CONTENTS

Ivan Tobic When zarkyong goam yokLamija Begagic God, jazz and something else or simply EnaBojan Andjelkovic A glass in the airAdisa Basic How to survive hitch-hikingGoran Bogunovic Traces of a burglaryIvan Zrinusic We're looking for a manGoran Bogunovic Hair-cut and shaveAleksandar Paunovic DepartureVladimir Protic Banana RepublicAsmir Kujovic The perfume of paranoiaNihad Hasanovic The plateauBoris Staresina ChronicleDjordje Tomic Pinocchio's first sexual experienceZoran Crnomarkovic NYCJelena Markovic Cashmere for eternityDarko Tusevljakovic One day of freedomGoran Bogunovic The bear and the nightingaleJelena Svilar Peaceful coexistence and good neighbourly relationsElvir Bajraktarevic A scene for photographersStevo Djuraskovic I've come to give myself upZdravko Vukovic Granny I's pianoBoris Fabian European championStevo Djuraskovic The crossLamija Begagic The apple treeIvica Djikic The tears of Katarina VidovicAmir Kamber Amir Kamber, organ and piano tunerEmir Dzambegovic Ma(j)daMelina Kameric Three female and one group storySmiljana Djordjevic The olive-wood bedMikica Ilic The perfect labyrinth

Ivan TobicWHEN ZARKYONG GOAM YOK

An sarsem longmal gone, someonce permonint yel. Pilate chas, me gramp.Wiv a greckle Sesan nisting, but corn my my high. Than, smidge on hewewring cacacalled, so namn yeah! Bebo to rewen, geb om slingly Wostanggoen. Reclipe leev, hey bolok!Yon hant jicking, whire crapling ffar? On thinny fargone somekin by linby.Wostang comin me gramp, oh yeah! Prelisting fibly. Wostang hoppit afeferrit. Tha feferrit com ally feferrits. Tha feferrit nad Wostang. Terras tetlegeb pelling speyd. Plunging in signs – believing them. Tha fefrerrit hantagen speyd, so what! Sins fefferits have dapans, so geb kelling and roring.Gebs Wostang and gebs cabbinge, so in farwelled to billow:’Whinden geb than Lapeter?’ shpred Wostang.’Onder wherin ya geb, an geb ya fulmuch faring?’ ashpred Lihuzhrezh.’Whin hingling geb o, lippy?’ shpred Wostang alto.’Hat ya no ye sorsy, fargone ne, geb mingy, eh willye nonso Wostang?’’Tha feferrit geb in bunding, in woodling, in somely n sty dar.’Wostang un Lihuzhrezh pilled, tha feferrit ga an upron a downron. Wostangfindred tha feferrit. You have to scrabble through a heap of worthless andunnecessary things – to get to that little thing you are looking for. Thafeferrit poed clows by Lihuzhrezh, mebe een ya geb din? An febbly, pringally,fa crillered dling dlong narrit.Thin dase geb gelling, whal feferrit las shreek to geb mmy. Whattle dancy,tha mingder geb grabt tha feferrit to thoon in abling pringly. Yat nimbry gebrorsting bry. Breeling ot crissly, Wostang gribbed tha feferrit. Oh prittlyfeferrit.Wostang geb tha feferrit te Lihuzhrezh. But! What exactly are you lookingfor…

Lamija BegagicGOD, JAZZ AND SOMETHING ELSE OR SIMPLY ENA

He considered the hyperintelligence they credited him with a fault. Hedespised that prefix hyper. His name was Vanja.He drove only down the southern coast road. A burgundy Golf, nineteeneighty-eight, turbo diesel. He’d been through all sorts with it.He lived jazz. Saxophone, trumpet, white teeth, rhythm without order …A flat in the suburbs, far from Somewhere, insufficiently close to Nowhere. Attwelve minutes to midnight he would sit down in the left-hand corner of hisroom and pray. He knew the gods of Olympus by heart, better than Homer,better than Sophocles, all of them, from Zeus to Hermes. He knew theBuddha’s life as though he himself had been his life’s companion, he hadthe names of all the Dalai Llamas noted in special compartments of hismemory. He knew the Kur’an so well that any hafiz would have envied him.Divine emissaries had also reserved their place in the lucid regions of hismind’s storehouse. He could reconstruct the crucifixion of Christ in hundredsof volumes in minute detail.But his faith always remained on the other side of the wall …He did not want to know to whom he was praying, he did not wish for anymaterialisation of that infinity into which he sent his silent prayers as hewaited for midnight. His best friend’s little daughter had once asked himwhether you should address God with the informal or formal you.Vanja hadn’t laughed, as anyone else would have. He was taken aback bythe seven year-old’s question.He told the little girl only that God was not a man, and that one shouldn’taddress him with either form of you.She nodded her head, but that was obviously at odds with everything shehad learned at home about God and religion.And she didn’t understand it at all.She lived quite a long way from his suburb, and he liked to go on Fridays inhis Golf and bring her back to his place for the whole weekend.They got on strangely well, they talked about God and music, and he alwaysfelt closer to her than to any girl of his own age.That day was Friday too …His car had broken down, but he couldn’t be bothered to take it to thegarage.He lay down on the floor of his room looking at the fluorescent stars Ena hadstuck all over the room.He felt a strange unease everywhere within and outside himself.At twelve minutes to midnight the telephone rang …Damn …Only those who were quite unconcerned about their fate would dare tointerrupt Vanja’s ritual.The telephone rang lengthily, tediously and insistently …He answered not a bit warmly, sharply and brusquely, in response to thesweet little voice waiting for him at the other end of the wire.Ry Cooder. I think it was Ry Cooder … Just now, on the radio …It was Ena.The only creature who dared disturb his habits.He realised instantly how terribly he missed her.He recalled the way they used to talk for a long time, listen to jazz, he wouldplay his saxophone for her, late into the night, waking the neighbours …

She would fall asleep in his lap, and stay like that until morning, until dawn,until, woken by the church bells and the muezzin from the minaret, shewould be ready for a heap of questions again.Vanja’s Saturdays began considerably earlier than all the other days of theweek.He would be woken by Ena’s questions, he did not even manage to draghimself to the kitchen to make them both tea, before he had beenperplexed a hundred times as to how to give her all those answers.And she asked about everything: about faith, about God, about prayers,about cars, about motor fuel, about jazz, about saxophonists, about rhythm… About everything Vanja talked to her about, and he sometimes felt that heliked those things just because Ena brought them closer to him, although atfirst glance it might have seemed that he was bringing them close to her.But, Ena had that sensible mind of a child, she asked everything thatoccurred to her, she arranged things according to some unusual logic of herown with which Vanja would fall instantly in love.Things presented in Ena’s way and seen through her eyes were always dearerand closer to him.It was almost through her that he had come to love jazz, she asked him toput on that music for her, and she got him used to the sweet ritual of fallingasleep to jazz …When she exclaimed Ry Cooder excitedly at the other end of the line, herealised how much he missed her.He calmed her and said he would tune his radio to that station …It really was Ry …He closed his eyes and tapped his knees, catching the rhythm.Before the end of the song he had gone out and set off on foot to the otherend of town where his friend lived.His friend was worried when he saw Vanja at the front door at one o’clock inthe morning.’Everything’s fine, mate … Don’t worry,’ he said in a whisper, slipping pasthim with the intention of entering the flat.His friend frowned, Vanja knew at once that he hadn’t come at a particularlygood time.Mind you, one in the morning had never seemed a civil time …He darted through the living room, without taking any notice of the nightgames his friend and his wife were playing, straight to the bedroom andtenderly, so as not to wake her, picked up the little creature, together withthe blanket in which she had wrapped herself.’We’ll be back on Sunday … ’, he said and set off for the door. ’One morething, I nearly forgot, chuck me the keys of your car…’His friend didn’t dare ask anything, he just picked up the keys from thedresser and threw them to him.Vanja unlocked the car and settled Ena on the back seat.He put on the radio, that station was still playing jazz …He drove through the deserted streets singing softly, and in her sleep thelittle angel dreamed up new questions.Life could begin again…

Bojan AndjelkovicA GLASS IN THE AIR

When as a child I asked my father whether God existed, he thought for a bitand then said briefly and irrevocably – no. And I still hate him for that, tothis very day. I am convinced that had the answer been different, my lifewould not be what it is today – pathetically absurd.I doubt that I would have fared much better even with that different answer(I’m one of life’s incurable fools, you know), but why deprive a life at thevery outset of that divine lie, that possibility of absolute distance, thatvertical dimension that makes all things and phenomena more solid andconcrete, and enables them to take their place within a perfect andunchangeable hierarchy?That was why I didn’t think much when my little Eli asked me the samequestion. Oh, yes, of course God exists. And so that there should be nodoubt, I decided to take her to Him straight away. We turned off thetelevision, left Mummy a note and – set off.It was chilly in Saint Mark’s church, as always. I did up Eli’s little coat, tookher by the hand and led her to an icon of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Ipointed to the little boy and told Eli that was God. Then we stood piously fora moment, and then Eli said that she liked the boy and asked why theauntie was sad. Then I took her to an icon of Christ on the cross, and toldher that was the same little God, only he had grown older, and that theauntie was sad because she knew that was how her son would end up. Therefollowed a salvo of Eli’s standard questions, which are always about the lastanswer she has been given, and usually begin what, why, where, who, whenand how. Who was his daddy? Why didn’t his daddy save him? Why didn’t hesave himself? Why are we all guilty? What’s sin? How will he come again?When will that be?Eli is quite a bright child, but she still doesn’t know that not every why has itsbecause. She’s my little Eli and I forgive her. And it would have gone on likethat until Christ’s second coming, had not Marika suddenly appeared in thechurch.Marika was wearing a tight red top with a deep decolleté, a short black fakefur coat (Marika is very fond of animals, you know), a green hyper-mini skirt,and long black suede boots. More for a rave than church, but – that’s Marikafor you. She looked even more obscene when you knew that Marika never,but never, wore panties. Not even with a fur coat. She came in slowly, andstood so absolutely devoutly, that I wondered for a moment whether I hadmistaken her for someone else. But the old priest would not be taken in. Heapproached her and asked her to leave because she was inappropriatelydressed. For a little while longer Marika acted the devout believer, but thenshe lost it:’This is God’s church, not yours, you old wanker!’ thus shouted Marika sothat the walls rang out. ’It’s not Him, but you, you have a problem with mythighs! This is a house of prayer, and you are making it a den of thieves!Oh, there shall not be left here one stone upon another, I’m telling you! Goddoesn’t need your hypocrisy, you stupid pharisee! What is it, why are yougaping like an ass! You ass! You’re not thinking of driving me out, are you?You’re not thinking of driving me out of here, you shit!’At that point the priest lost his cool as well and gave Marika such a slap thatthe walls rang out again. Eli, who had been watching the whole thing withcuriosity, now grimaced, putting her hand to her mouth, which was supposed

to mean roughly: heavens what are these people doing! They’re mad!Marika, as you will have noticed, did not have much respect for priests. But apriest who slapped people, that was something else. She turned and lefttheatrically, not omitting at the exit to lift up her skirt and show the priesther lovely bum. Any further catechism seemed pointless after all of this. Iproposed to Eli that we go home.Today Marika told me the following story: Yesterday I’m going to a party. Onthe way I call in to St Marks, no reason, to kill some time. And guess whathappens to me in the church? A priest lays into me! Hey, a priest! Can youbelieve it? The old pervert! There’s no peace even in a church any more …I didn’t say anything, and consoled myself with the thought that in every liethere’s a grain of truth.We were sitting opposite each other, Marika and I, and I looked intoMarika’s eyes for a long, long time. I wanted to preserve that look. I wouldbe lying if I told you that it reminded me of the sad look from the fresco. Ormaybe it did, but I wouldn’t dare say so, because that’s a literary cliché nosane person believes any more. In any case, her look was sad, you canbelieve that; it expressed the passing of things which are slowly becoming astransparent as the crystal glass which Marika’s hand was slowly taking toMarika’s lips, and which was just, hey, flying towards the next table … andthen stopped in the air, quite improbably.And Eli told me this morning that she was very doubtful that God existed. What about man? What aboutman? Tell me about man. That’s what she said.

Adisa BasicHOW TO SURVIVE HITCH-HIKING

’She wasn’t mad. It was absurd of them to shove her into a madhouse. Herfolks. Hey, you know what idiots they were!’I steer clear of people who believe they’ve been put away in mentalhospitals unjustly. In films people like that are usually extreme lunatics. (Ihave a plan: if they ever send me to a madhouse, I’ll confess that I AM madand calmly wait for them to let me out, pretending to take the tablets.)Jelenko didn’t look to me like a person one ought to believe. (Cynics wouldsay how could you believe someone with a name like that.) His face was madefor wanted posters. He was thin, with long hair. He had the most callousedhands I had ever seen. I was scared witless, but still I was sitting in his carwhich I had got into of my own accord. ’It’s lucky I came along,’ he said. Iwasn’t entirely convinced, but I nodded affirmatively.There simply hadn’t been another bus. ’The miners are blocking the roadagain.’ ’The drivers are on strike because their hot meal has been stopped.’’Women are marching on the motorway for their rights.’ In an effort toovercome my boredom and despair, I had tried to explain to myself what Iwas doing sitting all night outside a closed motel waiting for a bus whichwasn’t coming.They said it would come in an hour or two, maybe three. I could get somerefreshments in the motel opposite, they had good brandy – the driverassured me when he made me get off because his vehicle was really quiteunacceptably crowded. I asked naively how come they hadn’t noticed it wascrowded four hundred kilometres earlier, when we set off and when I hadbought my ticket. They told me not to worry, that his colleague would bealong in an hour or so. Since the vehicle was full of smuggled dried meat andcigarettes, the other passengers asked me politely: ’Come on, get off, so thecustoms man doesn’t give us a hard time. It’s no big deal for you if you arrive nowor in a couple of hours. But our meat will start stinking.’It was six in the morning when an ancient Mercedes stopped at the border. Itwas painted all over (!). The driver seemed somehow familiar. (Hadn’t heplayed Jack the Ripper somewhere? I tried to remember.) Since this was alsothe only car that had appeared in the last three hundred and thirty fiveminutes, my thumb had leapt into the air, quite independently of my frozenbrain. I don’t hitchhike. NEVER. Not even at the coast. Not even betweenPloce and Makarska. Especially not in the dark!He stopped. I threw my bags in and got in. Inside (compared to thewindswept space between the long shut motel and the border post) it wasdivinely warm.Some German punker was screaming from the speaker about how he hadaccidentally blown up his girl-friend the night before. ’The bus fucked meup.’ My choice of vocabulary surprised even me. But the usual euphemismsdidn’t seem appropriate at that time.’It’s lucky I came along,’ he said cheerily.Only a former drug addict could be as thin as this. His long hair, if hewashed it, would probably be blonde. He noticed I was staring at him so Ilooked away.At a speed of a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour I was distancingmyself from my former life. From the miserable editorial office, the wearyphotographers, the conceited reporters. And the editor, who had been goingto get a divorce for seven years now. Because I was that other half of his soul

which was wandering the world through some game of the gods. Because his wifetreated him like a child. Because our relationship wasn’t mere sex.There was a large wooden cross, a picture, hanging from the rear-viewmirror, a picture of the Virgin in the form of self-adhesive little pictures fromThe World of Animals and some sort of pseudo-African souvenir which didn’tlook like anything in particular. Feathers stuck to the roof made the décorlook somewhat eerie.He didn’t seem to notice my paranoia. Jelenko chattered on about the househe was building near Sibenik. He had taken some things down there fromFrankfurt, and now he was going back with an empty car. His holiday hadflashed by, he had to be at work on Monday. When he was on his way to thecoast, near Knin, he had picked up another woman who had missed her bus.He preferred driving like that, he didn’t feel sleepy when he had someone totalk to.What kind of headline would my colleagues from the death notices give tomy end? Inspirational: Led by her thumb to a place of no return; Raped and/orburned; The police shrug their shoulders. Or routine: Deadly hitchhike?He was still talking. I knew, he was trying to be nice. He was waiting for myattention to lapse. I must not fall asleep, I repeated my new mantra. I mustnot fall asleep. I must not shut my eyes, which were stinging. Or perhaps Icould, just for a second. I’d listen carefully and open my eyes if I heard himmove.I had just taken my first sip of pinacolada on the beach and begun ogling atanned Italian when the car stopped. Routine control. The Slovene police.They leaned us with our things against some kind of X-ray machine. While aGerman Shepherd sniffed me thoroughly in search of drugs, Jelenkowhispered calmly to me: ’I’m not carrying anything, how about you?’Then I caught on: God, what an idiot! Forget murder, forget rape, he’dplanted drugs in MY things. I heard my jaws knocking together in dramaticcrescendos. Was this the end of my career, my youth, my life? Would mymother read in a day or two that ’under a cheese pie, in her rucksack, theyhad found a kilogram of heroin!’ (Or at least grass)?The three 12-packs of cigarettes I was smuggling for my own use and aspresents now seemed utterly innocent and my efforts to repack them inbiscuit packets comical. I had an irresistible urge to pee. It seemed we’dbeen standing there for years.After seventeen minutes of searching, they gave us back our passports andwished us a safe journey. I tried hard not to cry with relief.’We did well, they didn’t bother us for long.’I hadn’t the strength to answer him even for the sake of conversation.’They sometimes give me a hard time because of the knife, but this timethey didn’t even look at it. They’re probably only looking for drugs andexplosives.’’The knife?’ I asked inquisitively.’Yeah, I’ve got a hunting knife, nothing special, it just looks evil (he joked)so they always ask me about it.’’Of course, a person has to have a knife in a car for practical reasons,’ I said.I clasped my little Swiss army knife in my pocket. In the worst case scenario,I could always defend myself with my nail-file, scissors, my 4-centimetreknife, miniature pincers or a tooth-pick…For a while we drove without speaking. We listened to ’his favourite CD’. Ididn’t dare object to the psychodelic paroxysms of passion into which thevocalisation sometimes fell. Exhausted by getting so cold, by my fear andthe music, I drifted off to sleep again.

The aroma of coffee (like in some advertisement) woke me many hourslater. It was day. We’d stopped in front of one of the cafés one calls into touse the toilet. On top of the glove-box (why ever is the glove-box in a carcalled that? I don’t know a soul who keeps gloves in it. Cassettes, condoms,J-cloth – yes, but not gloves. I don’t even know many people who use theword glove-box), there was a plastic cup of coffee for me and beside it, on apaper napkin – a cherry pie. I turned to Jelenko. He had wrapped his armsround the steering wheel, rested his head on his shoulder and he waswatching me. He said he’d been sitting there for some time waiting for me towake up. The woman in me was genuinely touched.I polished off the coffee and pie in five minutes (very unladylike) and wedrove on. I was pretty sure by now that he had no intention of killing me. Irelaxed. Conversation with him was surprisingly pleasant.He told me how he had kicked his habit. He’d never used a needle (he hadhaemophobia so it was impractical to faint every time he stuck himself), onlypills. Then he began working as a blacksmith – he shoed horses, and theysense when you’re not OK. That helped him. He opted for the horses.His ex-girl-friend’s parents forbade her to see him and ’until the crisispassed’, they put her away in a psychiatric clinic, which completely did for her.Of course, ’she wasn’t mad,’ he repeated …And he went on telling me about his father’s death. His childhood with his’gastarbeiter parents’. His love of the sea.I started telling him (surprising myself) about my life. I told a perfectstranger about the relationship that had been devouring me like a tapewormfor years. I told him about escaping from further humiliation. About mydecision to stop writing for the paper. And stop reading it. To start again.Towards evening we arrived in Frankfurt. We stopped at my friends’ house,he took my things out of the car. He went away before they came down tofetch me. He left me his number, asked me to get in touch and to be sureto come to Sibenik next summer.I said I would, but I knew I was lying. My middle-class attitude would prevail.As soon as I forgot how sweet and interesting he was, I wouldn’t want to seesomeone like that again.

***A whole eternity had passed since my first and last hitch-hike. When I got toFrankfurt, I told my friends how ’the bus had let me down’ and I had ’got alift from a really great guy’ and … that was all. I mislaid the number he gaveme, and somehow in the summer Sibenik was never on my way anywhere. Ithad been months since I gave Jelenko a second’s thought. Until thismorning.I was sitting at the computer, editing the latest edition of the paper. After aprolonged creative crisis (as it said in his letter of resignation), the formereditor had left his job and joined the diplomatic service. He regularly sent uspostcards from his summer holidays, signed by him and his wife, withdrawings by their daughter. As I was endeavouring to keep cool with acombined method of iced lemonade – fan – draught, my attention wascaught by an apparently impersonal little piece from some freelancejournalist. Thirty-nine year-old J.K., it said, was found murdered yesterday nearKarlovac. The police suspect that the motive was theft, and that the murderer wasan unknown hitchhiker whom the unfortunate J.K. picked up in his Mercedes,registration number F-BR-107.I leant back in my armchair, disagreeably moist with sweat, and closed my eyes for a moment, thinking up aheadline.

Goran BogunovicTRACES OF A BURGLARY

Boris left the house and glanced at the sky. It was a glorious day. He couldalmost smell the conifers and hear the cicadas already. He threw his bag intothe car and for the last time made sure that all the windows and doors wereclosed. Everything was fine, he told himself. Then he turned on the ignitionand looked round one last time. The street was deserted.At the beginning of his journey he always listened to the radio. He haddecided to go by the longer route so as to pass through the centre of Zagrebonce more and he drove slowly, singing to himself and enjoying hissurroundings. Before he had finished the second song, the car stopped, ofits own accord. He could not start it. He could not understand what hadhappened – the tank was full of petrol, the battery was fine, the car wasalmost new. He opened the bonnet and could not see anything wrong. Hewaited for exactly fifteen minutes before trying the ignition again. Nothing. Itwas getting hot in the car. Opening the windows did not help much. Therewas no point in calling his friends. It was Sunday, late July, no one was intown. For the last several days he had been the only person in his street. Hepromised himself that he would not get upset. There were worse things.Everything would be all right, he muttered. He pushed the car off the roadand set off home.When he arrived, the street was no longer deserted. There was a yellowmini-van in front of his house. The front-door was wide open. Two youngmen came out carrying Boris’s television set with its 75-centimetre screen.The one in front was tall and unshaven. Boris was surprised that he was nothot in his brown leather jacket. The other was fat and wore a denim jacket.He did not recognise them. The television set with the fifty-one centimetrediagonal screen, the music-centre, video-recorder and dishwasher werealready loaded. Boris watched them. They took no notice of him. Then hesaid:’Good morning. What are you doing?’The lad in denim looked past him and replied: ’The guy’s moving house andwe’re giving him a hand.’’Moving house? I didn’t know … You see, I know him. I know him very welland I really had no idea that he was moving.’He’s moving,’ said denim.’Oh, he’s moving,’ said Boris.’He’s moving,’ confirmed the tall one.Boris glanced towards the door. From that distance there was no trace offorced entry. ’It’s convincing. I’m moving,’ he thought. Curiosity hadovercome his initial shock. They had known he was going away and thatthere wasn’t a single soul around. They had seen the car, but they didn’tknow who he was. He was amazed at their cool. Boris had never seen realthieves in action. He was not sure whether these were real professionals, butthey struck him as pretty plausible. He was surprised he did not feel anyresentment towards them. They were having problems with loading: the vandoors weren’t properly wedged and kept knocking against Boris’s television.The screen was the most expensive part, and it was easily damaged. Itoccurred to him that the television programmes had been very bad latelyand he had been watching less and less. He tried to spend as much time aspossible out of doors, reading. He would not miss it, he thought. He held thedoors for them and the lads put it in. That’s a really good set, thought Boris.

’Shall we get the washing machine now?’ asked the tall unshaven one.’Yeah,’ said the one in denim.’Okay,’ said Boris.He went up to the bathroom with them. The washing machine had alreadybeen unplugged. The hose had been detached from the tap and coiled up.He had never liked it in any case. It ruined his clothes. It had destroyed hisfavourite trousers. He had been meaning to buy a new one for ages. This willforce me to, he thought. They were barely able to lift it, it was an ancient,enormous machine, ’A monstrosity,’ thought Boris. He helped them to turnthe machine round so as to get it down the stairs more easily, after all heknew his house best. He was careful not to damage the walls, it was only sixmonths since they had last been painted. They were relieved when theyfinally got the monstrosity into the van. It had made them sweat, all three ofthem. They introduced themselves: the tall one was Mario, and the fatterone Kruno. Kruno was very red in the face. He was panting in a way thatmade Boris suspect that he had heart problems. He’d have to watch hisheart, Boris thought. Proper food, exercise. He suggested:’How about a beer, lads? I’m sure the owner wouldn’t object.’ They didn’tmind if they did. Boris went to get the beer. As he was looking for theopener, he noticed in the drawer his little Swiss army knife, which he hadforgotten to pack. It’s a good thing I came back, he thought. It was atreasured souvenir. He put it into his pocket. He had grown attached to thatlittle knife. Besides, it was the only thing he could cut his nails with. The beerwas very cold. He thought that Kruno ought really to avoid alcohol too. Hewent back into the living room. The lads were looking indifferently at thepictures. They sat down on the couch and opened the beer, drinking out ofthe bottle, of course. Boris kept opening and closing the knife in his pocket.It was beyond his control. ’One of these days I’ll cut off my finger,’ hethought.’Nice carpet,’ said Mario.’You think so?’’What’s it worth?’’The carpet? A lot,’ Boris replied honestly.’Really?’ Mario took a sip.’We’ll take that this time as well,’ said Kruno, smiling. ’He told us to. Theowner,’ he added.’That’s right,’ confirmed the unshaven one.Boris helped them roll up the thick Persian carpet and carry it to the van. Thevan was almost full. Boris concluded that the lads were not bad, he likedthem, but he could not condone their profession. Nevertheless, he had toadmit to himself that their company, even for such a short time, had been anew and most interesting experience for him. There were worse things. ’Afterall, who am I to judge them?’ he concluded finally and asked:’Don’t you want the microwave?’He warned them: it isn’t good to use a microwave. They’re bad for you, youknow. Take it if you want, but it’d be better not to.They glanced at each other and went back into the house. Boris stayedoutside. Someone had to keep an eye on the van full of valuable things. Hedidn’t care about them, but it would not have been nice if anything hadhappened to them after all that effort. They came back. Mario got into thedriving seat. There wasn’t any more room in the back, so Kruno put themicrowave on his lap. Boris opened his mouth to say again that food cookedin a microwave wasn’t good for you, but then said nothing. He saw them off.They said goodbye politely, they even waved to him. He remembered that

he had forgotten something. He shouted after them, ran and stopped them.The note he passed them through the window calmed their suspicions.’You’ve earned it. The owner would have given you something if he’d seenyou the way you worked.’They looked each other in the eye for a few moments, both smiling. Then,after a short pause, Kruno agreed to take the tip. They set off again. Hedropped the half-open knife and took his hand out of his pocket, wavinggoodbye to them. They must think I’m an idiot, thought Boris. What theythink is their business, he concluded. It couldn’t affect him one way or theother. They drove slowly, the van was full of expensive and breakablethings. Relieved of the greater part of his possessions, Boris felt lighter.Things, they were only things. He had stopped valuing things. The lads caredabout them far more than he did. In a way, it was only fair that they shouldget them. He felt a bit sorry for them – what did they want it all for? Theyweren’t remotely aware that someone else’s possessions could not makethem particularly happy. He glanced at his watch as he fiddled with the littleknife in his pocket. The tip of his index finger found itself between the bladeand the handle. He examined his finger. There was a wide gash on the tip,but no blood, and it didn’t hurt. Shame, he thought. They turned the cornerand Boris went back into the house. There was no trace of forced entry onthe lock from close to, either. ’What are traces of forced entry?’ wonderedBoris. The empty house seemed far larger. He sighed deeply. A drop ofblood spread over the parquet. He sat down on the bare floor of thecleaned-out room and crossed his legs, sucking the blood from the tip of hisforefinger, which had begun to throb. It would be good to do a littlemeditation, but he did not have time. He thought of the two nice thieves andfelt a bit sorry for them again. Then he stood up. He wished he could helpthem. The air in the house seemed fresher. Going into the kitchen, hewrapped his finger in a serviette and went back to the living room. Hisfootsteps echoed loudly off the bare walls. Everything looked completelydifferent. Better, he thought. He picked up the telephone receiver. Shame,he thought. They should not have gone back for the microwave. It wasn’thealthy. ’But, there you are,’ he was startled by the echo of his own voice.Greed is bad, and duty is duty. He glanced at his watch again. According toBoris’s calculation, the front tyres of the van must have been completely flatby now. ’What if they get away after all?’ went through his mind. They’d getaway, so what. He was completely calm. Perhaps he was even a little on theirside. He dialled 999.

Ivan ZrinusicWE’RE LOOKING FOR A MAN

The first time I saw Milan was when I was living on the seventh floor of thesouthernmost of three identical eight-storey apartment blocks. He hadmoved into the apartment opposite mine, belonging to a widow with a littledaughter, he didn’t have a job, his face was dark, he walked around insoldier’s trousers. That was roughly all I knew about him, and I didn’t eventry to discover anything more. It’s good to avoid contact with one’sneighbours – they are consistent in their concern to give you headaches ofone kind or another.The lift in the building was always dirty, not much dirtier than other lifts, tobe fair, but one day someone started leaving puddles of urine in it, whichstank to high heaven, and no sooner had the cleaner washed the floor thana new offering would appear. Cigarette packets, banana skins, plasticbottles, butts, snot on the walls – such things, normal occurrences in lifts,didn’t bother anyone particularly, but this phenomenon prompted manydiscussions. People presumably thought it was all right to leave rubbish, butpeeing was unacceptable. Besides, you always had to talk about something,politics, sport, music played too loudly, other people’s wives, children,husbands. And unimaginative as they were, everyone was convinced that itwas either Milan or I who was responsible. Once I met him in the hall.’Hey, ’he said, ’is it you who keeps peeing in that lift?’’No,’ I replied.’And do you go to church?’’No.’’And you’re sure you don’t pee in the lift?’’Aha.’He offered me his hand and told me his name.’And you don’t know who does?’’No.’He took out a cigarette, smudging it with his fingers and soon we reachedthe ground floor. I made straight for the door.I was coming home a few days later, and met him outside the front door. Inthe meantime I had been away so it turned out that he had both seen meoff and met me. We said good evening, or something, to each other, and heasked me whether I would come to his place for a drink. ’Why not?’ I said. Ihad plenty of time, if nothing else, and I already had a headache as it was.We waited for a while outside his door, until he found the right key. ’Fuck it,’he said, shaking the lock, ’she’s left the key in the lock again!’He rang the bell and the woman opened the door.’Branka, sod it, why the fuck don’t you take the key out?’ he said.’Hush, you’ll wake the child. I forgot to take it out, and you know I don’t likebeing alone. Where’ve you been all this time, anyway? And you?’ she lookedat me, ’you live across the way, don’t you?’’I’ve invited him in for a drink. Let’s go in,’ he said.We sat down on the couch, he and I, while she sat in an armchair. In themiddle of the room there was a little wooden table and on it a bottle ofcheap cognac that had just been started, one full and one empty ashtray, anewspaper open at the small ads and a remote control.It began to rain, I thought what a good thing I’d got home before it. Thewoman brought glasses and sat down again. She poured us each a tot, took

a cigarette and lit it.’Sorry about the mess,’ she said.’Doesn’t bother me,’ I said.’Just look at that,’ he said, ’just take a look, please … They get paid apacket to kick a ball and they can’t do even that properly. It’s enough todrive you up the wall…’’As though that would make you feel better,’ she said.’Sweetheart, if I lived like them, I’d get goals with my bum. When I waseighteen I used to run like crazy, some folk from the Second League sawme and if my knee hadn’t given out, I could have been strolling over thescreen myself.’There was a match from some foreign league on, outside it was rainingharder.’Do you play any sport?’ she asked me.’Not exactly,’ I replied.’Shame, you ought to, look at you … skin and bone. You ought to get somemuscle on you.’She poured us all another tot.’Hey, I met Zile today,’ he said, ’he’s wearing a tie and suit and twisting atoothpick in his mouth. And, imagine, the bugger asks me how I am. Andthen he even asks me why I’m angry. I almost thumped him…’’A lot of good that would have done you,’ she said.’Yeah, I know. But people like that are just waiting to swap their toothpick foryour balls … or your wife’s tits.’For a moment the guy looked like a great messiah of righteousness, butthen his expression changed: his eyes glinted and became dangerous, Ishifted my glass from my left to my right hand. Then he got up and went tothe kitchen. He came back with three beers.’When did the little one fall asleep?’ he asked.’Around ten,’ she replied.’She’s got school in the morning tomorrow, right?’’Aha.’’Done her homework?’’Yes. You could have asked her all that yourself, you know.’He looked at me.’You know,’ he said, ’she’s not my kid, but I love her as though she was.She’s very bright, she likes maths and when she grows up she wants to bean actress. I really dote on that child. Oh yes, she’s called Kristina.’’That’s a nice name,’ I said.’Yes, yes, she’s named after Branka’s sister, isn’t that right, Branka?’’Aha.’’Who’re you named after?’ he asked me.’I haven’t a clue, probably no one.’We sat for about ten minutes without saying anything, the woman went toempty the ashtrays. He started to speak when she came back.’I watched a porno film the other day …’’So THAT’s what you do when I’m not here?’ she said.’Come on … anyway, nothing happened.’’Nothing?’’Absolutely nothing.’’What’s supposed to happen, then?’’Well, you know. Films like that are supposed to get something going in aman, aren’t they? At least a hard-on, right?’’I suppose so.’

’Well, I didn’t get a hard-on.’’How do you explain that?’He lit a cigarette, and she poured the rest of the cognac into our glasses andput the bottle down on the floor.’You see,’ he said, blowing out the smoke, ’they don’t even know how tomake porno films these days. All the women look the same, round plasticboobs, blonde, bad tattooes … And the guys aren’t anything either, body-building apes with pony-tails and white teeth…’’You only say that because yours are yellow,’ she said.’Whose aren’t? Apart from those supermen?’’What do you think?’ she looked at me.’About teeth?’’Pornos.’’The new ones aren’t any good.’’There’s no eroticism in them,’ he said.’I guess not,’ she said.I finished my drink and said I’d better be going. They saw me to the door,said goodbye, I said goodbye as well. At home I got undressed and filledthe bath with hot water. I lay in it for a time, filled an ashtray with the ash ofcigarillos I had found on the table, thinking about Krleza1 and his fucked-upwife.When I got out of the bath, I wrapped myself in a towel and lay down on thebed. There was a bad porno film on TV. I started to get dressed and thensomeone rang the doorbell, it was one o’clock in the morning. I opened thedoor and saw two policemen. I tried to remember some unpaid fine orsummons to court, but then I realised that they probably wouldn’t havecome about that at this time of night.’Yes?’ I said.’We’re looking for a man,’ said the first one.’There’s been a fight on the floor below,’ said the second. Honestly, theylooked like two blue testes.’Yes,’ the first one went on, ’the man who was attacked said the person whodid it is Milan Vujic, from flat 72, do you know him?’’By sight.’’And did you see anything in connection with the attack?’’No.’’We talked to the woman Vujic lives with here, she said he just went out, halfan hour ago, and she hasn’t seen him since. She said she didn’t know thereason for the fight or where Vujic might be now. You can’t tell us anythingabout it either, can you?’’No.’They thanked me and went back to his apartment. The corridor filled withpeople milling about and commenting that normal people could no longer besafe from all kinds of idiots and that something like this was bound tohappen.The guy from the floor below was sitting on the stairs, his head bandagedand his hands bloody, while his wife stood to one side wailing as thoughshe’d been hurt as well. Branka was standing in front of her door, in hernight-dress, with a cigarette in her mouth, arms and legs crossed, lookingdrunkenly at the policeman who was asking her questions while hiscompanion told the people there was nothing to see and it would be best forthem to go back to bed. The lift door opened and two men in white coatsleapt out, one asked where the injured man was and the other cursed therain.

