This piece was the April Fools’ greeting from Digital Stories, an unconventional interview with a beloved writer who never fit inside any frame. Today it reads in a completely different way… and it is even more worth reading. Because of the author’s trademark style, in which so much, much more hides behind the humor.
Stoyan Nikolov (Torlaka) passed away just days ago, only 42 years old. But he left behind distinctive, meaningful books that will be read for a long time and are yet to be fully appreciated by generations to come. He also left three boys who will grow up as brave and defiant as he was, and as his Northwest is.
A new book, which he managed to finish, is coming out soon, his wife Ani has announced. She will keep running the writer’s Facebook profile and his website, where you can order any of his books—a meaningful adventure I recommend to you with all my heart. And if you simply decide to help his family, the investigative news site Bivol has organized a donation campaign.
But enough talk; over to the writer.
“Laugh, ’cause the universe is endless, but life ain’t. It’s just energy, changin’ from one form to another in this endless universe. Long as you’re in this here shell of yours, enjoy it. After that, who knows.”
Unforgettable reading! What could an artificial intelligence possibly have to tell us after landing in the wild backwoods of the Bulgarian Northwest, officially the poorest region in Europe?!
Not long ago, the first super-perfect Bulgarian robot was built, equipped with artificial intelligence from the future. As part of the experiments with it, it was sent to a small village in that poorest of European regions. The scientists wanted to see how it would cope in the wilds, whether it would adapt, whether it could pass the Turing test—pass for a human—in such a peculiar environment. And so it ended up in Divi Dol (literally “Wild Dale”) under the name Tumbak Pepeiv.
A few months later, Digital Stories is the first to get the chance to interview it!
Stoyan Nikolov (Torlaka). Special thanks to this whirlwind of a man and beloved author for helping us make contact. The author of the series that began with “Severozapaden roman” (A Northwestern Novel) and has so far reached “Razkazi za masa” (Stories for the Table) made this one-of-a-kind interview possible.
– Could you briefly introduce yourself?
– First tell me if you’re from some debt collectin’ outfit. Ahh, you ain’t. Then what the heck’ve you dragged yourself here to grill me for?
– …Are you sure you’re not drunk?
– Oh, so on top of everythin’ you’re countin’ my drinks too? Go on, mind your own business, before we fill your neck full of slaps and you run off home bawlin’.
– All right, I see your integration is clearly going smoothly. Perhaps you’ve heard that old joke, “Ferdo, come and take back your Shop!”—the one about Tsar Ferdinand and the famously stubborn peasants from around Sofia… But never mind, let’s give it a try anyway. How did your day go yesterday?
– Planted spuds, hammered together beehives. Till about ten in the mornin’. Then I sat down for a breather. Two rakias, then I fixed a beam on the hayloft and took the goats out. They scattered down the hollow, one this way, the other that way. Spent the whole afternoon chasin’ them damn beasts, curse ’em, good-for-nothin’ critters. Round dusk I milked ’em and had a rest, but I overdid the rakia, so now somethin’s got me squeezed at the back of the neck.
– Have you managed to make friends?
– Oh, round here we’re all friends. When some job needs doin’, no worries. Every neighbor’s ready to lend a hand. The trouble’s when we get to havin’ fun. Then it’s a hell of a time all round.
No matter how good the mood, it always ends in a fight. All in good spirit, mind.
They dish out a slap or two to each other, warm up, and that’s that. Course, there’s fancier ones too, if you catch my drift. If you don’t catch it, I couldn’t give a damn!
– What interesting thing have you learned about the Bulgarian Northwest that the rest of us don’t know?
– Like I said, the folk are good and helpful. When it’s needed, they’ll pull together. But when they got nothin’ to do, best not be in their sight. They beat you so hard your kidneys ache, and I ain’t even got kidneys. Figure that one out. Nothin’ but mischief in their heads. But if it’s for somethin’ worthwhile, they’re always game. Why, the other day I’d thrown my back out, and neighbor Grisho Recapitulation came runnin’ and helped me split three cubic meters of firewood, ’cause this spring’s a cold one and I ain’t one for freezin’.
– What kind of people live here? Are the inhabitants of these parts really a bit rough?
– You get used to it. They ain’t a bit rough, they’re plain rough. But that’s one side of it. Looked at another way, we’re delicate, and that’s why they seem rough to us. Reckon you get me.
