Countless flashes like that shook me in sweet pain. And I was stupid enough to be silent about every single one of them.
My body sought and was rewarded: in the morning while still half asleep, gladly once more before lunch, and again after our afternoon rest, or instead of it, or instead of lunch; our hunger took care of itself and soothed our overstimulated skin with intoxication. But towards evening a languor would set in; my stomach swelled up and the stale sediment grew, bitter clouds rolled in, the contours of things blurred and everything in me turned to mud. Time would refuse to pass or go anywhere of its own accord, all snotty and clogged up, like a curtain of mucous in the air; every second was a painstaking struggle. It became indescribably hard to be me–incomprehensible that I was anything less than sixty years old! With my current level of energy, it was unimaginable to fill the shell which represented me, to climb up into it out of my dark shaft.
In one of those twilights we climbed up over the hill. From the highest point of the island our gaze shot out dramatically far and met pitifully little; a blood red haze mirrored, or perhaps heralded, a mute bang–the faint trace left by the collapsed core of our galaxy. Our temporary home, together with everything we’d brought with us, looked pretty insignificant from there. The little town crept down the other slope, reluctantly, like into the gaping mouth of a cave; its upper reaches were overgrown with brambles and thorn bushes like the neglected interior of the island. In the blackness behind the last houses we glimpsed the remains of vineyards which had reverted to scrub, and further, towards the interior of the island, the signs of a century-old exodus. If the darkness had been slow in coming, in the end it proved mighty effective; the off-season hadn’t extinguished all illumination. The few half-hearted specklets of light only irritated the eye and made the steep sidestreets and paths even harder to negotiate; they were eroded with potholes and trenches, with pipes jutting out of like broken bones as if the island was in the throes of trench warfare between rodents. The shutters were all closed tight like the lids of blind eyes. Even more of them were simply missing, as well as the window frames, doors and everything behind the facade which normally constitutes a house; the dominant form of architecture was the stone skeleton with a fig tree growing through the collapsed roof and with rubbish and excrement thrown inside. But it became ever more questionable as to who could have done that because the only living creatures we came across were a few emaciated cats, as thin as rags, who saw us off with their bony heads as if we were the last residents and not them and their realm. And then, out of nowhere, a little girl popped up in folk costume, trailing skirts and lace, and then another, confirming that some of the population had indeed survived the mildew epidemics, urbanophile migration and government-condoned robbery; humans are a hardy breed, especially those from the islands, and they even celebrate their history if their present is going nowhere. The girls told us that a folksy gathering was to be held at the church, with the locals flicking off the Euro-tourists and presenting their authentic, conserved, offseason selves, purely for themselves. Uninvited, we just let ourselves be directed to where we could find food. At the tavern they were pleasantly surprised to see us, admired our youthfulness and what remarkably beautiful twins we were, and wanted to prattle on to us about all sorts of things. But they were far from diligent in the kitchen, and if there hadn’t been a basket of bread on the table we would have sunk our teeth into each other. When they finally had mercy, there was no overlooking how sick you were of my face and my carping, let’s call it my crap, and you lit up after hardly touching your octopus salad. I sat picking the bones out of my fish for a little longer while you, with ever more caustic lips, poured some more from the carafe and rent the air beside my head with your gaze; and then, without a word, we set off wearily down the hill, plunging into pitch darkness.
The next day dawned a doldrumish grey. Not a breath of air, no movement or activity–everything seemed stifled under that leaden hood. You went to the beach alone for the first time, without asking twice and without inquiring what it meant when I shrugged my shoulders. I spent the whole afternoon feeling the contours of that separation, how the space you vacated now prickled and hummed, and I tasted the soulless and bitter futility of time deprived of you. It turned out that those two weeks had created a narcotic addiction in me and my body no longer agreed to be without you for several hours. But when you came back, I didn’t so much as mention the wave of warmth which engulfed me. I promptly forgot that feeling and sank back into my quagmire of quiet, staring into it and not finding anything to say. I didn’t have the hint of an answer as to where this bog came from, and what came first, the chicken or the egg, and if the few grains it pecked amounted to a kind of depression, which I only call depression out of kindness towards the hippocrats who swear that everything has to have a name. Or was this bog a product of the realisation that even when I’m suffused with love I see its image in the negative, starker than stark, which permeates and poisons everything damn fast, and is not aided by my playing the hypocrite and wrapping it in sandy or muddy metaphors?
The next day, equally grey, muted and anaemic, that (Polish? Slovakian?) couple with their child appeared on the beach. It had that syndrome which reminded some people of Mongols. While it’s certainly a healthy parental approach not to stress the condition and put on a big fuss about the child, they tied its hair into a pigtail and put it in a tanga. Set aside in the sand, that baggy being perfectly portrayed the warrior resting after his ride over the endless steppes, oblivious to the play of the heavens and the squeals of children. He didn’t need playthings or the attention of others; somewhere far from the beach, beyond the coordinates of Croatia, he was preoccupied and kept blissfully smiling for hours by the discovery that sand comes alive when you take a handful of it and let it gradually trickle through your fingers, and by the realisation that the event is inexhaustible: as soon as your hands are empty you can take two more fistfuls and return it to life. Some try to shape the sand into towers and little castles, at least until the first breeze comes; for the majority it’s just something to sit on; but that little nomad, in pouring it to and fro, had unwittingly found a refuge from earthly decay.
