In Time, Out of Place Page 4

  I was beginning to realise how much trouble went into the preparation of a plate of fish.

  Another difficulty stall operators at the Black Sea coast face is seasonal restrictions. Irinna could only earn money from tourists in spring and summer, from May through September. In autumn and winter, the weather was not good and there were few tourists, so the couple closed their stall temporarily and had to make other plans for their livelihood.

  “I have a younger sister. Two years ago with the help of a distant relative, she went to the US. She is a waitress in a restaurant during the day, and at night she drives a taxi. She worked night and day like that, but in a short period of two years, she was able to save up enough to buy a small shop selling Italian meat pies. This winter, Ivan and I will go to America and help her.”

  As Irinna spoke, she went to the stall and enthusiastically brought out a photo album, opened it up and showed me a picture of her sister. She was very tall, with bright eyes and short, straight hair. Her arms were thick and strong, and she looked valiant. With one glance, I could see she was a fighter.

  “You two sisters are exceptional women!” I gave her a thumbs up as I praised her. Feeling a little embarrassed but also extremely pleased, she said, “When you’ve got to make a living, you do whatever you have to do.” She put out what was left of her cigarette and added, “Like my English. I strived hard to learn it. When we decided to come to Sozopol and open a business, I asked someone to come to my house and teach me. After studying for a year, I had picked up the basics. My husband Ivan doesn’t speak any English. He only learnt a tiny bit, but found it difficult and gave up.”

  Small Town Charm, a retreat from the world

  As we chatted, a light rain started to fall. It intermittently grew heavier, and before our eyes the village was obscured behind a curtain of rain. We had finished the fish and beer and really wanted to go for a walk, but the rain had become our stumbling block.

  Considerate as always, Irinna could read our minds. She patted the back of my hand and said, “I’ll lend you a couple of umbrellas, then you can go enjoy yourselves.”

  When she had taken the umbrellas out and handed them to us, she said very sincerely, “This morning I bought a huge fish that is not easy to come by in the village. Tonight you come back at eight-thirty, and Ivan and I will prepare dinner for you.”

  We had only met by chance, and we didn’t do anything to deserve this royal treatment. I tried desperately to decline, but she insisted. “Come. Please, you must. It’s hard to find someone you can chat with so naturally.”

  In a good mood, Risheng and I sheltered ourselves with the borrowed umbrellas and went to see the view of the Black Sea. The downpour stopped and before long, the sun came out from behind the clouds.

  Now that the rain had passed and the sky was clear, a dazzling rainbow appeared over the face of the vast Black Sea, its brilliant colours intoxicating, as if fairies had drawn a multi-coloured bridge across the skies. The seagulls overhead were quite alarming, big and fat as they flew about over the water. The sad, shrill calls of the gulls, accompanied by the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, created a rather strange, desolate atmosphere. The coast was lined with craggy boulders. From a distance, its irregularity created an aesthetic appeal.

  Irinna had not boasted for nothing. Sozopol was certainly a lovely retreat from the world.

  The houses built along the stone-paved roads were of different designs. Some were two storeys, marvellously combining simple and primitive stones with classically elegant wood, creating an exceedingly unique feel. An old woman with her hair wrapped in a scarf sat on the steps outside the short stone wall, enjoying the afternoon sun. Accompanying her was a playful little lamb. There was a house with the door to its back yard open; colourful bed linens were being aired on the grass there. Seated on an old, long, quaint wooden bench, which looked like it might break any moment, were neighbours, their hands busy with thread and needle, and their mouths busy with gossip.

  Bulgarians have a unique love of roses. They grow bright red roses over the front walls of their houses, and in their balconies upstairs. The smell of roses carries on the breeze, wrapping itself around everything. A group of old women sat on stone seats under a rose trellis, idling their time away by mulling over all the things they had experienced in life, whether bright or bitter. What day was today? They did not care. When the river of time flowed through here, it unconsciously slowed down its pace.

