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Hazy October dusk and overly sweet and dusty fragrance of fallen leaves carried me far, far away. Possibly even to one of my former lives, to a shady time when I used to be a powerful lord, to guarded walks around my castle - the palace built to my heart’s content - to autumn walks in permanent October. In those ancient times October would spread through all four seasons and there was dry leaves smelling with the same sweet scent so good for one’s thoughts, just as it does now. What the hell! In one of my former lives I must have been a swine. Fallen leaves go together with fallen acorns, chestnuts, October and that magnificent sow riding in thick mire, fallen leaves and autumn abundance. I can still recall that a scrawny creature used to come to announce God’s will. He could never say but a word seriously. He was always clowning around while talking. So he says in a mocking tone, to be honest, he says it - and I wonder where he could have learned it ?in a very fine language: “You have been a perfect swine, fertile and lustful, you have left behind numerous descendants, pigs good for slaughter, you saved many families from starvation, therefore our dear Lord has decided to send you in the shape of a mongoose to an island that is - and I will not tell you why right now - a very important place indeed.?br> “A mongoose? I ask astounded. “Yeh, yeh,?the scrawny is going on, “a bit of a refreshing change. After mire, mud, dampness and your troublesome obesity you will be transferred to a light, otter-like body, onto dry rocks by the high sea that you have never known of. And as you have proved to be a very reliable swine, you are given the mission as the number one mongoose on the island. Well, don’t ask me now why it is so important. There are good people living on the island.?The very moment he had said that, I knew that everything he was telling me was an outright lie that must be hiding either a dangerous trap or some big trouble. For, where in this world there are good people, and over and above all, so many good people inhabiting one whole island? Had he said: “On the island there is a house and in the house there is a good man who needs help?I would have believed him as I have always enjoyed believing in fairytales - I have Never believed in mere existence and reality. Haven’t I been a respectful swine, a perfect breeding swine for so many years? How could I have believed him then? “On the island there are so many poisonous snakes that it has become impossible for humans to live there.?I knew it. So many good people and so many dangerous snakes. “You are going there to establish order and make it all so as our Lord wants it, all in good measure and, as I was told, so that there are no unneeded.?br> How lucky must be the one who does not even remember events of the day before. The scrawny comes again, but he does not fool around any more. He is very serious. He sees, there is no joking - blazing rocks, furious sea, horror boiling under the sun, and we, always hoping for the better, have exterminated all the snakes and are slowly planning to start exterminating the people, only in order to rid ourselves of that madness caused by scorching stone and salty water. The scrawny is asking - and he usually does not ask such questions - if I had any special wishes after the successfully completed job. I know that before our Lord’s heralds one should remain speechless, above all before the scrawny, but a thought is constantly bothering me ?in any case they will send me again to some terrible zoo, in their traditional wickedness they could yet decide to turn me into a snake so that I can see what it is like to be hunted by a mongoose and I’m praying, if I could only keep my legs, please do not leave me without my legs. I’m just asking, just as if I were talking to myself - would it be possible at all for you to transfer me into a breeding bull, somewhere high up in thick and shady mountain forests? where I can rest from all those rocks, the horrifying sea, from my former stinky pig life and love-making in mud and dirt. A bull in some cool and cozy shady mountains, on green pastures, in a thick shadow, waiting for passionate cows and later, if necessary - and I know it’s always necessary - they may send me wherever they like, even among humans, and knowing who’s sending me, I would yet be pleased with such horror. I’m scared, for he’s serious, he isn’t mocking and snickering and, for the first time, he sighs deeply, really deeply, which is so atypical for him, and then he says: “You are asking for a great award. It’s true, you were working harder than anyone else here, you’ve done a great job, but let me not explain you now why it is so important. All right (he is the sender and I suppose he’s entitled to keep saying “all right), all right, I’ll ask, although that’s not a common thing to do.?br> All that snake poison must have made my brain reel as I could not quite recall it, yet it has turned out that I was the most murderous mongoose on the scorching island for what I was awarded with a truly grand prize that I will never forget. You do nothing, your masters are quiet and hardworking, kind and filled with pride to have such a bull. They were feeding me like a king, grooming, often kissing my forehead and were showing off with me before their guests. They kept cleaning my stable, bathing, brushing and praising me, oh! I was bringing them a good income too. Look only at the site of my delight. Eh, yellow leaves and October breeze, they still make my heart sink. That infernal island must have been really important to them. Our Lord did not find important the wretched people who were brining in their boats bags of soil in order to seed and harvest some food. Had he cared for the people, he would not have left them on the bare, dry rock, he would not have sent the mongooses, but would have poured instead from heavens fertile, fragrant soil. Whenever I was dismounting a