I went back to my apartment convinced that no one would ever discover who was behind the peeing in thelift.

Goran BogunovicHAIR CUT AND SHAVE

My nose itches. I scratch it by rubbing it on the bed. My hands are occupiedholding the pillow half folded over my head. Noise bothers me, I can’t get tosleep if I don’t protect my ears from every sound. I need to pee. I have toget up, blow my nose, rinse away the pollen inside and out, and empty mybladder. It’ll soon be time to go to work. And it’s not that I don’t feel like it.I smell gel on the sheet. The hairdresser (young, pretty, I’d screw her, Iwould, but only if it wouldn’t hurt her feelings, without obligation, withcomplete respect of her person, and if she offered herself) had asked me:’Would you like gel?’ I said: ’No’, she said: ’Just a little’ and I nodded, outof habit. At that moment it was already too late. The time from the momentI had roused myself from my doze, turned my head and realised that shehad bared the side of my head almost to the skin, had dragged on. Shewouldn’t stop – she had kept on snipping, a hair here, a hair there, and thedamage was done but now it didn’t matter. I could hardly wait to pay, gohome and hide my head under my pillow.

And she’s not bad. Pale face, young, blonde. Her fine lips, plump, round,combined with her exhausted expression, turn me on. Not much make-up.Overall tied tightly round her waist, her fine, narrow little waist. The onlything is she seems to have small tits, I’m not sure, you can’t really tellbecause of the overall. Shame. But then, tits aren’t the most importantthing. We didn’t talk. I often go there, usually we chat, but today I wassleepy and nothing occurred to me. I was the only customer. The other girlwho works there spent the whole time looking in the mirror. While she wasshaving my uneven sideburns, she leaned her hip on my arm. I imaginedwhat I would do to her…I would lift up the upper part of her overall, kiss her belly, slowly remove thelower part (with my teeth), lick her a bit. I would move the pomades,brushes and razors and sit her up by the washbasin. A good position. I wouldlock the door. For her sake, not mine. I wouldn’t care if we were caught. Onthe contrary. In the end nothing happened, apart from the fact that I got apolice cut. Troubles never come singly. My system’s down again today, and Ican’t manage without music. Things keep breaking down on me. After thepower went off, it didn’t come back. Now it’s crackling. Electric shock. It cameback from being mended ten days ago and now the same again. Things aregiving up on me. In yesterday’s programme a television preacher said that itwas good for a person to free himself of material things. You’re left alone.The artificial world you’ve created and into which you’ve sunk is destroyedand you are dependent only on yourself. He has a bleating voice. Youbecome a real man, he says. They also say if your nose itches you’re goingto get angry.

I rub my nose on the sheet, it’s moist, the pillow is over my head, round mykidneys I’m wrapped in a blanket, it’s pleasant, except that I need to peeand my nose is itching, but I try to think only of agreeable things. Whowould have thought that we’d have preachers appearing on our television?I’ve got another hour until the afternoon shift and I think about the factthat, since I’ve been working there, I’ve watched television less and less andthat I seem to have the opposite rhythm to my possessions. That goesparticularly for money – when they raised my pay, I became depressed. For

no reason. I had to buy something. So I bought a wooden holder for disks. Ihadn’t intended to buy a disk holder: I had no idea what I’d buy. A diskholder had definitely not occurred to me, my shelf is big enough, but Icouldn’t resist it when I saw it. Apart from that, plastic ones are cheaper thanwood. Now it doesn’t seem to be anything special. More pointless expense.

Do hairdressers have to lean their crotch on my arm as they cut my hair? Dothey do it with all their customers? Do they do it because they simply don’tconsider us sexual beings or is there something in it? A few months ago Icame in when that other girl was washing her hair. I hardly recognised her –her face seemed even thinner, her cheekbones stood out even further. Herwhole figure appeared smaller. She wrapped a towel round her head, like aturban, and began to cut my hair. I watched her surreptitiously in the mirror.She reminded me of someone. I remembered – she had the sameexpression as a Madonna I had been looking at a few days earlier in theMimara museum. She was just like one of those Madonnas, or even severalof them, real and false. She could have been a real one. Her breasts mayhave been too small, but an artist can easily fix that. I could have bumpedher up myself by a size and a half or two, somewhere between a thirty-fourand a thirty-six. All she needed for immortality was to come across someonewith a good eye. Nirvana was playing on the radio. ’Smells Like Teen Spirit’. Ihadn’t heard that for ages. How long was it since Kurt killed himself? Whatwas that first album called, the one I had before they got known? I simplycouldn’t remember. I glanced at the mirror, saw my frowning, thoughtful faceand her pale, un-made-up face of a tragic victim in a kitchen-sink drama.She leaned her warm thigh against my arm, again. What would I do to her? Iwould shave her. I would soap her, for sure …I turn onto my back, fold my pillow to raise my head and get to work: Iwould unbutton her overall. Pull down her panties. I would sit her up by thewashbasin, her back leaning against the mirror. The sound of her hairagainst the glass – like sifting sand through your fingers. I would take offher panties and open her legs. The hair is a little darker than on her head,she’s a real blonde. They are rare. She’s a little swollen. I take shavingcream and a razor. With long slow movements I rub the cream over hercrotch. It tickles, she wriggles. I press on her belly so that she can’t move.My forefinger is in her belly button. (Let there be a little body ring in herbelly button too).As I hold her, I play tenderly with the little ring, I pull it and turn it. I shaveher with a large razor. It is sharp, I take care not to cut her. She relaxes andparts her knees, pulling me towards her with her ankles. She rubs her anklestenderly against my back. I work slowly and carefully, until she is naked andclean. I rinse off the rest of the cream. I use the tips of my fingers toexamine the quality of the work – there isn’t the slightest remnant, not theleast scratch, everything is smooth. I examine the smoothness once more,with my tongue. Then I undo my trousers, take it out and without removingmy clothes slowly enter her. I stop a third of the way in. She is breathingheavily. I feel the pressure of her knees, she is pulling me towards her. Ienter further. She is quiet. I undo the top half of her overall. I caress herbreasts. They are full, heavy, size thirty-four, half-way to a thirty-six. Shemoans, swallows saliva, catches her breath, panting a little. She makes littlecircles with the back of her head against the glass of the mirror. Again thesound of sand between the fingers. I close my eyes and remember lastsummer. I go right in, maximising the amplitude of my movements. I lookinto her eyes. She looks through me, she doesn’t see me, then I speed up

and increase my movements, her eyes turn upwards, I see only their whites.Her teeth are chattering. I slow down, then I lose control of my movementsand drive into her as I climax. I stay inside her for a while. The glass in frontof me has misted up. As I withdraw, her face twitches.I move her to the washbasin, open her legs and turn on the taps. I washher, then I dry her with a large towel. She moves her rump while I rub her.She has goose pimples. Her nipples are elongated and hard. I kneel andpush my head into her smooth crotch. She lets out several short throatysounds, her nails press into my own, she scratches me, knocking overseveral jars and sprays with her legs. I hold her more firmly, spread her andplace a little bottle of brilliantine inside her, I push it almost to the end, thelittle bottle emits a familiar smell, it is slippery, I almost lose it in her. Isucceed in reaching the bottle, I continue, more strongly. I add two fingersbehind. Several powerful movements and she calms down. Her eyes areclosed for a few seconds. Then she opens them, smiles at me and pushesme away. She places her hand on my chest and sits me down. She kneelsand with her tongue removes the remnants of a little while ago, first fromthe tip, putting it in her mouth and sucking until it’s clean, then she wipes itwith her lips. I put my finger in her mouth and touch her nose, leaving amoist trace. As her head moves up and down, I stroke it, gently drawing itdown, I scratch her head, comb her hair, tracing the long darker and lighterlines with my nails. I put her hair behind her ears, to see her better. I try toretrieve the sound of sifting sand. I notice that she has slightly floppy ears.Just then I climax, taking far longer than the first time. I stretch my legs,pass the tips of my fingers over her cheeks, right up to her ears. She isquiet and accepts everything. I open her mouth with my finger and give hera sticky moustache. We straighten our clothes, and button ourselves up. Sheputs her large breasts with their raised pale nipples away inside her slip.Brilliantine? No, thank you, I’ll wash it tonight in any case. She stands infront of me. I look into her eyes, they are lighter than a little while ago. Shehas lost that suffering expression, I don’t know for how long. I stroke herhair, wiping away traces of her and myself. She doesn’t notice. I slowlyseparate myself from her, feeling the magnetic force lessening with a squaremetre of distance. I pay for my haircut. I leave her two kunas. At the door Ipass the next customer.

I open one eye. The left one, it’s my better eye. Disk-stand. Clock. Time for work. In three minutes at themost I’ll open my right eye as well and start to get ready. Shelf, stand, music system, dead. Things havebetrayed me, they don’t bother me any more, that’s good, they said on TV. Perhaps that really is a goodsign. Perhaps I ought to call by the hairdresser’s tomorrow after work. Nonsense. I don’t feel like peeing anymore. Nevertheless I can imagine the slow stream I shall let out into the lavatory bowl, the bright stream thatwill take several minutes to peter out when I do finally get up. I open my right eye as well. The image hasstabilised, the bulk of my new disk-stand is in the middle of the gold slit, the composition is continued by thereddish-brown frame of the open window crumpling the white lace curtain, and through it can be seen thetops of birch trees, a piece of light blue sky and the building opposite. Actually, I’ve begun to quite like thatstand.

Aleksandar PaunovicDEPARTURE

’Those are great trousers. Are you going to buy them?’ I asked her, notlooking at the price.’Are you crazy, damn you, as if you didn’t know my folks are doctors,’ shereplied furiously. Perhaps both because I had forgotten what her folks were,although I had met them just a few days before, and also because shecouldn’t afford the trousers. We stopped talking. Neither of us wanted tostart a conversation, she was angry and I a little offended. I said nothingand followed her out. All kinds of things went through my head. Iremembered everything her mother had told me. Her mother, a specialist, acardiologist. She had mainly talked about money, about her salary, herhusband’s, also a specialist, I’ve forgotten in what, about ’those kids in thebuses’, conductors, earning more than she did. ’You two can’t expect muchbetter, either. I’m sorry to say this, but that’s how things are, this is ourreality. What do you think you’ll do when you finish your degree? If you’relucky, you’ll end up on one of the busier routes, the 31 perhaps,’ she hadsaid then, looking more through me than at me.

2’Otpor called asking me to go with them this evening, to stick slogans overthose stupid JUL posters,’ I said as we sat drinking tea. Unfortunately, wehad no more money even for the most ordinary packet of biscuits.’Well, that’s because they think you’re in Democratic Youth,’ she responded,slowly sipping her tea. She looked at me over the cup, straight in the eye,although you could see she wasn’t remotely interested in what I was saying.’Rubbish, someone dreamed that up. I think it was that girl from French,when people were saying Prof. Zubanovic would only pass young democratswho want change …’’It was your friend’s idea, the lovely Ivana. Lovely and clever.’ She was tryingto say something ironic … ’So what will you do?’ she asked me suddenly.’I’ve no intention of going with those idiots and getting beaten up into thebargain,’ I replied, reluctantly.’You’re not going to do anything to make things better for us,’ again I heardthe irony in her voice. I said nothing. I didn’t want to reply, because I knewwhat was coming. A quarrel. Luckily, Jelena and Sanja came in and sat downat our table. They immediately started talking about price rises, of make-upof course. I dropped out of the conversation.

3’I made a killing on a bet,’ I told her as we spent our last dinar onchocolates filled with rum.’Heey, well done, good for you!’ she said, glad about my success. ’How muchdid you win?’’Around 400 marks.’’You’re kidding, fuck it! You know what sort of money that is,’ she saidalmost shrieking, so that the shop-girls looked at each other, but she tookno notice. ’That money would get us to Cyprus for sure, and that’s where mysister is, and those accomplices of yours… Oh no, don’t look at me like that.Please don’t tell me you’re going to give the money to your folks. You knowyourself they’re the main obstacle to our getting away from here.’’Well, yours aren’t much better. Your father nearly bit my head off when I

mentioned the queue outside the Canadian Embassy,’ I said, but that onlymade her more furious.’As if I care, fuck you and your 400 marks. I’ll call my sister to send me aticket and find me a job, and you go to Canada and ride sleds for the rest ofyour life.’She stormed out of the shop, throwing the bag of sweets down on thecounter. I picked it up and went outside. I didn’t chase after her, because Iknew that in this state nothing would make her see sense. I saw two ladslaughing and looking in my direction.I turned away, but one of them caught me with his hand nevertheless. Asthough to spite me it was my room-mate from the students’ hostel, who hadbeen in Toronto for several months already. He was hurrying to the Embassyto sort out papers for the other boy. He was barely twenty.’Get in touch when you come,’ he said as we parted and added,’steva76Zyahoo.com.’ He knew I had an uncle in Canada, but I didn’t want togo until I’d finished my degree. I could presumably survive one more year inBelgrade, I thought, but I didn’t want to tell them. Although … I watchedthem go, they stood out from the majority of passers-by, they were happy.I set off towards the university, and beside the Peruvians who were singingand playing, trying to brighten up the Belgrade greyness, I saw her.’I hope you haven’t eaten all the sweets,’ she said, smiling. I was glad shewasn’t angry any more.I saw who you were talking to,’ she said and hissed through her teeth, ’fuckyour Canada.’

4I knew that in her house, especially in front of her father, I must notmention Dragana, her sister, who’d gone to Cyprus in 1994 and got marriedthere. Since then no one spoke to her, apart from Tanja, of course. I think,perhaps, as much out of love for Dragana as hatred of her parents, herfather particularly. A man who wanted to disown his older daughter in thepapers, because she had got married in a foreign country, and to aforeigner.’I got an email from Dragana,’ she said as she pulled up a chair, trying tolook as calm as possible.She was happy, and I think I understood right away what was going on.’What about university?’ I asked her.’Fuck uni, I’ve got two more years. I’ll never finish that. Just look at me. Ihaven’t got money for a note pad, let alone textbooks. I’ll spend my entireyouth at the photocopier,’ she said uneasily, ’I spend my whole lifephotocopying papers, I think I could take a photocopier to bits andreassemble it without any problem.’’And me?’ I asked her softly, avoiding her eyes, already dreading theanswer.’And what’ll I do once I finish that stupid degree? My ma’s right, I’ll end upin a boutique,’ she said, pretending not to understand my question.I didn’t say anything and looked her in the eye. For a moment she glancedat me sadly.’Dragana told me to come on my own … Fuck it, I have to sacrifice something, and our relationship wasn’t areal relationship. So what if you met my folks, you haven’t gained much, believe me. I know you love me, butyou’ve got to see this is much more important for me than uni, and my folks, and you,’ she said, slowly, asshe stood up.

Vladimir ProticBANANA REPUBLIC

They say that at the ’Banana Republic’ there are three chairs with no backs,a table with a groove for draining wine and blood and a window with half apane, untouched since the meeting between Colonel Aureliano Buendía, histwo wartime companions and a horse which could smell traitors and becauseof which the window had to be broken. As a memorial to that great day, thechairs had never been moved nor the pane replaced. That day also markedthe end of the ’Banana Republic’ tavern, which had begun as the canteenand office of the ’Banana’ company, and then became the centre of the lifeof the region, and as its power spread it became a real little movement, anideal and a headlong plunge.Its first manager was an employee of the ’Banana’ company, that is thecompany for the exploitation of everything that could be taken to Europe orNorth America. But when all that was left in the region were mud huts, weedtrees, thin, harp-like cattle and birds which never alighted, the managerinvited the local people who were of no use to take themselves off, they cuttheir hair and, with great pillows full of hair, got onto a train which sped away.Only when they were sure that the smoke of the engine had rolled off overthe hills and when the birds had finally come to earth and died peacefully ofexhaustion, did the locals go down to the stream without a word, they rinsedthe mud from their mouths and their clean jaws gleamed with gold.Immediately afterwards, they fought each other with such ferocity that theharp-like cattle chimed as they ran away, never to return. The fight endedonly when they all fell to the ground without a shadow of hatred in theirsouls, and then, collecting the gold teeth, and throwing the ordinary onesinto the river, gave them to the fastest who appeared in the evening with acart full of food and they ate in merriment under a moon shaped like abanana.The ’Banana Republic’ soon became the centre of trade in the region, thepost-office, law-court (on those rare occasions when someone admitted hisinability to act for himself), a tavern, casino, stable, pawnbroker’s with adental clinic (pliers and cashbox), a distillery, and a church for all themissionaries who passed through the town spreading the words of their gods.A whole troupe of travelling Gypsies managed to settle in its ten rooms,selling all that they had not succeeded in selling in Macondo: a tube withpatterns predicting one’s destiny (and which never lied when the localsprotested that it predicted the same thing for everyone), a game on blackand white squares which they would play, constantly changing sides andrules, and it even happened that the Great Melquíades showed them on thedark cellar wall the sea and whale-hunting and on that occasion, apparently,a passionate sailor threw himself into the sea and disappeared, as a resultof which the locals walled up the room. On windy nights, the sea captured inthe cellar would rock the whole tavern, and the locals, who generally did notgo home, each carrying a hammock in his saddle bag, would rock in theirnets, in the stormy nights, dreaming the dreams of their ancestors from thebowels of ships.The habit of not going home had begun the evening when Erendiraappeared in the ’Banana Republic’ with her grandmother and retinue andremained for several days, until all the money and the last tooth had beenspent. Erendira did leave then, but the men did not return to their homes.For the needs of so many men the kitchen was extended, the stream

dammed so that they could fish and rinse gold, there was no longer anyneed to clean up, the orchestra was dismissed, because all the music wasalready in their ears, a proper little barracks was made, where the womencame occasionally to bring their smelly husbands clothes, money and theirbodies, should they desire them. In the evenings, there would be fights withfists and wooden knives, then drinking until the morning and so this maleidyll endured and no one was ever bored.In the middle of that same year the Cossack ataman and anarchist StyepanGuska appeared in the ’Banana Republic’ and, having drunk all that could bedrunk, awaited the morning distilling his own urine and singing songs aboutfields and blood and wars which begin when they end, in a voice so deep thatthe naïve bears spoiling for a fight fell into the cellar and perished under theCossack’s blows. Having slept his fill and stuffed the bear paws into hissaddle bags, he rode off into any war, on any side. Then the locals had theidea of arming themselves and being prepared for some new ’Banana’company and soon the fastest of them returned with carts full of arms andammunition. They added a powder plant and an arsenal to the ’BananaRepublic’, the weed trees were cleared away and a firing range appearedbehind the tavern.The news of the arming of the locals reached the authorities and that sameCossack soon appeared in the town, but in the uniform of an officer, followedby a few soldiers. He gave them a deadline of a few days to hand over theirweapons and then left. The locals resolved at once to seek help and thefastest was sent off again.The following day Colonel Aureliano Buendía and Colonel Herenaldo Márquezwith several companions arrived at the ’Banana Republic’. The locals greetedColonel Aureliano Buendía with enthusiasm and they all sat down at a tablein the ’Banana Republic’ tavern to discuss tactics, strictly observed by theexpert eye of the horse.On the day of the deadline, the locals led by Colonel Aureliano Buendía,intercepted the Cossack and the government army in the woods. Thegovernment soldiers were killed and the Cossack, captured, joined therenowned colonel’s victorious army.After their victory, few of the locals returned to their villages. Drunk withtriumph, they embarked on a war which lasted a whole decade and in whichvirtually all of them perished. Those who came back rushed straight to the’Banana Republic’ and then they recalled the words of the Cossack who saidthat war began only when it ended. The ’Banana Republic’ was reduced tothe original log-cabin on which the government troops had written in white’The banana is dead’, while the Norwegian workers stationed in it by a tinnedfish company took care that the legendary table and window should remainuntouched, while the rest was turned into offices, a common room andsauna.

Asmir KujovicTHE PERFUME OF PARANOIA

The telephone rang. Imran got up from the couch, went to the sideboardand just as he stretched his hand out towards the phone, it stopped ringing.He stood for a moment, his hand hovering in the air, and went quickly to thebathroom, turned on the tap, took the bloody tampon out of his mouth andspat out blood. Once, then again: the blood had the taste of the unknown.The telephone rang again. In a few bounds across the hall he reached thephone, which instantly stopped ringing again. His outstretched hand strokedthe receiver for a few seconds. Then he sat down in an armchair, plunged hishead in his hands, got up, made a semi-circle round the glass table, lit acigarette, sat down again and nervously scratched his calves. He took a bookfrom the table, Joseph Brodsky, Watermark, opened it at random and beganreading. The telephone rang again. This time he would not get up. The openbook trembled between his fingers as the telephone rang, rang, rang… Itrang ceaselessly. It stopped for a few moments, and then again BRR-BRRBRR-BRR … He realised that it must have been someone who knew for surethat he was at home and not responding to the call. He got up again andwent to the telephone. It stopped ringing again.Was it possible? Did they want to let him know that they were watching him?!He lay down on his bed and pulled the blanket over his head. Since he hadmoved into this apartment he had not made up the bed. He slept in hisclothes and covered himself with blankets, which smelled of an unknownwoman.He turned from one side onto the other, he expected to fall asleep, as longas he didn’t force himself to. On the inner side of his eyelids trembledimages of memories he had long since renounced. The wound on his gumirritated him. As the silence deepened, he was steadily overcome by sinfulthoughts: he imagined himself kissing a woman. He had seen her picture inhis last year at elementary school on the cover of an enigmatic magazine.He did not know her name, but the picture of that woman had pursued himfor more than ten years. She was too much of a woman, in fact nothing butwoman, unalloyed, and in reality he would probably never have fallen in lovewith such a lady. Besides, he would not have anything to offer her, given thathe was a student, with no car, with no steady job, no house or money. In theTalmud it was written that if a young man of twenty is not married, then helives in sinful thoughts. So, periodically, he lived in tune with the words of thewise man of the Talmud. King Solomon had died standing in a temple,leaning on his staff. His servants did not notice his death, until a worm atethrough the staff propping up his body. That was how every follower ofAbraham ought to live: so no one should notice that he was dead. And noone should notice that he was alive.At some stage the door-bell rang. At the door stood a woman with a redshopping bag in her hand, holding a white plastic box under her arm.’Good morning, we sell bed linen, cheap, if you need it.’’I don’t need it, thank you.’’It’s cheap, just ten marks a sheet.’’I don’t need any, thank you, thank you.’He locked the door and noticed on the floor papers which someone hadpushed under his door. They were two advertisements for Colgate toothpasteand a letter from his sister in Holland which had come unsealed. The

message was clear: someone who read his letters knew that he had been atthe dentist that day.Imran remembered that he had double-locked the door the night before lastwhen he had gone out, but when he came back it was only locked once. Lastnight he had turned out the light, taken the key out of the door and sat inthe hall. At a certain point he heard someone try the lock. The unknownperson then quickly withdrew his key and ran swiftly down the stairs. He knewthat his landlord, a relation of his from Düsseldorf, could not be involved.Imran knelt on the floor, raised his head towards the ceiling and shouted atthe top of his voice: ’Alpha and omega! Alpha and omega!’ Then he stoodup, went to the sideboard and, out of a drawer, furtively, as though he wasshielding himself from an invisible camera in the ceiling, he took a blacksheathed military bayonet and shoved it into the inner pocket of his Texasjacket. He exhaled, then went to the table and lit a cigarette.When he went out into the street, it was already beginning to get dark. Apasser-by looked at him strangely and Imran thought that he too was one ofthem. Under the lining of his jacket he felt once again the metal handle ofthe bayonet.In the tram a bearded tramp kept weighing him up curling the corner of hislip in an enigmatic smirk. Then he suddenly jabbed Imran with his finger andshouted: ’Look how scared he is! What a scaredy-cat! Just look at him! Ha-ha-haa!’ Imran turned to the window, sensing the sticky glances of theinquisitive passengers on him. He got off at the next stop and made rapidlyfor the first side street. He stopped in front of a glass door, with Hard RockCafé written on it. He went into the pinkish-coloured darkness. It was empty.The loudspeaker was blaring ’The Perfume of Paranoia’. At a table in acorner sat Faruk, alone and obviously high.’What’s new, hero?’’Hey, where’ve you been, king? What’s new? Come and sit down.’Faruk was a reincarnation of Jim Morrison. He was born on the day Morrisondied.’Do you remember what we were talking about last time? You know, all sortsof strange things have been happening to me lately… I mean, they all seemto be following the line of least resistance while I kept trying to resist them,that’s why they did for me. I told you last time, there’s a secret programmethat the Pentagon and the CIA are working on to get rid of all the Americans’spiritual garbage by burying it in the heads of Bosnians. To that end the CIAuses genies as counter-espionage agents. And now, in the framework of thatproject a special programme has been developed to steal our emotions: Idon’t know whether you’ve noticed that there aren’t any aromas in Sarajevoany more? There’s no stench, but nor is there any smell of any kind,because through smells the Americans are stealing our emotions, they’restealing our love.’’How do you mean, through smells?’’I’ll tell you, it’s simple! You’ve no idea what kind of technology they have attheir disposal. We are slowly dying out and I’ve tried to inform theappropriate authorities about it, but they fobbed me off, the bastards… Thetwo of them, they’re counter-informers and have such power that they enterinto me and fill me with false memories. Do you see, they return me to theembryo and redesign my memories. This is how they do it: the two of themget into me and make love through my blood and my nerves, you see. It’sterrible, really terrible, because I feel the two of them stealing my semen,you see, from my spine… they even went so far as to desecrate what isholiest in me. You know, I had a platonic love at secondary school, there was

a review in the school hall and that’s when I first saw her, and at themoment when our glances met, I was born again in her, that is I knew thatshe had given birth to me; and now, you see, they’ve desecrated that holiestof my memories, I watched this man raping that girl of mine…’Imran kept nodding and making an effort to look interested in Faruk’stheories. The spirit is something like electrical energy: it can be transformedinto perfect music from a loudspeaker, into images from Bertolucci’s films onthe screen, into confidential information on the computer, into the heat of aring on which coffee is being brewed or into the chill of a fridge in which tubsof yoghurt and jars of jam are arranged. Or it can be transformed into theconfused nonsense Faruk was talking, depending on the quality of the’apparatus’.Or was it, perhaps, that Faruk was simply provoking him? Perhaps he toowas one of them? Lana appeared behind the bar. She tossed the locks ofher brown hair back nonchalantly.’That bar suits you,’ said Imran.’You mean they look good on the bar,’ Lana responded, picking up herluxuriant breasts.She was 5’ 8”. They grow that tall in the First Gymnasium. Sharp jaw line.Inquisitive eyes, emphasised by dark-brown liner. They seemed to say thatlife was fun. In the depths of those eyes films with Nicholas Cage and MelGibson in the leading roles played and the dead of unknown marchespassed. She could have been sixteen, eighteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty ormore (Cindy Crawford was over thirty). She looked like one of the singersfrom the Spice Girls, All Saints, Destiny’s Child and Tic Tac Toe.’How’s the journalism going?’’So-so … Are you standing in for Sibela?’’A-ha, she’s got an exam tomorrow. What are you sucking?’’I’ve had a tooth out,’ Imran put his hand to the left side of his jaw.’You had a tooth out? Ha-ha … Shall I show you a book I was given as apresent: Watermark by Joseph Brodsky. What do you think?’It didn’t take much for him to connect several facts: Lana was the daughterof a Bosnian and Herzegovnian politician who was accused by journalists ofthe ’Washington Post’ of corruption and war crimes.’It’s a good book. Do you want to come to the toilet to roll a joint?’’You’ve got the gear?’’Sure. Here, take it. You go first, I’ll be along in three minutes.’Imran looked around him and then went back to Faruk’s table and leant hiselbows on the back of the chair by the wall, turning his back on Bob Marley.’You know, you’re right when you say they fill us with false memories. You’reright about that.’’In fact that’s just one small segment. But, as far as I can see, you’re not atthe level of consciousness where you could follow me. It’s all verycomplicated, for an average human mind, I mean …’In the toilet, Lana was giggling leaning against the edge of a radiator. Imranwent up to her and pressed against her, then he drew a circle round hermouth with his index finger.’It’s like we’re in a Mexican soap opera, only there aren’t any Mexicans, haha ha…’’Talk to me.’’What about?’’Tell me what you did last summer.’’Ha ha ha … what’s this in your jacket? A Magnum?’Imran took out the bayonet and with a sudden jerk hit her on the mouth with its handle, and then swiftly

punched her on the nose. She gave a muffled cry and started to struggle. Blood was flowing from her noseand her wide-open eyes took on a terrified expression. He grabbed her hair with his other hand, turned herface to the wall and knocked it with all his strength against the wall. Again and again – until there werebloody imprints on the pink marble tiles where it had said: ’I AM LEADING YOU TO A BETTER FUTURE.ADOLF HITLER’. She was not shrieking any more. He undid her jeans, pulled them with her panties down herthighs and entered her. Her sagging head beat dully against the radiator to the rhythm of his movements. Hehad wanted to do as Mersault in Albert Camus’s novel The Outsider advised his neighbour: spit in her facewhen she came. But things sometimes get out of control.

Nihad HasanovicTHE PLATEAU

IBoy, have I worked today! I just put paid to a condemned man who hadresisted me for a whole week. What kept him going? Tough guy, and nomistake.It’s hard being an executioner and no one knows what it’s like. We workzealously and thoroughly. And why do we do it? Because it has to be done,because if we didn’t do it, who would?Only, how I love my work place! It’s a vast, high, rocky mountain whereclouds often get caught. You can’t approach it from any side, because it’sexceptionally steep. Apart from a few secret tracks … On that mountain,since the top is as flat as a pancake, a beautiful execution place was made,who knows when. There are walls all around, so high that there’s no escape.And where would you escape to even if you wanted? In just a few placesthere are no walls. Through those empty spaces blow winds so strong theymake the bones crack. Not ours of course, we keep ourselves warm. Thecondemned prisoners, who lie chained to marble beds, are right besidethose gaps yawning over the abyss. They are exposed to the currents of theicy winds, and in addition, we, the executioners, pour freezing water overthem until they die. And to make their deaths more interesting (because weget bored too), we work bit by bit, we pour one bucket at a time over themand call on the winds, in a soft, humble prayer, to tear their bodies apart.And so these prisoners of ours die of cold, pneumonia, fever or, if they’rereally tough, of hunger and thirst. But no one here has been excessivelytough. We do our work well. We are responsible and don’t allow anyone tolive too long. They lie on marble, the winds cut them, we water themconscientiously and they expire.Each executioner stands beside one of these beds. A demanding task.Because our job is to freeze the condemned man so that he doesn’t give upthe ghost immediately, but slowly. So that he feels the pain. Also, you earnmore, the more patient and gradual the torture. There’s a committee whichinspects the quality of our work. We were taught our profession while we werestill young, and I was born who knows where, here I suppose. We have oursmall executioners’ town, down below, at the bottom of the cliff, wheremodest, nice people live, submissive and diligent. And there’s good wine!Ah! I forgot something else: below the mountain, on the other side from thegreat wall which twists down the edge of the plateau, there’s a huge expanseof roaring, foaming water, called, they say, the sea.

I II wanted to have a few moments rest when they took my victim away, blue,distended, masterfully worked, real quality. However, I heard footsteps. Theywere bringing me new goods to receive and store away – forever. Thisprisoner’s face was covered in blood and I couldn’t make out where his eyesor nose were … They were holding him up by his shoulders so that hewouldn’t collapse.The High Priest was with him. He was first, in front of them, but I was afraidto look him in the eye.’How are things, champion?’ he said.

’Fine, and they’ll be better still, your grace.’This priest of ours always knew how to talk to the people, except that he hasa finely combed beard, and I don’t, I have a thick black moustache and I’mproud of it. Except that he has some kind of silk robe to his ankles, and Ihave grey trousers. Grey but indestructible. The priest went on:’We’ve brought you some new material. Pay attention, now, calculateprecisely, you will need to give him plenty of water. So that he swells up. Thisis your last test. He is among the stars. He can see you. He can hear you.Lie him down and chain him, my admirable and ever wakeful helpers.’And they laid him down on the marble slab. He said nothing, not a murmur,but I could see he was alive. I was glad: the more life there was in him, themore work for me. You get a bonus.The priest lifted his robe: he was protecting himself from the mud. Then heset off towards the middle tower, where everything was supervised, and atone point he turned his head towards me, smiled and went on. Smiled? Andhow! Somehow, God help me, sneakily. This gentleman never smiles, he isclever and serious. So why did he smile at me? I think about it. There’s allsorts of gossip about this bearded gentleman of ours, towards whom we feelgenuine love and boundless respect. I don’t believe that gossip, eviltongues always cloud the truth. And lies spring from Evil, as the preachershave so often told us in their sermons… After those wonderful sermons, Iused to fill the buckets with water and pour them over the sinners with stillgreater fervour and faith … Rumours were rife, God forgive me, that thishighly respected gentleman of ours did two to three hundred sit-ups a day,but entirely neglected his back exercises. The result was that our gentlemanwas bent forwards, which gives him a humble, servile, god-fearing look. Idon’t believe that, but there’s no harm in knowing what kind of nasty thingspeople make up about those who are great, wise, straightforward and, aboveall, of the people.I was left alone with my captive. ’Poor fellow!’ I joked aloud. His face wascovered with dried blood, particularly above his lips, he had bled profuselyfrom his nose. Over his top lip there was a scab as thick as a hotdog.I poured water all over him, to see what I had to do, how he reacted. Thechains clanged.I was not in top form. I put the bucket down. Cold blasts of wind. I lookedacross him to that great expanse of water called the sea. What was the sea?How many buckets would you need to haul out of it for it to dry up? I thoughtabout that and didn’t notice how much time had passed. The wind blew andwhistled. I went back to work. When I work, I don’t think … No! It wasn’t thewind that was whistling, for god’s sake, but my … my material! How did he doit? Didn’t his lip hurt?Our eyes met. He stopped whistling. And in his pupils I saw somethingterrible, something that astounded me. I hesitated. I almost put the bucketdown. I went pale. He didn’t, he was already pale. He gurgled, a greasy,yellowish liquid trickled out of his mouth. Then he choked, coughed, his legsand arms gave a spasm, but he could not fold his body, he was pinned downby the chains. When he had stopped choking, he laughed, rudely,provocatively, and some power paralysed me, prevented me from makinghim shut up by force. An inexplicable bewilderment bound my limbs. Icouldn’t have eaten properly that morning.That was enough for the day. I went to my little house, my cave, to rest, andI would go on tomorrow, if he was still alive of course. My estimation was thathe would be. And I’m rarely wrong.

