MANOLE MACRELATA

Salih Aga was alone. He was walking restlessly as he was smoking his pipe. His fat lip twitched nervously. Aga slapped his hands. One of the guards, a large and bearded Turk, ran into the room and stood obediently in front of him with a bent fez. Salih Aga shouted:

“Get me Manol Makrelata right away!”

After a while four seymens, led by the bilukbashi Strahin, led Manol into the room. The short Salih Aga seemed to diminish even more compared with the figure of the well-built Bulgarian. Manol Makrelata stepped in, looked up in the eyes of Salih Aga.

“Do you know whose son you are, Manol?” Aga asked.

“I know,” Manol replied sharply.

“Your father is a man of a home with honour ... Does he know what you have done?

“He’ll learn,” Manol interrupted him.

Salih Aga threw his head back and turned to Makrelata.

“Why did you kidnap Rada?”

Manol Makrelata took a breath and said in a calm voice:

“I did not kidnap her, she came with me.”

“You’re lying!” cried Aga. “Does a maid follow a man? Do you think that if your father is a friend of mine, I will let you spoil my ruling? For such damn things I throw in the ravine.

Salih Aga signaled with his hand. The seymens took Manol and went outside.

“Wait,” Salih Aga called after them. “Do you have to say something else?” he turned to Manol.

There was silence. Manol seemed to think of something.

“I will not say anything ... I am just asking you, Salih Aga, bring me the kaval. I will go with it to the meadow... After that, I will jump down the ravine alone.

Aga appreciated bravery. He ordered the kaval to be brought to him, to untie his hands and take him to the meadow next to the ravine. Let him sing and play. Salih Aga could wait for a little. Then he would go out and see how Manol’s body fly down and fall onto the jagged rocks.

Salih Aga entered the Konak and started walking grimly around the room. Where was his wife and the pretty Gulsya? His brows scowled, he smoked continually and wiped his sweaty neck. His red face darkened, and a vertical wrinkle between his tense eyebrows gave away his mental anxiety. He listened. Macarelata was singing. The song came clearly to the hearing of the Aga, filled with a wild and pleasant melody,

“Girl, white and black-eyed,

You have lit a blue flame

On my white heart,

but who will put it out

if you, girl, were promised to another one ...”

Salih Aga showed up at the window and gazed with delight at Manol in front of the terribly gaping ravine. He removed his kaval from time to time and sang with a honey voice. The spring wind blew his hair, rocking his shadow, and spreading the song.

The door opened slightly. His wife, shrouded in her yash