Price, odlomci, citati, slobodne forme....

[Bahra]

"Niko ne bira umesto tebe, biraš sam. Biraš u svakom trenutku, biraš sada. Sve što se događalo i što će se događati jeste i biće samo posledica tvog izbora: na pogrešnom, na strašnom, na kraljevskom putu, ili na putu za gubilište, ti si kovač svoje sudbine, svoj sopstveni demijurg i dželat, onaj koji postojanje stavlja pre suštine, a suštinu iznad svega drugog. Ispunjavaš sobom svoju ličnu sudbinu, svojim zabludama, stradanjima i patnjom, ponekim jaukom i ponekad pesmom zahvalnicom."

Vidosav Stevanovic- "Dnevnik samoce"

[Dust]

Pred ogledalom (skriven iza laznih imena)

Zamislite gomilu ljudi! Ulica vrvi ! nepregledna masa se haoticno krece! Svakim trenom ih je sve vise! Vise! Pogazice se! a nikada isti ljudi nikada isti obrazi a opet svi jedni na druge lice! Gledajte u masu! Nadjite joj smer! Pokusajte da odredite kuda idu! Imate osecaj da jedni drugima gaze sene! Gledajte tako da izgubite boje! Da nestanu oblici! Da se pojedinac ishcezne! Samo partite tok! Nadjite mu boju! Ubrzavajte ga pogledom! Skrecite I zamotavajte ga! Izgubite I vi vas pogled u bezoblicnoj masi! Sta nalazite? Sta vidite? Jedno lice pogleda u zemlju , jedan usporeni teski korak., jedne decije oci, jedne teske ruke! Jednu nadu! Jedan skriveni osmijeh… onaj isti iz ogledala, onaj putujuci, onaj obecavajuci, ocajavajuci,deciji,stari,prijateljski,tudjinski,on aj svaciji I niciji,onaj samo vama znan Iz ogledala.. vidite li to lice, s velikim trudom na pola ispijenu dusu,oblak dima I malo sna? Prepoznajete li to lice u masi? Je li vas opet vratilo? Umesto da izgubite oblik, da nadjete boju da skrenete masu,da ucite sebe vi nalazite trag onog sto ste ga nekada gledali u oci a bio je samo odsjaj. Vididte li opet sebe? Pitate li se odakle vam je osecaj poznat? Kakva se muzika cuje? Odakle ova gorcina vama na usnama, odakle vam vetar medju prstima, odtkud vam I suze I osmijeh u isti cas. Odakle toliko radosti I tuge u vama. Da li osecate kako se u vama nesto cepa da nesto istiskuje, kako vam se uliva voda kako vam se puni telo kako vam srce jezik pritiska? Osecate li? Gde ste sada? U masi u obliku koji ste sami stvorili, na mestu gde ste sreli te oci? Ima li ga u blizini? Ne! vas? Na istom ste mjestu! Primjecujete li da su godine prosle u tom trenu? Da ste preziveli toliko srece boli I radosti za par godina! A tren? Zasto? Gde je? Kako? Opet ste stali u onaj prostor zaledjen dahom od lika do ogledala.. vreme je da ga pustimo on je I onako vec odavno daleko. Imam strah veliki koji se ledi u meni kao taj isti dah… ako ga pustim da ode I iz mene moj najveci je strah da me opet ne stignes, susretnes, sretnes, ulovis u mom snu..

A vreme je …

Otici je bar lako ! a zabroaviti?

Lako se okrenuti! A zazmuriti!

Poljubiti! A voleti? Ispiti! A popiti? Umreti ! a ziveti?

Secati se! a sastaviti secanja po svojoj meri?

Moj najveci strah ako te pustim da odes da ces me stici u snu…

A vreme je…

Vreme je….

Svaka tuga neka bude moja. A svaki osmeh tebi poklanjam, svaku srecu I svaku radost. Odricem se tih poroka daj mi tugu I bol da budu moja sreca..

Raduj se! Osecam senu tvoju, I tebe van ogledala u svakom kamenu, u svakoj zili drveta koje je ikada pokusalo da raste. Osecam te u svakoj sitnici u svakoj kaplji …a govorim o jednom vec odavno dalekom… skrivenom iza laznih imena onom kog nadjete u pesmama knjigama I romanima u svim decijim pricama, o onom koji kradom jos uvek zeli pred san da mu sapucu price a zaspace prije nego se nacne krov od cokolade. Onom koji zeli da mu vetar gladi kosu.. o onom dalekom koji se nece zadrzati, a vi,cete ga se secati I onda kad ga ne bude.. o onom u dubini, a lik koji ogledalo stvara veruje,poverovacete I vi u njega. o onom cija jutra brisu sve..

Vreme je…

Svaki osmeh…svaka sreca… svaka radost.. I zelja…

Tvoja je. ostaj mi dobro mali veseljace.. i nemoj pustiti da dete nestane... ne daj rekama da te vode, povedi ti njih, ne daj se godinama i teskim snovima, cuvaj sebe najvise od sebe, pusti nek te vole, pusti nek ti pridju, dozvoli sebi da se opustis, dozvoli sebi da zaboravis..dozvoli da oprostis..dozvoli da sunce udje i u tvoja jutra.. ne trazi istinu nocu, ne trazi utehu i ne trazi razloge..sami ce doci ako ih ima..

i ne zaboravi raduj se!

osmeh leci sve...

Nepoznati autor

[sann]

BITI JEDNO

Ponekad ne mogu da odredim granice između sebe i ljudi koje volim: gde završavam ja, a gde počinju oni. Kao da smo svi mi jedno, kao da smo isti – ista duša, želja koja traži nešto… zajedničko svima nama.
Svi smo u istom čamcu. A opet, svi smo različiti i posebni, izrazito individualni.

Postoji jedna posebna, retka vrsta ljudi koje ja zovem moji ljudi. To su ljudi koje puštam u svoj prostor, u sebe. Svi moji ljudi su u nečemu isti:

Njihovo traženje je stvaralačko. Oni ne ruše, već nešto grade. Ne žele da vladaju, jer vladanje gubi sjaj u očima…

Moji ljudi imaju isto osećanje života. Nije više bitno kako ćemo nazvati naše odnose i koji će oblik oni imati. Forme naših odnosa se mogu menjati, ali to osećanje povezanosti nečim iznad nas, većim od nas, što nas zove i spaja, ostaje.

Mi nekako nabasamo jedni na druge i naše se sudbine pomešaju zauvek, čak i ako nismo zajedno. Kao da smo neke boje koje se lako mešaju međusobno, a mnogo teže sa drugom vrstom. Boje koje se rastvaraju pomoću svetla…

[sancezo]

Nema više budnih noći, poruka u gluho doba, propuštenih poziva, skrivenih pogleda - ničega. Nema te pijanosti koja će me opet ohrabriti da te zovem, nema više te ljubavi koja će me vraćati tebi, nema više tih uspomena koje će me natjerati da te svaki put opet poželim.
Voljela sam te, i onda kad sam se klela da te ne volim. Svaka tvoja hladna riječ me povrijedila. Pravila sam se hrabra, pa sam se na svaku nasmijala, a istu tu noć bih zaspala u suzama. Bila sam spremna pojaviti se kad god si me zvao, poslije svih uvreda i ružnih riječi, onda kad bi svi drugi otišli, kad sam jedina bila na tvojoj strani. Bila sam spremna pobjeći s tobom, bilo kad, bilo gdje, ostaviti sve. Bio si jedini muškarac koji me mogao imati u svako doba, igrati se sa mnom kao s lutkom, a kad ti dosadim, baciti me kao igračku koja ti više nije zanimljiva. Bio si poseban, tvrdoglav, bezobrazno ravnodušan. Bio si svakakav, a najdraži. Bio si, više nisi.
I nije mi u planu zaboraviti te, ne, nikako. Bio si moja greška na kojoj se uči. Ostavljam te prošlosti, jer tamo ti je mjesto. Ovaj put stvarno, ovaj put zauvijek. I čudno, sretna sam zbog toga .

- Sad me pogledaj , smijem se , nije mi bilo lako , ali , poslije toliko vremena pomirila sam se sa tim da me nikada nećeš primijetiti. Ostala sam potpuno ista , ranjena mnogo puta. Sada otvori oči. Gubiš me , a kad čovjek gubi tek onda shvati šta je imao ili je mogao imati

[dacina_curica]

NAČAS GAJIMO ILUZIJE

Stari je fol kad su Bosanca pitali možemo li mi a da u razgovor ne ubacimo "bezbeli", a on odgovorio: "Bezbeli da možemo."

Neki "vrli pitac" mi je nedavno postavio jednako apsurdno pitanje: mogu li ja napisati tekst a da ne pomenem svoju djecu, a ja sam mu odgovorio: "Šta bih trebao? Da pominjem tvoju?"
Istog dana jedan "moralista", čovjek koji je u ratu propio pare što mu je majka dala da kupi naramak drva, čovjek koji je prijatelju, čija je žena abortirala i jedva ostala živa, rekao: "Jedan trošak manje", pitao me je zašto toliko psujem na ovim stranicama, pa sam mu, ne časeći, odbrusio: "Boli te kurac!"
Inače, cijeli dan je počeo "depresivno". Izlazim iz kuće, silazim niz stepenice, mimoilazim se s "novokomponovanim" komšijama, poželim im dobro jutro, a oni, tupim očima gledaju kroz mene i ni mukajet.

Prolazim pored Ministarstva vanjskih poslova na kojem već mjesecima (godinama?) državna zastava visi okrenuta naopačke i to me uvijek podsjeti na pokojnog prijatelja Vladimira Srebrova, oko čijeg su se čina paljenja zastave kod Vječne vatre vodile žustre polemike da li ga treba suditi, hapsiti zbog te blasfemije.
Nasred Titove ulice, u po bijela dana, gospodin u Armanijevom odijelu iseknjuje nos, prvo jednu pa drugu nozdrvu, s neskrivenim ponosom gleda zelenkastožućkastog "patka" što je izbacio na pločnik, a onda iz džepa vadi batistenu maramicu i briše prste.
Ne mogu da odolim, a da mu ne kažem: "Mašala!"
Sav ozaren, on mi uzvraća: "Hvala", i ide da obavi neku svoju vrlo važnu
funkciju.

U Siranu, ženska, koja bi mi mogla biti mati, sjeda i na guzove, ko džoja, zateže bestidno kratku mini suknju, a meni ne da đavo mira pa joj kažem:
"Gospođo, zašto ste je uopšte oblačili?"
Gleda me s prezirom:
"Vi ste pijani."
"Nisam još, ali Vi ste ružni. A ja ću se kadli-tadli otrijezniti."

