“It’s not too late,” Tacho says grimly.
They pass another village, a relatively new one with red brick buildings instead of wooden ones, and then another with two new concrete apartment houses.
Melanie concentrates on her driving. Suddenly she demands:
“You know whom I liked the best — present company excluded? I liked Octobrina the best. I had the feeling that if a live ember from one of her cigarettes ever fell on her, she’d go up in a wisp of smoke, like those leaves you see crackling away on a damp fall day. Tell me something, was she ever married?”
“She had two great passions in her youth — Communism and someone with whom she had a great love affair. Her lover died in prison during the period of the cult of the personality.”
“What was he like?”
“It was a she.”
“Oh.”
On the rise before the next village, Tacho has her pull the Deux Chevaux over to the side of the road. “There’s a militia road control ahead,” he explains, starting to get out of the car. “After you pass it, you’ll see a gasoline station on your right. Pill up there. Just beyond the gas station, on the far edge of the town, is a restaurant. Park in the lot behind the restaurant. Eat slowly; it’ll take me an hour at least to skirt the town on foot. If you think of it,” he adds, “put some bread in your pocket for me.”
By midafternoon, they have passed two more militia checkpoints and are well into the Pirin Mountains, twisting around S-curves on obscure back roads, some of them paved, most of them graded but unpaved. Twice the Deux Chevaux overheats from the strain of climbing. They pull over until the radiator water has cooled enough to put a finger in it, after which Tacho tops it off from the icy mountain streams that flow all about them. Near a waterfall that cascades down from a low cliff, Tacho points out a historical marker cemented into the side of the hill. It commemorates a battle between the outnumbered Rila partisan detachment, led by Colonel Lev Mendeleyev, known as the Flag Holder, and a Gestapo unit, on August 24, 1944.
“We were on that side of the falls,” Tacho reconstructs the battle, “over in the woods there. The Germans came up a goat path from a village which you can’t see from here. They seemed to know just where they were going. We held them for a while, and fell back up the slope when we started to run low on ammunition. There where the boulders are, the Flag Holder held them off with our machine gun. The gun overheated and jammed, and they swarmed up the hill and captured him. I saw the whole thing from the crest, where that tree is. The one we call the Minister was next to me; I remember he seemed more concerned about the loss of the machine gun than the loss of the Flag Holder. The Germans looked up the hill, laughing and making obscene gestures, and started down with their prisoner. We lost six dead, including a cousin of mine named …” Tacho raises his eyes to the mountain. “I can’t … I can’t seem to remember his name,” he fumbles.
They have been driving for a while when the girl asks:
“Is it far to Melnik?”
“Not very,” Tacho replies. “You will know we’re close when you see vineyards. Melnik is wine country.”
Gradually the hills flatten out and the first vine fields appear on the slopes that border the road. Soon every meter of land is covered with vines, long rows of them held up by wire strung between two poles and weighted at the ends with stones. At dusk, they enter a small village with wide dirt streets and a large neon “ “ sign over the only building made of brick.
“What does the BKP stand for?” Melanie asks. She is tired and squinting into the dimness.
“Bulgarian Communist Party,” Tacho answers. “There’s a very big wine cooperative about a kilometer down the road, so they put a Party headquarters here to keep tabs on it.”
They pass the wine cooperative, a sprawling prefabricated building with production posters peeling away from the corrugated walls like skin that has had too much sun. Tacho spots Bazd£ev’s picture on an old circus poster on the side of the cooperative. “Angel used to boast he had been to every village in Bulgaria with a population of more than ten,” Tacho remembers. “The first time I saw him perform, I —”
Tacho stiffens in his seat.
“What do I do?” Melanie whispers.
A wooden barrier is stretched across the road, and a militiaman with a rifle slung across his back stands before it, swinging a lantern.
“I’ll do the talking,” Tacho says as the militiaman starts toward the Deux Chevaux. “What’s the trouble, comrade?” he calls, half out of the car.
