IN THE VALLEY OF OBLIVION

IN THE VALLEY OF OBLIVION

(The Hospital in Katlanovo)

It was a spring day, May 2nd.

Kostadin Vasilevski arrived in the valley. He dreamed of coming here for a long time.

The moment Kostadin Vasilevski disembarked from the bus he became confused, looking here and there, not knowing which way to go while clutching a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

His unusual behaviour attracted the attention of onlookers. But then he noticed a crowd of cheerful people moving towards the river which attracted his attention. He stood there watching the people moving and felt a sense of satisfaction. He said to himself: “I knew that one day I would come here...” and then began to walk. He walked slowly towards the river following the people and greeting them… elegant people coming out of their luxury limousines... The water rustled rhythmically making him walk with dignity...

“There isn’t…” said Kostadin Vasilevski after he searched from end to end and then climbed over a pile of rocks scattered like dried joints. He looked down the valley carefully. He had a clear view. The sky was blue and the sun was shining. He noticed a flock of wild pigeons flying overhead. He watched their carefree flight with admiration. Kostadin Vasilevski suddenly stood up straight and slowly shook his head. His face was pale and elongated. He had the look of a sufferer. He looked like something was calling him… summoning him… to somewhere he did not want to go.

Kostadin Vasilevski switched hands and put the bouquet of flowers in his right hand. He looked at the flowers. He brought the bouquet to his nose and drew a long breath. There was still aroma left in them but they were starting to wither. The water in their stems was evaporating and so was their life. “They are so much like us...” he said looking at their slowly withering petals deprived of moisture... “Blood makes a person strong and ruddy and here, the flowers, when their moisture evaporates they slowly...” he said without

finishing his sentence. He pulled out a photograph that he kept in a folded white piece of paper in his pocket and looked at it with a soft penetrating gaze, seeming like he was looking at a pair of big blue eyes looking back at him… looking for something...

“I feel a lot of pain...” he said. “Yes, I now clearly see your dear beautiful eyes...” he said and put the photograph back in his pocket. “Where should I look for you? I know you are here but where? Something is whispering in my soul... But where are you? Something is saying ‘hold on Kostadin’…” he said to himself, giving himself courage.

“Maybe fate wants to torment me. Or does not want to destroy you...?” Kostadin Vasilevski said to himself while navigating his way towards the valley. He walked and looked around. He noticed a sunken shape in the soil.

He sat on a bench next to it and again shifted the flowers from one hand to the other. He looked at them. They were drooping and bowing like the heads of sleeping children. “Will these flowers hold out? On what can I place my hope...” he said looking tired from his pain of not being able to get what he wanted in life.

“Why did I come here? To suffer more, eh?” he asked himself.

“Hello there…” he heard a voice say.

Kostadin Vasilevski threw a merciful look at the man sitting opposite to him. He thought the man wanted to talk. But when Kostadin Vasilevski saw a limousine coming he ran off and picked a place on the ground, a big enough place to accommodate a person after they had died.

“Move away old man, move! You are in the way! I will run you over!” said the man with sideburns and long hair, sticking his head out the limo window.

“You can’t drive here! My son is resting here… and his friends over there. I have been fighting all day and I am not giving up… step by step everyone is trying to push me away. And now I am here and I

will not move! You can run me over if you want!” insisted Kostandin.

“Back up!” screamed Kostadin.

“What is wrong with you old man? This is for limousines; go up there in the woods to the spring of healing water.

“He is crazy… lying there…” said one of the limo passengers while pushing the old man out of the way. Kostadin Vasilevski’s dentures were shaking in his mouth and he was unable to speak properly.

“If you want to say something, say it loud! I can’t understand your mumbling,” said the man pushing him out of the way.

“Nice flowers, give me one,” said a blonde around whose neck hung a heavy necklace supporting a gem of polished Russian amber.

“Did your date abandon you Uncle? Look at him… he is in love...” said the other woman in the limo who provoked loud laughter from everyone.

Kostadin Vasilevski stood up, tightened his hand around the bouquet of flowers, looked at them with offended eyes and said:

“This is a cemetery people! Here rest the bones of my son! Underneath this soil are the remains of my destiny! My blood...” he said resolutely with wide open eyes looking at each person individually... Then shivering, Kostadin Vasilevski continued: “Maybe further down, but... now this place is enough for a single grave and I am not giving it up!”

But when Kostadin Vasilevski understood that he did not have the power of persuasion to explain himself to them, he lay down again and wept like a beaten beast. He felt like a strong hand had tossed him to his past when his wounded soul craved for a deep grave for himself. He continued to stare at the wheels of the limo.

“Bones, bones, bones… let’s get out of here!” yelled one of the women attempting to return to the limo while her high heels kept getting stuck into the soft soil.

