Valley of Thracians (18 page)

Chapter
36

She is in her mid-thirties, with a
slender figure, curly brown hair, and a pleasant, friendly face. Her eyes are
green, and they twinkle when she speaks to me. Her English is very good, with
only the slightest traces of a Bulgarian accent. I find myself attracted to
her, which surprises me due to our age difference.

Her name is Katya, and she is Boris’s
sister. She has been assigned the task of accompanying me on the bus trip to
Varna in the guise of an innocent travel companion. The Adidas gym bag
containing the precious treasure is on the seat between us, and we’re sitting a
few seats back from the driver. I find it easy to talk to Katya. Maybe this
journey won’t be so bad after all.

“I studied in Sofia,” she tells me. “I
majored in pharmacology at the Medical University.”

“What’s that?” I ask. Did she just say
something about farms?

“Pharmacology.
It’s the medical field that explores the interactions between living organisms,
for example human beings and the drugs they take. Chemicals affect the
biological systems of people, and pharmacologists understand this and search
for substances that improve functionality.”

“So, basically it’s the study of drugs,”
I say.

When she admits that this is true, I
laugh to myself. Here I am, an addict who can’t control his dope habits, and
I’m stuck on a long bus ride with a woman scholar who majored in how drugs
affect the human body.

“In my studies, I focused on chemical
agents providing therapeutic value and their potential toxicity on biological
systems.”

“Toxicity?”

“Yes, that refers to the harmful or
possible toxic effects of drugs.”

“So, if I needed to poison someone, I
would come to you,” I joke.

“We were not taught to develop poisons,”
she responds, quite seriously. “We consider drug safety levels for human
consumption, determining how stable potential new medicines would be in the
human body, and what their best delivery form would be—for example, if they
should come in tablet form.”

“So, if you’re an expert in all of that,
what are you doing living in this remote part of Bulgaria?” I asked. “Montana
seems a bit small for any practical use of pharmacology knowledge.”

“My brother and his family live there. I
live in a village not far from the town. That is where we are from, our
family.”

When she pauses, something funny comes
to mind. If Ralitsa is my host mother, and Boris is my host father, what does
that make Katya? Is she my host aunt?

“Surely you can’t get work as a
pharmacist in a small village,” I say, hoping this came out politely.

“Pharmacologist, not pharmacist,” she
replies. “Everyone makes that mistake. I don’t work in a pharmacy, dispensing
medicines to patients bringing in their doctors’ prescriptions. I am a
pharmacologist, studying the effects of drugs. Even so, you are right. There
isn’t much work for a pharmacologist in the countryside.”

Again she pauses, but after a few
moments she continues without need for encouragement. “Our mother lives in the
village, and she is quite ill. I moved back to the village to care for her, as
she needs constant attention.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I think
differently about Boris for a minute. Even petty criminals like him have
mothers.

“Do you and Boris get along?” she asks
me unexpectedly.

“Well, to tell you the truth, not
really,” I say, hopeful that I’m not hurting her feelings by saying this. “We
don’t talk that much, seeing as he doesn’t speak English at all.” I was
hesitant about divulging any of my altercations with her brother. “I get along
better with Ralitsa,” I quickly added.

“He’s not really a bad person,” she
says, touching my arm as if to force her point. “He does what he needs to do to
care for his family,” she adds.

I have an urge to discuss with her the
things I’ve seen Boris do.
The stolen goods in the cellar.
The smuggling trips with Vlady.
The possible murder of a
customs official on the train to Belgrade.
But Katya seems too kind, too
protective of her brother. As Boris’s sister, she would probably defend his
actions and dismiss any suggestions of wrongdoing on his part.

“He’s not a thief,” she says, as if
reading my mind.

“But that artifact that I’m delivering
…,” I say, thinking about the package stowed in the bus’s storage compartment.

“Boris is just a middleman. What did you
think? That he stole that? Sorry, you don’t know Boris. He just takes on jobs,
whatever he can get to make money. When an offer comes his way calling on him
to deliver an art treasure, he takes it. He can’t afford to turn down a
proposition to make money.”

“But it was buried in his backyard!”
Something about what she’s telling me just doesn’t ring true.

“Sometimes there can be, how can I say
it?
Intervals.
There was an interval between when that
piece was delivered to Boris and when he was asked to deliver it to its final
destination. It was in his backyard, safeguarded, for quite a while.”

“Why can’t Boris deliver it himself?”

“Boris has enemies,” she says, her voice
trailing off.

“And Vlady?
What about him? Why am I mixed up with these guys and their little delivery
jobs, as you call them?”

“What does any of this matter? Just
deliver this bag in Varna and you’ll be through with them, once and for all.”

I wish I could believe her. I stare at
her profile as she watches the passing scenery, again noting how attractive she
is. If only I could accept what she’s saying—that her brother is not a felon
after all.
That he’s just a regular guy, someone making a
buck by arranging deliveries, no matter if they’re legal or not.
It
would be easier to come to terms with what I’m doing if I was convinced that my
dealings with Boris and Vlady will conclude the minute I deliver their stolen
goods. I fear that this will not be the case.