The militiaman, a young peasant with a jutting jaw, is chewing tobacco. “Rock slide,” he replies. “Blocking the road down a piece.”
“It’s a rock slide,” Tacho tells the girl, forgetting she understands. He turns back to the militiaman, who is holding his lamp up and shading his eyes so he can get a better look at the car.
“We were going to Melnik,” Tacho says conversationally.
“Double back to the crossroad ‘bout three kilometers before the village, take a left to the macadam, then the next left and follow your nose.”
“I don’t have a ten-kilometer permit,” Tacho remarks casually. “The militia won’t let me pass.”
“Militia knows ‘bout the slide— they’ll let you pass if’n you tell ‘em you’re headin’ for Melnik. Say, what kind of a contraption is that anyhow?”
““French car,” Tacho tells him. “ The girl is the daughter of an important member of the French Communist Party. I’m her guide.”
“Mighty nice,” the militiaman allows, kicking a tire with his boot. “What’s she go for?”
Tacho lets a hard note creep into his voice. “ Our Russian comrades construct cars that are just as good.”
“Wasn’t saying they don’t,” the militiaman replies quickly, suddenly alert to the pitfalls of such a conversation. “Ifn I had a choice, I’d take a Russian automobile every time, if’n I had a choice.”
Another car pulls up behind the Deux Chevaux. “Now that there’s a car for you,” the militiaman exclaims, advancing toward the Russian-made Moskovich sedan.
A young man emerges from the driver’s seat. “What’s up?” he calls cheerily.
“Rock slide’s blocking the road,” Tacho tells him. “Where you headed?”
“I’m on my way to Melnick,” the young man advises.
“That’s a beauty of a car you got yourself,” the militiaman says loudly.
“You can say that again,” the young man declares proudly. “And she’s every inch mine, she is. A black beauty. That’s what she is, and that’s what I call her.”
“Sure wish I could lay my hands on a black beauty like that,” the militiaman says.
The young man smiles broadly. “Take you better part of four years, working as a waiter. That’s how long it took me. Been away four years in the German Democratic Republic. But she’s all mine.”
“Listen,” Tacho interrupts, “would you mind if I trail you to Melnik? I’m not familiar with the roads around here.”
“Sure thing,” the young man agrees. “I know the way blindfolded. You stick on my tail and I’ll take you right to the macadam. After that, it’s straight on.” He hesitates, “Say, you sure do look familiar.” He takes a step in Tacho’s direction, tilting his head quizzically. The militiaman looks from one to the other. “You put me in mind of somebody,” the young man observes carefully, “but I’ll be darned if I can remember who.”
“Why do you want to follow him?” Melanie asks when they are under way again. “You know the roads as well as he does.”
“We’re not permitted to travel within ten kilometers of the frontier without a special permit,” Tacho explains. “The macadam curves inside the ten-kilometer zone, which means there’ll be a militia checkpoint somewhere out there. That boy’s going to tell me where it is.”
The boy driving the Moskovich slows down and turns into a dirt road. A few hundred meters further along, he signals another left and swings onto a two-lane macada
m.
“Keep him in sight if you can,” Tacho orders. “That’s good. When he comes to the checkpoint, you’ll see a jeep’s lights flash on. Slow down, but whatever you do, don’t stop.”
“You’d better switch this light so it doesn’t go on when the door opens,” Melanie advises.
Tacho smiles at her in the darkness. “You learn fast,” he says admiringly.
About ten minutes later the brake lights on the Moskovich flash on. “He sees something,” Tacho snaps. Suddenly the Moskovich is pinned in a high beam playing on it from the side of the road. Melanie slows down, using the engine. Tacho opens the door. “When you’re past the checkpoint,” he tells her, “pull over and turn out your lights and wait for me.” He slips out of the car and is lost in the night.
The militiamen are finishing up with the Moskovich as the Deux Chevaux breaks to a stop in the headlights of the jeep parked on the side of the road.