  We walked and observed. When we reached the city centre, we saw an old man with a white beard taking photos for tourists with what looked like an antique camera. His head often disappeared under the black cloth. It did not look like he was taking pictures, rather as if he was trying to capture the spirits of the tourists.

  In one corner of the square was a person selling cherries. They were dark red and plump. I tasted one. Its flesh was thick, juicy and sweet. One kilo cost only seven lev (about seventy cents in Singapore currency). We bought four kilos, intending to give two kilos of it to Irinna.

  Sturgeon Caviar, worldly delicacy

  At eight-thirty that evening, we took the cherries we had bought and made our way to Irinna’s seafood stall.

  At a table beneath the trees, a white tablecloth with a red print had been laid out. Irinna stuck her head out from the stall and called happily, “Sit, you have a seat first.”

  We sat down, and Irinna brought over a plate of golden glistening things and placed it on the table. I looked and could not help but exclaim in surprise, “Caviar!”

  “Yes,” Irinna smiled and said, “The Black Sea is known for its sturgeon, and this is sturgeon caviar.”

  The sturgeon’s golden spawn is the highest quality of caviar. The person who prepares the dish has to remove the spawn mass from the freshly caught sturgeon, then use a sieve to slowly separate the spawn from the offal of the fish. And, when a measure of fine salt equal to no more than five per cent the amount of spawn is added, it becomes the most mouth watering caviar.

  Depending on the size and colour, sturgeon caviar can be divided into different grades. The most common is the black caviar from the white sturgeon. The next grade is the green-grey or brown caviar, and the most prized of all is the small golden caviar that was placed in front of us. In the past, this highly prized caviar could only be seen at the dining table of the Russian czars. On this evening in Sozopol, I finally saw it with my own eyes.

  Ivan served appetisers—bread, beer and grilled fish—bringing one dish after another. When all had been served, everyone dug in without restraint.

  The golden caviar was so beautiful I could hardly bear to swallow it. Each round bubble was full and springy. We scooped it and placed it on the bread. Each ball stood sparkling like a broken string of precious stones, glittering against the whiteness of the bread.

  Placing it on the tip of the tongue, I felt the caviar burst with a pop, and a salty, thick, freshly fragrant flavour fill the whole mouth. The taste was completely different from that of any black caviar I had eaten in the past.

  Big Fleshy Shellfish, banished to the cold chamber

  “For us Bulgarians, the Black Sea is an inexhaustible treasure house of natural resources.” Irinna’s eyes lit up with pleasure as she spoke. “There are about one hundred and eighty varieties of fish caught from the Black Sea. And besides the fish, there is a wealth of conch.”

  Saying this, she passed the large plate of chilled conch over. The dark meat of the shellfish was cut into thin slices, mixed in with slices of tomato, cucumber and shredded cheese. The softness of the conch meat balanced its not easily detected toughness. It had the sweet taste of abalone. I could not help praising it as I ate.

  “I’m surprised you like it,” said Irinna. “Most Bulgarians can’t take it. I have tried many different methods of preparation, but no one seems to fancy them.”

  After she said this, she went into the stall and brought out two fresh conches and handed them to me, saying lovingly, “Look, such good co
nch!”

  They were huge, filling the hand, and they were heavy, their meat fat and thick. To reject such offerings from the sea was an insult to nature!

  “There is a big market in Japan for these conches. There is a Bulgarian company that buys them from us at the lowest price, then sells them at two-fifty per kilo to the Turkish people. The Turks then sell it for six US dollars per kilo to Japan. As the middle man, they are making good money!” She talked nonstop. “Talking about this reminds me of how unfair it is. The work of exporting the conch is done by us, but the profits go to someone else’s pocket.”

  “What sort of work needs to be done when exporting conch?” I asked, completely ignorant about such things.

