Amen by Yordanka Beleva

Translated by Izidora Angel

On the morning he set off from the village mounted on the old donkey, none of the villagers gathered lamented his leaving and yet their sendoff was strangely ceremonious.

They bowed to him and saluted him; to bestow him with good fortune along with all the kingdoms of heaven, a woman splashed a pot of her children’s urine at his feet. In your line of work, she said, the water you turn into wine, the masses you feed with a single fish, fear not and go forth, glory will find you. The villagers wondered aloud where his donkey cart had disappeared to then invented their own responses. He’d used the boards to build himself a Noah’s Ark, surely. But why do that, Amen, you’re close with God, practically friends, aren’t you, wouldn’t He take care of you ex officio, without instructing you to build a vessel first? You and your donkey are just off to another village, aren’t you, you want to leave here and go there and be greeted like Jesus and the Second Coming, don’t you, you’ve thought of it all, haven’t you, that was their sendoff.

He’s not really called Amen. Only the late Father Hristo knew his real name, as it had been he who’d christened the orphan, but he too called him Amen. Amen had been forsaken outside the church gates one February morning. Not a baby from the village, you could tell, all the village babies were accounted for ahead of conception.

The Father took the baby in, bathed him, and since no one knew whether the boy was a Christian or if he’d been christened already, it was the Father who did so. And if it so happened, said the Father, that the baby had already been christened, he’d now be twice the Christian. The village women took turns bringing him milk and clothes and at night, the little boy slept locked inside the church. When he spoke his first word, it was Amen, and that’s what they called him.

He walked beneath the icons and when he couldn’t reach up high enough to kiss one, he wept, his sobs quiet and prolonged. Now and then, some of the old babi lifted him up so he could reach the holy paintings. He loved kissing the Blessed Virgin most of all.

Amen’s first miracle occurred during the fasts of Lent. As they painted the eggs on Holy Thursday, one of the elderly women picked one out for him and instructed him to tuck it away till Easter Sunday. But the red dye hadn’t yet set and Amen’s fingerprints marked the eggshell. The next morning, the likeness of the Blessed Virgin appeared at the exact spot where his little fingers had held the egg. Ever since, all anyone expected from Amen were miracles.

As it happened, the miracles didn’t come or if they did, they weren’t the ones the people wanted. Once, he lit the wick inside the vigil lamp from a distance even though there’d been no oil inside the glass, but the miracle was witnessed only by a handful of old babi sitting in the church and them you couldn’t trust. Another time, Amen dropped a basin filled with boiled wheat on the ground as he walked, and a sprawling wheat-field sprung up in its place, all large ears, but this miracle too couldn’t be authenticated.

Amen grew yet his miracles whittled, and by the time he was ten, they stopped coming altogether and the villagers began ascribing to him the sorts of heroics they found befitting — inventing them first, then promptly believing them.

He read the passionals, wrote in the Old Church Slavonic tongue and lived by it, too. Writing in it was one thing, living by it, a different thing entirely. The first he understood to mean as writing a letter to God; the latter he interpreted as a way of life literally dedicated to the glory of God and the church.

When he came of age, he turned nothing and everything into a proverb and yet he never quite brought the sayings full circle. They’d ask him, for instance, what the time was and Amen would say: the time is such as you’ve arranged it. How old are you, they’d ask him. I am ten years in from those destined to me. What day is it, Amen? The day that will lead us to or away from verity. The villagers vied to outdo each other with their questions but this too soon bored them.

In October the war started and Amen set off on his donkey. The villagers forgot about him like you do a nine-day wonder and along with him they forgot about his miracles, the real ones and the imagined ones. Only Father Hristo pointed out on several occasions that the boys sent to war were far better off with Amen there, that the conflict would surely be short-lived because of Amen.

Two years thereupon, a letter addressed to Father Hristo arrived from the front. As the Father was now no longer among the living, the villagers opened it and read it. It was written in the Old Church Slavonic tongue.

Dear Father,

We sin through our words, deeds, thoughts, our five senses, through knowledge and ignorance, voluntarily and unwittingly, in reason and unreason; indeed, there exists no humanly way to list all our sins. But we repent, and beg You for grace, to help us remember all our sins, even the ones we have forgotten and therefore failed to repent. We promise that we shall continue to observe ourselves with Your help, Lord, to avoid sin and dedicate ourselves to deeds of love. Forgive us, Lord, and deliver us from all sins according to Your mercy and patience, and bless the communion of the Saints and the Life-giving Thy Mysteries, not through judgement or condemnation, but through healing body and soul. Amen.

Amen

They read the letter, decided Amen was mocking them, got to talking, remembered all his miracles, made sure to list them out one by one, not that there’d been that many to begin with, and by the time they summoned all the miracles in full from within their village folk tales, they were ready to disremember them once and for all. Only the old baba who had once given Amen the Easter egg proclaimed the letter possessed medicinal powers; that it ought to be read to the sick nine times at sunrise and nine times at sundown, but sick people there were none.