– Yes, I do. Little by little I’m starting to follow your words better. Why do you think this country just can’t get it right with its politicians?
– ’Cause they’re stuck in a loop.
The folk are stuck in a loop, and so are the politicians. Shoulda mucked out the pigsty,
but the folk didn’t muck out the pigsty, so the politicians regrouped and now they’re playin’ the new match with the old ball. Y’know, in Russian myach means ball. I’m givin’ you wordplay here and you’re still not happy.
– How do people live in the poorest region in Europe, judging by what you’ve seen these days?
– Some live well. Others don’t. Now, I won’t deny there’s lazybones, stinkers and freeloaders here too, same as everywhere. But most folk are decent. Look at things right. You always gotta dig for the root cause. When the state screws you over, there’s no roads, no livin’ to be made, ’cause nobody’ll invest in a place with no infrastructure—how d’you live? Bit by bit you start shrinkin’ down to your little garden, your two goats, the still for your rakia, and you turn into a beast. Sadly, lots are like that.
That don’t go for everyone, though. Others grit their teeth and work miracles of bravery in spite of everythin’ and everyone. And they’re bullheaded. You can’t break their spirit, not even if you stand on your own neck. Personally, I reckon folk like that are rare in this world. In the good sense and the bad.
One thing’s for sure, there ain’t no mediocre ones, that’s certain.
– Have you found an explanation for the aging, the lack of young people? For the skepticism toward vaccines? And toward everything…
– You looked to me like a smart fella, but you’re turnin’ out to be real, real dim, I’m tellin’ you, just so you know!
– I didn’t understand you…
– You didn’t understand me ’cause you’re dim. I told you, it’s poverty here. No roads; culture, theaters, schools, cinemas—everythin’s either shut or hangin’ by a thread, kept up by the efforts of a handful of crackpot dreamers who won’t take a single step back. But only as long as they’re around.
The young got no work, so they head for Sofia, and then for the terminal and off to one shore or the other of the Atlantic. Not ’cause they don’t wanna live, work and enjoy their home country. But ’cause they’re put in such a spot that, however much they can do, know how to do or have studied, there’s no room to grow here. Some stick it out, but they often wonder too
why bother poundin’ like muddy water on the bank, when you can live easier with less effort.
– It must have been hard for you without the specific local vocabulary in your algorithm…
– Are you messin’ with me? Looks to me like you’re itchin’ for a fight, and that’s where things are headed, I’m tellin’ you straight!
The local lingo is poetic, refined, beautiful—hell, it’s a damn masterpiece all round.
It sticks to your tongue from day one. And if it don’t, you take a beatin’ and you manage to land the words in a week, tops. If you’re askin’ whether I had a language barrier, the answer’s a flat no.
– Any unforgettable conversation?
– The first one. My first time out wavin’ my britches round the village, I meet a stranger and say, “How you doin’, what you up to?” and he goes, “Here, see, right here!” To this day I reckon that’s an idiom and can’t be translated with the full charge of its cosmic super-thinkin’.
– And what do you think about driving in Bulgaria?
– I don’t drive. Thought about goin’ to drivin’ school, but I’m always half-drunk, so to this day I ain’t sat behind a wheel. But as a side observer, I can tell you that
99.9 percent of the drivers in Bulgaria think they’re astronauts headed from my home constellation, the Shield of Sobieski, toward some black hole.
– What is the most valuable advice you’ve received from the old folks?
– If you see the sun’s got a grin on it, dress warmer, ’cause your back’ll catch a chill.
– I understand that thanks to an innovative project, hospitals across the whole region now treat patients with the help of Artificial Intelligence. Is that really so?
– Pal, round here treatment with artificial intelligence by innovative methods is widespread. Everyone says, “I took a pill and it all went away.” “What pill?” “A beige one.” “What was wrong with you?” “Well, my leg hurt.” “Ah, me, my heart flutters now and then. I’ll try it. Beige pill, you say.” “Somethin’ like that.” “Right, I’ll try it.”
– What is the most beautiful Bulgarian word?
– “Благодаря” (blagodarya, thank you). Think about where it comes from and you’ll see why. And the fairest one is “необходимо” (neobhodimo, necessary).
