Magnapoets Short Stories

Father Wilberforce by Yoav J. Tenembaum

"Father Wilberforce!" a young female's voice was heard outside Father Wilberforce's home.

Father Wilberforce looked around, as though he had heard the voice inside his modest living room. A few seconds elapsed before he directed his eyes towards the window. He then saw a young woman waving her hand to draw his attention. Father Wilberforce paced quickly towards the door. He opened it and asked the young woman to come in.

"Father Wilberforce," she said in a rather tense voice, "I am sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you to come with me."

"Dear Alice… Please, sit down." He pointed towards an armchair nearby.

"Thank you, Father. I would rather not, if you don't mind. I am here to ask you a favour."

"A favour?"

"Well, you see…My sister is not well."

"Please, tell me what's wrong," Father Wilberforce said in a low and soft voice so as to assuage her visible tense state of mind.

"My sister has been quite sad in recent weeks. Her situation deteriorated until she would hardly come out of her bedroom. She doesn't want to see anyone, except me; not even my parents….She hardly eats."

Father Wilberforce placed the book he had been reading on a chair.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit down?"

"No, thank you, Father. I am worried. We all are. I thought you might be able to help. Please, come with me to see her! Would you mind, Father?"

"Give me a minute, Alice," Father Wilberforce said as he rushed to his bedroom to take his coat.

Father Wilberforce was well-known and very much liked by the people in his parish. He was endowed with a subtle sense of humour and a singular ability to listen to people with empathy without losing a certain sense of detachment to assess matters objectively when necessary. A friendly if rather reclusive person, Father Wilberforce was in his late-forties. He was particularly liked by children, who were able to elicit from him a rather spontaneously childish response, quite in contrast to his usual self-controlled demeanour.

Alice and Father Wilberforce arrived quickly. They went in. Alice's parents welcomed them.

"Thank you so much for coming, Father!" said the mother as she proceeded to lead Father Wilberforce up the stairs to Deborah's bedroom.

Deborah, Alice's elder sister, was in her early twenties. She was beautiful and highly intelligent. She was known to be a friendly and humorous person. Now, in her bed, she seemed to be a shadow of herself.

"Would you excuse me for a minute, Father?" said the mother as she went into Deborah's bedroom.

After a while she came out. "She doesn't want to see anyone. She hardly speaks," explained the visibly worried mother.

Alice intervened. "I spoke with my sister before I went to see you, father. You may go in. Please, Father. I beg you: Go in…"

Father Wilberforce opened the door delicately and entered hesitatingly into Deborah's bedroom. He sat down on a chair right next to Deborah's bed. He took her right hand and held it softly. Father Wilberforce sat down for a while without uttering a word. Then, all of a sudden, Deborah looked at him with a deeply melancholic gaze and mentioned his name, without his ecclesiastic title. He smiled at her.

"Dear Deborah…" Father Wilberforce started a sentence without being able to continue. He tried again. "Dear Deborah, could you tell me precisely what you feel?"

A minute or so elapsed before she replied, in a very low voice, clearly exhausted, "Like being in a big black hole."

"With no way out?" he queried.

Deborah raised her eyes slowly towards him, clearly surprised at what he had just said. "Yes. Exactly. With no way out."

"Are you able to imagine yourself trying to come out of that big black hole?"

"Trying to imagine that is an impossible feat, let alone seeing myself doing that," she retorted, still in a singularly tired tone and very low voice. Her reply made it clear to Father Wilberforce that she was being very coherent.

"What about leaving your room and going downstairs to the kitchen…Could you imagine yourself doing it?"

"Thinking about it is like imagining myself swimming across an ocean." Deborah's gaze turned downwards.

Father Wilberforce did his utmost to conceal his sadness. His eyes conveyed a sense of empathy and understanding. He was still holding Deborah's right hand softly, though he realized his hands were tense. He went on to ask her when did this acute sadness start. He then asked her about the way her sense of acute sadness evolved as the days went by.

"I understand you don't want see people, with the sole exception of your sister, Alice…"

"Well, and you, Wilberforce."

Father Wilberforce smiled.

"I don't wish to see anyone. I find I am overwhelmed by the presence of people. I feel almost suffocated," she went on to say.

Father Wilberforce thought it would be wise to leave soon. Before leaving, he asked her if she felt his presence had been too daunting.  "Be candid, Deborah. You may, as I am about to leave."

"Less so than I would have expected," Father Wilberforce noticed a smirk in her face.

"So, I tell you what. If you wish I could come back tomorrow and stay with you for a short while. We can continue talking. For my part, I would be glad to do that." Father Wilberforce smiled waiting for an answer.

Deborah nodded in assent. "Is there a way out of this, Father?"

"Oh, yes, there is," he asserted.

He was right. The way out, however, turned out to be a tragic, rather than a happy one. The following day Alice came to his house, the same way she had done the day before. Only now she said to him, as she was crying, that his presence was needed to console her and her parents.

