A Spare Life (42 page)

I was obsessed with the idea, especially because Bogdan also wanted us to get married before I gave birth. “Perhaps in Brighton,” he said, but something pressed on my heart, and I said I didn't want to get married in Brighton, where there wasn't a single Orthodox church. “Then at St. Barnabas,” said Bogdan. “I'll find out when the Macedonian priest will be there and we can work something out.” He couldn't locate the priest for a long time. “Bogdan, let's go to Macedonia,” I said. “Let's get married there, have our children there.” But he answered, “Are you crazy? Everyone is fleeing Macedonia, but you want us to go there? You see what's happening there.”

When Bogdan told me he had found the priest and that he agreed to marry us on September 1, after the holiday of Saint Bogorodica, I was overcome with spite and said, “No! I don't want to get married in London! I don't want to give birth in London! I won't! I want to go home!” “Home?” repeated Bogdan. “This is our home.” “No,” I said. “This is where we live, but Macedonia is our home. That's where we were born, and that's where I want our children to be born.”

My obsession with Macedonia, the obsession to return at such a critical moment in our lives, was perhaps a post-master's–degree crisis. I don't know. But I simply felt our place was there, and it was there that I wanted to say, “I do.” It was there—really there, not in some improvised church—where I wanted to feel the bride's crown on my head, and give birth to our babies. For their first cry to be in Macedonian and for the midwife to say, “
Mašallah
! How beautiful they are.” And then, forty days later, the priest who had married us would christen them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and he would clip the babies' hair then hand them back to us—one to me, one to Bogdan. It was a film I saw playing, not merely flickering, before my eyes; it was so real to me, just what I dreamed of.

Toward the end of August, with my large belly I called the chapel of St. Barnabas on Manette street, to tell them that the September 1 wedding was canceled. Then I reserved plane tickets from London through Budapest to Sofia. There were no other routes available. Many flights to Skopje had been canceled due to the armed conflict in Macedonia, and foreign correspondents, observers, and guest workers who were working abroad and were worried about their families, were all trying to get there on the regularly scheduled flights, so I simply couldn't find two free seats through Munich or Ljubljana. I knew there were buses from Sofia to Skopje, and was certain we could find our way. I called Skopje and told my mother that we would be arriving on September 11, would be getting married, and would then live with them until after the birth so we could christen the children. “We have money,” I told her. “We'll pay for food and the bills. The room is empty anyway.” My mother replied, “A pregnant
woman needs to stay home and not go wandering around.” I acted as if I had not heard her, and just said, “The tickets have an open return. We can leave whenever we want.”

When Bogdan came home that day, I confronted him with my fait accompli. The wedding in London was canceled, which meant that if he really wanted us to get married, he would have to come with me to Skopje. “What can you possibly be thinking, traveling in your seventh month?” he asked. “Do you think they'll even let you on the plane?” “I'll wear a billowy dress,” I said, “I'll hide it somehow.” “And a bus ride on top of that? Couldn't you find a better flight rather than two planes and then have us banging around on a bus to Skopje?” “I'll tough it out,” I said.

Bogdan was angry and concerned. It was rare that I displayed such willfulness without trying to reach a decision with him. He was upset, and that whole evening, he flipped through the TV channels without speaking to me. “Just so you know, I can't stay in Skopje long. I have to get back. The quiz show is most likely going to begin taping in two months,” he said, after his long silence. “That means, just until the babies are born,” I told him, then added, “It's not a problem, you can come back if that's what you need to do.” “So that's okay with you? You would stay there without me, married with two babies, at your mother's, waiting for the christening! Rather than give birth here normally, and then for us to go to Skopje for a visit later after everything has settled down…” “Bogdan, please…please,” I begged. That irritated him even more. He took his computer and left, slamming the door. That night, he came home very late, just before dawn. He was calm. As if he'd made peace with his fate.