  “A lot of work!” she explained tirelessly. “First, you have to slowly extract the meat from the shell, then after cleaning it, cook it at one hundred and thirty degrees. After that, it has to be frozen with ice at seventy degrees below zero. Our workers prepare about ten tons of conch meat a month.”

  Irinna expressed her hopes that they could establish direct contact with the global business market and that, before long, there would be a way for them to export the conch meat directly.

  “Our country just opened up, and there are still many issues to be resolved. We can just take it one step at a time and not try to rush things. Our country is going through a transition period. There are many ingrained habits that cannot be cast off overnight. We are just regular people. All we can do is be patient and wait.”

  She went on to tell me that her biggest burden was that there was no way to settle her housing issues.

  “Ivan and I used to live in Sofia. These past few years since we came to Sozopol, we have accumulated a little savings through our seafood stall. If we use it to buy a house, we have more than enough. But in Bulgaria, buying and selling property is problematic. Maybe you won’t believe me, but for the two years Ivan and I have been in Sozopol, we have slept in a tour bus with beds.”

  Struggling day and night, Irinna and Ivan could still only live in a bus. It was hard for me to imagine the hardship the couple endured in their lives.

  A Black Sea Shining Like Silk

  When the moon was at its height, its glow filtered through the leaves hanging over our table, turning its light a soft green.

  Our little party sat in the moonlight eating and chatting. Irinna talked the most because she not only talked but also translated—translating into English for us when Ivan spoke Bulgarian. Ivan was a staid and sincere man. Using Irinna as an interpreter, he systematically explained Bulgaria’s present political and social situation to us, and a lot of his insights were extremely valuable. Though the situation was not exactly ideal, he was not the least bit negative.

  “It all depends on our effort,” he said solemnly. “As long as the government permits the people to make the necessary reforms, there is hope for tomorrow.”

  When we had finished the lovely dinner, the ever hospitable Irinna brought out a favourite Bulgarian dessert of sour fruit for us to try. Of all Eastern European countries, Bulgaria was the only place you could find this sour fruit. It was shaped like a shrunken lemon, but it was dark green in colour. Before it is ripe, it is sour enough to pucker the mouth, but after it ripens, it is sweetened to a pleasant tartness. Since the Bulgarians have no proper way of preserving the freshness of fruits, they soak the sour fruit in sugar to preserve it.

  “Bulgarians have a serious lack of sugar. I asked someone to travel to Turkey, and bought two hundred kilos of white sugar in one shot, so that I could make this sour fruit snack in bulk. When I’ve finished it, it sells very well,” Irinna said, laughing. She put a piece of the fruit into her mouth and slowly munched it.

  This woman, she really had a brilliant mind!

  I ate a piece of the fruit; it was too sweet for words. The thick, sweet flavour made me uncomfortable, sticking in my throat.

  After dinner, the four of us strolled along the coast of the Black Sea. We had not walked far when Irinna stopped and pointed at a dark yellow tour bus parked on the coast. “Look!”

  This bus was Irinna and Ivan’s home. She opened the door for us to look around. Two single beds filled the space inside. Everything else was in boxes on the floor, scattered here and there in a real mess.

  She closed the door and smiled ruefully. “We have the money to buy a house, but we are still cramped in here. I don’t know how long we will still need to put up with this situation.”

  I could sympathise with Irinna’s anxiety. Shrouded in fears of currency devaluation, they could not use the money they earned to purchase real estate, and so there was no way to maintain its value.

  I took my new friend’s hand and said to her sincerely, “Irinna, we Chinese have an old saying: When you reach the end of the road, you will see a new vista before you. At this point in your life, though it seems times are dark, there will always be a silver lining, offering you a breath of fresh air.”

  She nodded, and she smiled again. Squeezing my hand tightly, she said, “Yes, I believe that. Life always gets better.”

  We smiled at one another—then, accompanied by the gentle sound of the waves, we all turned our eyes to the Black Sea.

  The sea was not black, not at all.