IIII didn’t sleep well, but my material, by all accounts, did, since the nextmorning he was cheerful and, as far as he could be, well. I couldn’t permitthat. I immediately set about applying myself to my work. I poured waterover him, soaking him until he turned blue, and then left him to dry in thewind, I repeated that procedure all day.The only break – lunch-time.’How come you don’t get bored?’ were his first words.’I don’t talk to the material,’ I snapped, although my voice trembledunexpectedly.’Your voice trembled. That means that I’ve really got to you.’I didn’t want to converse with him. I didn’t have to justify myself to anyone,apart from His Grace. But that voice really irritated me, as though every wordplucked at a nerve. Could he be some evil spirit? It was too much, I replied:’Shut up! Or you’ll suffocate!’’You’re not threatening me with death! If you want to speed up my death, somuch the better for me, and so much the worse for you, because what willthe silken gentleman say? Your pay will be stopped: less torture, lessmoney.’’Don’t call him that! That’s why you’re going to die, because you don’t haveany respect for those who are high, high above us.’’How do you know what respect is?’’I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But as for you!’’You don’t know anything, only how to water gardens.’My blood was boiling. I poured so much water over him that he began tosuffocate, he was racked by coughing, to my great delight. Then I let up.Had I calmed him down with effective action? No, because he went onprovoking me:’Do you know what freedom is?’’Yes.’’The tone of your voice betrays ignorance.’In my fury I brought new buckets, which would not obey me, but remainedmotionless. I restrained myself.’So you know what freedom is yourself, do you?’ I asked him, wanting anexplanation.’There’s no freedom until you jump over yourself,’ he smiled, mockingly ofcourse.’Really? I could have told you that myself.’That evening I hurried home. No, I couldn’t have said that. But as though Ihad said it, that’s how it seemed to me. I felt dizzy. I lay down, got up.Several times. In the end I got up and didn’t lie down any more. I walkedabout, thinking. I lowered my head. I prayed to the Almighty. I took a runand did a summersault. I had always been good at gymnastics. There, I’vedone a summersault, I jumped over myself, so where’s that freedom now?Ah, you think you’re so clever, and you haven’t got a clue about anything!You were provoking me, wanting to make me look a fool. But, if you can telllies, summersaults don’t!

IVThe next day I didn’t let him draw breath. I didn’t want to honour him with somuch as a glance. I watered him without ceasing. I even urinated over him,to warm him up, so that he wouldn’t get ill with cold. That’s a little torturers’prank. When one of us does that, he whispers to his colleague: ’Not allwater’s cold!’ and we part in a good mood.

’Do they ever let you out of captivity?’ he began to provoke me again.’You’re the one who’s in captivity, and not me.’’You’re talking nonsense.’What was the point of talking? I’d show him in action how wrong he was. Itook a run, twisted as I jumped and then asked him triumphantly:’There, if you’re so clever, I’ve jumped over myself, but there’s no sign offreedom. Where is it?’Then I realised that I had been too hasty. I had been wrong, I shouldn’thave jumped in front of him. He would think I agreed with him. He hadrecognised my naivete and went on using sarcasm.’Why are you waving your arms about? Freedom is not a fly for you to catch.’He was making me angry again. I could have torn the skin from his face … Ilooked at him attentively. For the first time. He wasn’t swollen any more.Where had I seen this man? I picked up the bucket, I saw myself in thesurface of the water, my face.’Yes, captive and executioner, I am your brother, your twin brother.’’Tin brother? I don’t understand.’’It’s pronounced twin.’I think: we are alike. He even has a moustache like me.’There are things I remember and you don’t. That doesn’t matter now.You’ve understood, haven’t you, what I’m telling you: there is no freedom …’I didn’t understand. I looked at him: that thing in front of his nose was not ascab, but a moustache, just like mine.’You’re looking at me blankly, captive. Jump over me, captive. Me, yourself.’’I’ll fall.’’Try.’He’s convincing, that is I’m convincing. I feel dizzy again. I look over the tower. There’s no one on theterraces. How is it that I accept his persuasion so easily? I take a run. And I jump over him. Now I’m inchesfrom the abyss.

Boris StaresinaCHRONICLE

I was five when I first became aware of the significance of alcohol in my life.That was when I was given beer to drink in the presence of visitors. Theylaughed while they watched the little boy knock it back, and after that I wentoutside and chased little girls to take off their panties.

I was twelve when I poured my first drink for myself. Up to then someoneelse had always done it. Suddenly everyone got worried and started hidingbottles from me. But it was too late. What some great-great-grandfather hadleft his son as his inheritance, that one had passed on to his son, and so ondown the line until it had now erupted in my veins driving me to carry on withthe holy bequest.It was as though I had a built-in radar for an open bottle. I found them inthe laundry basket, in a hole under the parquet, in a television set (!), in mymother’s boots. They once hid a bottle in the oven and forgot about it, andwe could all have been killed when they turned the oven on to bake stuffedcabbage. I even found a bottle at our neighbour’s house while I was playingwith his son, Mihajlo. My parents had probably hidden it there on someoccasion when they had been invited over for coffee.Then I called Mihajlo over to the furthest corner of his room, opened thebottle and offered it to him.Mihajlo took a mouthful, then went red in the face and began coughing.’That’s disgusting!’ he groaned, bending double.’Wait a moment and then try again.’As I had been smoking for three years already, I took a packet out of mypocket, picked out a cigarette and offered it to Mihajlo.He put out his hand gingerly, as though he were afraid that something wouldbite him, and took the cigarette. I lit it for him. He began coughing again.’Excellent. Now have another sip from the bottle. That’s the way.’He stopped coughing.’I’ve stopped coughing,’ he said.’Aha. Welcome to the club.’Mihajlo was more inclined to silliness than cleverness and that’s what I likedabout him. He didn’t respond to my good ideas with his own good ideas. Andall my good ideas delighted him.I went back to my apartment. My folks were sitting sipping some distilledbrandy. The stench of burned lunch hung in the air, but no one wasbothered. And I was proud of myself. I was spreading the idea.

By twenty-five I was heavily dependent. In the rare moments when I was notdrinking I fantasised about it, and when I sat down to drink I fantasisedabout the possibility of perpetual drunkenness. I had a cigarette constantlyin my mouth. I had put on a terrible lot of weight, a whole 150 kilos to myone metre eighty. I was the fattest man in the neighbourhood. They tookphotographs of me for medical textbooks as an example of a physiognomydeformed by alcoholism.My parents took me to various clinics for treatment, but it didn’t do anygood. Several doctors even took to drink in the course of treating me. Myparents got drunk every night from misery, and I drank with them out of

solidarity.

Then, when I was twenty-six, my liver began to bother me. That’s when thecrazy idea occurred to me of giving up drink. I was bored with beingdependent. I began to drink nothing but mineral water and so I got throughthe crisis. It was terribly hard. I had hallucinations. In the street it seemed tome that I was passing not people, but huge bottles of various colours full offragrant alcoholic drinks. After a week I no longer had any desire for alcohol.I drank ten litres of mineral water a day and felt good. My folks wererelieved, but they were worried that I consumed nothing at all stronger. And Itried to persuade them to switch to water. They just gaped at me.I noticed that my family had begun to suspect me. They brought all thehidden bottles out into the light of day and arranged them on shelves, incupboards, drawers, sideboards, chests, the washing machine, the bath, andwatched my reactions. But, I walked past quite unconcerned by these twothousand, three hundred and something litre, half-litre and mini-bottles, andsmiled as I knocked back my mineral water.My grandmother on my mother’s side, an eighty-year old lady in awheelchair, anxiously drained her perpetually half-empty glass, mumblingceaselessly: ’Oh, oh, who has laid such a curse on our child…’I went to Mihajlo’s. I knocked on the door.’Come in!’ he shouted from his flat. I went in. The door was unlocked.Mihajlo had spread his 120 drunken kilos over his bed and was stinking outthe whole room. He couldn’t have washed for months.’I’m desperate,’ he said, ’Yesterday I reached for the syringe. I injectedninety-percent proof alcohol directly into my vein, and I just felt a little dizzy.Nothing affects me any more.’He began to cry. His tears smelled of alcohol.’Come on, now, don’t cry. Look what I’ve got. Try it,’ I said and offered hima bottle of mineral water.’Do you want to poison me? Why are you giving me mineral water? Are youtaking the piss?’’Of course not. I just think there’s no point in drinking alcohol any more. Getout of it. It’s not funny being dependent any more.’Mihajlo drank a little mineral water, coughed, drank a bit more and he feltbetter. He seemed to be thinking about something.’It’s not a bad idea,’ he said in the end. ’To be free of dependence. Haveyou got any more water?’I loved him…

In my twenty-ninth year I began to cough more than ever. I went to thedoctor and he diagnosed: lung cancer. I decided to give up cigarettes. Itrembled from the effort and chewed gum all day long. They put me throughvarious treatments, although they were very sceptical. No one gave me muchlonger to live. But, after a week I stopped feeling the slightest desire fortobacco and that really pleased me. I thought how wonderful it was not to besmoking four packets a day.I began to feel better. I walked through the hospital corridors and offeredgum to the dying. Then they examined me again. All the doctors scratchedtheir heads. There was no trace of the cancer. They looked and looked, for along time, persistently, and I got the impression that they dearly wanted tofind it.They pronounced me healthy. We had our photos taken for numerousnewspapers. A hundred or so medical personnel and me, as a medical

miracle. Of course, they mentioned their contribution.Mihajlo was delighted with the idea of giving up tobacco. Now, in addition totruckloads of mineral water, he ordered truckloads of chewing gum everyweek. But my family threw me out of the house and disowned me publiclythrough the press. My eighty-three year-old grandmother fired from herarmoury, shouting: ’Ugh, devil! Ugh, Satan! Ugh, heathen!’I found myself a room, wove myself a warm nest and began a new life.I decided to lose weight. It had been really bothering me lately. I hadreached 168 kilos and it would have taken only one or two more for mesimply to explode.I went to basketball training. I put up with the trainer’s and other players’laughter and rolling on the ground for half the session. Two people hadnose-bleeds from laughing so much. But they let me carry on training thenand at all the other sessions. Because, at that first session, in three minutesI got 15 shots in, caught 4 balls, and had 3 assistances. Quite unheard of.After a month and a half, I was down to 136 kilos and I became a memberof the junior squad. In the twenty-nine minutes spent on average on thepitch, I scored on average 45.7 points out of an average of 88% shoots. Thenumber of supporters increased ten-fold and numbered several thousand.Newspaper pictures again. The headlines were bombastic:

OUR FATTY RAVAGES MORE FIERCELY THAN THE ONE OVER JAPANNot even the atomic bomb of the same name had such destructive power

THE HULK FLOORS DEFENCE WITH HIS BULK

I began to be showered with offers from the premier league. I was suddenlyvery important to everyone. I trained devotedly and fervently. I weighed 102kilos.Then I caught myself aiming my urine into the bowl from a distance of somesix metres and spreading my arms triumphantly. Basketball had completelytaken me over. I stopped playing at once.By day and night I was visited by directors, managers, scouts, trainers,players and supporters pleading with me to go back, but to no avail.Basketball had become part of my past. But, it had helped me. I had melteda whole person away.

And, now, the time has come to introduce into the story the person andname of someone who has been unjustifiably neglected up to now. Maria.Maria, my night-time frustration.A long time has passed since the days when, as a tipsy five-year-old, Ichased her to take off her panties. I never succeeded in those endeavours,and I think that the unattainability of her intimacy was the fatal cause of myinfatuation. I know for sure that I fell in love first of all with what I wanted touncover although I hadn’t the faintest idea what that was.As the years passed, my eyes travelled further up and got to know newdetails about Maria. In the end my eyes knew her figure and face betterthan she herself knew them. Then I realised that I loved her whole, totallyand irrevocably. Should I say that I followed her? I was familiar with herevery step, her every undertaking. We lived in the same building. And then,when I was thrown out of the family flat, I plunged into extreme despair. AllI could think about was that I would be even further from Maria than I hadbeen up to then. That is why I made my room, my warm nest, in the nextstreet and from my window I could see her window, which I had not been

able to do from my former window because she lived two floors directlyabove me. In that way, by a fluke of chance, I came even closer to Maria.But, there was a problem as well. Namely, I could also see my own formerwindow, which meant that my relatives could see my present window. Theygladly exploited that fact, and every day I was exposed to the danger ofsnipers’ bullets.One evening I resolved to reveal to Maria the sentiments I was nurturingtowards her. Only I didn’t know how to do it. I was very repressed in mycontacts with the opposite sex. In fact, I had never had any contact withwomen.I decided to wait for her in the building. I sat and waited in her corridor. Icomposed in my head the text with which I would declare my love. In thegame there were about three hundred variants. I sat in the dark on thestairs. Then the entrance door to the block of flats suddenly opened. I wasterrified. I was starting to stand up, when the light in the corridor went on. Inthe dull light of the weak bulb I recognised who had come in: my uncle! Hewas dead drunk. His glance came to rest on me. At first he just stood, notbelieving his eyes, then light dawned.’You!’ he shrieked drunkenly and reached for his pistol.I hurled myself towards him like lava, simply crushed him underfoot andsped to my warm nest.For a week I didn’t try anything, and then, with a perfect plan, I set off to winMaria’s heart, but this time in the little park behind the building. Here therewere swings, see-saws, benches, various trees and bushes and a couple oflights which illuminated the park with soft neon light. Birds could be heardtwittering. She would have to respond to such a romantic atmosphere. I knewword for word what I was going to say to her and I waited for her calmly,hidden behind a thick tree trunk near one of the lights.Eventually I saw her approaching. When she was close enough, I emergedfrom behind the tree and stood in front of her, murmuring tenderly: ’Maria…’, and just at that moment the light went out leaving us in half-darkness,and Maria screamed: ’Help! A bear!’, and ran off, and so did I.The newspapers came up with the headline:

MONSTER IN ANCIENT HEROES STREET’… which Maria Skriljac (24) described as a terribly large and deformed humanoidcreature. Inhabitants of the district are warned …’

There, that’s when I decided to lose weight and play basketball.My thirtieth birthday coincided with a tenderly leafy spring day. Outside thebirds were twittering, etc. I was aroused from an intoxicating sleep by thepersistent ringing of the telephone.’Happy birthday, son,’ the greeting crackled from the receiver. ’We hope itwill be your last. And if God doesn’t want to fix it, we will.’Then I heard a click.To celebrate my happy thirtieth, I went out and bought a pack of mineralwater bottles, three loaves of bread, five kilos of potatoes and a sucking pig.And then, as I was returning to my warm nest, it happened. Fromsomewhere she appeared before me and said hello. I was paralysed.’I haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Maria.’Ah?’’That pig and the bottles… I thought you must be expecting guests.’’Oh, no, no … Today’s my birthday, so I bought them… to celebrate.’’I know.’

’What do you know?’’That it’s your birthday.’’How do you know?’’I read it in a newspaper. They gave your date of birth and some otherthings. Is it true that you can eat 200 portions of stuffed cabbage for lunch?’’Two … oh no, that’s newspapers… you know what they’re like. Ha-ha!’’Do you want guests?’’Well, to be honest, I don’t really need any.’’Okay, but what if you invited me at least for a coffee?’I blushed, I think that even the top of my head blushed, and that little bit ofbrain I have blushed.’Of course, of course. I’m sorry, ha-ha, I’m a bit confused,’ I said.We went to my warm nest. She didn’t comment on the lowered blinds, and Iwas glad that I wouldn’t have to explain that it was because of my relatives.She drank her coffee, and then stayed on. She helped me with the pig andpotatoes, and then while it was all roasting, we sat and talked. I was in toomuch of a state to remember the whole conversation.’I began to follow the matches just because of you. I adored watching you.’I swallowed. I don’t know why I then said: ’So did I.’The next thing I remember was:’… And when I went home that evening, I nearly died of fright,’ she said.’How come?’’Suddenly the light went out, and something enormous appeared in front ofme and said my name. I simply felt my heart stop. I began to scream andran away. God, how frightened I was… It was in the newspaper.’’I think I read about it.’’I knew it was you.’’What?’’I knew it was you, that night in the park.’Then the conversation continued, but my crazy mind didn’t register any of it,apart from one sentence of Maria’s.’Happy birthday,’ she said and kissed me. Darkness.Then the pork was crisp and the potatoes were nicely browned, so we went towork. When the meal was finished, all that was left of the little pig weregnawed bones and I was sufficiently polite not to belch even after a bottle ofmineral water drunk down in one go.Maria stayed to supper as well, and after that, all night, just her and me inmy bed. She didn’t laugh, and I secretly shed a tear when I lost my virginity.

I was thirty-two and madly in love. I had asked for her hand twenty-eighttimes and was always rejected. She didn’t want that little piece of paper andwedding ring, because she would have felt enslaved. But, she never refusedthe gold rings, bracelets and chains that I gave her in the rapture of mypassion.I loved her so much that once, for effect, I stood in the window of my warmnest and thrust my chest out towards my former window, and my lips formedthe words out loud: ’Let them fire! Let them kill me since you don’t want me,darling! And if you love me, tell me to move!’Two bullets whistled through my skull, and one through my ribcage. As I fell,with my last shred of consciousness, I heard: ’I want you, darling.’

I opened my eyes and endeavoured to focus on the first thing my eyesrested on. An old woman with a moustache and a mole on her cheek. Then aman in a white coat came with a perfectly serious and severe expression.

Then the lines of his face stretched into a smile.’Welcome,’ said the man in the white coat.’Where’s Maria?’ I asked.’Maria? Tihomir, you’ve been four years in a profound coma.’I left hospital on my thirty-sixth birthday. I went back to my warm nest. Itwas only when I saw the state of my flat that I realised that four years hadpassed. Given that I loved Maria more and more with every day, after somuch time I felt that I was completely mad about her. But, where was she? Ilooked for her everywhere, just as I used to look for hidden bottles. Thistime I found nothing.Then, some days later, I met her in the street. She was arm in arm with amale person at least two metres tall and a metre and a half wide.’You! You’re alive?’ Maria was astounded.’Darling, just tell me and we’ll put the mistake right,’ said the man in a bassvoice.I ran back to my warm nest offended and broken. I suffered for months. Inthe nadir of my despair, one day I slashed my veins, but the blood trickleddown to the neighbours who lived below me and they called an ambulanceand my wrists were sewn up.I fell into a deep depression. I lay on my bed and thought about Maria,longed for her. I drank more than ever. One whole wall was covered withmineral water containers. I resolved to forget Maria. My first thought afterthat was of her sitting on the bowl and straining, her eyes tight shut and theveins on her neck standing out, while it flowed and flowed out of her…A week later I was out of love. I went to see Mihajlo (in the greatest secrecy,because the danger from my relatives still lurked). I found him making aballoon out of chewing gum which filled the entire room. In each hand heheld a bottle of mineral water, both half-empty.’Mihajlo,’ I said, ’never let love take control of you. Women are worse thananything that can enslave you.’’Aha,’ said Mihajlo. ’Although I don’t know what you’re talking about,because I’ve never been with a woman, that idea doesn’t sound bad. By theway, where have you been all these years?’Good old Mihajlo.

A short time later I experienced terror. It was in the small hours, and Iwanted a mouthful of mineral water so I got out of bed to open a bottle. But,alas, all the bottles were empty. I quickly pulled on some clothes and rushedout of my warm nest, half mad with the pain that was devastating my brain.Outside an endless spring rain was falling, but I dashed through the wetstreets looking for at least one shop where I would be able to buy mineralwater. But everything, oh everything, was closed. From the depths of mybeing I let out a bestial shriek and collapsed unconscious onto the ground,while the rain drops tried unsuccessfully to quench the fire in which I wasburning up in agony.I stopped drinking mineral water and went to the Centre for the Treatment ofDependence. They had a good laugh when I described my case. They toldme that I was simply mad and there were other institutions for such people.For the next three weeks I was very ill. I thought my end had come. With atemperature of 45 degrees Celsius I kept seeing little creatures, as green asthe so familiar bottles.On the twenty-second day I was as good as new, completely well and readyfor life. Along the way I had also stopped consuming chewing gum. I wasliberated and stronger than ever. Mihajlo was also thrilled as never before.

I think it began with those flaming temperatures. Anyway, the first thing thatoccurred to me was that I was helpless without transport. Wherever I wantedto go, I needed transport. Well, I resolved that I couldn’t go on like that. Ibegan to use only my legs. Between one side of the Town and the otherthere were kilometres and they became significantly longer, but they weresomehow sweeter, perhaps because at last I felt that they were real. Whocares if I bought a pair of shoes every second month.When I was thirty-eight, I realised that I was very dependent on my ownfeet. That thought occurred to me in the middle of the street. The nextmoment I had lain down on the ground and continued my journey rolling. Itook no notice of the comments of passers-by or the laughter of children. Iwas happy. My greatest problem was rolling to my warm nest because I livedon the seventh floor and the steps were very steep.The papers printed the following headline:

ROLLING FELLOW-CITIZEN’Tihomir Leskovac has become the latest attraction in our Town by giving up movingabout with the help of his legs. We ask our citizens not to kick him…’

Why do I have to take food? I stopped eating. I rolled over to Mihajlo, whohad himself adopted my way of moving.’Mihajlo, I’ve noticed that we are dependent on food. I have stopped eating.I immediately feel freer,’ I said.Eventually I weighed only 40 kilos. More and more often I was attacked bydogs, thinking I was a heap of ungnawed bones. Since I had given up food,could I allow myself to be a slave to the need for water? Water became apart of my past.It became increasingly easy for me to rid myself of needs, despite the factthat I was becoming more listless with every day.I set off with Mihajlo on a communal roll through the town. People watchedus, and then some of them lay down and rolled with us. After some timethey got up, cleaned their clothes and said: ’These two are completely mad.’Mihajlo was even thinner than I was and he was very weak, so I often had tostop rolling for him to catch up.’Hang in there, it’s always hard at the beginning,’ I told him, although I wasin a pathetic state myself.Then I had an idea and I shouted: ’Mihajlo, stop breathing! That’s the causeof all our dependencies!’I stopped breathing and I began to sink into darkness. As though from agreat distance I heard Mihajlo’s last words: ’Good ide…’When I came to, there was a crowd of people around us, and some hero wastrying to give us the kiss of life. At first I resisted, and then, like a vision, acrystal clear thought came to me: I WAS DEPENDENT ON THE DESIRE NOT TOBE DEPENDENT!’This other one’s had it,’ someone said.I got up onto my thin feeble legs and looked around me. Aha, there’s apub. First I’ll go for a beer and a portion of brain in batter, and then I’ll …

Djordje TomicPINOCCHIO’S FIRST SEXUAL EXPERIENCE

Ever since he left school, Pinocchio had been going from one disco ornightclub to another. There he learned to dance, not according to theestablished rules of the samba, tango or wedding dance, but a freestyle ofthe post-apocalyptic shakes. He abandoned his body to the rhythms, bathedin sweat, and drank prohibited flambéd cocktails. More often than not hewent to Signorina Grande, who spread Persian rugs on the dance floor. Herdisco was illegal, in the cellar of an abandoned house not far from thedocks. As one entered that infamous area darkness began to gather andone’s legs were enveloped in a thick layer of mist, while on the cornerssuspect types sharpened knives and hid their eyes in hoods.The majority of visitors to the disco were friends of Signorina Grande, half-ghosts inoculated against reality, controversial artists in conflict with theworld. These are people who strip naked out of protest, paint faecalpaintings, write poems composed of only vowels. They listened to some sortof wild music, which made the legs, of their own accord, begin to stretch andtighten, stretch and tighten, as though they had been bewitched by a potionof hen’s blood and bitter roots. The spell did not wear off until towards dawnwhen Pinocchio went home, expending his last vestiges of energy onunlocking the door and untying his shoe-laces. He had put Geppetto into anold people’s home as he had begun increasingly to lose touch with reality,he talked about imagined lovers and situations in which he showed hisprowess as a man. Pinocchio rarely visited him, taking him bananas andoranges in transparent plastic bags, and asking about his health. Geppettoguessed at Pinocchio’s lifestyle and warned him that his nose would growlong and his ears turn into a donkey’s, but Pinocchio knew that this was justthe bizarre imagination of an old man confronting death. He saw only hate inhim, old Geppetto despised him, hated his unfinished work. He had carvedhim and given him life, a life which Pinocchio was ruining.Pinocchio found solace in Signorina Grande’s magical concoctions. She andMama Grande prepared them by candlelight, according to the smudgedhandwritten recipes of their forebears. They made colours brighter, andconversation full of the dynamism of unrealised dreams. They madePinocchio’s body obey him as never before, he moved to the music withgraceful movements full of meaning, he learned to express himself throughdance. For instance, he would say: ’I love you, Signorina Grande!’, formingtwo linked pirouettes, touching his breast with the tips of his fingers andemphasising his words with frenetic feline leaps. From time to time SignorinaGrande would fall into three-day raptures, cooling herself with an enormousswan’s feather, mumbling meaningless sounds as though she were spittingout precious stones. The air in the disco was sticky and heavy, it pusheditself between the bodies like moist gelatine, spread up Signorina Grande’sback and tried to undo her plait. She sat on an improvised throne andcaressed Pinocchio’s groins with her eyes. ’Miaow,’ said the eunuch Carlo inhis brightly coloured jumper. Pinocchio’s eyes gleamed, reflecting an innerflame, then modestly closed. Suddenly, Signorina Grande’s hands draggedPinocchio towards the exit and the two of them fled from the crowd onto theseashore.’I still sleep-walk,’ said Signorina Grande, ’I am not in control of my actions.They outrun me, they have a life of their own.’ She walked barefoot over thesand which stuck to her feet, clung to her toes. Her huge, almost transparent

dress was crumpled by the wind and she turned her face to meet it on tip-toewith her arms raised. Ships on the open sea sank into the darkness, afraidof the water monster, ever further from the lights of the island. Touristsscreamed and ran into the warm sea. The moon’s finger-nail disappearedbehind the particularly tall cypresses. ’I forget whole ages,’ whisperedSignorina Grande, ’I wake up and don’t know what day it is, I rememberabsolutely nothing.’ ’Let me examine your head,’ said Pinocchio and liftedher hair with his fingers. ’Take me home,’ said Signorina Grande slippinginto the agreeable darkness of the beach. Her house was on the island andPinocchio and Signorina Grande got into a boat and began rowing. UnderSignorina Grande’s dress, she had strong muscles, accustomed to anything.’What do you think, what’s it like being devoured by fish?’ Signorina Grandeasked between splashing with the oars. ’I was once swallowed by a whale,’said Pinocchio, ’but a whale isn’t a fish, a whale is a mammal.’ ’I’mfrightened by silence on the sea,’ Signorina Grande went on, ’everything thathappens, birth and death, happens in silence. The sea is too serious forpeople to live in it.’ ’People are too unserious to live anywhere,’ saidPinocchio. ’They are like a plague of clowns spreading over the planet.’ As hesaid this he was thinking of his fury with Geppetto, but he quickly calmeddown. Pinocchio could almost understand him. ’Still, I would like to be downthere, on the bottom of the sea,’ said Signorina Grande taking no notice ofPinocchio’s words. Poor Signorina Grande, a back-to-front little mermaid, inlove with the underwater prince of silence, dumb and transparent as theocean. She sighed, watching the waves breaking on the shore and comingback, into the embrace of the endless water wrapped around the planet. Thesea was for her a miraculous organ, thousands of linked arms and legs whichcould have loved her, so that she was never bored.Dogs on the island howled like jackals, preparing a welcome for theirmistress. Pinocchio and Signorina Grande walked along the narrow unlit path,marked by rounded stones. The house on the hill stood on its own, madeout of a piece of the island rock. ’Mama Grande has gone to my aunt’svillage,’ said Signorina Grande unlocking the door. She threw steaks out ofthe window and the dogs ate them greedily. An oil lamp illuminated some ofthe furniture and altered its shapes, reducing it to the limits of usability.Pinocchio felt the sweet scents which filled the room raising and hardeninghis member, which grew as once his nose had done with every lie he spoke.’This whole house is an aphrodisiac,’ said Signorina Grande and lay down onthe rocking divan. Pinocchio touched her relaxed thighs and the cushionsabsorbed Signorina Grande’s slippery laughter. The wind played on the roof-tiles and knocked against the branches of the olive trees. Quietnessgradually settled between them. A few leaves against the windowendeavoured to retain their shape.

Zoran CrnomarkovicNYC

It was exactly 8:45 am when the people from the car told me our sharedjourney was over. ’Swoooosh’ went the door and my ’thank you’ stayedinside. I had to continue on foot.I set off along a section of the highway, and a cloud of dust rose and thenquite slowly settled back onto my shoes. The sun was levitating on thehorizon and the scene in front of me appeared to have been cut out with aknife. I began to count my steps: first, second… fifth… and quiteunexpectedly stopped thinking about dust and shoes. Now there was alreadya thin fine layer stuck to them. I turned to the right and stepped off thehighway …The din faded and now I was entering a territory of ever fewer decibels.When I climbed up to the terrace of a nearby hotel it was already completelyquiet. From the terrace, I could see the edge of the city and the tips of theWTC.From a kitchen window came the clink of cutlery and the smell of orangecake. Occasionally a huge white chef’s cap would pass across it, like acharacter in a puppet theatre.I had never before paid attention to the city from this perspective. It was allsomehow sharp in depth, with just an occasional blurred edge where a cuthad been made. I set off further into the landscape. The silence was on thesame level of roughly 2dB. On that scale all that registered was the grittysand scraping under my feet.Far away on the horizon the shapes of people interchanged. To the left andright, in a broad arch, they vanished and came into view. The randomnessand disorder of their paths gave them a certain degree of entropy. Andeverything was somehow fluid and changeable, even here before my eyes.Perhaps those who turned right will never see the measure of the balance-sheet as I do now? And, perhaps, those on the left will never grasp the pointof it all? But perhaps they can all see something I can’t?Now I was already making my way along a path where the old railway hadonce been. Nothing any longer existed that could have confirmed that fact.The rails and sleepers had long since been removed, all that was left was aslight rise recalling the track where the train had once run. I looked at mywatch – 8.45. ’So, it’s stopped again,’ I thought. And what if it hadn’t? Thatwould mean that from the moment of leaving the car up to here I hadpassed quite a lot, seen quite a lot, and yet time had not moved on. And itwould further mean that I had only gained time and for once turned it to myadvantage. IMPOSSIBLE! My watch must have stopped. That keepshappening. I glanced at the sky. The sun and the pink glow around it werestill in the same place as when I had got out of the car. Amazing! Perhaps Ireally had lost track of how long I had been walking, but it certainly wasn’tlong enough for obvious astronomical changes in the sky to be visible.’Never mind, I’ll ask someone. After all, maybe one of those figures on thehorizon will come back to meet me.’Then I noticed under my feet the shadow of the wire from a telegraph pole.It zigzagged and adapted itself to my steps. On the other side of theshadow, coming towards me, was a girl. We drew closer, and the foregroundwas enlarged. It even seemed to me at one point that we formed a goldenmean. The sun was exactly in the middle, still in the same place, with the

two of us ’cut out’ on the edges of the frame.’There, I’ll ask her,’ it occurred to me.’Excuse me, what time is it?’’8.45,’ she replied and frowned, as though she knew something.’So, that’s it! The time elipse has definitively stopped and we are outsidetime.’I turned. The girl was diminishing in the distance. I knew that she was stillwalking along the edge of the shadow. I had come to the end, to the samepoint where she had been when I caught sight of her and from where, in fact,our encounter had begun. At 8.45, of course.The din was increasing again. Understandably, because I was approachingthe centre of the city. Before me stretched 42nd Street and a little lowerdown Manhattan.And then the sun suddenly slipped over the horizon. For just a moment ortwo the pink glow remained, like a separate scene, and then it disappeared.Neither the city nor the WTC nor my shoes and the dust on them could beseen. I looked at my watch. It had vanished.

Jelena MarkovicCASHMERE FOR ETERNITY

In the autumn of 1967 I went to university and emerged happily in 1975 witha history degree. My wife Dunja enrolled in 1974 to study geography and in1979 she graduated with a very high average mark. Today there are fewpeople who don’t know those facts. They know her as Dunja the seamstress,and me on the whole as her husband. Dunja was given notice astechnologically redundant, so she settled for tackling fat women and theirdresses. I would find her notebooks in which the most frequent number was150 cm, beside the letters ’b’, ’h’ and ’w’. They did not stand for bust, hipsand waist, but for ’bulky’, ’horror’ and ’witch’, which, as Dunja used to hissthrough clenched teeth, was the best one could say about her clients’figures. During those years, our house was full of Silvijas, Dusicas, Petrijas,Kristinas and the one who stayed longest, Lisa. In the end, apart fromEmilija, the wife of some big-headed diplomat who came only occasionally,Lisa was the only constant and regular one left. She told us that she hadonce been a circus artiste, but she had fallen, injured herself and stoppedperforming. Although she was born in Belgrade, she had spent almost all herlife in Italy, where she had gone as a very young girl, following a boy, anItalian, the circus owner. When she retired, she stopped paying any attentionto her body and put on weight at lightning speed. The Italian had died ayear before and left her the circus, which she sold at once and returned toBelgrade with the money. She came back weighing forty-four kilos more thanwhen she left, and she now weighed ninety-six. It was thanks to that storythat I suggested to Dunja that she concentrate on sewing for the fat,because one should play on the vanity and weakness of fat ladies for theircarefully acquired and still more carefully concealed curves. I assured Dunjathat, with the years, they would more easily part with money than theirweaknesses.Lisa hid her real name, but once when she paid Dunja by cheque – it wassigned Stojanka, which she wrote with contempt, and then simply thrust itaway from her. In Italy someone might still remember who Lisa was, but whoStojanka was neither Belgrade nor Rome had a clue. She had a very obviousneed to be liked and noticed, which could be seen in her every wish,sketched pattern, commentary, and in the way she tried on the clothes. Shealways demanded that Dunja sew them as short and as tight as possible,even if she had to spend half-an-hour sucking in her stomach. There wasjust one luxury Lisa could never allow herself – to lose weight. Although shebought recipes and advice on diets, and went on all possible slimming cures,attracted by the glossy advertisements – she could not for one minute denyherself fatty or sweet foods. Her handbags were full of chocolate flakes andcocktail biscuits, and when she came in she was always talking through thelast mouthful, which I estimated she must have thrown into her mouthsomewhere between the lift and our door. She knew how to choose, alwaysequipped with the latest fashion magazines, but she used also to burst intotears in front of the mirror when she tried to pull a skirt over her hips, toreach barely twenty centimetres below her visibly puckered behind. Dunjaknew then that she had to let everything go, make a coffee and tell her thatshe was not at all fat, just ’big-boned’ and that she had ’that kind ofconstitution’, which didn’t always work, because Lisa did after all rememberthe figure she had as a girl.

