KOVAČ, Mirko
Mirko Kovač, bora in 1938 in Petroviči, near Bileca, studied at the Drama Department of Belgrade's Academv of Theatre, Film and Television. He is the author of several novels, collections of short stories and essavs, television plays and film scripts. His first book, Plače ofExecution, 1962, was politically and ideologicalh/ condemned for painting "an excessively black picture of the world", and he was persecuted throughout 1963. His short novel The Biography of Malvina Trifkovič, 1971, was later turned into a stage play and translated into English, French, Italian, Dutch, Hungarian and Svvedish. He has written scripts for some very successful films, including Little Soldiers, Occupation in 26 Pictures and The Fall of Italy. He has received many literary awards, including the 1993 International Tucholsky Prize of the Swedish P.E.N. Centre and the 1995 Herder Prize for Literature. Since 1991 Mirko Kovač has been living in Rovinj, Croatia.
Mirko Kovač, autor više romana, zbirki pripovjedaka, eseja, TV-drama i filmskih scenarija, roden je 1938. u Petrovičima kot Bilece. Studirao je na Akademiji za kazalište, film i televiziju, odjel dramaturgije, u Beogradu. Prva knjiga proze Gubilište, 1962, doživljava političku i ideološku osudu "zbog črne slike sveta", a hajka na pisca trajala je tokom cijele 1963. godine. Kratki roman Zivotopis Malvine Trifkovič, 1971, bio je dramatiziran i preveden na engleski, francuski, talijanski, nizozemski, madarski i švedski. Mirko Kovač napisao je scenarije za filmove Mali vojnici, Okupacija u 26 slika, Pad Italije i druge. Dobio je mnoge nagrade, izmedu drugih i internacionalnu nagrado Tuholski švedskog PEN - centra za 1993, te 1995. Herderovu nagradu za književnost. Od 1991. živi u Rovinju.
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MIRKO KOVAČ
The Hand that Trembles
I am now finishing this manuscript as well. It'11 be a novel, a testimony to yet another period of sadness. It's been five years since I started roaming. I can't settle down. I would get on a train bound for Zagreb and return to Belgrade the same evening. Long trips by rain or boat were good for me because, while travelling, I would take notes and invent stories. I regarded fellow travellers as literary characters and I would start conversations with strangers and get into trouble. Perhaps it's quite true what Esterhazy said: "The novelist is always the driving-force of the action."
I am sensitive to cold. My fingers are cold again, even though it's cold only in the morning and evening, while during the day it's quite niče. What will December be like? Will I be shivermg this winter as well, and what will become of me? Yesterday I went to the Mirogoj cemetery. Saturdav, December lrt. Someone dear to me lies there in the family crypt. It's been five years since her death. An hour or two before she died on 31st January 1970, she called me on the telephone and started to sob: Tm happy! Happy!" I had supper with her father. We reminisced about our past disagreements, but most of the tirne we talked about that beloved deceased person.
I wrote a letter to my friend, O. Leon, and asked him to send me a few words of encouragement. D.K. from Bordeaux called. He was depressed but I couldn't comfort him. I said:
"Belgrade stifles me. I ran away. That city is killing me; 111 leave it forever, but I have no idea where to go!"
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"Nowhere. Just shut up and stay where you are. Screw what you can and screw the crisis; here, it's worse than there, but there, it's the worst." He uttered in one breath.
What will I do then? I go on fantasising about Istrian villages, but the obsession that one day Fll live in Istria is completely unrealistic. I visited many villages and sought solace in several small churches. I would lie in the atrium and soak up the silence, eavesdropping on history, linguistics, Cjrillica and Croatica; on the prayers and celebratory Our Fathers. But it was stili summer then, late August. You could lie down anywhere, in the shade of the church, on bare ground, under the arcades, by some broken sculpture, at the foot of a side column, and calmly fall asleep without fearing the humidity or the ringing of a beli that has fallen silent a long time ago. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping in the atrium of the Church of Our Lady of the Sea, on the road from Žminj to Svetvinčente. Who knows how long I would have stayed— I was so tired—had I not been woken by a sheep, sniffing and licking my face. What docile sheep is this in the tiny courtyard of the Church of Our Lady of the Sea? The same day, I caressed the baroque columns in front of the church of St. Rok in Svetvinčente, and before dusk I visited the little church of St. Kvirin near Vodnjan. Ali this took plače this summer when I felt like living, because the sun was warm and evervthing was moving along the path of rising and setting. Thatfs how it is when there's a source of joy. And the sun certainly is just that. Now winter is knocking on the door: cold, ice, snow, wind, sleet and slush. What am I to do; where am I to go?
