Milen Ruskov" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureNovember 15, 2013

Height

By Milen Ruskov; translated from Bulgarian by Christopher Buxton

Translator’s note: Milen Ruskov’s ‘Height’ (Vazvisheniya) is set in 1872.  Revolutionary committees have been set up throughout Bulgarian lands to prepare the people for revolution against their Turkish oppressors. It is a time of passionate self-education – known in history as the Bulgarian Renaissance, Two lads, Gicho and Assen, armed with guns and books, set out from Kotel and Zherevna to join a band of brigand-revolutionaries in the mountains.  Their characters reflect a mixture of down-to-earth ruthlessness and idealism. Their waves of extreme optimism and pessimism speak to an ambivalent contemporary Bulgarian consciousness – resulting from still feeling exiled on the outskirts of Europe.

The narrative is written in a rich archaic dialect, which I have attempted to convey in my local rural English accent. Suffolk England, like Kotel Bulgaria, is an area that grew rich from the wool trade.

 

That evenin’ we’re travellin’ all night through, with no stoppin’, as we’re takin’ a roundabout path, goin’ back on ourself, so we be pullin’ wool over the eyes of anyone who’s supposedly followin’ us, who could send word for the Turks to send out patrols to chase us. They’ll be chasin’ us in the direction we started out on and we’ll be goin’ contrary. If they had an ounce o’ sense they’d send out patrols to look for us in all directions, but what Turk would do that for the sake of some unbelievers’ wagon.  Forget it. The most they do is send two constables up the road for two three days, so they can get a little exercise.  And I doubt very much they’ll even do that.

Granddaddy Yovan, by the way, it’s like he’s realizin’ that this is the time to put on a spurt – if he not runnin’ smooth, he makin’ an effort, the critchur. Next day in the town of K. we stoppin’ in an inn to sleep.  And there’s a Frenchie there, boys. Who can tell what wind have blown this Froggie here? The innkeeper makes out he’s some kind of engineer.  I give the Froggie the once over – a well made bloke, with proper European clothes, a long coat to his knees, and a tie round his neck, striped gold and black, he’s carryin’ a bowler hat in ‘is hand, his trousers be pin striped silver and grey, his shoes shinin’ like the sun’s out.  Mates!  It’s well elegant stuff!  It’ent ‘alf fine bein’ a European – I tell you true.  When I’m lookin’ at him, like this so, My eyes is hangin’ out– I say to myself, I’d like to be dressed like him, up to the nines, so I’d come out lookin’ like a yuman bein’ in front of other yuman bein’s, not like some grubby oriental vassal, ruled by Abdul Aziz.  A-ah I says to myself life ‘ent fair.

I learnt  – or informed myself as they say in French lingo – that this Froggie worked for the so-called Austrian Railways, findin’ out where they could push out the line. In the Turkish lands everythin’s been taken over by the Austrians – Austrian post office, Austrian Railways and so on.  Some day they’ll put up an Austrian Sultan – you mark my words. Boys, Turkey’s collapsin’. Down there in Anatolia the English, the proud Britishers hev gobbled up everythin’ – everythin’ worth more than five pence I mean.  That’s why they’re so much for Turkey, because they care about what’s jinglin in their pockets.  Well even though I en’t got no sympathy, I can understand (je comprendre). I also care about my pocket even though I’m no Englishman. And them English and stuck up Europeans – they be pursuin’ a Higher Purpose of trade (mercantile); it leads ‘em like a guidin’ star up in the black savage Asian sky, and they do follow it with an unquenchable energy, and youthful spirit, suckin’ the golden milk out of the teats of whomever wild folks they come across, – all for the triumph of omnipotent European civilization, like with what there en’t no comparison and to what we are heartily strivin’ and sharpenin’ up our spirits to become a part of..  But we’re no part of it at all, we’re just stupid folk, whom they shit on because that’s what we deserve.

But forget about Anatolia, just look this side of the fuckin’ Bosporus where the Austrians have grabbed up everythin’ in their paws.  “By the Bosporus, clamour rises, a flash of sword and shield. Hey it’s Simeon the Great, calling his chieftains to the battlefield.” Yeah he might just as well hev called on his brother-in-law’s auntie.  Look Austrians and, let’s face it, Europeans in general hev got their claws into everythin’, finger in every pie.  And this fine afore-mentioned Frenchie hev devoted himself to the Austrian nation against monthly payment for the bringin’ about or the realization(another French word) of the aforementioned Higher Purpose.  Fuck me if I know what he do at night, but by day he’s goin’ round all the surroundin’ districts, findin’ out the lie of the land, for the long awaited railway line  I hev never seen such a thing in my life.  And don’t even ask about Assen.  He’ll bombard me with stupid questions and I’ll waste valuable revolutionary time.  Fuck it. Just think about it.

