Valley of Thracians (13 page)

Chapter
27

Things are tense between Boris and me.
In the mornings, I pass him in the hallway on my way to the bathroom, and I
fear that he is going to reach for my neck. His eyes watch me with a seething
hatred that almost brings me to pack my bags on the spot to depart for our
training headquarters in Vratsa. Just when I think Boris is about to explode,
Ralitsa pops out of her bedroom, issues a stern warning to her husband, and he
backs off.

I am seriously considering asking to
switch to another family, but so far I’ve hesitated to move on this. Maybe I’m
giving Boris a chance, believing that he is inherently a good person. Or
perhaps I’m just too lazy to ask for a substitution.

But one evening, something happens that
changes everything.

Ralitsa has gone out of her way to
prepare a mouth-watering dinner. There are the usual
shopska
and
snezhanka
salads
for starters, and then a warm and very agreeable monastery bean soup. This is
followed by a
gyuveche
oven-baked
casserole of cheese, meat, and vegetables. Even Rado, who is a fussy eater,
can’t help but ask for more. And Boris is in a relatively good mood, which
makes things much more pleasant for everyone.

“Drink
rakia
,” Boris says, mastering this short sentence in English. It’s
not a question, but more like a command, so I fill my small glass a third time
with the potent liquid that he brewed in the cellar.

“
Nazdrave
!”
I say, lifting my glass to his.

I’ve learned an important part about the
custom of making a toast in Bulgaria. It’s not enough to lift your glass and
simply say “
Nazdrave”
One must also
make full eye contact with each person you’re toasting. So, as I raise my glass
to Boris, I look him in the eye and find that, surprisingly, there is no hatred
there. Quite the opposite is true. Boris is smiling and indicating that I am
welcome in his home.

I clink my glass with Ralitsa’s as well,
and in her eyes, I see she is also a bit taken by Boris’s change in mood. Rado
lifts up a glass of Coca-Cola and knocks it against mine so roughly that it
spills carbonated soda all over the table, spotting the red-and-white
tablecloth and leaving drops of brown liquid on my plate.

“Rado!”
Boris says strongly, reprimanding his son. But there is no anger in his voice
when he turns to address me.

“What did he say?” I ask Ralitsa.

 
“He wants to talk to you about something after
dinner,” she says. “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s something he can’t
discuss at the table.”

“How will I understand him?” I ask,
fearing that Ralitsa will leave me alone with her husband.

“His friend, Vladimir, is coming over
tonight. Vlady, that’s what we call him, knows English. He will translate.”

“Okay,” I say. If Boris wants to talk to
me—and the subject matter does not concern any plans to kill me—I have no
problem with meeting Vlady.

Then dessert is served. Just when I
think I can’t pop another morsel of food into my mouth, Ralitsa brings a
platter of
baklava
to the table. The thin layers of cake are literally
dripping with honey. This treat is so sweet and irresistible that I have not
one, but two, big pieces. And then I am so full and my head is so quickly
spinning from the
rakia
that I can barely get up from my chair.

“
Ela
,”
Boris says, insisting that I follow him to the living room. We sit down and he
lights up a cigarette, and this time I don’t even mind the smoke.

There is a knock on the door, and a
minute later I am introduced to Vlady, who lives not far from Boris and Ralitsa.
I could be mistaken, but I think that this heavyset man is the same person who
drove the pickup truck to their house that night, delivering the shipment of
watches and helping store the boxes in the cellar.

“So, you are the American peace-lover?”
Vlady says, shaking my hand vigorously. He has a round face with a mischievous
grin. As friendly as he seems, I take an immediate strong disliking to the man.

“Not peace-lover. I’m a Peace Corps
volunteer,” I explain, correcting him and withdrawing my hand from his strong
grip.

“Peace Corps, peace-lover, same thing,”
he says. He accepts both a bottle of beer and a cigarette from my host father.
Nothing is offered to me, but I don’t mind. Vlady sits down on the lumpy sofa,
and I sit back in my chair, staring at the room’s one framed painting, the one
of the farmhouse covered in snow. I don’t have a clue where this conversation
is going.

For the longest time, Vlady stares at
me, not saying a word. He puffs silently on his cigarette, smoking in unison
with his neighbor. Finally, he turns to Boris and the two of them talk for a
while, knowing that I can’t understand a word they’re saying.

“Okay, peace-lover,” Vlady says to me at
last, his words accompanied by a burp that originated from his now-gone beer.
“We know all about you,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“We know about the drugs.”

“What?”

“We know about the drugs you have
stashed in your room. We know you smoke those, what you call them, joints. We
know you meet with that no-good gypsy in the town center to purchase the drugs.
We know everything.”

