Valley of Thracians (3 page)

Chapter
5

Dear
Grandpa,

When
I got back to campus, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that we never got
to talk, really talk, at the funeral. I hurried to the library computers to
shoot you off an email. I am still in shock, unable to comprehend or accept the
cruelties of this world. And if I am feeling this bad, I can’t imagine what
it’s like for you.

I
am so, so sorry. I loved Grandma dearly. You know that, but it’s something I
needed to say. I have all these emotions inside of me
—
memories and warm feelings that surprise me
with their intensity. I can’t go back to my studies as if nothing has happened.
Right now, as hard as everything is, and as powerful as the loss is, I feel I’m
very close to Grandma. I don’t want to lose this closeness.

I
remember a few months ago when you first informed me that Grandma was seriously
ill, that the breast cancer had spread, and that the prognosis was not good. I
couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept it. I mean, Grandma had been part of my
life since the very day I was born, so how could she get sick? How could she
die?

I’ve
never before lost anyone so close to me. Since Mom’s mother died when I was
just an infant, I have no memories of her, and Mom’s father died well before I
was born. A classmate of mine here at the college was killed in an automobile
accident last semester, but I was never that close to him. Death is so final,
so permanent, leaving us only with memories.

I’ve
always relished my visits to Chicago, especially the ones when I came on my own
during school vacations. Grandma baked my favorite oatmeal cookies, cooked that
fabulous Spanish tongue dish I craved but could never get anywhere else. She
pampered me so much. I can only imagine how she pampered you!

I
know Grandma’s death was hard for Dad as well, although he is not one to openly
express his emotions. I watched him closely during the funeral. I am almost
certain I saw a tear form in his eye as the rabbi said the final blessings at
the gravesite. That’s just the way Dad is. Someone dies; life goes on.

Ok,
here’s something I remember about Grandma. Well, it’s actually about the both
of you. This is something from long ago. Anyway, I remember when the two of you
came out to Los Angeles for my bar mitzvah. You were decked out in a fancy
Brooks Brothers Fitzgerald suit. Not used to the heat in California, you were
perspiring like crazy. Grandma was wearing this beautiful floral dress. She
looked so elegant, like one of those British royals going to watch the horse
races at Ascot.

You
seemed a bit nervous sitting in your pew in the synagogue; I don’t know why. I
went up to the pulpit and recited the
haftorah
.
My father didn’t show any emotions, as usual, but you were quite teary and
emotional, and, of course, ever so proud of me. I stood on the pulpit with my
head bent, listening to the rabbi’s lengthy sermon, and that was that.

Anyway,
the point of all these reminiscences is what Grandma said to me at the party in
the reception hall after the service. Grandma said that my
haftorah
reading proved that I was capable of accomplishing anything I set out to do.

That’s
a statement that’s stuck with me a long time. Being capable of accomplishing
anything I set out to do. Along with your encouragement, it was also Grandma’s
statement that got me through my troublesome high school years. I set myself a
goal, to graduate from high school, and I proved that I was capable of
accomplishing that, just like Grandma had said long before while at my bar
mitzvah.

It
was at my bar mitzvah that you and Grandma gave me something so special that I
still cherish it to this very day. Do you remember? You gave me a silver chain
with a Magen David pendant. The Hebrew letters
het
yod
, forming the word for life, were
carved on this special Jewish symbol.

Maybe
at the time, as a thirteen-year-old with greasy hair and a face full of acne, I
didn’t see myself wearing the chain, thinking that such jewelry was better
suited for girls. But now, Grandpa, I wear the Magen David chain all the time.
Especially here at college.
I am proud of it. It is a link
to my grandparents whom I will always love so very much.

Your
loss is so much greater than mine, but I wanted to share my feelings. I know
how wonderful she was.
Marcia, my grandmother and your wife.
She will remain in my loving memories always.

I
guess that’s all for now,

Scott

Chapter
6

He kicked at the rough gravel, grimacing
when the action sent a wave of pain up his cramped leg. What kind of beach was
this anyway? The shoreline lacked any traces of smooth, comforting sand, yet
the locals didn’t appear to mind. It seemed as if the entire population of
Varna had flocked to the Black Sea to enjoy the weekend heat. All along the
crowded beachfront, he observed, they were exposing as much skin to the summer
elements as possible. Lying on their recliners and drinking beer under their
colorful umbrellas, they talked happily amongst themselves. Yet, except for a
lonesome windsurfer and a few exuberant toddlers, few residents were actually
braving the rough waters, preferring the sun to the Saturday waves.

He was a bit shocked with the audacity
of the younger Bulgarian women, but then again, this was Europe, where breast
baring was par for the course. Bikini tops hung haphazardly on the support
beams of the umbrellas and the backs of chaise lounge chairs, liberating their
owners and delighting unashamed gawkers. Slim teenage girls and curvy mature
women gallivanted up and down the beach, flaunting their assets and attracting
the hungry stares of bare-chested young men. He noticed, however, that some of
the older women, including a few who were seriously overweight, had removed the
tops of their bathing suits as well. They would have better served the public
if they had kept their private parts private.