A friend of mine offered me his flat in Rovinj. I escaped the snow and the cold, but not my sensitivity to cold, which doesn't only mean physical sensitiv-ity to cold but also a state of mind, in my čase also an attitude towards that particular time of the year. There were perfectly fine winter days when, thinking about some future severe winter, my teeth would start chattering. I would shiver, reading Russian novels full of descriptions of Siberian taigas, tundras and steppes buried in snow. But now ali of this had been repressed. I arrived in Rovinj, warmed up the flat and immediately stepped out on the balcony. I clasped the cold iron railing with my hands and didn't shiver, not even slightly, not even when I pressed my face against the stone door post.
I was watching the seagulls. There were days when they would become upset and start shrieking in panic, and then they would drop down to the sea surface, dive under, or just stay floating, occasionally flapping their wings, especially when they were mating or squabbling over their catch. I wasn't only observing the sea, seagulls and fishing boats, but also the sunsets, disregard-ing the opinion that sunsets are kitsch. I would just as soon say that that definition is aH too easy and that it simply betrays powerlessness before a mvthical scene. During one sunset, the clouds on the horizon over the sea took on the shape of distant mountains which, after the sun had set, began to burn along the edges. It was a single flaming wreath, changing hues. The overflowing
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rosy toneš lingered for a long tirne until they were completely ovenvhelmed by darkness. I poked my noše into every corner of this wondrous little town, skipping down stairs, walking through porticoes, turning into small, tile-lined courtyards, touching walls or simply strolling, yet discovering, every tirne, new details on the facades, Renaissance portals, biphoras, pilasters, consoles, balustrades. And then I would return to the cosy flat and sit for a long tirne by the window, watching the passers-by. I've been gazing through the window for so long that I could recognise every walker by the way he walked. That crowd on the waterfront was filling up with new strollers. I noticed two women in black, who had clearly just arrived from somewhere.
One of them wore a large black hat. She was slender and always held her obviously older companion under the arm. That slender-legged lady would sometimes come storming along the waterfront, but never vvithout her broad black hat. Her stride was magical. I opened the window and there I would stand dumbfounded if she passed. But often, I would whistle some aria to attract her attention. And indeed, the lady in the black hat once glanced at me but only superfieially, so I didn't see her face as it was always hidden in the shadow of her hat. I couldn't do anything from the window, so I decided to leave the flat, venture out to the waterfront and introduce myself politely. Our first encounter up close was quite a surprise. I knew the lady with the black hat and I had even written something about her. She was Andrea Music from Trieste. We had met on a boat in 1971. We were travelling together.
I thought Andrea didn't recognise me at first, only pretending that she knew me, but when we exchanged a few words, she remembered many details. She recalled in particular our meeting with Pasolini and his book with a dedication which I had given her. Andrea told me how her father died at the age of forty-nine and how greatly the family was distressed by this. And then she introduced me to her mother. I muttered something in the way of condo-lences. I can't handle mourning situations very well. The two of them just adored this small town and came here in summer and winter. They loved taking long walks along the Punta Corrente. There, they would fill their lungs to the brim with the sea air, and in the forest they would walk outside the well-trodden paths, often scrambling through the bushes. The mother left us and walked away towards the pier.
"Did you hear about the murder of Pier Paolo Pasolini?" said Andrea.
"Murdered!" I said with surprise. "No, I haven't heard. I don't read the papers; I don't keep abreast!"
"Thatfs right. They found him near Ostia."
"Who killed him?"
"They don't know yet. I went to the funeral with Renata. Do you remember Renata?"
"Of course I remember her. I mention her in my diary."
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"Poor Pier Paolo. I didn't like him at first, but that meeting was a turning point. Fve read everything he had written and have seen some of his films. Right now Fm reading his essavs Scritti corsari."
I proposed to make spaghetti Pasolini that evening, boasting that I do a very good job of it and that I have ali the ingredients.