They remembered him again about a year after that. He entered the village on a cart pulled by a donkey. The animal was old, the cart — built as if in haste. He halted the cart right outside the church but neither recognized the other: the church had been nailed shut and forgotten, Amen was missing a leg.

First, he went about cutting the grass and greasing the church gates. Then he gathered the cobwebs, swept, cleaned the icons, kissed the Blessed Virgin and finally, he crossed himself. On Sunday, he lit the candles and tolled the bells but by noon not a single soul had entered the church.

Amen waited, waited some more and began to sing what he remembered from the Father. Two Sundays in a row he lit the candles, tolled the bells alone and alone sang to the glory of God. Alone he crossed himself, alone kissed the holy icons. Finally, on Monday, a throng of people headed his way. Amen rejoiced. The people stopped at the gate and said nothing, neither coming in nor going. Amen went outside to greet them, they looked him right in the eye. A child picked up a stone and threw it at Amen, missing him and hitting the church instead. Yet it was Amen who felt it.

It was then they told him all those things you won’t find inside the Old Church Slavonic books, the things for which there were Slavic but no holy words. They blamed him for everything: the war, the draught, Father Hristo’s death, the fact Amen not only survived the war but returned; for eating their bread for fifteen years yet what good had it brought them, none; for all the miracles they expected and never got, for robbing us of our hope, the devil’s spawn you are, Amen, how dare you live in our church, how dare you sleep beneath our icons. The condemnations were many, he remembered few. The heaviest burden of all came from the women who said he’d cursed them to be barren by desecrating the Blessed Virgin.

They banned him from entering the church again. That night, he slept in his cart and when he went numb from the cold, he got up, took the boards apart and used the wood to build a fire. The wheels he took off and quietly put up on the roofs of four houses, just by the chimneys. The following morning, he set off on the old donkey and no one ever saw him again.

When spring came, four storks built their nests inside the wheels of Amen’s wooden cart.

Амина

Сутринта, в която напускаше селото, качен на старото магаре, никой не тъгуваше за него, но го изпращаха с особена тържественост.

Покланяха му се, козируваха му, една жена плисна в краката му гърнето, в което през нощта бяха пишкали децата ѝ, да му вървяло на небесни царства. Във вашия занаят, каза тя, от водата правите вино, с една риба сума ти народ храните, така че не бой се, ще се прославиш. Питаха го къде е каруцата и сами си отговаряха, че сигурно си е направил от дъските Ноев ковчег. Защо ти е ковчег, Амине, нали си нещо приятел с Господа, ще те прибере служебно, ти нарочно си отиваш така – сега, като излезеш оттук, в друго село ще влезеш с това магаре, като Исус да те посрещнат, добре си го измислил, така го изпращаха.

Не се казва Амин. Истинското му име знаеше само покойният поп Христо, защото го беше кръстил, но и той го наричаше Амина. Амина намерили захвърлен пред вратата на църквата една февруарска сутрин. Не било бебе от селото, защото селските бебета се знаели още преди да бъдат заченати.

Прибрал го поп Христо, изкъпал го и го кръстил, понеже не се знаело християнче ли е и кръстено ли е вече. И да е кръстено, казваше попа, най-много да стане пo христиенин. Жените се редували да му носят коя мляко, коя дрехи. Вечер спял заключен в църквата. Когато проговорил, първата му дума била „амин“, оттогава му викали Амина.

Ходеше между иконите и като не ги стигаше, за да ги целуне, се разплакваше. Плачеше тихо, но продължително. Случваше се някоя баба да го повдигне, за да стигне иконите. Най-много обичаше да целува Богородица.

Първото чудо на Амина било по време на великденските пости. В четвъртък, когато шарели яйцата, една баба му дала яйце и му заръчала да си го пази до неделя, но понеже боята не била още засъхнала, ръката му се отпечатала върху черупката. На сутринта, където били върху яйцето отпечатъците на пръстчетата му, се появил ликът на Богородица. Оттогава чакали от Амина само чудеса.

Чудесата обаче или не идвали, или не били харесвани. Веднъж запалил от разстояние кандилото, без да има масло в стъкленицата, но чудото видели само бабите в църквата, а на тях не можело да се вярва. Друг път, както си ходел, изпуснал паница варено жито и на същото място поникнала голяма нива, все с едри класове, но и това не било проверено чудо.

Растял Амина, пък чудесата му намалявали. Когато съвсем спрели да идват, започнали да му приписват подобаващи геройства, така че хем сами ги измисляли, хем им вярвали. По това време Амина бил десетгодишен.

Четял житията на светиите, пишел на черковнославянски и живеел черковнославянски. Писането било едно, а живеенето съвсем друго. Едното разбирал като да пишеш писмо до Господа, а другото по-буквално разбирал, да живееш за слава на черквата, сиреч – черковнославянски.

