PENKA BANGOVA, a short prose writer, lives in the city of Burgas. She is a manager of a company for accounting services. She has published some books with novels and stories as: "THE KEY" / 1998 / and "THE LAST DAYS OF AN EGOIST" / 2002 /. A new book is to be published named "EASTER BELLS". Her works have been published in "Revue périodique sur la vie en Bulgarie" - France, as well as in some of the leading Bulgarian newspapers and editions, such as: "Bulgarian Writer" newspaper; "Pulse" newspapers, "Plamak" magazine; "Sea" almanac, etc. Her works had excited the readers of a lot of newspapers and magazines. They have also been broadcasted on various radio stations: radio - station Stara Zagora; radio - station Varna; the National Bulgarian Radio - broadcast "Hristo Botev". Here are also included the two largest Bulgarian virtual libraries "Liternet" and "Slovoto". She is the first winner of the literature prize "Master of short prose" established in 2003 by "The Bulgarian Social - Democratic Party" and publishing house "21st century"- Burgas.
Mrs. Penka Bangova shared with me, that by the stories she tells she aims to evoke and inflame a purifying fire in her readers' souls. In my opinion she will soon reach that top.
Ivan Petkov
24.05.2003
Sofia
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THE DIARIES
Sea captain Aichevski's widow, charming Blaga, had been keeping closed the doors to her flesh for already eight months now. In fact, on the seventh day after the captain's death, the man she had been dating with of late waylaid her at the bus stop near the cemetery. He was pleased to see that she was not in mourning clothes, because he felt like having some warming up drink with her before driving her to his villa. He had troubles both at work and at home, that was why he needed her cheery voice, which always raised his spirits. Her radiation did act like balsam on Trayan, while she did not refuse him, because she believed that sex brought her health. When she received the gold ring from the captain, her heart was full of singing besotted nightingales; however, little by little those melodies became more and more usual, occasionally even out of time, and the distances between the feasts their bodies enjoyed together became longer and longer. Blaga believed that the reason for that were her husband's deviations. Not for nothing had captains the reputation of men who have a sweetheart on every shore, so she had decided that she had no reason to let the grass grow under her feet. It may sound strange but as the years went by, her desire to be lost in a flood of fiery kisses became even more wanton, moreover that their son had gone abroad and that gave the warm-blooded Blaga an utterly full scope. Well, she had certain inhibitions and she used to do it all secretly; and as soon as Aichevski would return, she would devote herself to him completely until the moment his ship would hoist sail again. Yet, one could not say that she was a hypocrite! When she was in her husbands arms, she felt his up to the tips of her shining nails, while stripping off the last piece of silk from her body in front of another man, she did it filled with warmest feelings for her family, because, in fact, she had no need at all of her health for health's sake alone.
Blaga believed that total continence had a bad effect on her and later she got so used to those infidelities that even when Aichevski would drop anchor for longer, she would still take the liberty of practicing them, justifying herself with the fact that her husband more and more rarely thought of fondling her. Nevertheless, to say the truth, she always kept a loving nightingale for him in her heart. Well, that nightingale, numb with the monotony and suspicions would not always start singing its song but in spite of the fact that they had been sharing the same bed for already a quarter of a century, it was still alive. So, on the ninth night, having seen off Aichevski's colleagues, whom she had invited for a humble commemoration party, she sincerely cried a little. Then she sat in the armchair under the Chinese lantern, where she had knitted shawls, sweaters and skiing caps for him, and opened one of the ten notebooks brought to her by the junior officer. The orderly, slightly forward sloping handwriting streamed like waves toward her eyes and they moistened again. She was sorry for Kamen himself, for the fact that he would not enjoy the sunrises and the sea anymore, yet he loved them so much that he used to go and feast his eyes at them as early as daybreak.
A tender expression lighted up the widow's face. The figures on the pages showed her that she was touching diaries and she felt tender emotion with the fact that he had wasted his time in juvenile occupations. She half-closed her eyes and got absorbed in memories: there he was, dressed in white trousers and white shirt, waiting for her in the corridor of the policlinics. Usually, even after working hours there was a queue in front of the consulting room, of which she was in charge. She did not like to let herself be taken in and, splitting the minute, would go out to tell the patients to come on the following day; while he, shaking and nodding vigorously his head, would start making her signs that she saw them all, that he had bought a newspaper and would wait, so let her work taking her time; and Blaga, rather for his sake, would not turn them away. Later, hand in hand, they would walk to the sea. It used to be even more wonderful, when the three of them: he, she and their son, with rucksacks flung over their shoulders, wondered about the Strandja Mountain or pitched a tent by the Rezvaya River twisting in the luxuriant green.