Ah, but none of this could excite him
any more at his age, he mused. When he was younger, seeing the breasts of
unfamiliar women in whatever context—at a public beach, in the cinema, on
stage, or anywhere outside the privacy of his bedroom—would have resulted in an
immediate physical reaction. Now the only thing he was feeling physically as he
made his way slowly along the shore was the recurrent pains in his legs. He
would have to check that out when he returned to the States.

Walking among the half-naked Saturday
sunbathers, Simon felt uncomfortably overdressed. He was wearing brown slacks
and a long-sleeved blue checkered shirt. His white Reebok sneakers were filling
with sand from the beach; one of them was spotted with smudges of black tar. A
Chicago Cubs baseball cap, tilted slightly on his unruly gray hair, completed
his beach costume. Despite the warm weather and resultant tanning
opportunities, he wasn’t willing to risk getting skin cancer as a Bulgarian
souvenir.

His repeated kicks at the sand as he
walked were due to the frustration he felt, especially after his talk with the
English-speaking press officer from the Varna police force, with whom he had
met the previous afternoon at the local station. If he had imagined he would
come out of the conversation with any new information, he was totally mistaken.
The officer, who had introduced himself as Borislav Stoyanov, revealed little
more than what Simon already knew about the discovery of Scott’s wallet and
passport.

“They were found in Zlatni Pyasutsi,
commonly known as Golden Sands,” Stoyanov told Simon, consulting some papers in
an orange folder. “It’s a popular resort area, just north of Varna. One morning
the cleaning staff discovered them on a lounge chair on the hotel’s beachfront.
Both the wallet and the passport were on the chair, as if someone had
carelessly left them there. But there was no sign of your son, I mean grandson.
That’s what this report says.”

“How did they get there? Was my grandson
staying at that resort?” Simon asked, although he already knew the answers to
the questions.

“No, there was no guest registered under
the name Scott Matthews. The hotel staff was shown his picture, and no one
could identify him as having stayed at the hotel.”

“So, one morning, out of the clear blue,
the documents just appeared at a resort hotel, and no one knows how they got
there?” He was becoming impatient with these routine, uninformative answers.

“Listen, Professor Matthews, you are
referring to a closed case already three years old. I did not deal with this
case. One of my colleagues wrote this report. I can only tell you what is
written. I cannot give you other information because I do not have other
information. I’m terribly sorry, but there is nothing further I can tell you
about the disappearance of your grandson.”

Simon kicked at the sand one last time
before sitting down at an outdoor café to consider his options. From his
plastic chair, as he waited for someone to offer him a menu (hopefully one
printed in English), he took in the shore activity. He stared at the sunbathers
whose exposed Slavic skin was starting to redden in the sunlight. He grinned at
the sight of vendors hawking ears of hot corn on the cob and at the realization
that this offer was more appealing to the beachgoers than cold drinks or ice
cream. He smiled at the huge quantities of beer being consumed by the locals
without any visible effects of inebriation. He strained his ears to make some
sense of the strange and unfamiliar language being spoken. And he wondered what
his next step in this quest would bring.

The young, freckled waitress didn’t
speak any English. Although he repeated the word “water” a number of times, she
failed to understand his request. He turned toward a nearby table, where three
noisy teenagers were drinking what appeared to be bottles of the mineral water
he sought, so he pointed at them and used sign language to convey his order.
The waitress nodded, reassuring him that he could manage in this foreign
setting, but when she returned two minutes later, she was carrying a green, perspiring
bottle of Zagorka beer. He shook his head, indicating his disapproval. To his
surprise, the waitress smiled for the first time and walked away. He didn’t
understand what had happened, but instead of complaining any further, he took
the bottle and sipped at it reluctantly.

After he finished his beer and paid the
bill with the unfamiliar currency embedded in his wallet, he flagged down a
taxi to transport him to Golden Sands. His meeting at the Happy Sunshine Resort
Hotel was scheduled for noon. Although it was Saturday, the general manager had
agreed to see him. Even if he provided Simon with nothing else, Officer
Stoyanov from the Varna police force at least had been helpful setting up the
connection. Simon was hopeful that the meeting would provide him with new
information about his grandson’s activities, but when he walked inside the
hotel, he learned that the general manager was not present. The woman at the
front desk informed him that she was unaware of any set appointment. Simon
patiently explained to her that everything had been arranged the day before.
The woman kept nodding but seemed reluctant to offer additional assistance.

“Who looks for manager?”

Simon spun around to face an enormous
block of a man with a shiny shaven head and a frown as wide as his round face.
An immense, wide-shouldered build barely contained by dark pants and a white
T-shirt suggested that the man was either a professional weightlifter or a
Chicago Bears linebacker. His earlobes were huge; one of them sported a diamond
stud. The man’s narrow eyes darted back and forth nervously. This man appeared
capable of knocking out an opponent with one powerful punch. What damage could
he do to someone old and weak like a visiting American grandfather?

Simon stepped back, partially in fear of
the man’s size but also to get away from the stench of his alcoholic breath. “I
have an appointment,” he said.

