The Scot hardly smoked any but still had to free himself from the effects.
“I heard,” said the Mayor. “Tell him to buy an airplane because that helicopter of his is doing everyone’s head in. And not to fly around at night high on opium. One disaster is more than enough for us.”
“What disaster?” asked the Scot.
“What disaster? The ecological one.”
The Geographer was one of those people whose presence was always felt even when they weren’t around.
Everyone still talked and thought about him.
It would be better if the Geographer drove a car instead of flying.
But there was nothing anyone could do to change that.
What happened to him also happens to many people who suddenly, unexpectedly find success in life.
A sudden, irrational fear took hold of him.
The Geographer gradually began to be scared of intersections and traffic lights.
And then he became really afraid.
Several years ago the Scot had even asked him if anyone had ever driven into him or if he had been involved in any kind of accident. But the Geographer could not remember any accident.
“He flies around at night? I hadn’t heard,” said the Scot.
“You sleep well.”
“And you sleep badly?”
Wherever it went, the conversation always seemed to veer off in the wrong direction.
Perhaps the opium was not of the best quality, perhaps it was not the opium at all, or perhaps because they were not smoking too much of it but only sampling it, Winston was still just about aware of his own feelings but no longer of any threat coming from the world.
“He doesn’t have enough for an airplane now,” said the Scot. “His chemical plant is up against the wall.”
“From the Greens?”
“No, it’s more serious than that. That’s why he’s flying around. That’s why he’s flying and looking.”
“For what?”
“A direction.”
“What??”
“A new direction. He’s running like an elephant fleeing from a jungle fire.”
“Did he find the Mercator?” asked the Mayor.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Belgium.”
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“A mill?”
The Scot nodded.
“Euros?”
People who become more successful than others suddenly, with that success, acquire all kinds of fears, both explainable and unexplainable.
One of them was that it was easy to lose everything.
But together with those fears he also acquired faith.
That somewhere there was a talisman able to protect him from all of that.
If Winston’s hope was placed in a dried-out orange and his fear was limited to shortness of breath at night in bed, then it was the Geographer’s belief that he could only be protected by two Mercators.
Even though the Scot said: one should not look at everything like that.
They were only toys.
Those Mercators.
Two toys for more than a million euros each.
Each.
To be more precise, three Mercators for almost four million.
Because everything began with a mistake.
The Geographer bought two Mercators but one of them was, it turned out, not a real Mercator.
This was confirmed to him by experts in sixteenth-century cartography.
And now it had to be replaced by a real one.
The one that was not real also appeared to be from the sixteenth century but not by Mercator but by another cartographer.
The experts suspected that the globe could have been made by Hondius even though officially he was not known to have made any globes.
“Registered?” asked Winston.
“What?” asked the Scot.
“That Belgian Mercator.”
As the Geographer had told the Scot: only twenty-two pairs of officially registered Mercator globes were left in the world.
Twenty-two terrestrial ones and twenty-two celestial ones.
“Is that Mercator registered?” Winston repeated his question.
“No, it’s not registered,” said the Scot.
The Scot was interested in rarities.
He himself was a rarity.
And the Scot was interested in rarities that one could buy with the sort of money the Geographer had. The Geographer had bought a real Mercator terrestrial globe and a celestial globe that was not a real Mercator.
The fact that the globe the Geographer had acquired was not a Mercator was not, as it happens, difficult to ascertain.
One had to know only one secret.
That secret in the whole story about the globes was the one the Scot liked best.
In the world there were no two Mercator terrestrial or celestial globes that were the same.
In the world there could not be two globes exactly the same dedicated to the same person or at least not officially.
In the case of the Geographer, his celestial globe could not have been dedicated to George of Austria, Prince-Bishop of Liège, since such a globe was already registered in America.
In the Harvard Map Collection.
So, the Geographer’s first foray as a collector of globes was halfway unsuccessful.
From that moment the Geographer’s passion grew only greater and the hunt began.
He even managed to sell the fake Mercator globe.
For several thousand euros.
Without deceiving anyone.
But all that was from five years ago.
And the Geographer’s hunt for a real Mercator celestial globe reminded Winston of looking for a bride in Arabian lands.
With the help of a portrait.
Those globes gladdened the Scot’s heart.
Even more so than his set of opium tools.
Winston almost did not remember the globes.
Even though he had seen them.
In photographs.
All he remembered was that on the terrestrial Mercator globe North America was separated from South America.
A large Hippopotamus was depicted on it.
And then some kind of strange land was to be seen on it.
A Land of Pheasants or Penguins.
“What kind of land was that?” asked the Mayor.
“Where?”
“On that terrestrial globe?”
“On the terrestrial globe?”
“Yes. What name did it have on the globe? Land of Dolphins or Penguins?”
“Land of Parrots,” said the Scot. “The opium must be working on you.”
