Valley of Thracians (17 page)

I refuse to give my friend any details
about the upcoming journey. One of the main reasons is that I don’t have a clue
as to how, and when, I’m going. Shortly after hanging up the phone, Vlady comes
outside, and he’s not alone. He approaches me with a woman at his side. I don’t
recognize her.

“You won’t be going to Varna on your
own,” Vlady says, puffing on his cigarette. “This is Katya.”

Chapter
34

“DO NOT take the pills!”

The message stares at me from the laptop
screen. I have not seen this warning before and cannot fathom who has planted
it on my computer. The only person who uses the laptop is me, and I didn’t
write these troubling words. Or did I?

I don’t recall typing the note. I have
no recollection of it at all, but if it was me, it must have been during my
previous session on the laptop. When was that? The timing is not important. I
need to focus on what I’ve just read.

How can I stop taking the pills? I
swallow them frequently, yet it’s true that I’m not getting better. I continue
to suffer from the migraines. My mind is still a complete blank when I question
how I came to Bulgaria, how I arrived at this cabin in the mountains. Is my
memory loss because of the pills? Are they prolonging my symptoms?

Something tells me that I already know
the answers to these questions and that I composed the message on the computer
during a recent period of lucidity to warn myself against further consumption
of the medicine.

I can’t allow myself to overlook this
self-written warning. I am drawn to the obvious care and premeditated planning
that had guided my earlier actions. I cannot ignore what I am reading. I will
stop taking the pills, I vow, wondering and hoping that this is the correct
thing to do.

To clear my thoughts, I go for a short
walk, not straying far. It feels good to stroll through the tranquil meadow and
in the nearby woods, with the sunshine gently caressing my face. The days are
wonderfully warm and not even the occasional summer rain can disturb the
brilliance of nature in the mountains. Birds soar above on their aerial
missions, butterflies frolic among the colorful flowers, and the mountain
breeze refreshes my spirits. I think about the village that lies down the road,
not too far from the cabin.

The more I walk, the better I feel. In
fact, I’ve never felt more alive. I feel free, no longer captive to my drugged
and cloudy state of mind. I realize that I’m retracing vital steps in my
recuperation, and this thought comforts me. I am reaching the same
conclusions—the ones that will lead to the end of the debilitating headaches
and the restoration of my memory. The laptop warning has returned me to a
previously taken path, one that I pray will ultimately lead to my full
recovery.

I finger the silver chain that’s wrapped
around my neck, knowing intuitively that this thin piece of jewelry is one of
the most important clues to my past. I hope that in the village, with its
Internet hookup, I will gain access to the key that will unlock my memory,
reveal my life, and restore my identity to me. That village is freedom. I am
determined and strong enough to make the journey to get there.

Katya is due to arrive at the cabin soon
to bring me new supplies. I cannot divulge to her that I am free from my
narcotic addiction, especially since it’s been Katya who insists that I swallow
the pills during each visit. Why has she been forcing me to take them? What
secret agenda does she have for me?

Could it be that Katya is intentionally
drugging me, keeping me in a state of semi-conscious stupor? Why would she
possibly be doing that? And why isn’t she encouraging me to rediscover my past?
She should be urging me to leave the cabin and accompany her to the village.
She should be as eager as I am to discover my true identity and to reconnect
with my family and friends.

Now I’m becoming paranoid! This must be
another side effect of having been addicted to the painkillers for so long. I
have grown so dependent on the pills that the moment I stop taking them, I am
ready to accuse my caretaker of trying to drug me. No, Katya would never do
something like that! She is too kind; she cares deeply about my well-being. I
can’t imagine that her intentions are anything but good. I try hard to dismiss
these disloyal thoughts and head back to the cabin to await her arrival.

“I brought you two boxes of cornflakes,”
she says to me a short while later, unpacking the supplies.

“Thanks,” I reply. And then, without
thinking, I add, “Maybe next time I’ll go with you to the village.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” she
says, reprimanding me. “You’re in no physical shape to handle such a walk.”

“I feel great!” I say quite honestly.
“What is the date today?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s so beautiful outside. Let’s go
take a walk,” I suggest.

“You need to save your strength,” she
says, dismissing the offer. She continues to unpack the sugar, jam, tea, and
soap that she’s brought.

Save my strength for what? I wonder.
It’s all a game for her, I realize. It’s a mind game, this absolute control she
has over me, but for what purpose? She’s been pulling my strings for some time,
like a mad puppeteer directing the actions of its spineless and mindless
creation. Why is she doing this? What possibly could be the reason that she is
keeping me isolated up here in a mountain cabin?

I need to find out!

“Katya, tell me again how we met,” I
say, toying with her.

“I’ve told you this many times,” she
says, not paying full attention to my question.

“Yes, but you know how I forget things.”

“We met on a bus trip to Varna,” she
says, caution creeping into her voice. “We were traveling together. You had to
deliver something to a hotel there, in Golden Sands. Do you really want me to
tell you this?”