Kasnije sjedim u bašti, kod Mome, planiram svoj dan, a za sto mi prilazi Nina, bolno lijepa, sa tim svojim nogama, sisama, više slična spomeniku nego ženi. S osmijehom koji sam skoro zaboravio me ljubi: "Čestitam", kaže.
"Jesam li to dobio na lotu? Ne sjećam se da sam uplatio."
"Daj, ne zajebaji. Čula sam da si se vratio u svoj stan."
Ima već dvije godine kako me je jebala (cijelu noć), a onda me zgužvala, kao lotos maramicu i bacila u smeće, jednostavno nestala iz mog života, a ja nisam prestao da mislim o njoj...
Nešto priča, a ja je ne slušam, nego u sebi ponavljam: "Daco, ne zalijeći se opet. Ne vrijedi. Opet će da boli kad se probudiš u praznom krevetu. Opet će da zjapi praznina. Izdrkaj ga - to najbolje znaš. Tako će sve ostati među nama."
Ali prokleta primisao: "Ali, možda ovaj put...", preplavljuje razum i ja je pozivam kući, na večeru: "Bio sam danas u ribarnici i vidim da imaju svježih prstaca. Šta misliš?"
* * *
Slušamo Arsena i Josipu Lisac, pijuckamo domaću lozu (kasnije ćemo preći na vino - ona ga je donijela), prstaci se krčkaju, a moja soba blista kao božićna jelka...
"Nešto si mi zamišljen", kaže ona.
"Ja?! Ti znaš da ja rijetko mislim."
A mislim:
"Ovaj put ćeš ostati. Ja ću pisati knjigu i kuhati nam svaki dan neko drugo jelo. Nećemo odgovarati na telefonske pozive, ostavićemo sebi upaljeno svjetlo po cijelu bogovjetnu noć, jutrom ćemo šetati, a zavidne oči će me pratiti: kako onakav kreten uhvati onakvu žensku?"
Prstima (a čime ćemo drugim?) jedemo prstace i zalijevamo ih bijelim vinom, oglašava se hodža, potoni crkvena zvona, a i dosadni pas iz komšiluka...
"Samo da operem ruke", kaže ona i ustaje, a ja joj ne dam, nego joj ližem prste: "Sad je u redu."
Smije se: "Ti si lud."
Ništa kraće, jezgrovitije i tačnije nije mogla reći i tu taj krhki mjehur iluzije koju sam načas gajio puca; pomalo grubo je guram u krevet...
Opaljujem najbrži metak u svom životu, ustajem i oblačim se. Ona me zapanjeno, ne shvatajući ništa (ili shvatajući sve?), pita:
"Šta nije u redu?"
"Sve je O.K. Samo moram da odem po djecu na aerodrom..."
"Nisi mi rekao ništa", počinje, ali kad vidi moj odsutni pogled, prekida i počinje se oblačiti (nema ništa ljepše od žene koja se svlači, a ništa nezgrapnije od žene koja se oblači) i na odlasku, ne gledajući me u lice, kaže:
"Nazovi me."
"Hoću", kažem. Samo kažem.

Daco Dzamonja

[dacina_curica]

JEDNA ŽENA

Na planeti Zemlji postoji vjerovatno tri milijarde žena s kojima nisam spavao, ali postoji samo jedna s kojom jesam.
Upoznali smo se na promociji knjige Muharema Serbezovskog Putevi vjetrova i Cigana u "Domu pisaca".
Ne pitajte me kad, jer je to nebitno, ali pamtim da je bilo hladno, da sam tri prethodne noći spavao u portirnici "Pozorišta mladih".
Sad sam tu, s Nerminom, dahom joj grijem ruke, a ona me zove da spavam kod nje.
Idemo taksijem na Breku (ja usput kupujem flašu konjaka), ona se skida, oblači pidžamu i liježe u krevet, a ja na pod i držim je za ruku i spavam, spavam - možda sanjam.
Budim se i čini mi se kao da je život opet normalan: čist WC, u kuhinji peć i čaj, televizija i tranzistor, polica puna knjiga u sobi, a ostalo je još i podobro konjaka; telefon mi je pri ruci, pa zovem jednu ženu u Americi, koja me je strpala osamnaest mjeseci u muriju, da pitam kako nam je kćerka...
Kćerka neće da priča s "tata Dacom", jer sam joj obećao da ću se vratiti za njen rođendan - i slagao.
"Samo sebe mučiš", kaže mi Nermina i uzima flašu ispred mene, a ja skrstim ruke i mislim kako je upravu, jer nikad u životu sebi nisam nanio ništa drugo osim patnje.
Nermina mora na posao i ostavlja mi svoju knjigu s posvetom: "Dragom Daci! Zna se ko je kome svoj, a ko kome kurac moj." (Sad se sjećam i datuma: drugi novembar 1998. godine.)
Čim se uhvatila vrata, ja se dohvatim flaše i telefona; opet zovem Ameriku, drugu ženu, koja mi je jednom rekla da jedva čeka dan kad će mi pljunuti na grob, da se čujem sa svojom drugom kćerkom...
"Kako si, sine?"
"Dobro."
"Šta radiš?"
"Ništa."
"Voliš li tatu?"
"Volim."
"Tebe tata voli najviše na svijetu."
"Znam. Zdravo, tata."
Buljim u telefonsku slušalicu i ponovo osjećam neprolaznu bol koju sam sebi nanio.
Konjak čini svoje, pa se počinju rađati mutne uspomene:
"Meni su tebe oteli", kaže mi moja majka, a ja se sjećam kako sam, nakon smrti svog oca, u njegovim papirima našao sudsko rješenje gdje stoji da me se majka odrekla.
Sjećam se pisma, koje sam pokazao Dubravku Bibanoviću, koji je tad stanovao kod mene:
"bla, bla, bla..."
Na kraju potpis imenom, a onda prekriženim:
"Voli te mama."
Sjećam se beskonačnog osmijeha svoje sestre Mirne dok me otac, s kartonskim koferom u jednoj ruci, vodi iz kuće u koju se više nikad neće vratiti: ona sjedi na prozoru i ne znajući šta se dešava maše nam ručicom, a naš otac odmahuje i lice mu se cakli od suza...
Izranja slika moje kćerke Vesne kako mi trči u zagrljaj na aerodromu u Madisonu, nakon šest mjeseci mog, da tako kažem -odsustvovanja, a odmah potom druga: aerodrom u Chicagu, moja Vesna plače:
"Mrzim tvoje Sarajevo. Ako se vratiš tamo, nikad se više nećeš vratiti meni."
Plačem, ali više ne znam plače li to konjak iz mene ili su to moje suze, pa se sjetim Sabine, Maje, Gordane...
Milica me je onomad, dvije godine nakon što smo prekinuli, pomilovala pogledom. To se pamti i to žeže. Zrinka mi je rekla:
"Slušaš li ti sebe kad pričaš?"
"Što, Zrinka?"
"Javljaš mi se nakon devetnaest godina, kažeš da dolaziš, a uopšte ne pitaš jesam li udata, s kim živim, imam li djecu..."
"Pa, jesi li, izvini?"
"Nisam."
I ostaje Zrinka da peče i da rovari po mojoj duši kao čir na želucu i nema te soda-bikarbone da ublaži bol.
Gordana je u Beogradu, nismo se ni čuli ni vidjeli godinama, ali mi moj prijatelj, Mosto, kaže da je sretne pokatkad, da pita za mene... a, ja, opet, punim čašu i sjećam se kako sam je zarazio triperom što sam fasovao od nekog "groba" iz "Sloge", a pomogla mi moja jaranica, doktorica Svjetlana, koja ju je ubijedila da je to samo teža prehlada jajnika...
Sad sjedim ispred gomile neispisanog papira, konjak se neumitno približava kraju, dogorijeva zadnja cigareta u pepeljari, a ja se samo pitam:
"Zašto?"
Odgovor si ne mogu dati, da li je sve ovako zbog toga što sam spavao samo s jednom ženom ili, možda, što je jedna žena spavala s mojim ocem...

[dacina_curica]

BRIJANJE MOZGA

Prošlo je skoro sto godina od Van Gogovog gubitka uha, a ja sam tek prije nekoliko dana saznao pravu istinu o tom događaju. Sve do tada sam mislio da je Vinsent, u jednom od svojih rijetkih napada normalnosti, odrezao sebi uho i poslao ga nekoj drolji.

E, pa nije bilo baš tako.

Odigralo se sve to kod Drage brice, uvjerava me moj prijatelj Dragan Dardić, koji već godinama počiva na požarevačkom groblju. Kako li se Vinsent zatekao baš u toj brijačnici ostaje poma­lo nejasno, ali postoje neke indicije da je mahnuo dva-tri pića u Dva ribara, da je kao i svi nesretni i usamljeni ljudi pomislio kako se nešto u njihovim životima može promijeniti jednostavnim brija­njem (ili šišanjem), da je popio još dva "zvekana", pojeo tripice i, ne plativši, zbrisao iz kafane. (Tako barem tvrdi konobar Emin.)

Ostalo mu je taman toliko para da kupi flašu konjaka i da se obrije...

Gazda Drago je bio zauzet šišanjem druge mušterije, pa je riđu bradu prepustio svom šegrtu Rami. Sve je bilo u najboljem redu dok Ramo nije britvom počeo fazonirati Van Gogove zulufe - tad ga je posjekao. Van Gog je jauknuo, a gazda je ostavio makaze i zamahnuo da Rami opali šljagu; Ramo se sagnuo, a šljaga je završila na Gogovoj glavi.

Slijedila su izvinjenja i po čaša konjaka i sve je bilo izglađeno, ali je Ramo, dotjerujući drugi zuluf ponovo recnuo mušteriju. Vrisnuo je Van Gog opet. Opet je slika bila ista - šljaga, Ramo se saginje, a Van Gog dobija opet po glavi, opet izvinjenja, opet piće...

Ramo je već poprilično bio nervozan i tom stanju, pri pokušaju da više ništa ne zajebe, trijumfalno je zamahnuo britvom i odsjekao Van Gogovo uho!

Ovaj put od Van Goga nije bilo ni mukajeta. Samo je tiho Rami rekao: "Sakrij to uho, ako gazda vidi, onda smo pravo najebali."

Možda vam ova priča zvuči suludo, ali takav je i život, pa i ja zapravo ne znam zašto sam je uopšte pričao.

Ustvari, znam. Do ruku mi je dopala knjiga (čiji naslov nije vri­jedan pominjanja) autora (čije ime pomenuti bi bilo potpuno bespotrebno) koji je uspio u nemogućem: napisao je (i objavio!?) knjigu od nekih sto i četrdeset stranica u kojoj nema nijedna suvis­la, gramatički ispravna rečenica!

Nasumce šaram pogledom i nalazim: "Ferid je bio uporan da abortira, iako je ona željela dijete." (Kako ćeš, ba, nesretni Feride htjeti abortirati kad i sam znaš da to može biti opasno u tvojim go­dinama, a i da ne govorimo da je to velik grijeh.)

"Trideset mi je godina, dopadljiva i muževna izgleda, moderno odjeven, mogu se svidjeti i mladim i starijim djevojkama, odnosno ženama." (Ovako nešto čak ni Avaz ne bi objavio u svojim Malim oglasima.)

Slijedi nebuloza o maturantkinji (pardon: maturantici) Druge gimnazije koja ima problema s matematikom, pa se boji da će joj to onemogućiti upis na Pravni fakultet (?!): "Vježbali su mate­matiku i narednih dana, ali nisu više reskirali da kod nje održavaju intimne odnose, nego su to činili kod njega kada je bio sam," (Ja sam često sam, a tada, kad "održavam intimne odnose"; to zovem - drkanje.)

Maloprije sam slagao da u cijeloj knjizi nema nijedne suvisle, gramatički ispravne rečenice - upravo sam naletio na jednu:

"Sakiba F. je bila iz Ilijaša." (Mašala!)

"Miralem Pekmezhodžić se osjećao savršeno dobro u trenutku dok se je u rano jutro naginjao nad svoju lijepu, usnulu Zinetu djevojačko Goblenović." (E, jebiga, sad mislite da ja sve ovo izmišljam, ali ću vam, uz pristojnu nadoknadu, ustupiti na čitanje -i psihijatrijsko promatranje - ovaj "rad".)

Dosta! Što je dosta – dosta je!

"Glupost je najzaraznija bolest", pisao je jedan od ideologa hipi pokreta, Jerry Rubin, pa s gađenjem ispuštam ove korice iz ruke, a onda se sjetim i rečenice Jacka Kerouaca: "Perut je prvi znak ludila", i idem pred ogledalo, prstima češljam kosu - pa, i nisam toliko lud.

Zvoni telefon:

"Je li to stan Darija Džamonje?"

"Nažalost, nije. Ali govorite s Dariom Džamonjom."

"Htjela bih..."

