Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “What about the romance of nihilism?” Antun shoots back. Vlado ignores him.

  “Why did you bring her?” asks the novelist Stjepan.

  “I thought it might help her to grow up”, says Vlado.

  “You might have destroyed us all”, murmurs Stjepan, rising to his feet and preparing to make a departure.

  “Please, please, please, everyone”, says Simon. “Please, Stjepan, sit down. We must not be so easily shaken. There will be dangers in our work—this is inevitable. And certainly one of the dangers will be the risk of informers coming among us. Can this be avoided entirely? No, it cannot. So, I suggest that now is our moment of choice, not unexpected but arriving somewhat early in our discussions. I suggest that those who wish to continue must seriously consider the possibility of imprisonment. Let us face it now and during the weeks to come. I suggest that we all go home and think about this risk, and each must ask himself in the solitude of his private conscience if he is willing to accept it. Our first task is to face the fear within our own hearts. This fear is our greatest enemy. In my estimation, the young lady who departed so abruptly this evening is a great help to us, for she is the catalyst of an important factor in what we become.”

  “Do you mean, darling,” asks Vera, “how we develop and how effective our work will be?”

  “Yes, but more than that. We must not see the journal and our little gathering of people as a conglomerate of parts that are loosely connected under the term ‘culture’. We must understand that the world is neither individualist nor collectivist.”

  “You’re saying there’s a third way?” asks Tatjana, the poetess from Belgrade. “What is your conception of it?”

  “When people of like mind and heart come together, a community is formed. This community is greater than the sum of its parts. It’s a reflection of an ideal communion that exists beyond this world.”

  “You’re a Platonist?” suggests an eager young man, perched on the marble base of the fireplace.

  “Not exactly, Zoran. Plato saw a truth that he articulated within the limitations of his times. Read beyond the classical philosophers and when you arrive at the medieval scholastics, you will understand the fuller meaning.”

  “Medieval philosophy has been stripped out of the library”, the young man murmurs.

  “I will lend you my books”, says Simon.

  “You’re still a Christian then, Simon?” asks one of the poets.

  Wrapped in his own thoughts, Dr. Horvatinec stares at the floor and does not answer.

  Tatjana interjects in a tone of dry irony. “Isn’t it tragic that only ten or fifteen years ago such a question would not have been asked of a man of good will? Was not all this land Christian?”

  “A rather simplistic summation,” says Stjepan, “but in a sense it’s true. It is symptomatic of our times that we cannot assume as much of the younger generation, who have been subjected to indoctrination.”

  “You underestimate us”, says a young woman. Like a few of the others in the room, she has not yet introduced herself. “Excuse me, I am Ana. I am studying medicine in Zagreb and am here visiting my brother.” She points to the philosopher Zoran. “It is true that we were only children or youths when the Communists came to power and our so-called education began. But we have been blessed with parents and friends who remember what life was like before they took over. And though some are dead, many still speak. Though our true culture is going underground as if into a tomb, it still lives.”

  “It is more alive than the public culture”, declares Zoran emphatically.

  “I think we should be careful about despising all public culture”, says a young man sitting on the floor by the piano pedals. “I am Ivan, from Livno. I study music here in Split. I believe that music is capable of retaining the spirit of truth, even when the state seeks to distort or bury it. Truth is always embedded in beauty.”

  “Can beauty be beauty without overt truth?” counters Antun.

  A new tangent spins off this question and goes on for some time. The poets in the crowd defend the absolute rights of beauty, while the more religious literary people defend the rights of prudence over beauty. The elders in this bloc advocate an integration of both, with truth as the higher arbiter. Not everyone in the room can follow the discussion. The pianist, Iria, closes her eyes and falls asleep, her head leaning on Vera’s shoulder.

  One of the poets raises his voice and declares, “I despise those English romantics infatuated with Italian decadence!” Another retorts, “What about Benedetto Croce, eh!” Others join the debate, a quintet of academics: “Idealism without sufficient awareness of its political consequences.”

  “No, no, no, he was merely saying that an artist’s mental images are transmitted by physical artifacts, which the unenlightened call works of art.”

  “And so they are works of art—regardless of who is enlightened or unenlightened!”

  “Art historians too often minimize the history from which the art arises.”

  “Ha! All historians do that. They also minimize the cultural subjectivities.”

  “Yes, but because historiography is an interpretation of the past, it too is an art form.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good thing. History is facts, therefore historiography should be factual.”

  “That’s impossible to achieve! Any study of history is a culmination of particular philosophies!”

  “Culmination? There’s our problem, isn’t it? Social philosophy or political philosophy always want their culminations. And that is measured in dead bodies.”

  “Always? You’re being extreme.”

  “No, he’s being a poet in search of a cause!”

  “A poet transcends these categories.”

  “You’re wrong—you’re dead wrong. A poet is true to the degree that he is rooted in immanent reality.”

  “A partial truth. Lyrical intuitions must not be enslaved to random social infatuations. They demand discipline.”

  “Of course. But be careful about sliding into Hegelian traps. In that direction you will soon enough find yourself declaring that poetry must be replaced by philosophy.”

