Pavlina Gateva

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An older man used to live there before. He smoked a pipe, played the piano, and was always smiling - something rare for the people in this region.

Sometimes I would climb the stairs to his room just for conversation. At other times - to make love. Or we had coffee together.

One day I found him dead. Had to organize his funeral.

This one is younger and I never see him. I even imagine that he may have a deformed face and that is why he hides inside. He plays the guitar and writes verses. Still, I continue to climb the squeaking stairs. We talk, but he never opens the door. Sometimes I leave a cup of coffee for him just outside. Sometimes he pushes a letter under the door, asking me to drop it in the mailbox.

When I stop climbing the creaking stairway he will be forced to come down to the living room. After all, somebody will have to organize my funeral.

© Pavlina Gateva
© Vesselin Vesselinov, J. R. Hasbrouck, translated
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© Електронно списание LiterNet, 01.09.2009, № 9 (118)