Antidote to a Curse

by James Cristina

  At night as she lay in her single bed she began to reflect on her meeting. Joining her hands in prayer over her stomach, she stared at the ceiling and imagined it crowded with the shadows of gnarled and knotty branches, giving her momentary cause to giggle. Jasna inhaled the welcome scent, the barely detectible airflow. Earlier in the day she had pulled up the window a mere inch, and since it was overcast, it was deadly dark. She never bothered to draw the curtains of her second-floor bedroom, not even at night. Not a single light shone in the vicinity. She heard the tree closest to the window stir. The branches of the ninety-year-old alder swayed and moaned under the strain of its very existence. She focused on emptying her mind of trivial thoughts and concentrated on herself, her breathing and her being in relation to the forest around her. The family had successfully carved out a privileged spot in the middle of the woods. Singular and with little in the way of connections, she felt like the luckiest person in the world.

  No, she would not collaborate with Abrah. Her fractured and urgently assembled poems were musically wrought in and of themselves. She didn’t write them so they could be set and adjusted to music. To do that would be to miss the point. She realised that her initial enthusiasm was based on something else, something far more basic, masking itself as artistic interest. Before pulling the duvet tightly to her chin she decided she would do her best to avoid Abrah – besides, she was a good twenty years older!

  One morning a few weeks later, the sun shone through the windows and the room radiated with light. A dull ache, one she had courted recently, threatened to consume her. Wounded, empty, she stared at the ceiling, but something about the quality of light and its dappled reflection through the treetops persuaded her. She pulled the duvet aside and reached for her slippers. As she dashed down the stairs she knew she had been wise not to be swayed by Abrah’s proposal. Yes, it had been interesting to meet her, but only because it tested her resolve. Of course she enjoyed the music – the woman’s execution was indicative of her consummate prowess – and yes, she thought she had something to learn from her, but a partnership was out of the question. The fact that she had contemplated this after meeting her warranted questioning.

  She set about making a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and a side serving of melon and yoghurt. When the toast popped out of the toaster she caught each slice on the rise and smothered it instantly with butter. ‘Ha,’ she said out loud. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, she thought, write poetry to be accompanied by background music. By the close of breakfast the proposal felt foreign.

  Though she had set the day aside for writing, she knew that it was a perfect morning for cleaning. The intensity of the light summoned her like a bugle call, rinsing her mind of any hesitation. In fact, she was certain that today she wouldn’t do any writing at all.

  She would help Esmira out, she decided. The family were away on their yearly pilgrimage to the south and this time she wouldn’t let them down. She mopped all the hard floors and vacuumed the carpets, she emptied the dishwasher and handwashed the dishes instead, even giving the inside of the dishwasher door a good wipe with her recently purchased chamois. As soon as this was done, she decided she would clean the kitchen cupboards and sweep the front and back porches, but by the time she had scrubbed all the cupboard doors, inside and out, with cream cleanser, she was exhausted. She decided to give the sweeping a miss. Happy with her efforts, she felt the urge to lie down for five minutes or so, but in her heart she knew she was liable to catnap for an hour. How she wanted to recline on the sofa, but stalwart to the core, she resisted the urge. Instead, she galloped up the staircase and decided to wash quickly with her flannel while standing. Dressed in a simple blouse and dimije, she was ready for a walk by the river. This time she didn’t hesitate to wrap her wallet of poems around her waist. Scooping up her straw hat on her way out, Jasna made for the river without so much as locking her door.

  She followed the route of her calling and providence provided. Ludovico, that water rat, was sunning himself in pretty much the same spot where she had found him a little over two weeks ago. He looked up, and raising himself on his elbows, he greeted her with a smile, intuitive to the purpose of her return.

  She stepped forward and after a moment’s hesitation she knew that this was it. After the years of reflection, the drafts, the doubts, there had to come a time that would stand as the definitive version. Without publication, it was this reading that would define the poem’s realisation.