Father Wilberforce embraced Alice.

Twenty years previously the same fate had befallen the wife of William Wilberforce, as he was then known. The parents of Deborah and Alice were there to console him.

Yoav J. Tenembaum

Not Another Sentimental Story by Ivanka Deneva

When Kaludka Mitreva heard the door bell ringing nervously she felt a desire to hide her head in the sand and keep low. Anyway, she took her courage and started shuffling with her swollen feet towards the entrance hall. The attempt to calm down that it might be someone else at the door was slowly dying away. Reaching the entrance she tried to put a faint image of a smile on her face. Something suggested her relentlessly that it was Ms Mitsa – the older daughter of the master who had kicked the bucket and now the mourning after his death would pile close and distant relatives together like honey gathers bees for some days…

          She realized her friendliness wouldn’t help her – the newcomer would push her aside from the door after staring at Kaludka even angrier because she had forgotten her key. Her anger was not subdued even by the people gathered round the coffin. After she nodded gracefully her head to some of the people she placed her frosted carnations on the breast of the dead man, she crossed herself and headed for the library which also used to be her father’s study.

          It was doing to be a hard day. She had to stand all mourners, part of them she had never seen before but now they had come to accompany their relatives. Reconciled, her trembling hands groped for the lighter – it was rounded and elegant, a jewel brought from Japan.

   Not having found it, she stuffed the cigarette angrily back into the box. She was resolved to meet Kaludka again and ask her for a match. It seemed as if Kaludka sensed the lady’s needs using invisible wires then she took a peep with questioningly arched eyebrows. She was ready to fulfill any wish but was flapped away by a negligent hand wave. The house maid set out for serving the “God rest his soul!” treat.

          Kaludka was her mother’s distant relative. Mano Simitov had taken her kindly in his house to help with the household after his wife’s death. The old man had been tough, with a straight bearing, being one of those who had been resolved to live for ages. He had looked that way before several months when he had had a brain stroke which startled his friends and enemies. He had stayed longer in bed, started lisping his speech and limping a little with one of his legs so he had needed someone to help him. Kaludka, who was backbitten by his three children, had turned to be the most needed person in the house. Nevertheless, Mitsa did not condone her. She felt Kaludka and her thirteen-year-old grandson had a hidden intention to look after the sick man and his big house selflessly and, by the way, she was not the only one thinking that way.

          Now she made a cup of strong coffee, checked with a finger whether Kaludka had dusted the furniture, then she fixed the rims of crochets and miniatures which she knew exactly where they had been placed for years. Every single ring from the entrance hall made her stare through the stained glass of the study to see whether Burian and Kalia had arrived. Kalia was her younger sister who was addressed as Kala by the home folks. They would never come together but their delay enraged her in that endless day of trouble… She was up from early morning and since then she had been burdened with the funeral duties: the endless bargain with burial agents who had got the wind of prey like vultures even before the old man had stiffened, settling of a grave, obituary notices, flowers… Mitsa threatened them in her thought: “It has always been that way but I will pay them back! As they are younger than me they have always chosen the easy way!”

          Grief and anger mingled in her chest – she had not seen Kala for years and now she could not discern what teased her more: Kala’s absence in Mitsa’s life or the fact that she burdened Mitsa with all duties of their father’s burial in the hardest moment of parting with him. They rarely met each other. The younger sister lived in a town by the sea. She was engrossed in the routine of teaching and fear of her two children’s lives. Her girl had always had ailing health. Kala would come to the capital to attend conferences and seminars but they would always spot each other on the railway platform the last moment just before the departure of the train. They would shout at each other directions and words which the wind would blow away…

Mitsa did her best. She invited her sister to the big house that had been built with skills and creativity by her husband, the architect. A great gap opened between them after those words uttered by their mother’s deathbed. As if they were honest, they sought mercy and comfort but something had broken into between them and would never be restored. In their childhood their souls flew together in the air finding happiness in running across meadows or playing the piano together. It was a long time ago. Only the memory of it would suddenly rush through her mind and make her heart sink helplessly. The piano was gathering dust after her only son had gone abroad… The lady suffered. She had become a widow at an early age and now she acquiesced in living without friends because of her stubborn character.

          Only Burian lived in the capital city. He was the youngest child of the old contractor Mano Simitov. He was a self-taught sculptor whom the nature had bestowed with a portion of dexterity and artistry. Great success demanded other things and he knew it. Rarely did Burian stay in touch with his sisters most often when Mitsa braced her energies to hold evening parties for fictitious fellows. Most of the people were artists who turned out because of their friendship with the architect or to derive benefit. Kala and Burian had been getting on well but recently she appeared to be worried and incommunicative, dispirited about her children and family living.

