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georgi gospodinov
fallen into Harry Stoev’s hold.
I rush to escape, while the
crowd takes off after him.
And then from somewhere
behind me I hear:
Step right up, ladies and
gents... A child with a bull’s
head. A neverbefore-seen
wonder. The little Minotaur
from the Labyrinth, only
twelve years old... You can
eat up your fiver, drink up
your fiver, or spend your fiver
to see a marvel you’ll talk
about your whole life long.
According tomygrandfather’s
memory, he didn’t go in
here. But now I’m at the
Fair of this memory, I am
he, and it irresistibly draws
me in. I hand over my fiver,
say farewell to the python
and its deceitful twenty feet,
to Agop’s ice-cold syrup,
to the story of Nikolcho
the prisoner-of-war, to the
Armenian granny ’s rock
candy, Harry Stoev’s death
grip, and sink into the tent.
With the Minotaur.
From this point on, the
thread of my grandfather’s
memory stretches thin, yet
doesn’t snap. He claims that
he didn’t dare go in, yet I
manage to. He’s kept it to
himself. Since I’m here, in his
memory, could I even keep
going if he hadn’t been here
before me? I’m not sure, but
something isn’t right. I’m
already inside the labyrinth,
which turns out to be a big,
half-darkened tent. What I
see is very different from
my favorite book of Greek
myths and the black-and-
white illustrations in which
I f irst saw the Minotaur-
monster. They have nothing
in common whatsoever. This
Minotaur isn’t scary, but sad.
A melancholy Minotaur.