Schorpil were the first Bulgarian archaeologists. They searched the shattered walls of time to find our past and rescue it from the abyss of oblivion. But after that—ach. You know the story of the Cyclops?”
“From the Odyssey ?”
“No. The Bulgarian Cyclops. An archaeologist hired some gypsies to help dig a tomb. They dug so fast, so hard, that a pickaxe went through a skull. Most of the skull was rotted away.”
“Could be the tomb was in a limestone area,” Chatham said. “Limestone leaches out the calcium from buried bone.”
“Be that as it may, the pickaxe left a small hole in the middle of the forehead, and the archaeologist concluded that he had clear evidence of the existence of a Cyclops. He published a paper about it.”
“Did anyone take it seriously?”
“A few years later, someone sent him a large package. Inside the package was another, and inside that yet another. And another and another, until at last he found a small box, like the kind they use for a jewel. Inside that was a fish scale and a note that said, ‘Evidence of mermaids in the Black Sea.’”
Dimitar paused. Chatham knew he was expected to laugh, so he did.
Dimitar sighed and laid the cigarette in the ashtray, watching the smoke curl through the room as it burned down to ash.
“I see you like my sister. If you want to make a good impression on her, if you want to remain my friend, you will pay attention to the Thracian hoard.”
So that was his game, Chatham thought. “You want me to buy it for the museum? I can’t. Only the board of directors of the museum can make that decision.”
“No, no,” Dimitar said and moved uncomfortably in his chair.
Both men sat upright in their chairs, arms folded, waiting for the other to speak. Occasionally Dimitar nodded to himself, as if agreeing with some thought. At last, they heard a key in the lock.
“She’s back,” Dimitar said and went into the kitchen. Chatham listened to their muted voices punctuated by kitchen sounds—the clatter of plates, the scrape of drawers opening and closing. They emerged in a few minutes, balancing platters with bread, sliced cheese and sausage, tomatoes, roasted red peppers.
“Come, eat,” Irena said and sat in the chair next to Chatham and put two pieces of bread on his plate. “Eat as you would at home.”
“You are too hospitable,” Chatham said with a slight bow.
Dimitar said, “Of course we are hospitable. We all say welcome, welcome with your money, dirty or not.”
Irena gave her brother a sad smile. “Things could be worse.” She sat with her arm extended, as if she were looking for something. “Wine,” she said after a while. “I forgot the wine.”
She pushed away from the table and went back to the kitchen. Chatham watched her, fascinated by the sensuous stride of her long legs, by the supple movement of her hips.
“Maybe we get help from America,” Dimitar was saying. “Maybe NATO. I would like to see Bulgaria become a member of NATO.”
Irena returned carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses. Chatham watched as her dress fell loosely from her shoulders when she bent over to pour the wine while Dimitar droned on.
“NATO is corrupt too, of course, but the right kind of corruption. I would like to see a new people finally—finally—come to oppress the Bulgarians instead of the Russians and Germans.”
Irena lifted her glass. “It is not so bad. We have fine Bulgarian wine.” She reached over and clinked glasses with Chatham. “To our friendship.” She smiled at Chatham and leaned toward him when she put down her glass. “My brother is bitter. Things are hard here. You must excuse him.”
“How do you make a living?” Chatham asked him.
Dimitar shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that.”
“My brother is very good with his hands. He has a shop where he repairs clocks, and he has a dental laboratory. Neither does well, but between the two, we can keep food on the table.”
“Thanks for my
“From the Odyssey ?”
“No. The Bulgarian Cyclops. An archaeologist hired some gypsies to help dig a tomb. They dug so fast, so hard, that a pickaxe went through a skull. Most of the skull was rotted away.”
“Could be the tomb was in a limestone area,” Chatham said. “Limestone leaches out the calcium from buried bone.”
“Be that as it may, the pickaxe left a small hole in the middle of the forehead, and the archaeologist concluded that he had clear evidence of the existence of a Cyclops. He published a paper about it.”
“Did anyone take it seriously?”
“A few years later, someone sent him a large package. Inside the package was another, and inside that yet another. And another and another, until at last he found a small box, like the kind they use for a jewel. Inside that was a fish scale and a note that said, ‘Evidence of mermaids in the Black Sea.’”
Dimitar paused. Chatham knew he was expected to laugh, so he did.
Dimitar sighed and laid the cigarette in the ashtray, watching the smoke curl through the room as it burned down to ash.
“I see you like my sister. If you want to make a good impression on her, if you want to remain my friend, you will pay attention to the Thracian hoard.”
So that was his game, Chatham thought. “You want me to buy it for the museum? I can’t. Only the board of directors of the museum can make that decision.”
“No, no,” Dimitar said and moved uncomfortably in his chair.
Both men sat upright in their chairs, arms folded, waiting for the other to speak. Occasionally Dimitar nodded to himself, as if agreeing with some thought. At last, they heard a key in the lock.
“She’s back,” Dimitar said and went into the kitchen. Chatham listened to their muted voices punctuated by kitchen sounds—the clatter of plates, the scrape of drawers opening and closing. They emerged in a few minutes, balancing platters with bread, sliced cheese and sausage, tomatoes, roasted red peppers.
“Come, eat,” Irena said and sat in the chair next to Chatham and put two pieces of bread on his plate. “Eat as you would at home.”
“You are too hospitable,” Chatham said with a slight bow.
Dimitar said, “Of course we are hospitable. We all say welcome, welcome with your money, dirty or not.”
Irena gave her brother a sad smile. “Things could be worse.” She sat with her arm extended, as if she were looking for something. “Wine,” she said after a while. “I forgot the wine.”
She pushed away from the table and went back to the kitchen. Chatham watched her, fascinated by the sensuous stride of her long legs, by the supple movement of her hips.
“Maybe we get help from America,” Dimitar was saying. “Maybe NATO. I would like to see Bulgaria become a member of NATO.”
Irena returned carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses. Chatham watched as her dress fell loosely from her shoulders when she bent over to pour the wine while Dimitar droned on.
“NATO is corrupt too, of course, but the right kind of corruption. I would like to see a new people finally—finally—come to oppress the Bulgarians instead of the Russians and Germans.”
Irena lifted her glass. “It is not so bad. We have fine Bulgarian wine.” She reached over and clinked glasses with Chatham. “To our friendship.” She smiled at Chatham and leaned toward him when she put down her glass. “My brother is bitter. Things are hard here. You must excuse him.”
“How do you make a living?” Chatham asked him.
Dimitar shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that.”
“My brother is very good with his hands. He has a shop where he repairs clocks, and he has a dental laboratory. Neither does well, but between the two, we can keep food on the table.”
“Thanks for my
Similar Books