On Sunday evening Lisa was at Dunja’s for a fitting. Before she set offhome, it began to drizzle, something like thin, wet snow, and Lisa asked meto give her a lift, as she hadn’t managed to find a taxi straight away. While Iwas warming the engine, Lisa wittered on again about her days of glory, andsaid that taxi drivers used to fall over each other for the privilege of drivingher, but now she had to beg other people. Then she fell silent, disdainfuland self-assured, and it seemed to me that in front of the car, just whereshe had been standing, I saw a young woman in a provocative blousebowing to her audience, holding back her fringe which fell carelessly over hereyes with every bow.’Did you notice it, Dule?’ Lisa jolted me back to reality.’Notice what?’ I asked.’Why that pigeon which just flew so low in a circle over your head?’’Yes … I saw it…’ I said absently.’But why did it fall like that behind your car, as though shot, I wonder… Somekind of symbol, perhaps?’’It fell?’’Heavens, Dule, what are you looking at? But, please would you take mehome … it’s getting cold…’’Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I was miles away…’She turned her head towards me slowly and meaningfully, and before shesat down on the back seat (letting me know that I could be nothing but herdriver), she said:’Dule, you have no idea what my acquaintance with you means to me. Don’tmisunderstand me, and don’t ask me anything, you wouldn’t understand mein any case, but when I saw that pigeon a minute ago I realised it was a signthat you were the one…’Strange woman, I’d say. We drove on in silence. From time to time Lisasang a song from the radio and craned her neck towards the rear-view mirrorto fix the locks of her hair. When we reached her apartment, she asked meto help her carry in the plastic bags of things she had brought from Dunja. Ihelped her as far as her front door, and turned back to the car.’Dule, please, there’s something I’ve been wanting for ages to give Dunja, Ibrought it from Rome, but somehow I kept forgetting. Would you come inand take it for her?’Lisa said this slowly, even a little timidly. The room we went into was full offramed photographs of the circus. I stayed in the room and looked around,while Lisa went down the hall. She came back dressed in a long eveningdress carrying a large tapestry under her arm. Her bulk had becomesomehow formal and balanced, and I thought, fleetingly, that Lisa would bean ugly woman even if she were a kilogram lighter.’This is a tapestry I was given ages ago in Italy, and it’s been hangingaround in corners for years, because I just don’t like tapestries. The otherday Dunja happened to mention that she liked them, so I thought why keepdragging it around cupboards if she might like it on her wall.’Foisted on me, the tapestry ended up in my arms. Somewhat surprised, Inodded (Dunja likes tapestries?) and set off for the door.’Dule…’ I turned round and saw Lisa coquettishly holding a glass in one handand a bottle in the other. With her eyebrows she offered me a drink, which,completely confused and surprised, I refused and set off again for the door.But, she wriggled past me, blocked my path and kissed me loudly on thecheek. With a wet cheek, I did manage to get out. Absent-mindedly, I liftedup the tapestry and saw flowers, baskets and sun, something I wouldprobably never be able to understand. I laughed at myself as I walked with

that framed primitive work towards the car. I opened the door and got in,with a sigh of relief.The tapestry found a place in our living room, just above the table. Iregarded it as a personal gift to me, although it was ostensibly intended forDunja. I thought it had been an excuse for her to ask me in so it wassomething between a reminder of her invitation and a gift from a rejectedwoman. Yesterday Dunja took another look at it and almost cried out:’Look, look, there’s a dedication here…’ At Dunja’s words I felt my shouldermuscles contract and my knees jerk, which usually happened when I wasfrightened or shocked. I had a presentiment that this was a dedicationintended for me and that poor Lisa had thought that I would read it while Iwas still in the car, and that would send me straight back to her. The letterswere very unusual, and, it seemed, even old. But, I knew that Lisa was notcapable of forming them and thought that the tapestry had after all beenbought and that this was perhaps a designation of the article, or the shop,but I still felt that everything was not as it should be. There was somethinghidden in that dedication, I had an intuition that it was some kind of codeconcealing the secret of Lisa’s relationship with me. I thought that maybeLisa had found the dedication in a book about some pharaoh or other ruler,and that it was a provocative declaration of love, written in a private, ancientscript, and that in her crazy machinations she imagined that it wouldsomehow more easily get through to me, as an historian. The next day Itook the tapestry off the wall and concluded that it was very heavy, that atone moment my knees gave way and I almost threw it onto the bed, barelymanaging to drag it that far. It was strange that I had carried it from Lisa’sapartment to the car, hardly noticing it, and even stranger that Lisa hadcarried it under one arm. I laid it face down on the bed and began to look atit. There was a piece of dark yellow paper stuck to the back with thecontentious dedication written on it in faded letters. I thought for a momentthat it really was a present from someone to Lisa and that only she couldunderstand the dedication. Not wanting to tire myself, I pulled the piece ofpaper, which came unstuck unexpectedly easily and there it was in my hand.But what surprised me even more was that under the paper I had removedthere was another piece of paper of the same colour and thickness, stuckonto the back, quite undamaged by my tearing the other one off. I waspuzzled as to how one piece of paper could be stuck over another and thatneither of them should have been the slightest damaged by the process oftearing. It was as though they were two self-adhesive notelets. That shookme a bit and forced me to take a look. I was still holding the piece of paperI had intended to throw away crumpled in my hand. I opened it up, but therewas nothing written on it any more! ’There’s something odd going on here’, Ithought. In my hand I was holding an ordinary, smooth piece of paper, whilethere, on the new piece on the back of the picture, was the same dedication!I stared at the paper in my hand, took it over to the window and light, but, invain, it was completely blank. I bent down to see whether it was a matter ofexactly the same dedication, but as I looked more closely I realised that itwas a miniature sketch of the outer shell of Tutankhamun’s throne,dedicated to God. Lord, how long ago that was and how could Lisa haveknown about it? I lifted the tapestry to the level of my chest and watched inastonishment as there first began to be hints and then ever clearer outlinesof houses, palaces, and temples of light stone. Appalling. Everything thathad stood for years on my shelves was drawing itself before my eyes. A hallwith great columns where prophecies had been erased, and a porch and anave. And when I peered into the nave I saw the treasure of the gods. And

everywhere, every moment, sketches of sphinxes and mummies came intobeing. Finally, at the top a female head appeared, the head of Nephertite,discovered only this century, but made in the seventeenth century BC.Impossible! I stood there astounded and terrified, quite paralysed in front ofthe sketch which had now acquired its full form and I realised that what wasin front of me was a fresco. I don’t know why, but I felt that Lisa could nothave had anything to do with this. History belonged to intelligence, butintelligence did not belong to Lisa, at least that’s what I thought. I looked atthe floor, and then, with my brow quite wet with sweat, I raised my eyes fromthe ground, hoping that this vision had disappeared in the same mysteriousway it had arrived. But, devil take it! It was there, and it did not move. I wasconvinced that I was beginning to go mad. I wanted several times to removethat piece of paper, but I knew that another one would be waiting for meunderneath. I sighed and turned the tapestry over. Those stitched flowerswere still strutting there, as though laughing at me. I turned it quickly back,but there was nothing there any more! No kind of dedication, only paper … Ibreathed again, and then tore off the two next layers of paper. Whatdisturbed me the most was this tearing – the images could not be attributedto my tiredness, or some strange fantasy that had come over me: I hadtouched the paper, I had felt it in my hand. My fear was beginning tosubside – after all, it had all happened in my room, in my apartment, in themiddle of Belgrade. At any moment I could stop it all, put the monstrousthing back on the wall, go out into the street and mingle with everyone else.But, still, I didn’t do that. I thought perhaps it was a strange phase of sleep,where I was half-awake, but still not sufficiently strong to resist – I realised Iwas dreaming, but could not influence my waking. Shapes, sketches,drawings with the precision of photographs appeared one after the otherbefore my eyes. Just like the previous images, it all began again … a river,then a little boat on it, until a town began to be made out. But, this picturecould not be removed so easily. I could not get hold of the edge of thesketch. I tried to grasp the piece of paper in the middle, but my hand wentthrough the paper, the canvas, everything, and plunged into the cold waterof the river. I was horrified and quickly withdrew, as though a second later Iwould have lost my hand. Terrified, virtually paralysed again, I moved thetapestry, as though I expected it to spill, but nothing happened. I tried toput my hand into it again, and the picture opened once more and my armdisappeared up to my shoulder. Of course, it was not on the other side. Andmy vanished arm, strangely swallowed up, felt the cold water, to the bone.Between the front and back of the tapestry, there were only a couple ofcentimetres. Dunja had recently taken my measurements for a shirt, my armwas seventy-five centimetres long. So where, actually, was my arm at thatmoment?! I wondered – where would I emerge, if I were to enter the pictureentirely? Would I go back a thousand years in time? I raised my foot,resolving to do it, but the paper just tore, the glass shook. I must havelooked really comical. I went to get the encyclopaedia. There must be anexplanation for all of this. What kind of picture was this, and when did it datefrom? Unbelievable … I couldn’t find it.Lisa had not come for several days, although she had been coming at thesame time for years. I was certain that her non-appearance was connectedwith the tapestry parade. After several days of searching in libraries, I foundin a book a reproduction of the picture which had appeared to me on theback of the tapestry. It was a fresco originating from Pompeii showing thelife of the Roman aristocracy resting in a luxurious villa after completing theirpolitical duties. I looked at the bottom right-hand corner, where it said: Place

of origin unknown. My cigarette fell out of my mouth. That was all that waswritten, nothing more, not when it disappeared, or under what circumstances.Eh, Lisa, Lisa. I slowly dropped my hand into my lap and thought – just letthis all stop as soon as possible. Who on earth is this Lisa?’Dule,’ I heard Dunja’s voice from the bathroom, ’I forgot to tell you amoment ago,’ she stopped again, as though trying to remember what shehad to tell me, ’take care next time you are watering that plant above thetapestry. Yesterday when I came back from the shop, it was dripping.’’Dripping from where?’ I asked in horror.’From the wretched tapestry,’ she called.No, it wasn’t possible. I never water the plants. In other words water wassimply dripping from the picture. I’ll take it all apart, to the last thread,outline, stitch, pattern, or whatever it’s called, on that bloody tapestry. Iwaited for Dunja to go for her afternoon rest, and then I locked the door ofthe room and started the whole thing again. I don’t myself know how manylayers I had to remove this time. Then I sat down and reflected: I had beentearing away layer after layer of paper for four whole hours and nothing hadchanged. Who knew how much paper there was – I had torn off at leastthree to four hundred layers! If you were to take so much paper and put ittogether, it would have been far thicker than the thickness of the wholetapestry. When it finally seemed to me that there was just one piece ofpaper left, when I thought that I could touch the glass from the back – newlayers appeared. Somewhere around four in the afternoon, when I was justthinking of giving up, I experienced the scene I had seen before. Letterscould just be made out, and after a few moments they were clearly written:BCVLV: TENENS: ICESI; DUH. In front of that ’Icesi’ there was something thatreminded me of the Cyrillic letter ’D’, and under it a number that lookedRoman to me. Maybe it was not a number, but a sign in the inscription itself,something like VVIII. I began to make out horses running, and under theirhooves was written “TAT’, ’PVE’, ’ROS’. Dear God! The second figure on theright was the Norman William of Normandy. A tapestry entitled: The Tapestryof Queen Matilda. This time I could not touch anything, only look. I foundthe name of the tapestry in the lexicon, there was information about itswhereabouts. Therefore it could not be here, like that picture which hadmysteriously disappeared… I tore at it, although it was more difficult andkept getting stuck. This was already well into the Common Era, if Iremembered rightly, XVI century. And where was the period from the V, VIand VII centuries, where were those dozen centuries of which there wasneither trace nor word? The next piece of paper gleamed strangely, itpositively blinded me… I raised my hand to take it off, but there was nopaper, just yellow … oh heavens … gold … dust …. Gold… Dunja! Hurry! Dunja!Real, honest to goodness gold… I crushed it between my thumb andforefinger and it was impossible that there could have been any mistake…Dunja came casually into the room looking at what was going on…’Dunja, look!’ I shouted and pointed at the gold dust which was pouring allover the room, but she just looked at me strangely and shrugged hershoulders.’What’s so unusual? Besides, what’s got into you now, I was the first to seethe dedication…’The dedication?! Was it possible that she hadn’t seen any of this…? Did thatmean it was just my fabrication after all? Annoyed, I wanted to show her allthe layers of paper I had torn off which had ended up crumpled in thewastepaper basket.’Milos came a little while ago and threw out the rubbish,’ said Dunja,

meaning our son… ’Dule, have a rest, you’re talking nonsense, and put thepicture back on the wall before you break it on the bed…’ said Dunja on herway out somewhere.I picked up some of the gold dust again, crumbled and crushed it in myfingers, and the gold continued to fly off the canvas and fall on my old,burnt rug. Then, all at once, it all became nothing but a picture again anddisappeared into the painted sacks from where it continued to gleam. Acaravan appeared on the picture, followed by slaves. On one side, thecaravan disappeared, as though it were sinking beneath the right-hand sideof the frame. I know, a pilgrimage. There were numbers above the caravan:1312 and 1337, and then on the right-hand side 1324. Cancan Muse, myexamination question and my final-year dissertation – The Reception ofIslam in Black Africa. Cancan Muse, the conqueror of the Sudan and Songay… A man who had died a mysterious death. According to some he died whenthe Majji dynasty fell apart, but that was objectively impossible, because thatdid not happen until the end of the XIV century, and Cancan Muse lived fromthe middle of the XIII. Although it was possible if one assumed that he liveda very long time. According to others he died in the course of a pilgrimage in1324, which was also impossible, since it is known that he ruled until 1337…My friend from university had brought some books where there were datasuggesting that Cancan had been abducted and that no one heard of himfor a long time, that then he had appeared alive, well and unchanged, ahundred years later, when Songay, one of the most extensive black Muslimstates, already existed. And now Cancan was here, on my needlepoint.Those years probably designated the exact limits of his rule. Let’s see whatcame next… Mecca was still there, but beside the three of them thereappeared another, 1517, then 1619, and when 1624 appeared all the othernumbers faded. The back of the canvas was the same… The next sheetbelonged in the same way to … a woman… a familiar hairdo, pose…Catherine II… Her famous hairdo. A famous picture from textbooks, fromtapestries, by a strange irony, and the covers of school-books. I had alwaysliked that Catherine. A German woman, married to the Russian Tsar PeterIII, whom she later removed from the throne and then herself ruledconfidently. Soon that picture lost its original shape. The canvas began tocrumple, Catherine’s double chin disappeared, she raised her eyes, her hairbegan to fall out of its plaits, and on the painting she lifted her hands andtook off all her medals, throwing them away. She was still the sameCatherine, except that under the portrait was written Moscow, 1890. Howcould it be 1890, when Catherine’s rule ended in 1796, and why Moscow? Iwas afraid that I would miss the main thing while I was thinking, so I leftmaking the connection until later. The inscription ’Moscow’ disappeared, butthe year remained. From the picture Catherine began again to spread hercheeks, as though she was pumping them up with air, the double chin andfat neck reappeared, her hair began to wave and acquire a darker colour,and her eyebrows became quite thin. Without the slightest doubt – it wasLisa. I don’t know how I had characterised my earlier reactions, but this nowwas sick fear. I heard myself breathing heavily, and I heard someonegroaning beside me, although I knew that the sound came from me. I feltan intoxicating, sticky trembling. On the painting in the Russian alphabetwas written Marushka Stefanovich, and then the hair became a bit shorterand the name Lisa Marcano appeared. Yes! Lisa! This was all her doing!What Stojanka, what nonsense! It still said 1890 on the picture. In otherwords, more than a hundred years had passed since then, and the sameLisa was still on the picture. Who was Marushka Stefanovich? I tore that layer

off as well, to see what would happen, and on the back letters began toform… No! No! No! Would there ever be an end? Cyrillic? It said: ’To dearDule, from his Lisa; to thank him for liberating me after two hundred years.May he forgive me, I used once to accept gifts gladly.’ I looked on paralysedas painted flowers, baskets and the sun began to appear beside thededication, gradually the whole tapestry, or rather painting stood before me.And then it all disappeared. I turned the picture helplessly onto its face andsat down for everything to take its rightful place in my head.’Dule,’ said Dunja, who had just come in, ’are you still fiddling with thattapestry, and I’ve been all the way into town and back … Do you know what Iheard… Lisa … Lisa has been killed…’’Lisa?’’Yes, just a short time ago … She was run over. Pointless. I was cominghome and saw a crowd outside her building. They say that she died stupidlyand that she could have saved herself…’’So, you mean … she’s dead?’’What do you think, would it be wrong of me to hang onto her cashmere?’’Wrong? No, not at all. You could even make me something as well. I think Iwill be needing to wear it for a long, long time.’

Darko TusevljakovicONE DAY OF FREEDOM

’What did you do to her?’ asked the policeman who was handing them theirthings on the way out.’I blew her brains out because she was getting on my nerves,’ replied Denis,taking the bag containing his old trainers, watch, wallet and a hologram ofRaquel Welch in a bra.’Fucking maniac,’ said the policeman to himself, opening the gates.Denis left the perimeter of the prison and breathed in the fresh, sticky smellof freedom.He had imagined, in fact, that they would release him on a beautiful sunnyday, but they hadn’t released him in summer, it was now autumn and coldand wet outside.The space outside the gates was deserted and no one was waiting for him.Welcome back, he said to himself and set off towards town.An electromagnetic bus sped past him without stopping. People immediatelynoticed his prison clothes.The next day, in town, he visited a few friends and discovered that no oneknew him. He also discovered that the lock on his apartment door had beenchanged. He no longer had the right to any food credit, so he bought somerecycled junk you didn’t need it for. It smelled of dirty laundry andsomeone’s sick. He didn’t dare move around the wooded part of the town, orin the Household Quarter, not even in the Central Zone, but only through theresidential tunnels on the underground level. He made his way down there,found an abandoned unit with two rooms and a bathroom and went in. It wason the first level below the sewers, where the tunnels stank of faeces, andfilthy water ran down the walls. Inside it was almost completely dark and hetook his hologram of Raquel Welch out of his bag and activated it. Hisneighbours’ heads peered out of the other cells in the walls. Someone brokesomething further down the tunnel and the loud clink of metal could beheard. This is a dangerous district, he thought, hiding the light of thehologram. He ate in silence and then in his damp room he slept through hisfirst night of freedom.And the very next day the residential commission came through the tunnel.A metal worm wound through the underground announcing through amegaphone: RESIDENTS OF THE TUNNEL! ATTENTION! EVERYONE WHO HAS ARESIDENCE PERMIT SHOULD PLACE IT ON THE CONTROL COUNTER OF HISRESIDENCE! IF YOU POSSESS A PERMIT THERE WILL BE NO PROBLEM! IF YOUDO NOT, GIVE YOURSELF UP QUIETLY! ENTER THE VEHICLE THROUGH THEMARKED ENTRANCE!He had never seen the metal worm before and he didn’t know which way torun. Prison, he thought to himself. Anything but prison. He rushed out of theunit which he had inhabited and began to run aimlessly down one of themain tunnels, towards the light at its end.He stumbled over metal rubbish and fell into puddles on the road. In frontof him he saw other illegals running. Where to, he wondered. Where shall Igo? His legs carried him towards the light, like the others, because hethought that was the way to the surface. But then the worm’s engine wasstarted and he realised that the light at the end of the tunnel was the mainheadlight on the machine.That’s how they pick them up, he thought. They lure them with falsedaylight.

He turned and ran back.’Hello, dimwit,’ someone called to him from one of the side tunnels. Hedidn’t have time to look round.’Hello, Raquel Welch?’ came the voice again.He stared into the darkness nevertheless and saw a girl squatting at theentrance to the side tunnel waving to him.’Over here! Follow me, you dimwit! Otherwise you’re done for!’ she said andpointed at the tube behind her. He changed direction so abruptly that healmost fell and sped into the side tunnel beside her.She ran after him.’If you’d carried on that way, they’d have crushed you! You wouldn’t havehad time even to say – teeth!’’Why teeth?’ he asked, panting.’Because afterwards that’s the only way of identifying you,’ she replied. Theyran through the half-darkness of the tunnel, hearing behind them the criesof those who had been caught.’Fucking hell,’ he said. ’They really are killing them. Where now? Tell me!’The reached an underground crossroads, with three paths leading further onthrough the earth. The fourth was directly above them and a pale lightseemed to be gleaming at its end. ’There they are!’ he shouted. ’Let’s goright!’’No, hold on. That’s the surface. Let’s go up.’ She stopped him and tookhold of a metal ladder. As she climbed up, he looked a little more closely ather. She had a thin, wiry body and was very fit.’What are you, a tiger?’ he asked her.She turned her head and glanced at him, still climbing up the tube.’No, boy, I’m not a tiger. But I am a wild beast.’

***In the Wooded District on the surface, there weren’t any patrols as in thetunnels, because it was difficult to get into.Transparent domes had been placed all around and everything that tried topass through them would feel lightning searing it. There was only one realentrance to the park and that was secured by the army.Denis and the girl who had saved him from certain death lay on the soft,fragrant grass. Birds flew around them, surprised at the unexpected visit.The weather was glorious; the artificial summer under the dome maintainedideal conditions for plants, and in return extracted their oxygen andsiphoned it into the Household Quarter. Denis took his old trainers out of hisbag. He took off his prison boots and threw them away from him.’How did you know about Raquel Welch?’ he asked the girl. ’You were spyingon me down there, weren’t you?’She smiled and turned her large eyes on him. ’Of course,’ she said. ’Youwere clumsy and confused when you came in. The walls there are full ofholes, you should have checked it out. If you’d stayed there any longer,people would have pinched everything.’She took the hologram and turned it round in her hand. ’Big tits,’ she said.’Bigger than mine.’He looked her up and down in her black fibre-plastic suit. She wore a beltwith the sign ’D’ round her waist.’You’re not from the underground. You live on the surface, in the CentralZone! Don’t you?’She looked at him seriously and put the hologram down on the grass.’How did you know the way here? We’re in the fucking Wooded District! I

know who are the only ones who have access here.’’Steady on,’ she said, ’calm down. Or they’ll storm us for sure. Of course I’mnot from down there. But I know the roads. I’m a wild beast and I hunt downthere. So calm down and don’t worry. We’ll get out of here, we’ll just have abit of a rest. We’re going to my place.’’How … how do you mean, you hunt? Who do you hunt? Them down there?’He got up and pointed to the manhole in the grass. ’Who do you do it for?Who pays you?’The girl frowned and sat down cross-legged.’I hunt them because I was once one of them. I lived down there illegallyand the commission caught me. They gave me the instincts of a wild animaland let me go. Since then every time there’s a raid in the underground theysend the hunters first to sweep out the smaller tunnels. That’s where yousaw me. There, are you happier now?’He stared at the manhole in front of him.’So why didn’t you catch me?’ he asked. ’Or perhaps you did?’He was still standing in front of her, with his muscles tensed now, ready foraction. She smiled and stood up.’Fool, that’s not how it works. I’m a killing machine. Had I wanted to catchyou, you would have had your throat cut long before now.’ She took himtenderly by the arm and led him across the lawn. He relaxed again andallowed her to lead him further.’I didn’t kill you because, I don’t know, I liked the look of you, and myinstinct failed me, I was sated. Who knows?’They went through the dense wood and came out into a new field across themiddle of which ran the invisible line of the protective dome. ’You see theway the grass is bent over there, as though someone had ridden a bicycleover it? That’s a shield,’ she told him. ’We have to cross over to the otherside. That’s where the Household Quarter is.’Denis looked at her in surprise. ’What do we want to go there for? To the bigshots’ Quarter? They’ll kill us as the minute we appear, just look at ourclothes!’’I’ve got some unfinished business there,’ she said and set off ahead to theshield. She took off her belt and fastened it to make a loop. She placed it inthe air at the level of her knees and moved her hands away. There was asmell of ozone and the air crackled.’What’s that?’’A way through. My secret weapon. Come through before someone registersthe hole.’He bent down and passed through the loop. She pulled herself through afterhim.She placed her hand on the inner side of the belt and drew it to her. Theywere in the open, outside the dome. They turned their backs on the woodedside of the town and confronted a new landscape. The field came to an endand gave way to white complexes of private houses and estates. They madetheir way down the slope towards the settlement.

***A black helicopter belonging to the special unit was flying over the lowhouses and tangling the grass on the English lawns in the gardens.There were about a dozen soldiers in it and through the headphones on theirhelmets you could hear a simulated voice giving them a description of thepeople they were chasing. There was no one in the streets; personal securitykept the inhabitants in their homes.

A few electromagnetic vehicles were in intensive pursuit at an even lowerlevel. They communicated through external megaphones, driving theirvictims crazy.THERE THEY ARE! 12TH AVENUE, NUMBERS TWO AND THREE – AFTER THEM!OVER HERE, RIGHT, OUT OF THE BUSHES! START THE HEAT SEEKERS!NUMBER FOUR, OVER HERE! SEPARATE!Denis and the girl-hunter ran across someone’s lawn and the alarm went off.The megaphones from the vehicles joined in the din. A man from personalsecurity ran out of the house and fired at them from a hand weapon.’Leave him, old man!’ she said as she sped past him. Her mouth wasbloody, because she had just killed a fat man in his living room.It was very strange to situate such a battle in the peaceful surroundings ofthe wealthy district, but that was what had happened and Denis didn’t like itat all.’I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for saving my life today, but it seems that now Iwon’t have time for that!’ he shouted towards her as they draggedthemselves through someone’s vineyards. The vines cut their arms and legs.’This is just as I imagined my first day of freedom! Madness!’’Shut up, idiot, and follow me!’ she responded. ’I know where I’m going!’’I’m really glad,’ he shouted after her and stumbled on a branch. Atransporter was following him, scanning the ground. ’Hunter,’ he cried out.’I’ve had it!’ The girl turned round and saw him lying on the ground holdinghis injured joint. She went up to him and helped him to stand.’Come on, you loser, let’s go. We’ve haven’t time for fooling around rightnow. Just wait till we get to my place.’ She dragged him through the vines.They set off towards the exit from the Household Quarter under fire from thepatrol.’You were great back there, you fought like a lion.’’Does that mean we’re similar, tiger? Maybe they injected an animal instinctinto me as well when I was in prison, who knows? Maybe now I can hunt likeyou?’ he said, his face contorted with pain.The foot patrol was working through the side streets and neighbouringgardens and getting closer to them. The girl hit a soldier who ran out in frontof her and snatched his gun. She fired in the direction of the others.’Hang on a bit longer! Just a bit, boy, and we’ll be safe!’They pushed through dense bushes of various shapes and ran over openbeds of brightly coloured flowers. Leaning on her lithe body, he limped onone foot, trying to follow her step. And then, at a certain moment, he did notmanage to see where they were, the ground opened up beneath them andthey were surrounded by complete darkness. They were flying downwardsthrough a metal tube.’Where are you, tiger?’ he shouted desperately. ’Are you here?’’I’m here, with you. I’m holding your hand,’ she whispered into his ear.At that moment, as they were falling through the darkness back towards thedamp underground, he realised that he could not do without her. Not onlybecause he was hurt, and would probably have been killed long ago, had hebeen on his own, but because he was beginning to feel something else. Hegrabbed her hand tightly and heard her giggle in the roar of their vertiginousfall. She could have slit his throat then, he would not have stirred. They hadstill not reached anywhere in their fall, but his consciousness was quietlyslipping into a white, dreamless sleep.

***’Boy…’

A tiny point of light was spreading and disclosing the interior of a little room.He tried to move his toes and succeeded. His right foot hurt.’Boy … can you hear me?’’Y … yes,’ he mumbled.’Good. I was wondering whether you had snuffed it, here, on my bed. Whatwould I have done with your great hulk then?’He was lying on a hard bed leaning against one wall of a residentialcontainer in the Central Zone. He knew the metal interiors of the apartmentsin this part of town well. Before it had been taken from him, this was wherehis apartment had been. He raised himself on his elbows with difficulty andlooked for the girl who had saved his life twice in one day. She was sitting inthe corner of the container, watching the news on the net.’How did we escape from the Quarter?’ he asked uncertainly. ’We fell into atunnel, I remember that, but afterwards …’’Lie down and rest, tough guy,’ she said, turning towards him. ’We’ll talklater, there’ll be plenty of time for that. Sleep now.’He wanted to protest, to ask her why they had attacked that man’s propertyand why she had killed him, but he didn’t have the strength. He laid hishead back on the bed again and fell asleep. When he awoke the worldlooked far brighter.The girl-hunter was in the miniature kitchen preparing food.It smelled of meat. Fresh meat. She was no longer wearing her black fibre-plastic, she had on ordinary blue shorts and a tee-shirt and looked likeevery other kid in the neighbourhood. He straightened up on the bed andlooked out of the window. A panorama of the whole Central Zone opened upbefore his eyes.’Hmm, you’ve got a great view here,’ he said, standing up.She gave a start and smiled.’You’re awake. How do you feel?’’Okay, I suppose. My foot’s still sore.’He went over to the window and opened it. They were on the top of one ofthe highest residential containers. Far below in the streets, life was going onand Denis wanted to go outside and take a walk, even without permission.He had not had such an opportunity since he had been let out of prison.The girl went over to the table carrying two plates of steaming food.’Come over here,’ she said. ’Sit down and eat. We’re both starving.’She’s got meat, he thought. It was really meat.’Where did you get real cutlets?’She looked at him thinking he was joking. He was serious.’You really don’t know? How long were you out of town?’’Seven years.’’OK, then I get it. It’s not real meat, fool. Did you ever watch that old film,two-dimensional, about the character who works out that green food is madeof people? No? Well, who knows what they offload on us… This is newartificial meat. Better than recycled.’He nodded and began to eat. The cutlet tasted quite normal. It was verygood. The girl took a piece of meat as well, still watching him. She swallowedand asked:’You were in prison, weren’t you?’He looked at her over his plate. ’Yes.’She took another mouthful. ’So what did you do?’It was a little odd that they were only now getting to know each other,thought the girl. Earlier that day they had attacked the property of theMinister of Information, whose throat she had cut, while he had kept watch

by breaking the security man’s bones.There was an old comic strip, she remembered. It was assembled from sewnpaper, as books had once been, and was about a girl and a guy whoattacked wherever they wanted. They were in love, but they were nevertogether. Now it was time to hear something more about the man she hadthat morning extracted from certain death.’I killed my wife,’ he said and went on eating.She put down her fork and pushed her chair back from the table. Denisnoticed and looked at her.’What’s up?’ he asked. ’What’s wrong?’’You killed your own wife?’’Yes. So what? You’ve slaughtered dozens of people with your teeth. Howcome you find it strange?’’I’ve never killed anyone close to me.’Denis stopped eating and wiped his mouth. ’No. And I’ve never killed anyonewho wasn’t. What’s the difference?’She turned away from him and took her plate into the kitchen. She lookedattractive, dangerous and attractive. He liked that about her. He wantedthem both to go out into the street.’How about going down, the two of us, for a walk?’ he asked her. She hadher back to him and didn’t turn round. ’Did you hear? What do you thinkabout going down?’’Did you eat your meat?’ she asked.’Sorry?’’If you’ve eaten your meat, I’d like you to leave.’He stayed sitting at the table and tried to take in what she had said. Shewasn’t looking at him, she was standing at the sink soaking her hands inwarm water.’I don’t understand, tiger. I thought you told me to go.’She turned round and he saw her eyes.’Yes, boy. Get out of the apartment, please.’’You really mind,’ he said, ’that I killed my wife.’He didn’t understand. She was a tiger, a hunter in the darkness of theunderground corridor, a mercenary, a murderer. She could have killedanyone in less than a second. He had seen for himself. The fat man in theHousehold Quarter had grunted like a pig. What was going on? Why was ithe couldn’t be a murderer?He had killed only once. And he hadn’t bitten anyone’s neck, he had used apistol.’You’re selfish, if it bothers you. I’m a little kid compared to you, tiger.’’That’s not true,’ she said, drying her hands. ’I do it because I have to andnot because I feel like it. It’s my job, my life. I thought you understood that,but you haven’t a clue. You’re just an ordinary maniac. Now I’m sorry that Isaved you in the tunnels today. You didn’t deserve it.’Denis was growing increasingly furious. The girl was wonderful, tall, long-legged, she was standing in front of him in her brief shorts and t-shirt withnothing underneath it, saying things he didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want toleave the apartment. Not without her.’Don’t talk like that, hunter,’ he said. ’You’re just angry. Didn’t we fight welltoday, together? Didn’t we escape the patrol? Do you regret that?’’You killed your wife. How long were you together?’He didn’t like this conversation. He could feel the accusing tone in her voice.’About ten years, tiger. I’ve done my time for that. Seven years behind bars,isn’t that plenty?’

’Why … why did you kill her?’Her sudden sensitivity bothered him. The girl hadn’t looked remotely likethis that morning, she was a wild beast. She had large sharp teeth and whiteclaws and she coiled like a cable as she ran. In her laugh there had beensomething like a growl. What was in front of him now was her tame sister.’Ah… why?’ he said. ’It’s a long story, tiger. I had been going mad slowly, foryears. She shut me up, fettered me, coralled me in her four walls, which werenarrower even than the tunnel we ran down this morning. And then sheaccused me of being lazy, bad-tempered, uninterested. It’s no good mytelling you, you’re too young and alive. She was the same as you, she was awild animal. But not a tiger, she was a snake. And she poisoned me. I hadto put an end to it.’The girl looked at him with suspicious eyes.’And couldn’t you go? Simply go and forget? You had to kill her? How, tellme, how did you kill her? Did you open her stomach, cut her throat? Whatdid you do?’Now he was really furious. Her fine body irritated him. She had become abeautiful destroyer, the worst combination. He stood up and approached her.’No, that’s not what I did. That would probably have been your way. I killedher with a bullet from a pistol. In her head. She didn’t feel anything. Then Iwent to the police and gave myself up. Freedom for me then was notphysical.’He went up to her and took her hands.’I don’t want us to quarrel, tiger. I like you. I thought it would be good if Icould stay here for a while. What do you say? A couple of days?’The girl looked away and shook her head stiffly.’I don’t think that’s a good idea. I was wrong to have had anything at all todo with you this morning. I don’t know what got into me, I thought you weredifferent, you were confused and hunched … careless.’He held her hands more tightly.’Look at me,’ he tried for the last time. ’Look at me, tiger. I’m the sameman you saved from the commission. The same! I spent seven years indeep shit and now I’ve come to start over again. I haven’t got anything, Ihaven’t got any friends. They’ve taken away my apartment, food credit, myresidence permit for the zone. And then I met you and you got me out of allthat shit. Today for the first time after many years I was physically free aswell. It’s hard to be free here, and you gave me that. Don’t send me awaynow. Don’t, because I won’t be able to go.’’What do you mean?’ she asked, slowly withdrawing her hands. ’What do youmean you won’t be able to go? You’ll go, if I tell you to. Go!’Denis was sweating. She was so beautiful, from the first moment when hehad had a good look at her in the damp corridor he had seen how lovely shewas. He felt the obstacles closing in on him. It was an electric charge thatwas driving him to lay her, but he knew she wouldn’t accept that, so it wasdriving him to hit her. He squeezed her wrists.’Let me go, boy,’ she said. ’Don’t play games with me.’It was less and less of a game. Time was passing and his breathing wasbecoming louder. The girl freed one hand from his and hit the other one. Helet her go at once.’Why,’ he asked in an uneasy voice, ’why did you kill the fat man in theQuarter today? Tell me! That’s not so terrible, eh? You killed him with yourteeth, tiger. You had blood on your mouth.’She withdrew to the other side of the table. She picked up the fork he hadbeen eating with.