I bought a colorful, billowy, Asian-print dress, which spilled freely over my belly. It was black with red flowers, and made me look a bit thinner, lengthening my belly rather than emphasizing its width. We each packed our own bag. Mine was lighter than his because he wouldn't, of course, travel without his laptop. Ours was the first flight on the morning of September 11. At the airport, the clerk gave me a strange look, staring right at my stomach. “What month are you in?” she asked. “The fourth,” I said. “The fourth? Why is your belly so big?” “I'm carrying twins,” I said, but she still looked at me in disbelief, measuring my belly with her gaze. She was probably wishing she could snap a picture of what a woman looked like in her fourth month of pregnancy with twins. Maybe I really was in my fourth month. She didn't know how big the belly of a pregnant woman got when she was carrying two babies. Even though she had her doubts, she let me on the plane. In Budapest, there was just enough time for me to buy a miniature Givenchy perfume set so I could give a small bottle to my mother, one to Aunt Milka, one to Lenče, and one to Verče. I had already bought my father a pen with
London
on it. As we boarded the plane, a young gate agent said, “Ma'am, you can't travel. It's quite obvious you're far along in your pregnancy.” I tried to convince him, but then Bogdan lied for the first time. He told him that I was in my fourth month carrying twins, which was why my belly was so big, and I had already traveled from London to Budapest with no problems. The man requested a letter from a doctor, adding that I couldn't fly without one. I didn't have a letter. It occurred to me that I had my health book from England, but inside, it clearly stated what month I was in. I told him I didn't have anything with me. “That is so irresponsible!” he shouted. “That is so irresponsible. You're pregnant, traveling to Sofia, and you don't even have a doctor's letter or health card with you. You're risking your own life and the life of your babies, and you could care less!” More passengers and agents, mostly women, clustered around us. They sized me up; one agent who wanted to see how big I really was beneath the dress even touched my stomach. This totally infuriated me. Only Bogdan was allowed to touch my belly, in which our two twins floated. The belly of a pregnant woman is sacred territory. A new
life—two new lives—were growing inside. And now some nameless person wanted to measure those two lives with her hands. Instinctively, I pushed her hand away and began shouting at everyone to leave me alone. The pilot, copilot, and flight attendants were walking past us onto the plane. The pilot looked at me for a long time, trying to read me and see what was hidden behind my glasses. He said, “Let her on. My wife gave birth at home, so I have experience with women in late pregnancy. If we have to, we'll deliver the babies.” Then he gave a rather crude laugh, ducking through the employees' entrance with his coworkers. The other airport employees then left me in peace.

The flight was pleasant. Our babies kicked me every which way, and each time I would bolt up from my seat like a shot. Bogdan watched me constantly, keeping a vigilant eye, as if that could somehow prevent any complications. When we got to the airport in Sofia, there was unbelievable chaos. We waited a long time for our bags. The bus for Skopje was scheduled to leave in an hour and a half. That was just enough time for us to take a taxi to the bus station. We finally got our bags. Bogdan dragged both of them, and we climbed into the first taxi we saw for the bus station. The taxi driver demanded double the usual fare. He swore and shouted, “
Macedonians
—whatever that means. As if there is such a thing. I can't understand people who don't even know what they are. What Macedonians are is Bulgarian.” When we arrived, we gave him the money he demanded and got out. As the driver pulled away, he raised something he was holding in his hand, but he took off so fast we couldn't see what it was. I reached into my dress pocket. I didn't have my icon. The wide pocket of my dress was flat. It must have fallen out in the taxi. And, apparently, the driver noticed it on the seat and raised his fist so that we could see, but didn't stop, angry because of our argument in the taxi. He had simply chosen not to give it back to us. Quickly he disappeared down the narrow streets. Without thinking, I set off after him, but Bogdan stopped me. It was useless. We wouldn't find him. It was one of those illegal Sofia taxis whose driver uses a fake taxi plate and doesn't belong to any company. My icon of Saint Zlata Meglenska, who had been my inseparable, indivisible companion since childhood, was gone forever. I sat on my suitcase and wept. For my whole life I had been connected with that small chipped icon. And now it was no more. It would likely meet its end tossed out of the taxi's window into a dump, or resting in the glove compartment under the driver's documents and chewing gum. No one would ever love it as I had. But that was already in the past… We needed to catch the bus for Skopje. We barely found two empty seats next to each other. Just as we left, the driver turned up the volume on the radio, and we heard that something terrible had happened in New York—an airplane had hit the World Trade Center. The announcer's voice was shaking, and although we didn't really
know Bulgarian, Bogdan and I understood that the twin towers in New York had been destroyed, there were many dead, and the greatest terrorist act in the world had just occurred. Everyone listened to the report. Conversations fell silent as we all focused on the radio by the driver's seat, all of our ears pricked. We were all shocked, in our own way. There were remarks, exclamations of disbelief, astonishment, shock, and some, also, of joy. A passenger near the back of the bus shouted in Macedonian, “It's what they deserved.” And someone from the middle responded in Bulgarian, “Right you are, brother. Let them get a taste of it, too.” I pressed close to Bogdan, twining his hands around my middle. We whispered to each other about how terrible, how simply unbelievable it was. From the shock of this news, I almost forgot about the loss of my icon.

We slowly made our way to the Bulgarian–Macedonian border. On the Bulgarian side, the driver stopped, switched off his engine, and collected five German marks from each passenger. Bogdan and I didn't have any marks, so we gave him ten pounds, which seemed like a lot to us, but he said that's how it worked if we wanted to get across the border quickly: he'd give the border guard the money and they would let us go, or we could wait at the border for two to three hours. And after what had just happened in the States, it would likely be longer.