Pravim se da se sjećam o kakvom je dogovoru riječ, a u obri­janom mozgu se redaju slike, nabacane bez ikakvog reda: ...1979. godina, dernek u "Šetalištu", izašla mi prva knjiga, na prvoj strani me "prekrstiše" u Dano, ali, baš me briga - ja sam Pisac...

...2000. godina, klub Wigwam, Dubravko Bibanović najavljuje da će "pročitati" moj roman, a publika plješće i izmjenjuju poglede: "E, jebo me bog ludi, ko me nagovori da dođem?"

Biban (ne čita), jer ga zna napamet: "Ubiću se! Ah, neću." To je početak i kraj.

...1994. godina u Americi, roditeljski sastanak, moja kćerka, Nevena, pri predstavljanju kaže da joj je tata Pisac...

... isti dan, isto veče, njena učiteljica me pita:

"Nevena kaže da ste pisac, ali šta vi, ustvari, radite?"

... godina ova, dva sata je po ponoći, zove me kćerka i pita:

"Smijem li, tata, napisati da si ti pisac?"

"Smiješ, kako da ne smiješ, sine. Ali, nemoj."

"Pa, šta ću napisati, tata?"

"To!"

"Šta, tata?"

"To što si sad rekla. U toj rubrici "zanimanje" napiši - Tata."

"Mogu li dodati da ga volim?"

"Možeš, ako me voliš više nego ja tebe."

"E, pa, onda mogu."



* * *

Tri sata je ujutro, nema šanse da mi san poklopi oči, idem u kupatilo, prstima češljam kosu - mnogo je više peruti.

Daco

[dacina_curica]

NIČEANAC

"Rejting" u Oslobođenju mi je naglo porastao nakon što sam pao na prijemnom ispitu na Filozofskom fakultetu.
Ali, krenimo redom...
Za pismeni ispit sam imao temu Najdraža knjiga, što mi nije bio nikakav problem, jer prva knjiga koju sam pročitao, Posljednji Mohikanac, Jamesa Fenimorea Coopera, bila je i ostala moja najdraža knjiga.
Čitao sam je bezbroj puta i, na kraju, kad Unkas umire, uvijek plakao kao dijete.
Možda razlog leži i u tome što mi je tu knjigu poklonio otac kad sam krenuo u prvi razred škole.
E, usmeni je bio nešto sasvim drugo.
Šef prijemne komisije je bio onaj patuljak, ćelav kao bilijarska kugla, Šefkija Žuljević, poznat po tome što je bio jedini profesor na fakultetu koji nikad nije doktorirao: uvijek je imao neko opravdanje - te, posvađao se sa ženom i ona mu bacila doktorsku disertaciju u peć, te doktorsku disertaciju "pojela maca", te vjetar dunuo i otpuhao je kroz prozor...
Ali, kako je bio prvoborac i komunist sa velikim "K", rok za doktorat mu se prolongirao sve od rata pa naovamo.
Prva rečenica koju mi je uputio (sjedio sam u prvom redu i pitao ostale članove komisije da li je dozvoljeno pušiti, a oni su to odbili, Šefkija je, naravno, stigao sa zakašnjenjem) bila je:
"Ha! Puši se marlboro."
Ponudio sam ga cigaretom, a on se sav nakočeperio k'o horoz i s neskrivenim ponosom, baš kao da je izmislio teoriju relativiteta, kucnuvši se po prsima, rekao:
"Ovaj čovjek to nikad nije okusio."
Potom je objasnio "pravila igre": tri su pitanja - ako dam zadovoljavajuće odgovore na dva od njih - primljen sam, ako dam samo jedan dobar odgovor - komisija će odlučiti.
Kako sam se prijavio za odsjek Svjetske književnosti, logično je da sam očekivao pitanja iz tog domena, ali sam se presjekao kad mi je Šefkijica uputio pitanje:
"Moje prvo pitanje glasi: koje godine se rodio Spinoza?" Tad sam vidio da sam ga popušio, pa sam se počeo zajebavati:
"Ne znam tačnu godinu, ali pretpostavljam da je to bila neka godina poslije njegovog rođenja."
Previdio je sarkazam u mom odgovoru, opet zaklimao glavom, kobajagi, brižnim glasom pitao:
"Pa, dobro, kolega, znate li Vi išta iz filozofije?"
Kao da mi je sinuo tračak sunca, pa sam krenuo pričati o Ničeu (obično imena ne pišem fonetski, ali kad je riječ o Ničeu, tu činim izuzetak).
Na sam spomen Ničeovog imena, ćela mu se zacrvenila, skočio je sa stolice, uspravivši se u svoj svojoj - metar i žilet - visini, uperjo optužujući prst u mene, baš kao da sam Goebels: "Niče je bio fašist, ideolog Hitlerove Njemačke, rodonačelnik teorije o arijevcima..."
Učinio sam slabašan pokušaj da pojasnim da je Ničeova sestra, Elizabeta, da bi se dodvorila Hitleru, krivotvorila njegove rukopise, ali to je izazvalo još samo veći gnjev: "Sve je to propaganda", urlao je kao da je na mitingu na nekoj radnoj akciji.
Tada mi je bilo kristalno jasno da sam ga definitivno popušio, pa sam samo pokupio cigare sa stola, ustao i rekao:
"Ma, znaš šta? j... se ti", i izašao iz "sudnice".
Kod kuće me čekao djed, nervozan, a kad sam mu saopštio loše vijesti, počeo mi je držati govor...
Kako mi je već bio pun mjesec svega, obrecnuo sam se na njega: "Pa, kad je tako lako - idi ti pa položi!"
Sutradan, u redakciji Oslobođenja je zazvonio telefon, a odgovorila je Nada Salom.
"Javljaju s Filozofije da imaju najstarijeg brucoša na svijetu", a ja sam se samo uhvatio za glavu.
"Petar Džamonja - je li ti, Daco, on išta u rodu?"
"Nije. To mi je djed."
"Znaš li gdje ga možemo naći?"
Otišli smo do Kluba boraca u Kralja Tomislava ulici i zatekli ga kako kahveniše. Nada je napravila razgovor s njim, a on nije mogao da odoli da me ne ujede: "Razlog mi je bio da dokažem unuku da se može upisati fakultet."
Inače, upisao je Istoriju, što, s njegovih osamdeset i dvije godine, nije bilo iznenađujuće. Teme su bile: Punski ratovi, Bosna pod okupacijom Austrougarske i Odluke AVNOJ-a.
Stara konjina nije znala da može odabrati samo jednu temu, pa je napisao sve tri: "Uvijek me je interesovala istorija Rimskog carstva, pod Austrougarskom sam živio, a odluke AVNOJ-a - e, za to sam se trebao malo spremiti."
Na kraju razgovora, Nada je pitala:
"Imate li Vi šta poručiti nama mladim?"
On se, kao, malo premišljao:
"Pa, ne znam, ja ću sada popiti jednu rakijicu, a vi šta hoćete."
Umro je 1977. godine, ne završivši fakultet.
Ja sam ostao "ničeanac" i još više se slažem s njim da je "Bog mrtav".
Čak bih ga i nadogradio, jer ja znam kad i gdje je "umro".
U toku rata, u Bosni.

Dario Dzamonja

[dacina_curica]

ŽIVOT I POEZIJA (I OBRATNO)

"Pročitao sam sve knjige iz gradske biblioteke, sve znam, a niko me ne voli", pisao je davno moj prijatelj iz Novog Sada, Branko Andrić Andrla.
Nešto slično se i meni dešava: protabirio sam cijelu biblioteku u Dodgevillu (što i nije neka pljačka), pročitao sve Ludlume, Sheldone, Crichtone i ostala visokotiražna sranja, pa mi se sada, dok sjedim za kompjuterom u Univerzitetskoj biblioteci u Madisonu, čini kao da sam otkrio Eldorado.
Bezbeli, nisam mogao odoljeti sujeti, pa u kompjuter ukucavam svoje ime: ima u katalogu DŽAMONJA, ali Dušan - mene ni na mapi.

Kad sam već tu, da provjerim: od naše raje nalazim Nedžada Ibrišimovića (Ugursuz) i Avdu Sidrana (Sarajevska zbirka).
Ali, nisam došao tim poslom. Večeras imam nastup u Luteranskoj crkvi, pa mi valja nešto pročitati, a već mi je navrh glave da čitam jednu te istu priču, koju sam objavio u Americi, a i rat je već minuo, nestao sa teve ekrana i naslovnih stranica novina, što za Amerikance znači kao da ga nikad nije ni bilo, pa ja više
nisam interesantni "primjerak" iz Bosne, nego (ono što i jesam) kuhar Kod prljave kašike, kako posprdno zovu restoran u kojem radim. (S pravom, mogu reći.)

Iako bih večeras mogao klapiti i koji dinar, ja ipak rizikujem i tražim jednu pjesmu Jiržija Šotole, koja potpuno oslikava stanje u kojem se nalazim, a plus, vežu me za nju neke prelijepe i pretamne uspomene.
"Ja sad idem van" je pjesma koju je moj buraz Nedžad maestralno recitovao ili, bolje reći, glumio: tako i te ljetne noći, godine sedamdeset i neke, u bašti Istre...
Milica je pretrnula od straha i privila se uz mene, a kad je završio, odahnula s olakšanjem.
Nedžad je tad rekao: "Ja znam da muško i žensko nije jedno za drugo, ali znam da ste vas dvoje jedno za drugo", a ja sam čekao da se smrači (ne mogu si dozvoliti da Milicu izgubim već na prvom sastanku, a što bi se neminovno desilo kad bi ugledala moj stan pri dnevnom svjetlu), pa da idem s Milicom svojoj kući.
Pri svjetlosti svijeća, uz postere Beatlesa, Joea Cockera, mapu srednjovjekovne Bosne (koju ću par godina kasnije Nedžadu donijeti "na naselje") na zidovima, kad se prljave čarape zgurane ispod kreveta ne vide u mraku, a razbacane flaše i prepune pepeljare ne ostavljaju dojam "prljavštine",
nego "ležernosti", može mi proći fol.
Deset godina kasnije, kad smo Milica i ja sjedili u Kvarnera - sada kao prijatelji - ona mi je rekla:
"Jesi ti, moj Bože, Daco, glup!"
"Što sad to?"
"Sjećaš li se kako si me folirao da nemaš struje u stanu zato što nisi platio?"
"Ja, pa šta?"
"Prva stvar koju si uradio bila je da upališ svijeće, a onda uključiš
gramofon."
Izgleda da sam zaista glup, jer još ne kontam fol:
"Sjećam se, pa šta?"
"Jesi li to, sreće ti, u to doba imao gramofon koji radi na naftu?"