          A handsome man about thirty, Burian, awaiting his glory watered his patience with Mavrout wine in merry crowds of friends or accidental female acquaintances whom he scrutinized in the mornings. He sometimes happened to prolong nights into days, so he got up at about noon with a pale expression on his face. He felt heavy with apathy and weakness. Some other times he suddenly sprang to life, fidgeting around the consecutive group of people or a person, got delighted or kept tenaciously silent and then his relatives knew he was about to do something stupid…

          After Mitsa’s second call to remind him for that important day today, he came draggling, unshaved in his casual reddish velveteen jacket as it was with shiny with wear shoulders and elbows – inappropriate for the funeral ceremony in the house. His older sister’s initial impulse to send him back to change clothes vanished with the thought that he might get lost in the afternoon and miss the burial of his father. She couldn’t afford herself to deprive him of one more thing at that moment. He had brought a bottle from the contractor’s wine supplies and he accompanied every drink with a gesture bearing a resemblance to crossing himself and saying “May God, have mercy on my father’s soul!”

          Mitsa left him alone and went to the living-room to look after the guests and inspect Kaludka’s work that had already served the luncheon and now was serving coffee in their mother’s favorite coffee set - in the fragile cups of Sever china. As it usually happens people and voices mixed together. The initial haughtiness of the relatives coming from the capital was dying away and now they were patiently and indulgently bearing the gurgling of those coming from the country where the boy who had risen to eminence as a successful contractor had started… Mitsa’s exasperation overwhelmed her again – for the third time on that long day when she saw the maid’s grandson around - a thirteen-year-old boy with large eyes who could not speak yet loved deeply by Simitov.

          The door bell prompted the arrival of her younger sister as she would always do, few minutes before the dead man’s body was about to be carried out of his home… Although Mitsa was trying to overcome her anger, she felt apathy in her sister’s hug. Even now Kala’s mind was hovering above something else and was far away from any sentimentality…

          She shook on the carpet her wet hat which looked smart on her head, gave her umbrella to her sister and made for the room where the dead man’s body was. She came back quickly after lighting a candle and leaving her flowers onto the dead body.

          “Dad’s gone, Kala!” Mitsa groaned with a heavy heart. This time she really meant it.

          “We are all mortal, sis, at least he saw life! May God give us strength to reach his ripe old age!”

          “You are right, Kala!” the older sister responded and was seized with an uneasiness creeping up her veins.

          “He has passed away but we who still live lets get to work; I am here anyway!” the younger sister said in a business like way looking at Burian who had half-closed his eyes but now caught a glimpse of her with his dull eyes.

          “Let’s do it now. It is much better to settle this down than drag the issue to the court!” Mitsa agreed and darted a suspicious look at Kalia’s compliance.

          “You, sis, have a big house in the center of Sofia which you inherited from your husband. Let Burian and I divide the patrimony!”

          “Don’t even think about it! I took care of him: I was by his side whenever he was ill and even when he had caught a slight cold, especially now as he got that brain stroke! Both you and Burian could never be taken seriously – you have always been far at the seaside and he has been wasting his time with his friends!”

          “Who – me?! How dare you say that? Dad died lonely and wanted to see none of you, you babblers! You don’t practice what you preach and now you act like vultures! I will take the ground floor, he pledged it to me! To turn it into a studio!” the little brother suddenly became sober and his eyes started sparkling maliciously.

          “Much good may it do you! You will drink it away anyway! Let’s remise him the ground floor, sis, and each of us will take a floor. We will toss up for the furniture – it is antique and I have already figured out how it would match the one I have at home! It might be used to furnish our villa as well!” the older sister attempted to bring the argument to an end peacefully but her words faded away when Kaludka opened the door to announce that it was time to carry out Mr. Simitov’s body.

          On their way to the cemetery they were sitting in the dead architect’s Mercedes, keeping silent and their eyes were angrily wandering away. They were looking neither at the hearse nor at the driver who was a family friend and had fully replaced the widow’s husband in everything…

          It had been inconstantly raining all morning. The earth was muddy and the people’s shoes sagged here and there. While they were walking among the graves looking for their father’s, Kala and Mitsa leveled their pace and the nacreous lips of the older sister hissed as to remind of something to Kala.

          “We have an agreement, sis, haven’t we! No more than tomorrow we should go to a notary while Burian is still unaware of situation!”

          The rain lashes grew denser. The mourners opened their umbrellas and looked reproachfully at the priest who was diligently preaching his requiescat. Their feet squelched in the puddles, the wind swelled their raincoats…

          Having thrown the flowers into the grave they headed for the bus. Then a shriek made them turn round. The shriek was inarticulate and it tore the pelting rain. It came out of Kaludka’s grandson’s mouth who had jumped into Simitov’s grave with a white carnation in his hand…The flower had stuck by the dead man’s head…

          The undertakers took the boy out using ropes. The boy was covered with mud holding only the stalk of the flower in his shaking hand.

Ivanka Deneva

Translated into English by Daniel Gospodinov