One evening, Mitko, our friendly taxi driver, drove us to a restaurant called Paraklisa, which he explained meant “little church”. It was a super restaurant with great food and pleasant staff. We had such a good time there, and when it was getting time to leave, Dave asked a member of the staff to call a taxi for us, as Mitko couldn’t pick us up. She asked where we wanted to go. Oh dear. We couldn’t remember the name. It was highly embarrassing, especially as a party of English and American men were sitting close to us enjoying the cabaret. I managed to remember that it began with an O, and the staff started going all through the O’s in the telephone directory. Weren’t they good to do that?
Eventually we recognised the name and the party next to us cheered.
We also met up with John at last, after all the e-mails and phone messages that went between us in England. He came out a week after we, and last night we met up for a meal and got on well together. He’s about mid-50s and seems to be our type, having a similar liberal outlook on life. So it’s good to have a friend already.
Our furniture arrived and Angel, the builder, helped the men to carry it in. Dave had business in Varna, so I had to sort out the organising of it. I’m not very skilled at organising, so I was so grateful that Angel was there. He was very efficient and is so easy to be with. He has a lot of charm, with a great sense of humour. He talked about my kitchen and said I would have to choose something from the magazine and then he would fit it. I wondered vaguely which magazine he meant. I didn’t want anything from a catalogue. I decided I would discuss it with Dave.
Later, I learnt that “magazin” is Bulgarian for “shop” or “store”.
Angel christened me Lady Anne for some reason.
We booked into a restaurant for Christmas Eve and a hotel. It’s a place that we call in for coffee and we’ve had some good meals there. The manager is pleasant and speaks excellent English. But the booking wasn’t necessary – we were the only ones there. Downstairs, a party was in progress to celebrate a couple’s anniversary.
For some reason, we were invited down, which was really hospitable of them. I danced a waltz with the man who was one half of the couple and then the band played a Beatles tune “for our guests”. Wasn’t that kind of them? They played She Loves You and while I like the Beatles, I loathe that particular number, but they weren’t to know that.
Returning upstairs to our own table, we found the room had filled up somewhat and someone at the next table started talking to Dave, and the waiter invited me to dance, which I accepted; I was on a high and really enjoying myself. Unfortunately, the waiter was a slime-ball and his hands were moving around too much. I wondered vaguely what to do – slapping his face was way over the top but walking across the floor in high dudgeon could be a problem – I wasn’t sure I could summon up the required dignity to manoeuvre over to our table.
I’d had a lot to drink. I have a firm belief that if you look at someone intensely they will sense it and eventually look at you. I gazed extremely intensely at Dave, willing him to look at me, but he was having what seemed to be an interesting chat. Bang goes my theory. And then – guess what? You’ll never believe this. The good ol’ US of A rescued me! My hero was a huge American guy whom I’d seen previously in the restaurant and around Varna.
“I could see Ma’am you were having problems,” he told me. I was so pleased to be rescued. “Ooh it’s just like the cavalry charging in,” I trilled. We had a chat and he told me about his wife and children, who were coming over soon. Then we strolled over to the bar and joined Dave, who had moved over there, having no idea of the drama being played out on the dance floor. It was a good Christmas Eve in spite of my “molester”.
An English family called round to make themselves known to us. They are a couple named Keith and Janet, who have a daughter, Ruth. They seem a nice enough family, but their taste in wine was deplorable, judging from the bottle they brought. Janet was a hairdresser in her past life. Looking at her hair, I shan’t ask for an appointment. I think Ruth is about 15. It must have been so difficult to leave her friends and come to a strange country, where she has to learn a new language that isn’t even based on the Latin alphabet.
Other neighbours are Jim and Kathy. The former came round one morning to introduce himself. He’s a thick-set man with one of those well-scrubbed, shiny faces. After introducing himself, and without much ado, he said: “Your house is shit.” Can you believe such rudeness? I told him that I loved my house and thought it was beautiful and what good ideas Angel had picked up in Italy. What kind of people have we come to live among?
Jim snorted – “He’s never been to bloody Italy. And he’s wanted in every county in the land except Varna.”
Well then, are you sitting comfortably? Do sit down if you’re not. According to Jim, the brother-in-law of Angel had returned home one night, as normal, ie, stinking of booze and sex, and his wife had hit the roof. And he killed her! I don’t know how. Afterwards, he’d gone round Varna crying and offering a reward for anyone who could help find his wife’s killer. He also put up lots of notices with her photo on it. This is the custom here. When I first saw the notices, I thought they were missing people who’d run away from home but a lot of them were so old – bang went another theory – and then someone enlightened me: they are photos of people who have died.
Apparently everyone knew he’d killed her.
