Tearless
Днес се замислих за живот и по-скоро за смъртта. Сетих се за нещо, което написах за един курс в университета. Случката е истинска и описва това, което се случи с моя приятелка, когато бяхме на 15. Извинявам се затова, че историята е на английски, но характерът на курса го изискваше, а в момента не разполагам с време да я преведа, пък тя си е дългичка.
Ето я и нея:
Tearless
A grim winter afternoon, dirty snow covers the sidewalks, its hue varying from light brown to dark gray. The dull sky threatens to fall down and smash the town, obliterating it from the face of earth. Silent pressure hovers in the air, as I bustle through the small streets together with my friend. She holds a bunch of red roses; I clutch a pair of carnations. She snivels while I stare at the ground in front of my feet. We don't talk. Milena's dead. We say nothing about it, as we hurry to her parents' apartment.
Still, there's a lot to talk about. Milena, our peer and former classmate, swallowed a handful of pills along with some gin at a famous local night club two days ago. She died on the spot. We don't know why she did it. We don't want to find out. A vivacious girl, she passed away at the age of fifteen, and we are intent on preserving her untainted image.
I glance around occasionally. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, life seems to go on. People carry dead pine trees and jam near-by stores to their utmost capacity. A pulseless fifteen-year-old cannot get in the way of the holiday spirit.
The huge throng outside the apartment block fails to impress me. Milena's mother teaches at our former school. Students and teachers from around the town have gathered on the playground in
front of the building. All cry, women howl occasionally. My friend
starts sobbing. Tears trickle down her face. I wonder what to do. I
distinguish a group of classmates standing next to the outer staircase,
but an inner urge keeps me from joining their grief. “Let's go inside,”
I tell my friend. She trots obediently behind me as I make my way
through the crowd.
We finally get to the inner part of the staircase, which is packed
with people. I climb the stairs resolutely and manage to reach the
apartment. On the last step, I see my former Literature teacher,
wearing her green woolen coat, as usual. Tears flood her face. She's
my favorite teacher. I nod to greet her. “Good afternoon, Despina,
good afternoon,” she says, as if not realizing that today those words
sound as an oxymoron.
The front door is wide open. I enter Milena's apartment for the
first time. Old women cluster in the corridor. We step into what
appears to be the living room. There, on a huge table that fills the
whole room sits the coffin, its upper lid removed. Within the coffin lies
Milena. Her eyes shut, a gold coin on her forehead, her body
surrounded by burning church candles. She looks fresh as ever. I stop
and stare for a moment. What happened to you, stupid, look at me and tell me, I want to scream. Instead, I put the pair of carnations next to the other flowers around the coffin's edges, catch a final glimpse of Milena, and move on. Images blur.
Outside we join the group of classmates, who seem inconsolable.
We stand and wait for the men to take the coffin out of the apartment
block. Time elapses. It starts raining. Soon, the rain turns into snow.
My eyes get wet, but I can't cry. “If you can't shed a tear for decency's
sake, you'd better go home,” my friend gets annoyed. I sigh, and I
stay. All I hear are sobbing voices. I can't make words out.
Finally, Milena's father and what seem to be other male
relatives take the coffin out. Its lid is closed now. I know I cannot see
her, yet my eyes search around the coffin’s glossy walls. “Where are
you taking her, leave her here, don't take her away,” an aunt howls at
Milena's father. Sobs from the crowd get louder. My throat contracts.
I gasp for air. Snow falls on my face and melts, wetting it as if I'm
crying. Milena's father, a tall man, is hunching. He looks emaciated.
“His hair turned gray overnight,” I hear a woman say.
The men take the coffin to a black mini-van and drive away.
Milena's going to be buried in a near-by village where her
grandparents live and where she loved to spend her time. My friend
hurries to catch the bus to be on time for the funeral. “Are you
coming,” she asks. “I need to go home,” I say.
But first I go to a small cafe with a couple of classmates. All of
us smoke, even those who usually don't. Their reddened eyes flash on their puffy faces. They talk little, just small talk. No one dares ask why Milena swallowed the pills. I stare dry-eyed at the wall, ashes falling off my cigarette. We depart.
