Reviewed by D. W. White

The most dangerous tool for a writer, the one most prone to overuse, to overindulgence, to overwhelming an otherwise strong story, is exposition. The bloodless relating of purportedly necessary information, of laying the groundwork and establishing the foundations, the straight ahead telling of what the author believes the writer needs to know—this is often the scourge of promising work. So much so that, in the modern day it is a notable and refreshing development when a book comes along that eschews unnecessary exposition and avoids pouring out all that the narration knows as quickly as possible. Among its many other qualities, Nataliya Deleva's Four Minutes, a sharp and honest debut, shows off in spades the confidence and conviction that obviates any need for holding the hand of the reader, guiding them carefully along. Instead, here, Deleva trusts her story and her audience in telling the poignant and unreserved story of life on the fringes of Eastern European society.

The book follows Leah, an orphan in near-present Bulgaria, and, for the most part, candid first-person narrator. From the opening pages, Deleva's heroine spares little thought or time for lengthy exposition, instead diving immediately into her story and history, in some small way mirroring on the page the bewilderment felt in her life. We learn that she was abandoned as an infant by her parents under circumstances, and as a result of motivations, to which she can but guess at intervals across her narration. She is left to be raised at the Home, ominously capitalized throughout and the source of unchecked childhood horrors, until her unceremonious ejection to the streets of Bulgaria upon turning eighteen. The story moves more or less linearly from her childhood to her adulthood—Leah continually laying bare the brutal realities of such an upbringing while infusing her account with moments of humanity and fine prose.

Structurally, Deleva helps her cause by breaking the book down into short chapters that function as vignettes, each dealing with a moment of Leah's life and/or an examination of another, similarly marginalized, character. In a few chapters, the narration moves to a close third, telling one-off stories of people who are navigating the same treacherous existence as our protagonist. This approach extends to the extra-textual—the tile, as the jacket copy notes, is taken from a social experiment (one of which Leah is aware, as well), which posits that people exchanging four minutes of eye contact will impress upon each other their respective humanity. The chapters that move from Leah's story to another character, then, are written to be read in four minutes, as an extension of the idea. It is an interesting device, one that fits within the ephemeral nature of the book as a whole.

Four Minutes is a work not for the faint of heart, and it is a credit to both author and translator that there is very little held back here. Where another writer perhaps would rely on exposition or its simple cousin, summary, to paint a more digestible and less honest picture, Leah and her creator instead move swiftly through the unnoticed streets of Bulgaria to do full and uncensored justice to this story. Indeed, the strength is in Deleva's narrative fearlessness, coupled with her structural decision-making and movement abilities; by setting a blistering pace between and within each chapter's vignetted scene and interweaving the daily and the tragic, the realities of life for those on the fringe of Bulgarian and Eastern European life come alive. When discussing the baby blanket her parents left her in at the Home—and the only tangible connection to them she has as an adult—we are given an especially effective example of this narrative pace and progression:

Maybe I won't forget, and my baby blanket—my legacy and proof of life—won't unravel. It'll remain undamaged and will keep me whole and self-sufficient. Like a mystical, magical cape, with the power to make me invisible, it'll protect me and keep me out of death's way. 

Tales of invisible cloaks have been around for ages. Millenia, when you really think about it. Plato writes about invisibility in the second book of the Republic, in the year 359-360 A.D. The ring of Gyges turns you invisible, without consequences. Being invisible makes you untouchable, it frees you from all constraints and morality. . . One day I will give this blanket to my daughter. Nowadays, capes are made of light-deflecting materials creating the illusion of invisibility. . . Even imaginary boyfriends come to life through phone apps designed to simulate relationships, so that you can avoid the prying questions of friends and relatives who wonder why you're still single in your thirties.

Deleva's willingness and capacity to move from philosophical aside and academic musing to searing memory and furtive hope for the future bring the reality of Leah's life and past to the page, showing with full-blooded efficiency the pervasive, all-consuming nature of her past and upbringing. This is what is gained by moving away from easy exposition, an account that breathes life and verisimilitude into an especially human story.

To aid her in both technical choice and narrative task, Deleva makes frequent use of the present tense, allowing the world and its details to come to her protagonist, rather than creating the need to fill in individual scenes. This approach, in addition to often making superfluous any heavy exposition, lends itself to the ephemeral, haunting qualities that both describe the narration and reflect the characters and their worlds. When Leah is describing the aftermath of Naya, her friend at the Home and, later, romantic partner, leaving her, Deleva showcases her best prose and unadorned, direct style:

I was terrified by my own alienation in that abandoned attic, of the space's desolate other half, the empty half of the wardrobe and the bed, the vanished half of my life. The emptiness felt like a black hole that sucked me in and took away my will to move on. I desperately wanted her to come back, to call, to send a letter, a laconic postcard featuring some kitsch seaside landscape. Anything.

This is the honesty, the forthright and sometimes brutal authenticity in the depictions of Leah's life and those of others like her that Deleva manages to achieve with her decision-making. By driving straight at the heart of the story, by casting off extended exposition or a wide-angled lens of narrative remove, she plunges both reader and protagonist into the immediate, the proximate, the intimate. Four Minutes, by the end, does justice to both subject matter and setting, creating an empathy referenced in title and secured by technique.