While this quiet revelation was occurring, to the eyes of the others present Tobias seemed to be observing with keen interest a narrow beam of flickering light that extended to the floor from the tiny window high up in the room to the exclusion of all else. All the Presiding Officer’s attempts to inform him that his presence was no longer required fell on deaf ears. The Presiding Officer now resorted to shouting at Tobias in order to make him get up from his seat.
‘Mr Keller, you are free to go!’
Tobias flinched at the sudden change of tone, causing the Presiding Officer to feel somewhat guilty for having raised his voice, and this uninvited sentiment, in turn, caused him to embark on an internal monologue about whether he should allow himself to pity the defendant. Although the scales did tip to the defendant’s detriment, and although his sudden peculiar behaviour could easily have evoked feelings of compassion in any observer, the Presiding Officer could not help but feel that the defendant had deliberately paved his own way to destruction and that he surely had enough sense to know how futile it is to battle against forces that none of his numerous predecessors were able to defeat.
While Chamber C of the Second Wing could finally allow itself a sigh of relief after having successfully settled yet another case – much like a sovereign would sigh after having crushed an enemy uprising – the Presiding Officer had no choice but to seek on his own the answers to the questions that troubled him regarding the defendant’s fate.
Unfortunately, there was no one to tell the Presiding Officer that as soon as Tobias Keller took his first breath of freedom he would begin to engage in an entirely new form of amusement by hiding in remote corners of the building and listening to passers-by whisper fantastic fabrications about Chamber C of the Second Wing.
And there was no way for the Presiding Officer to know that the moment the defendant stepped out of the room and noticed the gaze of his Great Protector still peacefully resting upon him, he would set out down the central corridor of the Second Wing with a lump in his throat and a contrastingly light and graceful gait.
My sleep was rudely interrupted by the unintelligible soliloquy of a wandering drunkard, and I was left feeling broken and disoriented. Like on many previous occasions when I was abruptly awakened, I sought solace in the crisp morning air, the difference being that on this particular morning I walked the streets of my town without turning to look over my shoulder, without noticing suspicious characters lurking around every corner, without watching out for unfamiliar stares, the evil eye, hidden omens or warning signs.
I thought about the one to whom I had ascribed so many foul attributes and derogatory epithets, about how my distorted viewpoint had managed to pollute the image of an innocent man. I could still feel his smell on my jacket and the strands of his hair brushing against my neck. I thought about the incident that had brought us together and wondered in which of the many black holes of my soul I would be residing had our paths not crossed in such a curious manner. It seemed to me that on this particular morning I was once again breathing freely, and, although I was unsure whether I owed thanks to him, a foreign factor or perhaps both, I felt immense gratitude towards the man, knowing that it was none other than his presence in my life that had managed to rouse me from a continuous state of apathy and force me to see things as they really were.
On the way home from my walk, I passed by the red seven painted on the old birch tree in front of building number thirteen. I mustered the courage to approach it, stopping only a couple of metres from the trunk. The red paint had already started to peel off the bark, and when I moved even closer I noticed that it had been applied with an unsteady hand. I recalled the way Ezekiel circled around that seven, the way he held on to the tree, convulsing as though possessed. Then an intriguing thought crossed my mind: how could I be so certain that I have never been the subject of some stranger’s scrutiny and that my own behaviour has never caused feelings of pity in another, just like his outlandish behaviour had caused in me? If I alone have been the un-deliberate creator of the tragic fate which I so believed was mine, could I detect a hint of truth in the entire myth about the curse he tried to warn me about? But once I reached my building and was again faced with the two sixes, I recalled the facts the doctor revealed to me the night before, and I quickly dismissed the ridiculous idea. I started up the stairs, laughing to myself at the expense of my fevered imagination … We’re two of a kind, Ezekiel and I …
The rest of the day I dedicated to my composition, filling my manuscript with what I considered to be its final version. I had decided to finally take the opportunity after the next performance to introduce myself to Andreas Rusa – the famous pianist, composer and arranger – and kindly ask him to look over my work and assist with any useful suggestions.
When it grew dark I went to see Noémi. I told her that I would be glad of her company and asked if I could spend the night. There seemed to have existed an unspoken agreement between us to postpone the explanation I owed her regarding the unreturned phone calls. She must have intuited that the mysterious occurrences I told her about had been resolved and that her initial rationale had proved accurate, and she probably wished to spare me any discomfort by being discreet about the issue.
Intimacy of a sexual nature was not on my mind that evening, and all I craved for was her company. It was high time I stopped ignoring the fact that our relationship had grown deeper roots. We spent the evening in front of the television, watching sitcoms and chatting about trivial issues, and I was out like a log with my head on her shoulder in the midst of some Hollywood sob story. In the morning she served us coffee in Nescafé cups she had won as a prize in a contest. With our feet dangling over the ledge and our toes touching casually, we sat on the balcony sipping the coffee, watching our warm breath form various shapes in the cool air and occasionally succumbing to uninhibited laughter for no particular reason.
