The Last Bulgarian Anarchist

The last Bulgarian anarchist lives in a quiet street around the corner from me. His name is Gyorgy; we used to say it “Gee-yor-gee” until he told us, “It’s George”.
He has many of the physical attributes of the typical anarchist: his head, for example, appears too large for his body, which is squat and strong-looking; he has a mane of dark hair and his face is concealed by a thick, black beard that bleeds from his cheekbones and spreads down his throat and deep into his shirtfront.
His large head gives the impression of great solidity, as if it had been hewn from marble, and it seems to have a life of its own, an indepenent existence, like the severed heads you see in terrorist videos.
One of his eyes is fixed, and stares blindly to the side. It’s a slight deformity, disconcerting if you don’t know him well; you can never be sure which eye you should look at when you speak to him.
He dresses in coarse shirts, jeans and workman’s boots, and he speaks with a thick Balkan accent.
Anarchists no longer throw bombs or plot the assassination of prime ministers whose names have no vowels when you write them down.
But I have seen George leading his daughter through the streets, gently, the girl’s small hand clasped in his, her Razor scooter slung over his shoulder like a Kalashnikov.