Tales of Ivan Levsky

Trefor Stockwell

Description

This collection of short stories originally formed the core of the Author's doctoral thesis, and were written by him over a two year period whilst based in a small Bulgarian village. The collection will give the reader an insight into the history, culture and traditions of this fascinating Balkan country. Written originally with performance in mind - the author wanted the stories to reflect that country's oral storytelling tradition - they make for a lively and fascinating read. Fans of the short story genre and of Magical Realist fiction will enjoy this collection of stories as told by the fictional storyteller, Ivan Levsky, which range from those inspired by the dark and bloody history of the 500 year-long Ottoman occupation, through folk-lore and onto those reflecting modern-day Bulgarian life: an eclectic mix ranging from the bawdy comedy of Samovila to the psychological bleakness of 'The Experiment'. Within this anthology the reader will find a tale to suit every mood. A truly funny, thought-provoking and genuinely different collection of East European tales.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 02 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784627522
• Langue: English

Extrait

Tales of Ivan Levsky
Trefor Stockwell

Copyright © 2014 Trefor Stockwell
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1784627 522
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Contents

Cover


Farewell Ivan Levsky


The Martenitsa


Khristo’s Truck


The Next Emperor of Bulgaria.


The Small Miracle at Dolno Draglishte


The Cats of Thassos


Brussels, Jambo The Gypsy and Vera The Horse.


Samodiva


Shipka


Progress


The Man with One Head Too Many


Letters Home


Fate and the Life and Death of Chudomir Daev


Khan Isperih’s Gift


Reflection


Stefan Popovitch and the Great ‘What If?’


The Experiment


The Downfall and Subsequent Salvation of Todor Yenkov.


Glossary of Bulgarian, Turkish and Roma Words and Phrases
Farewell Ivan Levsky

An Introduction
I first met Ivan Levsky one evening in February 2007. A Bulgarian friend, knowing of my interest in the oral tradition still prevalent in the Balkans, suggested I accompany him through the snow to an evening of storytelling. ‘This man,’ my friend told me ‘is very special; in my opinion the finest storyteller in the whole of the region.’ I was intrigued as my friend, unlike the average Bulgarian, did not suffer from hyperbole, and so that evening I agreed to join him in the local Mehana where the event was to be hosted.
I had been to several of these events during my sojourn in the country, and this one started off in much the same vein as the others; if you have ever attended an open mike poetry evening in Britain you’ll pretty much get the picture: some good, some not so good and some downright bloody dire. However, as usual the wine flowed freely; the food was good and the company amusing and welcoming. That being said, there was nothing that really grabbed my attention, or inspired me, and but for my friend’s insistence that I stay ‘to listen to Ivan,’ I may well have left at the interval. I am thankful to my friend for insisting, because what I witnessed that night, not only thrilled and astounded me, but also changed the direction of my whole artistic project.
*
At first sight there was nothing special about Ivan Levsky. He was of medium height and build, had long dark hair tied in a pony tail and was of indeterminate age; I guessed at late thirties early forties. However, looks have little to do with the ability to mesmerise an audience, and mesmerise the audience he did.
It was the eyes that did it: dark, almost coal black and piercing. He walked onto the stage, seated himself and took in the audience with those eyes. He allowed a moment or two for the audience to applaud, and then silenced them by just raising his hand. The silence was almost shocking so immediate was it. He then fixed his audience with another gaze for a few more seconds before launching into the following introduction:

