Nine Rabbits - Virginia Zaharieva

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roses from which she later would make pillows and bedspreads.

      When Grandpa would begin his dinner, Grandma would never sit down at the table with him. She would take bites as she cooked, and was always nibbling on something standing up or wiping some pan with bread crust. She claimed that she had a delicate stomach and that she couldn’t eat our food. Grandpa would push what passed for food around his plate. Nikula would watch him slyly over her glasses, waiting for him to explode. But he wouldn’t let on. For the time being, he would play the game. The clock in the kitchen would kill off the minutes one by one. At a certain point, however, he couldn’t take it anymore and would burst out: “Manda, girl, go get me some of those hot red peppers near the gourds. And one, no two, two heads of garlic.”

      When I returned, he would crush the garlic under his strong palm, I would peel a whole heap of the cloves and he would dip first the peppers, then the garlic, into the salt and scoop up a little of his dinner. He would top it all off with thick slices of bread. His eyes would water, turning from blue to green. Sweat would roll down his forehead and fire would come from his mouth. Grandpa would sniffle and snort. Worked up by the hot peppers, he would hum a Romanian tune, belch loudly, and drag out the homemade brandy to put out the fire. At that point, Grandma would carefully set aside her knitting and go out to stroll through the fresh air in the garden, completely helpless before the fact that his presence was more unbearable than his absence.

      Of course, there were other dinners, as well. At the sight of the same crap, he would suddenly get sick of playing at “I eat your absence, and now you eat slop” and would push aside the plate, saying somehow kindly, wearily: “Come on now, woman, what are these leftovers you’re giving me again?”

      Grandma, crushed by this intonation, would stare at the food as if seeing it for the first time, digging around in it with a fork: “Well, it’s food, and mighty tasty, too.”

      And Boris would head off for the mines in Madzharovo again.

      After several months, Grandma would play the dutiful wife again, as was expected, and we would set off for Madzharovo. We would change trains; I would press my nose to the glass and let my eyes and the landscape stir up the journey. Behind me, the adults’ conversation buzzed cozily and I would let it swoop out toward the little stations, mountains, and fields. Grandma had an astonishing ability to move others, making them feel for her. Her heroic life created other landscapes behind me, crisscrossed by clucking tongues and exclamations. Traveling combined with drama brings on sharp attacks of hunger; the people in the compartment would exchange glances and pull out their greasy newspapers full of goodies. Oh, train food! There is nothing more delicious than the requisite fried chicken and hard-boiled eggs.

      I didn’t eat eggs then. It was only years later that I began eating them out of love in the form of eggs à la arménien. My future husband, an Armenian, made them for me one morning. Back then, he still brought me breakfast in bed. Once he returned with a tray, enveloped in the scent of toast and coffee, and triumphantly announced: “Eggs à la arménien!” How could I not try them?

       Eggs à la arménien

      Soft-boil five or six eggs very lightly-for no more than two minutes. During that time, put slices of black bread through the toaster twice, so that they become hard, and quickly cut them into little squares no larger than a half-inch. Put a stick of butter sliced into chunks on the warm bits of bread-the bowl should also be warmed. Salt the mixture and toss the peeled eggs on top. Stir carefully until the bread is lacquered with egg. This way, the sulfuric taste of the boiled egg is hidden behind the scent of the butter and the toasted black bread. If the eggs are fresh from the farm, all the better. Little lacquered squares. Orange ones!

      Serve with a cup of hot coffee after making love in bed. Follow with cuddling and deep sleep.

      And for after that deep sleep, I know an unbeatable sandwich. I discovered it by accident, thanks to my current love.

       Sandwich for 11 a.m. Hunger Pangs

      Mash up half a handful of blue cheese with the same amount of cottage cheese. Spread the mixture on a toasted slice of black bread and top with large chunks of baked eggplant, seasoned only with salt and olive oil. A glass of red wine will open it up.

      But getting back to the train, where the culinary rapture is in full swing. Besides the fried chicken and boiled eggs, my grandma pulls out a tomato as large as a child’s head, one of the pinkish oxhearts. Compliments about her gardening prowess fly. A bottle of wine appears. For me, they cut it with lemonade in a thick plastic cup. We gobble down the food. They exchange recipes and addresses. Leaving the compartment, it is hard to part with people who have already become members of our family.

      When I turn 33, I become friends with Buba, a Bulgarian woman who for years has been married to a rich Jew from Paris. They live in a house across from the Bois de Boulogne. One day, she tells me, he gives her a Porsche and they decide to try it out on a trip to Bulgaria. They’ve only been driving for an hour or so when Buba pulls out a basket from behind the seat and starts peeling boiled eggs and unwrapping fried chicken bundled in newspaper.

      “What’s that,” Andre asks.

      “The road makes you hungry, we need a little snack,” Buba replies.

      “But won’t we stop to eat somewhere,” Andre whines.

      “We’ll stop,” Buba replies. “I made this for along the way.”

      Just try to explain these travel rituals to Andre in the Porsche! I’m sure that Buba had herself a nice little snack without batting an eye, maybe she even mischievously patted her insolent red curls with greasy little fingers. Every autumn, Buba takes a plane from Charles de Gaulle and lands in Sofia, so as not to miss the redolence of rooaasted reeed peeeeppers. She likes stretching out her vowels like that. She especially likes spicing them up, too. I’ve never heard talk as taaaasty as hers anywhere. It’s been days since we left her Paris home of stories, crackers, and coffee. There’s no sleep. But Buba is another book.

      At the far end of the yard, next to the brick wall of the neighboring house, there is a ripe cherry tree. It grows on the border of our gardens, so each family picks it from their side.

      Today I’m wearing a dress, a white one, from my grandma Vera in Sofia. Stretched out on a thick branch, Rufi is eating cherries, spitting the pits at the cat and pretending not to see me.

      “All black cats should be destroyed. Especially this one, ’cause it eats our cherries,” he says.

      “Gimme one.”

      “Did you see that? It went straight into its ear.”

      “Gimme a cherry.”

      “Here.”

      “That’s not a cherry.”

      “It’s a little pear. Check it out, it’s silver.”

      “It’s just a regular old light bulb for a lamp.”

      “This is no regular light bulb. If I drop it, it’ll explode, and the whole world will die.”

      “You’re lying!”

      “Should I drop it?”

      “C’mon, don’t.”

      With the light bulb in his mouth, Rufi slowly climbs down out of the tree.

      “It’s just a lie, right? So why don’t I just give it a whack and we’ll see whether

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