge from the corner of the chair press into his thigh, and moved his leg. He glanced at Dimitar, seeking some resemblance to Irena in Dimitar’s once-handsome face. A network of tiny broken veins gave his cheeks a pink tinge. Broken by time and slivovitz, Chatham thought.
Dimitar reached into his pocket, took out a package of Rothmans, and offered one to Chatham. Chatham shook his head and waved the cigarette away with thanks. Dimitar stood up, brought an ashtray to the table, and sat down again.
“Cigarettes are expensive in Bulgaria?” Chatham asked.
“Everything is expensive.” He flourished the cigarette in the air between two fingers. “Other countries have a brain drain. In Bulgaria we have a money drain. A bank drain. All the money in Bulgaria is in the treasury of the Deutsche Bank.”
He lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, laid it in the ashtray, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and began talking in a low voice. “Our peasants were wise, were small landowners. We were the breadbasket of Europe. This nation fed the Deutsche army during World War II. Then came the Communists. The Communist dictators owned the country and behaved as if they were always there, before the mountains, before the sun, before the earth was created. The first generation were idealists, the second generation went abroad and wanted to become rich. And they discovered how to do it. They discovered corruption.”
He sat back in his chair, sighed, and nodded his head as if savoring the full extent of their duplicity.
“And then came freedom. Communists disappeared. They turned into men who wanted to become rich. It was easy. They already knew corruption.”
He shrugged, his hands held in front of him, palms up, while the cigarette smoke floated around him like a cloud.
“It’s not a plot. There is no scenario. But what discipline they use. So smooth, the money disappears.”
“Smuggled out of the country?” Chatham asked.
“Smuggling? That’s the only way to make a living. But no one has reported even a single gram of drugs smuggled, not a single artifact.” His eyes followed the smoke from his cigarette, pluming upward and toward the window. “In Bulgaria we have two moralities, a small morality and a big morality.”
“Dual standards?”
“We don’t have dual standards. We don’t have any standards.”
Dimitar fell silent, tipping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. He held the cigarette upright between his fingers and watched it burn. “We will come back from the ashes. Every house will be rebuilt stone by stone, man by man,” he said, and stopped talking.
Chatham waited, his back straight against the chair, his hands in his lap.
“Your sister is very beautiful,” he finally said into the silence.
“I know. We are the descendents of Thracians. They say the Thracians were handsome people. And the Thracian hoard, the one you saw on the train. That is also handsome. Is that why you came?”
Chatham didn’t know how to answer. Certainly he couldn’t say that he came to rescue Irena. Rescue her from what?
“I am, after all, an archaeologist,” he said.
“Archaeologists, ach. I know about archaeologists. We have a tradition here in Bulgaria. We know archaeologists are fools.”
Chatham bristled. “You mean the search for the Golden Fleece? For Jason and the Argonauts?” And for a moment Chatham wondered if the beautiful Irena was a descendant of the terrible Medea.
“No, no, worse than that,” Dimitar said. “The brothers
“Oh, no, not necessary,” Dimitar said as Irena reached for the twenty leva note and stashed it in her purse. She told Chatham to sit, to make himself at home, to speak with Dimitar, to get acquainted. Then she left.
Chatham and Dimitar sat near the table in the ladder-back chairs, not quite facing each other. They looked at the table, at their fingers, out the window at the cloudless sky. Chatham felt the sharp edge from the corner of the chair press into his thigh, and moved his leg. He glanced at Dimitar, seeking some resemblance to Irena in Dimitar’s once-handsome face. A network of tiny broken veins gave his cheeks a pink tinge. Broken by time and slivovitz, Chatham thought.
Dimitar reached into his pocket, took out a package of Rothmans, and offered one to Chatham. Chatham shook his head and waved the cigarette away with thanks. Dimitar stood up, brought an ashtray to the table, and sat down again.
“Cigarettes are expensive in Bulgaria?” Chatham asked.
“Everything is expensive.” He flourished the cigarette in the air between two fingers. “Other countries have a brain drain. In Bulgaria we have a money drain. A bank drain. All the money in Bulgaria is in the treasury of the Deutsche Bank.”
He lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, laid it in the ashtray, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and began talking in a low voice. “Our peasants were wise, were small landowners. We were the breadbasket of Europe. This nation fed the Deutsche army during World War II. Then came the Communists. The Communist dictators owned the country and behaved as if they were always there, before the mountains, before the sun, before the earth was created. The first generation were idealists, the second generation went abroad and wanted to become rich. And they discovered how to do it. They discovered corruption.”
He sat back in his chair, sighed, and nodded his head as if savoring the full extent of their duplicity.
“And then came freedom. Communists disappeared. They turned into men who wanted to become rich. It was easy. They already knew corruption.”
He shrugged, his hands held in front of him, palms up, while the cigarette smoke floated around him like a cloud.
“It’s not a plot. There is no scenario. But what discipline they use. So smooth, the money disappears.”
“Smuggled out of the country?” Chatham asked.
“Smuggling? That’s the only way to make a living. But no one has reported even a single gram of drugs smuggled, not a single artifact.” His eyes followed the smoke from his cigarette, pluming upward and toward the window. “In Bulgaria we have two moralities, a small morality and a big morality.”
“Dual standards?”
“We don’t have dual standards. We don’t have any standards.”
Dimitar fell silent, tipping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. He held the cigarette upright between his fingers and watched it burn. “We will come back from the ashes. Every house will be rebuilt stone by stone, man by man,” he said, and stopped talking.
Chatham waited, his back straight against the chair, his hands in his lap.
“Your sister is very beautiful,” he finally said into the silence.
“I know. We are the descendents of Thracians. They say the Thracians were handsome people. And the Thracian hoard, the one you saw on the train. That is also handsome. Is that why you came?”
Chatham didn’t know how to answer. Certainly he couldn’t say that he came to rescue Irena. Rescue her from what?
“I am, after all, an archaeologist,” he said.
“Archaeologists, ach. I know about archaeologists. We have a tradition here in Bulgaria. We know archaeologists are fools.”
Chatham bristled. “You mean the search for the Golden Fleece? For Jason and the Argonauts?” And for a moment Chatham wondered if the beautiful Irena was a descendant of the terrible Medea.
“No, no, worse than that,” Dimitar said. “The brothers
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