Ivona Tacheva

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The wintertime freezes the seaside hamlet, the sea roars, and only sometimes the pale pink sun burns the faded sky. Travelling artists, heavy Scandinavians, and orgiastic famous people don’t pass through. Life in the hamlet is endless and unnoticeable. In the evening men gather in the pub to play backgammon and drink pastis. The publican, with pencil behind his ear, listens to the news on the radio. It is stuffy, yet, cozy. Reddened by the pastis and the winds, the fishermen go home. Their wives who have boiled the water, pour it on the men’s hands, to help them wash, pass the towels, bring dinner to the table. Outside, the sea rumbles sleepily. One by one, lights go off in the houses. In the squeaky beds the men hold tight to the stout women’s bodies whose nightgowns smell of homemade soap and cupboards made of walnut-tree wood.

© Ivona Tacheva
© Veselin Veselinov, translated
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 01.08.2005, № 8 (69)