“You are crazy, Maia! You fell under the suggestion of this blabbering fool,” said the man who earlier had dragged Kostandin out of the way.

“Run him over, Mile! You will see how quickly he will jump out of the way,” said the same man as the driver put the limo in reverse.

After much engine reving and posturing, the limo left. Kostadin Vasilevski calmed down and was satisfied that he had preserved the small piece of land from being run over.

“Oh, I felt something massive over me. Did they run me over?” Kostadin asked himself.

“It felt like something flattened me to the ground, but what was it? I don’t know...” he said and stood motionless, looking at the picture he held in his hand. Kostadin Vasilevski thought it was going to be quiet here. People would be silent, or at least talk silently, completely giving into their deep feelings and thoughts. There will be visitors: fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, widows, children and grandchildren, and respected friends. He expected that a minute of silence would be offered, silence that would spread its wings over the valley. And people will go on and on not hiding their tears, not hiding their pain. It seemed to him that there would be wreaths and bouquets of fresh flowers… Flowers, flowers... He expected to hear the exciting words of the past, words that came from the heart... He wanted to ask about everything… tell about everything… He wanted to tell about the avalanche of foreign troops who expelled the people from their homes. To tell about those bitter days… To tell them that in those days trucks came here every day carrying a terrible load... People died here… many people.

But there was no lowering of spears, no salvo, no wreaths and no words on the tombstones… And now bent forward, he closed his eyes over the picture and tried to understand what was with these

people... He stared at the sunken soil and felt the bones underneath it...

He got up, collected his flowers and gave a few stems to the younger people seated there. He then slowly went to sit on a bench.

Nobody spoke to him, he looked disturbed to them. Instead of asking him why he was upset and comforting him, they walked away leaving him to soak his flowers with his tears. In the beginning some people thought he was bowing to the luxury limousines passing by, carrying bearded men, men with sideburns, bald headed men with their well ornamented women hanging onto them. They had no idea the past was calling him… beckoning him to come here. Kostadin Vasilevski came here, all the way from Australia, to lay flowers… to shed several tears… to be relieved of his bitterness… He is shedding tears now but instead of subsiding, his bitterness grew… as he now bitterly bows before these forgotten graves. How wonderful it would have been if Kostadin Vasilevski had his own grave here with an epitaph. But it was war then. Now it is not war, so why is there no tombstone?

What was Kostadin Vasilevski’s desire? Which would have been more painful? To see these abandoned graves or to see parts of death tossed and scattered here and there in the river? All the old man wanted was a little place for him to stop and speak to his dead son: “My dear son, I brought you what you wanted when you were a young man.” But that which he promised to him remained in the old man’s hands because he did not know where to lay it… he couldn’t lay it just anywhere. He promised his son he would lay it on his grave. His son made sure he promissed him that.

“Yes, pain is as inevitable as death…” said the man who sat across from Kostadin and watched him all this time. Kostadin looked at the wilted flowers and felt like he was hearing voices from the past. He did not want to get into the depth of his story; he only wanted to talk about what caused the flowers to wilt. Watching these people and how they behaved irritated him.

“Cursed be, I can’t forget them. How much longer must I live with these painful thoughts…” Kostadin thought to himself.

“Why did you stay with me…? Are you one of us?” Kostadin asked the man sitting across from him.

The man was silent, listening to Kostadin Vasilevski speak made him think of his own past, bringing him back to the old cursed days.

“Old man, if I had no strength to hold onto my own past… how can I talk to you? What can I now hope for? A repeat in the name of the ‘Aegeans’ to carry me over seas like it did you?” replied the man.

Kostadin realized that the man had his own problems and from the way he spoke he had his own pains. He was beaten down by his pain and seeing the wilted flowers brought on more paiful memeories… The man got up and left.

“Perhaps he does not want to talk?” thought Kostandin.

“I came all the way from Australia for this grave! I now understand what it means; if the storm knocks down a strong tree it will never rise up again...” Kostadin realized that and that: “his son’s bones were a prize for the soil, in the country where he was born… and nothing more…”

Kostadin Vasilevski was left alone, the day was almost over and the heat was not so intense. The bright and shiny sun did not make it past the horizon before a huge dark cloud covered the sky, growling and rumbling with powerful thunder. One after another lightning bolts cut the air and smashed the valley below.

The people began to flee. The man who was afraid of his own thoughts moved slowly. His desire to speak to Kostadin overpowered his fear of the storm. He looked back and said:

“What’s ours is damned… we are anathematized!”

The weather was now bad and gloomy. The only thing one could hear was the sound of the rushing water pushing its way south. The man turned back and saw Kostadin Vasilevski enveloped in darkness...

Katlanovo Bath, 1968.