THE MESSENGER

by Kristin Dimitrova

translated from Bulgarian by Petya Pavlova

Petar, also known as The Beard in close circles and under an inconspicuous surname ending in “ov” before the almighty state institutions, wrapped himself in his dressing-gown and stood up to open the door. It had been a single, tentative ring. A bit shorter he would have considered it timid, a bit longer would have crossed over into the impudent. Some idiots fell asleep with their finger on the doorbell, but they weren't interesting. Petar enjoyed guessing his visitor’s character by the ring. Before he opened, he put two mint drops in his mouth and inspected his teeth in the mirror. Not that he needed to.

A boy in a fleece hoodie of about four foot nine stood on the doorstep. His nose had lost its childish prettiness and a stern hump was trying to force its way onto its ridge. His cheeks were dirty. The bottom halves of two big, dark eyes peered from underneath the shade of the hood.

"Mitko sent me."

Petar opened the door wider and waved him in.

The boy looked around, tried to peek behind the meaty bulk of the man and then, as if suddenly deciding which way to walk, wiped his feet, and entered. Petar went out onto the landing and looked through the railings into the abyss of floors beneath. It was his turn to inspect his surroundings. The doors of the lower flats could not be seen from the landing of his attic studio, but a trick of the acoustics made every sound from the stairs climb all the way up and settle under the roof. Now there was no trace of any movement whatsoever. Satisfied, Petar went in after the boy and locked the steel door behind him. He was a burly man with the beard of a lumberjack, an artist or a film technician, with a kind, slightly babyish face which hosted two glacial eyes in its center.

"And where is Mitko?"

"He's got a math test."

The boy pronounced the words cautiously, as if they belonged to a foreign language picked up later in life. He was careful with the stresses.

"Does he go to school then?

"’Course, yeah."

"Aren't you going to take off that hood?"

The boy pretended he didn't hear him or actually didn't hear. He was looking at the luxury gramophone, the last word in technology from back in the day when this kind of technology was breathing its last words. The cabinet with the vinyl LP collection. The objects on top of the cabinet. The shisha with the hose wound around it. The alcove with a curtain of red beads, behind which there was a wide, unmade bed. Again the cabinet. A small portrait of a woman in a seashell frame.

"Is that the girlfriend?"

"No, this is my mother."

"She's very young, your mother."

"Not anymore."

"It's nice that you have a mother."

Petar sighed with impatience. Taking that as a second invitation, the boy took off his hood. His hair was brown and slightly matted. A badly stitched scar split his right eyebrow. His neck, with a yet undeveloped Adam's apple, was surprisingly thin.

"Mitko said you bought him trainers."

"They are there, under the bed."

"And another forty quid."

"I don’t have money. We didn't say anything about money."

"Let me see them trainers."

"Later."

The boy avoided looking him in the eye, even when asking questions.

"And how old are you?" asked Petar, partly to change the subject, partly because he really wanted to know.

"Twelve."

"You look older."

"I'm not."

"And what's your name?"

"They call me Awl."

"Cool nickname."

Awl laughed with concealed pride. Petar ruffled his hair.

"We need a bath."

"Can I have that?"

It was a figurine of Ronaldo with a ball at his foot.

"Put that back in its place."

The boy reluctantly put the figurine back on top of the cabinet. Petar had undone the belt of his dressing-gown, and it revealed a hairy paunch crowned with two still muscular, slightly sagging breasts. He had Speedy Gonzales boxers on. He took hold of the boy's fleece and pulled it over his head.

"Wait, I'll go first and then you, huh?"

Petar shrugged his shoulders, interlocked his fingers, and clicked them together. The boy went into the bathroom and closed the door, which didn't lock from the inside. He ran the tap in the bath and turned the bottle of shampoo over it. The honey yellow trickle stretched down with a luxurious thickness and, upon touching the water from the tap, exploded into foam. Petar could come in at any moment but the boy didn't need a lot of time to prepare. He carefully took off his baggy jeans and folded them on top of the laundry basket. The hot water in the bath was a luxury that couldn't be missed. He lay on the bottom, submerged his head under the water and disappeared from the world. He is not on Earth, because it is hard, he is not in space, because it is cold, he is not in the sea because it is deep - he simply and only is, and above him there is a whole ten inches of foam.

Petar came into the bathroom with a floating gown, a strained smile, and a body ready for action. He sat in the bathtub and pulled the boy towards him. At first, he didn't feel anything. He jumped back. A minor, unexpected problem but he could still move his arms. The yellow plastic handle of a hardware tool was sticking out of his chest. He reached towards it, surprised, but the small hand was faster. The blood started flowing when the awl came out and its red bursts stained the water. A few more blows followed. His legs started thrashing. The foam curdled, but where it was still intact it remained white.

The boy avoided the arms flailing in the air, grabbed his jeans and went to the room to get dressed. The trainers under the bed turned out cheap and didn't fit him but they would still do. In a drawer under the gramophone, he found money. There was no noise from the bathroom anymore and he went back to take his awl. Petar The Beard, frozen in an anxious trance, like someone listening to moving music, had turned into a body. The boy slipped the Ronaldo figurine in his pocket and set about unlocking the steel door.

Before leaving, he hesitated, went back, and took the small portrait of the mother with him.