  Without introduction she cleared her voice, and with eyes firmly on the print she allowed her poem to be heard.

  Upon his Saddle sprung a Bird

  And crossed a thousand Trees

  Before a Fence without a Fare

  His Fantasy did please

  And then he lifted up his throat

  And squandered such a Note

  A Universe that overheard

  Is stricken by it yet –

  His applause left her speechless. She dedicated it to him.

  Within seconds of leaving him a copy to peruse, she gave a rather formal bow and disappeared back into the wood.

  He hoped to meet her again. He had only met her a few times and the meetings had been intense. She was known as someone who bargained outside of the municipality for produce. Indeed, she was known for her bartering skills. She was also known to walk the forests, dressed plainly, clutching paper and a pencil – jotting down her intriguing fragments. He wondered how many of these poems she had written. There was a sense of singular intensity about her, birdlike, thin and precise, guarding a constant preoccupation.

  For now Ludovico was content to be alone. To enjoy the solitary grandeur about him, even if this meant ignoring bits of blown feathers, amputated wings and a forest embedded with a malignant undergrowth of cartridges and landmines.

  He crossed the babbling stream and kicked the decoy off its spindle. It landed in the water, headfirst, and floated downstream. He explored the flora along the bank, the shoots, the flowers … a verdant path he had noted weeks ago. It was slightly worn, with various smells: animal, human, the scent of perfume. There was something intriguing about the lush corridor in which the path seemed to ascend. He took a few tentative steps and within seconds the leaves lost their lustre. The light splintered the canopy sparsely. Mud slid underfoot, caking the soles of his wedge sandals. The world gave way to large intrusive shadows, trees; Ludovico focused on the scent, his path momentarily obliterated by the lush canopy.

  Within minutes he found a resting place. With Jasna’s poem folded neatly in the palm of his hand he sank to the ground, allowing himself the luxury of another catnap. He crumpled against the pleated fold of the grassy mound. He had the feeling of sinking in a spiral through the deeper waters of the Una, transporting him through a swell of images that surfaced with glassy clarity. The images, varied and generally unrelated, appeared fleetingly. Ludovico scanned what he could but found the sequence devoid of sense.

  The riverbed remained inaccessible and the Una, named for its uniqueness by the Romans, proved itself to be exactly that: ocean-deep, unique. Indeed, he felt the temperature of the water dip significantly as he continued to spiral downwards. ‘Jasna,’ he called psychically through the shadowy depths of the transformed river. A faint voice replied, luring Ludovico’s attention to the water’s edge.

  Is that Abrah’s voice? he asked himself.

  Perhaps she was standing ankle-deep among the river reeds waiting for his ascent, his possible reply. He willed her name. The sonar radiated through and beyond the spiral of his descent in a series of rings. He hoped to secure some form of contact. ‘Jasna,’ a nondescript voice replied. Perhaps it was just his imagination? He held out his hands, keen to signal his location, keen to find that same spot by the river that he had unwittingly abandoned.

  When he surfaced from the frigid depths of the Una and the abundance of images it seemed to contain, it was Jasna and not Abrah he found waiting for him on the riverbank. He shook the exces
s water from his body, blinking leisurely as she handed over a folded handkerchief.

  A few lines of blue ink scribbled on the back of a luxurious red handkerchief. The handkerchief was a weave of light linen, embroidered lightly at the edges. ‘It has no title,’ I said, a little surprised by the humble presentation.

  His brow wrinkled in consideration.

  ‘Croatian?’ I asked, observing the barely legible script.

  ‘Croatian,’ he affirmed, deadpan.

  ‘How many did she write?’

  He scrutinised me, unable to fathom the motivation for my interest.

  ‘Twenty to thirty.’ He lifted his hands vacantly towards me. ‘I only saw a scrapbook.’

  ‘Ah,’ I uttered, obviously disappointed. ‘So few.’

  She wasn’t a professional,’ Zlatko mused, ‘just determined.’

