by Bernard Jan
I don’t know how much time is left for me, but the time I have been given will be devoted to you. All the good deeds I do, I will do in your name. Living with hope they will be worthy of what you did, enriching our life to the full. Our cup runneth over.
Thank you for being part of my life. Thank you for letting me be a part of your life. I am proud to have known you, my friend.
Morning dawns beautiful and sunny, but also with a fatigue the dream failed to remedy. I unmake a bed and open the door of the balcony; the family of pigeons is already sitting obediently on the railing, waiting for seeds and breadcrumbs for breakfast. Their number varies from morning to morning; sometimes there are seven, at times even twelve, and this morning I count nine. They are faithfully lined up on the balcony railing, our guard of honor.
I shake my head no to Mom’s question whether I slept better last night and shut myself in the bathroom. I turn on the shower and, while shampooing my hair, I think about taking the hygiene litter you didn’t use to Snježana for her cats. Emotions overflow me again and the sight of an unopened bag I bought you two days ago brings tears to my eyes. I sob in the shower while the pleasant, warm water washes my face and eyes, red from crying and shampoo.
I spend a minute drying my hair, dress and drink cocoa with soy milk. This morning, too, I cannot eat anything. The last meal I ate yesterday just after noon was a potato strudel for five Kunas. That’s all I’ve eaten in the last nineteen hours. My stomach clenches at the thought of food.
Getting ready to leave the house, I twitch at the crackling of the parquet in the room. I hope to hear your walk, expecting to see you when I turn around. But I see emptiness where it should be you. Endless emptiness. I’m not the only one. Mom also got up during the night, thinking she heard the tapping of your feet. What Dad feels, I can’t tell. I haven’t talked to him yet. The morning conversation he and Mom had was nonsensical, and I didn’t join it. Still, I liked to hear it; anything is better than silence to which I submit myself. I don’t have the energy to be strong. I can’t pretend and that is why I am withdrawing into myself. That’s why I avoid them. If I cannot be their rock and support, if I cannot look after them as Saša said, then I can at least try not to make it more difficult for them. So I suffer in silence and go out, hiding my pain, and I know I should stay and be with them. Open like a flower, not closed, but I cannot. It’s not that I do not care for them and love them, but this is not our time. It will come in a day or two, a week or a month.
This is your time.
I wander around the apartment, heading for something, but forgetting what it was, so I go back. I stop to compose myself and quit playing the fool. If you recall, even though it was a long time ago, how you felt when you woke up after castration, when all your four legs buckled, and when you were crawling around the apartment dazed and drugged, then you can imagine how I feel now. The only difference is that a part of my brain is taken out, a part of my heart cut out.
I take the syringes from their hiding place and, without thinking, put them on the table in the bag in which Saša brought them. When I get back to the room Mom is watching them and she asks me whether to throw them away. I tell her to leave them alone and check the e-mails that arrived overnight. When she leaves the room, with a quick move I put them in my front backpack pocket, but I change my mind and put them in the pocket on the left leg of my cargo pants. They are safer there. Less likely that someone will find them there or that I will lose them if I keep them with me.
It may sound bizarre that the tool with which I killed you I carry with me. That’s all I have left of you. This is the last thing you felt, and that’s why I want to keep them. Maybe I will throw them later, but now these emptied syringes are the most palpable thing that binds me to you. When Saša took you away last night, Mom immediately got to work and removed and cleaned your bowls for food, and then the boxes with your toilets. The green pillow with playful blue dogs was away before I even noticed it happening while the blanket on which you slept under the table in my room ended up airing on the courtyard balcony.
I help Mom collect the newspapers spread on the parquet to protect them in case you did not get to the toilet and peed on the floor instead. Only two nights ago Mom told me she found you in the morning with your front legs standing on the newspapers and gallantly dropping a load on the parquet. You would be surprised how many newspapers we have collected, together with the other old paper which is now in a bag I will empty this morning before I go to work.
When I come back, I’ll tell Mom to give me your pillow. I want it near me. I won’t ask for your blanket. It would be a little too much. The episode with the syringes perplexed her enough.
I am not the first nor the last one to mourn, but this is my way of mourning. It’s my way to deal with the pain and to feel you next to me. I couldn’t care less what others will say or think! They didn’t know you. They don’t know what you meant in my world.
I’m ready for the first challenge after your departure. In the same T-shirt, pants, sweatshirt and sneakers I wore on the day you died, I stand with a backpack on my back at the apartment door. The syringes and my wallet are in the pocket on my leg. The statistical report which I have to give today to the financial agency is in my backpack.
I say ‘bye to my old folks who have already taken out the steam cleaner; soon the vacuuming of your hair from the carpets, the washing, painting and varnishing of the ruined parquet will start. Removing more evidence of your existence. Damn parquet. If you only ruined it all, but were still alive!!!
With my right hand I lift from the floor in the corridor a yellow bag with the remains of your paper, close the door and without hurry descend from the fourth floor. I stop at the door of the stairs—will I change my mind or do I have the guts to continue?
I grab the door handle, and the glittering sun spotlights my face and evaporates tears from the corners of my eyes.