It happened exactly like that. The border guard examined our documents, took the money, and let us go through without customs control. A long column of vehicles wound ahead of us, and the bus crawled through the zone between the Bulgarian and Macedonian borders. I could see the Macedonian flag billowing on a small white building. Outside the building stood a cluster of police and dogs. Bogdan, who was sitting anxiously by the window, nearly shouted, “Look over there. Look how many dogs there are!” Other passengers on the bus were also shouting, still in shock from the news of the attack in New York. It appeared that something was happening at the Macedonian border. Suddenly, a man was standing right beside my seat. He was a passenger on the bus, dressed in a black leather jacket, white tee shirt, blue jeans. He had a dark complexion, several days worth of stubble on his chin, uncombed greasy black hair that was disheveled and pushed to the side. He was holding a package about the size of a box of cookies wrapped up in brown tape. With no introduction, he began talking quickly: “Take this. Jesus Christ. Take it already. Stuff it under your dress!” I looked at him, shocked. “Go on, stuff it under your dress. It's big enough. Don't look at me like that, you whore, stuff it in there before I do it myself!” He was shouting and pushing the package at me. “What's that look for? I'm talking to you!” Although he was panic-stricken, I recognized his voice. He had been the one who responded to the news from New York by calling out from the back of the bus, “It's what they deserved.” Bogdan grabbed the package and threw it to the ground, shouting, “Stop it, you idiot!” The man, nearly mad with rage, turned bright red, bent down, grabbed the package, and, as he was straightening up, pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade flashed before the stunned passengers. Everyone turned toward us. I don't know how Bogdan's body found its way on top of mine, but at the last second I heard Bogdan's cry and the passengers' shrieks. The driver hit the brakes, and the bus came to a halt. I pushed Bogdan off of me. Then I saw the knife plunged in his chest, and while everyone around me screamed and jumped up, my cry lodged in my throat and I was lost in darkness. I lost myself from time and space.

I came to in a small hospital room. They told me I was in Skopje. Everything with the babies was fine. I felt my stomach. They kicked at me. For a moment, I fell into a kind of bliss, but the next instant, I jolted: “What about Bogdan?” Silence. Just like in a movie, the nurse didn't know what to say. “The young man…” I understood. Once again I fell, sinking into myself, into my own grave. I don't know if I was in the hospital for hours, days, or months. I came fully awake the day two police officers came into the room. They were kind. One was younger; the other had gray hair. They expressed their condolences and asked me how I was. “When is your due date?” I couldn't remember. They told me they had been following the whole incident, and the killer was in jail. He was captured immediately, right at the border. A “known criminal,” they said, “dealing in drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, and now a murderer as well. He won't get less than twenty years in prison!” There had been drugs in the package. “Where's Bogdan's body?” I mustered the strength to ask, and they told me it was already in the morgue. When I was better, I would be able to bury him. “Does his mother know?” I asked, and they told me she knew. It had been their duty to notify her. She was shocked, but had said she couldn't come. “We barely understood each other,” they said. “She couldn't find the words in Macedonian.” “Your parents know, too,” they said. For a minute, no one spoke. Then the older one said, “We are here to ask you about something, but you're the one asking us questions.” He meant it as a joke, but I was confused and in an exhausted dreamlike state, likely caused by sedatives. “What?” I asked. They told me it had also been their duty to examine and confiscate our luggage along with the killer's. Everything had been sent for expert analysis, including Bogdan's laptop. “We found something we can't explain,” the older policeman continued. “There were thirty files on your partner's laptop with falsified passports. And in your suitcase, in the large folder containing the ultrasound photo of your babies, were the passports of four Macedonian citizens, but not Macedonian passports, falsified British ones.” He fell silent. I looked at him, stunned. Then he added, “There weren't any passports in his suitcase, just in yours.” I kept staring at him, but nothing made
sense. I was too weak to grasp what he was saying, but somewhere, as if through a tunnel, my mind went back to the time in London when I came across the file with passport data. Bogdan had assured me that it was for the new quiz show, and I had believed him. Now Bogdan was dead, and I decided to keep believing in him until the day I died. “They were for a show that Bogdan was pitching to the BBC,” I said. The officers looked at me quizzically, surprised and sympathetically. “The passports had already been counterfeited,” the younger one said. “We found the people in our international database. Counterfeiting passports is a felony. You're being charged for being an accomplice and for the cover-up. Do you understand what's happening? What's happened?” the older officer asked me paternally. I didn't. I was only aware of one thing: I lost Bogdan on that bus, Bogdan had died, the man with the package had killed him, and had I taken the package, Bogdan would still be alive.