’He was a minister,’ she said, ’the Minister of Information. I sometimes haveto do that as well. I was given the task. You can’t blame me.’’Maybe they’ve given me a task as well.’ He moved round the table, drawingcloser to her. ’Maybe I have to kill wild beasts like you. You never know.’’No, that’s not true!’ she ran from him holding the fork in her hand. Sheshowed her white teeth. Denis heard her growling.’Maybe it wasn’t you who found me, but I you, down there, in the garbage.How do you know that I haven’t been sent to kill you, eh?’’You haven’t, I know you haven’t! You can’t attack me!’ She was a wild beastagain.Her body moved like a shadow. He played with her, moving left and rightround the table. The air became warm with their breath. He ran after her andcaught hold of her t-shirt. She turned and bit him. He screamed. He felt anincredible desire, almost a sexual instinct, to kill her. To penetrate her andkill her. I am a wild beast, he said to himself. I am a wild beast. We are wildbeasts…He went round the table and ran after her as she went towards the door. Hecaught up with her at the last moment and sank his teeth into her soft neck.She shrieked and stamped her feet on the floor. He tasted blood. Right nextto his face, he saw her eyes blinking slowly.She was breathing with her mouth open, exhaling air unevenly. She droppedthe fork. They were standing in the hall quite calmly, in an embrace, asthough they were both waiting for something to happen. She tried to saysomething and choked. He simply held her more firmly with his teeth. Bloodwas spurting over his chest. He felt her breathing slowing down and soon herlegs gave way completely, she stayed upright only because he was holdingher. And then her eyes fixed on an indefinite point and Denis was sure thatshe was dead.He took his teeth out of her neck and let her drop to the floor. And as shelay there, pale and relaxed, he saw again how beautiful she was.

***The electromagnetic bus floated up to a height above the town where thelarge complex of prisons was. Two policemen got out of it and led out thenew prisoner. They took him to the gate, and entered with him. He wascarrying only one bag, in which there were some old trainers, a watch andwallet. He had not brought the shining hologram of Raquel Welch with him,he had left it in the dead tiger’s apartment. They came to the reception deskand the policeman who was standing there took a closer look at him.’How come you’re back, eh?’ he asked, as he made a note of hisbelongings. ’What did you do this time?’Denis looked contemptuously at him and muttered: ’Nothing. I killed you.But tomorrow.’’We’ll do for you, maniac!’ said the policeman as the guards led the prisonerto the cell and he threw Denis’s things onto one of the shelves in the office.Then he went back to his place beside the counter and looked down thecorridor after him.Denis didn’t care what they did to him, because he had already lost both hisfreedoms, physical and spiritual. He went into his cell, never to leave itagain. The little he could see through the narrow window was really all thathe had. And that was nothing.

Goran BogunovicTHE BEAR AND THE NIGHTINGALE

It all began in the weights room when Sale and Dinko detached themselvesfrom the floor. It was Christmas Eve, the Gym was closing early and I had toexercise quickly. I always do everything at the last minute. I had to buypresents, but I had no intention of missing my training – December andJanuary were full of holidays and I had to make use of every moment. Theweights room was agreeably festooned: there was a decorated pine branchstanding on the counter, a silver ribbon with red baubles hanging from it wasdraped over the entrance. Sale and Dinko were kneeling in front of acalendar with a picture of a half-naked muscular girl with a Father Christmashat on and adding milk to a plastic cup with protein in it. Sale was putting onbulk, while Dinko was going more for definition. I bent down to tie up mytrainers which had come undone, I glanced at my fitness-companions anddiscovered that their feet had left the floor – not far, maybe four or fivecentimetres, but there was no doubt that they were no longer touching thefloor. I bent down again as though to straighten my socks and looked morecarefully – they really weren’t touching the floor. I went out, mutteringgoodbye. They didn’t hear and continued to mix pinkish (strawberry?) drinksin half-litre plastic cups, in synchronised movements, floating. I put it alldown to stimulus of the senses – an acute lack of oxygen, the holidayatmosphere? – and set off into town.It was a clear day and Zagreb looked like a postcard. The only thing missingwas snow. I almost forgot the event in the weights room. Then it occurred tome that after all it would be no bad thing to check it out. At first, to myrelief, I didn’t notice anything, but when my eyes became accustomed to it, Icould see clearly that the people who were coming towards me, and thepeople who were moving away from me, as well as those who were walkingbeside me, at varying rates, all of them were walking through the air. Theywere walking, apparently, normally, but their shoes, boots, trainers, thegreen rubbish bags tied with dirty string round the feet of the beggar whowould have asked me for money had I not turned my head away in time, allof them stopped before they touched the ground. I questioned my sanity,which is, they say, a fairly sure sign that you haven’t yet lost it. I observedmy own feet carefully. I was walking somewhat more easily than usualbecause of the clean, oxygen-rich air, I suppose, but my feet were steppingfirmly on the ground. I stopped in front of Father Christmas. He was givingout coupons for mobile phones. Only one, for ten kunas, he said, the solesof his shoes some ten centimetres above the ground, could be used perperson.1 I put my coupon into my pocket, and stopped to ask FatherChristmas what this hovering was about – a publicity gimmick, a new miracleof technology, a miracle in the Biblical, general sense? Let me have a go. Iwas interested to see what it was like. I didn’t ask him, a man who saysnothing is never mistaken. I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to have anice cream. I adore ice-cream, especially in winter. The only thing I prefer toDecember ice-cream is January ice-cream. I had to be patient about the ice-cream until I had done my shopping. I always give books. It was a beautiful,clear day, the air was fresh, quite cold – the cold nipped just the rightamount to keep one awake. Everything was somehow special. Even thepeople had given themselves a lift and were floating, very close to theground, admittedly. That’s why it wouldn’t be nice to be thrown out of thebookshop again for eating a four-scoop ice-cream. I had to concentrate. I

would forget the floating. I decided not to look down until I had boughtthose three books. It was all done in quarter of an hour. Feric in cellophane,Grass’s Dog Years, which I’d read first, in order to establish whether he reallyhad become senile and the Universal History of Infamy. I was not displeasedwith my choices. I got out the money for my ice-cream. It wasn’t easy to finda place that sold it at this time of year. The new confectioner’s gave youthree scoops for the price of two. I had calculated my spending so that I hadsix kunas left – a metal bear and a nightingale.2 I put them in my pocketand played with them, jingling them. My fingers were frozen. I still had onething to do in order to increase my pleasure – to make a circular walk whichwould take me away from the confectioner’s, so that I would want the ice-cream even more badly. I set off towards Tkalciceva Street, then further tothe north and watched the people who were still walking through the air. Withsome of them I noticed a significant increase in height, so that they werenow a whole twenty centimetres above the earth. I was walking easily myself,but not for a moment did I succeed in detaching myself from the ground,even by a millimetre. I reached the Kaptol Centre and decided to go back,slowly, towards Bogoviceva Street. Then I caught sight of a beggar woman.She was one of those I can’t walk past without giving them something.Those are the beggars who don’t make any effort, who don’t pull yoursleeve, who don’t do anything. Let’s be clear: I rarely give money tobeggars. I never give anything to the ones who bother you at crossroads: Idon’t like being forced to do something. But I sometimes simply feel theneed to give a few kunas and that’s that. She was going in the samedirection as me. I stopped and looked in my wallet for a bit more change.Nothing. From the two-hundred kuna note, which was my golden reserve incase I had found something which I couldn’t resist in the bookshop, StjepanRadic3 looked at me compassionately. He understood it all, did Stjepan. So,there were those six kunas. I picked them up and started thinking. I hatechanging such big notes in a confectioner’s. It’s easier to spend once it’schanged. But it wasn’t only that. I had calculated all my purchases so thateverything would be rounded off, taking care over the price of the books andthe wrapping paper. It had all been perfect, up to now. And now she washere. If only I had not met her. And she was walking beside me, she wasn’tasking anything, but I didn’t have the heart to lengthen my stride and leaveher behind me. I could decide by eenie-meenie-minee-mo. Yes – No. Icould deny myself the ice-cream, for a higher cause, not to be a selfish pig.The old woman was still walking beside me. Her clothes had once been nice,not cheap, you could see, the old woman was tidy, she could have beenanyone’s grandmother, who knows what had happened to her in her life.Looking at her made the hand which was playing with the bear and thenightingale open. Sod the ice-cream, I thought. What could she make in aday? Then something else occurred to me: what if it was all a con? Perhapsshe wasn’t poor at all, she didn’t look all that tired and shabby, perhaps itwas all a trick, perhaps she was going to make an ass of me. I had heardstories about professional beggars who were as rich as Croesus. I beganrasping the nightingale against the bear. What if I’m just trying to get out ofit. I feel like an ice-cream and it would suit me if that were true. I had toadmit to feeling great resistance to the idea of changing a two-hundred kunanote. I’m not giving Stjepan up. Or should I? Have my ice-cream and giveher two hundred kunas? She’d be surprised. Perhaps she’d think I was mad,or rich. Perhaps her conscience would prick her if she wasn’t poor after alland she’d refuse it? Perhaps that’s just when she would take it, and she’drefuse it if she was really poor? No, it wasn’t a good idea. I glanced at her.

She was getting on my nerves. It was all her fault: why did she have to turnup beside me? She could have gone a different way, passed by two minutessooner or later and I would have been OK. I felt a profound desire to swingthe bag heavy with books and bash the old girl in her sad face. Who knowshow far she would have flown, given that, as she was not touching theground, she had no support. I closed my eyes without stopping walking. Ithelped. I found the most honest solution. My few kunas would not meananything to her in any case – so I wouldn’t give them to her. Perhaps shewas a trickster, then my choice was certainly good, and if she wasn’t, she’dsurely collect quite a lot today. It was Christmas Eve, people would give. Lether go in peace. Just to show that I wasn’t a selfish pig, I wouldn’t spendthose six kunas on ice-cream. I’d chuck them. The Mandusevac fountainwould be best. That’s it! I’ll throw them into Mandusevac and make anunselfish wish. I promise! I opened my eyes, too late to avoid meetingthose of quite a good-looking girl. A very brief glance revealed that sheconsidered me the world’s greatest idiot, then the red mini-skirt with blackwoollen tights floated speedily on.The old woman was no longer there. Perhaps the deal was no longer valid? Istopped and, in search of understanding, looked up at the sky. There wasno visible sign. Granny, dear Granny, why did you do this to me? I tookStjepan out of my wallet. He was still looking at me anxiously. There wasnothing for it. I climbed up onto Mandusevac and stretched out my hand. Ithought of beggars, the homeless, the sick, hungry children, reconciled tothe fact that the ice-cream was done for. I closed my eyes and tried toformulate some brief, coherent desire, which would include everyone andeverything necessary. It would never be fulfilled, but at least that wouldn’t bemy fault. Before I had finished, I dropped the coins. Before they reached thebasin I managed to think only of hazlenut, truffle and yoghurt ice-cream,with chocolate sauce. At the same moment I felt a powerful spasm in mygut, which gurgled terribly and cried out to be emptied. It seemed to me thatthe whole of Jelacic Square had heard. I nearly lost control, but knelt downand clutched my stomach. It was better. I stood up and it was immediatelyfar worse.I walked bent double, holding my stomach, as discreetly as possible, andwent into a public toilet. The woman sitting on a bench raised her headtowards me. I said ’No. 2.’ ’Two kunas.’ I reached into my pocket, took outthe two hundred kuna note and looked at her enquiringly. She shook herhead wearily and lowered it, showing me a crown of dark-yellow hair withblack roots. I stood in front of her, but she no longer raised her eyes. I wentout and set off for the first café. A waiter was standing by the entrance to theWC, saying: ’Only for guests.’ I replied: ’I’ll order something afterwards.’ Hestood without a word in front of me, with his arms folded. There are othercafés, I thought, turning quickly away. I was feeling bad, I was sure I was ill.All around me – in front of all the cafés waiters were standing, watching mewith a scowl, as though they all knew, as though they were in telepathiccontact. I didn’t have any time. By the time I had gone to buy something, tochange that cursed two-hundred kuna note, it would be too late. Bathed incold sweat, I rushed to the first entrance, found a secluded corner andlowered my trousers. At that very moment a little girl with a lollipop appearedin front of me and screamed. At the same instant her mother appeared andbegan shouting. A crowd of people gathered around us. I crouched, I nolonger had any choice.’In the middle of town! Imagine! Call the police!’I crouched there and had no intention of getting up. I saw a multitude of

legs round me, fat and thin, male and female, but they were all standing onthe ground again. Or not again. Everything had been normal all the time. Itwas an illusion. I’ve got a temperature, I’m ill, can’t you see, leave mealone. I tried to explain everything, but couldn’t manage to say anythingcoherent. I didn’t mean to, I tried to do it in the proper place, but theywouldn’t let me. I had to, I didn’t have any choice. Nothing. I didn’t get asingle word out. Pulling up my trousers, I stood up. I tried to break through,but they held me back. At that moment I lost control and felt relief. Pliable,sticky, moist relief. I felt completely numb and terribly sleepy, my eyes wereclosing, I didn’t care what was happening around me. I could have sleptstanding up, now everything was all right. I leaned my back against the wallof a building and slowly slid down towards the pavement.The crowd babbled, making way to let the police through. I looked at theground and listened to the policeman’s steps. He stopped in front of me. Ilooked at him with one eye. He was not wearing blue, but red, he had bigwhite boots and was not a policeman, but Father Christmas. He stood infront of me, without saying anything. I thought: ’How strange, there’s nostench, maybe I can’t smell myself.’ He took my hand and began to leadme away. The people made way for us. He pulled me, I felt as though I waswater-skiing, sliding without effort. It was easy.He took off his cap and beard and changed completely. He was thin, he haddeep furrows round his mouth and nose and the brightest eyes I had everseen. I felt myself losing contact with the ground. Gradually we began tomove faster. We left the crowd behind. We were making our way through thecentre, slowly gaining height. We passed the first metre. I rubbed againstSale. Dinko was examining a shop window with sports equipment. In hisordinary clothes, Sale didn’t look that big at all. They watched mequestioningly, perhaps also fearfully. ’I’m going for an ice-cream,’ I repliedover my shoulder and went on. I passed the beggar woman. She lookedright through me, showing no sign of recognition. I began to free myselffrom my clothes, throwing them off, one by one, until I was entirely naked.That felt better. Was there a constellation of the Bear with a Nightingale?That’s where I was going. I wasn’t aware of the cold, just freshness. Iovercame my inertia and the gradient and now I was leading. He was fallingbehind. He was still holding onto me, but I was beginning to slip out of hishand. His palm was moist with sweat. I didn’t shake him off, nor did I try tohold onto him. I saw the town from a bird’s perspective: it looked like apostcard, unreal, as though it had been painted. The colours, lights andshadows were all too bright. Like on a flight simulator. I wanted my pastelsand a piece of paper. People were scattered irregularly, they were whirlingabout, changing direction, moving in syncopated rhythm, brown, black anddark-blue, green, red and yellow. Cars and trams moved and stopped atregular intervals. We were approaching the clouds. My hand slipped out ofhis, which was completely wet. He tried to catch me, he called out somethingI didn’t understand, but his endeavours were increasingly infrequent anddistant. I had lost him.I didn’t look round. The air was clean and crystal clear. The visibility wasabsolute. I mastered the air currents as well. The clouds were quite close.Just a little bit further and there would be only whiteness beneath me. Icarried on. It was easy.

Jelena SvilarPEACEFUL COEXISTENCE AND GOODNEIGHBOURLY RELATIONS

In the apartment below ours lived the R. family: father, mother, daughterand little twin boys. Ordinary, quiet people, with problems typical of thenineteen-eighties: how to get a small packet of coffee or detergent at thattime; the twilight of socialism, as it turned out. Let’s be clear – it was not aquestion of a lack of money. No one questioned going to the seaside orskiing, some went, some did not, but at one time drinking a cup of realTurkish coffee really became a serious existential problem. I shall neverforget the glowing face of our neighbour, the head of the R. family, cominghome from work, climbing the stairs, jealously, almost frantically, pressingunder his arm a packet of Minas coffee like the greatest treasure, anOlympic trophy or the key that opened every door. His smile expressed thebliss of a man who has discovered all the secrets of the universe, the self-confidence and certainty which is found only through enjoyment of details,the little things that make life worth living. And always, always, when he wascarrying a packet of coffee, that otherwise thoughtful and stern man strokedmy hair and winked at me as he passed.Comrade R. was a military man. A major, I think, because he didn’t manageto get any further. He was thrown out of the army because of histemperament. At the time I didn’t know either what temperament was, orwhy you could lose your job because of it, but my dad explained that therewere four kinds and I would learn about all of that when the time came andthat for the moment all I needed to know was that comrade R. was a goodman. And I believed him, because my father was an intellectual, althoughwhen I was a child I often spread the word around that he was ahomosexual, which many considered a very witty pronouncement, alwaysfollowed by that compulsory, almost ritual, irritating pinching of a child’scheeks that I hated.Comrade R. had a wife whose voice I never heard. She always walked behindhim, taking small, quiet steps, her head bowed, like a little dog following abrutal master afraid that it would be sent away at any minute. He had adaughter who showed every sign that she would walk through life along thepath well-tried and trodden by her mother. And he had two sons, twins,whom, I declare authoritatively, he loved more than anything else.Those two little four year-old boys were really sweet. Sasa was big and fair-haired with a firm, unmoveable, military expression and deep, clever blueeyes which he aimed round about, resting them only on the most interestingobject or person, looking at it long and devotedly, as though he had all thetime in the world at his disposal. Sometimes, I remember, his tenaciouslook would provoke an unease which I can’t explain to myself even today; Iwould turn my head away or leave the room where the child was, just not tobe the ultimate target of those looks. His twin Pedja, though, was thediametric opposite. A quiet, unsure boy of fragile build and with unjustly longeyelashes on the tips of which there hung, not infrequently, large tears,which he simply couldn’t control. He cried because of anything andeverything, and when he finally learned to speak almost no one wassurprised that he stammered. The only person for whom this was a genuineshock was his father, comrade R. Comrade R. tried to bring his son into lineby military methods, he shouted at him, sometimes he smacked him, hegenerally tried to ’harden’ his son in every possible way, his wife protestingquietly, but it simply didn’t work. The little boy stammered persistently, the

situation got worse, comrade R. ranted and raved, not noticing what effecthis educational methods were having on his other son. Sasa watched it allsilently at first, then, with his thumb in his mouth, he would rock slowlybackwards and forwards. As the quarrel raged, Sasa rocked more and morerapidly, frantically sucking his thumb and staring fixedly, with ’that’ look, athis crazed father, who was unused to not achieving the results he desired.When comrade R. finally realised that something was wrong with his otherson as well, it was too late. The boys made a tacit pact, deciding presumablyto totally madden their temperamental father: Pedja rocked and sucked hisfinger as though his life depended on it, while Sasa began to stammer evenmore than his brother. Of course, they both retained their original habits aswell, elaborating them to perfection. They stammered, sucked their thumbsand rocked backwards and forwards, and, when they got sick of that, fromleft to right. Comrade R. was quite desperate. He realised then that he wouldnot be able to cope by himself with such a multiple and evolved problem, sohe decided to try something different. He decided to acquire lots of moneyand take his twins to ’an expert for such things’, some sorcerer in Ohrid,whom he had heard about from the cleaner in the barracks, whose sister-in-law knew a woman in Metkovic who had heard of a similar case at the localhairdresser’s.That morning comrade R. rang our bell with a bag of Minas coffee under hisarm. While he was making coffee and telling my father about his greatplans, for the first time in ages I saw a trace of hope on his tormented,unhappy face. He spoke self-confidently about the fact that his sons’recovery was just a matter of days away and that he had come by the moneythrough his intuition and the TV presenter who had at last drawn out all theLOTTO numbers which he had been playing assiduously for years. He had hitthe jackpot and he had come to invite my father to a little celebration of thisoccasion! There was not the slightest hint of triumph because of his greatfinancial gain, not a hint of that typical, uncontrollable human self-congratulation, just infinite relief that he now had the possibility of solvingthe worst nightmare that could happen to a man, a soldier and father of hisstamp – timid, stammering twins.I was glad for him. I took the key to the cellar and, deciding to ride mybicycle around the neighbourhood, I left the apartment. After my ride, therewas the inevitable daily game of tag with my friends. The bicycle lay on thegrass some metres away. There were a lot of children outside and I knewthem all, so I wasn’t afraid that anyone would steal it. Besides, at that time,it wouldn’t have occurred to anyone to steal from children. I played calmly,not taking any notice of what was going on around me.Two cries rent the Sunday afternoon air virtually simultaneously. One was thethin cry of a child, which sounded like the shriek of a small animal crushedunderfoot and begging for help; and the other the ferocious, desperate cryof a man betrayed, deprived of all hope, burning from the desire to wakefrom a nightmare and be told that he really had been dreaming. Rooted tothe spot, I stared in disbelief at the sight of a child whose fingers wereturning blue before my eyes, tangled in the chain of MY bicycle, screamingand begging and choking with tears. It was Sasa. Comrade R., the owner ofthe second cry, had run out onto his balcony and was looking in confusion atthe scene below him. In a few seconds he appeared beside his son andquietly, talking tenderly to him, he carefully disentangled the little injuredfingers. Pedja was rocking beside him crazily, faster and faster, quiteconvinced that this was the only way to help his brother. The scene was reallyincredible. Some fifty adults and children held their breath waiting for the

outcome of the dramatic performance. And when it came, they all stared insilence at the scene, as though hypnotised. Having liberated the last littlefinger, comrade R. lifted the now quiet little boy into his arms and carriedhim to a nearby bench, and, talking tenderly all the time, laid him down onit. He turned and repeated the actions with Pedja, who had in the meantimestopped rocking. He sat down with them on the bench, hugged them andbegan crying bitterly, kissing them tenderly in turn the whole time. Thislasted a few minutes. Suddenly, as though he had remembered a missionhe had temporarily forgotten, comrade R. jumped up, picked up my bicycleand threw it some ten metres further off. Then he rushed at it again, begankicking it, throwing it down and breaking it up, for a long, long time,dedicatedly and patiently, until parts began to fall off. Everyone watched thescene transfixed, some openly approving, others horrified, while I watchedmy favourite toy disappearing and I was almost pleased. Comrade R.’s furysubsided, he picked up both his sons and went home. My father, unusuallycomposed, helped me put the remains of the bicycle away in the cellar, and,with a smile, he whispered to me:’That’s temperament for you, child.’The next morning, when I woke up and looked out of the window, I couldn’tbelieve my eyes: comrade R. was sitting in the car park fixing my bicycle! Hereturned it to me, completely restored, the next day, with a meek,conciliatory expression and stroked my hair. He really was a good man.I discovered the reasons for his shriek some years later at a time when,according to my father, I was ready ’to understand certain things’ and longafter I knew how to count all the different kinds of temperament.Nevertheless, the story saddened me, because a person is probably neversufficiently ready or old enough to get used to unhappiness. That Sundayafternoon, when he had asked his wife for the LOTTO ticket, the solution toall his problems, she had quietly, prepared for every punishment, informedhim that she had forgotten to buy it. His apartment shattered into a millionfragments, like a crystal glass on a marble floor. And he cried out: because,devil take it, his boys would never be his pride and joy.He was wrong. Probably, because of the shock, but also because of theunexpected tenderness of comrade R., Sasa and Pedja stopped stammeringliterally overnight. They still sometimes rocked, but ever more rarely, untilthat tick also completely disappeared.Without either money or an expert, the boys became comrade R.’s pride andjoy. He realised that money, discipline and military training were noteverything. He learned to offer tenderness. And I learned what temperamentwas.The R. family no longer lives on the floor above us. They moved out onenight, at the beginning of the war, silently. The neighbours went on talkingabout his temperament for a long time, they remembered the scene with mybicycle and insisted that this was typical Serbian behaviour.I hated those sons of bitches.Comrade R. really was a good man.

Elvir BajraktarevicA SCENE FOR PHOTOGRAPHERS

At a photograph exhibition (I think it was an American who, like mostphotographers today, liked taking pictures of abandoned, destroyed houses,poor children with a ball and other stupidities), I was approached by amiddle-aged woman in a long green dress, quite good-looking, with blondewavy hair. We were standing in front of an old wall, pitted by shrapnel,covered with grafitti. Most of the words were not legible, either because ofthe size of the photographs, or the age of the grafitti. But I kept doggedlytrying to decipher them. I thought there was a message there, that the pointof the photographs lay in fact in the grafitti which, through their power andunexpectedness, were supposed to reveal their true meaning to the cheatedobserver (standing and thinking he was looking at an ordinary wall), andoffer him the pleasure of discovery, a pleasure equal to the discovery of anarchaeological find. But, no matter how hard I tried, I succeeded in readingonly two or three names and some scurrilous messages. Then I began tothink that the point lay precisely in the fact that this was an ordinary wall,like thousands of others in the world, but I quickly rejected that.’Are you fond of photography?’ asked the woman, looking me in the eye.’Well, you know, sort of. I’m no connoisseur, but I like photography. I takepictures myself, in an amateur way.’’There you are,’ she smiled, passing her hand through her hair. ’I must showyou something, you’re bound to be thrilled.’We went to a corner of the room. There was no one there and the hall wasalready half-empty. On the wall there was a terrible picture: a street with acyclist riding down the middle, along a white line, while to his left, in theshadow of a building, a beggar was sitting. The street narrowed in thedistance, the cyclist was coming towards the camera lens and he was a fewmetres away from a triangular shadow which reflected I don’t know what.That street with the white line down the middle looked like legs and itseemed that the cyclist was rushing straight between a woman’s legs, whilethe beggar looked on, his mouth hanging foolishly open. The photographerhad certainly not done this on purpose: he had probably wanted again toshow the greyness and poverty of people and streets, alienation,incomprehension, or something like that. However, it had turned out to besomething grotesque, frightening: a cyclist rushing headlong into a vastvagina. We agreed that the photograph was fairly unusual and interesting.’You know, less and less importance is being attributed to sex incontemporary art. I mean, go and look at any other exhibition ofphotographs, paintings, whatever, all you’ll see will be deserted streets,columns of refugees, old folk and little children. No healthy, naked male orfemale body. People prefer to look at guns and wars, demonstrations, ratherthan anything else. They’re more interested in a photograph of a cleanerwith a broom in front of a billboard, than a splendid black woman, sittinghalf-naked on the steps feeding pigeons. People today simply don’t haveany imagination.’She said this quickly, energetically, shaking her head agitatedly andsmoothing her dress with her hands. I wondered what brought a woman likethis to exhibitions: she can’t have a husband, otherwise she would havecome with him or stayed at home; she has no children, or maybe possiblyone, a girl; she’s a graduate, a secondary-school teacher or a lawyer withartistic tendencies, because they’re the only people who come. I shared her

aesthetic views, however:’However, that doesn’t mean these photographs have no artistic value. Onthe contrary. I think that a work of art is worth as much as its message isgenuine. What we see on the photographs is our actual situation and I thinkthat the photographer has grasped the core of this state and society. Whatworries me are the people who get excited about these things, and hereagain the photograph has hit the bulls-eye: ruins are the state of ourconsciousness. Do you feel like a drink? We haven’t introduced ourselves. Iam Indira.’’Elvir,’ I held out my hand.’So, shall we go?’ she looked enquiringly at me and without waiting for ananswer, took my arm and led me through the hall. I noticed several mockingglances, and one reproachful one: from the gallery guard. I glanced in thelarge mirror at the exit and didn’t notice anything comic about me. Thewoman, I mean Indira, looked quite good. Her dress of rough, thick linenbuttoned in the front and was done up to just above the knee, which meantthat it revealed her brown shapely legs as she walked. We went into therestaurant on the ground floor, sat down at a table near the glass wallthrough which the street could be seen and ordered coffee.’I paint, you know,’ she went on, ’and, as you presume, I prefer nudes. Thehuman body is a subject that never ages, and as proof of that, you haveonly to take a brief look at the history of painting. Every artist of anyimportance painted nudes. The fact that they used other subjects is notessential, I put that down to vanity, greed for money or whatever.’As we talked, I observed her carefully; I was surprised I hadn’t noticed thatshe was strikingly beautiful. Her face was a little swollen as though from lackof sleep, but I put that down to her agitation and eccentricity. I felt aconceited satisfaction when she said she was a Bosnian language teacher ina secondary school; I acted regret for her husband, killed in the war, in anItalian humanitarian convoy; I was glad when she said she had a seventeenyear-old daughter, a daughter who was the model for most of her nudes.A ’bizarre little thought’ flashed into my mind.’You could say I have a studio. I’ve set it up on the ground floor of thehouse, in a room that wasn’t being used for anything. Don’t imagine that I’mcarried away by the idea of fame, recognition or career. I’m well aware of myage and possibilities. Painting is a release for me. I paint only when I wantto shake something off, to pour out of myself accumulated energy, but Idon’t wave my brush about angrily and randomly, I try to transform thatnegativity into something genuinely beautiful and that’s why I paint mypictures slowly, precisely, not making many mistakes. My daughter is alwaystelling me that I ought not to shut myself up in the house, that it’s high timeI had an exhibition, but I don’t think I’m ready yet. I don’t have enoughmale nudes yet and my father is getting old and it’s more and more difficultfor him to pose.’This was the final straw and I snatched with both hands the salvation whichappeared in the shape of a crowd of my noisy friends. I said goodbye, tellingher I hoped we would meet again at some future exhibition and flew out ofthe gallery. When I told my friends the whole story, there were somesuggestions for a ’group nude’ and group sex that would not exclude herfather as well. Luckily, it all ended in laughter.

I saw Indira three more times. The first was at an exhibition of miniaturesculptures by a young Slovene, where she was going from one sculpture tothe next in the company of an old gentleman, and the second at a group

show by some young Bosnian painters. On both occasions I succeeded inconcealing my presence from her and observing her from a distance, sheseemed lost, and even more agitated. She was wearing the same greendress, except that she had added an embroidered waistcoat and caught herhair up behind with a grip. When I realised I couldn’t explain to myself whatthe majority of the paintings I was standing in front of represented, I left thegallery.

My last encounter with Indira was the most painful. I saw her in the gardenof the ’Kreka’ mental hospital, as my bus was standing at the bus stopoutside it. I leapt off and ran into a shop so that she wouldn’t notice me. AsI bought a few small items, I saw her walking with slow steps, staring at theground, into a second courtyard and disappearing behind a building. I wentup to the high green railings and looked around to see whether I could seeany of the hospital staff. A large man in a white coat was sitting on a benchunder a ground-floor window secured with bars. I succeeded in attracting hisattention. The man put out his cigarette and came slowly over to the railings.’Excuse me,’ I said, ’but I’m interested in the lady who just went throughthere behind the fence. I know her, but I didn’t realise that she hadproblems. That blonde lady, Indira.’’Ah, Indira,’ he said. ’And what interests you about her?’I said that I had met her recently and was interested to know why she washere, because I had seen her just a few days earlier outside.’I suppose that you met her at an exhibition,’ said the nurse, smiling. Inodded, feeling uneasy. ’And she must have told you she was a painter,’ hewent on, ’and that she had set up a studio where she paints nudes. I hopethat you did not, you know … you and she...’ and here he rubbed hisforefingers together.’Heavens no,’ I cried out and I could not help recalling that at one moment Ihad had before my eyes a clear image of the mother and daughter rollingtogether on a bed and myself plunging into them as into a warm Augustsea.’You know, we let the majority of our patients go home at the weekend, andthere are people who exploit their illness in the most underhand possibleway. She’s not, in fact, called Indira at all, but Jasmina Alic, and she’s notfrom Tuzla, she lived somewhere near Zvornik. She was placed here fiveyears ago, after she survived more than fifty rapes by chetniks.1 Wheneverwe let her out, she always goes to exhibitions or galleries and talks aboutpainting, and people exploit her, you know. She’s already known to everyonewho goes to such places. There you are,’ the man scratched his ear.I thanked him and he went to lift up a man who was sitting on the grassdigging in the earth with his fingers. I got into the next bus and as I satdown I saw her coming round the corner of the building, walking slowly andtalking to herself. It was a perfect subject for a photographer: the greyhospital yard, the façade flaking off the building, several figures walking indirty, torn overalls, an aged child rocking its teddy-bear in its lap, andbehind the blackened roof, on the very tip of the distant hills, a beautiful,blood-red sunset.