“Dokumenti” snaps the militiaman, looming up next to the driver’s window. Melanie can see he has a submachine gun slung over his shoulder. The Moskovich driver beeps his horn and starts down the road. Melanie slides her passport through the window. The militiaman walks around to the front of the car and examines her photograph in its headlights. Melanie squints at the jeep, but its headlights blind her. The militiaman hands her passport back through the window.
“Granien viza” he demands.
The girl forces herself to smile. “Tourist,” she fumbles, pointing to herself. “Melnik,” she says, pointing down the road. “Rock-slide,” she says, imitating as best she can with both hands rocks tumbling down a mountain.
“Melnik?” the militiaman asks.
“Yes, yes, Melnik,” Melanie agrees, nodding and smiling.
“Melnik,” the militiaman calls across to the parked jeep, and a voice floats back:
“Razbiram”
“Dobr pt” the militiaman salutes, and motions her forward. Suddenly he grins. “Happy trip,” he says in English. He pronounces the “H” as if he is going to spit.
The headlights on the side of the road fade off. Melanie starts to shake all over. “Thank you,” she stammers in English. “Thank you very much.” She starts off down the road.
Beyond the first curve, she cuts her engine and lights and coasts to a stop. She waits tensely in the darkness, straining for sounds. Fifteen minutes go by before she hears what she thinks are footfalls. An instant later Tacho slips into the seat alongside her. She takes a deep breath and leans across to kiss him.
Nodding, he rests his palm against her cheek.
19
THE DEUX CHEVAUX threads its way through the silent streets of Melnik. The headlights play over elaborate carved wooden shutters, the empty Moskovich parked under the overhang of a house, lanes that narrow and twist up and away, as if squirming out of your grasp, to disappear amid a tangle of footbridges and back alleys and fenced-in gardens.
“It’s hard to believe anybody lives here,” Melanie tells Tacho. “It’s hard to believe you lived here.”
“Born and reared,” he observes. “I rode my first bicycle on the flat stretch at the bottom of the hill; when I was a boy, it was the only pavement in town.”
Melanie guns the car up a steep slope and stops with a jerk when the road suddenly narrows to a footpath.
“I have the feeling I’m in a bowl,” she declares nervously, jumping into the street and peering at the bulking blackness that seems to press in on her from all sides.
“You are,” Tacho confirms. “We’re surrounded on four sides by sand cliffs. The only way to see the sky in Melnik is to look straight up. Here” — Tacho gropes for her hand—”be careful crossing this bridge. The hotel’s down a bit on the other side of the river.”
The door of the hotel is locked, and Tacho bangs on it with his fist. After a few moments, he bangs again. A voice, muffled by the thick wood of the door, calls:
“Can’t you see we’re closed — it’s past eleven.”
“It’s me, Petar. It’s Tacho.”
Fingers fumble with the lock inside and the door is suddenly thrown open.
“Tacho!” roars Petar. He limps forward and catches the Racer in a bear hug, then thrusts him back and plants noisily formal kisses on both his cheeks. “What in hell are you doing in Melnik? Here, come in out of the night.”
Petar catches sight of the girl behind Tacho. “You are not alone then,” he remarks.
“Melanie, meet Petar. He was my trainer in the days when I rode. Petar, meet someone who has been a friend to me. Her name is Krasov. Melanie Krasov.”
“Krasov,” Petar repeats the name thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there a Krasov — “
“He was my father,” Melanie acknowledges.
“He was an American,” Petar remembers.
“So am I,” the girl says.
“I’ve never met an American before,” Petar notes. “So far, it’s been painless. Do you all speak Russian?”
“Only the ones with Russian fathers,” Melanie smiles.
“Are you alone, Petar?” Tacho looks into the restaurant. The only one in there is a teen-age boy curled up in front of a roaring fire.
“I’m alone,” Petar says, steering Tacho and the girl toward a table in front of the fire.
“What about the boy?” Melanie whispers.
“He’s retarded,” Tacho explains quickly. “He’s Petar’s grandson.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean — “
“No harm done,” Petar tells her. He prods the boy gently with his cane. The boy opens his eyes and squints up unblinkingly at his grandfather.
