LAZAREVSKA, Alma
Alma Lazarevska Iives and works in Sarajevo. She nas published a book of essavs, Sarajevan Patience, a novel, Under the Sign ofa Rose, and a book of short stories, Death in the Museum ofModern Arts.
Alma Lazarevska živi i radi u Sarajevu. Objavila knjigu eseja Sarajevski pasijans, roman U znaku ruže i knjigu priča Smrt u muzeju moderne umjetnosti.
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How we killed the sailor
i.
If I mention it, he'll say Fm being petty and thafs unworthy of me. He'll close his eyes and, as though he were speaking of someone who wasn't in the room, he'll say:
Tli count to three to make it go away. There, she didn't say a thing. One, two, three. Forgotten!"
Thafs what he did when I pointed out that he was spreading the margarine too thickly on his slices of bread; when I remarked that he had given away almost the entire contents of the packet which the inhabitants of the besieged city occasionally received. He had left us only a little bag of green mints. I once told him they reminded me of my grandmother who had died long ago, my mother's blueeyed mother who was never hungry. It's true that we stili had
I     the cardboard packing. It burns well, but we won't use it. The inscription on it and the list of contents may one day feed some future story. He closed his eyes and counted to three when he noticed but I won't say what. Maybe I'U use that too, when the shame passes, to feed some bitter story. For the time being, let it be forgotten.
The room is losing its box-shape. The light of the thin candle doesn't reach its corners. It creates a dim, uneven oval which shifts lazily if an unexpected current of air happens to touch its tiny wick. There is a transparent, trem-bling film over us. The few objects that are bathed in dim light, and the two of us, make up the inside of a giant amoeba. We are its organs, pulsating in the same rhvthm, but not touching. Is an 'amoeba' that single-celled organism
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covered by a transparent film we looked at down the school microscope? If you touched the drop of water it was floating in with the tip of a needle, it would slowly curl up. Right now in the besieged city, where tonight no fiery balls are falling and no whistling bullets are being fired from the other side of the encircling ring, there are thousands of films hovering like this. The people in these bubbles of light are silent. Frightened, tired or indifferent, they are silent. Or listening. Hoping for sleep. To overwhelm them and spare them this vigil.
He lit five cigarettes this evening and each tirne he used a new match. He put the dead match down in the saucer by the candle. In the ashtray lay cigarette butts and the thin red band from the cigarette packet.
"Why are you doing that?"
I sense that sleep won't come for a long tirne yet. But, as I utter the question Fm aware that it's unworthy. He doesn't reply. Now I have a reason to be angry and speak.
"Why are you doing that?"
I don't čare what's worthy of me and what isn't. He looks at me and waves his hand, as though removing invisible headphones from his ears. He'll put them down for a moment and focus on me and my impatience.
"Doing what?"
"Using matches to light your cigarettes!"
"What am I supposed to use?"
Now he is prepared to put his invisible headphones right away. He is interested in learning something new, something he hasn't heard before. He is expecting me to teli him where the sun could rise apart from in the east. That someone is killed every day on his daily route through town, that he already knows.
"The candle! You know yourself that we haven't enough matches. They're hard to find. As the candle's burning, use it to light your cigarettes."
There are already too many words in our mute bubble. Added together and expressed like this, they are ali unworthy. Without them, we are just two organs pulsating to the same rhythm until they are overcome by sleep. He looks at me as though he had stopped beside a stupid child who understood nothing and who had to have evervthing painstakingly explained to it.
"I can't!"
"You can't what?"
"Light cigarettes with a candle!"
"Why not?"
"Every tirne you do that, someone dies somewhere in the world."
If he had said this in daylight, or had there been a light bulb burning in the room, I would have laughed. I like it when a room is lit up like an operating theatre. I would even have remembered some images from films in wich He lit cigarettes from the candle illuminating a dinner for two. First for Her, then for
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himself. Gazing the whole time into Her eyes while the audience sighed deeply in the dark, in unison. Besides, whatever he does, at least one person dies somewhere in the world every second. There are even cold statistics about that. In books that the candlelight doesn't reach. That is why, suddenly and unexpectedly, his answer began to engage me like a holy law whispered into the ear of an unwilling novice.
2.