I enter our living-room. “How was it,” my father asks me. “It
was sad, but I didn't cry,” I reply. “That's my girl,” he smiles. “I never
cry at funerals, either.” Then he goes to the kitchen to help my mother
do the cooking. It's Christmas Eve.
Ето я и нея:
Tearless
A grim winter afternoon, dirty snow covers the sidewalks, its hue varying from light brown to dark gray. The dull sky threatens to fall down and smash the town, obliterating it from the face of earth. Silent pressure hovers in the air, as I bustle through the small streets together with my friend. She holds a bunch of red roses; I clutch a pair of carnations. She snivels while I stare at the ground in front of my feet. We don't talk. Milena's dead. We say nothing about it, as we hurry to her parents' apartment.
Still, there's a lot to talk about. Milena, our peer and former classmate, swallowed a handful of pills along with some gin at a famous local night club two days ago. She died on the spot. We don't know why she did it. We don't want to find out. A vivacious girl, she passed away at the age of fifteen, and we are intent on preserving her untainted image.
I glance around occasionally. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, life seems to go on. People carry dead pine trees and jam near-by stores to their utmost capacity. A pulseless fifteen-year-old cannot get in the way of the holiday spirit.
The huge throng outside the apartment block fails to impress me. Milena's mother teaches at our former school. Students and teachers from around the town have gathered on the playground in
front of the building. All cry, women howl occasionally. My friend
starts sobbing. Tears trickle down her face. I wonder what to do. I
distinguish a group of classmates standing next to the outer staircase,
but an inner urge keeps me from joining their grief. “Let's go inside,”
I tell my friend. She trots obediently behind me as I make my way
through the crowd.
We finally get to the inner part of the staircase, which is packed
with people. I climb the stairs resolutely and manage to reach the
apartment. On the last step, I see my former Literature teacher,
wearing her green woolen coat, as usual. Tears flood her face. She's
my favorite teacher. I nod to greet her. “Good afternoon, Despina,
good afternoon,” she says, as if not realizing that today those words
sound as an oxymoron.
The front door is wide open. I enter Milena's apartment for the
first time. Old women cluster in the corridor. We step into what
appears to be the living room. There, on a huge table that fills the
whole room sits the coffin, its upper lid removed. Within the coffin lies
Milena. Her eyes shut, a gold coin on her forehead, her body
surrounded by burning church candles. She looks fresh as ever. I stop
and stare for a moment. What happened to you, stupid, look at me and tell me, I want to scream. Instead, I put the pair of carnations next to the other flowers around the coffin's edges, catch a final glimpse of Milena, and move on. Images blur.
Outside we join the group of classmates, who seem inconsolable.
We stand and wait for the men to take the coffin out of the apartment
block. Time elapses. It starts raining. Soon, the rain turns into snow.
My eyes get wet, but I can't cry. “If you can't shed a tear for decency's
sake, you'd better go home,” my friend gets annoyed. I sigh, and I
stay. All I hear are sobbing voices. I can't make words out.
Finally, Milena's father and what seem to be other male
relatives take the coffin out. Its lid is closed now. I know I cannot see
her, yet my eyes search around the coffin’s glossy walls. “Where are
you taking her, leave her here, don't take her away,” an aunt howls at
Milena's father. Sobs from the crowd get louder. My throat contracts.
I gasp for air. Snow falls on my face and melts, wetting it as if I'm
crying. Milena's father, a tall man, is hunching. He looks emaciated.
“His hair turned gray overnight,” I hear a woman say.
The men take the coffin to a black mini-van and drive away.
Milena's going to be buried in a near-by village where her
grandparents live and where she loved to spend her time. My friend
hurries to catch the bus to be on time for the funeral. “Are you
coming,” she asks. “I need to go home,” I say.
But first I go to a small cafe with a couple of classmates. All of
us smoke, even those who usually don't. Their reddened eyes flash on their puffy faces. They talk little, just small talk. No one dares ask why Milena swallowed the pills. I stare dry-eyed at the wall, ashes falling off my cigarette. We depart.
I enter our living-room. “How was it,” my father asks me. “It
was sad, but I didn't cry,” I reply. “That's my girl,” he smiles. “I never
cry at funerals, either.” Then he goes to the kitchen to help my mother
do the cooking. It's Christmas Eve.
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