A recycling bin for the wastepaper is right next to the kiosk across the street. The bag which I hold in my hand is heavier than the one Saša took with him over twelve hours ago. I’m not crossing the street. I continue along the route he traveled yesterday, stoop-shouldered and with lowered head, carrying in his right hand his small cargo.
On the day you died I came to the twelfth page of the novel The Vampire Armand by Anne Rice. Though the book is promising, I haven’t taken it in my hands since then. I wanted to watch The Village on DVD, but it still waits for me. The last film I watched a little over a month ago at the movies was Walk the Line with two Hollywood vegetarians, Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. The last CD I bought was the Oscar-winning original motion picture soundtrack of Brokeback Mountain. The last time I laughed was on the day of your death. That day I stayed too long in the association and spent less than two hours with you. Do you think I will forgive myself that?
The street was cleaned this morning. There’s almost no trace of the bulky waste on the part where I walk and which blocked Saša’s way yesterday. I saunter and think about the symbolism of our (Saša’s and my) cargo. A few minutes after you fell asleep Saša said you were probably suffering from a tumor, too, because he felt something lumpy while he examined you. This was supposed to make it easier that we pushed you off the cliff, straight to death. But it provoked in me completely the opposite effect. It was even harder for me because you were a greater fighter than I thought. You endured your pain in silence, brave and without complaint, as no man could.
There is a green light at the traffic light and I cross the street. I drop my cargo into a recycling bin on the corner of Slovenska Street and Grada Mainza Street. Newspaper after newspaper. One pile after another.
More proof of your existence.
I fold the empty bag and put it in my backpack. I take a cell phone that hangs around my neck. I turn it on and see you sleeping in the photo on my screen. Numb from pain I pick and dial Anita’s number. It’s time I tell her about you. My Swabian, my bro. My soulmate.
I keep walkin
g while the phone rings. I continue to walk when Anita answers the phone and when I talk to her and when we’re done talking. All the way to Gundulićeva Street, and further on. Toward the fulfillment of my vow, in search of the way by which I will meet you again.
Marcel, I swear....
To Marcel
(1991—2006)
I stand on the balcony, and three floors below me, with noise and shudders of the building, the traffic glides down the street. Carried by light drifts, the clouds float on the sky, promising rain. I watch Saša and you leaving, pushing your way through the illegally parked cars and bulky waste carried out by tenants because they no longer need it.
It is April 19.
I follow you as you are getting more distant and smaller, shaking from crying, with the body tired of life. Saša has to step on the street to bypass the waste and the cars parked on the sidewalk, and then I lose sight of you. Of the blue bag with yellow handles in which your still warm and curled up body slept. When after a few steps he returns to the sidewalk, I lose him, too.
I gather strength and make the final decision. I strain my thoughts and force my body to move.
I’m on the balcony. I move along its length, not stopping until the end, until I come to the railing. On the table I have left a will with clear instructions, so that animals are not deprived of their rights in case something goes wrong and my plan fails. On top of it I put your favorite photo and the syringes I won’t need anymore.
Now I am free.
Now I live at last.
And I look the enemy in the eyes.
I challenge death to the last duel. Defying it with the strength, I wish to believe, of not-wasted life. My actions will speak for or against me. And one monument I built. Now completed, it will beautify life for someone. Some will grieve and cry, others may be enraged. Many won’t understand. That’s the way with people. Always.
I refuse to obey the rules as I did most of my life. I refuse to accept death as something natural, as something that has to happen. I do not acknowledge it but take things into my own hands.
I put my hands on the railing.
I sharpen my weakened eyesight and strain the vessels in my arms, every muscle in my body. My head hurts. Don’t know if it’s a migraine or too much sorrow. Saša is again in my sight.... (It works!) He appears unclear, like a Bedouin in a desert mirage, and now I see the bag he is still holding in his right hand!
I close my eyelids, only peeking through them as through a rifle sight or the opening in a bunker. I focus, and this time you’re even closer, more clear!
My heart is racing. It wants to jump out of my throat as I exhale a whining sigh and tears of joy. Viola, my love.
I do not notice the traffic stopping below me, the driver coming out of the tram, the passengers following him or peeking out of the windows, the growing groups of passers-by looking up at all four sides of the crossing. Some of them make frantic calls from their cell phones, probably calling the police, ambulance or firefighters.
I take matters into my own hands and swing another leg over the railing. Holding tight, I lean my back on the metal. The wind is playing with my hair, T-shirt, and pants.
I smile as I see Saša and you coming closer. Raindrops wash away tears that feed my chapped lips and tickle my unshaven neck.
My friend, brother....
Shouts and gasps are unnecessary when I let go of the railing and reach out to you. Completely unnecessary. I do not die as I float in the air, peaceful. I defy death and take matters into my own hands.
And learn the secret.
I enter the parallel world.
I open my eyes and protect them with my hand from the blinding sun that mercilessly attacks the bed where I lie, trying to get me out of it.
Mom shows up at the door and asks if I am fine. I look like I have a headache.