It is midday when the bus rolls into the
Varna station. Passengers bump into each other in their hurry to disembark, but
I wait until the aisle clears before getting off the bus. Katya flags down a
taxi, and I slip into the backseat with her, the Adidas bag on my lap. As we
travel through the narrow streets, aiming for the tourist district on the shore
where I previously made a delivery, I remember what the most important part of
this trip is for me. Delivering Boris’s stolen treasure has provided me with an
excuse to return to Varna, to see that bastard at the hotel again.

I must get my passport back!

Fortified by this determination, the
first semblance of a plan begins forming in my mind. I resolve to stand firmly
in the negotiations I will soon be conducting at the hotel. I will refuse to
hand over the Adidas bag until Nikolov accedes to my demand. The treasure I’m
transporting is my leverage. It’s what Nikolov wants. Only after I have
regained possession of the document will I deliver his ancient artifact.

It sounds so simple, but how can I
arrange this?
Especially with Katya breathing down my neck.
And what about that security man who met me on my first visit to the hotel? He
was huge! If I refuse to let go of the gym bag, Nikolov and his thuggish
bodyguard will just pull it out of my hands. How can I fight them?

We arrive in Golden Sands. The taxi
pulls up outside the Happy Sunshine Resort Hotel, and Katya pays the charges. I
get out of the vehicle, adjusting the bag’s strap on my shoulder as I squint in
the bright sunlight. I wish the purpose of my visit was to check out the
hotel’s pool and to relax on the beach. I wish my friends were with me. As the
taxi drives off, Katya surprises me with an unexpected announcement.

“I’m not going in,” she says.

“What?”

“Nikolov knows me. He knows that I’m
Boris’s sister. Let’s just say that he and Boris don’t get along too well. You
must meet him by yourself.”

Suddenly I have cold feet. I’ve
delivered a package to Nikolov in the past, but this time it’s different. The
bag I’ve brought from Montana is much more valuable, so valuable that Boris and
Vlady refused to let me travel by myself. They insisted that Katya accompany
me, to watch over both me and my precious cargo. And now, at the last moment,
Katya is refusing to enter the hotel. I am somewhat nervous at the prospect of
proceeding on this mission without her at my side.

Katya urges me forward, and I walk
through the entrance doors into the gaudy lobby with the bag strapped lazily
over my shoulder. Tourists and employees are milling about, but no one pays any
attention as I stroll toward the back corridor leading to the manager’s office.
And then I see the guard, standing near the reception desk, and I stop in my
tracks.

How can I possibly confront that guy? He
looks like a Bulgarian weightlifter—and a very fit one at that. He could crush
me with one hand tied behind his back. There’s no way I can threaten him and
Nikolov—or refuse to hand over the bag. They would laugh at any such attempts
on my part. They’d grab the bag from me as easily as if they were taking candy
from a baby.

And then, something in the corner of the
lobby catches my attention. Someone is there. Someone is calling out to me,
someone very familiar. I shove past a bellboy pushing a cart of suitcases and
hurry over to a person I know very well.

Chapter
37

Clouds have appeared out of nowhere. The
first drops of rain strike me as I approach the meadow at the edge of the
woods. The darkened sky matches my mood, for my mission in the village was
unsuccessful. Just as I was hooking up to the Internet, Boris and Katya had
arrived, upsetting my plans. Instinctively I feared these people would harm me.
If they discovered that I was sitting in the
mehana
going online in
attempts to recover my identity, it would not end well at all. Lacking money
and the knowledge of
who
I am, my only option is to
retreat temporarily to the minimal safety offered by my isolated cabin.

And now it is raining. This is typical
for a Bulgarian summer day. It can start out with a totally cloudless sky and
end with a torrential downpour. Even now, the rumble of thunder is growing
louder, echoing through the mountains like an approaching army.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the pine trees and capturing them
in its photographic lens.

I reposition the backpack on my
shoulder, hoping that no rain will seep in to damage my laptop. I feel cheated
and uncertain how to proceed. I need money, and I need to escape. But
apparently today is not the day that will bring me the freedom I seek. My
immediate mission is to get out of the rain.

It is coming down heavily. I make my way
into the woodland alongside the muddy path in a desperate search for cover from
the rainfall. A branch scrapes against my face, and I grimace as I brush it
aside. The trees offer me their protection; the leaves above serve as a partial
umbrella. I am out of breath and a bit hungry. I reach into my pack and take
out one of my apples.

As I bite into the fruit, I hear a noise
nearby. I spin around, afraid that I’ve been followed from the village. There
is a rustling in the bushes. I look through the trees and am sure that
something is moving through the undergrowth, pushing aside the scrub bushes. I
wipe the dampness from my face and edge closer, curious as to what I’ve
discovered in the mountain forest.