The Geographer used to recount how in some of those antique maps the European masters would intentionally mark out completely non-existent towns.
On the territory of America and not somewhere in Europe.
So that no one would suspect the deceit.
So that if anyone attempted to make copies of their maps the ones that made those copies could be caught out.
To prove their guilt in court.
“What did the Geographer have to say about those made-up towns?”
“I don’t remember anymore,” said the Scot.
“About the master cartographers specially making up all kinds of non-existent towns.”
“Oh, they did that to protect their maps. It was a kind of copyright.”
“Made-up towns,” said Winston.
“What are you on about?” asked the Scot
“Those towns.”
“Get those towns out of your mind.”
The effect of the opium on the head had subsided and the desire to talk came on.
“Did he show you any photographs?”
“Of what?”
“The new globe.”
“He did but all I remember is the backside of a centaur. That was probably the constellation of Sagittarius.”
“
And what did that backside look like?”
“Like that of an Arabian steed,” said the Scot.
“Like that of an Arabian steed, meaning what?”
“With its tail raised.”
“And what were the defects?”
The question was a professional one.
They talked so often about the Geographer’s globes that they had almost become specialists in antique cartography.
The Geographer himself used to say that if you wanted to buy a sixteenth-century globe you had to come to terms with its defects in advance.
It was impossible to find a thing that was four hundred years old without defects.
“There’s no shortage of defects,” said the Scot. “It’s dirty, damaged, stained, the worse for wear, and covered in shit.”
“Covered in shit?” asked the Mayor.
The effects of the opium had worn off.
“Fly shit,” said the Scot.
“Any mold?”
“No one had said anything about any mold. The lacquer might also have worn away,” said the Scot. “And in places the paper joints have come apart.”
“Come apart?” asked the Mayor.
“On the papier-mâché of the globe itself,” explained the Scot. “In some places as much as several millimeters.”
The Scot had a remarkable memory: he could remember everything for everyone.
“And the frame is broken,” said the Scot.
“According to what’s being said it seems to be real.”
“That’s quite possible,” said the Scot.
Winston walked home, looking like the celestial globe—dirty, covered in the lake’s toxic algae, damaged, stained, the worse for wear, and covered in fly shit.
From the inside.
Dawn was breaking.
TRANSLATED BY ROMAS KINKA
[MACEDONIA]
SNEŽANA MLADENOVSKA ANGJELKOV
Beba
FROM THE TALL APARTMENT tower, which I would often go to just so I could ride the elevator to the roof, there were the loveliest views of the surrounding buildings, of the park, and of the winding Vardar river. I would lie on my belly, pressed firmly against the hot tar roof, perched on the edge of a fifty-meter drop toward death, taking in everything around me. Sometimes I would bring some apricot seeds with me to play tricks on the passersby. Here, from up high, things look different. Owing, perhaps, to the sense of awe. The poplars aren’t as tall, and the eggs in the crow and magpie nests are within reach. I loved these trips up into the sky. I didn’t tell anyone about them, because of the girl from the police station, whose face once appeared on the ten-denar banknote after she survived a fall from the fifth floor, thanks to a hedge. I didn’t want to put my luck to the test.
If I hadn’t gone up to the roof, I would never have discovered the secret to Auntie Beba’s good complexion. She appeared one summer’s day with suitcases and a young man with whom she spoke in French, showing up at the same place where two years before she had left behind her daughter, Ana, in tears, trying desperately to break free of her grandmother’s grasp. The adults claimed that Auntie Beba ran a brothel in Paris, a gift from a patron, who is probably Ana’s father. Perhaps they said it out of malice or envy, because Auntie Beba was a very beautiful woman, and as the old maids said: “She could have any man she wanted.” Almost every day that summer, Auntie Beba climbed up to the roof of our building with a hammock chair, a bottle of water, and a book in hand. From my vantage point on top of the apartment tower I could see her clearly in her denim shorts and red bra, finding the sunniest spot. Her colorful kimono was draped over one of the ventilators protruding from the roof, which I thought were chimneys. Then that young Frenchman of hers would come and rub lotion all over her, after which Auntie Beba gleamed like a goldfish. He would take her hand, kiss it, and, bowing deeply, take leave of Auntie Beba, who would be smiling from ear to ear.
It was fascinating to watch. Especially because Auntie Beba had no idea that anyone was watching. At least that’s what I thought. One day she straightened up, shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand, and looked over at me on top of the apartment tower. I wanted to melt into the roof tar, or fall into a hole and just disappear together with all my shame. I kept my gaze firmly fixed on the ground. My heart was pounding fast.
Please stop looking at me, I thought to myself, just let me crawl away from here. I promise I won’t stare at you anymore.
Slowly, I raised my head. Auntie Beba was standing in the same position. She beckoned me to come over. Dear God, how embarrassing! She’ll tell Mom. Everyone’ll find out. I shrank into myself. Auntie Beba was still beckoning to me.