No, I don’t have a headache. It was just a bad dream. I rub my face and realize that my cheeks are wet with tears. Listening to Mom and Grandma talking to Dad about something in the living room, I ponder her question. I remember that I had lain down with a strong migraine, one of the strongest I can remember, mixed with some intense feeling of sadness and grief. I felt as though a piece of façade had broken off a building I was passing under and hit me on my head. Or as if I hit my head into something solid.
I blink my eyes, tormented by the persistent sun, and notice the details in the room. Everything is so—in place. The balcony door is wide open. The chirping of birds is coming through it, together with the almost inaudible sounds of traffic which, without pollution, flows down the street. Vehicles on solar energy shamelessly buzz by those driven by water, daring them. Today they do not have to draw the stored energy, emptying their batteries, but as soon as it gets cloudy and the first rain falls, things will change. The roles will be reversed.
The balcony railing is green from creepers. Blossoms of morning glory and clusters of clematis adorn it like jewels. Miniature roses, pansies, tulips, hyacinths, sunflowers and other flowers are planted in pots along the balcony like in a parade, creating an amazing explosion of colors and scents. The growing family of pigeons happily coos dotted on the railing and on the shelf.
Mom and Grandma are on their way out to get fresh fruit and vegetables, soy milk, seitan and legumes, and Dad is already waiting in a car. I call after them not to forget the smoked tofu and Bajadera chocolates—by all means Bajadera chocolates!—and think how everyone today radiates warmth and gentleness. As if they are full of energy, no trace of tiredness on them. Their faces simply sparkle!
I stretch slowly and lazily all the way and sit up in bed. A broad smile spills over my face when I look at the balcony door....
You are there, surrounded by the colors, looking at me curiously. Next to you is a hibiscus the size of a grown man with branches heavy with big red flowers. Behind you the pigeons adjust their feathers and coo to each other, happy that you have made a covenant of peace with them. Filling the air, insects compete with butterflies in pollinating flowers.
I call you, overwhelmed with waves of unstoppable love, my chest filled with cozy warmth. You take a step or two and, with grace that only you own, walk up to my bed, bringing with you the smell of clean air without smog and blossomed linden which swells with health in the neighboring street. You sit down, and the long fur on your chest gleams in the colors of spring and the patterns of a wild cat. Mom must be right when she says you are most likely a cross between a cat and a fox!
Once again I call you quietly and you sniff the fingers of my outstretched hand. Overcome by a new wave of warmth I lean toward you and kiss your forehead. You blink your big eyes the color of ripe sunflowers and nuzzle your nose against mine. You kiss me.
You are in my arms. Purring with pure joy, loudly and tirelessly, as if you haven’t seen me in—I don’t know how long. As if you have so much to catch up. You are a really weird cat. And I wouldn’t trade you for all the promises of the universe.
I stroke your hair, scratch you under your chin and behind your ears. Your outpourings of love intensify. It’s all right, little one. Everything’s fine.
Indeed, I say to myself. Everything’s fine. All is well. Everything is as it should be.
To whom to be grateful, my beloved one?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks go to Ozren Ćuk, Tihana Hren, Jelena Boromisa, and Anita Euschen for their comments. Thank you for pushing me off the cliff because I’m not sure I would have had the courage to jump into this literary challenge.
Thanks to Aleksandra Hampamer for her valuable remarks, to Goran Pavletić for making immortal everything in the Croatian edition of this book and to the Croatian Ministry of Culture for their trust.
Thanks to Sonja Kunović who began this story and Saša Dujanović who ended it.
Thanks to my parents Ksenija and Dubravko and all those who by their existence wrote these pages. I’ll never be able to express with words how much you mean to me, nor will this life be enough to thank
you for everything.
Thanks also to the pigeons who wake me every morning from the railing and The Winged, who here and there boldly walked into my room before returning among his feathered friends, reminding me that this was not just a dream. Unfortunately, he is no longer with us either....
It is my great hope and wish I did justice to each one of you on these pages. I tried to commit to my mind, as I committed it to my heart, every hour and every day I spent connected with you in this larger-than-life story. I apologize for possible mistakes and omissions; my mind was exposed to the avalanche of powerful emotions it was hard to cope with.
For the help with my English translation, I want to thank a small but amazing team of selfless individuals and professionals from Australia, the United States, the United Kingdom, Ireland, Italy and Puerto Rico, and Aldina Šćulac, Mirjana Ptiček and Irena Krčelić who were my great home support and encouragement in my international endeavors. Thanks to Philip Newey, Thomas Carley Jr. and Kath Middleton for their much appreciated help as editorial advisors and proofreaders. Thanks to Kristina Pepelko who helped me with my first query letters and website announcements. Thanks to Jonathan Hill for brushing my blurb to its final glaze and for many useful tips of an experienced indie writer. Thanks to Anita Euschen (again!), Bruna Rocha and Dario Cannizzaro for bearing with me through my formatting nightmare and for looking for and providing answers to my never-ending questions! Thanks to Angel Ramon Medina, founder of the Hybrid Nation, for patiently guiding me all the way through my self-publishing journey. Thanks to MG Wells, Victoria M. Patton, and Rebecca Gransden who, along with all those people mentioned above, were my moral support and balance when my mind was projecting distorted images of sanity.
