Our neighbours from the South gained my admiration. A few years ago, I heard the story of a man who used to translate from the works of Shakespeare. I forgot his name but I remember the gesture (an extreme, incredible gesture). It was a signal that overturned the vision I had of this space they call the Balkans.
Here is the story:
Our translator, let’s call him Anastas or ?vetan Bojinov; no matter the name (my story does not require a name), knew, dreamed and ate Shakespeare, he translated like no other and that brought him a well deserved fame amongst his brethren. One fair day, one of his colleagues told him that he had made a mistake. “It is not possible!” he said, and immediately went to the Academy’s library. He took the book in his hands and searched the pages with the precipitance of a man driven mad. It was true. He had mistaken the meaning. He felt as if the whole world was loosing its congruence. He ran home, searched through his drawers, found his gun and shot himself in the head.
On the other hand, although we are all honourable men, although we do not translate from Shakespeare, we still don’t know who shot at us in December 1989, we haven’t found out who used the red line with Moscow, if it has ever existed, and we don’t know who called the miners…….We have never contorted the meaning of an expression.
Romanians and Bulgarians…