‘Maybe she’s not the love of my life,’ Matjaž said defiantly.
‘As if! You were together for like a hundred years, you spent one year mourning her absence and now what? You’ve decided against it?’
‘I can’t explain it,’ Matjaž said coldly.
‘Oh fuck a duck!’ Aleksander was fuming.
‘I don’t know, there was one point when we were there on the balcony and she was saying nice things, like we should get back together, and it occurred to me that I’m not that person any more,’ he tried to explain.
‘How are you not the same person any more when you’re both exactly the same as before, Sara probably more beautiful than ever,’ his friend protested.
‘It’s not about that, and it’s not that I couldn’t love her either. Something just wasn’t there … or there was too much of something, I don’t know! I didn’t feel that unbearable need for her to be close to me,’ Matjaž sighed simply.
‘So now you’re going to carry on looking for someone who’s got that something, who’ll be close to you?’ retorted Aleksander, still fuming as he paced up and down in front of the shop.
‘No, I’m going to stop looking! None of this has got me anywhere, clearly. I’m just going to stop looking,’ he said cockily.
Aleksander still wasn’t entirely able to calm down. ‘And you think this strategy will work?’
‘Not really. You know how it is …’ Matjaž smiled.
Aleksander could see how a huge weight had lifted off his friend’s shoulders, and he was happy for him despite his frustration. So he simply said resignedly, ‘Yeah, I know. If there’s none like her, there’s just none like her!’
GABI AND THE PRIEST
Going out on location with Gabi wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but a man just has to do as he’s told – even if that means photographing some church and the pastor who tended to his flock there. When he picked her up outside her block, at some ungodly hour, the car door had barely closed before she looked towards him and began to recite, ‘The density of time, stone / rock, musical deafness / eternity in our blood / the sheer face, monument / of silence, / I am listening to you / now, now the wind will gather, three times it will strike / its good hand upon you, / faithful stone, / duly open yourself, / sepulchral stone, / north face split yourself in two / and allow me / to leave through you / for the other side.’
Then silence reigned inside the car. Matjaž focused ahead of him and swallowed his saliva, fearing what was coming next. ‘Do you know who wrote that poem?’ asked Gabi, somewhat smugly.
‘You?’ Matjaž quipped.
‘Thank you very much, but no. Edvard Kocbek.’
‘Mhm,’ Matjaž yawned discreetly.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘Mhm.’
‘Stone …’ – she paused momentarily – ‘rock.’
‘Sorry?’ Matjaž was confused.
‘That’s the title,’ she said in a ceremonial tone, looking at him pointedly.
‘Mhm.’
‘Stone Rock,’ she repeated, as if the repetition would arouse in Matjaž a sense of appreciation for the poem’s greatness.
But he didn’t comply. He simply said, ‘Mhm.’
‘You have to open your heart to poetry, and then it will speak to you,’ she instructed him prudently.
‘Nothing can speak to me before my first coffee,’ he said, apologetically but firmly.
‘OK, well then let’s stop somewhere for coffee,’ Gabi suggested accommodatingly.
‘Aren’t we running late? We’ve got a meeting scheduled in half an hour, and there’s still a good hour’s drive ahead of us.’
‘Oh no, it’s all fine. I arranged with Father Simon that we’d meet at midday,’ his colleague reassured him.
‘Sorry, what?’ Matjaž raised his voice. ‘So why on earth are we leaving at nine?’
‘Firstly, we left at half-past nine because you were late, and secondly, I thought we could turn our work duties into a nice little outing,’ she smiled, quietly clapping her hands. She reminded Matjaž of a cocker spaniel puppy.
‘For me the best outings are those that lead to bed!’ he said bitterly.
‘Well, I think we at least ought to get to know each other a little bit better before that,’ she said sternly. Matjaž couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
‘To bed to sleep, Gabi,’ he clarified slowly and plainly.
‘Where’s your carpe diem!’ she exclaimed.