cow, I was wondering what was so important on the island to make them award me with such paradise. When they first brought a young heifer to me, my master, still unaware of my potency and vigor, naively tied the little young cow to the gate of our always clean and tidy backyard. I, colossal, furious and eager, mad after the pig stale mud . Before me a tied and ready heifer, she knows she wants to mate, but has no idea what it is like and that makes you even more eager. I thrust myself to mount her and the fine gate ?shattered. Then my good master has no choice, so he orders that in future cows be tied up down below the house, on a tidy little meadow at the lower border of which there were three poplar trees, right next to each other. Grass around the poplar trees as soft as a cradle. Fresh air strikes from a high mountain above us. There was no better place for pleasure either for a king of bulls or a human ruler. They tie a cow between two poplars and let me go. My sword already unsheathed, a brief stitch from cool mountain air and I hurry to plunge him as deep and as safe as possible into the tied cow who, when I jump her, gets comfortably wedged between two of the three trees. As I shift him from the cool breeze and sink him into the blessed cow, people circling around me nearly start applauding, all happy as if they were fertilizing the cow. They are as happy as children, and the children are somewhere around, young highlanders learning in secret from early childhood how and what they should do when their time comes. What did I do wrong to be pushed among humans after that paradise, I could not fathom. It must be that I was betrayed by my master’s son, a robust and vehement young man who could not be driven away from the meadow around the poplar trees when I was there with a cow. He loved me even more than my master did. To my master I was a good income and a pride, and to him a permanent source of lust and god knows what else in that young boy’s head. I truly loved that boy so that I was letting him, like nobody else - to everybody’s wonder - to mount my back and from thereon to bellow and bow in his youthful craze. So what happened then? It was a dull August and I never knew why people liked August so much. I assume it was some St Elijah’s day. People gathered in bulks from all sides. They were drinking, showing off, trading - I could tell they were going to crush all that grace of the soft grass. And then the night fell in that dull August. The people dispersed on all four sides, fell down dead tired gone to sleep tucked in cool mountain air. As soon as the moon raised, that huge, red, heavy and yet seductive moon, my master’s son entered my stable built at the edge of that lovely meadow, panting as if he had been running all the way around his father’s estate ?and quite large it was. He took off the hook those thick ropes, the ones with which my master tied cows that were brought to me. He kissed me on the forehead, between my horns and ?off he went. Looking from the stable doorway, I could see, but could not believe my eyes. He brought, down there, by the poplar trees a strange woman who was most likely visiting for the holiday. He tied her with my ropes between two closest poplars and ?listening to the stern moon ?he took off his and her clothes and, god save us, he started, almost as vigorous as I, to dart for the women. How could you hide from a breeding bull, whose only job was to fertilize, such a thing. I could see, I could clearly see, he was fully inside her. I could see that she was beaming with joy, twisting around, that earth under her was burning, I could see that he was coming, so in order to give him a push, to lift him further up into the mysterious heavens, I roared as loud as I could to inspire him with my strength. That was all. Everybody in the house jumped out of their beds, they turned on lamps and lanterns, were running around half naked, half mad from the previous day, scared by my roaring, scared by a possible loss that was always stealing up from the mountain darkness. Bastard moon mocking their lamps and lanterns as bright as daylight. I could see, they stopped and then like ghosts in their white nightgowns started turning off their lights and moving closer to my young fellow, who was puttering around with his clothes, with her clothes, with the thick ropes. However, shaking hands of someone charging to a woman, of the one who is interrupted in his charging, are unsuccessful in such attempt. Big, silly bull. If only the wise swine or the clever, harsh mongoose had whispered into my ear, who knows how many more years I would have lived happily, eating well, in a clean stable, lavished by my masters?love and permanent fertilizing. Before dawn, my master’s son entered my stable with a gun in his hand. On the barrel of the gun, riding on its sight, the scrawny was grinning. Once a fool, always a fool, he said. What made you, amidst this dreamland, to meddle in humans?affairs? I tried to explain, but there remained only a bare barrel, a shot and - the end. Just like that. When you are killed like a beast, you are given the worst possible commendation, and the worst is - you are sent among humans. Gentle October breeze coming down the Takovska Street from the Main Post Office and the dusty-sweet fragrance of fallen leaves that are wrapping me all around, are forcing me, unprepared, to remember my previous incarnations. All I know is that I don’t know what I am doing in the Takovska Street and what task the scrawny has given me. When you are a beast they clearly tell you where and why they are sending you, but when they push you among humans, they push you as if they wished to rid themselves of you as soon as possible and then, from a high wall look down at you watching how you keep getting more and more confused, permanently moving your way out further away. They did not have to tell me, I can see that nobody needs me and I don’t need anybody. I know too that October fragrances are