ÁNNE

Sometimes, Lola and I would take out a bunch of covers and blankets out on the porch and spend the night under the stars. We arranged them in such a way that only the end of the small awning was above us and then we lay down and gazed at the night sky. Whenever we looked at it for more than a minute or two, Lola panicked that she would “fly away.” That’s exactly what she said – that she was afraid of flying away, and I tried to harbor that fear with me, to feel it and share it with her.

It was August. Your mother also loved to look at the constellations, Lola’s father said at some point. She didn’t say anything back, and I had a bunch of questions. I wanted to learn everything about that mother – what was her name, what was she like, how did the two of them meet, why did he marry her, how did she die? How much did he miss her, and did he think about her often? I had never heard him talk about that and I immediately concluded that he hadn’t talked in front of Lola either. I couldn’t grasp why she didn’t ask any questions. How come in that moment she was satisfied just with the statement that her mother had loved the constellations? Didn’t she want to know more details, like, for example, whether her mother also used to sleep on the porch like us? Didn’t she want to know much more?

§

I didn’t dare ask about this enigmatic woman. It wasn’t right, I shouldn’t have been interested at all. I had to think about her as if she were one of all the other strangers in the world – and who is interested in strangers? It’s true, Lola was my dearest friend, but I got to know her without a mother. I could not know, if she were not a half-orphan, whether we would be close at all. Perhaps her mother would not approve of me, just like Grandma didn’t approve of Lola. Perhaps she would forbid her to play with me and to love me, or she would blame me for Lola’s disobedience. And perhaps Lola would be completely different, and I wouldn’t be able to love her like I did. When playing, she would be boring, obedient, humble, and meek. She would not put on mismatched socks and forget to comb her hair. She would not stain her dresses with chalk and jump from trees. She would not swim in the dirty river and roll in the meadows until she was exhausted.

But there was something else, too. The main thing that I wanted to know was whether Lola’s mother – that seemingly fictional, non-existent woman who has never lived – would want to shelter me with her, the same way her father did it, in a sense. Would I designate her as my mother, and would she agree to become that. That was the only thing I wanted to know. And since I didn’t consider it right to ask straightforwardly, I hoped that Lola’s father would share some more little detail about her, something seemingly very small – like, for example, what was her favourite colour or what did she like to eat for breakfast – but which would help me figure out whether that woman would be suitable to be my mother.

Nobody said anything more, though. We lay down like that, staring up, for some time. We stared at the Great Bear, each one of us immersed in their own thoughts. It seemed to me, though, that all three of us were thinking about Lola’s mother in a way. I closed my eyes and prayed silently, like Grandma used to do. For Lola and her father. For myself. And for her mother. I prayed to God that she would approve of me, wherever she was. I said amen and I drifted off.

At some point, I woke up from the morning’s chill. It was dark and the stars shone even brighter. For a moment, I got scared that all of them were preparing to fall down, that they would collapse upon us and destroy us. My heart began to beat. Every sleeping person has felt that, the certainty of their doom in their drowse. At that point, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and I saw that Lola’s father had spread out his arms to the sides – one for me and one for her. I felt an uncontrollable desire to hug him, to cuddle in his fatherly strength, and when I was just about to do it, he turned his body slightly away to face Lola and pressed her to himself. His hand was still underneath my neck, his palm on my shoulder, but it didn’t seem like he was comfortable: he looked crucified in his love, torn apart between me and her. And maybe it was appropriate for me to think about that back then, to realise that I would never be his real child, that he would always choose Lola over me. At that moment, though, in the starry night of our childhood, I felt only affection. Whatever was to happen from here on – even if his hand were to get stiff under my neck, even if his whole body and essence were to turn away to the other side, even if some star were to confuse its direction and fall on our heads, or the whole sky collapsed upon us – the hand of that person would forever remain reached out to me.

I pulled the cover up to my chin and fell asleep.

§

The truth is that I was often thinking about my mother and hoping she would call me, remorseful, in a mad hysteria that she had missed so much time in which she could have loved me. When I was heading home, it was with that same illusion that she would regret everything the moment she saw me again. I wished that she would ask for forgiveness. She would stand in front of me tearful, scared, crushed. But it didn’t happen that way. Also because I didn’t want to forgive her myself. I was going to tell her it was too late – where had she been until now! No, I can’t forgive her. I don’t want to. She doesn’t deserve it. And despite the assurance from other people that forgiveness would bring me peace, I was feeling an indefinable satisfaction at the thought of denying her forgiveness.

My mother should have been different. She should have watched me sleep, wrapped up in a blue blanket, placed snugly in Thea’s bassinet. She should have studied me with fulfilment, as if she had sculpted me with her own hands. I should have felt her gaze in my sleep and not moved, so as not to wake her from this trance. She should have rebelled against Dad’s wish that I should have been born a boy. To compensate for his coldness with her endless love. To protect me from everything and everyone. Despite asthma, despite my inability to breathe – she should have been ready to breathe instead of me.

I had imagined her death over and over again. I was imagining how someone – someone completely random, a faceless person – would call and announce that she’s gone now. And often, I didn’t feel anything at this thought, I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t overcome with fierce grief. As if I had simply accepted that she was gone, and that’s it. But it was different now. She was still somewhere out there, alive and probably sound, as far as this was possible, and it was Lola’s father who was lying in her place. The father, the only one who didn’t abuse me in my childhood – neither physically nor verbally. The one who tried to create at least some joyful memories with us and for us. The one who was interested in whether I was getting a good education, without insisting that I should become a doctor or fulfil missions. The one who never got drunk and never turned his back on me.

It’s as if I realise only now that I’m grieving, I’m scared and I’m angry, because I’m finally an orphan. I start crying uncontrollably. I’m burying my face in my arm and I start shaking without making a sound.

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Dilyana Kodjamanova holds a degree in Law from St Kliment Ohridski Sofia University and an MA in Creative Writing from the American College Dublin. She is a content writer and digital marketing specialist.

In February 2024, the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation launched an open call for English-speaking translators to join the inaugural edition of the Bulgarian to English Literary Translation Academy. The Academy was designed to connect experienced translators with emerging talents in literary translation, fostering the growth of a new generation skilled in bringing contemporary Bulgarian literature to English-speaking audiences. Over a six-month period, mentors Angela Rodel, Ekaterina Petrova, Izidora Angel, and Traci Speed guided three mentees each, working across genres including fiction, children’s literature, and poetry. By the program’s end, participants had developed substantial translated excerpts to present to publishers, authors, and partners, and to use in applying for translation grants, residencies, and other professional development opportunities. The Academy has also enabled contemporary Bulgarian authors to have significant portions of their work translated, which they can present to literary agents, international publishers, and in applications for global programs. You can find more information about the Academy participants here. The Academy is made possible through the support of the National Culture Fund under the Creation 2023 program and in partnership with Vagabond magazine.