Diary of Interrupted Days
Page 21
If this idea about Romanticism is correct, and it seems that it is—there are no traces in literature, medical or otherwise, of this notion prior to the 1800s—you’ll have to work harder. You can drill through that pain you carry inside. Nobody knows what happened to you. You told me some of it the last time we met, but the feelings cannot be passed on. They can only be described, their external shape sketched. When we say “love” we mean “circle,” when we say “pain” we see a wedge, but how sharp that wedge is or how wide the circle, we have no way of knowing on the outside.
If I say that I have always loved Sara, deeply, even when she was with you, what would it change? If I say that you are still my best friend, will you believe me? I have no means of persuading you. Except for this deep, crusty scar on my heart. My love for her and my love for you fought each other while you were around. Later, I lost control. That is all. I can’t apologize, because how can one apologize for love?
I am begging you to remember.
Sara was never really my woman. She leaned on me because it was rough, and because you were not around. Remember that, too.
Your music kept us sane, before and during and after. If you take that away, you take so much. Remember it.
If you were particularly good at something, it was fighting. You fought the bans, the police, the regime, you fought against all odds, and you always won. Fight again.
Fuck the war and me. Let Sara love you.
B.
She cried like an expert, without a sound. Her head was bent a little to the left, her shoulders rounded. The tears from her eyes fell sideways, towards her ears for a brief moment, before they returned and gathered in the corner of her mouth. She had no makeup on and the wet path was clean, clear, and shiny. She put the letter in her lap, and continued to cry as she looked out the window. It was raining outside again.
Johnny touched her hand very slowly, very lightly. Five cells of his fingers against five cells of her skin.
“They called me this morning, Johnny. Boris is dead. He was killed during an air raid on the bridge to Belgrade.”
The door opened quietly. Johnny turned slowly and saw Tomo. The Reverse Man stood there, not sure whether to enter, because he saw Sara’s tears. There was an expression of pain and confusion on his face, a silent apology. Johnny nodded his head for Tomo to come in. When he was still hesitant, Johnny pointed at the guitar. Tomo picked it up and handed it to him. Johnny put his fingers around the neck, pressed down on the strings, and hit them with the nail of his right index finger, sliding his left hand at the same time. The sound that came out of the wood was like a scream.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
All of the characters in this book are real: they live in my head. Any likeness to people who do not live between my temples is coincidence. While the historical frame for the events described in the novel is rather accurate, I had to resort to some compression. For example, the conference on Yugoslavia at Innis College in Toronto was held later than it happens in the book. Some of the events in the war section did take place, but not in that area, or during the period, described. And the village where Johnny ends up was not modelled on any existing community.
There are four people I wish to thank here. Having them on my side means so, so much. In no particular order:
When I needed Joanne Mackay Bennett’s wit and wisdom while writing this novel, she didn’t ask any questions, she just helped.
Anne Collins is my editor at Random House Canada. Her laser cuts deep and cures manuscripts without leaving scars. Her passion for books is unrivalled. It’s an honour to have her as a friend.
Behind every one of my books there is a woman. Silvija Jestrovic is behind this one. It was conceived one night during one of our conversations after our daughter, Ana, had fallen asleep. She is the warmth.
Branimir Štulić is a poet and a fighter whose work keeps inspiring me. His poems have taught me that words are not only units of language, but drops of blood that keep this world alive. Some of his verses have provoked a few of those “quoted” in this novel.
Finally: this is a night book. Parts of it were written on two continents, in five different cities, on five different computers, two of which died in the middle of the work, almost taking down the manuscript with them. Some snippets were handwritten in five different Moleskin notebooks, and on a Palm T|X. The original synopsis for the book was dictated into a telephone. But all of this work was done between 10:30 p.m. and 2:00 a.m.
DRAGAN TODOROVIC is an award-winning author, broad caster, multimiedia artist, poet, musician, and theatre director who grew up under Tito loving Jimi Hendrix and Tom Waits. He emigrated from Belgrade to Canada in 1995. While he is currently living in England with his wife and daughter, he considers Toronto his home.
Copyright © 2009 Dragan Todorovic
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2009 by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited.
Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.
www.randomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are trademarks
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Todorovic, Dragan, 1958–
Diary of interrupted days / Dragan Todorovic.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37600-8
I. Title.
PS8639.036D52 2009 C813′.6 C2008-904341-3
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