As I was strolling down Noémi’s street on my way home, sleepy-eyed shopkeepers were already busy unlocking the heavy metal shutters of their shops, while some were arranging fruit on the outdoor stalls … I passed a tiny bakery just as a young woman was removing a tray of sweet rolls from the oven to place on display by the window. The rolls were steaming hot, with jam oozing out in several places on to the tray.
I entered the bakery, and as I looked up to address the young woman I noticed that she was endowed with an unusual kind of beauty. Her perfectly defined features aside, she exuded an air of grace and contentment – as opposed to someone who spends hours on end standing over hot ovens – which was why I assumed her to be the owner’s daughter who was there to provide temporary assistance.
The paper bag in which she placed the sweet roll was so hot that I had to stretch the sleeves of my sweater over my hands to avoid getting burned. I stepped outside, only to meet her intense gaze on the opposite side of the glass, and I took this as an incentive to return and purchase another roll.
‘We wouldn’t want to upset the missus,’ she commented with a mischievous smile as she gripped a perfectly rounded roll from the middle, arching her slender body over the tray.
Flattered by the attention and even more so by the ingenuity with which she was enquiring about my marital status, I decided to permit myself a moment of harmless flirtation by giving her an honest and straightforward reply, and one which she would also find the most gratifying.
‘It’s not for the missus …’ I began, but an unexpected emotion cut me off mid sentence. This emotion could be most closely compared with the acceptable selfishness frequently displayed by children, for much like a child that keeps its arms tightly wrapped around its most precious possession, I had decided to keep the rest of my thought entirely to myself, allowing it to play out silently in my mind … but for a kind of wonder-worker the world has not yet witnessed – the prophet Ezekiel.
WORLD SERIES SEASON 3 : SERBIA
THE WORLD SERIES IS A JOINT INITIATIVE BETWEEN
PETER OWEN PUBLISHERS AND ISTROS BOOKS
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Peter Owen and Istros Books are distributed in the USA and Canada by Independent Publishers Group/Trafalgar Square
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Translated from the Serbian Tragična sudbina Morica Tota
Copyright © Dana Todorović 2008
English translation copyright © Dana Todorović 2017
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
The moral rights of the author and translator are hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Paperback ISBN 978-0-7206-1983-6
Epub ISBN 978-0-7206-1984-3
Mobipocket ISBN 978-0-7206-1985-0
PDF ISBN 978-0-7206-1986-7
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover design: Davor Pukljak, frontispis.hr
Typeset by Octavo Smith Publishing Services
OTHER TITLES IN THE WORLD SERIES SERBIAN SEASON
Filip David, The House of Remembering and Forgetting (translated by Christina Pribichevich Zorić)
Mirjana Novaković, Fear and His Servant (translated by Terence McEneny)
PETER OWEN WORLD SERIES
‘The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page,’ wrote St Augustine. Journey with us to explore outstanding contemporary literature translated into English for the first time. Read a single book in each season – which will focus on a different country or region every time – or try all three and experience the range and diversity to be found in contemporary literature from across the globe.
Read the world – three books at a time
3 works of literature in
2 seasons each year from
1 country each season
For information on forthcoming seasons go to peterowen.com / istrosbooks.com
OTHER TITLES IN THE
PETER OWEN WORLD SERIES
SEASON 3: SERBIA
FILIP DAVID
The House of Remembering and Forgetting
Translated by Christina Pribichevich Zorić
Introduction by Dejan Djokić
978-0-7206-1973-7 / 160pp / £9.99
Albert Weisz ‘disappears’ in his early childhood. To save the young boy from the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp, his father makes a hole in the floor of the cattle truck taking his and other Jewish families to their deaths. He then pushes Albert’s brother Elijah and then Albert through and down on to the tracks, hoping that someone will find and take pity on the two boys in the white winter night.
In an attempt to understand the true nature of evil, David shows us that it is necessary to walk in two worlds: the material one in which evil occurs and the alternative world of dreams, premonitions and visions in which we try to come to terms with the dangers around us. With its intricate plot and interweaving of fact and fiction, The House of Remembering and Forgetting grapples with the paradoxical and painful dilemma of whether to choose to remember or to forget.
MIRJANA NOVAKOVIĆ
Fear and His Servant
Translated by Terence McEneny
978-0-7206-1977-5 / 256pp / £9.99
Belgrade seems to have changed in the years since Count Otto von Hausburg last visited the city, and not for the better. Fog and mist have settled around the perimeter walls, and everywhere there is talk of murder, rebellion and death.
Serbia in the eighteenth century is a battleground of empires, with the Ottomans on one side and the Habsburgs on the other. In the besieged capital, safe for now behind the fortress walls, Princess Maria Augusta waits for love to save her troubled soul. But who is the strange, charismatic count, and can we trust the story he is telling us? While some call him the Devil, he appears to have all the fears and pettiness of an ordinary man.