‘In bed, when I sleep,’ he replied, determined not to give in to the unexpected, saccharine nature of this adventure.
‘Oh, don’t be like that. It’s a glorious day, we’re going to have a glorious time together!’ said Gabi determinedly.
‘You, me and the Slovene poets,’ he muttered reluctantly.
‘Not just Slovene; foreign poets can soothe the soul as well, you know,’ Gabi laughed proudly.
‘What are you on about? You sound like Hiperbola,’ Matjaž replied, becoming irritated.
‘Oh, thanks. I love Ne cakaj na maj, and Vesna as well!’ She turned to look out of the window dreamily and started to hum, ‘Don’t wait for spring, don’t wait for May …’
Matjaž decided that he wasn’t going to say anything until he’d had a coffee – at the end of the day it was disrespectful to his brain, his heart and his circulatory system. He pulled over at the first sight of a bar and sat down at the first table. The coffee was pointless, though; he was too exhausted by Gabi, who still looked up at him, blinking and smiling, like a puppy.
‘So, go on then!’ Her intense gaze was wearing him down.
With a deep, hushed tone she recited, ‘I travel your body as I travel the world, / your stomach a sunny plaza, / your breasts two churches, in which blood performs parallel rites …’
‘Not that, you twit!’
‘Call me a twit if you like, but you will not lose your temper over Octavio Paz!’ Gabi said, becoming flustered.
To console her, Matjaž said, ‘Sorry, Gabi. Let’s leave Paz in peace for a moment. Tell me why it is we’re going to see this pastor …’
‘Parish priest,’ she corrected him.
‘Parish priest …’ he corrected himself.
‘Simon,’ she said.
‘So why are we going to see Simon the parish priest?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Gabi was surprised.
‘I’m going to photograph him, and I’d like to know what the context of the conversation is.’
‘It’s a good context,’ she quickly replied.
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Could you be a little more specific as to how and why it’s good?’ he said carefully.
‘It’s good because, well, Father Simon is cool, and because what he’s done for the parish in Hajdina is crazy!’
‘And what’s he done?’ Matjaž asked, slightly impatiently.
‘Thanks to his ingenuity the parish has become, um, how to put it, a social space too …’
‘Isn’t every parish like that, in the sense that it creates an environment for the gathering of the Christian community, or whatever you politically correct lot call yourselves?’
‘Of course, but here things are so friendly and home-grown that everyone feels good.’ She stared at Matjaž dreamily.
‘Hm, I wouldn’t count on it,’ he muttered quietly, thinking of himself and the task ahead of him. But Gabi heard him; the sentence was not to her liking, and she pulled a face and groaned.
‘Yes?’ Matjaž enquired.
‘Nothing,’ Gabi replied defiantly.
‘No no, I recognize a female grunt when I hear one,’ he insisted.
‘Grunt!’ she repeated angrily.
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about!’
‘It’s nothing, I’m just increasingly doubting whether you’re the right person for the job today. Sin has a hold on you and most of the women you associate with are surely … fallen,’ she said, looking him in the eye defiantly.
‘Fallen women? Bec
ause they have sex before marriage?’ asked Matjaž, intrigued.
‘Well, you and I know we’re not in the nineteenth century, but that reckless sexual activity really never leads anywhere!’ Her cheeks reddened with agitation.
‘May I console you by saying that such reckless activity doesn’t occur anywhere near as frequently as I would like?’
‘They’re fallen women all the same,’ Gabi replied stubbornly.
‘Well, there aren’t as many fallen women as I’d like,’ he tried to explain.
‘Sin is sin,’ she concluded, and looked away defiantly.
After that enlightening conversation Matjaž paid for the coffee and signalled to Gabi that they ought to be on their way. In the car they sat in silence for quite some time, for which Matjaž thanked the capital G for God, or any letter in the universe that had inspired his co-passenger to be silent.
‘Roko’s not like that,’ she said at last.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you,’ she hissed, still defiant.
‘I’m very pleased to hear it. I wouldn’t envy anyone for being like me.’