My name is Ivan Levsky, and I am the reciter of rhymes and teller of tales
Some old
Some new
Some fable
Some true
Some hard to believe
Some told to deceive
But I beg you believe
If you don't receive
A tale that excites you
Enthrals you and thrills you
Then I, Ivan Levsky, reciter of rhymes and teller of tales, will hang up my sack of stories, speak no more, cut out my tongue and feed it to the street dogs.
Once he had finished the audience applauded enthusiastically, and Ivan once more silenced the crowd by raising his hand. He then paused and began his performance.
The tales were simply told, but with such power that the audience were held throughout. I had thought his opening ditty a little risky; challenging the crowd as he did, but I need not have worried as he did as promised: excited, enthralled and thrilled.
That evening he told three stories, and left the gallery of listeners begging for more, which in my opinion is just as it should be – one should never risk outstaying welcome.
Once the crowd had left for their homes my friend led me over to introduce me to the star of the evening. I liked the man immediately – a rare thing for me – and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Two hours later we were still talking, drinking wine and discussing the philosophy of storytelling.
At this point, fuelled by alcoholic courage, I asked if I might record his next performance as an aid to my studies. He threw his head back and laughed out loud:
'What for my English friend? Do you intend to plagiarise my work?' he said this with a smile, but I feared that perhaps I had over-stepped the mark.
'No, no,' I replied 'I just want to record, and at most become inspired.'
Again he laughed, tears running down his face. When he'd recovered his composure he poured us both another drink, drank a mouthful and began to speak:
'Don't be so serious, of course you may record, I consider it an honour that you should want to. As to plagiarism, feel free.' I once again tried to deny the intention, but he raised his hand to silence me.
'Come, come, my new found friend, there is nothing wrong with a bit of honest plagiarism. I do it all the time, not blatantly, but where do you think these stories come from: some god or muse in the sky? No, no, no, they come from watching, and listening and observing: a half heard snatch of conversation can lead to a story; a pair of lovers surreptitiously meeting one another, or maybe something as simple as a man running to catch a train. All can inspire a tale or two. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if you popped up at some time or another.'
'Me?' I replied smiling 'What on earth would you find to write about me, I lead a fairly boring life, nothing much to excite the imagination there.'
'That is where you are wrong, my friend. Come now, you a writer, surely you realise that everyone is interesting. We all have a story. We may think we don't, because to us our life is normal, but when we look at others we see something different. Let's consider ourselves: you look at me and see a man who has no home, who appears to spend his life travelling around from town to town telling stories; a man who lives an itinerant life, with no possessions, no family and no close ties. You find me strange, exotic even, because my life is so different to your own. But my life is not strange to me; I don't find it romantic or especially interesting. Oh I enjoy what I do, and probably would miss it if I ever had to stop, but to me my life is mundane, ordinary, and normal. You, however, I find interesting, and I'm sure you'll pop up in a story or two over the next few months. You see, you do something that I could never envisage doing: you commit your stories to the page; your stories will live after you. I envy you that. When I die, then I fear I will take my little sack of stories with me to the grave; so, my interesting friend, record away, I shall consider it an honour; let it be my epitaph.'
Six months on, just after what happened happened, I look back on those five prophetic words with a great sadness. Spoken, as they were, in half jest they are now remembered as horribly prescient, and I can't help but wonder if Ivan was not only a teller of tales, but also some sort of male Cassandra. Could he have known? If he had then why did he do nothing about it? Why did he not just cancel his booking, and stay at home? These are questions I cannot answer, much as I would like too. All I know for certain is that what happened did happen, and all I can do is to give you the facts as to what actually occurred.
*
Dragan Aga was happily singing along with the radio as he entered the town of Samakov late in the afternoon of the third Wednesday of August; only another thirty kilometres to the warehouse in Sofia; a quick off load of the kitchen supplies and then on to spend the evening, and for the first time since he had met her, the whole night with the lovely Sophia; the beautiful Sophia from Sofia.
Sophia was older than Dragan's 26 years. He wasn't certain how much older, and didn't much care, but when he thought about it, which wasn't often, he guessed at late thirties, or perhaps a well preserved early forties.
They had first met in a bar in central Sofia on his first trip to the city. Since then they had met every third Wednesday in the month. She was married, but her husband was away much of the time, and, as she told Dragan, could not satisfy her sexual needs. He had never met a woman like her. She did things to him, and asked him to do things to her, that he had only ever dreamed of. Admittedly, his experience was limited, consisting mainly of a few abortive fumbles with his long standing girlfriend, Nadia, who could talk of nothing else but marriage, babies and setting up home – he knew she was going to have to go at some time, because none of those things really interested him.
The thought of Nadia depressed him momentarily, but he soon brushed away the grey cloud that crossed his mind, and thought again of Sophia: a whole night of passion. She had told him the last time they had met that her husband would be away in Serbia on business leaving them free to sp