Ivanka Mogilska has five published books: the short story collection "This land, that land" (Janet 45, 2017); novels "Hideaways" and "Sudden Streets" (Janet 45, 2007, 2013); and two poetry collections "Otherwise" and "DNA" (Janet 45, 2010, 2004), each one with a national award - for poetry debut and for poetry book of the year from young author. Some of her works are translated into English, French, Hungarian, Russian, Farsi and Bangla. She lives in Sofia, works as a copywriter freelancer and takes part as a writer and performer in art actions and performances of Bulgarian digital artists and musicians.
UNNOTICED BY ANYONE
Death was a messy little miss with small feet—she had scattered the luggage in the middle of the bridge, taken whatever she needed, and left.
Nevena and Iskren caught sight of a light blue flip-flop, which lay strewn on the road. Then a white shirt glumly waved at them with a dirty sleeve. The flipped-over suitcase lay further down on the lane, with a pair of shorts sticking out of it. And finally, pushed as far to the side of the road as possible, they saw the car—its front was smashed in, its windows were broken, and there were dark stains on the ground around it.
When they had first driven onto the Vasco da Gama Bridge over the TejoRiver, it was still light, and they were certain they’d get to Lisbon by early evening. This, according to Nevena, was very romantic. They didn’t know yet that death was already standing in the middle of the bridge and picking out a car, with which to ride into the city that night.
The Tejo wasn’t your average river—it looked like a sea that hadn’t quite fully grown. The two of them kept turning their heads left and right—Iskren more cautiously, since he was driving, while Nevena did it with excitement and astonishment—and they counted the boats. One, two, three boats—they were so small that it made one wonder whether they had sailed to this spot in the river on their own, or whether they’d always been there, like flecks on a festive garment. (Later, Nevena would try to remember their color but they kept appearing before her eyes as black, with a single boatman apathetically leaning on his oar in each one.) Suddenly, a light gray twilight blurred their outlines and they faded, as if someone had taken it upon himself to clean all the human traces from the Tejo’s garment.
While Iskren was checking whether the headlights were on, Nevena was already anticipating sinking into the cool hotel sheets and falling asleep on his shoulder. Every once in a while, she glanced in awe at the steel ropes that held the Vasco da Gama Bridge. Death was still standing in the middle of the bridge, in her final moments of hesitation. Darkness was soon going to lean over and take the river into its embrace, and there was no time to waste. So she made her choice.
The lights came on. Nevena started telling Iskren about how the bridge was actually a necklace made of fake fireflies that hung around a sea monster’s neck. She didn’t notice that the cars around them were getting more numerous and starting to move slower and slower. Just as she was about to get mad at him for not listening to her carefully, they came to a halt. Through the windshield in front of them, all they could see were rows and rows of cars headed in the same direction. Through the side windows, an inky nothingness. They moved forward slightly, then stopped again. They waited. The other drivers started coming out of their cars and stretching their necks forward. They asked one another what was going on, shrugged their shoulders, then went back into their cars. The less patient ones tried to squeeze through the stopped cars, but failed. Everything came to a standstill.
Death had gotten what she needed in seconds and now sat on top of the bridge railing with her feet hanging over the water and waited for the police and the ambulance to arrive. They would have to clear away the no longer needed belongings and take her into the city. She knew they’d try to get there as fast as possible, but she didn’t hold human capacity in any great esteem, so she armed herself with patience. Even the rumor of her own arrival hadn’t yet reached the spot where Nevena and Iskren sat waiting. And it wasn’t even that far.
The two of them sat in the car. The Tejo had disappeared. Inits place now there was only darkness, which enveloped them with both arms and seemed to have no intention of letting go. Iskren drummed on the steering wheel with his fingers, ready to drive on at any moment and make up for the lost time. Nevena was pouting and complaining about how they should’ve set out earlier and not used up so much time getting sidetracked along the way, as to get to Lisbon on time and be able to take a walk around the city, rather than wasting their first night being stuck on some bridge, even if that bridge was the longest in Europe.
Shortly before they got into a fight, the policemen arrived and started clearing off the area, while the ambulance picked death up and drove off with a wail.
By the time they were already screaming at each other about something that had nothing to do with their missed out evening in Lisbon, the policemen pushed the smashed car to the side and freed up the road to the rest of the vehicles. The column moved ahead. Iskren focused on the road, while Nevena sulked and stared out the window. Тhey were crawling along at the speed of two street lamps per minute, but at least they were moving. By the time they drove by the mess she had left behind on the bridge, death was already entering the city.
The tense silence in the car was replaced by a silence containing a mixture of wonder, fear, and relief that they hadn’t set off earlier and that they had gotten sidetracked along the way.
Soon, Lisbon—lying stretched out along the hills, lazy and arrogant—appeared before them. Nevena felt as if, while bidding her goodbye and before sending her off into the city’s thousand lights, the darkness had punched her straight in the solar plexus. As she breathed in, she prayed for the Tejo to not be a sea that hadn’t fully grown, but a river of oblivion, and for the memory of the milky twilight to erase the thought that on the streets of this city that they were in such a hurry to get to, death was nowwalking around, unnoticed by anyone.
Translated from the Bulgarian by Ekaterina Petrova
The book “Black Sea Upanishad” recounts the past three years of the globe-trotting writer and poet’s life. Here we find him a happy hermit in Sozopol.
Where the writer sees clear signs that the peripheral languages are becoming more central
The writer of childhood among library shelves, reading in grandma's yard and the pinnacle of fiction