Tli bring a bottle of Merlot," said Andrea.
The spaghetti Pasolini was a success. Fve never gone wrong with that recipe, particularlv when I prepare the dish for two persons. Pasolini's manu-script in the book Trasumanar e organizzar, which the author presented to me in 1971 in Ferrara, took on a cultic significance for Andrea.
"Had I torn out that page with Pasolini's dedication, I would be the one with his handwriting now," I said .
"You would've lost it somewhere, because Fve discovered it only now that the writer is dead," said Andrea.
"Then you must have remember me as well," I said.
"Yes, but it was through a haze. I just couldn't conjure up your face."
"Now I know why at that tirne I overlooked your beauty and excitement," I said.
"Teli me." said Andrea, smiling and assuming that curious pose. "Dimmi!"
"Girls who study Slavic languages turn me off. It took me four years to realise that there were exceptions." I said.
"You're courting me now," said Andrea. "I don't know any more what I am. These studies were a waste of tirne. I tried writing poetry and also translating Kisch's novel Bašta, pepeo, but I never finished any of it. And then my father died, and in the meantime, several failed love affairs. I have a feeling that they've aH betrayed me. My father died at a time when some kind of extremes were breaking inside of me. I adored him and only he could have helped me. Now Fll write a book about Pasolini, but I hesitate betvveen a traditional novel and essavistic prose."
"That means that Fm one of the heroes as well?"
"Yes of course. That detail about the dedication is important as a motive, as an emotional point. After aH, why should I be the one to write that book. Although there are several other important points of contact. First, his homo-sexuality as a kind of excommunication, and then there are his prophesies which are fascinating. Italians don't like homosexuals and they always wish them a spectacular death. They were satisfied with the brutal murder of Pier Paolo. No one from the Government sent condolences to his mother, and the gentlemen judges and lawyers were wondering if such a person deserved a better death. Thirty-three legal actions were filed against Pasolini. In the space provided for nazionalitd he would always write, "ashamed to be Ital-ian." Moravia wrote: Pasolini had to die! And Pasolini, the exile and the outcast, knew exactly how, because he forecast his death in his works. He depicted and filmed his death in several of his films, but with the greatest
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precision in the film Edipo re. He also described it as early as in 1950 in his story Gas. In that story, which takes plače in the Roman suburbs, Pasolini described and foresavv every detail of his own death. His fictional double, Vergili, the seducer of minors, was killed on a small football field, enclosed by a wooden fence. The mutilated corpse was just a heap of rubbish in that pile of bricks, sheet metal and scrap iron. Ali of this coincided with Pasolini's death. And another detail: According to his story from the 1950's, the photograph of the body from the Roman suburb was published on the cover of Europeo, which is exactly what happened twenty years later. The photograph of the massacred Pier Paolo Pasolini appeared on the cover page of that same weekly. Pasolini is one of the rare people who achieved the vision of their death. He was killed by his archetype, a dark-skinned, curly-haired boy from the suburbs. Thatfs the idea of my novel."
"What are you going to call your book?" I asked already drawn into the story, even though I continued to stare at her exciting and luscious lips. I was tempted; I was on the verge of capturing them.
"I don't know yet," says she. "Maybe The Hand that Trembles. Do you like it?"
"Yes, I do." And then, chatting her up, I blurted out a platitude: "My hand is trembling too. Fm trembling too."
I let my hand drop onto hers, but Andrea freed herself unobtrusively from that temptation and poured vrine into both glasses. Fm not insolent; I can control myself. I opened another bottle of vrine, but she wouldn't drink any-more. Placing her fingers over her glass, she continued vrith the story of Pasolini. I didn't know how he had been killed, so I interrogated Andrea. I wanted to show her that I cared for her storv, that I listened to it and that I had invited her to have spaghetti vrith me only to reminisce about that meeting vrith Pasolini. Tvrice, I raised my glass in honour to the departed.