Maybe one day 111 scatter ali those matches into his hand and say:
"Thatfs how many people you've saved from dying!"
Then red-hot balls will no longer fall on the besieged city and people in it will not die with tiny pieces of hot iron in their bodies. They will again die of illness and old age. There will be light bulbs again and no one will be obliged to light cigarettes with candles. That will only happen in films.
I've been collecting the dedicated matches for three days now. I put them into an empty Solea cream tin. It has "contents: 250 g" vvritten on it. But even if it didn't, I can assume from its size that it can hold another hundred or so matches. Sometimes I miss one and it ends up in the ashtray. In the morning I dig it out from under the butts. After that the tips of my forefinger and thumb stink ali day and the child frowns when I touch the tip of his noše.
The matches he lays beside the saucer with the candle don't stink. There is even something agreeable about the slightly piquant smeli from the phospho-rous tip which remains even after it's extinguished. When I take the lid off the tin and count the matches, Vm aware only of the left-over smeli of cream. It is sweetish, like a woman's deodorised armpit in summer. In them, crouching, rest the souls that have been saved. There are twenty-five of them for now. When I close the tin, they come to life. I listen to the sounds they make while the tin rests on my hand. Twenty-five saved souls rest on my hand. Today in the besieged city fifteen people died from one fiery bali (sent from the dark hill where the bad people went). No one wanted to save them. Fll see their faces tomorrow in the newspaper obituaries. What about these saved souls in my hand? How old are they' What do they look like? How much good is there in them? Do they know that there is a besieged city somewhere in the world with the saviours of their souls in it?
3.
I found out where this thing with the candle and the cigarette came from. The morning was calm, but as though damned. At such times I reach franticalb/ for books from the shelves. I open them, leaf through them, put them down An old bili fell out of one of them. On the page it slipped out of, in the last line, it said that every time you light a cigarette from a candle, somewhere in the
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world a sailor dies. This was a book by Dario Dž., our former neighbour. He smoked a lot, lighting each cigarette from the last. Now Dario Dž. Is some-where out there in the wide world. And the sailors are in a harbour, some-where on the sea, in a ship, in a tavern, in the bought embrace of some lady of the harbour. Are there any sailors where Dario Dž. is living now? On the other hand, if you were to throw that sentence published long ago back at its author, perhaps he wouldn't remember he had written it.
Like in that film, was it called Nightl A man and a woman come out of a house after a long, barren night which has made them strangers. They sit down on the grass. Dawn is breaking. She takes an old letter out of her handbag. She reads it out loud. Emphasising every sentence. Declarations of love, words of tenderness, swearing devotion till eternity. When she has folded the letter, she puts it back in her bag and looks enquiringly at the man. He asks:
"Who wrote you that?"
"You!"
Dario's "somewhere in the world" is now in America. Everyone has his troubles, even if he isn't in a besieged city. But he doesn't have to think about matches and candles. He can switch on ten light bulbs and turn the room into a dazzling operating theatre with no dim corners nibbling at the space, where painful questions nest. He lights his cigarettes with a lighter. The first one in the morning, and then through the day, each one from the last. When he ušes up his lighter he buys a new one. He can choose a new colour and trademark every tirne. And he's left the sailors' souls to us. He has off-loaded ali their weight onto our weary souls vvhich even sleep no longer spares.
"Do you know Dario's address in America?"
"Which Dario?"
"The vvriter Dario, Dario the writer."
"The writer? No, I don't. Why do you need it?"
"No reason."
4.
This morning I put only three matches in the tin. Ali three stank of old ash. There's stili room in the tin. When I toss it from one end to the other, I hear cheerful sounds, the sounds of tiny souls sliding and bumping into each other. They are enjoying their loss of weight. When he saw me playing with the tin yesterday, the boy said:
"You're a child now. You've got a rattle. A really ugly one!" Now I have to find another tin. Until I find a better one, I'U use the empty box which once held long, thick matches with yellow phosphorous tops. It says "Budapest" on it. I was there once, but I don't remember the building in the picture. It isn't ugy. But it wouldn't be worth going back to that city to see it.
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This box won't last long. It's already worn at the edges. For the moment, there's a little bali of paraffin nesting in it.
