East of the West Read Online Free PDF

of terlitsi —booties she has been knitting for some months, gifts for our folks on the other side. The second sack is zipped up and I can’t see what’s inside, but I know. Flasks of rose oil, lipstick and mascara. She will sell them or trade them for other kinds of perfumes or lipsticks or mascara. Next to her is my sister, Elitsa, pressing to her chest a small teddy bear stuffed with money. She’s been saving. She wants to buy jeans.
    “Levis,” she says. “Like the rock star.”
    My sister knows a lot about the West.
    I’m standing between Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma is wearing her most beautiful costume—a traditional dress she got from her own Grandma that she will one day give to my sister. Motley-patterned apron, white hemp shirt, embroidery. On her ears, her most precious ornament—the silver earrings.
    Grandpa is twisting his mustache.
    “The little bastard,” he’s saying, “he better pay now. He better.”
    He is referring to his cousin, Uncle Radko, who owes him money on account of a football bet. Uncle Radko had taken his sheep by the cliffs, where the river narrowed, and seeing Grandpa herding his animals on the opposite bluff, shouted, “I bet your Bulgars will lose in London!” and Grandpa shouted back, “You wanna put some money on it?” And that’s how the bet was made, thirty years ago.
    There are nearly a hundred of us on the bank, and it takes Mihalaky a day to get us all across the river. No customs—the men pay some money to the guards and all is good. When the last person sets his foot in Srbsko, the moon is bright in the sky and the air smells of grilled pork and foaming wine.
    Eating, drinking, dancing. All night long. In the morning everyone has passed out in the meadow. There are only two souls not drunk or sleeping. One of them is me and the other one, going through the pockets of my folks, is my cousin Vera.
    •
    Two things I found remarkable about my cousin: her jeans and her sneakers. Aside from that, she was a scrawny girl—a pale, round face and fragile shoulders with skin peeling from the sun. Her hair was long, I think, or was it my sister’s hair that grew down to her waist? I forget. But I do recall the first thing that my cousin ever said to me:
    “Let go of my hair,” she said, “or I’ll punch you in the mouth.”
    I didn’t let go because I had to stop her from stealing, so, as promised, she punched me. Only she wasn’t very accurate and her fist landed on my nose, crushing it like a Plain Biscuit. I spent the rest of the sbor with tape on my face, sneezing blood, and now I am forever marked with an ugly snoot. Which is why everyone, except my mother, calls me Nose.
    •
    Five summers slipped by. I went to school in the village and in the afternoons I helped Father with the fields. Father drove an MTZ-50, a tractor made in Minsk. He’d put me on his lap and make me hold the steering wheel and the steering wheel would shake and twitch in my hands as the tractor ploughed diagonally, leaving terribly distorted lines behind.
    “My arms hurt,” I’d say. “This wheel is too hard.”
    “Nose,” Father would say, “quit whining. You’re not holding a wheel. You’re holding life by the throat. So get your shit together and learn how to choke the bastard, because the bastard already knows how to choke you.”
    Mother worked as a teacher in the school. This was awkward for me, because I could never call her “Mother” in class and because she always knew if I’d done my homework or not. But I had access to her files and could steal exams and sell them to the kids for cash.
    The year of the new sbor , 1975, our geography teacher retired and Mother found herself teaching his classes as well. This gave me more exams to sell and I made good money. I had a goal in mind. I went to my sister, Elitsa, having first rubbed my eyes hard so they would appear filled with tears, and with my most humble and vulnerable voice I asked her, “How much for your