warning me that time has come for me to hide away well before the scrawny starts looking for me again. Hiding away from the scrawny I have never married. Marriage by itself is not so dangerous, but you should never make children. As soon as you are entered in the book of fathers, at the same time you are entered in two irredeemable columns. In the first one they keep records of you and they know exactly your whereabouts, always. The second column is fatal as there they keep records of your fatherhood, that you have heirs, the consequence of which is that death definitely records you as his own property. When you are alone, you are by yourself, so they slowly stop thinking of you, they misplace your name and almost forget you. Made public by children’s crying and screaming, their upbringing and their education, you are opening all doors for a Countdown, and this is so visible and so serious that you are attracting their attention, being aware or unaware of it. I should have entered the Botanical Gardens. Fragrances there are even more intensive and who knows where they would have taken me. Who knows what else I would have remembered, there, among rare trees and flowers. “Good evening, George! Again, on this occasion. Are you keeping well??br> “My respects. Well ?let’s say I am.?br> Who is this? Why does he address me as George when my name is Falcon. I don’t know the man. But how could I not respond. Imagine not responding to such a kind greeting, whoever it is addressed to. It’s only fair to greet him back as who knows who he has seen. All right, at least the meeting with an unknown is harmless, furthermore, it could even be useful. Confusion with names and faces causes confusion up there in the Registry. Obviously, one should always kindly and politely say hello. And stop for a chat, if need be. Eh, eh, eh, let’s stop for a while in front of this shop window, a mirror, free of charge, if looking in a mirror and at your own reflection could ever be free of charge. Ah? That’s right. Just take a look, truly like a falcon. Look at this figure. Look! Must be that some features of the bull are still present. Right? Well, just take a look. “Good evening! My respects. Where to so elegant? An important party again? Bravo. Parvenus, nobodies, really, even those with deeper roots, they order a car to take them if only two streets further. But you, you on foot. No wonder that your reputation goes ahead of you.?br> Now, look at this! He does not call me George, but what he says is even worse. How could he ask me where I was going and what my suit has to do with such talk? Yes, I could see vaguely, his face was familiar. Is it possible that I already know some people who ask such funny questions and are so indulgent? If they talk to me like that in the street, it must be that I, too, am some worthless misfit. “I see, I see. Good evening. Always mysterious George! He never says a thing. You sneak out to a place where, it must be, is held some Last Supper.?nbsp; Why does he say George when my name is Falcon? I don’t?remember this man. Really, I am a pig. Had I taken a taxi, all this would not have happened. You wish a peaceful walk, going unnoticed through October fragrances and there you are - all that hassle. I haven’t paced yet all of the Takovska Street, and already three of them. What can I expect when I approach Radio Belgrade? And why do they call me George? I shouldn’t have accepted this invitation for a dinner after all. Who knows who I would meet there? But how could I have explained my rejecting to Nikolaeva. I owe her to the end of my life. I, who never eat dinner, I am going to a dinner. Holy mother, what nonsense! Here! Even now I am saying ‘Holy Mother? although after one of my lectures, a peasant from Sopot who claims to be a solicitor, and, look here, also to be a poet, that peasant abused me and accused me because ‘Holy Mother?appears several times in one of my texts. We, said the man from Sopot, we do not talk like that. You do not talk like that, I said. That is all right, but what does it have to do with me who does talk like that. Well, said the man who claimed to be a solicitor and a poet, a famous man like you should always speak the language spoken by our people. Just suppose - had he to vote for rescuing of my head, no Holy Mother would save me. I am foolish to go to this dinner, but how could I have refused when Nikolaeva invited me. I have known her for more than thirty years and the first seventeen she endowed me with sheer magic. I was very surprised last week when I received an invitation for her exhibition. I have hardly seen her in the last twenty years. She was somewhere abroad, not somewhere but in the big world, successful, praised - I too somewhere abroad. In a prominent gallery it was boiling like in hell, at least it seemed so to me who had to shake hands with an enormous number of people, to answer the most stupid question or not to answer thus provoking even more stupid comments. Less than half an hour after the opening of the exhibition, the room was so packed that one felt like in a sauna filled with pins and needles of touch, the conventional, comments ?and as if I were squeezing through bristles and thorns, I started towards the exit. One more step and I would have escaped, when Nikolaeva appeared before me: “Running away??br> “My miserable Balkans. They constructed it perfectly well, a gallery worth any metropolis. Then they decided that installation of air conditioning was a waste of money and some western monkey business. I have to get out.?br> “A really polite way for you to say that you did not like my exhibition.?br> “On the contrary, I have always admired your courage to leave no stone unturned looking for a visual motive.?br> We said nothing else. After so many years, we were squeezed by a crowd of people on a narrow stage of pantomime, like pantomimists who, in complete darkness, cast molds of their faces and place them opposite each other. ?.. (translated by Mira Orlovic) |