And then the beach was raised to its feet when one of the children pointed into the water and started to scream Shark! Shark! And sure enough, fifty metres or so from the shore, a black fin could be seen cutting the surface. All in a row, admittedly two or three metres back from the wet line of sand (you could never be sure what those monsters of the deep were capable of!) we tensely watched as it drew near, lazily but steadily, the condensing of an enormous smudge immediately beneath the surface, until it floated almost straight up to our feet. It came like an epistle in fish form, a message to us from across the sea, and silence prevailed as if in expectation that it would speak and spit our verdict out on the sand. And when the creature finally beached itself, people agreed that it was a dolphin–and may always have been -but weren’t relieved. The beach was now homogenised in pity and mourning, which remained hanging over us together with the stench of decay, even after the carcass was towed out to sea by a dinghy. Everyone read what they wanted into that watery message, using as many tragic metaphors as they could. These premonitions stayed with us throughout the next two days, burying the beach and shrouding the apartment in dead silence. On the morning of the third, when I came down from the hill lugging food from the shop, you were gone.
* * *
I wanted to go, and should have already left at the end of the first week. It was as clear as day that no miracle was going to happen. But when you want to believe in something, you find a way of ignoring all the evidence to the opposite. You cling to it even after it’s evaporated in your hand, until the lack of it starts to affect your body with the inability to maintain the illusion any longer.
When we left for our holiday, my disappointment was so enormous that it well nigh filled my suitcase. Virtually the only thing still left alive was my promise to you that this was different
, that it could cancel the world which had existed before and therefore had nowhere to disappear to. The first half of the promise came true on the island: I found myself amidst a scene of natural devastation in its geographic manifestation.
Just as you’re richer the more you give away, so I was impoverished by what I gave into the void. I was drained by my very own energy since it was devoid of any practical use. Whatever I tried to give came back at me, fierce, hurtful and hungry for my flesh. There were moments when the passion still smiled, but the rest of the time it devoured me.
For days I was my own cage. The island mirrored it in three dimensions. Inside, I was unable to think of anything other than confinement and suffocation. Ever more constricted, I languished between the bars until it made my head spin. For two sleepless nights the need to pull the bars apart condensed. In the third, just before dawn, I was out of it. Irreversibly.
Rugged up in a blanket on the terrace, shivering a little in the dew, I waited for you to wake up. When you went off to the shop, I crammed together my things. During the night I’d thought up at least twenty-seven versions of my farewell message. And all of them sounded equally superfluous in the end. On the way to the bus stop, I didn’t even look back.
When I boarded the bus, a long time later, I finally felt I could breathe again. I was free of the stone which had been dragging me under. There was almost a taste of victory, however bitter. Inside, I was already busily counting and ordering the fragments of my life. I suppose that’s roughly how you feel after donating a kidney to save your own child.
The bus passed you on the uphill road out of town. At first you were a shapeless stain, appearing in the distance after a bend. Your moment as a full-scale human figure, preoccupied with the downhill slope and the heavy rucksack, was terribly brief. Then you plummeted back into shapelessness. The next bend wiped the stain clean away.
I watched this from my seat like a documentary film, and now the reel was empty and being taken off the projector. The settings of the tragedy far below were already being taken to the archives. The sun sparkled and there was a surprising freshness in the sapphire sea. The trip almost felt like a school excursion.
It stayed like that for most of the way. I bought a Vogue and read about the ultimate nuances of nails. I ate a greasy pasty with delight, dropped off to sleep and was dead to the world. When I opened my eyes the signs said Karlovac and an old lady framed by a headscarf was sitting next to me. She smiled and immediately started talking about one thing and another and offering me fruit; she took my hand between hers and marvelled at how smooth it was. And at that instant my tears started to flow.
I cried for the rest of trip, telling her the whole story, and she despaired with me and was soon crying herself. I wasn’t crying hysterically and could almost talk normally. But my head turned to liquid and ran out through my eyes and nose. And it didn’t stop afterwards in the tram, nor at home. Only towards morning was it interrupted by sleep.
The following days were similar. Tears only came on and off, and I spent most of the time lying motionless. Getting dressed or going to the bathroom for a glass of water were huge challenges. For each, it took me hours to gather the strength. From being teary and half-asleep I would drift off fitfully into the unconscious, to be returned from there again by the discomfort of a tear-soaked pillow. The change of day and night could vaguely be glimpsed through the roller blinds.
But there was also a good side to that: finally I didn’t care what Father might have been thinking and whether I was in danger of traumatising him. That feeling was a huge achievement it itself. He made something of an effort within the limits of his abilities: he stood a little in my doorway, mouthing the air; he turned his hands upwards, let them fall to his sides, and went back to the couch.