Stevo DjuraskovicI’VE COME TO GIVE MYSELF UP

Commander Jerko M. was sitting as though on springs, leaning his elbows onthe table, his palms open, holding his face, absently gazing through thewindow. He was not remotely aware of the sailors’ uniforms rushing past hiseyes, under the window, as though preparing for something.The order to retreat had come at dawn via the regular route from Naval HighCommand. Simultaneously, through the channels of the Special Forces camethe highly confidential instruction that in the case of retreat the harbour wasto be mined.Jerko had learned this only when, returning from the morning parade wherehe had given the order to retreat, he had dropped into the office of hisadjutant, Ensign Milenko P. He had not done so by chance (oh, if only hehad never gone!), through the inertia of a superior officer, but driven by afeeling he had until then stubbornly refused to acknowledge. In the topdrawer there was a folded sheet of typing paper: ’After evacuation, thebarracks and piers are to be blown up’ went the last sentence of thedecoded, retyped text.It had apparently all begun only a year ago, like a hurricane, happening forJerko with such speed that he had barely managed to follow it, let alone geton top of it. He was completely lost; ideas had become normal which he hadnot believed he would ever hear, ideas which were totally inimical toeverything he had absorbed with his mother’s milk, of which socialism,brotherhood and unity and the Army were the most important. Then he hadbegun to feel that all his subordinates, from the last soldier on, were slowly,still secretly, but clearly beginning to opt for what was, for him, the greatestevil.And then a month ago, the masks had fallen everywhere, and blood hadstarted to boil. In the town an Assembly of the National Guard wasorganised, which immediately blockaded the barracks. This was followed byskirmishes and the soldiers, among whom he belonged by birth (he hated tothink of that, let alone put it into words) began to run away, en masse, bynight. From a professional point of view the provocations were crazy: thebarracks contained weapons that could raze the whole town to the ground.He did not give the order to shoot the deserters; his family was still in thetown, his wife and children; the other officers had sent theirs home already,mainly to Serbia.A couple of days earlier the siege had been reinforced; volunteers had comefrom neighbouring areas and the barracks’ electricity and water were cut off.His orderlies kept suggesting, in so far as they were permitted to do so bymilitary discipline which was still barely valid, that he should force the returnof water and electricity by threatening to fire at the siege positions of theguard around the barracks. He replied authoritatively that those were not theregulations; they had to wait for orders from a higher jurisdiction. Heinformed the Command daily about their situation, seeking, almost begging,for clear instructions. They remained his only hope that his situation wouldfinally be clarified, they would give him a direction and restore his faith inwhat he had served his whole life. And this morning, there, the order hadcome, and with it this other one.Jerko bowed his head a little and rubbed it with his palms, feeling under thetips of his fingers the mixed greasiness and moisture of sweat, then he gotup and briskly lit a cigarette, greedily inhaling deep breaths of smoke. He

began to walk absently round the room, frowning, with tightly closed lips, likea man facing a difficult choice with serious and unpredictable consequences.Suddenly he stopped, raised his head, looking sharply outside for amoment, then, with shaking hands, he grabbed his cap and hurried down thesteps. The chill of the morning refreshed him. He straightened up and setout at a normal pace towards the ammunition stores: he intended to inspectthem first. As he passed beside them, the soldiers abruptly stiffened toattention and saluted. He responded as he walked, in regulation fashion.On the sluices minesweepers and minelayers were rocking, milling withsailors coming and going, loading material. The stores were a little furtheroff, built diagonally so as to have as much protection as possible in case ofan attack from the sea. Sailors were scurrying round them carrying largebales of wire. At the entrance to the largest of them a group of officers wasstanding, his subordinates, gesticulating agitatedly, as though arguing.Jerko’s appearance fixed them into an instant salute.’Is all going according to order, comrades?’’Yes, comrade Frigate Captain.’To Jerko these words sounded somehow too relaxed, lacking the respect asubordinate officer ought to show his superior when reporting to him. But hedecided that ignoring it was more useful at this stage.’Very good, just continue.’’Understood,’ and they saluted according to regulation.He had no need at all to look into the stores; he knew what he would see. Ashe moved away, he imagined the mocking glances of his subordinatesbehind his back. He straightened up and stepped more firmly, as thoughaccording to regulation, wanting to give them yet more proof that he wascompletely in the dark. He would inspect the ships first, then the militaryinstallations and the canteen. He had to get a complete picture of thesituation; who knows, maybe after all there was some mistake.Suddenly he was startled by a loud crash from the direction of the canteen.Jerko virtually ran towards it. On the way whatever soldiers he came acrossstopped and saluted. He barely responded.There was total chaos in the canteen; upturned and sometimes brokentables and chairs everywhere, covered with broken crockery as though withsnow. Soldiers were milling around like ants, carrying all sorts of things;sockets taken out of the walls, extension leads, pots and cutlery, anythingthat could not be broken.He stopped for a moment in the doorway, unconsciously taking a stepbackwards, before rushing in furiously and starting to shout:’What do you think you’re doing?’’Orders of corvette commander R., comrade Captain,’ a soldier answered himresignedly in passing, barely touching the rim of his cap.Jerko was dumbstruck. The sailors were walking resignedly through the roomas though one of their colleagues had entered and not their commander. Hebegan looking around him like a trapped animal, until he happened toglimpse on the floor something like a picture frame. He narrowed his eyesand bent his head, trying to make out what it was under the whiteness of thecrockery. Suddenly he leapt as though scalded. His eyes ranged in panicover the whole room. On the floor lay portraits of Tito, their frames brokenand the glass crackling in splinters under the weight of army boots. Thesailors were walking calmly, treading on them as though they were part ofthe floor, while some, stumbling over the frames, kicked them in irritation.Jerko watched them without blinking, as though hypnotised. His undershirtwas stuck to his back; he did not feel even the slight touch of the sailors’

shoulders as they passed. He stayed like that for several minutes, and thenshook himself. Now he knew that he had to do what he had been putting offfor so long, and at once!He set off at top speed for the command building. The soldiers he passedstiffened to attention and saluted. He did not see them.From headquarters came the smell of burning; they were destroying theofficial documents. At the entrance, a tall, dark soldier saluted him inpassing. Jerko walked past him as past all the others, and then after acouple of steps he stopped, as though he had remembered something, thenabruptly turned round and called after the soldier who was already movingaway.’Soldier.’’Yes, comrade Captain.’’What’s your name?’’Private Salih Besirevic, at your command comrade Captain,’ he reported,saluting.’At ease. Can you drive?’’Yes, comrade Captain. Allow me to address you.’’There’s nothing to be said. Wait here, if anyone speaks to you tell themthat you’re under my orders.’’Understood.’He hurried up the steps. The doors of all the offices were open and fromthem came a blur of voices, the sound of paper being torn up and thestench of burning. They had not touched his office; presumably they had notwanted him to suspect anything before time, although they probably felt heguessed what was going on; after all, it was all so obvious.He closed the door quickly and, breathless, dialled the number of the crisisheadquarters, a number which had frequently called him over the last fewdays. The call was answered by a polite woman’s voice; he told her who hewas, and for a moment he heard nothing. Then a deep, unfriendly voicecame on. Jerko told him his intention and that he should warn his men notto shoot. From the other end there was a moment’s silence, and then amumbled answer that all was in order.He went down quickly, self-confidently and walked with the soldier to the car,parked behind the command building. The guard at the entrance wasastonished, but still obeyed his orders.The car moved into the first town streets and Jerko exhaled deeply.He was already going over everything clearly in his head; how he would standupright in front of the commander, shake his hand and formally, but at thesame time anxiously, explain the situation, and finally with the requiredsolemnity stress that he was ready to place his expertise and experience attheir disposal. That would surely have some effect on the commander andhe would listen with full respect to his plan for avoiding tragedy.In the end, when it came to it, he was after all ’one of them’ (that thoughtwas painful, as though torn from him and it reminded him of the songs thatreached the barracks from the guards’ positions, which made his bloodfreeze in his veins.)While he was elaborating in his mind the tactics of the attack, the towncouncil building came into view and the car braked suddenly. As he got out,he ordered the soldier to wait for him and hurried towards the entrance. Anarmed soldier was standing there, dressed in a camouflage shirt and jeans;he tapped Jerko lightly on the back with his rifle butt and walked behind him.Jerko looked round in surprise; he was greeted by a cynical smile at which hestraightened up and stepped out at a decisive, military tempo. The building

was buzzing with voices and the sound of doors constantly opening andclosing. The crisis headquarters was at the top, on the second floor, at theend of a long corridor. The soldier stood to one side, nonchalantly openedthe door and let him in.In the smoke-filled room a couple of men were sitting, holding a livelydiscussion. They seemed not to have noticed Jerko’s arrival and he tookadvantage of the opportunity to look around. A large table in the middle ofthe room was covered with scattered papers, here and there smudgedprobably with water. On the walls hung pictures of Croatia, the President and,in the corner, the Leader, Ante Pavelic.1’What have you got to say to us?’ a fat man with a moustache and familiarvoice suddenly addressed him energetically, but Jerko seemed not to haveheard his question. He kept staring at the Leader’s face, leaning forward, asthough the painting, like a magic mirror, was slowly drawing him towards it inorder to swallow him up, and he did not have the strength to resist. The menwere silent, waiting, and for a moment silence reigned in the room, softlybroken by the distant echo of voices from outside. A mocking smile passedover the fat man’s face and he repeated his question.’So, what did you want?’Jerko remained transfixed for another minute and then absently turned hishead in the direction the voice had come from, as though he had only justheard it. He looked the fat man in the eye, as though he was not there, asthough he was looking through him and he smiled, blissfully, insanely.’Nothing, I’ve come to give myself up.’

Zdravko VukovicGRANNY I.’S PIANO

There are countless sorrows in a person’s life: school, divorced parents,socialisation, the primitivism of a structure that condemns the individual to abrutal upbringing (potty, ball, book, sexual identity), but all of that is notenough. I would be lying if I said all of that was enough for a story. Maybe inthis story (in fact in every story that aims to be one) there has to be a goodspirit of the poetic which ironises reality by protecting against its brutality. Inthis story we have decreed that this should be Granny’s piano.So, I would say that apart from sorrows a person’s life also containscountless possibilities. Stella ’s Granny, for instance, possessed infiniteenergy for demolishing little personal pleasures, or oases of happinessbarely perceptible to the naked eye, freed from the global contents of ethics,aesthetics, emancipation or the ecology of the planet.She was a lady. She bore her exaggerated years with the gerontocratic poseof an outdated artefact chrysalised in the early twentieth century. The fin desi�cle is an ossified dogma of which she was not in fact aware, although shelived in it like a leech plunged into the flesh of a T.B. patient, and bothelements of this comparison, Granny and the leech – destroyed theirsurroundings in the most imaginary ways. But what can you do: medicine hasconfined leeches to history, while Granny continued convulsively to abuse herteak-wood cane in her right hand, anchored in her years at the Girls’ Lyceumin Graz. Austro-Hungarian style, in a word.However, there are moments in a person’s life when things are particularlyunpleasant: when the artefact floats out of its pre-Cambrian placenta andcrawls through the flat from one room to another, into a third, then back tothe kitchen where it started from, in order to prolong its caterpillar circle oflife, and all for its service to eternity and a deed of possession in the land-registry. It’s true that you can’t take a deed of possession with you to thegrave, but Granny didn’t know that: she destroyed what little intimacy therewas by constantly intruding.No one could do anything to her and she had her three meals a day, thendictated the rhythm of time in the range of her advanced years. And therewas no sign of death.Stella graduated in the year of the war ’s full swing. That year, 1995, was inmany ways special. The Berlin wall had already fallen, and the uncertainty ofthe transition gave a degree in ethnology and comparative literature animbus of impenetrable adventure. Moving from the global to the local,things were still cloudier: at the address P.O. Box 241 an Acherongerontocracy held court with the Basileus T. and a retinue of auxiliaries, apre-Cambrian amalgam of former times. All in the name of God. And the willof the people – of course.Stella was an only child. Her mother had removed her from her marriagetogether with the pram and some clothes, in all three hundred and fiftythousand Yugo-dinars on the road to greater certainty.Now she was here waiting for just that. Miro had been supposed to call aboutfive in the afternoon. The day before, on the steps of the Arts Faculty acrowd of folk had converged: one was rolling a green Pakistan, another asked:’… got a smoke?’ a girl by the pile of scripts was edgily comforting a foxterrier: ’Yes, you will, you will, me too, we’re going home, now, right away,just let me hand in this junk…’ and the solstice comes, and the equinox,Inscriptio et semestris non probat confirmatur, and autumn slowly advances… In

fact, the red globe had set behind the clockwork of arrangements to meet,and the river of people was just murmuring as though nothing vital washappening. And people are people: they always lean on others. They hugand caress, sometimes they help each other, and in this tangle of love andgenuine compassion you don’t know, you can’t see who loves and cares foryou more, because you’re young. Or at least a student. But you sometimescan’t see the wood for the logs, and you are deceived in life maybe once ortwice, but by the time it becomes a habit and a variation on the theme:three, four, five, innumerable – you’re already a granny or something, andthen it’s too late.But Stella wasn’t a granny. She hated grannies because all grannies in theworld were archetypes of evil, even when they smothered you utterly withcoo-coo-coo love. Grannies knew what was best for their grandchildrenaccording to all the criteria of their mental age. But Stella ’s Granny wasspecial, Stella thought, and just such a granny should be euthenasianised orat least condemned to the lung unit in the Jordan hospital crypt. After all,some Indian tribes do not allow their biological creators to decay into theireighty-fifth year, but for them fifty is Granny’s eighty-four, however, sothere’s no difference. That was why Stella liked ethnology and everything youstudied under it at Uni. Stella was only sorry that she didn’t study medicineas well as social science and the humanities, because medicine cures. Orkills. According to your findings. ’Because if Granny doesn’t smoke,’ Stellareflected, ’there are still millions of variables as yet beyond the reach ofmedicine for people to obtain a ticket to the Jordan.’And just think: she’d lived through five regimes and four states, this Granny,Granny. I., born in nineteen-eleven, and she was not interested in theJordan, or Uni, or ethnology. Least of all in the crypt.Stella had made it through to morning: the faculty bar served its exceptionalSaturday coffee, and she was already at home with her half-slept night, hermorning coffee and her Ronhill cigarettes. And then suddenly her bedroomdoor opened. Granny began her skeleton’s dance:’And who’s this donkey Miro, he didn’t call me, and you were out half thenight, I nearly phoned the police. And, you know, my sciatica’s bad again,it’s giving me terrible twinges, and you’re no help. In my day people didn’tlive like this, there’s no point in it and no good will come of it. All you carefor is learning, you don’t help me at all, if only you were a boy. You have towatch every dinar, thank God I’ve got it… It’s no good, my child. Nothingcomes of nothing, and still less from nix. You’re lazy. You ought to find ahusband, not this Miro who doesn’t call, someone who has money… I don’tknow, only it’s all like I say. It is, my child, that’s God’s holy truth…’Stella testily lit one cigarette after another. There was a cup of Mocca coffeein front of her. No news from Osijek as yet. Granny I. continued:’Will you turn on the television for me? What’s the name of that fellow, hewas just on television, he’s in Tudjman’s cabinet. I… P…, Perisic, no, Ivkovic,why no, Pejcinovic, he’s a Vlah1, so, Ivanovic?… Oh, I don’t know, as long ashe’s a decent man and they don’t take over all the premises, the way thecommunists did. Everything else is OK. As God ordains.’Stella was dying; irritation, boredom, nausea … Miro hadn’t called for threedays now.The television remained unswitched on. From the kitchen she made her wayto the room with the piano. She had never been to music school. The pianowhich adorned the room with all the bulk of an elephant-cart, betweenGrandfather’s military sabre and a heap of ancient photographs of thewedding of Granny I. and Mr G., among a dense mass of opaque furniture in

the Chippendale style and a ’Made in Austria’ jardini�re, injected it with atone of sweet semi-decrepitude, the final end of which was already somehowvaguely hinted at by the already well-advanced war.But Stella was waiting for a call. A telephonic impulse along the line, whichwould have brought relief, regardless of the content: either he was alive, orhe was dead. She tried to play something on the piano in tune with thevirtual notation she had remembered from the Hvar summer school, where,at a relaxing evening of university gentlemen, followers of Marcuse, Blochand Luhmann, the decadent, self-confident prats had maintained – withoutthe least pang of conscience – that the collision of transition and neo-liberalism was not terrible, because it would all be integrated in the pro-European civilisation, you should read the integrationists, but by theirseventh glass that notation was lost and the gentlemen were talking aboutwonderful Croatian boobs, because they resisted the imperialism ofAmerican Coca-Cola.Air-raid warnings again. A barely perceptible spasm in her left hand drew herthoughts into the grip of Debussy, then Balasevic,2 and back to Debussy,and outside the summer was stifling, the worn greenish curtains revealed themarks of shrapnel above the sideboard, armchairs, sofa, pictures, piano;and a call was expected, a call from a man who was level-headed and hadalways been level-headed. Debussy and Balasevic rang out; her hands weretense, but for a moment there was calm: there were no detonations, nogrumbling, no academic gentlemen or Granny’s mother, there were no idioticfellow-students and everything was as it should be, apart from Granny I.That noble lady had crawled under the weight of her cane into the largereception room with its theme of a chandelier suspended from the five-metrehigh ceiling, with a little bell hanging from it so that in long past times thenoble lady and her mother would not have had to wait too long for theservants. In her hand she held a discoloured photograph, yellowing, blackand white, of a figure lost in the misty environs of the Bay of Trieste.’It’s me again, dear, I don’t know how to turn on that television. Ah yes, nowI remember, you keep asking me, this is Toni here, he’s my cousin, do yousee? My mother’s brother’s son, and he lived in Trieste, before the end ofhis life he was completely blind, and you see, he had girls even though henever married, and he played the piano very well, I’ve got his picture, poorfellow, but what can you do?’’Granny,’ said Stella. ’It’s OK. Go and say your rosary, I’ll turn on thetelevision, do go, please, I’m not interested in Toni, I ask you those thingswhen we haven’t got anything to do. Please go, there’s a dear…’’No, you don’t understand anything, nothing interests you, my child, I mustshow you the dresses I’ve kept, do you know from what year?’And just as Granny was taking a collection of old-fashioned dressesimpregnated with moth-balls out of the Chippendale-style wardrobe, adetonation without the warning of screeching sirens shattered what was left ofthe nerves of the inhabitants of the Zagreb Northern archipelago. Shrapnelbroke the window and whipped up dust, the detonation was stupefying:people flocked around the crater. A man was lying with a pulsating leg, theother one was blown off, his index finger and right thumb were spinninground in the water of the gutter and the encroaching summer had almostarrived.’Where’s this water coming from?’ shouted the caretaker, at the same timethe commander of the defence of the Northern archipelago. ’This must bereported to the committee, water is to be used by quota. Those are myorders!’

People were milling around: one man, who was carrying bread in a bag,legged it home to his wife and chicken stew. A policeman next to him calledthe fire brigade and police on his walkie-talkie, and then ambulances:’Where are you idiots?…’ The mother of the cripple was shrieking, a dogrelieved itself against the façade of a building already spattered with freshblood and everything was going on fairly calmly. And then the phone rang.The voice that was calling belonged to Miro.’Hello, heelllooo, Stella darling, they’re bombing us here … yes … tell the oldwoman she’s a bitch, I don’t like that mug of hers … apparently we’re goingeast tomorrow, do you hear? Yes! I love you, fuck it, I’ve never told you that… I love you, you hear? Yes, I remembered the steps and Uni … (Oh, yes?)the big losers were having coffee, and we were Gods … eh, honey, do youhear? It’s crap here, heelllooo? Yes, yes, I love you!’The connection was broken. The television was blasting ear-piercingly. It wasnearly dusk. Granny was lying on her stomach.’What was that bang, eh? … When I was walking out with my husband, heused to hunt frogs, we met at the dyke … he was lying in a puddle, and hehad caught something! I’m walking, it’s the market, they’re all sellingfirecrackers, and orthopaedic shoes and pears, that’s only in summer … andoranges, plums and chestnuts, and he’s looking at the church … theCathedral … he was from Slovenia, you know… Maribor’s a real town …’Granny I. and Mr G. had met in the market-place. His huge foot stuck in thecracks in the granite asphalt like a wasp reeling from rain. He trod with hiselephant feet, not believing in chance, but in vegetables: he boughtcucumbers, peppers, tomatoes and courgettes, hesitating in front of the stallmanned by an Asiatic who had virtually no eyes, just interest. The Asiaticcredo: everything is money and money is everything. Everything is justeconomics. That’s how Mr G. behaved as well.’I won’t have this, it’s too expensive,’ said Mr G., ’I can buy cucumbers andtomatoes for five dinars, not quite so good, it’s true, but all usable.’Granny was buying figs. Like Mr G., she took care of her money because lifewasn’t anything to write home about. Life was just economics. Their eyesmet, just as sparklingly and promisingly as in cheap love stories, and afterthat everything went speedily: he took her to the altar, they swore to be trueto one another until death. Mr G. promised that he would not leave his dirtyclothes lying all over the apartment and Granny I. swore that she would cookand wash until death did them part.Later, after the wedding, a married idyll began without major variations.Then Granny I. conceived and gave birth to a boy who would live his wholelife in the shadow of their possessiveness and bestow on them in that timeimmeasurable joy. That was presumably the condition for Granny I. and MrG. to be happy on Earth, until death did them part. The boy died not longafter, well, to be truthful: some forty years later, with the diagnosis, cirrhosisof the liver. To Granny’s great sorrow Mr G. also died, just a year before. Butnow Granny had Stella.The boy had a daughter, Stella, from his first and only marriage. Before hisdeath, Stella had simply taken off with her mother, then the boy had takenoff under the soil, while her Mother took off somewhere abroad withoutStella. And here was Stella at her Granny’s. She was playing the piano, fairlyserenely now, because, hey, for the first time Miro had said that fatefulthing: HE LOVED HER!

And how much of a part does Miro have in this whole story?He was said to be the best student of agriculture in Zagreb. And he studied

violin at the Music Faculty as well.He had been recruited towards the end of his studies. Music and vegetableswent out of the window. Just before the summer of 1995, he was sent east,to the ramparts of Tenj. Those who knew him said that he was exemplary,like Zagreb Cathedral, only a little irascible, and he was sent from the ThirdGuard a little further east, into the mined maize fields. From there, bearinghis holy cross, he returned to the slopes of the eastern embankment of theDrava river. There he was put in charge of supplies and some othermarginalia, but it was war, what could you do, because in war everyone’s aJack of all trades, so Miro-Jack was responsible, among other things, for theacquisition of war booty, according to the chain of command from Zagreb,and for some antique trinkets for which he was personally answerable toGeneral Dragojevic. The latter kept calling from Osijek because his wife goton his nerves, and he was an aesthetic type himself, and he promised Mirothat he would invite him personally into his apartment, to see, for no one inthe Town on the Drava had such an interior.Osijek was the penultimate post. There was a lot of shooting. But, oddlyenough, given the circumstances, that month the Drava was almost like apool of oil.Miro’s mobile telephone rang. They were shelling, quite heavily. A shell hadfallen into what had been the headquarters for munitions in 1990 (nowsupplies). There was no one in the building. They were calling to let himknow everything was OK.’Was anything hit?’ a deep voice asked.’Yes, major, things were hit, fuck it, tell General Dragojevic that it’ll needsalvaging, the damage isn’t great, broken windows and a couple of pieces ofshrapnel came through the wall, but the furniture wasn’t touched and no onewas killed. Let someone come from the Ministry, there needs to be anevaluation, and let the General see…’’You want him to check walls!? He’s a general, in Christ’s name, what’s thefurniture like? He told me it was Chippendale, they point up the worms andprize them out of the varnished wood, eighteen hundred marks forrestoration… Don’t give me shit over the phone, get an expert! Everythinghas to be right, without acquiring anything through military lines… That pianoas well, that’s to go to Dragojevic, do you hear me? Miro?’

They say that in critical moments of astral gyration the membrane of theether trembles, if that’s not just an old wives’ tale, even mobilecommunication stops at such moments, or so they say, and you hear anoise but you can’t get the person at the other end of the line any more.That’s life. War particularly. The only thing that is certain is that some thingsare more valuable and enduring than people: jardini�res, sideboards,divans, chandeliers and pianos. That’s what Granny thought anyway.What’s left in the end? Chippendale. The General was in Zagreb. Miro wasgiven a transfer: assembly point Sisak. Not long afterwards they said thosewere his last conversations by walkie-talkie.And now, who knows: maybe Granny I. and Mr G. are still walking through the Zagreb market like twocolliding stars in the suburbs of the universe, and maybe Miro is lost, maybe not; all that is certain is thatStella still plays the piano in the room crammed with mementoes of Granny I., who as a grandmother blessedin the Lord passed away that same year in Zagreb when one of the last shells fell on the metropolis, and thenext morning there was a smell of washed streets again, as though nothing had ever happened.

Boris FabianEUROPEAN CHAMPION

In nineteenseventynine ’Bosnia’ Sarajevo was European basketballchampion. So, that year Bosnia was the champion of that part of the worldwhich has good cheese, psychodelics as its foundation, glass and enormousvariety. That piece of the earth had always striven for something, buteveryone understood that something in different ways.My father had died a year earlier. Stomach ulcer, at least that’s what thedoctors said. I loved my father. The first word I learned was ’daddy’. Myfather supported Bosnia. When he died, my greatest regret was that I wouldnever again summon him in the style ’Come on, Dad’, or ’Let’s go to thematch, Dad’, or ’Dad, I’m frightened’. I was eight and already had one wordless than others at my disposal.Yes, it was a good match. I watched it on my Gran’s old television. Gran andMum were there, together with all the neighbours. The two of them neverwatched matches so it was all a bit strange to me. Bosnia, so what. A match,big deal. There had been so many before this one and there would be somany more that I did not see why there was such a crowd. Europeanchampion, why all this hoo-ha … I knew how to read and write, I could addand subtract and that sort of thing, I was alive even if I hadn’t been all thatlong. My father was dead. The moon was yellow.The Bosnian colours were burgundy. Our opponents were Italians who hadseveral blacks in their ranks. The blacks had wide nostrils, which you couldsee. The blacks had big nobs in their shorts, which you could imagine. Ourplayers were ugly, theirs even uglier. As the game progressed, the playerssweated more and more. They must have smelled dreadful, I thought.Theirs were leading, and then ours a bit, and then theirs again. The ballbounced here and there and sometimes passed through the steel ring fromwhich the net hung. To a policeman in Paris or a hooker in Munich, thismatch probably didn’t mean much.’Hey, baby,’ said the hooker, ’how about a quick bit of fun?’’Get out of the car and blow into the balloon,’ said the policeman, ’I thinkyou’re drunk.’In my room everyone was silent and tense. I wasn’t tense. Ours wereleading again.I knew some of the players by name. I shouted at the top of my voice,swearing at them with all the words I knew. That night I was allowed to doanything.’Hey, kid, cut it out,’ said one of the neighbours, ’there’s no point in yelling,they can’t hear you.’The whole time the flames of cigarettes flared tirelessly. They were likelighters at a rock concert. The cigarettes moved from hand to hand, frommouth to hand, up-down, up-down. I watched that whenever I was sick oflooking at the match. Then the commentator would yell just like me a littlewhile before. I watched them for a bit and it looked funny, and then I beganyelling as well.Delibasic, Varajic, Radovanovic, Djogic, Benacek, Hadzic, Pesic were some ofthe names I knew. The fucking Serbs plus fucking Croats plus fuckingMuslims plus fucking others were well on the way to ruining the hopes of thebandy-legged Italians, sweaty Yanks, their moneybags and their fine,fragrant cunts.Beer was being knocked back, but somehow absently. The food on the table

was completely in the background. Everyone looked at their watches andtapped their feet under the table. Everyone laughed, only to fall silent thenext instant and they all sat, only to leap up all of a sudden and so it wenton interminably. What a night, I thought. Adults doing things I usually got aslap for. Then it was the last minute and everyone stood up. Our neighbourfrom the fifth floor was the only one to show an iota of presence of mind andpick himself up together with the bottle.’Blow the whistle!’ someone shouted to the referee.’Blow the whistle, you dead faggot of a referee!’ I added.And then it happened.The whistle screeched out the end just as though a ship were sailing into aharbour. The room became a madhouse. Everyone kissed everyone else. Itwas a good excuse to touch up someone else’s wife. My mother kissed meand said:’If your father were alive, he would be the happiest man in the world rightnow. His Bosnia is the European champion!’But he was not alive, while Bosnia was the champion. Perhaps he wasnevertheless the happiest man, just because of that combination, I thought.Then, on the screen, looking at the mass of people still slobbering, werecognised our neighbour from the seventh floor. He was pushing his waythrough those smelly men, and his head was just at the level of their sweaty,limp cocks.’Look at that idiot, where has he got to! Where did he get the money for thefare, that’s what I want to know ster said my Gran.’His wife’s a tart, she paid him, so that she could take in customers inpeace,’ said the man who had not forgotten the beer.’Customers, hahaha. Is that what they’re called today,’ laughed Gran.’And his daughter, as well, she’s a tart too, and a good one…’ said ourneighbour from our floor.’How do you know?’ asked his wife.’Well, people told me …’’Oh damn your eyes, what people told you?’’Not in front of the child,’ said my mother. ’Forget all your problems at leastfor tonight.’I left the room. It was terribly stuffy, and I was bored. I looked through thekitchen window and wondered about our neighbour’s daughter. She really wassomething.Suddenly, someone put a hand on my shoulder. It was the beer-drinkerfrom the fifth floor.’Hey, kid, where’s the fridge? They told me there’s more beer in it.’I showed him and he took out a couple of bottles. He set off back to theliving room, but then came back to me.’You have a mouthful as well,’ he said, opening the bottle with his teeth, ’there’s a good reason for it tonight.I drank a bit. It was bitter and disgusting.’You shouldn’t be down,’ he said, ’you know our Bosnia is the Europeanchampion. The European champion, hey! You know what that means?’’No,’ I said.I went to my room and tried to sleep. It didn’t work. I mean, it would have,but they were making such a racket by the television, toasting one anotherand being as happy as though someone had put money right into theirpockets, so that sleep was the last thing that could be done in all that din.Someone yelled that we had shown them who we were, we had fucked themall because we were the best, the handsomest, the cleverest, oh yes, we

were the biggest shots on the whole planet.Then they began to sing. It was horrible to hear.The hooker in Munich and the policeman in Paris were lucky, I thought.Ah, yes, then the years began to pass in the way they usually do. I spent along time looking for something, something that was too much to be nothingand too little to be everything. It didn’t go too well, although I was certainthat something like that must exist and that there, without special effort,you could see streets filled with light, hear a footstep round the corner, holdsomeone’s hand without any explanation, attend festivities in a great hallfilled with empty people who left you alone and where you could, under thetable, put your hand between the legs of some brunette who did not knowyou and who laughed out loud. I wrote poem after poem about that search,but no one liked them. They were something like the war, which no one likedeither, but it still happened.

In nineteenninetythree Bosnia was European champion again, this time inmadness. I had always nurtured my own inner madness, it did not cross mymind to mix it with others, so that in the end it would become part of ageneral self-infecting madness. I took my cursed soul and my fat rear andgot out before anyone managed to grab me by it. All of them, all of themwere my enemies and the only difference between this and my earlier lifewas that his time instead of fists and bad breath they carried with themshooters that went bang-bang-bang and which, if you were born under alucky star, made you dead immediately. Because of all that I went far away,as far as I could.I worked in a warehouse, wore a yellow cap and rarely shaved. There wemostly rolled goods from one end of the space to the other, hunted rats anddrank Russian vodka from Ukraine. Sometimes we drank brandy brought bythe caretaker from the next entrance, which was terribly watered down. It waswinter, and as I worked I realised that there was a fifth season, no one hadtold us about, which was far colder than winter. Sometimes, in the warehousethey would organise distribution of supplies for the old, the hungry and thesick.’Don’t be too nice with them,’ the lads I worked with said, otherwise quite OKguys.’You put too much effort into them, who gives a fuck. The more of themsnuff it, the less there will be to distribute next time.’I don’t know why they, and also the old grannies who came, thought I wasagreeable. I didn’t want to be agreeable, I just didn’t want any problems. Iwould mumble a few sentences with each of them, roughly on the followinglines. The old dear would ask me where I was from, I would tell her where Iwas from, then she would ask me if I still had family down there, I would tellher I did, then she would ask me how they were, I would say that they werealive and add that at least they were last time we were in touch. That wouldbe it. Quite agreeable, like a bottle of cheap wine and a porno-film beforesleep.One day a pile of square parcels arrived in the warehouse. They containedaid from Europe intended for my hometown. A kilogram of sugar and salt,two soups, a litre of soya oil, a tin of tomato paste, two packets of spaghetti,sardines, powdered milk and orangeade, honey, washing-up liquid, rice,vitamins, cotton wool, a little tinned beef, beans, soap, coffee andtoothpaste for cleaning the teeth after huge meals, that was what was ineach packet labelled GIFT. That’s what Europe gave its former champion.While I was loading them into the truck, I remembered, maybe for the first

time after many years, the bandy-legged Italians, the sweaty Yanks, theirmoney and their fine fragrant cunts. For the first time after all those years Iwas glad that we had thrashed them that evening. I remembered ourneighbours and their rejoicing and it was as though I was just beginning tograsp the reasons for it only now.’Oh yes, we’re the biggest shots on the whole planet,’ rang in my ears.I repeated that to myself. That sentence made me feel really good.The neighbour from the stadium had been dead a long time. The beer-drinking one since recently. Many were dead in me for the simple reasonthat I knew I would never see them again. A bloody situation, but therewasn’t much to be done about it.’When are these packets going to be distributed, boy?’ asked a thin little oldman.’They’re not for you,’ I said.’Who’re they for, then?’’For the European champions.’’Don’t fuck me about, kid. I asked who’re they for?’’For the European champions, I tell you.’’So who are these fucking European champions?’’I’m one,’ I said.He went away. I no longer felt good. I went back into the warehouse andtook a gigantic swig of Russian vodka from Ukraine. I wanted to wave tohim, but my hand stopped half-way, I was overwhelmed by an insane fearthat I was going to cry.