Andrea talked about his death. She knew many details, but Fll talk about this shortly. I didn't want to dedicate this evening to Pasolini. My thoughts were running in a different direction. From tirne to tirne I didn't even hear what Andrea was saying: I was*fascinated by the movement of her lips. Perhaps it was Pasolinfs fault that I stili wasn't in bed vrith her. Stili, I must weave some of this story into the novel: the wonderful movement of her lips and Andrea's quivering, exciting and erotic voice must not go to waste. So, Pier Paolo was killed in the Osti hydroplane port. The boy named Pelosi confessed to the murder. If we are to believe the testimony of the teenager, it was Pier Paolo who began this deadly game. He took a post from the fence and tried to stick it into the boys behind. Then Pelosi grabbed a stake and hit him over the head. Pasolini stumbled. Lying on the ground, bleeding, he shouted: " Why, rascal! Why!" The boy kept striking him until his head was crushed. Pasolini was discovered by Maria Teresa Lollobrigida, a housevrife who comes here, to her house, every Sunday. She declared for Messaggero that at first she
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thought someone had left a pile of rubbish near her house. She wanted to clean it up, but when she approached, she realised that it was a corpse. The head of the dead person was smashed and the hair was soaked in blood. Afew paces from the body were the severed fingers. Then she noticed something black, something that looked alive and glistened. It was an eye. Like VergiFs eye and the extinguished, dead look from the story Gas.
It wasn't my intention to write about Pasolini. I know little about the artist. Fve read his novel A Violent Life, but I don't remember anvthing from that book. I did remember one of his verses: Fve never been more a corpse than I am right now. I was ill at the tirne and I was on the way down, so I kept repeating that verse. I saw some of his films. There was a kind of simplicity and clever toying with myths, but thafs not enough for the artist to find himself in my novel and to have almost two chapters dedicated to him. I don't know why Andrea pointed out that Pier Paolo had Slavic blood in his veins. His mother was from Casara, which was inhabited by Croatians a long time ago. Her farnih/ name was Colussi and in the ancient monastic books it was recorded as Kolušic. To me it doesn't mean anvthing, as I have no sense of racial affiliation. Ethnicity, as a source of conflicts and madness, is interesting only in literary terms. So I didn't include him in the book because of the Slavic blood in his veins. So what? I think that any further discussion of this is needless. One always tells a story so that someone else may unravel it. I don't believe that stories are entangled. It is, however, quite true that everyone wishes to turn them upside down.
It was late. Midnight had gone. Andrea had had her fi.ll and more. She had drunk two more glasses of wine. We stepped out onto the balcony. The sea was choppy. The night was clear and chilly. One wave climbed high up the shore of the island of Sv. Katarina, smashing savagely and breaking against the rocks. In the distance a lighthouse beacon was flickering. The wine had intoxicated me; I was tongue-tied.
"Shall we meet again tomorrow?" I asked.
"Stop by the hotel to say hello," said she. "I'm taking my mother to Trieste and in a day or two Fm leaving for Rome to stay there for good. I fell in love with that city. Thafs where my lover Silvana lives. She comes from a famous family of poets, the Naldinis. We've been in love for two years. My father approved of this relationship, but my mother thinks Fm strange."
"What is your experience of men?" I asked.
"There were some relationships and lovers, but my true passion and true love only began with Silvana. She's so impudent and so generous. I adore that wonderful girl. Her beauty is fascinating. We are both happy. We have a small flat in the suburbs of Rome. It's our very private nest. There we shut ourselves up and devote ourselves to each other. Pasolini said it beautifully: Life is a struggle against the Eye that observes us. Now I have to get back to the hotel. My mother won't sleep until I return."
Translated by Marjan Golobic
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MIRKO KOVAČ
Ruka koja drhti
Sada več privodim kraju i ovaj rukopis; bit če to roman kao dokaz još jednog tužnog razdoblja. Večje peta godina otkako lunjam; ne mogu se skrasiti. Znao sam sjesti u vlak, doči u Zagreb, a onda se iste večeri vratiti u Beograd. Meni su koristila duga putovanja vlakom ili brodom, jer tada sam ponešto bilježio i smišljao priče. Na putnike sam gledao kao na literarne likove, a i sam se upletao u rasprave s neznancima i upadao u nevolje. Možda je doista točno ono što je rekao g. Esterhazv da je »pisac romana uvijek nosilac radnje«.