While we sit beside the candle, he makes three or four of them in the course of an evening. He collects the dripping wax with his fingers. The hot touch isn't enough to burn him, but quite enough to make the chilly room cosier. Some of the wax slides onto the saucer. He forms a little bali of what remains between his fingers, with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. When it's half-formed, he puts it on his palm and rolls it with the forefinger of his other hand. Taking my arm, he holds it by the wrist and drops the little bali into the palm of my hand, it's quite cold now and smooth. There's no trace even of the short-lived warmth it picked up from his hand.
He touches the little bali in my hand with his forefinger again. Now I feel the touch of his fingertip as well as the slight tickle of the little wax bali. In the morning I collect the little balls from the table and plače them in a glass jar with the words Kompot švetsky on the label. Under the first word is a picture of two blue plums. When I have collected a lot of little balls, I melt them into a narrow candle.
But this morning I also placed one wax bali in the box with "Budapest" written on it. Thatfs when it happened!
Nothing particular preceded it. It had been an ordinary day. He came home late. With no sign of particular tiredness. That mute film already covered the room. At around midnight he took a cigarette out of the half-empty packet, put it to his lips but before he had separated one lip from the other, he made the face people make when their noše is itching and their hands are full. He moved his lower jaw upwards and his lips moved towards the tip of his noše. His upper lip, comically pinched, touched his noše. Nothing special.
I don't remember a single film scene where an actor did that before killing someone.
He reached for the candle with his right hand. He raised it, on its saucer, to which it was secured by a broad wax base. The saucer has a picture of a rococo lady in three colours on it. Grey, violet, gold. The lady is sitting on a swing and a long are separates her from tlft young gallant who has, presumably, just pushed her away and is now waiting for her to come back. The wax base covered part of the picture. Part of the lad/s face was hidden. You could see her wig, with its comic curls. And the lady's legs. They are painted violet and grey. Her feet are separated one from the other and have little narrow shoes strutting on them. The little golden shoes of a rococo lady. When the picture is completely revealed and daylight reaches into the room evervthing looks somehow different. Deprived of colour and aetion.
The candle in his hand was raised to the tip of the cigarette. A trickle of wax ran down the thin stalk out of the hollow round the wick. It covered the ladj^s left leg. For a tirne the leg could be made out under the little transparent pool of paraffin, until it cooled, solidified and became an opaque blot. Musing on
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the lady's leg, I forgot the sailor standing on the deck of a ship sailing from one continent to another. He was pressing tobacco into a pipe with his broad thumb. He had turned his back to the wind. Did he strike a match? He raised it to his pipe. And fell. As though struck down. Like when one player's pawn knocks out his opponenfs and it is no longer in his way.
5.
He is smoking. He was away for three days and two nights. In the besieged city men have duties which keep them out of the house a lot. Should I teli him that the night before he left he killed a sailor? Fll teli him.
Tomorrow Fll teli him:
"Put out your hands. Palms up."
Fll put the tin on his left hand, and the box which once held long matches on his right hand, Fll step away and say:
"Those are the souls you've saved and one you didn't."
Will he feel their different weight?
God, in these giant amoebas, in their mute membranes, words and games acquire a weight which should be forgotten with the morning.
"Give me a cigarette!"
"Since when have you smoked?"
"Since this evening."
He taps his packet and a cigarette slides out of it. I take it with the fingers of my right hand, with my left I lift up the saucer with the candle. A trickle of wax runs down the thin candle and in an instant the rococo kur/s other leg disappears as well. Just the tip of one little shoe peers out, no bigger than the tip of a needle.
The lady is completely smothered by the wax base. Besides, her smiling gallant who is waiting for her to come back to him on the swing, there, he's vanished. His charming game has been stilled by the hard wax pool.
Now we are tranquil. For a moment at least. I inhale the cigarette smoke awkwardly and cough. There are no more sailors whose lives and souls depend on our tiny actions and decisions, weariness and forgetfulness. There are no more ladies and gallants whose game is in our hands. Just the two of us, alone, waiting for sleep. Today more people died in the besieged city. Perhaps their names and pictures in the obituaries will one day feed some future story. Like wax which you shape into a Uttle bali and when it cools drop onto someone's open hand.