Had they followed me? Even Lance didn’t
know where I got our pot. And I took care to hide my stash in one of my dirty
socks so that Rado would never discover it. How did Vlady and Boris find out?
And more importantly, were they going to turn me in?

“Don’t worry, your secret is our
secret,” Vlady says with a smirk. “We won’t say a word to
anyone…conditionally.”

“Conditionally?”
What did Vlady mean by that, and how did he even know that word?

“How you pay for your drugs?” Vlady
asks, swiftly changing gears. “Where did you meet that gypsy? What do you pay
him? Do you trust him? He is not honest; gypsies never are.”

“What is this?” I ask, staring at him
and Boris. “Is this some sort of police interrogation?”

“No, no police,” Vlady says, and Boris
laughs at the one word he recognizes. “We don’t like police any more than you
do. We want to know how you can afford the drugs. You have enough money?”

“This is none of your damn business!” I
say, my voice cracking as I speak. My eyes are stinging from their cigarette
smoke, and my throat is dry. I start to rise to my feet, fighting the lingering
effects of the
rakia
.

“Sit, sit. We have a business for you,”
Vlady says, a mysterious grin lighting up his face. “We have something we want
you to do. You have no worries, no worries for money. You can buy what you
want, we don’t care. Would you like that?”

“What are you talking about? Boris?”

But my host father doesn’t answer me.
Even if he knew English, I’m not sure he would care to respond. Vlady seems to
have total control of this negotiation.

“Here’s the deal. We want you to work
with us, and we pay you. How you say it, we pay you handsome.”

“
Handsomely
,”
I reply without thinking. “That is the appropriate word.”

“Yes. What you say, peace-lover?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, slowing
rising to my feet, and this time not letting the homemade alcohol affect my
movements. “I’m not allowed to work for pay.”

“I think so,” Vlady replies with a firm
voice. “If you don’t help us, your little secret, which is none of our damn
business, might accidentally find its way to your peace-lover friends. What
would they say if they knew this about you?”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Blackmail, now, that is not very
pleasant word.”

There is nothing I can say. They have discovered
my secret and have cornered me into accepting their offer. It is,
unfortunately, an offer I can’t afford to refuse. If I decline, they will
report my drug use. I will be kicked out of the Peace Corps and sent back to
the States. I apparently have no choice but to accept, but what the hell am I
getting myself into?

This will be a one-time thing and then
it will be over, I assure myself. My period of living with my host family in
Montana is about to end. I will soon return to the training program in Vratsa,
and then I will be assigned elsewhere in Bulgaria. I will help them out this
time, do whatever they want so that I can safeguard my secret, and then I will
be rid of them once and for all. Fortunately, I will never see Vlady and Boris
again.

“Whatever,” I say reluctantly, not
realizing what will result from my stating this one word of acceptance.

Chapter
28

“We need your passport,” Vlady says
without hesitation. When I look at him to question what he means, his eyes
light up with a sense of impending adventure. “We need you to drive our truck.”

“Oh, no,” I say, starting to protest but
failing to find a suitable excuse.

“Oh, yes, peace-lover,” Vlady insists.
“You will drive our truck, and we will go together on a short trip. For you,
this is much better than going on big trip back to America, no?”

 
“Where are we going?” I ask with extreme
hesitation.

“We go to the border.”

“Which border?” He doesn’t respond. Are
we driving to Greece? Turkey? No, those countries are too far from here. We
must be going north, toward either Serbia or Romania, both of them not far from
Montana.

And there it is—my choice. Either I
serve as their driver on what appears to be a mission to deliver their smuggled
watches or they will report my drug habit to the Peace Corps, and I will find
myself on the next plane back to Los Angeles. I’m screwed if I agree to join
their illicit activities, and I’m screwed if I don’t.

They converse for some time, and then
Vlady stands and prepares to leave.

“When are we going?” I ask, wary of the
plan’s details but realizing that the sooner I know them, the better.

“We will tell you,” Vlady says, and then
he is gone.

Boris remains in his chair, smiling at
me. He is incapable of explaining anything further, so I get up and go to my
room.

What have I done? I lie on my bed and
stare at the ceiling, feeling sorry for myself. Tingles of tension shoot up my
nerves. I fear I’m getting mixed up in something that can only land me in
trouble—a load of trouble. Phrasing it that way when I am about to drive a load
of stolen goods to the border makes it all seem too humorous to be real. But
this is no laughing matter. I am going to do something undeniably illegal. I
fidget as I sense this looming danger approach. Bad things are ahead.