Като пораснал, започвал притчи от нищо и от всичко, но не ги довършвал никога. Питат го например колко е часът и Амина им казва – часът е толкова, колкото разполагаш с него. На колко си години, го питат. На десет, от отредените ми, казвал. Кой ден сме днес, Амине? Който ще ни приближи или отдалечи от истината. Надпреварвали се да го питат какво ли не, но скоро и това им омръзнало.

През октомври започнала войната и Амина заминал. Забравили го като всяко чудо за три дни, забравили и чудесата, които направил, и тези, които не направил, забравили. Само поп Христо на няколко пъти казвал, че с Амина на момчетата ще е по-лесно и войната може би ще е кратка, заради Амина.

Подир две години дошло писмо от фронта. Било адресирано до поп Христо, но понеже него го нямало вече между живите, отворили писмото и го зачели.

Отче Христе,

согрешаем мы словом, делом, помышлением, всеми пятью чувствами, ведением и неведением, волею и неволею, в разуме и неразумии, и нет возможности перечислить все грехи наши по множеству их. Но истинно каемся в них и просим благодатной помощи для воспоминания всех своих согрешений, забытых и потому нераскаянных. Обещаем впредь блюсти себя с помощью Божией, избегать греха и творить дела любви. Тыже, Господи, прости нас и разреши от всех грехов по милости Твоей и долготерпению, и благослови приобщиться Святых и Животворящих Тайн Твоих не в суд и во осуждение, но во исцеление души и тела. Аминь.

Амина

Решили, че Амина им се подиграва с това писмо, заговорили се, спомнили си чудесата му, всичките, нарочно ги изброили едно по едно, те и не били много, когато окончателно ги възстановили в селските легенди, вече били готови да ги забравят завинаги. Само бабата, която навремето му била дала великденско яйце, казала, че писмото е целебно, само трябва да се чете на болен човек девет пъти сутрин и девет пъти вечер, но болни хора нямало.

Спомнили си за него след около година. Влязъл в селото с магарешка каруца, мага-рето било старо, каруцата – направена сякаш набързо. Спрял точно пред църкватаи двамата не се познали. Тя била затворена и забравена, Амина бил с един крак. Първо окосил тревата и смазал портата, после обрал паяжините, помел, почис-тил иконите, целунал Богородица, накрая се прекръстил. В неделя запалил свещи и ударил камбаната. До обед никой не влязъл в църквата.

Чакал Амина, чакал, пък накрая запял каквото помнел от поп Христо. Две недели палил свещи сам, удрял камбаната сам и сам пеел песни за прослава на Господа. Сам се кръстел и сам целувал иконите. В понеделник към църквата тръгнали много хора. Зарадвал се Амина. Спрели пред портата и мълчали, нито влизали, нито си тръгвали. Излязъл да ги посрещне, право в очите го гледали. Едно дете хвърлило камък, целило се в Амина, пък улучило църквата, улучило църквата, пък Амина го заболяло.

Тогава му казали онези неща, за които не пишело в черковнославянските книги и закоито имало само славянски и нямало черковни думи. Обвинили го за всичко. За войната, за сушата, за смъртта на поп Христо, за това, че се върнал жив от фронта, че е ял хлябаим петнайсет години и добро от него не видели, чудеса чакали, нищо не получили, надеждата ни ограби ти, дяволско дете си, Амине, в църквата ни живееш, под иконите спиш. Много такива неща му наговорили, малко от тях запомнил. Най му дотежало, когато жените казали, че заради него били прокълнати деца да не раждат, защото мърсувал с иконата на Богородица.

Забранили му да влиза в църквата. Преспал в каруцата, но по някое време измръзнал, разглобил я и с дъските запалил огън. Колелата окачил тихо по покривите на четири къщи, точно до комините. Сутринта се качил на магарето и никой повече не го видял.

През пролетта четири щъркела свили гнезда в колелетата от каруцата нa Амина.

Yordanka Beleva is considered one of the most interesting contemporary voices of Bulgarian literature. A short story writer and a poet, she holds an MA in Bulgarian Philology and Library Management, and a Ph.D. in Library and Information Sciences. She is the author of Peignoirs and Boats (2002), The Sea Level of Love (2011), Her (2012), Keys (2015), Missed Moment (2017), and Keder (2018) from which Amen is excerpted. Yordanka has won national awards for both poetry and prose and her short stories and poems have been translated into several languages and published in numerous anthologies.

Izidora Angel is a Bulgarian-born writer, translator and critic based in Chicago. Her essays, critique, interviews and translations have appeared in the Chicago Reader, Chicago Tribune, Asymptote Journal, Project Plume, Publishing Perspectives, and others. Her debut novel in translation, The Same Night Awaits Us All (2018), received an English PEN grant and an ART OMI fellowship. Izidora’s second novel in translation, Four Minutes, is forthcoming from Open Letter in 2021. She is a contributing editor of Critics’ Union magazine and a co-founder of the Third Coast Translators Collective.