  “Plato says that philosophy is born of wonder. Is not poetry also born of wonder?”

  “Yes, but watch out or Hegel will kill them both!”

  “You’re just mad at him because he gave us Marx.”

  “Nietzsche gave us Marx.”

  “No, he gave us Hitler.”

  “No, Satan gave us Marx and Hitler.”

  “And Churchill gave us Yalta!”

  “Ha! Satan gave us Yalta.”

  “Then Satan gave us Churchill.”

  “You’re forgetting Roosevelt.”

  “All right, Satan gave us Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin, Hitler, and Tito.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?”

  “The list is too long.”

  “And what about us? Look at our own cultural strategists, the newly famous. All the splendid art produced by legal sources!”

  Zoran interjects: “Your question brings us full circle, back to beauty and its relationship to truth. Don’t you see how art reinforces tyrannies to the degree that it obeys the diktats of social pressure, gnostic myths, or political expedience?”

  “And undermines tyrannies to the degree that it refuses to obey the diktats”, says Antun.

  “If I have to march in a procession in honor of Tito’s birthday one more time, I will shoot myself”, declares Vlado.

  “Tito, Tito, you are a beautiful flower!” someone sings in falsetto.

  Everyone laughs.

  Simon stands up in the middle of the room with a broad smile and claps his hands for attention. Iria wakes up and blushes. Vera leaves for the kitchen to make preparations for food and drink.

  “This is very good, all this discussion”, says Simon. “I am delighted. This is what a healthy community does. It is neither passive nor aggressive. It is a mind alive.”

  “And a heart alive�
��, murmurs Ana, precipitating nods of agreement throughout the room.

  “Yes! Minds and hearts alive”, Simon continues. “Here, we can struggle and debate and disagree because we are free to speak in an open forum. We are fighting and thinking because we trust one another.”

  Food and drink are brought into the room by Vera and Tatjana. People shake themselves, get up and stretch, sip wine, and engage in several sub-discussions that meander off into other rooms. Josip alone remains in silence. He is sitting with his head back against the wall in the corner, gazing without blinking in the direction of the dining room.

  Why doesn’t she come? Is she in the house?

  Fifteen minutes later, Simon calls everyone to order and the meeting resumes.

  “To business”, he says in a voice of authority. He thanks all those who have come tonight and suggests that a third meeting be held in mid-November. He reiterates the agenda from the first meeting, the steps taken toward an inaugural issue of the journal. A printer has been found who is willing to produce it secretly. Those present should not lose sight, in their enthusiasm, of the dangers of a false sense of security. They should exercise maximum caution in drawing others into the “community”. Cultural interests are not necessarily indelible signs of a person’s suitability. Nor is religious fervor, because a person of strong faith can still be lacking in discretion, just as a person of little or no faith can be lacking in conviction and perseverance.

  “But what shall we call ourselves?” asks Antun. “How about the ACU?”

  “ACU?” Simon smiles.

  “Yes, the Alternative Culture Underground!”

  “Ugh”, grunts Vlado. “ACU sounds like a political party.”

  “Well, it is, in its own way.”

  Josip Lasta clears his throat and says in a quiet voice, “I think . . .”

  As on the night of the first meeting, everyone falls silent. Why does this happen? In any event, every eye in the room has turned to him.

  “I think we are the Dobri Dupin”

  Blank stares give way to awareness in numerous faces.

  “Ah, I see what you mean, Josip”, says Simon. “Yes, we are like the dolphins.”

  “It’s good”, says Vlado. “We are made for the sun and the air, but we move swiftly and surely above the water or below it.”

  “Now you see us, now you don’t”, laughs Antun.

  “It’s perfect”, says Ana, echoed by her brother Zoran. “The dolphin is the friend of man, but he is not easily captured.”

  “I like the sound of it”, says Stjepan. “If anyone hears of us, we’re just another aquatic club.”

  “It could be a useful name if word of us leaks beyond the group”, suggests Tatjana. “Perhaps we could go swimming together sometime just to help the image.”

  Everyone laughs or chuckles.

  “Not with my belly”, says Stjepan.

  “Not with my aversion to sharks”, says Vlado.

  “You mean your aversion to contact with water of any kind”, says Antun.

  More laughter. For the first time the adversaries Vlado and Antun exchange crooked grins.

  “Well, the name seems apt to me”, says Simon. “Shall we vote?”

  All hands are raised in confirmation. It is settled. They are The Dolphins.

  Vera asks Iria to play the piano. As on the night of the first meeting, Iria seats herself on the bench before the grand piano as if she were a child at her first recital. She closes her eyes, and her fingers move, improvising as they go. This piece is unlike the passionate-melancholic concerto of the previous meeting. It is playful and not as complex, and before long everyone realizes that it is about the happiness of dolphins as they play in the sea, as they dive into the deep blue shadows beneath the waves and rise again in leaps that defy gravity.

  When it is over, no solemn silence remains in its wake. Instead of reverent awe, there is joy. In this school of Dolphins there will always be room for both.

  One by one, people make their departures until only Josip remains in the room, still seated, head tilted back against the wall, eyes half open, gazing with absolute stillness toward the dining room. But Ariadne does not come.

