tsvetoslav shalev

Roughly translates as “those who don’t disappear / never go away / never fade away”. It was the title of a Bulgarian TV drama series from 1988, and one of the vehicles that made a frequent appearance was the 1977 Chavdar 11 M4. I have a sketch in my mind for the featured image of this short story, but it’s almost midnight here and I should probably go to bed.

He woke up with a start, his head bouncing off the grimy window of the bus. Sleep-deprived, the dull ache from the impact came second to the abrupt confusion with regard to his surroundings. An incoherent jumble of angry outbursts streaming from the driver’s seat entwined with the muffled voices of the rest of the shocked passengers. A baby’s cry was steadily rising above the commotion, as the floor and ceiling lights, the colour of soft amber, switched on.
Evening all. Seems we’ve hit a pothole and need to make an emergency stop to change a tire.
The driver, a corpulent caucasian man in his 50s, with bloodshot eyes sunken deep into his skull from the wear and tear of the daily grind, looked around at everyone for a sign of acknowledgement, his gaze lingering much longer on the crying baby and his mother. She returned his gaze, with a defiant stare of her own. Outside, the sky was a blanket of dark violet, black and navy blue, the last light of the setting sun a thin fiery line in the far off distance.
He reached the little nylon-netted pocket on the backrest of the seat in front of him and fished out a half-full bottle of lukewarm mineral water. Despite a parched throat and a throbbing head, he only took a small sip. After all, there were still a good couple of hours before they’d reach the outskirts of his hometown. The driver and his assistant looked dejected, as they mulled over the logistics of their undertaking. The vehicle looked like it belonged in a museum or a private collection, bearing the logo of Chavdar. These seemed ancient to him early in his life, never mind travelling in one, well over two decades later. Such mechanical dinosaurs were the last to serve the route he, and the rest of the passengers now braved, in order to reach distant relatives or places saturated with memories and sentiment.

They were in the middle of nowhere, 10:20 PM on a hot and humid Monday in early June. He made up his mind to get up and stretch his legs. As if in affirmation, the driver’s voice once more boomed through what worked of the speakers on the bus.
Feel free to go out for some fresh air or a smoke. My colleague and I shouldn’t take more than 15 minutes, but to make sure nobody’s left behind, please make your way back inside the bus by 10:30 PM latest. Do not make me go out looking for you.
Nobody was paying attention to the man, his voice a drone amplified through poorly-grounded wiring. He put his wallet in his pocket, checked his phone by patting the right pocket of his jeans and began making his way down the narrow pathway towards the designated exit. The doors of the Chavdar opened up with a loud hiss, expelling the miasma of sweat, cheap air fresheners and deterioration. Outside, a sweet scent wafted from the fields nearby. Was that Lilac? Earlier that day he’d seen these patchworks of white, pink and pale violet amid an endless ocean of green. Whatever it was, he made sure to fill his up lungs, through a series of deep inhales, followed by exhales interspersed with yawns. The sun was now completely gone, but the moon was yet to make its shy appearance. The glint of celestial bodies appeared like the light passing through so many tiny holes on a giant sieve turned upside-down. The scene stirred a long-dormant memory of him lying next to a high school sweetheart, on a makeshift wooden podium at their school, naive eyes dreamily searching the skies for them, the intelligent beings of popular science fiction movies and books. He concentrated his thought on her, and the sense of quiet contentment he felt whenever they were together. The world he lived in today, was devoid of passion and polluted in every imaginable way. He felt slight vibrations coming from his phone and reluctantly fished for the device. It was his dad.
Hi.
He moved the microphone of the handset even closer to his mouth while taking a few steps farther away from the bus. Then, turned around and looked on impassionately at the driver and his assistant, struggling under the strain of their unfortunate task.
Are you at the bus station yet?
No, there was a small accident and we had to make an emergency stop. The driver reckons we should be back on the road by 10:30.
My God, are you alright?
His mother must’ve overheard the conversation, her voice easily discernable in the background, laced with worry.
I’m okay, just tired. These journeys don’t get any easier, do they?
He sat there a little while, listening to the muffled exchange between his parents, bleary eyes staring at an unusually bright spot in the sky above. A low-orbiting satellite, probably. This time, it was his mother who came through and disrupted his reverie.
Hon, just get to us in one piece, okay? There’s still some roasted chicken left and your father bought a bottle of that cognac you liked so much last time you visited. We’ll drink to your health.
More muffled exchanges, his dad scolding his mom for spoiling what was meant to be a surprise. The new tire appeared no different from the ones currently in use, where wear and tear was concerned, but the two men who worked on it looked pleased with themselves. They started making their way to the front of the bus, exchanging comments laden with obscenities. Life was a bitch, but it was the hard-working individuals who got fucked in the end, or something to that extent.
Guys, I need to get back. Seems like I won’t be sleeping out in the wilderness tonight, after all.
Oh, my dear boy!.. His mother exclaimed, followed by an expedient reprimand from his dad, for the error of belittling a man no less.
Bye now.
Their goodbyes hung in that sweet lilac air as he slid the phone back into his pocket and slowly headed towards the small group of people preparing to board.

A week later, the local authorities of Faywater still did not have leads on the bus that disappeared without so much as a trace, along with its 11 passengers, an hour after reporting a rear tire accident, en route to the small town. Families and neighbours had stayed up waiting throughout the night and late into the following day. Unable to contact the drivers or any of the passengers, many had volunteered to assist the police and the fire brigade in the search efforts.