Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

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.

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