Zimogrožljiv sam, opet mi zebu prsti, premda je studeno samo na večer i ujutro, dok je preko dana umjereno. Kakav če biti prosinac, hoču li se i ove zime tresti i što če biti sa mnom? Jučer sam bio na mirogojskom groblju; subota 1. studeni. Netko meni drag leži ondje, u obiteljskoj grobnici. Prošlo je pet godina od te smrti. Sat-dva prije nego je umrla, 31. siječnja 1970. godine pozvala me telefonom i zaridala: »Sretna sam! Sretna!« Večerao sam s njezinim očem, prisječali smo se nekih naših davnih nesuglasica, ali smo najviše vremena posvetili toj dragoj pokojnici.
Napisao sam jedno pismo prijatelju o. Leonu, zamolio sam da mi uputi nekoliko ohrabrujučih riječi. Javio mi se D. K. iz Bordeauxa, bio je potišten, ali ja ga nišam mogao utješiti. Rekao sam:
»Gušim se u Beogradu, pobjegao sam otuda, taj grad me ubija, napustit ču ga zasvagda, ali ne znam kamo ču!«
»Nikamo, nigdje, šuti i ostani tu gdje si, pojebi štogod i zajebi križu, ovdje je gore nego tamo, a tamo je najgore«, izustio je u jednom dahu.
Onda što ču? I nadalje maštam o istarskim selima, a ta opsesija da ču jednog dana živjeti u Istri, posve je nerealna. Obišao sam mnoga sela, a u nekim malim crkvama tražio sam mir, pa sam znao ležati u atriju, napajati se tišinom, osluškivati povijest, lingvistiku, Cjrilicu i Croaticu, molitve i slavjan-ske očenaše, ali tada je još bilo ljeto, kraj kolovoza. Moglo se leči posvuda,
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u sjeni crkve, na golu zemlju, ispod arkada, uz kakav srušeni kip, podno bočnog stupa, i mirno zaspati bez bojazni od vlage ili zvona koja odavno muce. U atriju crkve Gospe od Mora, na putu izmedu Zminja i Svetvinčeta, spavao sam cijelo popodne. Tko zna dokad bih tu ostao, bio sam umoran, da me nije probudila ovca koja me njuškala i lizala mi lice. Kakva je to pitoma ovca u lopici crkve Gospe od Mora? Još istog dana milovao sam barokne stupice ispred crkve sv. Roka u Svetvinčentu, a prije mraka obišao sam i crkvicu sv. Kvirina blizu Vodnjana. Sve to je bilo ljetos kad mi se mililo živjeti, jer sunce je grijalo i sve se kretalo tom putanjom izlaska i zalaska; tako je kad postoji izvor radosti, a sunce to doista jest. Sada je zima na pragu, mraz, led, snijeg, vjetar, susnježica i bljuzgavica; što ču i kuda ču?
Prijatelj mi je ponudio stan u Rovinju; umaknuo sam snijegu, mrazu, ali ne i zimogrožnji koja ne znači samo zimljivost več i psihičko stanje, a u mom slučaju i stav prema tom godišnjem dobu. Bilo je sasvim ugodnih zimskih dana kada bi mi, i pri pomisli na neku boduču opaku zimu, zubi zacvokotali. Znao sam se tresti dok čitam ruske pisce koji opisuju sibirske tajge i tundre ili stepu pod snijegom. Sada je to bilo sve potisnuto, stigao sam u Rovinj, zagrijao stan i odmah izašao na balkon. Rukama sam držao hladnu željeznu ogradu i nijednom se nišam stresao, čak ni onda kada bih priljubio lice uz kameni dovratnik.
Pomatrao sam galebove, a bilo je dana kad se uznemire, počnu panično kliktati, a onda se spuste na površinu mora, zarone ili samo plove, povremeno zalepršaju krilima, pogotovu kad se pare ili otimaju oko plijena. Ali nišam promatrao samo more, galebove, ribarske brodice, več i zalaske sunca usprkos onim mišljenjima daje to kič. Prije bih rekao daje ta definicija laka i da očituje nemoč pred mitskim prizorima. Za jednog zalaska oblači na obzoru mora popri-mili su konture dalekih brda koja su, nakon što je sunce utonulo, počela gorjeti po rubovima. To je bio jedan plamteči vijenac koji je mijenjao tonove boja, a to razliveno rumenilo zadržalo se još dugo, sve dok mrak nije posve ovladao.