‘You see, this is where I don’t believe you. If you were a man of God and you really did feel guilty about the way you were, you’d accept the light of God and you would convert.’
‘Hang on, why do I have to convert? And upon whom would you unleash your self-righteous indignation if all guys were like Roko?’
‘Don’t bring him into this. He’s a great guy! He buys me flowers, takes me out for hot chocolate, we go to the cinema in the evenings and then –’
‘Please, stop right there, I’m not interested in what happens after that,’ he implored her.
‘The two of us usually just go to church and light a candle!’
‘Well, quite – you can’t control yourself! Now I’m going to have to live with that image for the rest of my life,’ he complained.
‘Pft, there’s no point in talking to you.’
Matjaž did not protest. While Gabi thought dialogue was impossible, he had the opportunity to drive in peace. Here and there he let a thought escape to Sara, although he never doubted how had he handled that evening. Well, even if he had doubts he knew that now he must persevere with his commitment to the life he had chosen by rejecting Sara. Even if it meant life without her was sometimes desperately frightening because the outline of the future was so hazy. Before, it had seemed that his existence progressed in accordance with a certain idea of the world, the organization of the everyday – connected to Sara, of course – but now that model had collapsed, along with the abstract vision of what love should be and what kind of woman ought to fit with it. He was without vision, without routine, without focus, without a framework. Now he drifted across the earth, light as a feather, but at the same time he had a feeling that he didn’t belong, that all the coordinates were jumbled and he was going to be sucked into a black hole. Only now did he – for the first time after breaking up with Sara – feel free. And however much the drifting and wandering was welcome in its own, unfamiliar way, it was at the same time a source of anguish more than anything else.
Father Simon, a bloke of around fifty years old in seriously good shape, was waiting for them in front of the doors of the attractive church. Smiling, he greeted them, ‘Praised be Jesus!’
‘Praised be Jesus,’ Gabi blushed.
Matjaž merely mumbled, ‘Hello.’
After a brief handshake, Father Simon led the two of them into the church and showed them where all the noble activities took place in the name of God. Gabi helped him by positing obvious and obviously flattering questions, which the priest answered in a matter-of-fact and rather reasonable manner – as far as Matjaž could tell. When they had finished looking around and talking, the man of God said, ‘Well, I think we’ve earned some refreshment, don’t you?’
Matjaž nodded enthusiastically, as of course he hadn’t eaten breakfast. The parish table was full of bounty – the dedicated parishioners brought it, the priest explained – and Matjaž barely held himself back from getting stuck in immediately. When everyone had sat down, he rushed to say ‘Bon appétit!’ so that he could set upon the prepared food, when a stern look from the priest interrupted him. Father Simon lowered his head, placed his hands together in prayer and began to thank the Creator for the food that they were about to eat.
‘No, no, no!’ Matjaž cried out in his thoughts. He was convinced that it was the parishioners, the dedicated men and women – maybe even a Mercator and some of its producers – who were actually responsible for supplying him with food; the Almighty didn’t have much to do with it. Luckily the grace was short, and the food also proved delicious. ‘That Creator of yours is a really a good cook!’ Matjaž joked.
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!’ exclaimed Gabi, flustered.
The priest looked at her seriously, and said, ‘Gabi, I’ll stick up for the Almighty if I think it’s necessary.’ Matjaž gathered that Father Simon did not exactly serve the stereotype that he’d previously held about priests. And when the priest opened the wine, Matjaž was convinced that a sort of G must exist, one who jumped to his rescue at such moments.
It turned out that there were perhaps even more Gs, or neighbouring letters, than he’d believed; the priest had quite a few similar bottles in store and he didn’t appear to want to keep them to himself. For a while Gabi restrained herself, but then even she succumbed to the effects of the priest and his offerings. At first Gabi and the priest kept to the planned journalistic agenda, while Matjaž added a few unofficial portraits of the priest to a series of photos of the church, but after a few hours they were covering slightly merrier topics – which became all the merrier as they became merry themselves.
