THE DEVIL'S CURVE

I had just laid my hands on Stevie Wonder's "Songs to the Key of Life" LP – two years old from release date, but for me in the seventies a fresh new-comer. Books, news and music were not making their journey to the east swiftly – if at all.

Lending an ear to the Soul beat coming from the vinyl, I was looking seven floors down at the park; a web of alleys surrounded by spots of freshly cut grass and blooming roses, pedestrians taking shelter from late July sun in the shadow of the trees.

Didn't have much to make my life busy that summer – University was two years ahead, waiting for a "Summon Order" from the army to find in which god forgotten piece of the motherland I will be marching and whatever else it takes for a 24 months military service.

The old-time telephone rung in a loud, almost impolite staccato – a prewar Siemens, which induced a firm conviction that there were more hearing impaired people before WWII than after. It was that type of ringing – for those who don't or cannot remember, that could be heard at least two blocks away, or get you out of coma should you not be completely deaf. Nobody missed then to pick-up a phone and not only from courtesy. Mute button was not available yet! Even if you wanted to hang-up you had first to pick it up. So did I. Listening to the background noise on the line I knew it was a long distance call, probably going through a switchboard.

"Hi buddy – you there?" the voice was tense and low from fear of being overheard. I knew at the instant who was whispering in the earpiece.

"Right next to the phone" – said I, careful not to mention names and refrain from charging the line with my usual eloquence.

GIGI – that was, and by the way still is his name for the sake of what this narration goes about. I think you might have had a GIGI of your own – the one with whom you have driven secretly the family car, not of age for it, suffered nausea from the first cigarette and hangovers of cheap wine.

"Remember what we talked last time when I was in town" – proceeded GIGI – "I think in three days will be the perfect time" – he resumed the situation, as he saw it. – "and by the way this cousin of yours – Peter is in the barracks with me."

Last time he was in town - a town in the south, far away from Sofia, he found a private phone. We did then some 'planning'. Must have been about a month, since we talked and eight or a bit more months since we met during his mid military service leave. He was now stationed in a distant, remote unit on the southeastern border. The region was famous for its abundance of turtles. Even close family were not allowed to visit the base. Soldiers were brought by bus to the closest town – Alamos (more of a village) to celebrate such reunions.

"Be there" I whispered. "Try to spot me before someone else does" - and placed carefully the earpiece back on the hook.

There were not many joys in the barracks for the enlisted. Of all the restrictions the army imposed to make soldiers resistant to the calamities of WWII were real naughty – no women and no alcohol on military ground. Well you could smoke your head off. And most of us did! Tobacco only – if you could afford it! And sometimes you could kill hunger mixing cigarette smoke with drinking water, till you feel full… or sick.

I had promised GIGI that I will make it to his most secretive regiment up the mountain, in the far south and bring a supply of decent food, vodka – "Stolichnaya" and filter cigarettes.

According to his words I had to cover the final twenty kilometers on foot, public transport in the region not being available. That did not bother me much, but before reaching the pedestrian part of the journey I had to figure out how to get to Alamos. It was not on my map. I had as a landmark the city of Yambol. Strait south and a hundred kilometers from it should Alamos be found. Looked like I had to cross most of the country to the east, and then when 90 km remaining to the Black sea coast, turn south. The way to the turn point was clear, the rest not that much.

Roads at that time were somewhat different – no highway (not a single one), the asphalt scanty. Cars – predominantly socialist states production: Moskvich, Trabant, Wartburg. The last two brands were burning a mixture of petrol and lubricating oil, producing exhaust gases that brought tears to the eyes. Buying such a vehicle implied a down payment and then 10 to 20 years for delivery. I didn't have the time nor the money for this. So I made up my mind to hitch-hike to Alamos, kicking off from Sofia early morning one day before the scheduled encounter.

Bought vodka and cigarettes which were hard to be found on the market in the countryside, charged a mini-portable Sony transistor with new batteries – to keep me company and in line with the news; folded a very, very large-scale map of Bulgaria, where my East to South turn-point was to be seen. Some clothes at the bottom – and that's it – my backpack was completed. Counted banknotes and coins – had around fifty leva which would suffice for the food and a night or two in cheap hotels.

Told my sister that I was going to visit Cousin Peter and GIGI – "Be back in three days at the most" – concluded my courtesy call.

At dawn I jumped off the bus that brought me to the eastern suburbs of town, a few meters from the Police check- point marking the limits of Sofia. Sunny sky, not a single cloud,

and some bad news - I was not alone waiting for transport! Hitch-hiking was a common travel arrangement for young people at that time.

Luck is the fuel of this travel form. Some charm helps too. Even having both on your side, the state of the roads and the vehicles would not allow an average speed of more than 80-85 kilometers per hour. It was a one day trip to make it from Sofia to the beaches on the Black sea, a lunch half-way was a must. You could really feel the road.

People were more sociable back then. Educated to a decent level, at ease for their job and pay, means enough to enjoy winter sports, summer beaches. Healthcare, schools and universities were for free, crime – almost non-existent. This feeling of security and wellbeing made virtues like compassion and generosity surface. Of course all this had its price.

Take my word – at that time car owners had a more positive stance to hitch-hikers. Maybe for some of the reasons I already worded, maybe from curiosity or sheer lack of company.

Half a cigarette time and I was in a Moskvich with a director of a chicken producing plant, firmly holding the wheel with his rough, sunburned hands.

"Where to?" – He shouted to outcry the engine roar and the air blowing through the open windows.

"Down – south to see friends in the army" – was my polite, short answer.

He was returning from some sort of business report from the capital, obviously satisfied with what he had achieved. And in a talkative mood.

"The army my boy" – here we go – "is what makes a man from a long haired, unacquainted to order and discipline youngster like you."