  I found myself grappling with his depiction, his tone.

  ‘She won the odd award here and there,’ he proffered noncommittally, scratching the growth beneath his chin.

  ‘What did you think of her poems?’

  Again he examined me, before declaring, ‘Not much.’

  I drew back, stung by the admission so late in his story. ‘I thought you said there was no second …’ but I stopped myself in time, recalling his revelation that the competition was fixed.

  ‘There was good reason for making her the winner,’ he conceded.

  ‘So you said.’

  Instead of feeling repelled, I found myself even more intrigued, the admission only further highlighting the credence of another story – a story behind the story.

  In spite of the admission, Zlatko reverted to the designated text – Jasna, the prize-winning writer. He continued, rendering her worthy of critical commentary, ‘Her rhymes were off, her syllable count all over the place,’ hollowing out his ruddy cheeks to indicate a look that was far from approving. ‘Her poems may have made good poems – eventually.’ He raised the tips of his fingers lackadaisically, if not regretfully, in a dismissive wave.

  The gesture offended me. Given my interest in the story, I couldn’t help but take it personally. I tried to reel him in. ‘They made good drafts?’

  Seeing the need for some affirmation, he gave a perfunctory nod. ‘Original.’

  I felt like I was wading through a mire of reflected commentary and the odd comment, possibly made up, intended to distract. Despite my doubts about her ability, I found myself questioning the storyteller’s motives. Till now, I had no reason to doubt the relinquished points. I was beginning to wonder if something happened, something that had passed between them that proved insurmountable.

  I looked at the napkin, the Croatian script, the lines sprawled at random lengths. Her rhymes were off, her syllable count all over the place, I mused, while seated before him. Original … Something about the word choice, the tone, wasn’t his. I could feel it in the tide of my blood. I could feel myself recoiling as he failed in his story, word by word.

  I pinned him with a raised brow. ‘A minimalist?’

  After grappling with a few word choices, he rubbed his hands together and shrugged. ‘She was after impact!’ he revealed, slamming his fist into an open palm. ‘She couldn’t care less about polish.’ He pulled out a cigarette, placed it unlit into his mouth. ‘Perhaps she was a minimalist,’ he allowed, finally working his way back to the question. ‘Her readings were less than a minute.’

  Slumped diagonally across from one another, we had staked out the parameters of our seating arrangement. This cafe could be any cafe, with a million different Darkos to serve us. Zlatko’s story continued. ‘She had these weird ideas about prose,’ he offered, tapping the end of his unlit cigarette against the tabletop.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She thought prose was second-rate,’ he divulged, lighting his cigarette.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, expecting some elaborate defence.

  ‘She said it was limiting, too literal.’

  I relinquished a dismissive pout and considered ordering a drink. Too literal, I thought to myself.

  ‘She was interested in the impulse behind the story.’

  My face lit up with an irrepressible smile. ‘The motivation?’

  He inhaled his cigarette, tilting his head backwards. Deep in thought, he shook his head resolutely.

  ‘The beginning?’

  ‘No, no … more than just the start,’ he asserted, stepping clear of the net I had spun, and after another shake of his head, advanced, ‘certain triggers.’

  ‘Triggers,’ I repeated, feeling remotely wiser.

  He drew on his cigarette and blew out a circular puff of smoke. ‘Like girls?’ he asked, as his eyes settled on me.

  ‘Sure,’ I conceded.

  He regarded me wearily. ‘You might have liked her,’ and before lowering his gaze, ‘shame you won’t meet.’ He gravitated towards the ashtray, leaving me stung. He tapped his cigarette lightly, underneath, with the back of his thumb. He contemplated the poem, and folded it neatly, leaving it on the tabletop.

  Leaning forward, I unfolded it. ‘Did she publish?’

  He shook his head lightly. ‘She wrote them for herself …’ He trailed off.

  ‘And?’