Specijalno je ovo veče i iz razloga što će moja kćerka Nevena prvi put vidjeti svoju, tek rođenu, sestru Vesnu, a ja ću, znam, bar kratko, sijati od sreće, osjećajući se kao normalan otac...
Engleski prevod je prilično dobar, pa ja, kad me pastor Brent predstavi, počinjem: "Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se tek ujutro." (Pokušavam da "skinem" Nedžada i to mi, izgleda, polazi za rukom, jer se seljačka publika, u nelagodi, meškolji na stolicama.)
"Bit ću vani, ne čekaj me, idi spavati, ondje ću sjediti i čučati i doći ću pijan."
Mojoj menopauznoj ženi, Amerikanki, već je neprijatno, a kad nastavljam:
"Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se možda tek za godinu, šta tako gledaš u mene?", počinje da je hvata lagana panika.
Ali, dear Janette, još nije vrijeme za paničenje - još toga ima da se naslušaš:
"Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se možda tek za trista godina, pa zar je to neko vrijeme?"
"Past ću ti na prozor u spodobi jednog besprizornog, razrokog fotona. Posadit ću se u obliku prašine, spale nekome s cipela, na prag tvojih vrata."
(Nevena hrani bočicom Vesnu i uživa u svojoj ulozi "velike sestre", a ja se bavim mišlju da prekinem ovu farsu, da kažem da to nije pjesma koju sam ja napisao, da je ovo samo moj pasjaluk, kojeg se stidim...)
Ali, da nisam pašče, kao što jesam, ne bih nastavio: "A ti onda ne budi zla i pusti me k sebi. Ne pravi mi scene. Ljubavnike ćemo pokupiti u pokrivač i izbaciti kroz prozor."
(U ovom trenutku bi Amerikanka najradije zbrisala iz crkve - sve su sad oči uprte prema njoj.)
"I ostavit ćemo sebi svjetlo. Ta pusti me k sebi."
(Ona sad vadi maramicu iz torbice i briše oči, a ja se kajem što sam ovo započeo...)
Svejedno, u najboljem Nedžadovom maniru, završavam:
"Ta pusti me već k sebi, pa pusti me već, zašto ti to toliko traje, to je nekoliko trenutaka, ta to je grozno dugo, pa ja ću usahnuti, umrijeti od žalosti, ta molim te ipak otvori, il ću ti ta vrata razvaliti, kožu ću ti izgrepsti, oči ću ti iskopati..." (Pastor već razmišlja o tome da pozove policiju.)
Anđeosko lice moje kćerke Nevene sija dok joj njena sestra spava u naručju, a ja dodajem: "Ljubavi moja", na olakšanje publike, pastora i moje žene...
Široko se osmjehujem dok primam čestitke i "milotvore" i znam da je ovo bila dobro odglumljena poezija... ali život, život?

DARIO DZAMONJA

i pjesmica u cjelini

JA SAD IDEM VAN

Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se tek ujutro.

Bit ću vani, ne čekaj me, idi spavati, ondje ću sjediti i čučati i doći ću pijan.

Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se možda tek za godinu, šta tako gledaš u mene?",

Ja sad idem van i vratit ću se možda tek za tristo godina, pa zar je to neko vrijeme?

Past ću ti na prozor u spodobi jednog bezprizornog razrokog fotona.
Posadit ću se u obliku prašine, spale nelome s cipela, na prag tvojih vrata.

A ti onda ne budi zla i pusti me k sebi.
Ne pravi mi scene.
Ljubavnike ćemo pokupiti u pokrivač i izbaciti kroz prozor.

I ostavit ćemo sebi svjetlo.Ma pusti me k sebi.

Ma pusti me već k sebi, pa pusti me već,zašto ti to toliko traje,
to je nekoliko trenutaka, ma to je grozno dugo,
pa ja ću tu usahnuti, umrijeti, umrijeti od žalosti,
ma molim te ipak otvori il' ću ti ta vrata razvaliti,
kožu ću ti izgrebsti, oči ću ti iskopati

ljubavi moja

Jíři Šotola

[dacina_curica]

iseznojsacela:

[Heidi]

"samoca je stvar ponosa: osamljenik se na veoma nadmen nacin utapa u vlastitom mirisu" (snijeg)

[dacina_curica]

Orhan (mada mene redovno uspava, kakva tableta )

Nego, sretan rodjendan cika Zuki

[dacina_curica]

THE NOBLE TRUTHS OF SUFFERING

The uniformed jaran did not acknowledge that I was speaking Bosnian to him. Silently, he checked my invitation, then compared the picture in my American passport with my sullen local face and seemed to think it matched reasonably well. His head somehow resembled an armchair—with its deep-set forehead, armrest-like ears, and jutting jaw-seat—and I could not stop staring at it. He handed back my passport with the invitation tucked inside it and said, “Good evening to you.”

The American Ambassador’s house was a huge, ugly, new thing, built high up in the hills by a Bosnian tycoon who’d abruptly decided that he needed even more space and, without having spent a day in it, rented it to His American Excellency. There was still some work to be done: the narrow concrete path zigzagged meaninglessly through a veritable mud field; the bottom left corner of the façade was unpainted, and it looked like a recently scabbed-over wound. Farther up the hill, one could see yellow lace threading the fringes of the woods, marking a wilderness thick with mines.

Inside, however, all was asparkle. The walls were a dazzling white; the stairs squeaked with untroddenness. On the first landing, there was a stand with a large bronze eagle, its wings frozen mid-flap over a hapless, writhing snake. At the top of the stairs, in a spiffy suit a size too big, stood Jonah, the cultural attaché. I had once misaddressed him as Johnny and had been pretending it was a joke ever since. “Johnnyboy,” I said. “How goes it?” He shook my hand wholeheartedly and claimed to be extremely happy to see me. Maybe he was —who am I to say?

I snatched a glass of beer and a flute of champagne from a tray-carrying mope whose Bosnianness was unquestionably indicated by a crest of hair looming over his forehead. I swallowed the beer and washed it down with champagne before entering the already crowded mingle room. I tracked down another tray holder, who, despite his mustached leathery face, looked vaguely familiar, as though he were someone who had bullied me in high school. Then, assuming a corner position, cougarlike, I monitored the gathering. There were various Bosnian TV personalities, recognizable by their Italian spectacles and their telegenic abundance of frowns and smirks. The writers at the party could be identified by the incoherence bubbling up on their stained-tie surfaces. I spotted the Minister of Culture, who resembled a mangy panda bear. Each of his fingers was individually bandaged, and he held his flute like a votive candle. A throng of Armani-clad businessmen surrounded some pretty, young interpreters, while the large head of a famous retired basketball player hovered above them, like a full moon. I spotted the Ambassador—a stout, prim Republican, with a puckered-asshole mouth—talking to a man I assumed was Macalister.

The possible Macalister was wearing a purple velvet jacket over a Hawaiian shirt. His jeans were worn and bulging mid-leg, as though he spent his days kneeling. He wore Birkenstocks with white socks. Everything on him looked hand-me-down. He was in his fifties but had a head of Bakelite-black hair that seemed as if it had been mounted on his head decades ago and had not changed shape since. Without expressing any identifiable emotion, he was listening to the Ambassador, who was rocking back and forth on his heels, pursing his lips, and slowly expelling a thought. Macalister was drinking water; his glass tilted slightly in his hand, so that the water repeatedly lapped against the brim of the glass, to the exact rhythm of the Ambassador’s rocking. I had finished my second beer and champagne and was considering refuelling, when the Ambassador bellowed “May I have your attention please!” and the din died down and the crowd around the Ambassador and Macalister moved aside.

“It is my great pleasure and privilege,” the Ambassador vociferated, “to welcome Dick Macalister, our great writer and—based on the little time I have spent talking to him—an even greater guy.”

We all applauded obediently. Macalister was looking down at his empty glass. He moved it from hand to hand, then slipped it into his pocket.

Some weeks before, I had received an invitation from the United States Ambassador to Bosnia-Herzegovina, His Excellency Eliot Auslander, to join him in honoring Richard Macalister, a Pulitzer Prize winner and acclaimed author. The invitation had been sent to my Sarajevo address only a week or so after I had arrived. I could not figure out how the Embassy had known I was there, though I had a few elaborately paranoid ideas. It troubled me greatly that I could be located so easily, for I had come to Sarajevo for shelter. My plan was to stay at my parents’ apartment for a few months and forget about the large number of things (the war on terror, my divorce, my breakdown, everything) that had been tormenting me in Chicago. My parents were already in Sarajevo for their annual spring stay, and my sister would be joining us soon. The escape to Sarajevo was beginning to feel like a depleted déjà vu of our life before we had all emigrated. We were exactly where we had been before the war, but everything was fantastically different: we were different; the neighbors were fewer and different; the hallway smell was different; and the kindergarten we used to see from our window was now a ruin that nobody had bothered to raze.

I wasn’t going to go to the reception; I had had enough of America and Americans to last me another lousy lifetime. But my parents were so proud that the American Ambassador was willing to welcome me at his residence. The invitation, with its elaborate coat of arms and elegant cursive, recalled for them the golden years of my father’s diplomatic service, officially elevating me into the realm of respectable adults. Father offered to let me wear his suit to the reception; it still looked good, he insisted, despite its twenty years and the triangular iron burn on its lapel.

I resisted their implorations until I went to an Internet café to read up on Richard Macalister. I had heard of him, of course, but had never read any of his books. With an emaciated teen-ager to my left liquidating scores of disposable video-game civilians and a cologne-reeking gentleman to my right listlessly browsing bestiality sites, I surfed through the life and works of Dick Macalister. To cut a long story short, he was born; he lived; he wrote books; he inflicted suffering and occasionally suffered himself. In “Fall,” his most recent memoir—“a heartbreaking, clenched-jaw confession”—he owned up to wife-abusing, extended drinking binges, and spectacular breakdowns. In his novel “Depth Sickness,” I read, a loan shark shoots off his own foot on a hunting trip, then redeems his vacuous, vile life in recollection, while waiting for help or death, both of which arrive at approximately the same time. I skimmed the reviews of the short-story collections (one of which was called “Suchness”) and spent some time reading about “Nothing We Say,” “Macalister’s masterpiece” and the winner of a Pulitzer Prize for fiction. The novel was about “a Vietnam vet who did everything he could to get out of the war, but cannot get the war out of himself.” Everybody was crazy about it. “It is hard not to be humbled by the honest brutality of Macalister’s tortured heroes,” one reviewer wrote. “These men speak little not because they have nothing to say but because the last remnants of decency in their dying hearts compel them to protect others from what they could say.”

It all sounded O.K. to me, but nothing to write home about. I found a Macalister fan site, where there was a selection of quotes from his works, accompanied by page upon page of trivial exegesis. Some of the quotes were rather nice, though, and I copied them down:

Before Nam, Cupper was burdened with the pointless enthusiasm of youth.

“The best remedy for the stormy sky is a curtain,” he said.

On the other side of the vast, milky windowpane sauntered a crew of basketball players, their shadows like a caravan passing along the horizon.

Cupper had originally set out to save the world, but now he knew it was not worth it.

One of these days the thick chitin of the world will break open and shit and sorrow will pour out and drown us all. Nothing we say can prevent that.

I liked that one. The thick chitin of the world—that was pretty good.

We all drank to Macalister’s health and success, whereupon he was beset by a swarm of suckups. I stepped out to the balcony, where the smokers were forced to congregate. I pretended that I was looking for someone, stretching my neck, squinting, but whoever I was looking for did not seem to be there. When I went back in, Macalister was talking to a woman with long auburn hair, her fingers lasciviously curled around a champagne flute. The woman was Bosnian—you could tell by her meaty carmine lips and the cluster of tarnished silver necklaces struggling to sink into her bosom; for all I knew I might have had a hopeless crush on her in high school. She somehow managed to smile and laugh at the same time, her brilliant teeth an annotation to her laughter, her hair merrily flitting around. Macalister was burning to fuck her—I could tell from the way he leaned into her, his snout nearly touching her hair. It was jealousy, to be perfectly honest, that made me overcome my stagefright the moment the laughing woman was distracted by an Embassy flunky. As she turned away from Macalister, I wedged myself between the two of them.

“So what brings you to Sarajevo?” I asked. He was shorter than me; I could smell his hairiness, a furry, feral smell. His water glass was in his hand again, still empty.

“I go places,” he said, “because there are places to go.”

He had the sharp-edged nose of an ascetic. Every now and then, the muscles at the base of his jaw tightened. He kept glancing at the woman behind me, who was laughing yet again.

“I’m on a State Department tour,” he added, thereby ruining the purity of his witticism. “And on assignment for a magazine.”

“So how do you like Sarajevo?”

“Haven’t seen much of it yet, but it reminds me of Beirut.”

What about the Gazihusrevbegova fountain, whose water tastes like no other in the world? What about the minarets all lighting up simultaneously at sunset during Ramadan? Or the snow falling slowly, each flake descending patiently, individually, as if abseiling down some obscure silky thread? What about the morning clatter of wooden shutters in Bascarsija, when all the old stores open at the same time and the streets smell of thick-foamed coffee? The chitin of the world is still hardening here, buddy.