“Yes,” I encourage her.

“We talked on the bus,” she says,
choosing her words carefully. “I went with you to the hotel, and I was with you
when you were injured.”

Without thinking, my fingers caress the
indentation on the right side of my head. “Yes, but how did you come to care
for me?” I ask her.

“What’s with all these questions?” she
asks, frowning at me. “Let me make you some tea.”

Ignoring my attempts to discuss the
events that brought us together, she goes about her duties, cleaning the cabin
and preparing meals for the days when we will be apart. As evening approaches,
she leaves the cabin, and I begin to make my own preparations, laying the
blueprint for what I will do the next day.

That night, I toss and turn, my body
aching and demanding the narcotic numbness provided by the painkillers, which,
I now believe, are actually the source of all my pain. My mind keeps racing. I
realize that sleeplessness is yet another sign of withdrawal from the powerful
control those pills had over my life. I force myself to lie still, not to move
a muscle, but the night seems endless.

In my restlessness, I begin to worry.
What if I regain my memory only to discover that the person I am—or was—
is
not, by nature, a good person? I fear that perhaps my
memory loss could be a gift, hiding secrets from my past that would be best
left uncovered.

But no, I need to know who my family is
and to understand what I’m doing at this isolated cabin. So much mystery
surrounds my cloudy existence, and I really can’t take it anymore. I am eager
to set out tomorrow to regain my life.

As I lie there, twisting with discomfort
on the bed, I touch the silver chain on my neck. Tomorrow I will understand its
true meaning, I vow, just before falling asleep.

Chapter
35

Fog envelops the mountain valley at
dawn, shrouding the copse of trees down the path in a cloak of mystery and
foreboding, yet I regard the chilly day as one full of promise. This is the
first day of the rest of my life, I tell myself, chuckling at how much of a
cliché that is, yet it’s a statement I hope to prove to be true.

It is midmorning when I set out, my
laptop secure in the backpack on my shoulder. I take a bottle of water and two
apples for snacks. It feels good to set out on this journey. The village and my
soon-to-be manifested past can’t be far down the path.

I hadn’t previously paid much attention
to the variety of colorful flowers brightening my mountain setting, but I find
the meadow covered with them. They are of different sizes and shapes, but most
impressive are their colors, which range from deep violet to pinks and whites.
The fact that I don’t know the name for any of the varieties proves that I
wasn’t a botanist in my former life, I think, chuckling to myself.

The meadow is buzzing, and at first I
think that my mind is playing tricks on me. But it’s true, for everywhere
around me are flying insects—bees, butterflies, air-born grasshoppers, and
other tiny creatures to which I can’t put a name. Something like a dragonfly
takes flight from a tall stem of wild grass. A cloud of bothersome gnats hovers
over a fallen log. A fly buzzes close to my ear and then returns for a second
annoying flyby.

I lean over to smell the heady fragrance
of a white flower with narrow petals. It is at that exact moment that something
alights on my neck. I feel a prick and instinctively swat at where I’ve just
been stung by a bee. I don’t think I’m allergic to bees, but I can’t remember
for sure. The attacking insect has disappeared, but its assault has left a
small swollen spot that feels hot to the touch.

I take a long sip of water and resume my
journey down the path as it wends its way through the woods. The first of the
village houses is now in sight. I shift the laptop’s weight and hurry forward.

I don’t know the name of the village,
but it seems as if time has forgotten this place. The houses are rustic, made
of chipped stone or unpainted wood and are unkempt in their appearance. The
tiled roofs are broken in parts, as if the owners are indifferent to rain or
snow. Weeds grow high in the untended gardens. The paths are dirt—or spotted
stretches of cobblestone at best. It is dead quiet in this forlorn village, as
if it has been abandoned by its residents and left to the elements.

Then a cow’s lowly moan breaks the
silence, followed by another. As I walk down a path set between two clumsily
constructed fences, a herd of cows comes my way, swaying back and forth as they
approach a watering hole farther ahead. The word
herd
is a bit of an
overstatement; it’s only three black-and-white spotted animals, with steam
rising from their flanks and a swarm of black flies playing tag with their
heavy tails.

“
Haide
,” shouts a villager,
prodding the most reluctant of the animals with a long wooden stick.

I smile at the man, and he replies with
a grunt that shows his indifference to strangers. He follows his cows to the
trough at the side of the path. The man’s dog, a cross between a German
shepherd and a terrier, bounds up behind him and approaches me warily, barking
and wagging its tail furiously at the same time. The man issues a strong
warning to the dog, and the animal lowers its head and comes to sniff my pants.
Then it bounds down the dirt path after the cows.

I stand back, allowing the animals to
pass, and then I continue toward the village center. Here the houses are in
better condition, their wooden sides recently painted and their stone fixtures
firmly in place. Windows with colorful frames are open wide with thin curtains
blowing outward as they catch the late-morning breeze. Flowers are abundant in
these gardens and leafy vines climb the walls. It’s a peaceful setting, with
little need for signs of modernity.

