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Sie werden das Haus anzünden. Wir werden verbrennen. Wenn wir hinauslaufen, werden sie uns erschlagen. Er sah die Fackeln vor den Fensterläden aufblitzen, er hörte den Radau, den die Menschen draußen machten, sie sangen, schrien und skandierten. Das war ein Trauerzug. Durch die Straßen bewegte sich der größte Trauerzug, den das Städtchen Vila dos Comeosje gesehen hatte, und der seltsamste: ein Trauerzug, in dem niemand trauerte.
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Gornjogradska Kratka ulica obilovala je mnogim galerijama, luksuznim za najbolje kupce te nešto običnijim za nadirući srednji stalež. Posebno se isticala Plava galerija na dva kata u vlasništvu galerista Pihlera, otmjena gospodina u godinama. Pihler je bio poznati i priznati estet, njegova je galerijska ponuda sadržavala najkvalitetnije umjetničke izričaje, kako iz proteklih desetljeća tako i ona recentna.
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I loved that pig. Unlike all the other pigs that I’ve seen until and since then, Lucky had that something – personality. In the late, late fall of 1975, Misho and I were chopping pumpkins, and Lucky watched us from his pigsty, grunting with satisfaction.
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Nature is my natural enemy. Ever since I’ve known of myself, that’s the way it’s been and that’s the way it’s going to be. I don’t know how to say it differently or more eloquently without getting away from the truth so I won’t even try. Nature or wilderness, which is by far and long a more precise term for the inaccessible and truly wild spaces, makes a man ridiculous and helpless. Not every man, of course, but people like myself have no business going there without the company of experienced guides armed to their teeth.
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I need no sorrow getting its grip on me, not now, I think, and it’s already too late. I fall into the trap of my own mind, which recognizes the favorable conditions and materializes on its own into a demon that has no problem finding the shortest path to my heart and then opens the first few wounds with its sharp claws.
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On New Year’s Eve, we are standing impatiently in a long queue, waiting to pay for our food. We are in Croatia. Restaurants are not likely to be open tonight, unless booked for a private party. And this is not what we want.
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Back home, I used to have loads of time to think. Either to think things through before acting on them, or just to sit around and think about nothing in particular. Apart from when people were forced to take sides in the war, the Balkans is an ideal place to avoid any kind of decision-making. We go on studying for ten years because we can’t make up our minds what we want to be when we grow up. We take time with our coffees, our lovers and our progress. I never realized how spoilt I was spending hours with my girlfriends going through emotional and spiritual inadequacies of our lives.
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I am forty-five years old and I can safely say I’ve never had a good night’s sleep outside of a train. I am eight, nine... fourteen years old, it’s summer and I’m traveling to see my father. Even in my sleep, I’m counting crossties; all night. I say traveling, but actually I’m going back. My life is right where it should be right now, but the beginning is at the other end of a 3D movie that every morning starts rolling in front of my eyes as soon as I wake up in the bunk bed and peek through the pushed down window – ignoring my mom’s words that echo the warning on the glass: DO NOT LEAN OUT OF THE WINDOW. The beginning is with my desire to feel the world with my eyes, my cheeks, my eyelids; in that faraway spot that scares me at first, but then hypnotizes me; distant and unreachable. That spot where the tracks merge is perfect, there are no tragedies there, no crashes; the Tower of Babel is still standing, the languages are one and I can still understand myself speak.
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Dad planted the fir when I was nine, after it was done more or less successfully pretending to be our Christmas tree. Sure, it was a tree; just a puny one. The smallest Christmas tree in the world. Our next-door neighbors also had a potted tree. Their daughter was a friend of mine, so I remember it very well: she was always better than me in every possible way, including that one. If I could have picked my own Christmas gift – to put under a tree, mind you – it would have been her tree.
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This is one of those inimitable moments that always catch us by surprise and draw out of us more than we think we can give. Of course, it is always about the persons we are talking to, they inspire us with their uncalled-for presence and their freedom from the standard conventional limitations. Nothing but the stimulus.
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Sometimes I feel hopeless. I sit for hours on end and smoke one after another, the landscape slowly fades until it completely disappears and some different world appears before my eyes. Why have I chosen to live here? Would it be better somewhere else? Am I even capable of planning my life or do things just happen on their own? Am I the real owner of my own life?
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One of the things that make us different from the tourists is the fact that we never or only rarely eat at restaurants? This unsaid unease is a commonplace of a small island town. But our dear friends who are guests at our house are adamant and persistent, they are almost blackmailing us, they will most certainly get angry if we don’t let them take us to dinner to the fancy restaurant whose terrace borders on the beach.
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When I was leaving home, she says, my father told me what that small pocket on my jeans was for. Always keep a hundred kunas in it, so you can call a taxi and leave the place that’s causing you pain.
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In this photo, I remember it well, we were at daggers drawn. Your mother and I, we were seriously thinking about separating, I nonchalantly tell my little girls after we’ve taken out all those old albums with photos of our families. It is one of the last paper photographs, made before photo albums stopped making any sense and backed down before the ruthless aggressiveness of the screen.
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Superman was lying on the wrecked railroad and the tears welled up in my eyes; that’s how moved I was. I don’t otherwise cry and I can stand a beating and torture without even making a sound, but when it came to Davy Crockett and the Alamo, oh how did I weep. When they hung Jánošík by the balls and raised him up on a hook like a ham, I almost choked on tears. And now this superhuman love for the humans was somehow getting to me. Could I jump into a raging river to save an ant platoon floating a branch? Or, if not for the sake of the ants, which are, like, some crazy fanatics, fundamentalists capable of devouring a living, breathing lamb, would I do it for my neighbor, but the one that I don’t especially like?
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Lichen, a chaos of nature. A body of algae and fungi – a symbiosis covering the body found in the nearby woods. The police established that the death had been violent. Someone had covered a naked male body in lichen, all but his lips, slightly parted.
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The date say it’s autumn. It’s still muggy, and flies are flying around instead of leaves. He asks me to sit down. I’m scantily dressed. And that’s because of my energy flow and because you can sense that in passing. That’s what I believe in and I sit down.
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You meet them on benches in the shade, playing chess or cards. A metal radio screeching nearby and the news on Radio One. Later on they hook their plastic sacks, green and red, on their fingers and haul them around the street, waiting at crossings, feeding pigeons, such things. They seem lost although they step straight forward. It has something to do with the excess of time, it’s something about the excess of time and the days that slowly pass by.
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“C’mon, let’s go people, it’s the coppers,” she would shout sometimes, out of the blue, but for the most part, Gracijela was saying things to herself on a loop and dragging her feet in shabby men’s shoes. The day was cut off by a sharp siren – an air raid. On that note, all the doors opened. People came out of lunch-infused kitchens and headed towards our street. With her hair combed, Mrs. Doma straightened her skirt and calmly locked her green wooden door. Jelka limped fast from her street, so they met at the corner and walked together. Old men, Schmatte and Owl, both awarded the People’s Liberation Movement medals for serving in the Second World War, tapped their canes across their rain-soaked courtyards.
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“Be careful what you wish for” – Zoran remembered the wisdom his father used to pass off as his own. He looked at the body next to him and felt his face contort in such a grimace of disgust that could permanently alter his features. His stomach, already empty, contracted several times. The urge to vomit was undeniable. He jumped from the bed and just made it to the bathroom, only to throw up some acidic slime.
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