I get emotional when inebriated. I said none of the above, however. Instead, I said, “I’ve never been to Beirut.”

Macalister glanced at the woman behind me, flashing a helpless smile. The woman laughed liltingly; glasses clinked; the good life was elsewhere.

“I could show you some things in Sarajevo, things no tourist would see.”

“Sure,” Macalister said without conviction. I introduced myself and proceeded to deliver the usual well-rehearsed story of my displacement and my writing career, nudging him toward declaring whether or not he had read my work. He nodded and smiled. “Will you excuse me?” he said and left me for the redhead. Her hair was dyed, anyway.

I kept relieving tray carriers of their loads. I talked to the basketball player, looking up at him until my neck hurt, inquiring unremittingly about the shot he had missed a couple of decades ago, the shot that had deprived his team of the national title and, I let him know, commenced the general decline of Sarajevo. I cornered the Minister of Culture in order to find out what had happened to his fingers. His wife’s dress had caught fire in the kitchen and he’d had to strip it off her. I giggled. She had ended up with second-degree burns, he said. At some point, I tracked down my friend Johnny to impart to him that you can’t work for the U.S. government unless you are a certified asshole, at which he grinned and said, “I could get you a job tomorrow,” which I thought was not unfunny. Before I exited, I bid goodbye to Eliot Auslander by slapping him on the back and startling him, and then turned that fucking eagle to face the wall, the unfortunate consequence of which was that the snake was now hopelessly cornered. Best of luck, little reptile.

The air outside was adrizzle. The Ambassador’s house was way the fuck up the hill, and you had to go downhill to get anywhere. The flunkies were summoning cabs, but I wanted to air my head out, so down I went. The street was narrow, with no sidewalks, the upper floors of ancient houses leaning out over the pavement. Through a street-level window, I saw a whole family sitting on a sofa, watching the weather forecast on TV, the sun wedged, like a coin, into a cloud floating over the map of Bosnia. I passed a peaceful police station and a freshly dead pigeon. A torn, faded poster on a condemned house announced a new CD by a bulbous half-naked singer, who, rumor had it, was fucking both the Prime Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister. I turned a corner and saw, far ahead, Macalister and the redhead strolling toward the vanishing point, his hand pressing gently against the small of her back to guide her around potholes and puddles.

I was giddy, scurrying to catch up, trying to think of funny things to say to them, never quite managing it. And I was drunk, slipping on the wet pavement and in need of company. Once I reached them, I just assumed their pace and walked along as straight as I could, saying nothing, which was somehow supposed to be funny, too. Macalister uttered an unenthusiastic “Hey, you’re O.K.?” and the woman said, “Dobro vece,” with a hesitation in her voice that suggested that I was interrupting something delectable and delicate. I just kept walking, skidding and stumbling, but in control, I was in control, I was.

“Anyway,” Macalister said. “There is blowing of the air, but there is no wind that does the blowing.”

“What wind?” I said. “There’s no wind.”

“There is a path to walk on, there is walking being done, but there is no walker.”

“That is very beautiful,” the woman said, smiling. She exuded a nebula of mirth. All her consonants were as soft as the underside of a kitten paw.

“There are deeds being done, but there is no doer,” Macalister went on.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. The toes of his white socks were caked with filth now.

“Malo je on puk’o,” I said to the woman.

“Nije, bas lijepo zbori,” she said. “It is poetry.”

“It’s from a Buddhist text,” he said.

“It is beautiful,” the woman said.

“There is drizzle and there is shit to be rained on, but there is no sky,” I said.

“That could work, too,” Macalister said.

The drizzle made the city look begrimed. Glistening umbrellas cascaded downhill toward the scarce traffic flow of Titova Street.

“You’re O.K., Macalister,” I said. “You’re a good guy. You’re not an asshole.”

“Why, thank you,” Macalister said. “I’m glad I’ve been vetted.”

We reached the bottom of Dalmatinska and stopped. Had I not been there, Macalister might have suggested to the woman that they spend some more time together, perhaps in his hotel room, perhaps attached at the groin. But I was there, and I wasn’t leaving, and there was an awkward silence as they waited for me to at least step away so that they could exchange some poignant parting words. I broke the silence and suggested that we all go out for a drink. Macalister looked straight into her eyes and said, “Yeah, let’s go out for a drink,” his gaze doubtless conveying that they could ditch me quickly and continue their contemplation of Buddhism and groin attachment. But the woman said no, she was tired, she had to go to work early, sorry. She shook my hand limply and gave him a hug, pressing her sizable chest against his. I did not even know her name. Macalister watched her wistfully as she hurried to catch an approaching streetcar.

“Let’s have a drink,” I said. “You’ve got nothing else to do, anyway, now that she’s gone.”

Honestly, I would have punched me in the face, or at least hurled some hurtful insults my way, but Macalister not only did not do this—he did not express any hostility whatsoever and agreed to come along for a drink. It must have been his Buddhist thing.

We headed toward Bascarsija. I pointed out to him the Eternal Flame, which was supposed to be burning for the anti-Fascist liberators of Sarajevo, but happened to be out at the moment; then, farther down Ferhadija, we stopped at the site of the 1992 breadline massacre, where there was a heap of wilted flowers; then we passed the Writers’ Park, where busts of important Bosnian writers were hidden behind stalls offering pirated DVDs. We passed the cathedral, then Egipat, where they made the best ice cream in the world, then the Gazihusrevbegova mosque and the fountain. I told him about the song that said that once you drank the water from Bascarsija you would never forget Sarajevo. We drank the water; he lapped some out of the palm of his hand, the water splattering his white socks.

“I love your white socks, Macalister,” I said. “When you take them off, don’t throw them away. Give them to me. I’ll keep them as a relic, smell them for good luck whenever I write.”

“I never take them off,” he said. “This is my only pair.”

For a moment, I considered the possibility that he was serious, for his delivery was deadpan. He seemed to be looking out at me and the city from an interior space that no human had access to. I didn’t know exactly where we were going, but he didn’t complain or ask questions. I confess: I wanted him to be in awe of Sarajevo, of me, of what we meant in the world; I wanted to break through his chitin.

But I was hungry and I needed a drink or two, so instead of wandering all night we ended up in a smoky basement restaurant, whose owner, Faruk, was a war hero—there was a shoulder missile launcher hanging high up on the brick wall, and pictures of uniformed men below it. I knew Faruk pretty well, because he had once dated my sister. He greeted us, held open the rope curtain leading into the dining room, and took us to our table, beside a glass case displaying a shiny black gun and a holster.

“Ko ti je to?” Faruk asked as we were sitting down.

“Pisac. Amerikanac. Dobio Pulitzera,” I said.

“Pulitzer je dosta jak,” Faruk said and offered his hand to Macalister, saying, “Congratulations.”

Macalister thanked him, but when Faruk walked away he noted the preponderance of weapons.

“Weapons schmeapons,” I said. “The war is over. Don’t worry about it.”

I ordered a trainload of food—all variations on overcooked meat and fried dough—and a bottle of wine, without asking Macalister what he would like. He was a vegetarian and didn’t drink, he said impassively, merely stating a fact.

“So you’re a Buddhist or something?” I said. “You don’t step on ants and roaches? You don’t swallow midges and such?”

He smiled. I had known Macalister for only a few hours, but I already knew that he did not get angry. How can you write a book—how can you write a single God-damned sentence—without getting angry? I wondered. How do you even wake up in the morning without getting angry? I get angry in my dreams, wake up furious. He merely shrugged at my questions. I drank more wine and then more and whatever coherence I may have regained on our walk was quickly gone. I showered him with questions. Had he served in Vietnam? How much of his fiction was autobiographical? Was Cupper his alter ego? Was it over there that he had become a Buddhist? What was it like to get a Pulitzer? Did he ever have a feeling that this was all shit, this—America, humankind, writing, everything? And what did he think of Sarajevo? Did he like it? Could he see how beautiful it had been before it became this cesspool of insignificant suffering?

Macalister talked to me, angerlessly. Occasionally, I had a hard time following him, not least because Faruk had sent over another bottle, allegedly his best wine. Macalister had been in Vietnam; he had experienced nothing ennobling there. He was not Buddhist; he was Buddhistish. And the Pulitzer had made him vainglorious—“vainglorious” was the word he used—and now he was a bit ashamed of it all; any serious writer ought to be humiliated and humbled by fame. When he was young, like me, he said, he had thought that all the great writers knew something he didn’t. He’d thought that if he read their books he would learn something, get better. He’d thought that he would acquire what those writers had: the wisdom, the truth, the wholeness, the real shit. He had been burning to write, hungry for that knowledge. But now he knew that that hunger was vainglorious; now he knew that writers knew nothing, really—most of them were just faking it. He knew nothing. There was nothing to know, nothing on the other side. There was no walker, no path, just walking. This was it, whoever you were, wherever you were, whatever it was, and you had to make peace with that fact.

“This?” I asked. “What is this?”

“This. Everything.”

“Fuck me.”

He talked more and more as I sank into oblivion, slurring the few words of concession and agreement and fascination I could produce. As drunk as I was, it was clear to me that his sudden, sincere verbosity was due to his sense that our encounter was a fleeting one. He even helped me totter up the stairs as we were leaving the restaurant and flagged down a cab for me. But I would not get into it, no, sir, not before I had convinced him that I was going to read all his books, all of them, everything he had written, hack magazine jobs, blurbs, everything, and when he finally believed me I made him swear that he would come over to my place and have lunch at my home with me and my parents, because he was family now, he was an honorary Sarajevan, and I made him write down our phone number and promise that he would call, tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I would have made him promise some other things, but the street washers were approaching with their blasting hoses and the cabdriver honked impatiently and I had to go and off I went, drunk and high on having bonded with one of the greatest writers of our embarrassing, shit-ass time. By the time I got home I was sure I would never see him again.

But he called, ladies and gentlemen of the prestigious literary-prize committees, to his eternal credit he kept his promise and called the very next morning, as I was staring at the ceiling, my eyeballs bobbing on the scum of a hangover pond. It was not even ten o’clock, for Buddha’s sake, yet Mother walked into my room, bent over the mattress to enter my painful field of vision, and handed me the phone without a word. When he said, “It’s Dick,” I frankly did not know what he was talking about. “Dick Macalister,” he said. It took me a moment to remember who he was.

“So what time should I come over?” he asked.

“Come over where?”

“Come over for lunch.”

Let me skip all the ums and ahs and all the words I fumbled as I struggled to reassemble my thinking apparatus, until I finally and arbitrarily selected the three-o’clock hour as our lunch time. There was no negotiation. Richard Macalister was coming to eat my mother’s food. I spelled out our address for him so that he could give it to a cabbie, warned him against paying more than ten convertible marks, and told him that the building was right behind the kindergarten ruin. I hung up the phone; Dick Macalister was coming.

In my pajamas, I stood exposed to the glare of my parents’ morning judgment (they did not like it when I drank) and, aided by a handful of aspirin, informed them that Richard Macalister, an august American author, the winner of a Pulitzer Prize, an abstemious vegetarian and serious candidate for full-time Buddhist, was coming over for lunch at three o’clock. After a moment of silent discombobulation, my mother reminded me that our regular lunch time was one-thirty. But when I shrugged to indicate helplessness, she sighed and went to inspect the supplies in the fridge and the icebox. Presently she started issuing deployment orders: my father was to go to the produce market with a list, right now; I was going to brush my teeth and, before coffee or breakfast, hurry to the supermarket to buy bread and kefir, or whatever it was that vegetarians drank, and, also, vacuum-cleaner bags; she was going to start preparing pie dough. By the time she was clearing off the table where she would roll out the dough, my headache and apprehension were gone. Let the American come. We were going to be ready for him.