Steam is rising amidst the thick
vegetation. Patches of dark brown fur are partially visible between the moist
leaves. It’s an animal of some kind, and it looks like quite a big one. As I
part the bushes, more of this creature comes into view. It resembles an
oversized shaggy rug, one that has been left out too long in the rain. The
animal is sniffing and searching in the underbrush; heavy grunts mark its
efforts.

I stand frozen in place when I realize
fully what I’m seeing. It’s a bear—a large, wild, and slightly damp brown bear.
Vapors are rising from its matted fur like the heated fumes from a subway vent
on a New York City street. There is an unpleasant smell—one that can only come
from the wet coat of an enormous animal. The bear is on all fours, shifting and
shaking its massive weight as it navigates its way through the weeds. Oversized
paws crush and flatten everything that stands in its path. And it is coming in
my direction.

The bear appears to be staring at me,
even though its beady eyes are not truly focused on me at all. It snorts as it
eases forward, its huge steamy mass wagging from side to side almost like an
afterthought.

It’s a large animal, bigger than
anything I could have imagined. Who would have known that wild bears roam
through the mountainous Balkan forests? Will it attack, even if I don’t provoke
it? I certainly don’t want to test this creature’s attitude. So as not to
startle it, I slowly back away.

The bear stops in its tracks, and I
stand still as well. It is amazingly quiet in the forest, with the patter of
rain on tree leaves barely audible. There is a noticeable absence of bird
calls, and even the bees have ceased their buzzing. We are alone here, the bear
and me. Two creatures caught together in the moment, and each of us a bit
surprised by the other’s existence.

And then the bear shifts its weight to
its hind legs. Its front half rises slowly and steadily from the ground. The
animal appears to be grinning at me, its uneven mouth tilted and its eyes dark
and deceptive. The bear opens its mouth wide and releases a deep, ominous
growl. Drool drips from a range of jagged teeth. The animal’s bad breath,
smelled even from a distance, is quite appalling.

Before I realize what is happening, the
bear lunges forward. It swipes at me with its huge paw. Sharp claws streak
across my right leg, ripping my jeans and raising welts of red blood in their
wake. I am unprepared for the sharp pain.

Shaken by the attack, I react with the
only weapon I have. I throw my half-eaten apple at the bear, hitting it just
above its hairy snout. The bear drops to the ground and sniffs at the fruity
projectile. I reach into my pack and take out the second apple and throw this
at the bear as well, striking it on its furry flank. And then I turn to run.

I don’t look back as I push through the
bushes, desperately trying to find my way to the path. The pain in my leg is
throbbing. I glance down and see that my ripped jeans are plastered with blood.
There’s no time to stop and address the wounds. I must get away from the bear.

The animal doesn’t chase me, and finally
I reach the dirt trail, panting and bloody, but alive. I lean over to catch my
breath, covering my mauled leg with my hand in attempts to stem the flow of
blood. Can you get rabies from bears? I wonder. Or is that only if they bite
you? I am lucky to have escaped!

The pain in my leg reaches deep inside
me, shaking me to my core. It is not the bloody wounds on my leg that unsettle
me but rather the memories erupting from within in the wake of the attack.

A cloud has lifted. The amnesia, caused
by a physical blow to my head, has been shifted aside by an equally painful
strike at my leg. The bear’s assault, in addition to inflicting severe physical
discomfort, has relieved me of my mental anguish. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I
know who I am!

I am Scott. Everything is clear; everything
is remembered. Growing up in Los Angeles, my mother and father—all this comes
rushing back to me. My grandparents in Chicago, all those wonderful childhood
memories—I remember them. And the bad things, too, they return to my
consciousness, uninvited but part of my past nonetheless.
My
heavy drug use.
Almost being kicked out of school.
The horrific habits I had while addicted to drugs.

I recall exactly how I came to Bulgaria.
Memories of my Peace Corps activities, hanging out with Lance in Sofia, and
living with my host family in Montana—everything is known. There are no longer
secrets.

Ralitsa! My host mother—that was her in
the village square, I realize as I wipe the dampness from my face with my
handkerchief. And the man in the wheelchair, the one I identified as Boris,
instinctively fearing his intent to cause me harm—that was my host father! What
was he doing in a wheelchair? His disability didn’t match the images that were
flashing back to me.

More bad things come to mind.
The smuggling trip with Boris and Vlady to Romania.
The
train ride to Serbia. And the final journey to Varna. And that is when I
remember Katya’s role in everything.

I touch the permanent wound on my
forehead, tracing the damaged flesh as I question what to do. Perhaps I should return
to the village, where I’ve spotted Ralitsa. Ralitsa will help me; she’s a good
woman. But Boris is with her, and I don’t want to confront that man. I’m not
strong enough for that.

The pain in my leg is getting worse. I
should clean and bandage the wound. I am starting to feel feverish and can’t
allow an infection to set in. I limp forward, reaching the muddy path just as a
new burst of rain showers down from above. I am not far from the cabin; I will
continue onward and then rest. I need to rest, to recuperate. I can return to
the village—and to the civilization it offers—another day. But I cannot allow
my newly regained memory to ever abandon me again.