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georgi gospodinov
the elementary particles of
the past, I was gripped by a
gnawing suspicion, which I
tried to defang by turning it
into a supposedly made-up
story.
He opened his eyes with
the vague sense that he
was awakening into another
dream. Could his empathy,
which has shown no sign of
itself over the past twenty
years, be reawakening?
Outside he could hear the
high school marching band,
sounding exactly like it did
back then, he could have
sworn that they were playing
the very same instruments he
remembered from his school
days. He himself had once
played the tuba, standing in
the back row next to Nasko
with the cymbals, Nasko the
Candy Nut with the Blubber-
Butt, as his full nickname
went . Mr. Blubber-But t
was always a split-second
late, a hundredth of a beat
behind, which was almost
inaudible to the ears up
on the platform, but which
set Comrade Brunekov, the
singing teacher, on pins
and needles, and all of us
in the band registered that
alarming pause, that crack
in the music. In the end, the
cymbal would nevertheless
crash and the simultaneous
sigh of relief added yet
another note to the march.
But that was so many years
ago...
Now the music was again
thundering down below, all
guns ablaze. In the end, it
seemed that he had managed
to do what he had been trying
to do for years—to bring
back part of the past, just
a little slice, to enter into it
and never leave it again. Your
body can’t escape from the