I shan't throw away those two boxes. I shan't empty them. Fll leave them somewhere, in one of the dark corners which gnaw at the square shape of the room. When this is ali once again brilliantly lit up one day, shall I find tem?
Shall I ask: "Who left this here?"
Shall I be able to say: "I did?"
Translated by Celia Hawkesworth
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ALMA LAZAREVSKA
Kako smo ubili mornara
i.
Ako ga upozorim, reči če daje to sitničavost koja meje nedostojna. Zažmirit če i reči, kao da govori o nekom ko nije u sobi:
"Evo, brojat ču do tri da zaboravim. Kao da nista nije rekla. Jedan, dva, tri. Zaboravljeno!"
Učinio je ovako kad sam ga opomenula da po kriškama kruha maže suviše debeo sloj margarina; kad sam glasno primijetila daje razdijelio skoro cijeli sadržaj paketa kakve u ograničenom broju, povremeno dobijaju stanovnici opkoljenog grada. Nama je ostavio samo kesicu zelenih mentol-bombona. One me, rekla sam mu jed-nom, podsječaju na moju davno umrlu nanu, plavooku i nikad gladnu majku moje majke. Preostala nam je, doduše, kartonska ambalaža paketa. Mada dobro gori, nečemo je izložiti. Natpis na njoj i popis sadržaja možda jednom nahrani neku buduču priču.
Zažmirio je i brojao do tri kad je primjetio da ... ali ovo neču reči. Možda tirne, kad mine stid, nahranim neku oporu priču. Za sada, neka je zaboravljeno.
Soba je izgubila oblik kutije. Svjetlost tanke sviječe ne dopire do njenih uglova. Stvorila je mutan, nepravilan oval koji se lijeno pomjera kad nenadana struja vazduha odnekud dodirne sičušni fitilj. Nad nama je prozirna, drhtureča opna. Ovi malobrojni predmeti preliveni mutnom svjetlošču, i nas dvoje, činimo unutraš-njost džinovskog paramecijuma. Njegovi smo organi koji ujednačeno
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pulsiraju, ali se ne dotiču. Je li paramecijum ona jednocelijska životinjica prozirne opne koju smo gledali pod školskim mikroskopom? Vrškom igle dotakneš kap u kojoj lebdi i ona se lijeno povija. Sad u opkoljenom gradu, u kom nocas ne padaju vatrene kugle i ne oglašava se fijuk metaka ispaljenih s onu stranu obrača, lebdi hiljadu ovakvih opni. Ljudi u njima šute. Uplašeni, umorni ili ravnodušni-šute. I osluškuju. Nadaju se snu. Treba da ih svlada i poštedi gluhog bdijenja.
On je večeras zapalio pet cigareta i svaki put kresnuo novo palidrvce. Ugašeno palidrvce odloži u tanjuric sa svijecom. U pepeljari su opušci i tanka crvena vrpca skinuta sa kutije sa cigaretama.
"Zašto to radiš?"
Slutim da san j oš dugo nece stici. Ali, dok izgo varam ovo pitanje i samoj mi se čini nedostojnim.
Ne odgovara.
Sad več imam razloga za ljutnju i za riječi.
"Zašto to radiš?"
Svejedno mi je šta je dostojno, a šta nedostojno. On me gleda i čini pokret rakom, kao da skida nevidljive slušalice sa ušiju. Na trenutak če ih odložiti i meni, nestrpljivoj, pokloniti pažnju.
"Šta ... radim?"
"Pripaljuješ cigarete šibicama!"
"Ačimebih?"
Sadje več spremen da sasvim odloži nevidljive slušalice. Zainteresiran je da sazna nešto novo, nečuveno. Očekuje da mu kažem gdje sunce može izlaziti osim na istoku. Da putem kojim prolazi svaki dan, dnevno pogine jedan čovjek - to več zna.
"Svijecom! Znaš i sam da nemarno dovoljno šibica. Teško ih je nabaviti. Kad več gori sviječa, pripaljuj njom cigarete.
Več je previse riječi u našoj gluhoj opni. Ovako složene i izgo-vorene, sve su nedostojne. Bez njih, bili bismo dva organa koja ujednačeno pulsiraju dok ih, nijeme, ne savlada san.