Then I realize that the only way I can
calm down is to get high. I reach under the bed and pull out the pair of wool
socks lying on the floor. How did Boris and Vlady know about my stash? Had they
come into my room and looked through my dirty laundry? They have cornered me, and
now I am at their mercy, about to commit a crime that is a thousand times worse
than smoking marijuana while serving in a Peace Corps training program.

A few minutes later a pleasant haze
settles over me, and I begin to relax. It won’t be so bad, I tell myself. I
will drive their truck to the border. I will help them with this job. They will
pay me, and that will be that. It’ll be okay, I convince myself before falling
asleep with a tired smile on my face.

In the morning, I set off for Bulgarian
classes as if nothing had happened. I join Boris at lunchtime for the spinach
burek
Ralitsa has prepared
for us, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s as if
our negotiations the previous night never took place. I return to the school
for the afternoon lessons and do my best to concentrate on the grammar. Lance
notices that something’s bothering me, but I shrug him off, refusing to tell
him anything about what’s going on between my host father and me.

In the evening, I join Rado at the
schoolyard, and we shoot baskets for a while. Rado insists that he’ll be
Bulgaria’s first international basketball star with a long career in the NBA.
My heart is not in the game, and I miss most of my shots.

Ralitsa helps me with my homework in the
evening, complimenting me on a composition that describes her house and lists
details of the tasty meals she has been cooking for me as her guest.

Boris goes off to a neighborhood pub,
and I decide to call it an early night, but I can’t fall asleep. I’m full of
worries about what my host father and his neighbor have planned. Maybe none of
this will happen after all. Time is running out; my days in Montana are
numbered. Perhaps I’ll return to Vratsa without having to do this dirty job of
theirs.

I finally drift off well after midnight
and sink into a cycle of disturbing dreams. I can’t figure out what they mean,
but I find myself struggling to break away, to escape a dark force that is
getting closer by the minute, threatening to engulf me and carry me away to
places unknown.

“Scott!” Someone is saying my name,
shaking me.

“What?” I have a hard time opening my
eyes. It is dark in the room and at first I can’t see anything. But then I
recognize the fruity aftershave that Boris often sprays on himself to hide his
alcoholic breath.

“
Haide
,
haide
,” he urges.

I know that word. It means to hurry up,
to come on. He stands in my room until I get out of bed, and only when I prove
to him that I’m getting dressed does he leave me alone.

It is pitch black outside. I don’t have
a clue what time it is, but I’m guessing it’s something like five in the
morning. Vlady is already there but doesn’t greet me. The two men drink from
paper cups. I refuse their offer of bitter coffee, knowing that it will just
upset my otherwise empty stomach.

The Bulgarians don’t say anything, but
the moment they finish their coffee I realize that it’s time to get going. I’m
the one who goes down the creaky cellar stairs to take out the cartons. I hand
them one by one to Boris at the top of the stairs, who delivers them to Vlady,
who stacks them on the open back of the pickup. The boxes aren’t that heavy,
but there are a lot of them. We work silently, efficiently. In a very short
time, the cellar is empty and the truck is loaded. Boris locks the cellar door,
and we’re ready to leave.

Vlady starts the ignition, and I sit
between the two men. They both smell like shit. Boris’s aftershave has fallen
victim to his predawn efforts. When I look at him, I see he hasn’t shaved in
days. I’ve grown accustomed to my host father’s rustic looks and ungodly odor,
but I’ve never sat this close to him before. I hold my breath, feeling
uncomfortable yet eager to get on our way so that all of this will be behind
me.

“So, where are we going?” I ask
pleasantly, trying to make light of the situation.

“Romania,” Vlady answers, and though I
should have known that something like this would be the reply, it still hits me
with brutal force, as if I’d been punched in the stomach. “You have passport?”
he asks, our entire journey contingent on my response.

“Yes.”

“Good. We go.”

And we are off. Vlady navigates through
the quiet, dark streets and sets our course for the highway outside the town.
Soon we are on the northbound road leading to Vidin.

I have studied the Bulgarian map and
know the country is bordered by Romania to the north and that the Danube River
separates the two. But I also know that the only bridge spanning this mighty
European river between the countries is located far to the east, connecting the
city of Ruse in Bulgaria to Giurgiu in Romania. Shouldn’t we be driving east? I
wonder.

We continue heading directly north.
After driving for just five minutes, Vlady swears under his breath, and Boris
straightens up, fully alert. I look ahead on the highway and see what has
disturbed the two men. Not far in the distance are the flashing blue lights of
a police car, pulled over to the side. And then I see the patrolman standing in
the center of the road, signaling for us to stop.