Macalister arrived wearing the same clothes as the previous night—the velvet jacket, the Hawaiian shirt—in combination with a pair of snakeskin boots. My parents made him take them off. He did not complain or try to get out of it, even as I unsuccessfully tried to arrange a dispensation for him. “It is normal custom,” Father said. “Bosnian custom.” Sitting on a low shaky stool, Macalister grappled with his boots, bending his ankles to the point of fracture. Finally, he exposed a new pair of blazingly white tube socks and lined up his boots against the wall, like a good soldier. Our apartment was small, Socialist size, but Father told him which way to go as though the dining room were at the far horizon and he would have to hurry to get there before night set in.

Macalister followed his directions with a benevolent smile, possibly amused by my father’s histrionics. Our dining room was also a living room and a TV room, and Father seated Macalister in the chair at the dining table that faced the television set. This was the seat that had always been contentious in my family, for the person sitting there could watch television while eating, but I don’t think Macalister recognized the honor bestowed upon him. CNN was on, but the sound was off. Our guest sat down and tucked his feet under the chair, curling up his toes.

“Drink?” Father said. “Viski? Loza?”

“No whiskey,” Macalister said. “What is loza?”

“Loza is special drink,” Father said. “Domestic.”

“It’s grappa,” I explained.

“No, thanks. Water is just fine.”

“Water. What water? Water is for animals,” Father said.

“I’m an alcoholic,” Macalister said. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“One drink. For appetite,” Father said, opening the bottle of loza and pouring it into a shot glass. He put the glass in front of Macalister. “It is medicine, good for you.”

“I’ll take that,” I said and snatched it away before Macalister’s benevolence evaporated. I needed it, anyway.

My mother brought in a vast platter of smoked meat and sheep cheese perfectly arrayed, toothpicks sticking out like little flagpoles. Then she returned to the kitchen to fetch another couple of plates lined with pieces of spinach and potato pie, the crust so crisp as to look positively chitinous.

“No meat,” Mother said. “Vegetation.”

“Vegetarian,” I corrected her.

“No meat,” she said.

“Thank you,” Macalister said.

“You have little meat,” Father said, swallowing a slice. “Not going to kill you.”

Then came a basket of fragrant bread and a deep bowl brimming with mixed-vegetable salad.

“Wow,” Macalister said.

“That’s nowhere near the whole thing,” I said. “You’ll have to eat until you explode.”

On the soundless TV, there were images from Baghdad. Two men were carrying a corpse with a steak-tartare-like mess instead of a face. American soldiers in bulletproof gear had their rifles pointed at a ramshackle door. A clean-shaven, suntanned general stated something that was inaudible to us. From his seat, Father glanced sideways at the screen, still chomping on the smoked meat. He turned toward Macalister, pointed a bladelike hand at his chest, and asked, “Do you like Bush?” Macalister looked at me—the same fucking bemused smile stuck on his face—to determine whether this was a joke. I shook my head: alas, it was not. I had not expected Macalister’s visit to turn into such a complete disaster so quickly.

“Tata, nemoj,” I said. “Pusti covjeka.”

“I think Bush is a gaping asshole,” Macalister said, unfazed. “But I like America and I like democracy. People are entitled to their mistakes.”

“Stupid American people,” Father said and put another slice of meat in his mouth.

Macalister laughed, for the first time since I’d met him. He slanted his head to the side and let out a deep, chesty growl of a laugh. In shame, I looked around the room, as though I had never seen it. The souvenirs from our years in Africa: the fake-ebony figurines, the screechingly colorful wicker bowls, a malachite ashtray containing entangled paper clips and Mother’s amber pendants. A lace handiwork whose delicate patterns were violated by prewar coffee stains. The carpet with an angular horse pattern. All these familiar things had survived the war and displacement. I had grown up in this apartment, and now it seemed old, coarse, and anguished.

Father continued his interrogation relentlessly: “You win Pulitzer Prize?”

“Yes, sir,” Macalister said. I admired him for putting up with it.

“You wrote good book,” Father said. “You hard worked.”

Macalister smiled and looked down at his hand. He was embarrassed, perfectly devoid of vainglory. He straightened out his toes and then curled them even deeper inward.

“Tata, nemoj,” I pleaded.

“Pulitzer Prize big prize,” Father said. “You are rich?”

Abruptly, it dawned on me what he was doing—he used to interrogate my girlfriends this way, to ascertain whether they were good for me. He wanted to make sure that I was making the right decisions, that I was going in the right direction.

“No, I’m not rich. Not at all,” Macalister said. “But I manage.”

“Why?”

“Tata!”

“Why what?”

“Why you are not rich?”

Macalister gave another generous laugh, but before he could answer, Mother walked in carrying the main dish: a roasted leg of lamb and a crowd of potato halves drowning in fat.

“Mama!” I cried. “Pa rek’o sam ti da je vegetarijanac.”

“Nemoj da vices. On moze krompira.”

“That’s O.K.,” Macalister said, as though he understood. “I’ll just have some potatoes.”

Mother grabbed his empty plate and put four large potatoes on it, followed by a few pieces of pie and some salad and bread, until the plate was heaping with food, all of it soaked in the lamb fat that came with the potatoes. I was on the verge of tears; it seemed that insult upon insult had been launched at our guest. But Macalister did not object or try to stop her—he succumbed to us, to who we were.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said.

I poured another shot of loza for myself, then went to the kitchen to get some beer. “Dosta si pio,” Mother said, but I ignored her.

My father cut the meat, then sloshed the thick, juicy slices in the fat before depositing them on our respective plates. Macalister politely waited for everyone to start eating, then began chipping away at the pile before him. The food on Father’s plate was neatly organized into taste units: the meat and potatoes on one side, the mixed salad on the other, the pie at the top. He proceeded to exterminate it, morsel by morsel, not uttering a word, not putting down his fork and knife for a moment, only glancing up at the TV screen now and then. We ate in silence, as though the meal were a job we had to get done, thoroughly and quickly.

Macalister held his fork in his right hand, chewing slowly. I was mortified imagining what this—this meal, this apartment, this family—looked like to him, what he made of our small, crowded existence, of our unsophisticated fare designed for famished people, of the loss that flickered in everything we did or didn’t do. This home was the museum of our lives, and it was no Louvre, let me tell you. I was awaiting his judgment, expecting condescension at best, contempt at worst. I was ready to hate him. But he munched his allotment slowly, uninterestedly, restoring his benevolent half smile after every bite.

He liked the coffee; he loved the banana cake. He washed down each forkful with a sip from his demitasse; he actually grunted with pleasure. “I am so full I will never eat again,” he said. “You’re an excellent cook, Ma’am. Thank you very much.”

“It is good food, natural, no American food, no cheeseburger,” Mother said.

“I will ask you question,” Father said. “You must tell truth.”

“Don’t answer,” I said. “You don’t have to answer.”

Macalister must have thought I was joking, for he said, “Shoot.”

“My son is writer, you are writer. You are good, you win Pulitzer.”

I knew exactly what was coming. “Nemoj, Tata,” I begged, but he was unrelenting.

“Tell me, is he good? Be objective,” Father said, pronouncing “objective” as “obyective.”

Mother was looking at Macalister expectantly. I poured myself another drink.

“It takes a while to become a good writer,” Macalister said. “I think he’s well on his way.”

“He always like to read,” Mother said.

“Everything else, lazy,” Father said. “But always read books.”

“When he was young man, he always wrote poesy. Sometimes I find his poems, and I cry,” Mother said.

“I’m sure he was talented,” Macalister said. Perhaps he had, in fact, read something I wrote. I must have been drunk, for I was holding back tears.

“Do you have children?” Mother asked him.

“No,” Macalister said. “Actually, yes. A son. He lives with his mother in Hawaii. I am not a good father.”

“It is not easy,” my father said. “Always worry.”

“No,” Macalister said. “I would never say it’s easy.”

Mother reached across the table for my hand, tugged it to her lips, and kissed it warmly. At which point I stood up and left the room.

He had drunk water from Bascarsija, but he had no trouble forgetting Sarajevo. Not even a postcard did he send us; once he was gone from our lives, he was gone for good. For a while, every time I talked to my father on the phone he asked me if I had spoken with my friend Macalister. Invariably, I had to explain that we never had been and never would be friends. “Americans are cold,” Mother diagnosed the predicament.

I did go to see him when he came to Chicago to read at the library. I sat in the back row, far from the stage, well beyond the reach of his gaze. He wore the same Birkenstocks and white socks, but the shirt was flannel now, and there were blotches of gray in his Bakelite hair. Time does nothing but hand you down shabbier things.

He read from “Nothing We Say,” a passage in which Cupper flips out in a mall, tears a public phone off the wall, then beats the security guard unconscious with the receiver, until he finds himself surrounded by police aiming guns at him:

The feral eyes beyond the cocked guns glared at Cupper. His hand was suspended midair over the security guard, the blood-washed receiver poised to break the man’s face completely open. The security guard whimpered and gurgled up a couple of pink bubbles. The cops were screaming at him, but Cupper could hear nothing—they opened and closed their mouths like dying fish. He recognized that they were burning to shoot him, and it was their zeal that made him want to live. He wanted to keep bothering them with his existence. He straightened up, dropped the receiver, pressed his hands against the nape of his neck. The first kick rolled him onto his side. The second broke his ribs. The third made him groan with pleasure.

Macalister lowered his voice to make it sound hoarse and smoky; he kept lowering it as the level of violence increased. Somebody gasped; the woman next to me leaned forward and put her bejewelled hand to her mouth in a delicate gesture of horror. I didn’t, of course, wait in line so that he could sign my book; I didn’t have “Nothing We Say” with me. But I watched him as he looked up at his enthralled readers, pressing his book to their chests like a found child, as they leaned over the table to get closer to him. He smiled at them steadfastly, unflinchingly.

I was convinced that I had receded into worldly irrelevance for him; I had no access to the Buddhistish realms in which he operated with cold metaphysical disinterest. But I followed his work avidly; you could say I became dedicated. I read and reread “Nothing We Say” and all his old books; on his Web site I signed up for updates on his readings and publications; I collected magazines that published his interviews. I felt I had some intimate knowledge of him, and I was hoping to detect traces of us in his writing, something that would confirm our evanescent presence in the world, much like those subatomic phenomena whose existence is proved by the short-lived presence of hypothetical particles.

Finally, his new novel, “The Noble Truths of Suffering,” came out. From the first page, I liked Tiny Walker, the typically Macalisterian main character: an ex-marine who would have been a hero in the battle of Falluja had he not been dishonorably discharged for failing to corroborate the official story of the rape of a twelve-year-old Iraqi girl and the murder of her and her entire family, an unfortunate instance of miscommunication with local civilians. Tiny returns home from Iraq to Chicago and spends time visiting his old haunts on the North Side, trying vainly to drink himself into a stupor, out of turpitude. He has nothing to say to the people he used to know; he breaks shot glasses against their foreheads. The city barked at him and he snarled back. High out of his mind, he has a vision of a snake invasion and torches his studio with everything he owns in it, which is not much. A flashback that turns into a nightmare suggests that he was the one who slit the girl’s throat. Lamia Hassan was her name. She speaks to him in unintelligibly accented English.

He wakes up on a bus to Janesville, Wisconsin. Only upon arrival does he realize that he is there to visit the family of Sergeant Briggs, the psychopathic bastard whose idea it was to rape Lamia. He finds the house, knocks on the door, but there is nobody there, just a TV playing a children’s show. Tiny stumbles into a nearby bar and drinks with the locals, who buy him booze as an expression of support for our men and women in uniform. He tells them that Sergeant Briggs, a genuine American hero, was one of his best buddies in Iraq. He also tells them about his friend Declan, who got shot by a sniper. Briggs dragged him home under fire and got his knee blown off. Tiny tells them not to trust the newspapers, or the cocksuckers who say that we are losing the war. We are tearing new holes in the ass of the world, he says. We are breaking it open.

