CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PAST

Lubricating the consumption of the heavenly sandwiches was a bottle of Domaine Boyar Platinum Reserve – Presidential Selection, one of Bulgaria’s finest white wines and winner of many international wine festival gold medals. Its ridiculously thick, dark green bottle, along with its award winning contents, were heavily chilled and a thick coating of condensation had formed in the humid summer air. Droplets were developing to such a size that gravity overcame surface tension and caused them to tumble down the outside, collecting others on the way, only to lose their magic in the soggy pool at the base of the bottle.

I was impressed that Angel had been able to even find a bottle since its production had ended in 2003 and the only place left that had it was the Primoretz, who knowing its rarity and following, they gouged out a premium of $150.00 a bottle. My natural resentment at being so blatantly defrauded usually prevented me from buying it, after all I can remember it on the shelves of wine stores with the outrageous price of $15.00 per bottle, a fortune compared to the average Bulgarian wine which sold for just $2.00.

My eyes widened in astonishment when Angel pulled another bottle out of the refrigerator. I winced at the mere thought of her ordering the delivery of two bottles from the Primoretz. I’m not stingy and I enjoy indulging, but in this case it was a matter of principle – I refused to be taken advantage of.

“I telephoned the Boyar brothers and asked them if they had any,” she said after noticing the contortions of my face, “They said they had very little left and that it was reserved for events at the winery. I explained to them who YOU were and what you have done for the economy and the people of Bulgaria, how Government Ministers come to your business meetings, how hundreds of people in Bulgaria had been lifted out of poverty through your action,” she said smugly.

I went back to wincing. It was vaguely true that I had helped Bulgaria in my own small, tiny way, after all I had created an export market now worth around $25 million dollars annually which in turn had created possibly 500 extra jobs, but there was no philanthropy involved.

It was an accidental by product of trying to make myself rich. It may be second nature to the great majority of rich people to see their money grabbing in terms of generous, laudable work, the trickle-down effect of their charitable gift to the world. I, however, am English and I come from a poor socialist family and to hear how my strenuous efforts at personal enrichment described in such high moralistic and exalted terms made me retch a little.

“So, they sent a driver around with two cases, 24 bottles!!” She exclaimed, obviously quite proud of herself.

“That’s impressive,” I said with genuine honestly and she beamed with self-accomplishment.

“They only charged $10.00 a bottle AND they sent this as a present from the people of Bulgaria,” she continued enthusiastically, “It’s the only one in the world!!” Her grin was now nearly splitting her face in two as she heaved to pick up a triple magnum, or more correctly a Jeroboam, of the precious liquid. Not for the first time in my life I pondered over the reality that life is significantly cheaper for rich people than it is for poor people.

“You truly are incredible, when you want something you sure know how to get it. When I was young,” I started explaining to an unusually attentive Angel, heaps of praise did wonders for her attention span.

“When I was young, my parents were very poor, but my father’s sister had married a rich farmer. They used to have us stay occasionally, me and my sister. I was sent out to the barn to get washing powder for the machine, I had a scoop and a plastic Tupperware. When I found the washing powder it was in a huge plastic bin, 25 kg of the stuff, so when I got home I asked my mother why our washing powder came in tiny little packets that we had to walk to the shop for every week and why Aunties was in a huge big plastic bin,” I glanced over at Angel, who was yawning widely, I was starting to lose her attention.

“This wine is amazing, it is truly worth the effort you put in to get us some,” I said as I took a sip. She beamed again and that glint in her eye told me her attention was renewed.

“My mother explained that it was because they were rich and we weren’t Which seemed so unfair to me at 7. She went on that because they were rich their washing powder was FREE, which made no sense to me. She told me that because they were rich and own a farm, they get to go to the agricultural supplies shop, but the Agro-merchant sells anything that could possibly ever be used on the farm and because they buy it in big sacks or bottles it’s cheap,” I glance poignantly from my cheaply priced wine to Angel to determine if more praise is needed to keep her with me on this conversation.

“I still didn’t get why it was free and told my mother that. So my mother said that because the farm pays for it, the business pays for it. Almost nothing they buy for the house, not even clothes, they pay for; the farm pays for everything.”

“So that’s why your washing powder is in Tupperware’s and your cleaning products in 5 liter commercial bottles?” she asked, understanding flashing across her face.

“Yep, and the business pays for it. In fact, the business pays the rent on this apartment and the electricity,” I said and disbelief clouded her face which I understood knowing that there were strict and significantly differing legislation in Bulgaria between residential and commercial properties; you cannot run a business from your home, you need a separate business address.

“Who own’s this apartment?” I asked the incredulous Angel.

“Kamburov,” she replied.

“And what is Kamburov?”

“He’s a f%&^$ troll,” she replied with 100% accuracy; I smiled.

“Apart from being a troll, he’s a business man. He registered the ground floor as retail and this floor which was his private apartment, as office premises. I rent two offices from him, the one down the road and this one; the business pays for both.

“So that’s why the living room is your office?” she asked

“Yes, and officially the villa in Laka is where I live,” I poured myself another glass of wine.

“And the cars and the electric and your cleaner?” she asked in a now melancholy tone.

“The company pays for that. I pay food, clothes and hotels, all of which get heavily discounted because I’m rich.”

“THAT is disgusting,” she stated and her anger took me by surprise. “My mother had to get three busses to work every morning and then home on the evening SIX days a week to earn a miserable $300 dollars a month!” She’s angry, and rightfully so.

“I know, it’s awful,” I’m shaking my head at how economically messed up the world is and how strange it is to have been on both sides of the spectrum.

“AND my father works seven days a week at his garage to earn $400 dollars a month and WE have to pay for everything and pay full price!” She was in an indignant fury; everyone accepts that rich people are rich but few realize how cheap life is for rich people.

“Yes, it’s disgusting, but it’s the way the world works,” I stated factually as the realist that I am. “But I’ve never seen YOU refuse your $2,000 dollars a month salary and insist on only getting $300 like your mother,” I said playfully.

“That’s not the same,” she rolled her eyes in indignation.

“And I don’t see you forgoing all the designer clothes and buying the cheap fakes that look identical from a distance.”

“YOU buy me those!” she interrupts.

“YES, with the money that I don’t spend on the things normal people are forced to spend their money on. Would you feel better if I take a moral stand and pay the electric bill?” Her eyes glared and it was obvious that she did not like the direction this conversation was going. The role of victim she enjoyed when we were talking about the immorality of the rich, but it suddenly looked like her designer shopping trips may be at risk.

“I DESERVE those things,” came flying out of her mouth and I almost sprayed her with the wine in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow without choking.

“How in hell do you DESERVE those things?”

“Because I’m your girlfriend,” she exclaimed as if that settled the debate. I was entirely lost for words, genuinely speechless. I was used to discussing things with people whose sentences did not directly contradict each other. However, this girl that I was in love with, believed the rich were scum because of the benefits they get in life for being rich BUT that it was also her right to be given great privilege and wealth in return for doing an increasingly bad job at work while simultaneously believing she should receive SYMPATHY for being part of a family that had been oppressed by an unjust world of the rich. Angel was not coming to terms with her new reality, she simply believed that she was entitled to BOTH realities.