I can’t believe this is happening. We’re
transporting contraband from Bulgaria to Romania and the police have already
stopped us, just a short way into our journey. We’ll be arrested for sure! This
is far worse than getting caught smoking some weed. I don’t know what I fear
more—serving a sentence in a cold, dank Bulgarian jail cell or being deported
back to the States with a dishonorable discharge that will stain me for life.
In any case, we’re totally fucked.

Vlady pulls the truck over and rolls
down his window. The policeman approaches and eyes our truck with suspicion.
His tone is not threatening, but it certainly doesn’t sound like neighborly
pleasantries either. Vlady shrugs a lot, trying to convince the officer that we
are innocent merchants transporting our goods to market. I’m not sure if he is
successful in presenting our case.

The policeman looks at the boxes in the
back, and a knot forms in my stomach. Any second now he’ll discover that we’re
transporting a shipment of stolen watches. He’ll take our papers, confiscate my
American passport, and I’ll be on my way to jail. I wonder if I get a free
phone call. I wonder who I’ll call.

Vlady gets out of the truck and follows
the policeman around back. I watch them through the rearview mirror, which is
positioned just in front of me. The two men argue a bit, but neither one is
looking at the boxes we’re carrying. Boris sits in his seat, not moving, his
eyes fixed on the far horizon.

Finally, after five minutes that seem to
stretch out much longer, Vlady returns to the cab and the policeman goes back
to his car. Vlady switches on the ignition, mutters something to Boris, and
we’re on our way.

“What happened? What did you do?” I ask,
wondering what he had done to set us free.

“We negotiated the price,” Vlady says, a
smile returning to his face.

“The price?”

“Yes.
Only one hundred
leva.
Very cheap, I think.” He stares ahead while I watch the police car
getting steadily smaller in the rearview mirror.

Vidin is situated on the shores of the
Danube River, and I know little about the town. We continue about five
kilometers farther north, where I see a sign stating that we’ve reached the
International Dock, whatever that is. We get into a line of traffic heading
down to the river.

“Is there a bridge here?” I ask.

“Bridge?”
Vlady says, somewhat amused at my question. “One day there will be big bridge,
from Vidin to Romania.
Now, no bridge.
We go with
ferry.”

And then we switch places. This
apparently is their big plan. They want me, an American, to drive their truck
onto the ferry. They think that if an American citizen is the one driving there
will be little chance of a customs inspection. In truth, though, they don’t
have too much to worry about. As we’ve learned in our general introduction
courses, both Romania and Bulgaria have recently joined the European Union, and
there is mostly free trade between the two countries and the rest of Europe.

And this is indeed the case. The border
policeman inspects my driver’s license and my passport, as well as forged
documents produced by Vlady and Boris. The customs inspectors at this border
crossing seem indifferent to what we’re transporting in the truck. We pay the
fee, and I drive the truck onto the ferry.

I don’t recognize the boat as a ferry. I
guess it could be described more as a motorized raft. But it’s a big motorized
raft. There is room for a number of container trucks, passenger cars, and
medium-sized vehicles such as our pickup. I get out of the cabin as we pull
away from the Bulgaria dock. The early morning brings with it a light drizzle,
and I wipe the rain from my face as we begin to cross the mighty Danube.

Somehow I never pictured the famous
river as being an unexciting expanse of murky water with the distant Romanian
shoreline partially hidden in fog. My thoughts of the Danube were more
romantic, based on its association with Vienna and Budapest. The phrase “Danube
Waltz” comes to mind, as do brief memories of studying the music of Johann
Strauss sometime in my past. The Danube is Europe’s second-largest river, I
recall, and
its
most important international waterway
as well. Here it serves as Bulgaria’s northern border. In any case, it’s a much
wider body of water than I expected, and it takes about twenty drizzly minutes
to reach the Romanian side.

After the hurried actions of our predawn
departure, the tension I felt when we were stopped by the
police,
and the fear of having a customs inspection on one side of the Danube or the
other, our delivery of the watches to Vlady’s Romanian counterpart is a bit of
a letdown. It’s an anticlimax to our morning’s adventures, and I wonder why
this journey got me so worried in the first place.

We park the truck on the outskirts of
Calafat, flash our lights at another vehicle parked farther along the road, and
within minutes we’re transferring the boxes to a short flatbed truck. Without
exchanging more than a few words with the Romanian driver, we’re done with the
task. We drive back the way we came, arrive at the dock, and wait for the next
hourly ferry to cross the river and return us to Bulgaria.

We did it, I think, as we journey south
on the other side. My debt to Vlady and Boris for their secrecy has been paid.
I have no further obligations to these small-time smugglers. Now I can turn my
attention in earnest to the Bulgarian lessons and prepare for the next stage of
my training.

“That went well,” I remark to Vlady as
we near Montana.

“Not bad,” he admits. “Now we plan next
job.”