On me gleda kao da je stao pred blesavo dijete koje nista ne shvata i sve mu treba potanko objašnjavati.
"Ne mogu!"
"Šta...nemožeš?"
"Pripaljivati cigaretu svijecom!"
"Zašto?"
"Svaki put kad to neko uradi, negdje u svijetu umre neki čovjek."
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Da je ovo izgovorio pri dnevnoj svijetlosti, ili da u sobi svijetli sijalica, nasmijala bih se. Volim kad je soba osvijetljena kao operaciona sala. Tad bih se čak i sjetila i nekih filmskih slika u kojima On sviječom koja obasjava večeru za dvoje pripaljuje cigarete. Prvo Njoj, zatim sebi. Sve vrijeme gleda Nju u oči i publika iz mraka uzdahne jednoglasno i duboko.
Uostalom, ma šta radio, svakog sekunda u svijetu umre bar jedan čovjek. Postoji i neka hladna statistika koja govori o tome. Tamo je, u knjigama do kojih ne dopire svjetlost sviječe. To je razlog što me njegov odgovor odjednom i nenadano počinje obave-zivati kao sveto pravilo izgovoreno nevoljnom iskušeniku na uho.
2.
Možda mu jednom prospem na dlan sva ova palidrvca i kažem:
"Evo koliko si ljudi poštedio umiranja!"
Tada neče padati usijane kugle po opkoljenom gradu i ljudi u njemu neče ginuti sa sičušnim komadima vrelog željeza u tijelu. Umirat če opet od bolesti i starosti. Svijetlit če opet sijalice i niko neče biti primoran da cigarete pripaljuje sviječom. Bit če toga još samo u filmskim slikama.
Več tri dana skupljam posvečena palidrvca. Odlažem ih u ispraž-njenu kutiju Solea kreme. Na njoj piše: Vsebina 250 ccm. A i da ne piše, mogu po njenoj veličini predpostaviti da može primiti još stotinjak palidrvcadi. Poneko promakne i u pepeljaru. Iščeprkam ga ujutro ispod opušaka. Jagodice kažiprsta i palca mi poslije toga cijeli dan zaudaraju pa se dječak mršti kad mu dotaknem vrh nosa.
Palidrvca koja odloži uz tanjurič sa sviječom ne smrde. Čak prija blago razdražujuči miriš fosforne glavice, preostao i nakon što je sagorila. Kad skinem poklopac sa limene kutije i brojim palidrvca, osječam safoo preostali miriš kreme. Slatkast je, kao dezodorisana ljetna ženska pazuha. U njima, ščučurene, počivaju spašene duše. Za sada ih je dvadeset i pet. Kad zatvorim kutiju, ožive. Osluškujem im šumove dok mi kutija počiva na dlanu. Dvadeset i pet spašenih duša počiva mi na dlanu. Danas je u opkoljenom gradu od jedne vatrene kugle (stigla je sa tamnog brda na koja su se ispeli zli ljudi) poginulo petnaest ljudi. Njih niko nije htio da spase. Sutra ču im lica vidjeti u novinskim osmrtnicama. A ove spašene duše, na mom dlanu? Koliko su one stare? Kakva lica imaju? Koliko je dobra u njima? Znaju li da negdje na svijetu postoji opkoljeni grad i u njemu čuvari njihovih života?
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d.
Saznala sam otkud mu ovo sa sviječom i cigaretom. Jutro je bilo mirno ali kao ukleto. Tada nasumice posežem za knjigama na polici. Otvaram ih, ovlaš listam, odlažem ... Iz jedne je knjige ispao neki stari račun. Na stranici s koje je skliznuo, u poslednjem redu, piše da svaki put kad cigaretu pripališ sa sviječom, negdje u svijetu umre mornar. Ovo je knjiga Darija Dž., našeg bivšeg susjeda. Pušio je mnogo i cigaretu pripaljivao jednu na dragu. Sada je i Dario Dž. negdje u svijetu. A mornari su u nekoj luči, negdje na mora, na nekom brodu, u nekoj lučkoj krčmi, u nekom neplačenom zagrljaju neke lučke dame ... Ima li jih tamo gdje danas živi Dario Dž.? Uostalom, da danas piscu poturiš njegovo davno objavljenu rečenicu, možda se ne bi ni sijetio da je njegova.