Stevo DjuraskovicTHE CROSS

Joze was watching television slumped in an armchair, his right foot resting ona little low table in front of him. His swollen big toe, sweating in the bandageunder his sock, was pulsating with pain like a lighthouse and preventing himfrom looking calmly at the screen. Each time he turned his eyes back to it,he would sigh softly, as though he kept remembering something all overagain, and nod barely noticeably as though he were angry, not with thatvenomous anger with which one would accuse someone unambiguously, butmore resignedly, accusing people vaguely of something which one shouldnot even contemplate, because such things always end badly.During that time his wife and daughters flew round the house, getting readyfor evening mass, and the wisps of various perfumes, individually ortogether, depending on who had run past, hung around Joze withoutsucceeding in killing the astringent smell of brandy from his bandage. Onthe table in the kitchen stood dishes full of cakes, cheese pies and paintedeggs, which the priest was meant to bless after mass. From time to timeJoze would cast a glance in that direction, hold it there for a few secondsthen return to his toe and sigh, so softly that his wife did not hear him.Joze worked in the shipyard, like virtually all the men in the village.Otherwise there was nothing that he did not know how to mend, so he hadbecome something like the universal village handyman. Probably becausehe mended almost everything, and charged little, and then only at his wife’sconstant insistence. In the beginning he would simply have something to eatand drink, as was the custom in the village, and it would probably havestopped at that up to now had she not always angrily drummed into his headthe fact that someone with hands like his ought to be rolling in money.In addition to all of that, before the war Joze had another ’job’ as well –secretary of the local branch of the Party. That brought with it a pittance, andall that was required, depending on the materials from on high, was toconvene a couple of meetings a year and type out a page or two of report, inlarge letters, which his wife always did, and send it to the district committee.He had only taken that job on because his wife kept repeating persistentlythat the position brought status, and money, and that was always worthhaving.Then the first elections came, and after them the war and his wifeimmediately started going to church regularly, she had their daughtersbaptised and made them join the church choir. She rapidly became thepriest’s right hand, which consisted in making cakes, crocheting tableclothsand generally organising all kinds of church activities. With time she draggedhim, or rather his hands, increasingly into things and in the end, at hercommand, Joze started going to church, admittedly, like all the other men,only on feast days. He once told her that she did not need to do all thisbecause of him, because everyone knew why he had been Party secretary,although in company he would always blush for a moment at any mention ofhis former function. To that she had simply retorted like a school teacherthat the times were now such that one should go to church as often aspossible and be around it as much as possible. After that he said nothing,concluding that she was probably right.When the war had begun to abate, a new priest arrived in the village withmissionary zeal in his eyes. Word went round that he had been sent to leadthis red village once and for all onto the right path. Virtually the next day

work parties were set up and his wife began to dance round the new priest asshe had never done round anyone before, and the villagers started teasingJoze. He simply smiled gently; if his wife thought that was how things shouldbe, then it was all right. Everything would probably have gone on like thathad not his wife rushed into the house delightedly after Sunday mass beforeEaster week and immediately informed him from the door that she hadarranged for him to carry the Holy Cross in the procession on Good Fridaythis year. Joze mumbled that he didn’t know either the stations or theprayers, looking at her as a sheep at its shepherd. She waved her handdismissively, saying that none of the other men knew either, all he had todo was follow the procession, and keep his mouth shut at the stations. Jozecould only nod his head, hunch his shoulders and go off to his workshopbehind the house.At that time he was working non-stop, finding one job after another in thehouse and round it (in Easter week people usually took a holiday, so therewasn’t any work in the village, and one couldn’t work overtime, because ofthe villagers). Every thought of the procession would stop him dead anddrive him to apply himself frenziedly to his task, until he forgot about it. Soit came to Good Friday. Joze put on his best suit (virtually his only one), theone he used to wear to Party meetings. His wife had run round him athousand times that afternoon, always finding some little thing that neededputting right: tie, collar, or something. On such occasions, he would beovercome with the feeling he had when it was necessary to make a returnvisit to someone out of courtesy; now he inhaled deeply and softly and, atthe thought of what soon awaited him, his heart raced wildly. As every year,everyone who could speak and walk had gathered in the church and, as wasthe custom, Joze sat with the men in the back rows. His wife, as upright as aboard, sat among the women in the front pews, as did his daughters in thefront row of the choir above the pulpit. The priest came in and the chattersubsided. The introductory prayer was said and the priest began reading thePassion of Christ. The church was filled with silence, which, towards the back,turned into a soft, lively murmur. Joze tried to keep his eyes fixed on thepriest in all his finery, but, as though out of spite, they kept turning to alarge object covered in a white cloth beside the pulpit, and sweat broke outon his brow. Behind him he caught a muffled, shrill mention of his name.That conjured up his image, with the cross on his shoulder in the church, andeyes which, as in the circus, would be only waiting for the acrobat to make amistake, for there to be a sensation and blood flowing, and his stomachtightened.At last the priest finished reading and with an energetic movement removedthe cloth. The large, freshly varnished cross gleamed like a blade and thepeople, according to where they were sitting, came forward to kiss it. As hestood up, Joze felt a need to relieve himself, and then he approached thecross, drawing his lips into something like an apology, kissed it and stood toone side, by his wife. She glanced at him, her eyes shining, and squeezedhis hand passionately.The priest blessed the cross after everyone had kissed it and lit candles,then Joze took it and laid it on his shoulder. The First Station was read andthe procession moved outside, with the cross at its head. Joze fixed his gazethrough the door and rested the crossbar against his temple; he felt asthough, should he meet anyone’s eyes, he would empty himself into histrousers.Behind Joze first the men, then the priest with the candles, and finally thewomen and children set off round the church. The thunder that greeted

Jesus’s sentence made him instinctively draw a parallel between his fate andthat of the Son of God. Every step seemed like an eternity, and thensuddenly the priest fell silent and Joze stopped, oscillating like a spring.There was a prayer and he turned his right shoulder towards the procession,shielded from their eyes by the cross. He breathed deeply, trying to calm thetrembling of his hands, and at the same time peering timidly over the cross.In the first row, right beside him, stood the village jokers, whispering to oneanother through muffled, playful giggles, and a little to one side swayed thedrunk Sime, whom he had thrown out of the Party just before the war at hiswife’s insistence, because he ’disgraced you and the Party’. From time totime their eyes would flash towards Joze, like thieves identifying aguaranteed prey.The voices fell silent and the Second Station was read. It was alreadybeginning to get dark and Joze slowed down so that the leaders’ candleswould light his way. The smell of alcohol and the continuous, muffledmumbling struck him like a line drawn in the air. He did not want to lookround, but tried to listen to the priest’s words and thereby give his breathinga rhythm. They made him think instinctively of his wife, which horrified himand he tried desperately to put such an inappropriate comparison out of hismind. He closed his eyes for a few seconds; he felt the wet stickiness of hisvest on his back.The priest fell silent and the procession halted while a prayer poured out oftheir throats. Joze again turned the cross towards the column, and loweredits end slowly onto the ground, leaning his chin against the crossbar, so thathis head could be clearly seen from the column. The people in the first rowshad surrounded Sime, nudging him with their elbows as though persuadinghim to do something. For a second Joze frowned, then directed a penitentgaze towards the sky, sighed, turned it back to the column and looked forhis wife. It was too dark to see her; opening his eyes wide he sighed deeplyagain.At that moment a multitude of voices replaced that of the priest and theprocession set off again. Now, after the initial excitement, Joze felt tired andthe cross was becoming too heavy, like a bag of cement carried by a child.He bowed his shoulders a little and propped his right hand on the crossbar.The reading of the stations alternated with calls for the people not to chatter,and it occurred to him that he was probably the only man, apart from thepriest of course, who was listening to the litany, just as on the way of thecross only Mary and Simon the Syrian had encouraged Jesus; he had learnedthat much these last years; the others had spat at him. That thought filledhim with a kind of joy, like an event in a sea of tedium. At last the priesthad more or less succeeded in hushing the column, when Joze reeled from abreath of alcohol like a torrent, and words, accompanied by repressed,mocking laughter:’Whoever saw a Commie carrying a cross!’It was as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning, and his handsshook. He instinctively lengthened his stride, thus increasing the distancebetween himself and the column. Titters still reached his ears, as thoughsignalling to the prey caught in the snare what was in store for it and his jawmuscles clenched.The column stopped again and the prayer began. Joze was clutching thecross tightly, as at the First Station. He peered anxiously over it, hiding hishead, as though begging for mercy. The men clustered around Sime, wavingtheir arms like instructors giving the last commands, at the same timeshoving him with their elbows. Joze thought his heart would burst. ’Have

mercy on us, Lord’, echoed down the column and he began absentlymouthing the words, like the last hope of salvation in front of the staggeringapparition which was, like the Last Judgement, slowly but inescapablyapproaching him, drunkenly spluttering:’OK, OK, that’s right. You did chuck me out, you were glad to. Now we’ll seeall your red sins, now all the red devils under that cross will come out of you,my Joze.’Joze stopped dead, like a frog in front of a snake. He was no longer awareof the stench of alcohol, or the priest’s prayer. Everything around him, thesea, the shore, the people in the procession disappeared, shrouded bySime’s words and the giggling behind him.Joze no longer knew either when the prayer was over or when the columnmoved off. He was jolted by the priest’s voice, who was on the verge oflosing control, alternating the reading of the Fourth Cross with furiousappeals for silence. Joze began to breathe heavily, trying to recover. Shouldhe reply that the times were different then, they came and went, should heapologise … but it all seemed stupid, because it wouldn’t have stoppedSime, on the contrary, it might have encouraged him, there would be ascandal; people wouldn’t blame the drunk, but him. What would his wife sayto that? But again, he felt a kind of guilt that would have diminished theforce of his words, he knew he shouldn’t feel any guilt, but there it was. Hethought he was going to cry.And that was how it was, if not worse. Joze stood a little distance from therest, in vain, cowering behind the cross, in vain, like a prey without hope;Sime staggered up to him and spluttered, as though lighting moreexplosives with a fuse:’D’you hear the priest. Eh, that’s how your wife ought to go, like Maria, infront of everyone, praying at the top of her voice for you, you Commie.’Joze was beside himself. The cross was shaking so much on his shoulderthat he thought it was going to fall. His face was contorted into a panic-stricken, tearful grimace. He knew that he ought to reply, say something, buthe simply couldn’t. There was just one thing in front of his eyes: his wife,she would save him, protect him like a hen her chicks, she would know whatto say.But Sime, encouraged by Joze’s helplessness and the goading of the menbehind him, became braver and began to splutter increasingly loudly andenergetically:’So, eh? You’re hot? That’s the devil coming out of you. After five years, thered is coming out of you. Our priest isn’t a fool, you have to bring the last,the biggest commie in the place to the faith.’But Joze no longer heard him. There was buzzing in his ears, and his eyeskept blacking out. The cross on his shoulder was swaying dangerously, he nolonger felt his feet, the ground seemed to be slipping from under him.The voices of the procession, reaching the end of the prayer, fell silent andthere was a moment of quiet before the reading of the next station. Simewas still jabbering nonsense and his voice, incomprehensible admittedly, nowreached the rest of the procession. The priest roared and firm steps startedto approach the head of the column. The giggling stopped abruptly andsomeone tried to drag Sime back.Nobody knew exactly what happened then. As he was pulled, instead ofstepping backwards, Sime staggered and hit the distraught Joze in the sidewith his elbow. The cross, already unsteady, rocked on his shoulder and fellonto his right big toe and there was a heavy, resounding crash of woodagainst stone. When the priest arrived, the laughter, so long suppressed,

burst out, like an explosion. All the heads in the procession craned to seewhat was going on, and the priest, enraged, shouted, then went back to hisplace. Joze absently picked up the cross, the reading began and the columnset off again.Now the procession was on its way back, towards the church. Whispersimmediately ran through the column that ’God had punished Joze for hisearlier sins’ and ’Why did she have to saddle him with the cross’.After that everything went smoothly. The dull pain in his toe got worse withevery step, flooding his whole body and forcing him to forget everything thathad happened before, so that in the end he arrived at the church limping.When they sat down for the final prayer, he leaned his head on his handsand exhaled deeply, like a man saved from a shipwreck, not noticing theglances that flashed at him in passing. His wife squeezed his hand tenderlyand looked at him anxiously, while he gave her a long-suffering smile. Thatquiet hour allowed him to get his breath back; he massaged his sore toe asmuch as he could through his shoe, accompanied by the eyes of thecongregation. He returned home leaning on his wife; he could not walk onhis own. On the way he told her everything, daring in the end to sighplacatingly ’that’s what happens when you do something you shouldn’t.’ Shejust drew in her breath crossly and threatened that ’they’d all see theirmaker’, and that was the end of the conversation.Gunfire resounded through the village and the bells tore through the silenceof the night. Joze turned his eyes to the window: multicoloured waterfalls offireworks were bursting over the sky above the church. He sighed and slowly,with an effort, got up from the armchair and made his way to the kitchen. Hefell on the plate full of roast meat hungrily, greedily; Jesus was born, now hecould eat.

Lamija BegagicTHE APPLE TREE

I met Adi when I was a kid, in the Scouts. We passed all those teststogether: going without food, survival in the countryside, lighting fires withoutmatches and all that …It’s a long time since we were kids, but we’re scouts to this very day.We go without food together, we search for the most secluded source ofwater in the city, we light fires without wood, and today just like then we try tocross from one end of Sarajevo to the other and simply – stay alive. Adiliked to talk, lengthily and interestingly, while I listened every timeattentively and enthusiastically.’You know there’s a town somewhere, I can’t remember what it’s called, but I thinkit’s somewhere in Macedonia – The Homeland of the Sun, where there’s amonument on the main square to an apple tree. Yes, yes, in our country people putup monuments to national heroes, and before two generations of pigeons havemanaged to crap on them, their shoulders have already acquired new heads, likeTransformers.But, after every war, the apple tree is the same, sometimes it bears less fruit,admittedly, but it’s no side’s enemy, it stands calm and undamaged in the middleof that square, just as there’s usually a river flowing through the centre of a townand it doesn’t occur to anyone to alter its course every year.’This time it was different. I couldn’t follow the thread of his story, I knew thatby the time I got home I would have to work out what to say to my wife, howto respond to the story I had been hearing constantly the last few days.The story was that her grandfather had lived for thirty years in Slovenia, likein a child’s rhyme: country cottage, orchard with apple trees, dog-kennel witha black and white dog in it, hens and chicks, and all those things that wenever had in Sarajevo even in peacetime.Adi didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t listening to him…’Here, take these wretched writers whose monuments were desecrated. I doubtwhether any one of them advocated the ideas of one of the warring sides, not evenin the days when those sides still existed, while the war really was like rummy. Weall draw, we all throw down, we all collect and arrange, but the first to get a fullhand, gets the cash, and that’s all there is to it…’Day after day she had been saying that we should leave, that she had somerelative living alone in that large house of her grandfather’s, that she wouldarrange the transport, that we should get out.And I had no idea what to say to her.Should I tell her to go on her own, leave me here so that she had someoneto come back to, someone to bring a bag of red apples to from far-awaySlovenia?Should I tell her to be mature, to listen to herself, not me, because I wouldnever leave, because this Adi of mine was just one of a million reasons why Ididn’t want to?I had to think up something although I knew that it would hurt her, that shewould cry, that she would screw up the collar of her shirt round her neck withrestless fingers…’That writer, the children’s one, I can’t remember his name, but my Amar readshim at school, he used to live in my street. At the very beginning, with the firstconvoy, he left; what do you think, maybe they’ll put his head on these shoulders,here. And when he sometimes comes back to the city, to show his son where hisfather grew up, perhaps he’ll meet his own head in the city that was dying while he

was living.’It was all too stupid.She wouldn’t listen to me. I knew she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t her either. Wehadn’t been listening to one another for ages, we hadn’t quarrelled for ages,we hadn’t argued. Since this began we had chosen silence as a means ofcommunication.She didn’t want to believe that there was anyone who in the war year 1993would not leap at the chance to leave the city in which every day dozens ofpeople were dying, just like that, walking through town, carrying water,playing in front of their house.She didn’t want to believe, and I didn’t want to go on trying to convince her,I just wanted her to leave, so that my conscience wouldn’t trouble me ifsomething happened to her. Adi was still talking, just as though he was wellaware of the pointlessness of my attempts on the way home to dream upthe monologue which my wife would not even try to listen to:’You see, my friend, I never knew who Bosko Buha was, or the Dietrich sisters. Ionly knew about Walter, through films, and I loved him, fuck it, because of thatfamous Das ist Walter. And do you think my Amar will know about people who aremaybe now shedding blood in the countryside. He won’t, my friend, he won’t,because names get forgotten, I haven’t a clue what your surname is, but you’re myhero, and you don’t have to have pigeons crapping on your head to really be that.For a moment he had really made me waver. For the first time since hebegan talking. His sister had been killed in Miskina Street, in that breadqueue. I had met him just a month after that, in the war people didn’t go asin peacetime to the home where someone had died to express theircondolences. It would have been a vicious circle, because if I had set offfrom my part of town to where he lived to express my condolences, he wouldalmost certainly afterwards have had to come to my house for the samereason. I met him a month later, quite by chance, and everything wasimmediately clear. Even if he had said nothing, I knew. And he did saysomething. I remember it to this day: ’The night before there was a fucking fullmoon and I started reading Alan Ford. I must have read twenty issues, honest toGod. And I fell asleep around three in the morning, my eyes aching from the strain.And it was my turn to go for bread. She got up and probably woke me, but when Itold her what time I went to sleep, she went. My friend, she did not die for anyhomeland, or borders, or forebears. She died for the breakfast I was supposed tobring, but I didn’t because of Alan Ford, because of fucking Alan Ford.’I understood him. He was furious that her head would never find suitableshoulders on which to be shown to generations of primary-school excursionsand history societies.He was furious because he knew there were no heroes, or ideals, or dreams.Just the dead, because of Alan Ford, because of the full moon, because of abroken alarm-clock, because of who knows what …But he didn’t stop. As though he wasn’t talking to me any longer, if he everhad been.’And however you look at it, the point is that apple tree. That tree feeds the wholetown centre, mothers don’t suckle their children, but from birth they squeeze juicethrough gauze. And there’s no Bosko or Walter there, or any of my contemporariesfrom the country. It’s not that no one there ever suffered, that no one is worthy,that no one is deserving of this or that. Perhaps it’s just because there are manymore people like that than there would be room for on that little square. And theapple tree is what connects them, the apple tree is timeless.My thoughts turned back to Mikica.Whatever I said she would make up her own mind. She wouldn’t leave, I

knew her, I knew her too well.She wouldn’t leave not because she didn’t want to, but just because it hurther. It hurt her that we were not the people we had been before, it hurt herthat she saw that the centre of my life was empty, that she was no longerthere. And that was just why she wouldn’t leave. She would stay to makethings harder for me. She would stay in order to mention with everydetonation her grandfather’s plot, large house, orchard, dog and hens, tomention that distant peace just in order to make my voluntary suffering ofwar as hard as possible.We were getting close to one of the dangerous streets in the city. The sniperwho killed there was exceptionally precise and did not spare his victims. But,that didn’t disturb Adi:’The architecture of the future will in any case consist of holes made by shells andshrapnel. Perhaps that’s what persuades those who decide to put up monuments toapple trees, thereby paying the greatest respect to all heroes. Because, shrapnelwill some time or other take off the hero’s nose, while an apple tree with a piecebroken off is a nibbled apple, and even like that a wonderful monument. Eternal andoutside time, which speaks perhaps better than a whole apple tree of itssignificance, as the nourisher of the whole town.It wasn’t working any more, definitively. I decided not to say anything. Assoon as I got home, I would simply take my things and move in withmother.In fact, I didn’t need any things, and it would have been impossible to takethem in any case. Perhaps just a couple of canisters, because mother hasonly two.I would simply run away. I’d run away in order to drive her to run away aswell. And give us both back our peace of mind. Hers in her Slovene village,mine in war-torn Sarajevo.I ran across the road and prepared to hurry home pleased that I had finallymade a decision.Adi stopped talking.His body was lying in the road.It was autumn 1993 when I left my wife and lost my best friend.

Ivica DjikicTHE TEARS OF KATARINA VIDOVIC

1The first picture takes us into a modestly furnished apartment of some fiftysquare metres in the suburbs of Amsterdam. We see two naked bodies lyingon the floor, touching each other with their legs and smoking a joint.’Take me with you. My name flows through Bosnia, but I’ve never beenthere,’ said Una.1 He smiled gently, then leaned on his right elbow andkissed her breast.’Will you take me?’ she was insistent.’It’s a long way, you’ll just exhaust yourself.’’No, I won’t…’’What shall I tell people? This is Una … who?’Tell them, this is Una, the woman who says she loves me.’Boris smiled again. In the picture we can’t see that she is eleven years olderthan him, that she is thirty-five and has a marriage behind her, but we cansee that she has full lips, black hair reaching half-way down her back, smallbreasts and lovely, slender fingers. Una plays the saxophone, she plays insmoke-filled bars and her sad metal sound conveys a strange pain to thosewho come to hear her. We know that she left Subotica in nineteen-eightysomething, she was then twenty-four, her mother had wept the afternoonUna got into the train and said that she was never coming back, her fatherhad stayed at home, drinking brandy and swearing; she left behind her ahandful of shattered dreams, a boundless plain and two or three transientloves. In Amsterdam, after a year, she had met Ed, he was an American, hehad heard her playing in the street and offered her the chance to do thesame in his bar. Although her memory was steadily fading, she knew thatthey then got married and she also knew that they had never loved eachother.Boris had come at the beginning of the war he didn’t want to be part of. Hewas twenty then, he had a good camera and an indescribable desire toforget his country. And when you try your hardest to forget something, just tospite you images and people come back; you set off down a street inAmsterdam, you are thinking about something completely different, andthen round the first corner you see a sleazy bar, the ’Drina’, you tell yourselfyou don’t give a damn about all the Drinas in this world and that you willwalk past it as you do past bars called ’Petrograd’ or ’Arizona’ and the like,but no, first you slow down, then you look through the window, then yourears fill with the muffled sound of a song which you have never heardbefore, one of those that go ’Sorrow fills my heart at the evening prayer’sstart’, then you go in and when you wake up it’s already morning, and thewaitress is cursing your God and your drunken mother. Then you leave thebar, it’s raining outside, you think how good it would be to die now, butinstead of death some ten paces from the ’Drina’ Una is waiting for you.

2Katarina Vidovic wept for the first time the autumn that Jakov T. collected histhings and went off to Germany. He kissed her on the forehead and saidthat he would be back as soon as he had earned some money. Since then,every day a little before darkness fell Katarina would go to the window andweep. At first the town took no notice of her tears, but her weeping becameso regular that people began to talk about it more and more. Other men

also went to Germany or to other still more distant places, but no womanshowed her sorrow as Katarina Vidovic did, although others had morereason: she simply loved Jakov, while other women’s husbands had leftchildren and an unquenched desire in their bellies. Every day, for two fullyears, she wept at the window, while people gathered round her housewatching the tears roll down her face.Then one evening she did not appear at the window. People waited, but shedid not come. She was not there the next day either, or the day after that …At first the town knew nothing, but then somehow word got out that she hadtaken a suitcase and set off into the blue to look for Jakov. She travelledthrough foreign towns, she walked tirelessly along broad streets whosenames meant nothing to her showing unknown people a yellowingphotograph of Jakov T. The foreign people looked at her strangely, therewere both compassion and contempt in their eyes, but she paid no attention,she showed the photograph and every evening she prayed to God that shewould meet someone who would know something about her Jakov.

3With the coming of spring, there is nothing nicer than to climb up above thecity, onto the old Karaula Catholic cemetery, light a cigarette and look: onthe left is the slender minaret of the Dzudza Dzaferbeg mosque, straight infront of you rises the tall bell-tower of the church of St Mihovil, while to theright is the Orthodox St Nicholas Church. Looking at places of worship is notexactly a turn-on, but they’re nice to see.’Are you glad I’m with you?’ Una asked, while Boris rolled a joint.’Aha,’ he replied.’What are you thinking about?’’Nothing …’’Did you to come here with someone else before?’’Aha …’’Tell me about her,’ asked Una, but Boris handed her the lit joint.’What shall I tell you?’’Everything … What was her name, did you love her?’’Azra … Leave it, damn it, smoke …’Una inhaled deeply, while Boris was silent. It was chilly (it’s always chillythere, on Karaula) and their teeth chattered slightly.

4For six years Katarina Vidovic visited foreign towns, for six years she walkedthrough foreign streets and showed people the picture of Jakov T., for sixyears she slept where she could, but during that whole time her face lostnone of the beauty and purity which had seduced Jakov ten years earlier.She was haunted by the thought: how was it that none of the thousands ofpeople she had shown Jakov’s yellowed photo to in these six years hadrecognised his face and eyes, how was it that no one had ever lied that theyhad met him, how was it that no one even tried to invent some fantastic andimprobable story about him … And then one day she met a man whostopped to look at the yellowed photo. (Here, however, we must leave someroom for doubt: that is, we do not know whether the man first looked atJakov’s face looking back at him from the yellowed photo or whether he wasdrawn to the eyes of Katarina Vidovic. At that moment the man did not knowof the streams of tears that had flowed from those eyes, and let it remain asecret to the end of this story whether he would ever see a tear in her eye.)He told her that he had once seen the man who was now looking out of the

picture in a Hamburg bar: he had spent two hours with him and he only knewthat in the end he said he was going a long way away, to Argentina say,there he would ride wild horses, he would drink wild drinks, he would dancethe tango with wild women in the smoky taverns of Buenos Aires… Duringthat time, Katarina Vidovic tried to discern the source of Jakov’s sadness andthe reasons for his impulse to run, but she did not succeed. As the mantalked, for the first time she lost hope. Up until that moment she had notonce doubted, she had never been overcome by faint-heartedness, she hadnever ceased to believe: now that had happened and now it was all over.Later that night, she lay in bed, her eyes were closed, her fists clenched, shewanted to remain cold, his tongue licked over her, her body gave in, shetrembled, she shook, she cried out, she scratched his back, but she feltabsolutely nothing. Nothing: not even disgust at her own body which reactedin this way, which was betraying her, which was twisting under the onslaughtsof this unknown man. Katarina Vidovic was indifferent, her heart icy as icy asthe nights can be in the cemetery of Karaula in Duvno when winds descendfrom the surrounding mountains.5They were lying on the marble stone of a grave, the wind was flattening thegrass growing between the trenches where death lives, and Boris wasthinking about Azra. He was seventeen, she a year younger and he stillclearly remembered that evening when they had kissed for the first timeleaning against the wall surrounding Dzudza Dzaferbeg Mosque. But for along time now, that kiss had not meant what it had represented for years:now it was just a little picture from carefree days, and not something carriedin the memory like the most precious reliquary which one reaches for inmoments of despair.’What are you thinking about?’ asked Una.’About the moment when love stops.’He didn’t know anyone who the day he realised he was in love had notthought ’this will last forever, this will never end’. In fact, he didn’t knowwhether at that moment it was normal to think about anything else: to think,say, that all loves are transient and that nothing is eternal. Yes, that’s whatwe think when love passes, but the very next minute when it reappears, wethink the same thing again, we think again ’this will last forever’. Thethought that loves are transient is perfectly rational, but at the momentwhen we love it seems treacherous because then there is a general beliefthat love is an irrational phenomenon. In order truly to love, therefore, wemust exclude our reason, we must submit our own ratio to voluntaryeuthanasia. And what happens when reason is unexpectedly roused from itscoma? Is that the end of love? Is the waking of reason connected with therealisation of the disappearance of love? Is that the moment when we haveto stop? Is happiness, then, the state in which our reason does not functionand do we stop being happy the moment we start to think? If we look at itlike that, then we must conclude that happiness is possible only in conditionsof extreme irrationality, and that realisation is tragic. But if we were to fall inlove thinking that nothing is eternal, we would be spared the pain thatcomes later, but that’s just it: pain is what we need, however much wemaintain the opposite.

6One morning word went through the town that Katarina Vidovic had returned.People said: she has returned the same, she has not aged by so much asone line on her face, she has returned with the same suitcase she went away

with, she has returned just as beautiful … And also: she has come back,because she didn’t find Jakov, she looked for him for more than six years,she went round half the world, but he wasn’t there, had she looked for himfor sixty-six years she would not have found him, because the world is bigand a person small. The first evenings after her return people came to thewindow behind whose pane she had once wept, they waited for her to appear,for the tears to begin to flow as before, to see that wonder for – the townsaid – seeing the tears of Katarina Vidovic was a sight that stayed with youtill death.While the town waited for her tears, life was growing in Katarina Vidovic’sbelly. Life would soon lend a body to a little boy, and the image of the townsaint would never again accompany Katarina Vidovic. From the moment herbelly parted with the new life, she became a whore who in her search forJakov had offered love to strangers, she became the one who had betrayedJakov. Katarina Vidovic paid no attention to the town stories: she now gaveall the love she had kept for years for Jakov to the little boy and that madeher happy. Her heart was pure: there was no longer any space in it for lovefor any man, and that realisation made her serene and composed.After that the years flew swiftly by, the boy grew into a man. Katarina Vidovicbegan to feel time on her face, in her arms, in her breasts … The town forgother tears, the town forgot her love for Jakov T., the town remembered onlythat one year she had gone off into the world and come back six years laterwith a child in her belly. The town did not forget such things, it did notforgive.

7’Can one forget one’s own country?’ he asked Una one night as they layweary in bed.’I think it’s impossible,’ she said in a very serious tone. Then she talked fora long time about the boundless fields of Vojvodina, about her father whohad hanged himself two years after her departure, she talked about hermother and her sorrow which she showed in lengthy silences… She talkedabout the fact that she had thought that music was her only homeland, butthen she had noticed the way her heart beat harder each time she heard herown language, the language she had acquired in the street playing hide andseek with her friends. The day she left she thought that she would neveragain give a start when someone mentioned the name of her home town orwhen they said the word for bread: she was wrong, because those words –hearing them in passing – awoke in her a whole web of associations; at thatmoment she could smell the aroma of bread which used to stream downDositej Obradovic Street first thing in the morning, she saw the eyes of thebaker’s wife, auntie Snezana, who was always smiling, she felt on hershoulder the hand of the baker’s son Nebojsa and his lips on her cheek …’So we can’t forget our country because we can’t wipe out of our brain thesmell of bread wafting down the street in the morning and because we can’t,or don’t want to, erase the memory of our first kiss? What has that to dowith our country? How much does the name of the state where we were bornand grew up have to do with our memories, good and bad?’ asked Boris,while Una simply shrugged her shoulders. After a long silence, she said this:’I think it is impossible to forget one’s country … And that is the reason forall our horror.’

8It was a Saturday morning and the first time Marko L. had come to the town.

He sat in the station buffet and watched the people: he was looking for agentle face, he was looking for someone he would not feel awkward aboutasking whether they knew Katarina Vidovic, was she alive, where did she live,had she found the man from the yellowed photograph, did she have children… He sat for a long time, he watched for a long time, and then heapproached Boris and Una.’Why are you looking for her?’ asked Boris looking at him steadily.’Because I will be happy when I meet her,’ said the man exaltedly andabsently.’Why do you think that?’’Because I have already met her once.’Boris and Una led him to Katarina Vidovic: her face was cold when she caughtsight of the man; to be sure, it was clear that she knew him and it was clearthat what ran through her head at that time was ’so, let it be, I was justwaiting for you to knock on my door’. Her face showed just that expressionof relief, an expression which said that the moment had finally come whichshe had been expecting for a long time and which she knew would comesooner or later, a moment which could not be avoided, a moment for whichone had to be prepared.Marko L. was the man who one distant night in the German north had lickedthe belly of Katarina Vidovic, and thanks to that night Boris had been born,Boris, the man who that gloomy Amsterdam morning, coming out of the’Drina’ bar, had met Una and come to love her as no one before. They sat inKatarina Vidovic’s house, the four of them, it was a sunny day outside, thewindow looked onto the street where unruly youngsters were making theirway to school and listened to the story of Jakov T., of tears, of six years ofsearching for love, of losing hope, of returning, of the town saint whobecame a whore and one night in Hamburg.’I love you,’ Marko L. had said that night to Katarina Vidovic and she knewthat this man really did love her. She also knew, however, that there was nolonger room in her heart for any man. She let him enjoy his happiness, thehappiness he had sought for twenty-five years and she feared the momentwhen the man who loved her would realise that this happiness was false. Shefeared that day, but she knew for certain that the day would come and thaton that day she must be bold.’I love you,’ he told her every night, and every time her heart contracted withsadness and the thought of the pain which she would undoubtedly bring tothe man who loved her boundlessly.

9’I love you,’ Boris told Una the morning when, full of some inexplicableanxiety, she said that she was expecting a baby. That child which had begunto grow in her belly, she thought, would have to become the guarantee oftheir love, but the moment she thought this Una was afraid: did love need aguarantee, did real love need little living beings which had to function as apledge in something that could come to an end the next day, but would notcome to an end at once (or never would: the human need to prolong theagony is incredible!) because the stakes were too high, because thereexisted one single point of contact, one thin thread connecting the ends ofnon-existent happiness. However, Una now knew that her belly was filled withthe consequence of a love. It was a quite new and in truth wonderful feeling.

10The day when eight months of Una’s pregnancy had passed Marko L. did not

wait for morning in the house of Katarina Vidovic. She looked for him, shecalled his name through the rooms, but she did it all despite herself,because she knew quite well that it was all in vain: he had gone, he hadtaken all his things and set off who knows where, presumably to wherehappiness and serenity are not so brief, and where loves endure as in fairy-tales.That morning Katarina Vidovic felt relief, but also sadness: the man whomwith the best possible will she could not come to love had left, but he wasalso the only man on the entire globe who had sincerely loved her. Jakov T.,she thought at that moment, had in any case not been a real figure, but herfantasy, the product of her need to be happy. That fantasy of hers,admittedly, had made her heart as icy as, we have said, nights in thegraveyard of Karaula in Duvno can be when the winds descend from thesurrounding mountains.

11The wind whipped Boris’s wet face, as the grave-diggers lowered the coffinwith Una’s body into the earth. A body which had not withstood the birth of anew life. They say that Katarina Vidovic wept then and never again.

Amir KamberAMIR KAMBER, ORGAN AND PIANO TUNER

1.What did you do this summer, Amir Kamber,and who of your family is still alive?

I love my Gran and my Grandpa. They’re in Sanski Most. My Gran’s well, but she’slosing her memory. Grandpa says she knows everything. Only when she’s cookingshe puts too much in and it gets sticky. That’s why he’s getting fat. My grandpakeeps bees. He’s got about twenty boxes, or more. I was at my grandpa’s for thesummer holidays. He said that while we were there, to use the kids, he’d get thehoney out. Azmir, Adnan and Sudo were there too. Sudo’s father was killed in thewar.Grandpa said he was going to take the boxes from the bees, because he was theonly one who could handle them. Then he’d let us extract it. He put on his clothesthe bees couldn’t sting through and a net over his face. Then he went to the beesand blew smoke at them till they all hid in the bottom of the hive. Then he took outthe boxes with the frames. We extracted the honey from the frames down in thecellar. We stood them up in a tin barrel with a crank for extracting the honey.That’s how you do it. It flies out of the frame, sticks like a spider’s web to thebarrel, drips like gold down the tin, comes out of a little pipe and drops intoIzmet’s dish. And everything was sticky – whatever you touched. And everythingwas yellow. Every so often uncle Izet and Reuf would come and peer into theframes to see whether they were empty and needed to be changed. They reallyknew their job.In that one week we extracted almost 200 kilos of honey. The pure kind. Mygrandpa doesn’t add anything to it and doesn’t boil it with sugar, like shop-boughthoney. He gives it all away. He says he’s too old now to start selling.It’s not hard work, but it’s not easy to extract honey. Grandpa said that in a year’stime he’d get a motor and connect it. He said that last year too. Each one of uskids got a huge five kilo jar. When you turn it upside down, the air makes a ballwith the vacuum like a tear and that means it’s good. Before we all left, Grandpasaid that only the dear Lord knew how much he loved us and he told me that I wasa real Kamber. More than my dad.

*This summer my grandpa was bashed by a car while he was riding his bicycle. Hesaid he was looking, but we all know he’s old and he wasn’t. He wanted to crossthe road quickly. And he’d just got onto the bike when this man smashed into him.My grandpa was black and blue all over, but luckily he didn’t break anything. Whenwe went to visit him he was sitting in an armchair in the little room and whisperingas he talked. He could only have two visitors at a time. Because there was onlyroom for two on the little couch without being squashed. I went in with my dad.Grandpa was covered in bandages, but he still showed us his bruises. His head hadcaught it as well. He’s bald so the bumps were easy to see. He showed me wherethe x-ray pictures were hanging in the china cabinet, there, dear, just above thepicture of all his grandchildren, and I went and took them down. Dad and I lookedat them holding them up to the window and nodded, saying he had got off lightly.He said he had been supposed to go to the surgeon for a check-up, but he hadn’tbecause he was okay. My dad laid into him then, and grandpa said he hoped I’dtalk to my dad like that when he got old.What I like best is sitting over coffee with Grandpa and my Gran. Now when we

were sitting there Grandpa told my Gran that the swellings should be rubbed. Hedid it first with vinegar and then with honey. That brought them out best. Heremoved the bandages and everything and Gran helped him. When he had rubbedhis belly and back with honey he asked Gran who was going to lick it off. Grandpa’ssometimes crude. Once he told a neighbour that she was pregnant again and that’swhat happened when you baked sausages in the oven. Gran then told him to bequiet and not to tell fibs. When Grandpa had rubbed his belly and his back he hadto be bandaged again. He gave Gran the bandages and so that she wouldn’t have tofly round him he told her just to hold them. Then he raised his arms and turnedround and round. He said he looked like Plesetskaya.

