A strange thing happened — I woke up yesterday and found the world to be… good. I should say straight away: I hadn’t smoked anything. I simply opened my eyes — outside, a grey and grubby morning — rolled out of bed, scratched myself where one usually scratches in the morning… and suddenly I began to understand Candide. The world — my lifelong adversary, the thing I’ve been fighting tooth and nail ever since I left my dear hometown nearly thirty years ago — was suddenly not baring its teeth, but smiling. Not a particularly cheerful or friendly smile, maybe not even one meant for me — but a smile nonetheless. A real, unforced one.

I wouldn’t say it shocked me. I’m not even sure I noticed it in the way I’m describing now. The feeling was somewhere inside me — of that I’m certain — but feelings are feelings, and cheese costs money, as we know, so I tried to shove it aside and start the usual race against time: first, get the little one to school, then clean the kitchen — which in the mornings always looks like a child’s drawing — then shopping, cooking, even the most hated task of all: ironing, which I put off for weeks until I have no shirts left and am finally forced to wield the iron… oh yes, and after that to sit down and clatter on the keyboard — clack-clack, clack-clack, is the train coming, is the train coming? And still it never comes.

That’s what I tried to do — resume the normal, soul-crushing routine of a slightly neurotic, slightly ageing, and thoroughly pigheaded Bulgarian man playing the role of what in Germany is called a “single custodial parent.” But this time something was off. Something was missing, something didn’t add up — like in one of my improvised stews that I can never cook the same way twice. I clattered and thought, clattered and thought, and finally pushed the keyboard back and asked myself, seriously: “What the hell is wrong with me today?” The answer had been lurking in my mind all along, grinning cheekily, but it seemed so improbable that I’d refused to face it.

Incredible, but true — I was not in a bad mood. That nasty cloud, the one that’s made me wake up for years with the same question — “Why the hell am I grumpy today, who am I mad at now?” — was simply gone. And I even enjoyed working, not just because “if you don’t work…” I looked around, told myself, “Alright, fine. Let’s see how long you last,” and went back to work.

But the good mood didn’t want to leave. Not that it bothered me — heaven forbid! — but when you’re out of practice with such things, even the good stuff starts to feel weird. You’re not used to this kind of luxury; you brace for the next blow like a hedgehog curled up tight, showing nothing but spikes to the world — even though inside, everything is soft as your father’s soul, rest his soul… So you keep pushing that stone — the one Camus wrote a whole book about — and you call it “life.” What else are you supposed to do?

And yet, this day felt different. Strange, simple thoughts were spinning through my head — the kind our parents repeat until we finally and forever decide to stop believing them. After all, we’re not like them — we’re intellectuals, pushing the Enlightenment forward, forging Progress…

“Look how beautiful the world is. Really look, son. Not just to tick a box — really look. See those two birds out there? They’re cuddling and kissing, aren’t they?”

“Eh, birds do what birds do.”

“Ah no, don’t give me that — don’t pretend you’re too jaded to be surprised. Admit it — it’s the first time you’ve really seen them, right?”

“Fine. It is. So what?”

“Well, you know those birds have been cuddling and kissing outside your window for a whole week now, right? You’ve just been blind to it.”

“That I do know. I’m blind — with glasses or without. You’re not telling me anything new. And spare me the kissing — I want none of it. Now leave me alone.”

The voice inside me fell quiet, but kept stomping around in my head in its little boots, refusing to let go.

“Hey, man, do you realise you’re actually really lucky?”

“Me? Lucky? Can’t you see I’m working?”

“Of course you are. You’re alive, still healthy, not poor, not rich, with two kids to care for. With luck, one day you might even see. Isn’t that something?”

“Told you — I’m working.”

“Yesterday in London they defused two car bombs. Did you hear that?”

“Of course. That’s all we talked about last night with…”

“Well then — do you realise how many people could have died, but didn’t?”

“And?”

“It’s simple. You could have been one of them — but you weren’t.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know death’s teeth, but I sure sip this soup called life every day.”

“Blah blah blah. Now look out the window again.”

“The birds are gone.”

“Of course they’re gone — they’ve got more to do than you. And they still find time for everything. But I’m not talking about them.”

“Then what?”

“Look again.”

“At what? Air, clouds, the sound of bells…”

“Aha! That’s it. You see them now? The air, the clouds, the bell chimes?”

“I think I do.”

“Good. Now go outside and show people what you’ve seen.”

“Why would people care? They’ve got their own stuff.”

“Because it brings them joy, man! Do you have any idea what it means when someone carries the sound of bells inside them?”

“Me? Bells? More like thorns. People out there have long forgotten I exist.”

“Enough talk! Out you go — show them!”

So the little voice won. I went outside. And there — miracle! People were lovely. Everyone smiling. Each one carrying some small miracle inside. Pure joy, I tell you! I sat in the park, had a coffee, delighted in the mums with prams and the old men on benches. What a wonderful thing. What was in that coffee?

***

Right. Let me tell you now: the night before, I’d spent time with a woman.

Did I just ruin everything?

No mystery, no romance — just a guy bathing in post-coital bliss. So much for the pretty words.

Well — no. We just talked. No flirting, not even a hint. Mostly argued, because she’s Bulgarian too — which means, like me, she’d sooner bite off her tongue than say, “You’re right.” Also, like me, she clearly suffers from attention deficit syndrome, so the conversation went on all night but whether it ever met itself I still don’t know.

Still, something happened. That’s obvious. And again, it wasn’t what you’d think. No falling in love. I was in love with her — twenty-something years ago. Then she did a few things she probably doesn’t even remember, and I, in my usual fashion, crossed her off my inner list. We hadn’t seen each other since — nearly two decades — each of us going through everything imaginable. She’s been divorced a dozen times — a real fighter! — I’m freshly scraped out of my own tale…

Also, when I hear someone call themselves “wise,” I grab my mouth so I don’t burst out laughing. So no, forget romance. I’m the kind of man who only falls in love when love has no chance of being returned.

Alright then — but what did happen?

Simple things, I think. She’s one of the survivors of that London scare — and when she told me that, when she said what a joy it is just to be alive, it touched something in me. It wasn’t a revelation, not like what Pascal describes in Pensées. Just something small. Then she said other small things — about the pleasure of feeling old while you still can afford to, of having nothing left to prove, to conquer, to strive for. Of not needing to impress anyone. Of just listening, soaking in, and rejoicing — simply rejoicing — in still being part of something, in still being here. Of feeling free — flirt if you want, don’t if you don’t, travel, sing, do whatever you please — no one’s meddling in your life.

But all this — all of it — is only possible if you’ve first dared to climb out of the pit you dug yourself. Not with a ladder — no. That’s where I got it wrong. You don’t need a ladder. You just need to open your eyes, spread your arms, make the tiniest effort — and there you are: alive and radiant, like you haven’t been in years.

And above all: outside. Out of the pit.

Today, I’m going dancing.

Yours sincerely,
Zlatko Enev

August 2007