Kao u onom filmu ... zvao se Noč? Žena i muškarac izlaze iz kuče nakon duge i puste noči koja ih je učinila strancima. Sjede na travnjaku. Sviče. Ona iz torbice vadi nako staro pismo. Cita ga glasno. Naglašava svaku rečenicu. Ljubavne izjave, riječi njež-nosti, predane zakletva, prizivanje vječnosti... Kad sklopi pismo, vrati ga u torbicu i pogleda upitno muškarca. On pita:
"Ko ti je to napisao?"
"Ti?"
Darijevo "negdje u svijetu" ja sad Amerika. Svako ima svoju muku, makar i nije u opkoljenom gradu. Ali, ne mora misliti o šibicama i sviječama. Može uključiti deset sijalica i od sobe načiniti blještavu operacionu salu bez mutnih uglova koji nagrizaju prostor i u njima se gnijezde mučna pitanja. Cigarete pripaljuje upalja-čem. Prvu jutranju upaljačem, a onda tokom dana cigaretu od cigaretu. Kad potroši upaljač ili ga izgubi, kupi dragi. Može svaki put izabrati novu boju i oznaku. A nama je ostavio sve mornarske duše. Svu njihovu težinu je svalio na naše umorne duše koje više ne štedi ni san.
"Znaš li Darijevu adresu u Americi?"
"Kojeg Darija?"
"Pisca Darija, Darija pisca."
"Pisca? Ne znam. Sto če ti?"
"Onako."
4.
Jutros sam u limenu kutiju odložila samo tri palidrvca. Sva tri smrde na opuške. U kutiji ima još slobodnog prostora. Kad je prebacujem iz rake u raku, iz nje dopiru vedri zvuci, zvuci sičušnih duša koje se
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kližu i lako sudaraju. Uživaju u gubitku težine. Dječak je, kad me je juče vidio kako se igram kutijom, rekao:
"Sada si ti dijete. Imaš zvečku. Baš ružnu zvečku imaš."
Sad moram imati i drugu kutiju. Dok ne nadem bolju, poslužit če ispraznjena kutija u kojoj su nekad bila druga, debela palidrvca sa žutim fosfornim glavicama. Piše: Budapest. Bila sam jednom u tom gradu ali se gradevine sa slike ne sječam. Nije ružna. Ali zbog nje ne bih vrijedilo ponovo putovati u taj grad.
Ova če se kutija uskoro raspasti. Večje iskrzana po ivicama. Za sada, u njoj počiva parafinska kuglica.
On ih, dok sjedimo uz sviječu, napravi po tri ili četiri tokom jedne večeri. Prstima prihvati parafin koji curi. Mora da mu tada prija vreli dodir nedovoljan da opeče, a sasvim dovoljan da pro-hladnu sobu učini prisnijom. Dio parafina sklizne na tanjirič. Od onog što preostane izmedu prstiju, on jagodicama palca i kažiprsta oblikuje kuglicu. Napola oblikovanu je spusti na dlan i valja kažiprstom druge ruke. Uzme moju ruku, prihvati je u zglobu, na dlan mi izpusti kuglicu, več sasvim ohladenu i glatku. U njoj nije preostala čak ni kratkotrajno primljena toplina njegovog dlana.
Kuglicu na mom dlanu opet dodiruje kažiprstom. Osim lakog golicanja parafinske kuglice, sad osječam i dodir jegodice njegovog prsta. Ujutro pokupim parafinske kuglice sa stoliča i odložim ih u teglu na čijoj naljepnici piše Kompot švetskj. Ispod prve riječi su nacrtane dvije modre šljive. Kad skupim mnogo kuglica, pretopim ih u usku sviječu.
Jutros sam, medutim, parafinsku kuglicu, jednu, odložila u onu kutiju na kojoj piše Budapest. Desilo se!
Nista naročito nije prethodilo. Dan nije bio naročit. On je stigao kasno. Bez znakova naročitog umora. Večje ona gluha opna bila u sobi. Oko ponoči je uzeo cigaretu iz poluprazne kutije, prinio je ustima i prije nego je usne odvojio jednu od druge, učinio je grimasu koju ljudi prare kad ih svrbi nos, a ruke su im zauzete. Nista naročito.