Outside, snow is piling up. He steals a pickup truck that is parked in front of the joint and goes back to Sergeant Briggs’s house. This time, he does not knock on the door. He goes around to the back, where he exposes himself—hard and red, his dick throbbing—to a little girl who is playing in the snow. The girl smiles and looks at him calmly, untroubled by his presence, as though she were floating in her own aquarium. He zips himself up and walks back to the truck, stepping gingerly into his own footprints. Now he drives farther north, to the Upper Peninsula. Declan came from Iron Mountain. Declan is dead, it turns out, but Tiny talks to him as he drives through the snowstorm. It seems that Declan lost his mind after the unfortunate incident. Briggs forced him to get on top of the girl, taunted him when he could not penetrate her. Tiny watched over him afterward, because Declan was ripe for suicide. And then he deliberately walked into an ambush. Briggs dragged home a corpse.

In the midst of a blinding blizzard, a wall ten feet tall emerges before Tiny. He brakes before he hits it. He steps out of the pickup truck and walks through the wall, like a ghost. He arrives in Iron Mountain in the middle of the night. He wakes up freezing in a parking lot. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but immaculate whiteness. His clothes are soaked in blood, but he has no cuts or wounds on his body. He finds Declan’s parents’ house. Before he rings the bell, he notices that in the bed of his pickup there is a gigantic deer with intricate antlers, its side torn open. Tiny can see its insides, pale and thoroughly dead.

Declan’s parents know who Tiny is—Declan spoke about him. They are ancient and tired, tanned with grief. They want him to stay for dinner. Declan’s mother gives him Declan’s old shirt, which is far too big for Tiny. Tiny changes in an upstairs room that smells sickeningly of honeysuckle Airwick. On the walls, there are faded photos of African landscapes: a herd of elephants strolling toward sunset; a small pirogue with a silhouette of a rower on a vast river.

It was only when they sat down to eat that I recognized Declan’s mother and father as my parents. The old man asks incessant questions about Iraq and war, keeps pouring bourbon into Tiny’s glass over the mother’s objections. The mother keeps bringing in the same food—meat and potatoes and, instead of spinach and potato, apple and rhubarb pies. The father segregates the food on his plate. There was absolutely no doubt: everything bespoke my parents —the way they talked, the way they ate, the way Declan’s mother grabbed Tiny’s hand and kissed it, pressing her lips into the ghost of Declan’s hand. Tiny is suddenly ravenous, and he eats and eats. He begins to tell them about the unfortunate instance of miscommunication with local civilians, but leaves Declan out of it. He tells them the gory details of the rape—Lamia’s moans, the flapping of her skinny arms, the blood pouring out of her—and the old man listens to him unflinchingly, while the mother goes to the kitchen to fetch coffee. They seem untroubled, as if they’re not even hearing him. For an instant, he thinks that he is not speaking at all, that this is all happening in his head, but then he realizes that there is nothing inside them, nothing but grief. Other people’s children are of no concern to them, for there was no horror in the world beyond Declan’s eternal absence from it. Tiny is sobbing.

“Let me ask you a question,” the old man said. “You must tell me the truth.” Tiny nodded. “My son was a soldier. You’re a soldier.” Tiny knew exactly what was coming. Let it come—he was ready now. “Tell me, was he a good man, a good soldier?” The old man lurched forward and touched Tiny’s shoulder. His hand was cold. Outside, snow was slowly falling. Each flake came down patiently, abseiling down an obscure silky rope. “It takes a while to become a good soldier,” Tiny said. “Declan was good. He was a good man.”

Sasa Hemon (prica je napisana na engleskom i objavljena u New Yorker-u tako da adekvatnog prevoda nema )

[Dust]

Dobri pisci od loših pisaca razlikuju se po tome što su rečenice svih loših pisaca jednoga jezika u nekome vremenu nalik jedna drugoj, i nemoguće ih je razlikovati, a rečenice dobrih pisaca prepoznaju se poput otiska prsta, čak i kada nije naročito mudro i pametno ono što se tim rečenicama kazuje. A veliki se od malih pisaca razlikuju po tome što veliki pisci ne samo da imaju svoje rečenice, nego imaju cijelu retoriku. Po toj je retorici i Zuko Džumhur bio autentično veliki pisac.

Da mu se život nije prebrzo potrošio, Zuko Džumhur danas bi bio devedesetogodišnjak. Ili obrnemo li: da nije na vrijeme umro, Zuko Džumhur bio bi devedesetogodišnjak. A što jest jest, umro je u zadnji čas, 27. studenog 1989. u Herceg Novom. Da je živio još samo koji mjesec, ili ne daj Bože godinu, morao bi se opredjeljivati, makar i pred samim sobom ako ne i pred cijelim svijetom, oko svoga identiteta i morao bi odlučivati kojeg će sebe amputirati, sahraniti i zaboraviti, da bi onaj drugi Zuko, sakat i uskraćen, mogao živjeti u svijetu koji je upravo nastajao. Naime, Zuko se rodio u Konjicu, kao Zulfikar (a zulfikar je sablja koju je poslanik Muhamed darovao Aliji, sablja junaštva u ime vjere), u uglednoj i staroj porodici vjerskih službenika i učenjaka. Djetinjstvo je provodio u Beogradu, gdje mu je otac Abdulselam službovao kao imam, a gimnaziju je završio u Sarajevu. Beogradsku Likovnu akademiju pohađao je u klasi Petra Dobrovića, onoga velikog Krležinog prijatelja, o kojemu je ovaj napisao najbolnije stranice svoje ratne diaristike, uzdignuvši svoj i Dobrovićev slučaj do metafore hrvatsko-srpske prijateljske intime. Od 1947. Zuko objavljuje karikature i crteže, a ubrzo zatim ulazi u novinarstvo, u kojemu će, na svoj specifični način, ostati cijeloga života.

S jedne strane, sve je u njemu bilo starovremeno: musliman po stambolskome i bečkom kalupu, koji se pisanju učio preko sentenca i mudrosti istočnoga svijeta, među koje bi udijevao anegdote za koje čitatelj nikada nije mogao biti siguran jesu li to stvarni događaji ili ih je Zuko izmislio kao neku paralelnu stvarnost. S druge strane, bio je Beograđanin, jedan od onih koji su u pedesetima stvarali atmosferu toga grada, njegovu liberalnu auru i mangupsku naraciju. U Politici je, recimo, u vrijeme razlaza sa Staljinom, ali prije nego što je postignut općenarodni konsenzus o tome da je Staljin neprijatelj, objavio onu slavnu karikaturu Marxa, koji sjedi za radnim stolom, a iznad glave mu uokvireni Visarjonovičev portret. Taj će ga crtež proslaviti, postat će jedan od amblematskih znakova jugoslavenskoga političkog identiteta, koji će uminuti nekoliko mjeseci nakon Zukine smrti. I još će po koječemu Zuko biti Beograđanin, jedan od najvažnijih u svome vremenu, pa strašnim biva pitanje kojeg bi se sebe odrekao da je, ne daj Bože, nadživio svoje vrijeme. Da li bi se odrekao svoje bosansko-muslimanske ili svoje srpsko-beogradske osobe? I čega god bi se odricao, što bi od njega nakon odricanja ostalo? Jer su i identiteti urasli jedan u drugi, pa čovjeku i nije dano da se odriče, a da ne ostaje sakat u glavu.

Najslavnija Zukina knjiga, prvi put objavljena davne 1958, je “Nekrolog jednoj čaršiji”. Bio je to putopis, a opet i zakašnjeli oproštaj s imperijom koja je četiri stoljeća vladala Bosnom i Hercegovinom i koja je iza sebe ostavila brojne tragove na toj zemlji i na ljudima, te s onom drugom carevinom, koja je vladala deset puta kraće, ali su njezini tragovi svježiji. Za vrijeme u kojemu je napisan, taj je bosanski i maloazijski putni amarkord morao djelovati prilično reakcionarno, ako ga je itko ozbiljno pročitao, i ako su ga, uopće, i bili u stanju čitati mimo predrasude o vicmaheru Zuki i njegovom lahkom bivanju u našoj samoupravnoj zajednici. Predgovor “Nekrologu jednoj čaršiji” napisao je drugi veliki turkofil, Ivo Andrić. Samo tada, i nikada poslije, nekome je on pisao predgovor, čuvajući se mudro i te pogibelji da se suvremenicima zamjeri, hvaleći ih. Zuki se nije mogao zamjeriti, jer je Zuko bio i gospodin i pametan pisac, pa mu se Andrić nije u očima smanjivao kada ga je u predgovoru hvalio.


Dobri pisci od loših pisaca razlikuju se po tome što su rečenice svih loših pisaca jednoga jezika u nekome vremenu nalik jedna drugoj, i nemoguće ih je razlikovati, a rečenice dobrih pisaca prepoznaju se poput otiska prsta, čak i kada nije naročito mudro i pametno ono što se tim rečenicama kazuje. A veliki se od malih pisaca razlikuju po tome što veliki pisci ne samo da imaju svoje rečenice, nego imaju cijelu retoriku. Po toj je retorici i Zuko Džumhur bio autentično veliki pisac. Evo, za primjer, onoga što piše unutar zagrada, u jednom od eseja koji čine putopis Nekrologa jednoj čaršiji: “(…služio je Be-Ha regimente… dvorio feldvebelske švalerke što su po Hercegovini sadile grincajg, kuhale ajnpren supe i pržile uštipke po žandarmskim kasarnama i od Metaljke do Domanovića… pisale anzihtkarte sa ‘domaćim krajobrazima u boji i nakladi St. Kugli’ - ‘Gr s aus Čapljina…’ i čitale nabožne obiteljske tjednike… četrdeset berićetnih svih svetih godina valcera, lapaloma, malih i velikih misa, naizmjenično - od korotnog povratka Maksimilijanovog admiralskog broda Navare iz Meksika i od melodrame u Majerlingu, do pucnjave na Latinskoj ćupriji i gnusnog umorstva nadvojvodskog para u Sarajevu…)”.

I tako, u jednom zamahu i dahu, u jednoj crti povučenoj crnim tušem po hrapavom papiru, unutar zagrada, umetnutih u neku posve drugu priču, u pripovjednoj digresiji, čiji smisao nije i ne može biti jasan hrvatskim provincijalkama, profesoricama književnosti kojima su moljci pojeli frizuru, ispričao je Zuko Džumhur četrdeset godina austrougarske vladavine u Bosni i Hercegovini. U tom je njegovom retoričkom ispadu više književnosti, ili još jasnije rečeno - razloga za književnost, nego u čitavim bibliotekama i edicijama naših suvremenika. U toj frazi, što ju je nabrzinu sastavio i zakovao s “četrdeset berićetnih svih svetih godina valcera” ispisan je, tugaljiv, a još uvijek tako živ, identitet jednoga svijeta: čuju se, u samo šest riječi, glasovi staračkoga berićeta, jedne prošle mladosti, s jakim društveno-političkim razlozima i potvrdama, čuju se u Zukinim svim svetima zvona sarajevske Katedrale, i još pride valcer, koji se, kao u nekom povijesnom ludilu, igrao i okretao punih četrdeset godina. Samo istinski majstor, kaligrafski precizan, netko tko zna kako žive riječi i što riječi znače kada se nađu jedna uz drugu, mogao je napisati takvo što.