  At last, heartsick, downcast, he inhales deeply and gets to his feet.

  He can feel the letter pressing against his chest. The paper is damp with his perspiration. Perhaps it is inevitable that inaccessible souls can be known only through their fleeting appearances and their names, and that their role is to be forever remembered in the minds of others as glimpses of glory. And, as such, they really should not be fully known or embraced. It is enough to feel the frail words of his letter, which includes her name, imprinting his flesh. He understands, too, that he is no less a romantic than the despicable English illusionists who worship the pagan goddess Beauty with no other thought to reality. He understands and laments it, and knows too that he will outgrow it. Yet he feels that it would be better never to outgrow the burning moment when he saw her. That glimpse offered a promise of restoration—the return of something he had thought long lost. That it will lead nowhere is beside the point. He will always have it to turn to in times of darkness.

  Out on the walkway leading to the street, Antun is waiting. The student Ana is with him. Antun tells Josip he is going to walk her to the place where she is staying, to make sure she arrives safely. Her brother the philosopher has become invisible, doubtless walking his own companion home, to make sure that she also arrives safely. So it seems that several people are returning to wherever they go, accompanying others whom they have just met. Very interesting, Josip thinks, as he stands alone on the sidewalk watching Antun and Ana stroll away, already arm in arm. Amazing, the swiftness of otters.

  Josip does not mind walking home alone. Before doing so, however, he looks back toward the house and peers up at the windows on the second and third floors. None are lit, none contain the face he hopes will be there. Sighing, he turns toward the street and takes a step. Abruptly, he halts.

  A woman’s form is standing by the open gate, an arm extended to close it, or perhaps she has just opened it. The faint glow of the parlor window bathes her features. Under her arm is a violin case.

  For a time that seems measureless, they neither move nor speak but simply regard each other. Her expression is just as it was on the night of their first meeting.

  Simultaneously they take a step forward; simultaneously they are startled by this coincidence. Then both return to the inexplicable mutual attention.

  She is the first to speak—a whisper: “Josip.”

  “Ariadne.”

  That is all. Yet volumes are spoken in the realization that they know each other’s names, have learned these names from sources separate from each other, and have remembered the names out of all the other names they heard in the house.

  Now she lowers her eyes and moves past him toward the front steps. He turns and follows her. She sits down on the steps. He sits beside her. At this fulcrum of the past and future there is total potential and total danger of loss. With a word, the future will be propelled in one direction. A different word and it is jettisoned in another.

  Silence. I have beheld you walking in your grace and have hoped for everything and counted on nothing. Now I behold you sitting beside me, with me, waiting.

  Because he knows there is nothing he can do to make anything happen the way he wants it, and because he knows as well that he can give her nothing but his poor self, he reaches inside his shirt and extracts the sheet of paper onto which he has penned her name and poured out his soul. He gives it to her. This is not so much an act of hope or desperation as it is an act of abandonment. She takes it in her hands and holds it as she held the chambered nautilus. Then, she reaches inside her coat and extracts a folded piece of paper. She puts it into his hands. He looks at it in puzzlement and wonder.

  She stands abruptly, then runs across the porch and enters the house, softly closing the door behind her.

  Josip walks home in a dream. The
paper is warm in his right hand. He can smell a natural perfume on it, like herbs, perhaps a mixture of lavender and honey. Her fingers have touched this paper, and it is as if he can touch her hand through it. He puts it inside his shirt and carries it there all the way back to his apartment. He notices nothing on the way. Not even the two policemen who stop him and demand to see his identity papers. Not even his mechanical presentation of the papers. Not even his smile of benevolence upon them, nor their dismissal of him—“Drunk!”

  Back in his room, he lights a candle by the open window. Over the Dinarics constellations revolve, galaxies spiral, and comets shoot from north to south. The earthbound stars of the city shine and dance. When he can overcome the intolerable anticipation, he opens the sheet of paper and reads.

  Josip Lasta,

  My father tells me this is your name, the name of the man who sat in the corner of our parlor this evening. He tells me you are a person of honor.

  It is only a few hours since you first entered our home, and now my life is changed forever. I cannot sleep. I am sitting at the desk in my room, by the open window. A warm breeze is flowing in from the ocean. I have a beautiful seashell before me. It weights the paper as I write to you.

  I will not send you this letter. I will keep it next to my heart until the path into the future opens or closes. It will neither be delivered to you (the one whom I long to read it) nor be put away in a trove of private memory (if it proves unnecessary for us to know each other), until it is certain what is to become of us. I write “us” because this is how I now think of you and me, as one, though we have not yet spoken.

  These are the words of my soul, the kind of words that are closest to music. I love music more than anything else in this world. Do you know music as a language of the soul? I think you do. When we met (yes, Josip, we met), I was in a corner of the dining room where no eyes could see me. Not wanting to disturb the guests, I remained there in order to listen to Iria’s composition without intrusion. When it was over and everyone had left the room (or so I thought), I went in to sit beside the piano, to absorb the resonance of the concerto, which still radiated the room. I did not see you at first because my eyes were full of tears.