A Red-washed Shoreline

Chapter 1 - August 1978, Varna, PR Bulgaria

As the sun rose upon the seemingly golden beaches of Varna, a young man, with combed back brown hair, a slight stubble, skin as white as the peace that he longed for so much, and the frown of oppression on his face, stood waiting patiently at the tram stop that stood along the beach. This part of town was elegant in comparison to the rest of Bulgaria - it maintained a European style of architecture as opposed to the brutalist concrete blocks that stood like soldiers in the Soviet battalions - stalwart; emotionless; and with death on their small, oppressed minds - which had all fallen prisoner to Communism. Everybody's mind had been knocked in place with the hammer, and kept in place with the sickle. However, Novikov's shackles were loose. He knew ways out of Bulgaria - and he was completely prepared to use them. At least, that's how it seemed. As Novikov got on the next tram north through the seemingly Western beachfront - he could only think of what he'd be giving up if he left Varna.

The tram went along the tracks at a speed of about 50 kilometres per hour - just fast enough so that Novikov was not late for work - but just slow enough so that Novikov only had to keep holding onto the metal bar that stood like a Politburo guard at the end of every door in Novikov's workplace. Not necessarily in body - but the Soviet government had ears everywhere. The one deaf spot that Novikov knew of - and had identified, was the Leninskiy Cabaret Club - which stood in the centre of Varna, overlooking the beach. Novikov's tram was passing it as he thought of this deaf spot - standing in all its' Western glory - among other European buildings - that hid the beating Communist heart with the Western skin of the city. Novikov ruminated while the tram hurtled along - thinking about what could happen to his family if he left. He knew a way out - and it was relatively unguarded - apart from one barrier.

His moral fibre.

Mike's thought process would soon come to a stop, as he felt a large force on the arm that was grasping the bar of the tram. The tram had come to a stop at Utilisya Vasil Drumev - which lay near to Mike's workplace. Mike would walk over to his workplace down the concrete sidewalks of the area. Mike passed a couple of people that he knew. As he walked past them, he'd take his right hand out of the pocket of his black trousers, and wave - uttering a quick "Zdravey." (Greetings in Bulgarian.) His friends would always reciprocate this greeting. It wasn't often they spoke - due to the fact that most of them all lived in differing parts of Bulgaria, and the Eastern Bloc. Boris - the first person Mike always passed - lived in Plovdiv, and took the train to Varna. The second person he passed, Iohannis, lived in Constanta - and drove to Varna and back each day in his brand new Trabant - which was the envy of everyone he knew. Mike also owned a Trabant, but it was in disrepair. He intended to repair it for a long time - however he just didn't ever get round to it. It was one of the many projects that were never completed across the Communist world - however, it had much less scope than most projects. Take for instance the first attempt at Glasnost - the Soviet pledge to openness. What happened to this, you may ask? The person who tried to implement it was shot.

Mike eventually walked into the Varna Police Precinct, and walked over to the locker room. He'd open the door using the key - and head over to his locker. He'd then turn the knob on its' door to the specific locations - entering the correct numbers in. 32. -CLICK.- 16. -CLICK.- 20. -CLICK.- His locker would now open up - and Mike would take the white shirt out. He'd only be wearing a white tank top currently to withstand the morning heat - which clocked in at around 25C - and for this, would get changed at work. He'd put on the shirt, and button it up - before putting his Inspector slides on - which affixed to the top of Mike's broad shoulders. Mike would then put on his black necktie - tying it up, before tightening it so it looked crisp and formal - before putting on his pin badge - that depicted the scales of law and justice, topped with the Communist emblem - with an ornate, red-washed background. Mike would then sit down behind the reception desk on the office chair, and would open up the shutters. There'd be a line of people lined up at the reception. Mike was still tired - however he'd deal with the people anyway.
Mike asked, with a tired yet inquisitive tone:
"Reason of visit?"
The anonymous person replied:
"I'd like to make a report."
Mike then replied, his eyes perking up;
"Okay... Can I get a name?"
The person then replied, with a puzzled face:
"Ehh... Vla-Vladimir... ehh... Communistreign30?"
Mike would then raise his voice and retort, angry:
"There is a number in the name? Eat shit and get the fuck out of my police station."
Mike would then process the rest of the people - who were there for a genuine reason.

At 5PM, Mike would receive a message on the police-issue pager. It was from his boss. He was asked to go to his office after processing the next person. Mike looked at his pager quickly, and replied with one single word.

"Affirmative."

Mike looked up - and had nobody left at his office. Consequently, he closed the shutters, and put his pager in his pocket. He'd then hurriedly walk over to the office of his boss - that stood at the back of the building. He'd head inside the office once called in - and would go to sit down, before he was interrupted by his boss.
His boss then said, with a confident, baritone voice:
"Don't sit down, Inspector Novikov. I've got work for you."
Mike replied, puzzled:
"Work?"
His boss then replied:
"Look, Inspector. In Leningrad, there's a growing rate of dissidence. I need people up there - the Premier has ordered it himself."
The boss would pour them both a shot of vodka, before saying rather brashly:
"You know, Novikov. You're a special boy. For someone who's just 18, you've risen the ranks quickly. This is your shot at riches. Leningrad awaits."
Mike said to his boss, with a confused voice and the face of someone deep in thought:
"Well, what's in it for me?"
His boss would then say, quickly:
"Twenty thousand Leva."
Mike would be taken aback. This sum of money was the average yearly salary of a Bulgarian person - tenfold. He had friends here in Varna, for sure - but this amount of money could get him out of Bulgaria scot-free. He looked the boss dead in the eye, and said - after a couple of seconds of choking up, not knowing what to do:
"I'll take you up on that offer."
The boss replied, smiling:
"Good, good. You will fly out from Sofia at 9AM tomorrow to Leningrad. I'm going to hand the money to you now."
The boss would then slide a money clip with 20,000 Leva enclosed over to Mike. Mike would quickly catch it - and put it in his pocket. The boss would then say
"Good luck. Dismissed."

Mike would then walk out of the police precinct of his after stowing his stuff back in his locker. He'd not bother with the tram at this time - it'd be much too busy. Instead, he'd walk the streets of Varna. At this time in the day, a yellow pall would have descended over the city. The mercury had now hit 40C, and people would be flooding out of their factories and offices. Mike would be walking wearily down the street - with his head pointed low. To Mike, there wasn't any sound in the streets apart from the sound of his feet - as his mind fixed on the dichotomy that had now generated before him. Leningrad, and 20,000. There was a world of opportunity in Leningrad with money - if one purchased a travel permit, then one could easily go from Pulkovo Airport, to Rome, in Italy. That could be the means of escape for Mike - Leningrad. However, it wasn't easy for Mike to leave his life behind. He had friends in Varna that he'd have to leave behind in order to write his new story. To experience his new reality.

Mike would eventually make it to his small bungalow that was 2 streets from the beach. He'd go into the lounge - that was decorated in the typical 70s way - with beige wallpaper donning a floral motif, a wood floor with a blue Persian rug. As far as furniture was concerned, there was a couch, a coffee table, a TV console, and a box TV. Mike would have switched the TV on as he walked into the kitchen that was adjacent to the lounge in an open-plan fashion - and would set up his Самовар (Samovar - Russian tea machine) - filling the middle with wood, and setting the wood alight. He'd then make the other preparations to the Samovar, before letting it boil. He'd then turn on the tap attached to the Samovar - and pour some tea into a teapot. He'd then sit on the couch, and pour himself some tea. As he watched the news, he'd drink up - losing himself in the TV. Trying to forget the scope of his decisions.