U katodnom sjećanju posljednjih jugoslavenskih desetljeća, Zuko Džumhur upamćen je po putopisnoj televizijskoj seriji Hodoljublja, koju je režirao sarajevski filmski i televizijski redatelj, također dobri rahmetlija, Mirza Idrizović. U Hodoljubljima Zuko je obilazio svoj svijet i pripovijedao o mjestima na koja bi došao. Dio serijala snimljen je po Bosni i Hercegovini, a dio u inozemstvu, ali nije bilo razlike, jer je intenzitet doživljaja bio jednak bez obzira na to putuje li Zuko u Andaluziju ili na Vrelo Bosne, na Ilidžu. Na koje god mjesto došao, gledatelju je stvarao iluziju kako je tu domaći i oduvijek. U Andaluziji je bio prognani musliman, a na Vrelu Bosne majstor za davne austrijske lumperaje i nedjeljne izlete u prirodu sarajevske gospode. Činilo se da govori iz vlastitoga iskustva, koje seže stotinama godina u prošlost. Bio je nostalgičan za davnoprošlim vremenima, ali je njegova nostalgija bila autentično doživljena (od iste vrste je dar zagrebačkog profesora Marina Zaninovića, koji u radijskim emisijama pripovijeda o životima rimskih careva kao da je svakome od njih bio sobar ili barem savjetnik). Njegovoj priči, usmenoj ili pisanoj, nije bilo kraja, jer je njegov ljudski vijek sezao daleko u prošlost i bio je tako identitetski isprepleten da je bio protivan svakome odricanju ili poricanju. Zuko Džumhur bio je sav od pripadanja.

U ornamentu njegovoga životopisa, nestvaran i šaljiv je i sam zaključak: Zuko je, po vlastitoj želji, pokopan u rodnome Konjicu. Dogodilo se to na Dan Republike, posljednji koji je obilježen u svim jugoslavenskim državama, 29. novembra 1989.

[dacina_curica]

[Julia-Klara]

divan tekst

[niska grana]

Prilikom odgovora na eventualno, samo sebi postavljeno pitanje “Zašto volim Bosnu?“ - sigurno ću se sjetiti i ovog čovjeka.

[dacina_curica]

PAMTI HUSO

Kasaba je bila mala ali zivopisna. Imala je oko dvije hiljde dusa, ali i svoj tamburaski zbor, i apoteku, i fotografsku radnju, i dvoja zaprezna kola, i zeljeznicku lozionu, i desetak kafana i mejhana, i tri javna nuznika i sud. U kasabi je bilo i zapusteno tenisko igraliste sto su ga prije skoro stotinu godina napravili austrijski cinovnici i oficiri. Mladi sudac imao je rucni sat.

U toj kasabi na granici Bosne i Hercegovine zivio je i Begefendija, ugledni trgovac mjesovitom robom u maloj siromasnoj carsiji. Hodao je lakim korakom od svoje kuce do ducana, i od svoga ducana do carsijske dzamije. Nosio je cohano bosansko odijelo, plitak fes na glavi i sahat sa kapkom i na svilenom gajtanu za adzem pojasom.

Dva puta je Begefendija biran za gradonacelnika glasovima i Muslimana i Hrvata i Srba. Iz svoga ducana u obliznju opcinsku zgradu ljeti bi trknuo i u nanulama, ali na sjednice opcinskog vijeca dolazio bi uvijek u cipelama i sa crnim stapom u ruci. Na sjednice vijeca svaki put je za ruku vodio sina Husu sto je po drugi put isao u treci razred osnovne skole.

Dosta opcinskih odbornika dolazilo je u kasabu, dolazilo je sa sela, mahom pjesice, a poneki iz udaljenih krajeva i na konju.

Opcina je imala i svoga biljeznika. Biljeznik je bio skolovan covjek. Imao je dva razreda nize trgovacke skole i lijep rukopis.

Gradonacelnik Begefendija bio je veoma podozriv covjek i bojao je se pretjerano skolovanih, pogotovo ako bi jos nosili i naocare. Pred biljeznikovim ocima bila su dva debela stakla. Begefendija je vjerovao da su ti skolarci sa naocalima puni svakojakih marifetluka i karefeka, pa nije mario za njihove papire, zapise i druga litanija.

Gradonacelnik Begefendija posadio bi na klupu pored sebe u povecoj odaji za sjednice svoga sina Husu, da dijete pomno prati razgovore odbornika. Kada bi se Begefendiji ucinila neka primjedba ili prijedlog umjesnim, pametnim i korisnim, za opce dobro samo bi sapnuo na uho svome Husi:

- Pamti, Huso...

Huso bi skocio na noge lagane i glasno rekao:

- Hocu, babo!

Tako bi naglo hrupio na klupu da su jedino njegove podobro klempave usi zadrzavale fes da mu ne zacepi usta.

Te veoma znacajne rijeci izmedju babe gradonacelnika i njegovog sina Huse ponavljele bi se i po nekoliko puta na svakoj sjednici opcinskih vijecnika, a biljeznik sa naocarima na nosu sjedio u dnu odaje i vise kao za sebe nesto piskarao, ali ipak dobro vodeci racuna da podvuce ono sto je babo rekao svome Husi da upamti.

Na sljedecoj sjednici umjesto citanja bilo kakvih zapisnika prva tacka dnevnog reda bila je:

- sta si upamtio, Huso, govori!

Huso bi skocio na noge lagane i sve po redu poceo da veze sto mu je babo naredio da upamti.

Nije tada bilo ni sekretarica, ni stenografa, ni magnetofona, ni mikrofona, ni teleprintera.

Bila je samo glavica maloga Huse cije su klempave usi branile njegovom starom fesu da mu ne zacepe usta!

Nije to bilo bas ni tako davno...

Zuko Dzumhur, Adakale

[Dust]

ehhhh

[dacina_curica]

KASABA NA GRANICI

Jedrene sam prvi put vidio prije dvadeset godina, u desnom uglu zemljopisne karte, sasvim pri dnu.
Samo tri crvena kruga na zelenom.
Poslije je Jedrene bilo drugo pitanje na maturi:
sesnaest clanova rusko-turskog ugovora o miru potpisanog 24. septembra 1829. u Jedrenu.

Sjecam se jos da su Rusi vracali Turcima Moldaviju, Bugarsku, Vlasku i Rumuniju, a Turci Rusima Georgiju i Mersiju, Mingreliju i Gurijel, i da je jedan car morao dati drugome milion i po holandskih zlatnika (ne znam vise ko kome); i da se Porta tu obavezala (svecano) da vrati Srbiji sest nahija, i da je sultan obecao ferman snabdjeven hatiserifom, i da je odredjena ratna steta za neki rat od 1806…

To je sve sto je ostalo od petke zaradjene na Jedrenu prije petnaest godina.

Docnije se opet spomenulo Jedrene, u kafani. Iz Jedrena je porijeklom i njegovo preosvestenstvo
i ekselencija Fan Noli, mitropolit pravoslavni i drzavnik albanski koji se dugo nosio s nasim radikalima i svojim deficitom i slao telegrame Lenjinu i Vilsonu, a poslije u Dracu obrijao bradu i na talijanskoj ladji – bez mantije i otadzbine – bjezao ispred kralja Zogua, kacaka i Pasica, cak u Ameriku da tamo pise sonete, i predaje muziku na nekom cuvenom univerzitetu.

Onda sam vidio Jedrene na starinskoj fotografiji u kompletima “Malog zurnala”. Jedrene 1913. puno vojnika i sajkaca. Vojska koju je Srbija ispratila s pjesmom, i pogacama, i cvijecem na vrhovima pusaka. I trecepozivci su isli kao na svadbu i pjevali: “Je sam li ti Je-lane…”

Bugarska komanda slala je svakog dana depese: “Utre ste padna Odrine”, a Sukri-pasin asker se na kraju
ipak predao Vojvodi Stepi.
To sam znao o Jedrenu prije vidjenja pravog, i zemaljskog, balkanskog Edirna, druge prijestolnice Osmanlijskog Carstva s dzamijama bez vjernika i najsjevernije kasabe Turske Republike sa stanicom bez putnika.

Jedrene me docekalo u velikim zlatnim salvarama sjedeci u ravnici kojom tece i sumi Marica, mlitavo i tromo kao bugarska himna.
U prvim kadrovima stajala je dugo Neimar Sinanova Selimija, sama i nesretna medju cepencima i vrbama. Lijepa i rijetka stvar po koju se niko nije vratio. Ostala je za carstvom koje se nomadski selilo, nepokretna i bespomocna.

Poslije su u kadar usli bedemi porusenog saraja i dva-tri vlazna prizemna sobicka oskudnog Gradskog muzeja.

Dugometrazni historijski film o sultanskom Jedrenu brzo se svrsio.
Bursa je sacuvala ljupkost i kad je prestala biti prijestolnica.
Istanbul je sacuvao bogatstvo i ljepotu i kada ga je zamijenila Ankara.
Jedrene nije sacuvalo ni uspomene…

Iz kukuruza se tek kasnije pojavilo smedje naselje izgubljeno u tarabama. Kasaba iz koje je iscurio zivot kao voda iz napukle stare cinije po cijoj se ivici zadrzao blijedi trag starinske pozlate.

Sokacima se sada odvija dosadni nijemi film u sto hiljada cinova pun teferica, ascinica i pospanih statista koji cekaju hepiend.

U crtacku biljeznicu ne moze ni stati bezbroj varijacija mahalskog urbanizma razapetog od Bosanskog Broda do Bagdada i Dijar-Bekira.

Za mnom je ostala besmisleno masivna zgrada jedrenske zeljeznicke stanice s kolosijecima izgubljenim u djetelini. Polubarokna dzamija, polupruska kasarna rodila se u proslom vijeku kao arhitektonski melez u braku izmedju kajzerovoga “Drang nach Osten” i sultan-Hamidovog: “ja vas-ja vas”.

Lijevo su bugarske pogranicne karaule, “med i mlijeko”, i kraj svijeta…

Pred biljeznicom je samo prorijedjena carsija iz koje su tri puta panicno bjezali i kupci i trgovci.
Sokacima bez buke prolaze dokoni ljudi, polovni “studebekeri” i ugojeni kurbani.

Istok i Zapad se dodiruju, ali se ne sudaraju.
Sviraju sambe, rostilj radi, Grendzer glumi i pucaju bajramske prangije.
Istok i Zapad zive u srdacnoj koprodukciji jedne “import-eksport” stvarnosti pune derta, “Simensa”, ovcetine, “Filip Morisa” i Hadzi-Bekirovog rahatlokuma.

U svakom stotom cepenku pod uvjerenjima i esnafskim pismima, uz tuce propisno ponistenih taksenih maraka, pecalbari po jedan nas Tetovac, Gostivarac ili Bosanac, ubijajuci godinama bijele dane za zute pare.

Pecalbarski se stedi previse, zivi premalo i razmnozava pretjerano.

Na sve strane su opet sokaci i budzaci, avlije, i cenite, i jablanovi. Jablanovi su ovdje jedina lijepa zaostala rekvizita s pozornice na koju je zauvijek pala zavjesa.

Na kraju jedne ulice, koja ide pravo, pojavljuje se kao obala “Dobre Nade” nekoliko stotina kvadratnih metara kemalizma tesko otetih od kismeta, kapitulacija u calmi. Komad tvrde zemlje na kojoj stoji tridesetogodisnja republika s laicizmom i prosvjetom.

Okolo – po mahalama vuce se iskidan lanac Otomanskog Carstva od Fatihovog majskog ulaska na konju i s macem u Aja Sofiju – do bjekstva posljednjih sultana s cvikerima, po kisi i u bolnickom fijakeru posljednje kategorije.

Jedrene me ispratilo po mraku koji se, kao i svuda po kasabama, uhvati odjednom i stusti bjesomucno i sa svih strana – i sa evropske i sa azijske.

Tama polegne kao derviska dzuba po kucama, po ljudima, po poslovima, po pokretima…
Istok i Zapad zaspiju svakog aksama zagrljeni na uscu Marice.
Samo tri crvena kruga na zelenom…


Zuko Dzumhur, Nekrolog jednoj čaršiji