“Be a good boy and tell Blagoi to put a light under the guvec” Petar instructs him. The boy’s head jerks, and he skips off toward the kitchen. Petar lays out three tumblers and a bottle of slivova.
“Lower than the grass, quieter than the water,” he toasts, and downs the glassful in a smooth swallow.
“Lower than grass,” Tacho repeats, arid follows suit.
Melanie sips at hers tentatively, sputters, then sips again. The two men smile at her.
“What news from Sofia?” Petar demands. “How did the Flag Holder react to the Czechoslovak business?”
Tacho downs another tumbler of slivova. “The Flag Holder is dead” — Petar’s mouth sags open — “he … took his own life … killed himself … to protest against the invasion.”
Melanie rests her hand on Tacho’s. Sapling branches crackle in the fireplace.
“So that’s how it is,” Petar remarks quietly. “I will tell you honestly. I never liked him the way you liked him, but I honored him. And he was one hell of a driver!” It suddenly dawns on Petar why Tacho is here. “Of course, they are arresting the others.”
Tacho nods. “They are trying to turn him into a nonperson. The only way they can do that is to take us out of circulation.”
“Which means you’re running.”
“Which means I’m running.”
“You’ll be safe here for a while.”
“I’ve come for my bicycle, Petar,” Tacho says.
“Your bicycle! What are you going to do, ride across the frontier?” Petar’s eyebrows, tufts of gray, arch up and he looks sharply at the Racer, toying with the idea that has just entered his head. “It’s possible,” he concludes cautiously. “How many days until the race?”
“They should cross tomorrow — probably late afternoon, about dusk.”
“Have you been riding? Can you keep up with them?”
“For short distances, yes.”
“Putting on racing tires and rims is no problem. But I’ll have to take off the big gear and install a sprint gear.” Petar is thinking out loud. “I’ll get Blagoi to give me a hand. We should be able to do it before morning if we work through the night.”
“Thanks, Petar — I knew you would help.”
“What bicycle are you talking about?” Melanie interrupts impatiently. “What’s going on?”
“They turned one
of the empty rooms in the Party building into a museum and put my bicycle in it — the one I used when I set the speed record. Petar here is more or less the custodian.”
“Our Tacho is something of a hero,” Petar explains. “Local boy makes good.”
“Lay off,” Tacho warns.
Petar enjoys his little joke. “What about the girl?” he demands.
“She will drive across the border tomorrow morning like any tourist on her way out of the country.”
“I’m not crossing until you do,” Melanie declares vehemently.
“You’ll cross when I tell you to,” Tacho lashes back at her. “You’ll cross when I tell you to,” he repeats more reasonably. “There is no other way.”
Blagoi, a shepherd’s second son who is learning to be a cook, comes in with two plates of guvef and a basket of peasant bread. Petar brings two bottles of Melnik wine and some clean glasses. Tacho and the girl attack their plates ravenously: Tacho eats in the peasant style, sprinkling salt on the bread from his palm and using the bread to scoop up the guved; Melanie eats more sedately, cutting the meat into small pieces, then shifting the fork to her right hand, American style. Blagoi stands over her shaking his head, baffled.
“I have seen the tourists eat that way,” he acknowledges, “but I do not cirrive at seeing the logic of it.”
Blagoi has just put two cups of Turkish coffee on the table when they hear the pounding on the front door of the hotel. Melanie looks quickly at Tacho.
“Who knows you’re here?” Petar demands.
“No one,” Tacho declares.
“Wait here.”
Petar limps out of the dining room to see who it is. There is a blast of cold air as he opens the front door.
“So, you are again serving after eleven,” a voice booms. “Don’t insult me by denying it. I can smell the guved from the bottom of the hill. Your man Blagoi puts too much garlic in it, as always.”
The visitor tries to shoulder his way into the dining room, but Petar blocks his path and pulls the door closed with his cane. Their voices come through the glass panes, which are covered with lace curtains.