Think about where that one comes from and you’ll get it too. But you’re dim and not much for thinkin’.
– What is… maybe it’s better you don’t say it, but what’s in the juiciest curse you learned during your months in the Northwest?
– Ask me one more, just one more question like that, and I’ll screw you in the crook of your knee!
– What do your algorithms show—does this region have a future?
– This lot can’t be wiped out. I been round the whole universe, but I never came across livin’ organisms like these.
Can you wipe out folk who laugh at death, who brawl in the tavern and the next day come runnin’ to help the fella they gave a slap or two, haulin’ his barrel out of the storeroom and rinsin’ it so it don’t go sour? They’re nuts, but their hearts are as big as Io, Saturn’s moon, and they don’t break. Just so long as they don’t multiply too much, or the whole world’ll suffer.
– Where does the strength of this region lie, the strength that never quite gets put to use?
– In the spirit. The hard life, the harsh conditions, the very nature of these wild ones has made ’em unbending. They’ll drop dead on the spot, but they won’t give in. Once they’ve set their minds on somethin’, that’s how it’ll be.
– What impressed you in Bulgarian poetry?
– Risto Botyov. Every bit of him. And it really gets to me that he signed himself that way, and you lot renamed him Hristo Botev. There’s so much fire in every word of that revolutionary poet, and so much smoke risin’, I don’t reckon he’d be pleased you… what’s the word… de-poeticized his name with that boring “e.”
– And in chalga, the Bulgarian pop-folk?
– We ain’t into chalga round here. We love Serbian stuff. My personal favorites are Mile Kitić and Indira Radić.
– Do you have a recipe for how humanity can deal with COVID?
– Hypochondria’s incurable. Otherwise, viruses are nasty. We got ’em on my planet too. Usually you take precautions, hygiene, we don’t eat each other’s snot, and after a while the survivors catch their breath and mourn the dead. But that’s just normal. Viruses were here before us and they’ll stay after us. Evil, primitive critters, but they’re part of life and that’s that. It ain’t nice, but there shouldn’t be any drama either. Otherwise we all go mad and we’re neither alive nor dead. In a stupor.
– People in these parts are said to love reading Stories for the Table. What does that mean?
– That they ain’t got two cents’ worth of brains in their heads. That book was written by some real nutcase. Sure, it’s funny, there’s the odd wise thought between the lines, but you got no right to mock literature like that. The fella did whatever he pleased, without givin’ a hoot about public opinion and morals. I flat out don’t recommend it. Open it if you like, but by the third sentence you’ll be convinced I’m right. I’m downright scandalized that not just here in the Northwest, but all over Bulgaria they like it. And they order it from abroad too. I don’t know where this world is headed…
Still, even that moron wrote two or three halfway decent books. Personally, I recommend “Mai she ni bade…” (Looks Like It’ll Happen for Us…) and “Ivail tsar” (Tsar Ivailo), but you can leaf through some other one too. He’s supposed to have said he don’t care if you read him, what matters is that you buy the book so he can get his hands on the cash and drink it. Can you imagine such sacrilege and nerve? What kind of writer is that!? He’s a total lowlife, take it from me.
– What kind of people will live in the Northwest once its current inhabitants disappear?
– None. This lot won’t disappear. This lot are indestructible. They’ll take you in, feed you, give you a roof, show you which end of the shovel to hold, and they won’t throw you out. But they’ll melt you down, in your genes and in your mindset. And you’ll become one of them. Otherwise you got no chance. And they’ll never become anythin’ other than grumps with big hearts and rich souls, hidden under thick skin.
– What is happiness?
– Every day it’s in somethin’ or other. For everyone it’s in somethin’ different. Here it’s all a matter of taste. For me in particular it’s doin’ the work I do, havin’ my drink go down sweet, and the folk around me bein’ well, so now and then we can crack up laughin’ together.
– What would you wish Bulgarians for this wonderful holiday, so beautifully symbolic for us—April 1?
– To crack up laughin’, didn’t I just tell you, you numbskull!? Laugh, ’cause the universe is endless, but life ain’t. It’s just energy, changin’ from one form to another in this endless universe. Long as you’re in this here shell of yours, enjoy it. After that, who knows. Like they say in the Northwest, “May you have everythin’ and may nothin’ ail you!” A hundred years at least, and after that we’ll see.