  ‘To share with friends.’ Our eyes met and in spite of myself I revealed a corner of a smile. I tapped his hand lightly before drawing back, looking through the near impenetrable cage of a foreign language. ‘So why do you keep it?’

  He lifted his glasses as if holding up a magnifying glass, and peering through one of the lenses, he offered, ‘I like how she’s used the word “squandered”.’

  ‘Translate a few,’ I suggested.

  ‘The politics,’ he said, lifting his fingers off the table.

  ‘Not interested?’

  He blew a conclusive puff over his shoulder. I knew his English was good; perhaps he just wasn’t ready. If she was dead, it was probably an opportunity, an extraordinary one. Surely there would be papers here that would publish topical poems from a Bosnian poet.

  I sat back.

  ‘I’ll translate it.’

  I smiled broadly.

  ‘No promises.’ He gave me a wink that failed to convince.

  ‘What’s with the handkerchief?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the way she would write them, a napkin, a receipt …’

  He folded it twice, diagonally, and folded it again before slipping the little triangle into his shirt pocket beside his remaining cigarette.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  He raised his brow a little suspiciously, rendering his appearance surly.

  ‘You said the next day is when things started to go wrong.’

  He refused to take the reins, so I continued. ‘You woke up …’

  ‘We woke up,’ he corrected. ‘I was well. You know what it’s like …’

  I let my eyes fall to the tabletop, hopeful he would continue.

  ‘She noticed,’ he admitted, swallowing drily. ‘We had slept through the day and woke to a three-quarter moon.’

  I snuffed a brief chortle of laughter.

  He eyed me piercingly. ‘It had been a warm day,’ and with a pointed finger stressed the word, ‘clear,’ then added gently, ‘the night was cold.’

  ‘So you …’

  He gave a disapproving twist of his head. His reluctance to disclose was palpable. He pulled out the handkerchief, unfolded it and reconsidered the writing, holding the cloth between two hands. ‘She got pregnant.’

  ‘From a one-off!’

  Zlatko slid the handkerchief towards me, stubbed out his cigarette and ran his hand through his hair. His fringe rose in a dishevelled peak.

  I visualised a rural scene, deserted, tranquil in the morning mist. I gestured towards Darko with a raised finger and mouthed the word ‘coffee’. I looked at Zlatko and raised another finger.

  ‘So she came to Velika Kladuša and sniffed you out?’ The memory unfurled behind glazed eyes. ‘With the help of a furious brother,’ I
prompted.

  ‘She came with her sister on a motorbike,’ he revealed in a low monotone.

  I need something stronger, I decided. Coming to grips with this story was more than I’d anticipated. ‘Whisky, on me,’ I encouraged.

  Zlatko conceded willingly. He gave another dry swallow, ran his tongue briefly over his lip.

  I gestured towards Darko, ‘Two whiskies.’

  Darko whirled one finger around the other, looking somewhat confused. I drew my hand through the air, cancelling the first order, and called out the whisky order a second time.

  ‘We’ll have a drink. We’ll have a drink and we can talk about this another time.’ I gave a light stretch.

  Zlatko reached for his remaining cigarette, but after a second’s thought, a moment’s hesitation, he decided to let it slip back into his pocket.

  I stepped through the door and came face to face with Henry. He was on his way from the laundry to the basement. He was in his grey overalls and ready for business. I could see the ruddy flanks of his torso since he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He had a new pair of low-cut black boots, which I could see clearly since the cuffs of his pants were folded above his ankles. I closed the door, but his nervousness was all the more apparent. I think I’d opened the door when he was mid-sentence. He was muttering to himself. He often muttered to himself. A heavily edited tape seemed to wind to and fro, and every fifth or sixth word had been erased. Such was the text of Henry Renolds’ thoughts. His flawed rhythm and anxious breath continued to collide into a wall of uncertainty. More than the words themselves, the jerky rhythm indicated the trauma of attempting to fulfil his new business venture.