Zalazio sam u svaki kutak ovog čudesnog gradiča, skakutao skalinima, prolazio porticima, zavirivao u mala popločana dvorišta i dodirivao šterne, ili samo lagano hodao svaki put otkrivajuči nove detajle na fasadama, renesansne portale, bifore, pilastre, konzole, balustrade, a onda se vračao u topli stan i dugo sjedio kraj prozora pomatrajuči prolaznike. Toliko sam zurio kroz prozor da sam več svakog šetača mogao prepoznati po načinu hoda. To jato s rive popunjavalo se novim šetačima, pa sam tako zapazio dvije žene u črnini, očito tek pristigle odnekud.
Jedna je imala veliki črni šešir, bila je vitka i uvijek je držala podruku onu drugu, svakako stariju osobu. Ta je vitkonoga gospa znala katkat i sama protutnjati rivom, ali nikada bez svog velikog crnog klobuka. Gazila je čarobno. Otvarao sam prozor i tu bih se ukipio kad bi ona prolazila, a cesto sam znao zviždukati neku ariju kako bih privukao njezinu palžnju. I doista, dama s črnim klobukom jednom me pogledala, ali je to učinila ovlašno, tako da nišam zapazio to lice, premda je ono uvijek bilo u sjeni šešira. Nista se tu nije dalo
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učiniti s prozora, pa sam odlučio izači na rivu i uljudno im se javiti. Ali prvi naš susret izbliza bio je iznenadujuci: znao sam tu damu s črnim klobukom a nešto sam o njoj več i napisao. Bila je to Andrea Music, Trščanka; upoznali smo se na brodu, ljeta 1971. godine. Putovali smo zajedno.
Mislim da Andrea u prvom trenu nije znala tko sam, glumila je da zna, ali kad smo izmijenjali po nekoliko riječi, prisjetila se mnogih detalja, a posebice zajedničkog susreta s Pasolinijem i njegove knjige s posvetom koju sam joj ostavio. Andrea mi je rekla da joj je umro otac u četrdeset devetoj godini i daje to bio pravi obiteljski stres, a onda mi je predstavila svoju majku. Promrmljao sam nešto kao sučut; ne snalazim se u korotnim situacijama. Njih dvije vole ovaj gradič, tu dolaze ljeti i zimi, vole dugačke šetnje na Punti Corrente; tamo se nadišu morskog zraka, a u šumi hodaju izvan staža, cesto se veruči kroz šiblje. Majka nas je ostavila i udaljila se prema molu.
»Jesi li čuo da je ubijen Pier Paolo Pasolini?« reče Andrea.
»Ubijen!« začudih se. »Ne, nišam čuo. Ne čitam novine, ne pratim nista!«
»Da, naden je mrtav u bližini Ostije.«
»Tko ga je ubio?«
»Ne zna se. Bila sam s Renatom na sprovodu. Sječaš li se Renate?«
»Kako se ne bih sječao. Unio sam je u svoj dnevnik.«
»Jadni Pier Paolo. Prije ga nišam voljela, ali onaj susret bio je odlučujuči. Pročitala sam sve što je napisao i vidjela neke njegove filmove. Sada čitam esej Scritti corsari.«
Predložio sam da na večer napravim špagete Pasolini, pohvalio sam se da ih dobro pripremam, a imam i sve potrebne sastojke.
»Ja ču donijeti bocu merlota,« reče Andrea.
Uspjeli su mi špageti Pasolini; još nišam fulao po ovom receptu, pogotovu kad ih pravim za dvoje. Pasolinijev rukopis u knjiži Trausumanar e organizzar, koju mi je poklonio 1971. godine u Ferrari, sada je za Andreu imao kultno značenje.
»Da sam tada istrgnuo onu stranicu s Pasolinijevom posvetom, danas bih ja imao njegov rukopis,« rekoh.
»Negdje bi ga več izgubio,« reče Andrea, »jer sam ga i ja otkrila tek sada nakon što je pisac mrtav.«           *
»Onda si se morala sjetiti i mene,« rekoh.
»Da kao kroz maglu. Ali tvoj lik nikako nišam mogla dočarati.«
»Sad znam zašto sam tada previdio da si zgodna i uzbudljiva,« rekoh.