In the glow of all the delights that the priest bestowed upon them, Matjaž managed to listen to Gabi’s poetry recitals, her singing along to the priest’s guitar, and her lamentations over the sickening and sinful world that was running off the rails. She spoke of a crisis of values, and about the power of Christian doctrine; the priest interrupted her several times to ask her to calm down. He had to remind her that a Christian’s main duty on this earth was to love, and not to constantly complain, even though the world may seem so misguided to them. As soon as the priest mentioned the word ‘love’, Gabi took it as an invitation to start talking about Roko. At that point Matjaž noticed that the priest’s eyes darkened slightly; it was clear that he was already very much up-to-date with her relationship, with all of Roko’s gentlemanly traits and all of his hidden talents. When she sang praises of Roko’s unbelievable culinary abilities, which were not formed by some Jamie Oliver or – heaven forbid – Nigella Lawson, but by the good Sister Vendelina, he simply said resignedly, ‘So I heard, yeah’ or, later on, ‘I know, yes.’
But Gabi didn’t let that bother her. She thought it important to inform the priest about her love of Jesus, which hadn’t suffered any damage because of Roko; Christ was still the only true light in her life. The majority of songs that she wrote were in fact dedicated to Him and His endless benevolence, and she explained how she was convinced that He would also shine light upon her darling Roko. Before this point Matjaž had been happily lost in his own thoughts, but the words ‘endless benevolence of our Saviour’ were not ones that he could ignore.
‘Where was His endless benevolence when the Twin Towers collapsed?’ he erupted. ‘Why didn’t this endless benevolence take notice of the hungry in Africa, or the crisis in the Middle East? Why did it tolerate the accumulation of wealth and the growing poverty of the masses, or rape, or paedophilia …’
‘What is wrong with you, my son? Why are you so angry?’ The priest looked at him, surprised.
‘How can you begin to believe in Him after having taken one look at the state of the world?’ he asked, at least lowering his voice a little.
‘Therein lies the trick of faith. When everything seems against His existence, faith endures,’ the priest said, remaining calm.
Matjaž lost his temper again. ‘But that seems completely crazy to me! You see everything that’s going on around you, but faith somehow excuses it all.’
‘Blasphemous!’ Gabi cried out, but the priest only looked daggers at her.
‘True faith grants strength, hope, love, freedom, if you want it,’ Father Simon said, still quite persistent. ‘You presumably won’t deny that it provides a comfort that people need.’
‘Faith,’ Gabi sighed heavily, at which point it became clear that she was not used to alcohol. She stared longingly towards the cross on the wall.
Matjaž just shook his head slightly. ‘Well, if we accept that faith is immune to all logical reasoning, which – by the way – is really reductive, you’re not going to claim that we have to accept all the traits of the Church entirely without criticism, too?’ he asked in a considered manner.
‘No, of course not – but why did you go straight for the Church when it doesn’t mean anything to you and clearly doesn’t have any influence in your life?’ the priest challenged.
‘Because it presents itself publicly as a place of unquestionable truth – and don’t get me started on taxpayers’ money!’ said Matjaž, carrying on while Gabi hung her head in despair.
‘Well, I think things are nevertheless a little more complex, and that you’re simplifying them intentionally,’ the priest said, reasonably peacefully.
‘I would say that it’s the Church that grossly simplifies things, when it prohibits marriages, persecutes the gays, prohibits abortions,’ Matjaž persisted.
‘I would say that you don’t actually want to talk about the Church, you want conflict. There’s something else in your soul, something that isn’t quite connected to faith. Maybe it would be better if we started talking about that.’
The priest took Matjaž by surprise, but he looked at him doubtfully from beneath his eyebrows all the same. ‘Seriously, Father? I think you’re cool and all that, a really pleasant surprise, and you’ve got a great organization going on here. But as you have ascertained, I simply don’t have that faith and neither do I miss it.’
‘That’s why you’re so lost!’ Gabi shot at him loudly.
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