Village residents are strolling about
the plaza of the central square, most of them elderly and dressed in the simple
clothing of the countryside. Some are waiting for the morning bus to Sofia;
others are shopping at an outdoor fruits and vegetables stand. A pair of older
women is sitting on a wooden bench, gossiping as they pass the time.

Just past the bus stop, I spot the
village
mehana
, a traditional Bulgarian pub that serves local cuisine
and hard liquor. I look around for signs of a café that would be a
better candidate for Internet access, but the square offers nothing else. Eager
to fulfill my mission of going online, I enter the
mehana
and hope for
the best.

“
Dobro utro
,” I say to the
mustached man behind the counter, who is busy drying beer mugs with a checkered
towel.

He grunts in return, and I wonder if
people in this remote village even speak Bulgarian. “
Imate li
…” I begin,
confident at first in my command of the language, but then suddenly at a loss
for words. I turn to English, hoping that my request for an international
commodity will be understood. “Do you have an Internet connection here?” I ask.

“Da,” he replies. “Feel free to hook up.
We have no password,” he adds in English.

In moments, I’m setting up my laptop at
a table near a window looking out onto the square. I plug in the cables,
juicing up the battery. I order a cup of cappuccino, which mistakenly arrives
as a small glass of bitter espresso, but I thank the man nonetheless. The
laptop hums into power, and the opening screen with the Windows logo is like a
door to civilization for me. Soon I’ll be reading my email, renewing contact
with my friends, re-establishing the ties with my family. As soon as I figure
out
who
they all are.

After I see the sign indicating that I’m
online, I double-click the Skype icon on my desktop. I’ve done this previously
in the cabin, but obviously there I have only used the program in an offline
state. Now I’m eager to have someone welcome me by name or offer a greeting
that would place me in context of their lives.

The green icon at the bottom of my
screen lights up as Skype whoops into operation and I’m automatically logged
into my account. I see the list of my contacts and wonder which of the
unfamiliar display names I should choose. Whom should I talk to? What will I
say? I will select one person at random and start chatting. Surely the response
will offer clues as to my identity.

And then I see one name that immediately
brings a smile to my lips: Grandpa. The status icon next to it is green. My
grandfather is online!

Without thinking, I touch the silver
chain resting around my neck. Subconsciously, seeing my grandfather’s name in
the list of contacts makes me think of this Magen David pendant. Is there a
connection?

As I finger the chain, I also feel the
warm spot where the bee stung me when walking through the meadow. The wound is
more swollen now, and the chain is pressing down on it. I reach around to the
back of my neck and unhook the chain to remove it, relieving some of the pain
from the bee sting. I place the chain on the table next to my computer and take
a sip of the black coffee.

I am about to type a short message to my
grandfather when some movement outside the window catches my attention. I look
out at the square and see that a car has pulled up near the
mehana
. The
driver, a woman, gets out and goes to the trunk, where she struggles for a few
moments to remove something heavy. At first, I can’t tell what it is. There are
handles and a set of round rubber wheels. The woman sets this object on the
ground and leans down to push it into shape. It’s a wheelchair.

There is something familiar about the
woman. I seem to recognize her, with her thin face, long legs, and loose brown
hair. A smile forms on my face, but I can’t connect her with a name. Is she
someone I know?

There is a man in the front passenger
seat, and he is being helped into the wheelchair. I see the side of his face,
and the sternness of his composure drives away my smile. He appears to be a
powerful man, with bulky arm muscles protruding from his shirt sleeves, but he
is confined to the wheelchair. He snaps at the woman as she eases him into his
seat.

The chair is wheeled around, and the
man’s face comes into full view. I sit up straight in my seat and coil back
with instant recognition. I know this man. He played an important part in my
past, and more than that, I believe he may have had something to do with my
injuries and my subsequent loss of memory. And then the man’s name pops into my
head.

Boris!

That man is evil, I think, looking
around the
mehana
as if there is someone who can be sent to prevent this
person from entering the establishment. Obviously Boris doesn’t know that I’m
inside, but if he comes in, he will recognize me and that can only cause me
harm.

Before I have time to react to this
fragment of my past coming to light, someone else gets out of the car from the
backseat. It’s another woman, and she, too, is very familiar. As she slams the
back door, she turns, bringing her profile into full view. It is Katya!

I slam my laptop closed and stuff it
into my bag. Abandoning the bitter coffee, I approach the proprietor and ask
him where the toilets are. He points down the hallway, past the kitchen. As I
go, I spot a door that leads to the yard, and I hurry outside. I don’t look
back as I run down the narrow alley leading away from the square.

As I dash up the path to the cabin in
the upper valley, I realize a few things about my sudden departure from the
mehana
.
I didn’t pay for my coffee, and, in fact, I don’t have any money at all. More
painful than that is the thought that I left the silver chain with the Magen
David pendant on the table with my unfinished beverage.