“Manager not here.
You here not now.
Outside you.”
The sentences were fragmented, missing both verbs and any sort of civility.

The woman at the desk shot out a burst
of heated Bulgarian that temporarily eased the man’s concerns, and he stepped
back. Simon assumed he was the hotel’s security officer, although he lacked the
minimum hospitality skills necessary for dealing with the public.

“I will call the manager,” the front
desk clerk said, turning to the professor. “Maybe he can come in today after
all.”

“Today Saturday,” the man said gruffly
as he turned to leave.
“Manager no business on Saturday.”

The man’s appearance was so outlandishly
goony, almost cartoonish, that Simon covered his mouth to suppress a smile. If
the sinister-looking guard hadn’t been so serious about his security duties,
Simon would have laughed openly at his broken English. He thanked the
receptionist and waited impatiently for the hotel manager.

Happy Sunshine Resort
Hotel.
The name was comical and not particularly conducive
to relaxation, he thought. Yet the glitzy lobby was full of tourists, mostly
elderly Germans and Russians from the looks of them. They strolled through the
public areas wearing bathing suits and wrapped in towels as they headed to the
swimming pool and the beachfront just beyond. Some of the visitors were more
elegantly attired, despite the fact that it was noontime. Distinguished-looking
men sported black suits, cuffed white shirts, and ties, while bejeweled women
at their sides dazzled the eyes in silky evening gowns. These fancily dressed
guests puffed at Cuban cigars and thin cigarettes and reclined contentedly on
uncomfortable-looking leather sofas and armchairs. Apparently they were on
short breaks from gambling frays in the Happy Sunshine Casino, a
twenty-four-hour-a-day establishment of buzzing activity situated at the end of
a long line of designer clothing and accessories shops. White-jacketed waiters
circulated with trays of alcohol and stood back subserviently as the foreigners
fumbled through wads of local bills to pay for their extravagances. The click
of high heels and the distant jangles of slot machines mixed with the slightly
nauseating elevator music being pumped through the lobby.

Simon walked aimlessly among this crowd,
his baseball cap in his hands, feeling as out of place here as he had earlier
that morning on the Varna beach. He almost collided with a harried waitress as
she carried club sandwiches to the hungry gamblers relaxing outside the casino.
Finally, he stood at the far end of the lobby, looking out through the
curtained picture windows at the hotel pool.

“Were you looking for me?”

He turned to face the hotel manager.
Alexander Nikolov held out his hand in introduction, and Simon was surprised to
find him as finely attired as some of the gambling guests.

“You’ll have to excuse my lateness, but
I was preparing to attend a wedding,” Nikolov said, brushing a piece of lint
off his suit jacket. “It is the brother-in-law of my wife’s sister who is
getting married today. We often have our marriage ceremonies on Saturdays.”

“Thank you for coming in. I thought
Officer Stoyanov had arranged our meeting.”

“Yes, he called, but I’m afraid I didn’t
understand anything he said. He certainly didn’t explain the purpose of your
visit.”

“He didn’t?” Simon had been sitting with
the police officer when he made the call, but maybe he had been mistaken as to
what had been discussed over the phone.

Nikolov casually ran a hand through the
greasy strands of his slicked-back hair and regarded Simon silently for a
moment. “Can I get you a drink?
Some coffee perhaps?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. But I
would appreciate it if we could talk, possibly somewhere a little quieter.”

“Certainly.
Please come with me to my office.”

A few minutes later Simon was seated in
a deep-cushioned chair in the manager’s office, a half floor up from the lobby
level. The room was dark and shabby, in stark contrast to the bright lights and
glitter of the rest of the hotel. Nikolov went around his cluttered desk to sit
below a huge colorful poster highlighting the wonders of the Black Sea coast.
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled something out.

“Cigarette?” he offered.

“No, thanks.”

“Why have you come here?” the manager
asked, lighting up a Marlboro. He puffed a few moments and then regarded his
visitor pleasantly.

Simon realized that his Varna police
contact hadn’t explained anything at all. He would have to begin his story from
the very beginning. He told the hotel manager briefly of his grandson’s stay in
Bulgaria, his subsequent disappearance, and of the eventual discovery of his
passport and wallet on a beach chair at the Happy Sunshine Resort Hotel in
Golden Sands.

“This was three years ago, you say. I
see. And what was your grandson’s name?” Nikolov asked, puffing a cloud of
thick smoke in the professor’s direction.

“Scott Matthews.”

At the mention of the name, Nikolov
frowned, and the change in his attitude was palpable and immediate. Scott’s
name had triggered a very visible response in the man, a sign that it was
recognized and remembered—even after all this time. The manager stubbed out his
half-smoked cigarette in a glass ashtray only to light another one.

“You’re also asking about that
American?”

“What? Someone else was asking about
him?”

“No, of course not,” Nikolov said,
backtracking from what had slipped off his tongue.

“What do you know of my grandson?”

“Nothing!”

The loudness of the response was
unexpected, but Simon urged him to continue.