Ne sječam se niti jedne filmske slike sa glumcem koji to radi prije nego nekoga ubije.
Desnom je rukom posegnuo za sviječom. Podigao ju je zajedno sa tanjuričem za koji je prionula širokom parafinskom stopom. Na tanjuriču je slika rokoko dame, u tri boje. Sivo, ljubičasto, zlatno. Dama sjedi u ljuljački i drugi je luk dijeli od kavalira koji ju je, valjda, odgurnuo pa sad čeka da mu se vrati. Parafinska stopa krije dio slike. Ne nazire se dio daminog lica. Vidi se perika, komično ukovrčana. I damine noge. Obojene su u ljubičasto i sivo. Stopala su odmaknuta jedno od drugog i na njima se kočopere
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uske cipelice. Zlatne cipelice rokoko dame. Kad je slika sasvim odkrivena i u sobu dopire dnevnasvijetlost sve deluje nekako drukčije. Lišeno boje i dogadaja.
Sviječa u njegovoj raci je prinesena vršku cigarete. Niz tanko stablo slio se parafinski mlaz iz udubljenja koje okružuje fitilj. Pokrio je daminu lijevu nogu. Neko se vrijeme izpod prozirne parafinske barice nazirala, sve dok se ona nije ohladila, ukrutila i postala neprozirna zakrpa. Zabavljena daminom nogom zaboravila sam mornara koji je stajao na palubi broda na putu sa jednog na drugi kontinent. Širokim je palcem natiskivao duhan u lulu. Okrenuo je leda vjetru. Kresnuo šibicu? Prinio ju je luli. I pao. Kao pokošen. Kao kad igrač pionom kvrcne drugog igrača i ovaj mu više ne stoji na putu.
5.
On puši. Tri dana i dvije noči je bio odsutan. U opkoljenom gradu muškarci imaju obaveza zbog kojih mnogo izbivaju iz kuče. Da li da mu kažem da je noč prije posljednjeg izbivanja ubio mornara? Reči ču mu.
Suradan ču mu reči:
"Izpruži rake. Dlanovima prema gore."
Spustit ču mu na lijevi dlan limenu kutiju, na desni kutiju u kojoj su nekad bila draga palidrvca. Odmaknut ču se I reči:
"To su duše koje si poštedio I jedna koju nisi."
Hoče li osjetiti njihovu različitu težinu?
Beže, kako u ovim džinovskim paramecijumima, u njihovim gluhim opnama, riječi i igre stiču težinu koju jutrom treba za-boraviti.
"Daj mi cigaretu!"
"Od kada pušiš?"
"Od večeras ... eto."
Lako potresa kutiju i iz nje klizi jedna cigareta. Prihvatam je prstima desne rake, lijevom podižem sviječu i tanjurič. Parafinski mlaz curi niz usko stablo i u trenu nestaje i druga noga rokoko dame. Viri tek vrh jedne cipelice, ne vedi od uboda iglom.
Dama je sasvim zagušena parafinskom stopom. Uostalom, I njen smiješni kavalir koji je čeka da mu se u luku, na ljuljački vrati ... Evo je nestao. Njihova koketna igra pritisnuta je sada krutom parafinskom stopom.
Sad smo spokojni. Bar koji trenutak. Nevješto udišem duhanski dim i kašljucam. Nema više mornara čiji životi i duše zavise od naših sitnih postupaka i odluka, umora i zaborava. Nema kavalira
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i dama čija je igra u našim rukama. Nas dvoje sami, iščekujemo san. Danas su opet ginuli ljudi u opkoljenom gradu. Možda njihova imena i slike u osmrtnicama, jednom nahrane neku boducu priču. Kao parafin koji oblikuješ u kuglicu pa je ohladenu spustiš na nečiji otkriveni dlan.
Neču bacati one dvije kutije. Neču ih isprazniti. Ostavit cu ih negdje, u nekom od mračnih kutova koji nagrizaju četvrtasti oblik sobe. Hoču li jednom, kad sve opet bude blještavo osvijet-ljeno, na njih naici?
Hocu li upitati:
"Ko je ovo ovdje ostavio?"
Hocu li znati reči:
"Ja!"
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