Mitko
by Garth Greenwell
Miami University Press. 96 pages, $15.
THE RESTROOMS at Bulgaria’s National Palace of Culture had just one use—and it wasn’t to relieve oneself. So when the American teacher descended the stairs and was captured by a hushed voice, he knew full well what was going to happen. The young man was tall and thin with a “close-cropped military cut of hair so popular among young men … a hyper-masculine style” and he seemed a little bad-boy dangerous. He couldn’t speak English well and the American could only grasp a few words of Bulgarian, but through gestures and stumbling, they came to an agreement and retired to a stall.
Mitko was the man’s name, as the American learned, and he was basically homeless, sleeping on sofas belonging to his brat mi, in doorways, or in the beds of his clients. But even though the American teacher understood the situation clearly, he longed to have one night alone with this man that he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Remember when people wrote letters? Mitko has that kind of feel—like a very long letter penned by someone who needs to pour forth his heart to try to assuage the pain he’s feeling, or who wants to tell a close friend why he’s been so melancholy for so long. This book—not much longer than a lengthy epistle at 86 pages—seems to be set in modern times but has an early 20th-century feel about it, as if it were written by any one of the classic authors or poets. Indeed, author Garth Greenwell is also a poet himself, based on the mood evoked by this somewhat dark and very drawn-out novella.
The American—who is never specifically named—waffles between a mild disgust at himself for the romantic longing he feels for a hustler and the lust he knows he’ll experience when he’s near the Bulgarian. He is consumed, as are readers—but uneasiness quickly infiltrates both: as the story proceeds and Mitko resurfaces with an excuse of illness and hospitalization, astute readers who’ve managed to stay involved with this book will begin to fear for the American. By this time, however, they’ll wonder why this learned teacher—who admits to having sex with others—insists on repeatedly coming back to a user with little compassion and a large dose of greed.
And therein lies the problem with this beautifully written novel: it never seems to go much past the internal back-and-forth indecision of its narrator and begins to fall apart in a rather hasty way. Its otherwise passionate atmosphere loses its fervor because its sole character simply can’t let go of a relationship with a hustler who obviously has little feeling for him. Unfortunately, beautiful writing can’t rescue a book that’s gone on for too long, and the strange ending with its post-story-climax ruins what could have been a stellar, albeit tiny, novel.