»Da čujemo«, reče Andrea, nasmija se i namjesti onu znatiželjnu pozu. »Dimmi!«
»Slavistice me odbijaju. Trebale su proči četri godine da bih shvatio kako postoje iznimke,« rekoh.
»To je več udvaranje,« reče Andrea. »Sad više ne znam šta sam. Bio je to uzaludan študij. Pokušala sam s poezijom. pa s prijevodom Kiševa romana Bašta, pepeo, ali sve ostavljam nedovršeno. Onda očeva smrt, a u meduvreme-nu nekoliko promašenih ljubavi. Imam osječaj da su me svi iznevjerili. Otac mi je umro u trenutku kad su se u meni lomile neke krajnosti. Obožavala sam
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ga i samo mi je on mogao pomoči. Sada ču pisati knjigu o Pasoliniju, premda dvojim izmedu klasičnog romana i esejističke proze.«
»Onda sam i ja jedan od junaka?«
»Da, svakako. Taj detalj s posvetom važan je kao povod, kao emotivna točka, jer sto bih inače baš ja pisala tu knjigu, premda tu postoji još nekoliko važnih dodira. Najprije njegov homoseksualizam kao vrsta izopčenja, a onda i njegova proročanstva koja su fascinantna. Italijani ne vole homoseksualce i uvijek im žele spektakularnu smrt. Zadovoljilo ih je okrutno ubojstvo Piera Paola. Nitko iz vlade nije poslao sučut njegovoj majci, a gospoda suci i odvjetnici pitaju se je li takav tip zaslužio bolju smrt. Protiv Pasolinija vodena su trideset tri sudska postupka. U rubrici nazionalita uvijek bi stavio: stidim se što sam Taljan. Moravija je napisao: Pasolinije morao umrijeti! Ataj prognanik i otpadnik točno je znao i kako, jer je to u svojim djelima predvideo. Svoju je smrt naslikao, snimio u više filmova, posve precizno u filmu Edipo re, a opisao ju je davno, 1950. godine, u priči Gas. U toj priči koja se dogada u rimskim predgradima, Pasolini je opisao i predvidio sve detalje vlastite smrti. Njegov dvojnik Vergilije, zavodnik malodobnika, ubijen je na malom nogometnom igralištu ogradenom drvenim letvama. Unakaženi les samo je hrpa smeča u toj gomili opeka, lima i starog željeza. Sve se to podudarilo s Pasolinijevom smrcu. I još jedan detalj: u toj priči iz pedesete stoji daje fotografija tog lesa iz rimskog predgrada izašla na naslovnici Europea, kao što je dvadeset pet godina kasnije, u stvarnosti objavljena fotografija masakriranog Piera Paola Pasolinija na naslovnoj stranici tog istog tjednika. Pasolinije jedan od rijetkih koji je viziju smrti dosegnuo. Njega je ubio njegov arhetip, dječak iz predgrada, crnoput, kovrčave kose. To je ideja mog romana.«
»Kako če se zvati knjiga?« upitah več uvučen u tu priču, iako sam i nadalje piljio u njezine uzbudljive i sočne usne. Dolazio sam u iskušenje da ih zgrabim.
»Još ne znam,« reče. »Možda Ruka koja drhti. Svida ti se?«
»Da, svida mi se«, a onda udvarački banalno izustih: »I moja ruka drhti. I ja drhtim.«
Spustih svoju ruku na njezinu, ali Andrea se nenametljivo oslobodi te napasti i natoči vino u obje čase. Nišam drznik, znam se vladati. Otvorio sam novu bocu vina, ali ona više nije htjela piti; stavila je prste na svoju času i nastavila priču o Pasoliniju. Nišam znao kako je ubijen, pa sam zapitkivao Andreu. Htio sam joj pokazati da mi je stalo do njezine priče, daje slušam i da sam je pozvao na špagete upravo zbog sječanja na susret s Pasolinijem. U dva maha sam i času podigao za pokojnika.