  The glimmer of the moonlight had turned the vast surface of the sea to a roll of bright silk fabric glittering with silvery light, and a sense of real joy filled our hearts.

  Two Hungarian Sisters

  CARRYING TWO PIECES of hand luggage, we slowly ascended a winding mountain path. Both sides of the path were lined with single-family houses. What was interesting was that each house was of unique design, their roofs alone demonstrating the wide variety of styles. There were round roofs, pointed roofs, flat roofs, flying eaves, and some that looked like they had come right out of a fairy tale.

  I observed as I walked, and I became dazzled by the sight. I suddenly heard Risheng call, “Here we are!”

  I stopped in my tracks. Before me was a large western-style, two-storey bungalow with a slanted roof. There was a garden outside full of brightly coloured camellias, every flower as large as a bowl. They bowed and smiled in the evening breeze.

  The four people who lived there were all inside.

  The father was tall and strapping. His dark eyebrows were ridiculously thick, black and shiny, two huge brushes above his eyes. When he greeted us, there was warmth and laughter in his bright, piercing eyes.

  The mother was petite and with delicate facial features. She must have been a beauty in her youth, and still kept her good looks.

  The two daughters were completely different. The older girl’s golden hair was draped over her shoulders, and she wore a loose-fitting red blouse. She had broad shoulders and a wide mouth, and she had inherited her father’s sparkling eyes, filled with the same light and laughter.

  The other daughter had short hair, round, black eyes, a diamond-shaped mouth, and an apricot-shaped face. She was a classic beauty in the making.

  While the family had come out to welcome us, the younger daughter sat lazily on the sofa and looked us over coldly with her lovely eyes.

  The parents did not speak English well, and so relied on the older daughter to act as translator. We had paid for the guesthouse at the tourist board, so we took the keys, exchanged a few pleasantries, and went into our room.

  When we opened the window shade in the room, I exclaimed loudly, “It’s beautiful!”

  Outside the window was Hungary’s renowned Lake Balaton. The lake was huge, stretching farther than the eye could see. Its waters were pure blue and gorgeous. Mountain peaks rose beside the lake. A light breeze blew, rustling the blue face of the lake where the green mountain was reflected.

  For just thirty US dollars, we were able to stay in this idyllic little village in the north central part of the Balaton Lake District, Hungary’s most popular holiday destination. We had never dreamed this was possible. We’d travelled there for a two-night stay partly because we wanted to soak up the intoxi
cating mountain and lake scenery, and partly as a little break for our travel-worn bodies and minds.

  Risheng had a slight cold and wanted to spend the evening sleeping in the room. As for me, I wanted to walk along the lake.

  When I passed the sitting room, I saw the landlord’s older daughter, Zenevieva, sitting alone listening to soft music.

  When I casually invited her to walk with me, I did not think she would immediately stand up, turn off the radio, and, smiling sweetly, say in perfect English, “The evening breeze on the lake is my favourite thing. When it blows on you, it is as soothing as a sip of spring water.”

  We followed the windy mountain path, walking slowly towards the lake. I saw that the houses were even more charming by the fading light of dusk, and I could not help but ask, “Those who live here must be fairly well off. Why would you need to rent your house out to tourists?”

  Though she was only eighteen, Zenevieva was a straightforward young woman. Without thinking, she said, “Hungary implemented private enterprise many years ago, and since then the gap between rich and poor has become quite considerable. The rich do business, especially opening shops in tourist areas, or those roadside businesses, which are earning loads and loads. The poor are those working for a monthly wage, or those professionals who have no outside source of income.”

  Just then, a breeze blew over us and her hair flew into her face. She brushed it away and continued, “My father is an architect, with a limited income. My mother is a housewife with no income. My sister and I study at an expensive boarding school, and our father makes just enough to cover the fees by renting the house out to tourists in the summer. In order to lighten the burden on my father, I also offer English tutoring during the holidays.”