*Last time my grandpa took me to the mill. That mill had been in our family forhundreds of years. It used to be made of wood, and then it was built round withstone, because every year the water washed it right away. The mill worked byhaving two stones – one of them turned round and the other didn’t. The turning oneis called the upper stone and the one underneath is the grindstone. Outside thefloat throws water onto an iron wheel, the wheel turns a lever, the lever turns theupper stone. The scoop, which clatters constantly on the upper stone, digs in thebasket and takes out the corn which falls between the stones and then into thetrough. You can grind 500 kilos of flour in 24 hours if you’ve got nothing else to do.Grandpa told me this flour was a precious gift and it should be respected like lifeitself. There was a settee in the mill for when you stayed the night here. We satdown on it and he told me all about everything.When he and his brothers were young, he used to bring girls here too – courting.The youngsters were always hanging about here and having a laugh. Once hebrought a girl on her own.Grandpa told me something else as well. It happened in the previous war. Then hisbrother Osman had come home with a bundle full of apples. He spread them on arug and told his mum that he was going to the mill, and she should make an applepie, he wanted to have it hot when he got back.Grandpa’s brother Osman was 14 then. When he got to the mill he saw that thelever had got stuck and the mill had stopped working. He bent down, leaning overthe lever and shook something. Then the lever came unstuck, caught his collar andstrangled him on the spot with his coat. Grandpa said that was how his late brotherOsman, he was only fourteen, hadn’t managed in his lifetime to enjoy hot pie. Iwas horrified. Finally he told me in these words that in this war they had killed hisbrother and son, ’Dear Hare and dear Tofko. My time and the mill’s has passed.’He was seventy years old.

2Who are you, Amir Kamber, in pain,and what’s wrong with you?

Mum gives birthMy mum delivered me into the first summer downpour. She bit her gums inthe spasms as she gave me to the light of day. Outside warm drops of rainflooded the manhole covers and formed bubbles. With his right elbow on thebar, in the café opposite the hospital, my father waited for me. He tossedback spirits in one go, rubbing the edge of the glasses with his forefinger.He knocked one of them with his forefinger onto the polished counter and letthe glass shatter round his fingers. In the labour ward I whimpered too.

The heart implodes

Number one Dzemal Bijedic Street, sixteenth floor. Prijedor 1992. My brotherwoke me up and said they had hung up flags. We had been told to hangwhite sheets from our windows. Evil throws the dice and then just comes likethat, over talk about sheets. Creatio ex nihilo with a grimace from the brushof Hieronymus Bosch. Evil is a skeleton by Max Klinger peeing, from a lowbank, into a huge river. Omarska. Trnopolje. Keraterm.1 Evil takes away.People robbed me and touched me with knives. They looked like fakeJesuses and Che Guevara on matchboxes. I saw them killing a man: thebullet singed the hair on his chest, pierced his skin, passed through hisflesh, shattered his bones, smashed into his heart. Like when a typhoonreaches the mainland. The heart implodes from the pain, like a hotstrawberry pudding, like a cocktail with crushed ice. The man fell slowly. Likea skyscraper on a slowed down film. On a lost black and white photographmy father poses in front of the enormous tyre of a dumper truck, in pressedtrousers, in boots, somewhere behind the gate of the Ljubija Iron Ore Mine.His function – director of the service for maintaining the mining equipment.’Every machine has my signature on it, my boy.’ In the night of expulsionsand plunder, my father was helpless to do anything, for the first time weak.He followed the features of his son’s face and collapsed like the bridge inthe story. He lost the power of the master of dumpers, bull-dozers, diggers,loading-machines and caterpillar trucks, and became an ordinary man whomI loved. My mum doesn’t know what I’m studying here. She says I’m at theArts Faculty, so that, when I graduate, I can, at the very least, be anannouncer. I imagine people dying, first someone in the room switches offthe light, then the radio.

Writing hurts. Suffocates. I’m drowning in raspberry jam. Like when I battermy flesh with my toothbrush, leaving red traces in the gnawed fruit. I’mtelling a story like a light bulb burning out and turning milky. Like steamunder an iron. I lie so as to speak but say nothing. I shudder at thecrackling of synthetic material in clothes. I rarely build sentences in mymother tongue. I’m alone. I’m not too young for anything, nor too old forsomething. My body rarely leaves a shadow.

The day of deportation is bright. Buses are waiting in front of the school.Mother fought at the Red Cross to have us put on the list: a ticket forabandoning one’s childhood voluntarily cost fifty marks a person. My fathersigned a document that he surrendered his property. I’m glad I’m going.Prijedor – Banja Luka – Skender Vakuf – Darkness on the mountain aboveTravnik. The column of twenty overcrowded buses moves slowly. The childrenhum songs, someone snaps: Fucking excursion! Other children stand besidethe road and raise their fingers. Somewhere near Skender Vakuf a hoarsevoices says that two buses are missing. In the darkness above Travnikpeople wait for us, kill us and rape us. The night of the deportation is clear.We walk some twenty kilometres down the mountain. Somewhere down therethere are flashes and booms. As though one of the youths, somewhere inthe distance, was kicking a huge streetlight, to make it go out. People walkand call out names. Everyone calls their family. I call as well. The criesbounce off the low glass sky.

A word reverberatesWords echo needlessly. They don’t concern me. Like blood in a turd. A wordin the belly burns and only there is it not false. A word on the lips condensesand becomes a metaphor. Every metaphor is an assumption that seeks

justification in ritual. Ritual is a unit of communication. Communicationconsists of platitudes. Platitudes are drivel. The only primeval word is yourname. Primeval because it is magic. Magic in a name is what drives you tojustify it, to be guided by it. Your name describes you, your namedetermines you. Your name has you. Magic is when you pronounce thenames of people when you don’t know whether they are dead.

The web seeksI lie on the bed, rolled up like a foetus. I listen to electronic music like thebeating of my mother’s heart as she climbs up to the fifth floor, in DzemalBijedic Street. I don’t like saxophone players who practise in the evenings ontheir balconies. I don’t need orientation, I can change direction at anymoment. I encode words, I don’t expect you to decode them. I canoniseliterature by not ceasing to read it. Everything pyramidoid has been eaten bythe web. I am not indifferent. I recognise constructions. My strength is not inthe fact that I have all possibilities, but that none of them commits me. Iam strong when I slow the moment down. I want to pour myself outcompletely and become a concentrate. Like when you put a spoon under thetap and liberate the flow. For there to be nothing left of me but a hair splitby urine. And a name. I want to look for myself. I lift up the computer. Iopen the page of a quality search engine.I type myself.And enter.

Emir DzambegovicMAJ(D)A

Drowsily she presses the lift button, half melted by the flame of some idiot’sor discarded lover’s lighter. Through the smoke of her last Banja Lukacigarette, she looks at herself in the cracked mirror. Through the lace of spitshe sees Donna Haraway who would rather be a cyborg than the deity ofdickheads.’If the mirror is covered in spit, you’re not!’ it said in black felt-tip on thebrown veneer, just above ’The world is full of fools who think the world is fullof fools!’Bloody teenage revelation.

’I have to show you something,’ she had said over coffee, some weeksearlier, taking out a fat bundle of letters. ’Do you happen to know whosedoing this is?’There was a coarse kind of love in those letters: ’I’d tie you to the bed andlick you all day long’; or: ’I’d tear off that blue Dolce&Gabbana shirt of yoursand use it to tie your right arm to your right leg and your left arm to your leftleg, you’d be like a spider’; or: ’Because that flesh around the hole isfemale, and not only are you just THAT, but you even entreat, withoutnoticing it, you must know whose fleshy knives in our pants to ram them intoyour throat and everywhere, babe’; and ’Whatever god made you I wouldshag you to pieces.’’Could it be Nikola?’’I don’t know.’’Chauvinist pig!’’I can’t tell you anything.’’Could you have a word with him, wangle something out of him, find out whoit could have been?’’Careful, you’re asking me to betray the male sex. Everyone fancies you, butyou’re just my friend. I mean, I’m not some Andy Warhol who could listen toyour SCUM announcements and stories in lectures, and nor is Nikola anartist. It can’t be any of us. You clearly need some sensitive soul in thistechnological age. And why did you stick those ugly posters all over the placeabout the founding meeting of the Student Feminist Society of RS? Whymake a fool of yourself for nothing? What’s the point of it all!’’Come on, don’t talk crap. I’ve never heard you say anything so stupid sinceI’ve known you! Is that what you really think! I refuse to be some femalemachine for the reproduction of descendants, you … shits, you exploiters,YOU have the babies!’’Is this some Scandinavian shit? Don’t say you didn’t know that half the girlswho go to university go because of the guys and they can’t wait to force theirway into someone’s house, get pregnant and get married.’’Oh come on, you’re talking crap, do you really have such a low opinion ofwomen. Hm! It wasn’t you who wrote this, was it? Eh?’’Oh really, you’re getting paranoid, leave it out! What’s your problem…?!’I got up frowning, annoyed, and threw money down on the table. I could seein her eyes that she was sorry, but she had to pay for that insult. Her pridewouldn’t let her call me back.That was several weeks ago.

The telephone rang, I told my parents if it was her I wasn’t in, and since my

(already late) father had got an invitation to sort out an eviction from a flatin Tuzla, I went instead as I had power of attorney. And I wasn’t reallyfussed about how she was, she had begun to bore me with her quasi-revolutionary waywardness.Why had she come back to Bosnia? Education? Maybe she wanted to becomesome sort of Nikola Tesla. Or patriotism? Her folks?They were against it, they thought electronics was a ’male’ subject. Shedidn’t tell them she’d stopped going to lectures. She had begun to work in avideo shop. Sometimes there’d be extra earnings from repairing video-recorders. She spent the whole of that Banja-Luka year of her return alone.She avoided the loutish behaviour of the guys who were after her.Everything, from the all-pervasive peasant mentality and orangutan-seductive professors, to street politics and mafia palaces (that spring upovernight), everything summoned one to a revolt. A real feminist revolt,which, it seemed the whole fucked-up nation needed too.’Take Some Pussy and Run’, like the porter in the pub ’From Dusk to Dawn’.Maybe that’s why she had yelled at Nikola in the break between lectures.When he came on to her she responded by spitting on his male ego. Was itcourage, or madness, to speak like that to Nikola Stojanovic, whose brotherhad been killed fighting with the ’Eagles’?Maybe that was just what I loved about her.

Boris,I hope you’re OK and not angry with me. It’s stupid to be saying I’M sorry, whenit’s YOU who went away and didn’t want to answer my calls. Unfortunately, youwere right. Although the dean agreed orally that I could hold the founding meetingof the student feminist society (he said he’d send written approval later, but hedidn’t), it turned out I made a total fool of myself because the cleaning womanwouldn’t open the amphitheatre because ’no one had told her anything about it’. Andmore than half the girls apologised that they couldn’t come because their guys hadarranged to see them then, just imagine, at 7.30 pm! It was like they’d all agreedto scupper the meeting. What can I tell you, they had to think about their marriageprospects. So there were very few girls. Not even a dozen. We ended up in a café,some people thought it was my birthday or hen night. All we needed were strippers,sorry, dancers, but we had all sorts of sissies instead. To be quite honest, I’msorry there’s no spirit of revolt in Bosnia. It seems that nationalism used it all upin the war. And compared to that catastrophe, any other vision of society is just achildren’s prank. A big pimple!I’m good, I’m studying sociology and we’ve got a feminist society here, although itannoys me that there are lots of dykes and I sometimes think they only come topull some chick, you know how it is, there are pinheads everywhere, they’ll behappy with a minor role in society. I don’t know what else to tell you … My folksfinally worked out there was nothing for me in Bosnia and no future for me thereand after that fiasco it wasn’t hard for me to agree to leave. I felt as though thewhole town was throwing me out, that the streets were getting narrower, thebuildings bending towards me. And it’s not hard for my old folk to live here on aNorwegian pension. Please reply to this and tell me what’s new. How’s your lovelife?P.S. I know I sound boring, but I have to ask you whether you know who sent methose letters? Was it Nikola? And where is he … I feel a bit bad that I embarrassedhim and mucked him around.

What could I tell her, apart from lie that Nikola had written them, that hehad bragged about it at a bash or that he’d been knocked down on the

pavement by a drunken politician’s Mercedes, that he was dead, or in acoma or something, and she should get over him, think about the passingyears and getting married – or what? Or not answer at all. Stay suitably cold.Suitably anonymous.I’m the one who drove her away from here. I’m the one who loved her andwho didn’t know how to transform friendship into love, who pretends tohimself that he didn’t write those letters, who is trying to shake off theburden of memories by writing the story of Maj(d)a.Who sets fire to yet another new lift button.

Melina KamericTHREE FEMALE AND ONE GROUP STORY

The First is putting on nail polish. The Second is stroking the cat’s head andstaring into space. The Third (me) is reading to them:’I’m leaving,’ he said, ’and I want you to know that I’ll be back. I love you because…’’Don’t say any more,’ Fatima interrupted him, ’you love because you love. There’sno reason for loving.’Then the one polishing her nails says: ’You think I want to hear this!!!’The other one (stroking the cat’s head) says: ’What?’And we both look at her and say at the same time: ’You’re sleeping in classagain!!!’The third (me) puts her feet on the table. There are boots on them.Completely new. Bought today. Above them is bare skin, right up to myboxer shorts with pink devils on them and my T-shirt four sizes too big.The First lights a cigarette, then the Second and I do too.And then all three of us sigh.In silence, the First admires the freshly polished nails on her feet, and I thenew boots on mine.The Second is still stroking the cat, smoking and staring into space.Then the telephone interrupts everything.The Second leaps up (with a leap that probably summons a thunder-clap),the terrified cat first runs across the table (knocking over the open bottle ofnail polish), and then across me (leaving marks of bloody scratches on mybare thighs).Accompanied by screams of fury and pain (from the First and Third), theSecond has already grabbed the telephone.Twice she says: ’Yes, all right…’ and then she says: ’OK, see you.’She puts down the phone. Full of energy now, she announces: ’He’scoming!!!’The First and I look at each other. And sigh. We have 45 minutes. TheSecond is already taking off her pyjamas and flying into the bath. The Firstand I empty the ashtrays, pick up the magazines and air the apartment.’You need to throw away the cat litter. Onto the balcony,’ shouts the Secondfrom the toilet.The First and I make faces. We finish the clearing up.’Shall we change the bedclothes?’ I say.’Well remembered!!! The blue ones!! Please!’

We’re already in the kitchen. We’re stuffing round rolls with olives, tomatoesand mozzarella. The Second comes into the kitchen. She arrives in a cloudof steam, perfume and good spirits.’Put more mozzarella in. He likes it.’ The First and I look at each other. Weroll our eyes.The Second is trying out her third set of underwear. Between the pink andthe black set, she comes into the kitchen and opens the fridge:’AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAH! There’s no wine!!!’ She turns to us. TheFirst is already putting on her jacket and saying: ’OK, I’m going, I know … Iknow … HE likes Merlot!!!’I look at my watch, five minutes to arrival… good flying time. I put on myjeans. Everything is ready. The First comes back with the wine. We’re at thedoor. The First and I kiss the Second. We shut the door. We go down the

steps. Then the door opens and the Second shouts: ’Hey, you’ve forgottenthe rubbish!’I throw the rubbish in the skip. The First starts the car. We set off. At theexit from the car-park, we nearly collide with a black Golf, driven by Him. Wepretend (He and us) that we don’t know each other.Because the First and I aren’t supposed to know about him.

The Second pours gin into glasses. The First shrieks. And beside herself withfury walks round the room. The Third (me) blows out the smoke of thecigarette she’s just lit and lists all the abusive names she can think of. All inrelation to His Highness.So, two hours ago, His Highness informed the First that her dress (Expensive,Sexy and New) was not appropriate for the next day’s reception. That is, theslit in the back shows her tattoo. What would all those people think?! TheFirst has now decided that she won’t bother to go. Then she goes quiet.The Second and I say: ’Of course you won’t go!’ Then we go quiet too.The cat sits on the table, licking itself agitatedly. Over its stomach.The First then starts badmouthing him. The two of us join in. Then weinclude our colleagues as well, and all the deputy ministers, male and female,and the primadonnas and the primadonna husbands who’ll be there.His mother and sister won’t be at the reception, but we badmouth them aswell.We stop after four glasses of gin. Then we fall silent.The First says: ’But he likes my tattoo!’ And starts crying. Then the two of uscry as well. We stop after the next (fifth) glass of gin. We conclude: ’They’reall the same!’The Second lights a cigarette. Then gives it to the First. She lights anotherand gives in to me. And finally she lights one for herself. We blow outsmoke. Then the First says: ’Where is that Donna Karan dress without a slit?’The Second and I look at each other. Then I go to get the Donna Karandress without a slit.The First tries it on. The Second says: ’Her new boots would look fantastic onyou!!!” and looks significantly at me. I roll my eyes (so that the First can’tsee me). I shake my head. The First turns round and looks at mepleadingly. I bring the boots. I make a face at the Second so the First can’tsee. They look good with the dress. I no longer have new boots. Ahhh … asthough boots were important. A smile returns to the First’s face. She struts infront of the mirror.She’ll go after all.

The Third (me) comes out of the toilet with a mild expression of panic onher face. I’m carrying something called Clear Blue, there are positive lineson both sides of the test phial. I recite aloud: ’With Clear Blue you can be99% certain … and you can also wait 9 months to be 100% certain …’The Second says: ’Wow, great!’ The First just says: ’Wow!!!’I sit down. The cat comes and sits in my lap. It purrs. I light a cigarette. TheSecond hurls herself at me and snatches it from my mouth. ’Pregnantwomen must not smoke!’ Who? Me? Pregnant? Aaaaaaaaaaah….I stare blankly ahead of me. The First and Second sit opposite me,smoking. I think out loud: ’How unlucky do you have to be for it to be youthat gets the pierced condom?’I remember a story I heard recently. Some guy (maybe they even told mehis name???), a refugee, someone knows him, he’s from Vratnik, he worksas a supervisor of birth control devices at Durex … and out of pure boredom

(so they say, and he admits it) he punches little holes in them.Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah….The Second says: ’Who says that?’The First says: ’Oh, come on …’I put my feet on the table. I look at my new shoes. Bought today. They’lllook really good when my belly reaches my chin. The Second says: ’Mother-to-be!’, the First says: ’Oh … shut up!’The First and the Second (and at the end of the day, me too) know that itshouldn’t have turned out like this.I used the word ALLURE. It sounded nicer. That was it. It was all supposed tobe ALLURE.First we met. For a time we got on each other’s nerves, until we realised thatsomething quite different was going on. Pure ALLURE.I was just fine. I knew what I wanted. The First said: ’I don’t get it, he’ssimply not your type.’ The Second said: ’Simply mind-boggling!’ For me itwas a game. And I like playing games. According to strict rules.Surrounded by people, constantly. Looks that lasted … a very long time.Emotional sex. That’s what they call it. You lean over to tell me something.You inhale deeply … in my ear. You speak … in a whisper. You exhale … intomy ear. ’What’s that scent?’ ’Me!’ Uh… We’re just playing. Until it becameunbearable. That’s when it happened. And now it turned out that the condomhad been pierced.GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…I say: ’I haven’t a clue what to do?!?’. The Second says: ’Oh, of course youknow!’ The First says: ’Whatever you decide, we’re here!’, lookingreproachfully at the Second, and thinking I don’t notice.The cat and I in the armchair. She purrs. I sleep. The First and Secondsmoke non-stop, talking about me. ’I told her …’ ’Shut up, for God’s sake …who are you to speak!’ ’Who would have thought …’ ’But at least she had agood time.’ Then I dream … ALLURE.

The FirstThe Second and I are wallowing (our word for resting). The First comes in. Shesays: ’I’ve got some news!’Then she informs us that His Highness has acquired a FUNCTION. I laugh:’Does that mean he’ll start being FUNCTIONAL now?’ The Second kicks meunder the table. The First says: ’It means that now I’ll never be able to wearmy dress with the slit down the back! You know, journalists and all that …’The Second says: ’Shame, and you’ve got such a lovely back!’ … I laugh andsay: ’So can the two of us now have all your dresses with slits down theback?’

The SecondNow the First and I know about him. For three months now. Today the Firstand I stand behind him and the Second who say: ’I DO’ in front of a seriousgentleman.The First and I smile. Then we make faces at him behind his back. We stickout our tongues. We make sure the Second does not see us. We have to.He’s a real nerd. He’s never even heard of David Lynch. But the Second loveshim. He’s afraid of the First and me. But that’s as it should be. He has to beafraid of someone.

The ThirdThe First and Second say in unison: ’Well we always said he behaved like a

stud bull!’I don’t care. Single mother. In a sense. He doesn’t have time. But he willtake care of us. It suits me. Let him go off somewhere into the wide wildworld. And we’ll see each other from time to time. But we’ll go and visit him.And when we get fed up – we’ll leave. The Little One and me.

GroupWe’re sitting on the terrace. The First, the Second, the cat, me and this LittleOne in me. The First and Second are eating ice-cream. The cat issunbathing. I am smoking (that one permitted cigarette a day) and readingaloud: ’If it weren’t for Kiki, I’d have spaghetti with tomato sauce every day andI’d never, never get sick of it…’The First and Second say in unison: ’Vedrana Rudan1 is Tito for me!!!’ Icontinue: ’If it weren’t for Kiki, I’d work in Italy. As a maid. I’d earn three millionlira a month, I’d dye my hair deep red, I’d buy a Bruno Magli bag and Bruno Maglishoes, I’d put on a black dress and an expensive coat, have my hands done at amanicurist’s, and flounce down the Corso with my head held high. I’d sail down theCorso … And I’d breathe deeply. And look happily around me. I’d gaze into the fardistance. And nowhere on the horizon. Piss-covered boards.’

We yell with approval. We shriek with laughter. The cat looks at us inamazement. The Second nearly chokes on a piece of chocolate in the ice-cream. The First beats her on the back and crying with laughter says:’Siiiiilllly cow!’The Little One inside me starts kicking. The laughter subsides. The catdecides to settle down somewhere more peaceful.We stare at the sunset. Then I say: ’But there IS a Kiki…. there are lots ofKikis…’The First and the Second say in unison: ’Yeah…’We sit. Together. Warmly. Femalely. On the terrace.And we carry on staring at the sunset.And then the telephone rings. The First and the Second and the cat leap up.In shock the cat flees from the place she had settled in, and the First andSecond flee in search of the telephone. I’m late (the Little One in me limitsmy movements).

Smiljana DjordjevicTHE OLIVE WOOD BED

I always feel his body lowering itself onto our bed of dark olive wood. And asI listen to the creaking of the dry wood, I want to turn and give him a little ofmy heat, but, I no longer turn over.Once he used to talk loudly and sleep quietly, now he keeps his thoughtsaway from evil ears and snores noisily. He reads old things in secret. Thelook of a guilty person without guilt betrays him. I sense in his tread thesteps of an innocent prisoner, voluntarily dragging heavy fetters, abandoninghis body to chains, offering his ears to be filled with wax, opening his eyes tohave dense lead poured over them and to be stuck down with tar. With thesmile of a sad clown he persuades one that he might wish to walk in otherpeoples’ footprints.I know that he too knows that we have been cheated. By God or people, itdoesn’t matter. They have made each other of stone, mud or dust, madeeach other for fun, out of boredom, or despair, that doesn’t changeanything. A few more buffoons and villains.I know that he too guesses that our paths have been obscured by the falselighthouses of deceiving voices. People who have been shipwrecked dreamof stable towers, even if cock-and-bull stories fill them with monstrouscreatures. But one of them heard the call of the sirens and cursed the lies ofthe capricious gods and despised his own credulity and deferentialobedience. And straining against the bonds that tied him to the mast, hehated the weakness of his sweating body and impotent hands, and as hewatched his swollen veins pulsating under a thin layer of dark skin, salt withtears, sea and sweat, he swore that he would return and learn to pluck a lyresoftly as he sat on the rocks.He did not return. He grew accustomed to loving his craft. Others liked tolook at him in the costume of a beggar and a wanderer, and then theystretched the cattle sinew strings on his silver bow and made him amurderer, then a king. And leaning one hand on his ear, they whispered tohim that he was a hero, while with the other they shamelessly wiped awaythe mud trickling from his nostrils.They placed him in the marriage bed and skilfully talked him into nailing itto the ground.Idols respond with a hideous titter to a deep bow with the tongue betweenthe toes. The head between the feet inflames and feeds the licentious lie.For a long time afterwards he was able to hear the song of the fish-likebeauties even awake. Later it moved into his sleepless nights. Then hewould enjoy it only in rare dreams, and his body would tense once more withimpotence and longing, and his palms and back became salt and wet. Theolive-wood bed creaked under his painful unease.I know that he is dreaming now, the creaking gives him away. I know that tomorrow I shall find traces ofblood at the bottom of the bed. They cut his toes because the tracks that he must follow are too small for hisfeet.

Mikica IlicTHE PERFECT LABYRINTH

’The only free cheese is in mousetraps’

For days we dug trenches. In a circle. Then we joined them with smaller sidetrenches. That’s how we made a spider’s web around ourselves – for theenemy.It rained ceaselessly the whole time. It made our work easier because itsoftened the hard earth. It made it more difficult because we were constantlywet.We prepared ourselves for the enemy as though we knew everything abouthim. We knew nothing. We felt his heavy, perfidious presence. We couldn’tsee him. We waited for him. He didn’t come.A marvellous sense of being surrounded by a future executioner or futurevictim, it didn’t matter, a special intimacy with the certainty of theencroaching moments put us in a state of rapture. We thought the lastthought of a freshly guillotined head as it was hurled into the dust.Gradually, the green grass grew yellow. It was covered in dry leaves, theleaves were covered in snow, under the melted snow new grass brokethrough, then new withered leaves, new snow and so on several times. Theyears passed and we had already grown accustomed to our trenches. Or, tobe more precise, we had come to love them. Only we sometimes wonderedwhy no one attacked us, because, to say the least, it was illogical to havetrenches, and not to have an enemy.At a certain moment we thought perhaps we were too well dug in, so theenemy was afraid of moving. We dug up and re-dug some of the trenches,we smoothed down a couple of protecting walls. A hole appeared in ourspider’s web.’A hole, great!’ shouted one of us.’They’ll think it’s big enough to get through and they’ll get stuck.’’And what if they do get through after all?’ another dared to doubt.’Impossible! Our web is perfect. Or more exactly, with this gap, now it’s beengnawed, it’s even more perfect because it offers false hope.’Generally speaking, in our ranks there was no place for doubt.Several more years passed, without anything significant happening.One day, quite unexpectedly, a black wall appeared on the horizon. Itsurrounded us, making a square, from the north and south, from the eastand west. To start with it was barely perceptible because it was low. Over thenext few days, however, it grew increasingly. From hour to hour.Seen from our perspective, from the trenches, the wall quickly becamehigher than a man, then than the trees and finally it blocked our view of thesurrounding hills. At one moment the wall separated us from the sky. All thatwas left was a blue segment way on high, above our trenches. Night tookhold and day was diminished to just a few seconds in which, at the rightangle, the sun's rays could warm us. That was quite enough for us in thetrenches because we knew that in that fragment of time the sun shone onlyfor us. And for no one else.We regrouped and adapted ourselves to the new circumstances.So, they surrounded us from all sides and we lost our last chance to see ourenemy. However, we were surprised by our adversaries: were they so stupidas to build an impenetrable rampart around us and so help us in ourfortification, because the wall was a faultless protection from their attack.

Combined with our spider’s web of trenches, this new wall made a perfectlabyrinth – A LABYRINTH WITH NO WAY OUT.’Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!’ said one of the literate among us.We didn’t understand, so we took no notice.From the very beginning, we realised the vital necessity of regularmaintenance of the ramparts because with time there would be a crack orsome damage. That’s why we formed a special team of the most able andmost skilled experts for reinforcing and filling holes, cracks and fissures.The enemy paid no attention to maintaining the rampart, but we sawthrough his false indifference, imbued with conquering intentions.During one of the numerous repairs, the scaffolding accidentally collapsedand several of the best experts for mending and reconstructing perished. Wepaid tribute to them by putting up memorial busts in several central placesin our labyrinth. We also called a certain number of the trenches by thenames of their wives, children and grandchildren, relations, friends,neighbours, lovers and others close to them. The remaining trenches wereleft nameless because we did not yet have enough deserving citizens.We situated the school for our children in one of the driest and nicest of thetrenches. We called it by the name of the teacher, the only one we had. Infact, he was not a real teacher, but that’s what he had desperately wanted tobe from his earliest childhood. However, that was immaterial given thesituation we were in. The new teacher adapted the teaching plan andcurriculum entirely to the circumstances. Infinite quantities of lessons,theories and rules were discarded from the education of the youngergenerations.For instance, it was completely useless and senseless to teach children thatthe earth was a ball, as we had once been taught. For us it was now a squareof trenches and walls and that was quite enough. Why study what wasoutside, when there was quite enough unknown within.In that way education became accessible to all: the poor and the rich, thestupid and the clever. Poor and excellent marks disappeared, as did goodand bad pupils, punishments and rewards, truancy ceased because there wassimply nowhere to run away to.In the hospital in the next trench, just by the school, we had just one doctor.Actually, he was not a real doctor either. He had once studied medicine, buthad abandoned his education in disillusion.Our doctor immediately abolished all illnesses, apart from the ones he knew,so that we felt far healthier because we had incomparably less chance to fallill or die. There was no need for medicines, which we didn’t have in any case,people died naturally and healthily – as God had ordained.Thanks to the fact that he was the only one, our doctor was also the best, sothat such distinctions disappeared as well – we were all treated by the bestdoctor.In our only bar, the only waiter we had served the one single drink we had.The differences between the drunk and the sober disappeared. There was nocredit, no tipping, no closing time, no fighting or disorder. Everyone had hisown table and on it his own, free drink. The ideal was realised: no onetreated anyone else, and we were all entertained.We had a factory as well, a shop, a barber’s, a bakery, a cemetery, a mine,our own little field and church, our own little wood with an avenue of trees, apark, a square and a crossroads, a cinema and theatre, tobacconist’s, ourown car, bicycle, ball, dog and cat… In short, we had everything we needed,just one of everything – and that was quite enough.The differences that used to oppress and characterise us disappeared and

life became unbelievably easy and agreeable. Many dreams were fulfilled.Everyone was important and well-known, because he was the only one: theonly baker, the only chef, hairdresser, painter, writer, but we still all togetherhad everything we needed. We were all the best, we all had the best, and,all in all, everything was the best, although there was nothing to compare itwith. I chose to be the best in ideas, to be the cleverest in our little empire,and so I was able to realise my old, youthful dream.The labyrinth continued to protect us and we lived our great lives serenely.That is how it was for a long time, I myself no longer remember how long,because we had also abolished time. And we ignored all other units ofmeasurement too. We didn’t need them. However, one day, quite out of theblue, misfortune came to the labyrinth.The earth shook, the trenches caved in, and the walls in the distance swunglike spider’s webs in the wind. From the depths, from the womb of the earth,the sound of muffled thunder reached us. Everything whirled and rocked, wefell on top of one another, got to our feet, then stumbled again, fell head-over-heels, confused and helpless, not understanding what had happened tous. It was a powerful earthquake. At one moment, when the tremor reachedits peak, the earth groaned painfully and trembled, the ground beneath ourfeet split open and separated into two uneven parts. In the middle gaped adeep, dark, bottomless chasm. We were divided forever. All that connectedus now was our shared misfortune. The wall – our defence and security –diverged as well. Great unease settled in our hearts and homes.Growing horror overcame those who were left in the smaller part. Their ranksfilled with panic, lawlessness and doubt in the righteousness of our battle.The sense of rejection and isolation, the thought that they had been trickedand abandoned to their fate, had the effect of making them weak andhesitant.We decided to punish them, so we divided ourselves from them by a highwall, this time on the inside. And, in response, they also built a wall on theirside.That bottomless chasm between us stayed in the same place, only now itwas deeper, or higher, I myself no longer know which. By then we had quitelost any sense of measure.After some time we heard cries for help and wailing coming from the otherside of the internal wall. They were slowly dying. We could manage withoutthem, but not they without us. Everything that was vital and essential for lifehad remained on our side. What use was the museum, say, to them (emptyin any case because we were just making history), when they had nothing toeat (the chef was our man)? Or what good was a poet (without a singlepoem) when the best baker (the only man who knew how to make bread)had remained on our side?Soon the first vultures began to flutter over their part of the trenches. Theywere perishing gradually. Gradually, but not with dignity, because in the endthey submitted. Unable to hold out any longer, they broke down the outerwall and gave themselves up to the enemy.Evil tongues say that they are now living very well among the strangers, butthat simply cannot be true. In any case, here this story takes on anunexpected and tragic tone.The perfidious enemy, hidden all these years, exploited our disagreementand stirred up our former brothers against us. It was only they, who hadfought alongside us till the day before, people who knew our language andculture, our customs and traditions, our way of thinking, only they, who knewhow we breathed, were able to destroy us systematically. They and no one

else.They stretched an enormous, black cover over the edge of the walls, hidingthe sky from us. Only our former brothers could have known how much thatmoment meant to us, those few seconds in the day when the sun shone onlyfor us. And only they could have known how hard it would be for us to lose it.Endless dark reigned. Light and fire disappeared. Everything stilled andstopped, no longer crawling or walking, swimming or flying, giving birth orreproducing, blooming or germinating. The earth grew cold, the water froze,the air became stale. Everything was disturbed, altered and corrupted. Wewandered through the trenches, lost, we collided with one another in thedarkness, we walked aimlessly and stumbled, blinded and bewildered.Those were difficult days and we gathered for the first and last time toconsult. There I presented the only sensible proposal. It would be best, Isaid, if, for the common good, we were every one of us to commit suicideand only one should be left alive, the cleverest and best, who wouldrepresent all the others fittingly and, when a propitious moment came, hewould raise the nation out of the ashes and renew our labyrinth. There wasno alternative because with our remaining reserves only one person couldsurvive for any length of time.I was very surprised when they unanimously chose none other than me.There was no doubt, they said, that only the greatest and best could makesuch a courageous and wise proposal and sacrifice himself to such a degreein the interests of the nation and humanity in general, offering death as apledge of future life.We embraced, said farewell and they all leapt into that bottomless pit, whileI remained to lead my extinct nation, to await a propitious moment andengender my nation anew.And, here I am, now, in the famous labyrinth in which many were lost andhardly any found, recording on a dark day, in a dreary month and aconfused and deceitful year, at a late hour, the bitter fate of my nation andits struggle, to preserve it from oblivion and give it eternal life.I don’t know what will become of me, recently some unfavourable winds havebeen blowing, it is a bad time for our cause, while I sit and hope. Hope ishealing and nourishing. It cheats hunger. And, apart from that, I think. Thatis my calling. I think did I go wrong somewhere for I imagined all of thisdifferently. But, that simply cannot be true, for: there is only one true andright path – the path of the righteous.