Andrea je pričala o toj smrti, znala je mnogo detalja, ah o tome ču ukratko. Nišam želio ovu večer posvetiti Pasoliniju, moje su misli tekle u dragom smjeru. Katkad i nišam čuo što Andrea govori; bio sam opčinjen pomicanjem njezinih usana. Možda je upravo Pasolini krivac što več nišam s njom u krevetu. Pa ipak, obvezan sam nešto od te priče utkati u roman; ne smije ostati uzaludno to krasno micanje usana i treperenje uzbudljivog i erotičnog Andreina glasa. Dakle, Pier
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Paolo je ubijen na ostijskom pristaništu za hidroplane. Dječak Pelosi priznao je ubojstvo. Ako se može vjerovati iskazu maloljetnika, onda je Pier Paolo započeo tu smrtonosnu igru: izvukao je kolač iz ograde i pokušao ga ugurati u dječakovu stražnjicu. Pelosi je tada dograbio letvu i udarao ga po glavi. Pasolini je posrnuo. Ležeči okrvavljen na zemlji, uzviknuo je: »Zašto, žabac! Zašto!« Dječak gaje tukao dok mu nije razmrskao glavu. Pasolinija je otkrila Marija Teresa Lollobrigida, domačica koja tu dolazi svake nedjelje, u svoju kuču. Izjavila je za Messaggero da je najprije pomislila kako je netko ostavio hrpu smeča blizu njezine kuče. Htjela je to počistiti, a kad je prišla blizu, ugledala je leš. Glava pokojnika bila je razmrskana, a kosa natopljena krvlju. Korak-dva od lesa bili su otkinuti prsti, a onda je vidjela nešto črno i namah živo, svjetlucavo. Bilo je to oko. Kao Vergilijevo oko i zagasiti mrtvi pogled iz priče Gas.
Nišam kanio pisati o Pasoliniju, malo znam o tom umjetniku. Citao sam njegov roman Zestok život, ali ničeg se ne sječam iz te knjige. Zapamtio sam jedan njegov stih: nikad nišam bio toliko leš kao sad. Tada sam bio bolestan, bio sam propao, pa sam cesto taj stih ponavljao. Gledao sam nekoliko njegovih filmova, bilo je u njima neke naivnosti i spretnog poigravanja mitovima, aH sve to nije dovoljno da se taj umjetnik nade u mom romanu i dobije malne dva poglavja. Ne znam zašto je Andrea isticala da Pier Paolo ima u sebi i slavenske krvi. Njegova je majka iz Casarse koju su nekada davno naselili Hrvati. Njezino je prezime Colussi, a u starim fratarskim knjigama zapisano je i kao Kolušič. Meni to nista ne znači, nemam nikakva osječaja rasne pripadnosti. Etnos je, kao izvor sukoba i ludosti, samo literarno zanimljiv. Dakle, nišam ga uveo u knjigu samo zbog slavenske krvi u njegovim žilama. I sto onda? Mislim daje svaka dalja rasprava o tome suvišna. Jedan uvijek priča da bi drugi tu isti priču odgonetao. Ne vjerujem da su priče zamršene, ah je posve točno da ih svatko želi preokrenuti.
Bilo je več kasno, prošla je ponoc. Andrea je prevršila svoju mjeru, popila je još dvije čase vina. Izašli smo na balkon. More se bješe uznemerilo. Noč je bila vedra i prohladna. Jedan val se visoko propinjao uz obalu otoka sv. Katarine; tako je divlje udarao i razbijao se u hrid. U daljini je treptao svjetionik. Vino me več bješe omamilo, zapletao sam jezikom.
»Hočemo li se sutra vidjeti?« upitah.
»Dodi u hotel da se pozdravimo,« reče. »Vozim mamu u Trst, a za dan-dva odlazim u Rim i to zauvijek. Zaljubljena sam u taj grad, ondje je i moja ljubav Silvana. Ona potice iz slavne pjesničke obitelji Naldini. U ljubavi smo več dvije godine. Moj otac je odobravao tu vezu, dok majka misli da sam nastrana.«
»Kakva su tvoja iskustva s muškarcima?« upitah.
»Bilo je nekih veza i ljubavi, ali prava strast i prava ljubav počinje tek sa Silvanom. Ona je tako drska i tako darovita; obožavam tu krasnu curu. Njezina ljepota fascinira. Obje smo sretne, imamo mali stan u predgradu Rima. To je naš intimni kutak, tu se mi zatvaramo i posvečujemo jedna drugoj. Pasolini je lijepo rekao: život je borba protiv Oka koje nas promatra. Sad moram u hotel, mama neče zaspati dok ne dodem.«
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