4.5 Stars
This book is a train with many cars, the old kind, moving clumsily along a track at night. One car contains a small supply of coal, which splits out into the passageway when an internal door is opened. You have to step over piles of slippery black grit to get through the corridor. Another car contains grain, shipped for export. One car is full of musicians and instruments and cheap overnight bags, nearly half an orchestra sitting according to their friendships and rivalries in the seats of the second-class compartments. Another car contains bad dreams. The final train car has no seats but instead is full of sleeping men, who lie crushed together on their coats in the dark. The door to that one has been nailed shut from the outside.
Alexandra Boyd is seeking something, a peace of some kind she’s unable to find at home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, a home where she once roamed with her brother Jack. Where Jack walks no more, missing since the day they had an argument and she told him to “get lost.” Trying to get away from all the memories for a while, she arrives in Sofia, Bulgaria with an upcoming teaching position, teaching English to Bulgarian students. Bulgaria – Jack’s favourite country on the atlas when they were young, which was that perfect shade of green. Alexandra’s favourite always Yugoslavia.
"A land that looked nearly untouched by history, a Grimms' fairy tale setting in Alexandra's eyes."
She had shown the note with the name of the hostel written in Cyrillic script, to the Airport taxi driver, and trusted him to deliver her to the correct place. After she’s dropped off, she realizes too late that this is not the place, and in her confusion she ends up standing next to an older woman, an elderly man in a wheelchair, and another, younger, man while they’re trying to hail taxis. A brief conversation ensues, their English is sufficient for that. She is so pleased with meeting such friendly people, she asks if she could take a photo of the first people to be kind to her in this country, so new to her. With bags placed in proximity, amid the need to get the elderly man in the cab first, a bag of theirs ends up among Alexandra’s things, and it is only after she is safely in her own taxi driving some minutes away that she realizes the mistake. And even later, she realizes the gravity of that mistake. It isn’t just someone else’s precious family possession she holds in her hands – it’s their actual family – an urn containing the prah, their ashes.
Kostova effortlessly weaves in fairly-tales, horror stories of prisoners in camps, the beauty of so many places in Bulgaria, love stories, and messages of hope. Some parts are heartbreakingly sad, horrifying, other parts let enough of the good through, so you can breathe easily and calm your heart, and perhaps even charm you. All through, the past that haunts Bulgaria is woven through this story until it meets the present, those who know of the stories but never really knew.
Music is a profound presence in this story, as one of the main characters of the past was a violinist, classically trained, and I found myself wishing I could listen to these pieces as I read through those sections. The descriptions of various locations are often so lovely that I would pause and read them once more. I felt as if I had been transported to the setting, again and again, by music or the magic and power of Kostova’s writing.
There is a part that deals with the ugliness of the past, a past we know a variation of, or think we know, or maybe even know a bit about it. We’ve heard or seen a paragraph or two or a documentary or perhaps saw a special show on it once upon a time. And we’ve become complacent thinking this was so long ago, it’s the past and not the present – and, perhaps more importantly, we didn’t live it. People die, ideas don’t. They return, reincarnate. We need to remember that people let this happen. Allowed this to happen, maybe even when they didn’t want it to happen.
Overall, this is lovely. An assessment of the power we have to find significance and faith, optimism in the past, despite the despair. To remember, to cherish those things worth cherishing and to leave behind those things that have the power to destroy.
I will remember you, will you remember me?
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories
- Sarah McLachlan “I Will Remember You”
Recommended
Pub Date: 11 Apr 2017
Many thanks for the ARC provided by Random House Publishing Group - Ballantine!