The first thing I had to do, when movements with a particular goal became feasible again, was to get rid of the sketches with their malignant aura lying unpacked at the bottom of my suitcase. Landscapes, portraits, images of the naked sleeper–I tipped the entire contents of the folder into a black garbage bag, where it was joined by my entire artistic production of the last three months, after a cursory glance had confirmed its utter worth-lessness. I donated everything to the Refuse Collection Service.
Then the decision came to me, as unimpeachable as the word of Moses and Gabriel: I had to move out. No amount of scrubbing and scouring would cleanse this container that was me: it had to be substituted. I had to cut off the dead meat, all of it. Three days later I had an immaculate new address. I didn’t even take my painting equipment. I bought everything new, right down to the last piece of underwear.
I started working that same afternoon. I didn’t perceive it as work. I sat down on the floor and began drawing lines, filling in one sheet of paper after another until my body sagged and I collapsed into bed; but as soon as I opened my eyes I continued. All the while, I was about as cerebral as the parquet floor under my bum. My hands were in the grip of that fever, but it was only local activity–the rest of me was under anaesthetic. Until the business with the woman from the twelfth floor. But four days afterwards I went on as before.
Only some weeks later did a little space for other activities and people open up. I started dropping in to see Father more regularly. Or had a quick coffee with someone for twenty minutes. Gradually the smells of late autumn reached me, the sounds of the neighbourhood, and the wish to go for a walk in Maksimir Park. I enrolled in a yoga course and tried hard to feel the spirit of the group during the exercises. Now and then I even turned on the TV without sound, like an aquarium.
Not that I never thought of you. It happened too often at first and brought on bouts of rage and bitterness–I don’t know myself and can’t stand myself when I’m like that. But when the storm subsided I was able to almost calmly recall a shared moment, a detail of your body, or imagine what you were doing. Even–in my head–to dial your number. But in reality that was quite impossible. In this life, there could be nothing more between us.
* * *
The terrace is quiet now. The entertainment potential of the situation is acutely apparent to all. Even the mobile phone avoids ringing so as not to miss anything. Pretending to be disinterested, the others oppress me with their looks, demanding a dramatic outburst. I realise I’m disappointing them, but I’m not going to withdraw. I stay sitting on a plastic chair with my eyes glued to a bottle of mineral water. Whatever they think about this is far from the punishment I deserve. It hasn’t even begun yet.
I can’t go anywhere until tomorrow morning. For now, I have to work on extending time. I take a book–a reflex which reveals its full naivety after just ten minutes. I crouch on the bed rocking, with my chin between my knees, for who knows how long. The terrace is deserted. I stick my legs out over the railing and then go back to the bed. I pull hairs out of my forearm with my teeth. Wasps are getting agitated around the watermelon in the plastic bag on the floor. I need some fresh air and head down towards the sea with large steps. My foot slips on the gravel and I go flying into a blackberry bush. It takes a lot of effort, and self-deception, to extricate myself. In the same instant, voices from the beach turn me around and send me uphill. Now I notice blood running down my left arm. It looks the way it should. I don’t stop at the houses. I rush to the peak and over the other side. I sit in the tavern at the same table. They have cigarettes, so I order a few together with an octopus salad and a carafe of red wine. When the plate arrives I already feel so sick that I would vomit if I took a single bite. I stagger through the semi-ruined city. Little peppers and kale still grow in a few of the courtyards. From somewhere I hear the braying of a donkey. On the square in front of the church a travelling salesman has laid out the content of his van: flip-flops, plastic sunglasses, enamelled pots and makeup sets. I see the darkness coming on as if someone has thrown it from an ambush.
I crouch on the bed again, rocking and biting my arm. I walk around and around in circles on the terrace to the edge of unconsciousness, sit d
own for a bit, and then walk again. Just before dawn there comes the smell of lavender, anise and overripe figs. The bus arrives completely empty. The ferry is tilted by waves whipped up by a stiff southerly wind. In the car my headache progresses from painful to acute but I light one cigarette after another. I press the accelerator to the floor although I see no need to hurry. On the contrary, it takes me great effort to-think of the journey’s destination or anything planned afterwards. The white lines rush towards me and landscapes whistle past on both sides, but that could last forever because there’s nothing ahead. All of a sudden I feel I as if I’ve run out of petrol. My body refuses to take part in the trip any more. At the next lay-by I stay sitting with both arms braced against the steering wheel and face straight ahead as if expecting the car to race off again by itself. I get out and walk around it, shivering all over although the sun is high. I drive on, and soon my pounding heart forces me to stop again. I park with the right-hand wheels in the grass and recline my seat. Spasmodically I black out, my wires lose contact. The car shudders whenever another rushes past. I wouldn’t call what I feel fear; it’s more like the anxiety before an exam.
I get home at five fifteen. The air is incredibly thick and I have to chew every breath of it. I sense great, destructive things wanting to happen in the hours ahead; just pull a string and they’d explode. Still, I stay sprawled out on the couch. Simply moving is inconceivable. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with my time.
A Handful of Sand Page 20