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Olya Stoyanova


She looks at the colourful kerchiefs in front of her and cannot choose any. White and pink. Blue and red. Floral motifs and birds of Paradise. Roses and lilies. Linen and silk. Nylon and cotton. Which one to take?

She is at the entrance of the mosque, holding her sandals in hand, and cannot make up her mind. Her feet sunk in the red rug and behind her already forms impatient line - the kind of people, you know, who murmur contemptiously, as if to themselves, and slowly push you ahead, one little step, one more push. Come on, take a kerchief, cover your head, and go in. What are you waiting for?

But she just stays there with her camera and cannot decide. How not getting angry? Hey, tourist, if you are not going in, just move aside!

At the end a woman from the line takes the matter in her own hands - she grabs the first kerchief and covers her shoulders. She thanks this woman silently and steps in.

Inside is cool. Cupolas and decorations. Floral motifs and silence. She sits on the soft rug covering the floor. Before staring to photograph, she must feel the place. Always. The most important things always escape the photo. She tightens the kerchief around her shoulders and sits quiet. From the birds with golden plumage waifs aroma of somebody's perfume. Must be cotton, she thinks, fingering the kerchief. At the rim of it are crocheted white flowers. Lilies, most likely. And at this moment she feels that the ends of the kerchief are wet. Like the woman before her had been crying for hours.

She never lifts the camera. Some stories simply cannot be photographed.



© Olya Stoyanova
© Vesselin Vesselinov, Craig Hasbrouck - translated from bulgarian
© E-magazine LiterNet, 01.09.2015, № 9 (190)