I don’t see another way out; I’ll have to go over to her. I’ll apologize, I’ll cry for a bit, and then she’ll let me go. With my heart racing, I descended fifty meters vertically into hell, then fifty meters horizontally through purgatory, and twenty meters up the stairs to … I reached the roof of my building. Lying next to the ventilator were the black kimono with colorful flowers and a pair of bunny slippers with tails, which we just used to call “bunnies.”
Auntie Beba turned to face me, and with a smile said:
“You’ve arrived, chérie. Sit down here beside me.”
She was holding a book in her hands—Intimacy and The Room: Two Stories by Jean Paul Sartre—with a nude woman on the cover.
“It seems as if we have something in common, chérie.”
I stood there silently, awaiting my verdict. Everyone always pays a price for crime.
“What’s your name, chérie?”
She addressed me warmly, which just made me feel even more anxious. I was on tenterhooks: when will this burst of friendliness erupt into hell.
“Speak up dear, don’t be afraid.”
“Maja,” I lied.
“Come over here, Maja. Sit down beside me.”
I sat down on top of the ventilator, right beside Auntie Beba.
“Do you like to look at things from up high?” she addressed me warmly again.
I nodded in agreement.
“You feel that you are omnipotent, like God!”
I said nothing. I didn’t have that feeling. It was just that I could see much further. I could see a lot more than what you can when you’re standing with both feet firmly planted on the ground.
“Do you know my daughter, Ana?” continued Auntie Beba with a smile on her face.
“I know her, but we don’t hang out together,” I replied.
“Why don’t you hang out together, chérie?”
I was still trembling, I didn’t have an answer to that question. I remained silent.
“Well, I suppose she’s older than you, she’s got other friends, but I’m sure you have something in common.”
“I collect doilies.” I figured that was the only thing that Ana and I could have in common.
“I don’t know if she collects doilies, but I’ll ask her,” Auntie Beba said in a calm voice. “I sent her many things from France, but I don’t think she’s kept any of them. If she has, you can do a swap with her.”
After a short pause Auntie Beba broached the main question that had been hanging in the air the whole time.
“Why do you climb up to the top of the apartment tower, chérie—what if you were to fall?”
“I won’t fall,” I replied quickly, staring at her “bunnies.”
“Who are you checking out from up there? A young man, perhaps?”
“No,” I answered curtly.
“Have you been doing this for a long time?”
“Well, for about two years, ever since I wanted to get away from Severjan.”
“And who’s Severjan?” Auntie Beba inquired with a smirk.
“A young Gypsy boy who was in love with me and followed me around constantly. I felt stifled by him, so I had to get away.”
“So you decided to watch how he runs after you from up high,” Auntie Beba said, again with a smirk.
She had me firmly in the palm of he
r hand. I felt powerless.
“Better I should watch him than for him to hassle me,” I said gathering up my courage.
“And what happened with Severjan, chérie?”
“Nothing. He fell in love with the girl from Galičnik and started following her around. He’d sit on the bench opposite the apartment block with a newspaper in his hands. He’d cut out eyeholes in the newspaper so that he could see through them.”
“Hmm, cute, like a detective.” Auntie Beba was attempting to enter into my story.
“There aren’t any Gypsy detectives,” I replied and turned my head toward the “bunnies.”
“My boyfriend’s a Rom,” Auntie Beba said with pride, and let out a heavy sigh.
“Is he a detective,” I asked in amazement.
“No, he’s not. He plays the guitar. He’s a true artist, chérie.”
“But, isn’t he French?” I asked in astonishment.
“Yes, but of Romani origin.”
“Here at the market there’s a boy, Kay. His mom’s a Gypsy, but his dad’s one of us. They live in Germany but stay here through the summer,” I said, revealing my secret love to Auntie Beba. “He’s very handsome, like your Frenchman.”
“When you grow up, he might become your boyfriend.”
“Oh, there’s no chance of that! Mom’d kick me out of the house.”
Auntie Beba burst into friendly laughter. I tried to memorize the way she tittered and chortled, the way that every muscle on her face moved when she laughed, so that I could practice it afterwards and laugh like that as well.
“When you’re all grown up, your mother won’t be able to tell you what to do. You’ll do as you please.” Auntie Beba wanted to steer me along her own path.
“But, if I make a mistake, there’s no turning back.”
“There’s no turning back, but there is looking forward. What do I lack? Each day is better than the last.”
“I sometimes sing at lunchtime.” I wanted to see if there was any truth to the myth of the connection between singing at lunchtime and marrying a Gypsy.
“I sing, too—now more than ever since I have someone.” Auntie Beba leaned forward in her hammock and grasped my hand in a gesture of farewell. “I enjoyed our conversation together, but don’t ever let me see you on top of the apartment tower again.”
I nodded in agreement, said a brief “bye,” and went off.
Best European Fiction 2017 Page 20