She calmed down a little merely at the end of the month. On a Sunday morning, she opened the first notebook and started reading about how he had also felt endlessly pleased when the three of them had been together. Then why would he agree to go with them after long talking him round to join them… On the following page he was telling how much he liked her in the striped dress; but why had he never said it to her! If he had embraced her more often with gestures of tenderness, their life would have been more beautiful. Why had he kept silent! The widow kept reading and not only tears were streaming down her face but also an unbearable pain kept squeezing her soul. When she had opened the first page, she had been afraid of peering into his adventures with Italian and mulatto women, while look here - ten full notebooks with reflections and sentiments about her and their son. She read repeatedly hundreds of times the pages moistened by her tears and became painfully aware that she had missed something wonderful in her life. It turned out that there had been moments in their long life together, when Kamen had been tender. There had been moments, when he had told her that he loved her. For instance, once he came back home at daybreak and with an impish smile handed her a pink tiny shell.
"Babe", he said, brushing his tongue over her cheeks, "I spent the night on the boat. And in order to prove to you that I have constantly thought of you, I have brought you this pearl."
However, his words passed by her heart, perhaps because she had thought that they would have been true if his pants had bulged out up there, under the navel. That sort of joy had not dropped in on them for a long time. Meanwhile, she was burning with desire to be spoken to that they were nuts about her as in her sixteen's, and she would start feeling dizzy and nagging heat waves would start running over her, if only a week had passed without the comforting shower of a hard phallus. However, she, nevertheless, did not dare to talk to him about the hell she happened to fall into.
Blaga bit her lips. It was mid-June, a fascinating time for making love on the mown meadows near the salt basins Mid-June - eight months had passed since Aichevski's death, yet she had not deviated for one single minute from the way between the consulting room and their home. The discovery that until his last hour, her beloved captain had felt the need to see her eyes, kept her fixed to the streets between the policlinics and the flat.
Their son had gone to Canada to make a living, so in the long hours of solitude she had enough time for self-analysis and was surprised to find out that sorrow was sucking out and drying up her insatiable lust. Perhaps she should have tried earlier to find a way out of those muddy waters, she thought. However, she had never thought that it was possible. None of her books said that it was possible. While look, the juicy pomegranate in her womb had gone into deep sleep and instead of voluptuous juices, from her belly up along the spine ran a silver stream, which refreshed her wretched brain seeking justifiable explanation of why she had missed her love. Yet, come to think, her desire to be loved had been so great that once she had recovered from the pregnancy, she had sought to satisfy that desire with one of her colleagues. Her husband had never found out anything but her mother had become aware of it at the very first visit of that man to her place.
"Babe", always when an unpleasant talk was to follow, Niya addressed her daughter by her child name, "why don't you take the trouble to be loyal to Kamen!"
Of course, she pretended to have been hurt. However, a year later on Christmas Eve, the holiday mystery had obviously predisposed the old woman to revelations and she started recounting her girlish banters. Blaga was listening to her with wide-open eyes. Finally, she asked:
"Mom, having become widowed so early, haven't you ever felt the need of a man? Not financially but in terms of a man's physical presence!"
"No, I haven't. The care for you and your sister took possession of me to such an extent that I forgot about the existence of that sort of pleasures."
"Okay, but my books say that sexual continence is harmful."
"Burn them away! I am sure that your grandma either, not only didn't have but hadn't even thought of another man although she had became widowed at the age of thirty." Niya kept silent for a while, then she continued with a pensive face: "She lived for 96 years and she never had any aches. However, perhaps it matters whether you think about men. If their absence starts vexing you, maybe its harmful."
"It is!"
"I don't know. But I see that nowadays women find it hard to be virtuous", her mother went on sunk in thought. "You eat rich food. Watch dirty movies. In addition, most important of all, you think that you must not be loyal. Moreover, children are those who suffer because of all this. Instead of devoting yourselves to them, you fiddle away your time out of home…"
Today Blaga's mind kept alive not the very words but her mother's eyes, dim with premonitions. To wipe away the sense of guilt, she began to telephone her son increasingly often. Alas! He never called her first. For instance, on Lady Day the telephone rang vigorously. She impatiently picked up the receiver, hoping to hear his voice but Trayan's voice reached her ears.
"Happy holiday, darling!"
"Thanks", she uttered disappointedly.
"I want to see you!"
The widow felt like a starved one, whom they offer baklava .
"No…"
"A walk would do you good."
"No… I feel so sad that nothing could do me any good…"
Her eyes glittered and, unexpectedly clear, Kamen emerged in her imagination with a tiny pink shell in his cupped hands.
1996, Bourgas