Bulgaria, Bulgaria….How did I end up with you.  This was the biggest mistake of my life. (Mal chance in Frenchie lingo) Pig ignorant, boy!  And if that weren’t enough, ruled by wild Anatolian Ottomans – jumped out of some black Asian forest, in the full moon, like werewolves or moon-sprites.  They’re not your refined intelligent Messieurs and Mesdames they be wild Asian riff-raff.  Some frenchie if he see ‘em would just faint from their stink.  And we live with this trash in one kingdom.  But let it go, that do serve us right, because we be the ultimate scumbags, I tell you true.

 It’ent ‘alf fine bein’ a European – I tell you true.
And so this Frog, what I am tellin’ you about afore, is roomin’ on the top floor, same as us, on the other side of the corridor.  And look how Fate do set things up that after we slept, me and Assen, I go to the yard to drink water and get something from the saddle bag and I see the Frenchie in front of me.  He’s comin’ back, and as we pass, he give me a nod for fellowship and lifts his hat off his head.  After a few steps on, I turn around quick to see where he’s goin’ and I see he’s goin’ up the stairs and afterwards I hear a door close.  So he’s gone to ‘is room.  Then I have a think and I go and drink water, then I come back up and I listen through the door to see if I can hear anythin’; silence boy; can’t tell if the bloke’s asleep; who knows? When I come back to our room, I say to Assen: “Assen,” I say, “go downstairs and harness up Granddaddy Yovan so we’re ready for a quick getaway.”

“Why?” Assen wonders.

“Look boy!” I shout, “I want action not a debate.  I’ll explain later.”

“But why, mate?”

So I’m forced to spell it out.  He goes downstairs, while I think about the Frenchie.  Look where fate has cast him up.  Pushin’ through the railway. The man be an engineer.  That’s not simple stuff.  I may not hev seen a railway but I know what it is. Railway mate, iron horse progress.  Blow me fuckin’ right.  This is some man – ridin’ the iron horse.  Ridin’ and liftin’ his hat to folk.

And I’m just cogitatin’ this when Assen who rides our horse do come back and say “Ready mate.”  I step down the corridor and listen in front of the doors – to hear any movement inside, to see if there be people there, but I don’t hear nothin’. A little longer in front of the Froggie’s door and then I do hear somethin’, some sort of movement, maybe closin’ a cupboard door – or somethin’ like it.

Then I came back, picked up my trusty Colt pistol and other stuff and alongside Assen we stepped into the Frenchie’s room. You can imagine, he be pretty surprised.  He standin’ in the middle of the room and lookin’ amazed.  I step up and grab his elbow, friendly-like.

“Hand over that jacket, mate,” I say, “and some hat if you got it.”

And he pulls back and says somethin’ you can’t understand.  It’s Frenchie lingo.  Somethin’ like “juju muju, jwa, mwa; on bon.  But there was one word I got: “terrible, terrible”  I don’t get what he sayin’  I’ll hev to look in Bogorov’s dictionary later.  But what I mean to say is this European bloke can’t make hisself understood.  I pulled out my purse and took out a golden coin while I explained to him as far as I could, that we couldn’t give him any more because the money was needed for the revolution.  And as I said this I gave him the coin and set to pullin’ off his jacket. And he’s goin: “On bon…somethin’..Jwa mwa.” And he’s pokin’ at the purse, wantin’ more gold coins.

“Oh no!”  I say. “Sorry but I can’t give you any more.  This is for our revolution.”  And I stand up straight to him and bring my face up close to his so he’ll understand and I shout “Revolution, Revolution.” And he’s sayin’ ”terrible, terrible,” over an’ over again.

“Any fool know revolution is a Frenchie word and you don’t even understand that?” I spread out my arms.  “I’m ‘stonished by you, boy!”

Continue Reading

1 2 View All →

Tags

BulgariaChristopher BuxtonfictionMilen RuskovStory of the Weektranslations

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleAfter Gary Butte
Next articleAdmonished

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

After Much Ice and Snow Televised from Vancouver I Wonder If Tu Fu Is Dry & Safe In His “Night in the House by the River”

“In this world what we have/ Keep us wide awake all night…” Weekend poem, by DeWitt Clinton, adapted from Tu Fu.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Author of the Month: Timothy Ogene

"Frankly, I think the whole politics of fiction thing is flimsy and reflects the fear of stepping outside one’s comfort...

Close