Stefan

My old car is being repaired (yet again), but Stefan has cheered me up.

This has to be one of my saddest and most painful posts on my blog so far. Stefan has died. He was our first Bulgarian friend and in many ways our best. Irena and I got to know him soon after we bought our villa in Kalotina, about fifteen years ago, and we have stayed in contact with him and his wife Poly over the years we have been coming to Bulgaria.

Stefan and Irena

Stefan had a great sense of humour, a wonderful laugh and a fund of silly jokes that showed an appreciation of the comic and ridiculous element in life. He would sometimes come out with that very old and dreadful Dick Emery catchphrase, "You are awful, but I like you!"

A widely-travelled businessman and diplomat, Stefan spoke French and Russian fluently. He loved the Russian language and he liked to sing old Russian songs, often with my wife Irena.  Like many of the older generation of Bulgarians, Stefan was pro-Russian and he could be pretty scathing about America and the USA's influence in the world. Lots of Bulgarians have a rabid hatred of the gypsies, but I remember that Stefan was a bit more fair-minded and he once said to me, "I have known some hard-working gypsies."
   

Stefan's English was a little bit rusty, even though he spent many years in the UK. Stefan worked on the London Metal Exchange, so he enjoyed our meetings as it gave him an opportunity to polish up his English. He had many happy memories of his time in London.

My Bulgarian, I am embarrassed to admit, will probably never be as good as Stefan's English. In fact, he was always amused by my faltering steps in Bulgarian, especially when I would come out with an old proverb, such as Nyema gradus, nyema radus (roughly translated, this means "No booze, no happiness") or my favourite, Cheren gologan ne se gubi ("A black penny always turns up"). 

As a friend, Stefan was kindness and patience personified. He was rightly proud of his excellent and tasty tomatoes, many of which ended up in our summer salads.

Stefan's service, in Sveta Sofia Church, was my first Bulgarian funeral. The choir were out of sight, raised up on a higher level than the congregation. The singing was mostly in a low key, deep and very moving, even though I had no idea of what the words meant. It had an ethereal, other-worldly quality. The two priests who took the service also sang well, when they were not waving about the incense. We do not really go in for open coffins in the UK, so seeing Stefan's body lying there was a bit hard.  

Goodbye, my friend.