In this daring and original novel, Novaković invites her readers to join the hunt for the undead, travelling through history, myth and literature into the dark corners of the land that spawned that most infamous word: vampire.
PREVIOUS SEASONS IN THE
PETER OWEN WORLD SERIES
Season 1: Slovenia
Evald Flisar, Three Loves, One Death
Jela Krečič, None Like Her
Dušan Šarotar, Panorama
Season 2: Spain (Castilian)
Cristina Fernández Cubas, Nona’s Room
Julio Llamazares, Wolf Moon
José Ovejero, Inventing Love
PETER OWEN WORLD SERIES
SEASON 1: SLOVENIA
JELA KREČIČ
None Like Her
Translated by Olivia Hellewell
978-0-7206-1911-9 / 288pp / £9.99
Matjaž is fearful of losing his friends over his obsession with his ex-girlfriend. To prove that he has moved on from his relationship with her, he embarks on an odyssey of dates around Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. In this comic and romantic tale a chapter is devoted to each new encounter and adventure. The women he selects are wildly different from one another, and the interactions of the characters are perspicuously and memorably observed.
Their preoccupations – drawn with coruscating dialogue – will speak directly to Generation Y, and in Matjaž, the hero, Jela Krečič has created a well-observed crypto-misogynist of the twenty-first century whose behaviour she offers up for the reader’s scrutiny.
EVALD FLISAR
Three Loves, One Death
Translated by David Limon
978-0-7206-1930-0 / 208pp / £9.99
A family move from the city to the Slovenian countryside. The plan is to restore and make habitable a large, dilapidated farmhouse. Then the relatives arrive. There’s Cousin Vladimir, a former Partisan writing his memoirs, Uncle Vinko, an accountant who would like to raise the largest head of cabbage and appear in the Guinness World Records, Aunt Mara and her illegitimate daughter Elizabeta who’s hell bent on making her first sexual encounter the ‘event of the century’. And, finally, Uncle Švejk, the accidental hero of the war for independence, turns up out of the blue one Sunday afternoon …
Evald Flisar handles the absurd events that follow like no other writer, making the smallest incidents rich in meaning. The house, the family, their competing instincts and desires provide an unlikely vehicle for Flisar’s commentary on the nature of social cohesion and freedom.
DUŠAN ŠAROTAR
Panorama
Translated by Rawley Grau
978-0-7206-1922-5 / 208pp / £9.99
Deftly blending fiction, history and journalism, Dušan Šarotar takes the reader on a deeply reflective yet kaleidoscopic journey from northern to southern Europe. In a manner reminiscent of W.G. Sebald, he supplements his engrossing narrative with photographs, which help to blur the lines between fiction and journalism. The writer’s experience of landscape is bound up in a personal yet elusive search for self-discovery, as he and a diverse group of international fellow travellers relate in their distinctive and memorable voices their unique stories and common quest for somewhere they might call home.
PETER OWEN WORLD SERIES
SEASON 2: SPAIN
CRISTINA FERNÁNDEZ CUBAS
Nona’s Room
Translated by Kathryn Phillips-Miles and Simon Deefholts
978-0-7206-1953-9 / 160pp / £9.99
A young girl envious of the attention given to her sister has a brutal awakening. A young woman facing eviction puts her trust in an old lady who invites her into her home. A mature woman checks into a hotel in Madrid and finds herself in a time warp … In this prize-winning new collection Cristina Fernández Cubas takes us through a glass darkly into a world where things are never quite what they seem, and lurking within each of these six suspenseful short stories is an unexpected surprise. Nona’s Room is the latest offering from one of Sp
ain’s finest contemporary writers.
JULIO LLAMAZARES
Wolf Moon
Translated by Simon Deefholts and Kathryn Phillips-Miles
978-0-7206-1945-4 / 192pp / £9.99
Defeated by Franco’s Nationalists, four Republican fugitives flee into the Cantabrian Mountains at the end of the Spanish Civil War. They are on the run, skirmishing with the Guardia Civil, knowing that surrender means death. Wounded and hungry, they are frequently drawn from the safety of the wilderness into the villages they once inhabited, not only risking their lives but those of sympathizers helping them. Faced with the lonely mountains, harsh winters and unforgiving summers, it is only a matter of time before they are hunted down. Llamazares’s lyrical prose vividly animates the wilderness, making the Spanish landscape as much a witness to the brutal oppression of the period as the persecuted villagers and Republicans.
Published in 1985, Wolf Moon was the first novel that centred on the Spanish Maquis to be published in Spain after Franco’s death in 1975.
JOSÉ OVEJERO
Inventing Love
Translated by Simon Deefholts and Kathryn Phillips-Miles
978-0-7206-1949-2 / 224pp / £9.99
Samuel leads a comfortable but uninspiring existence in Madrid, consoling himself among friends who have reached a similar point in life. One night he receives a call. Clara, his lover, has died in a car accident. The thing is, he doesn’t know anyone called Clara.
The Tragic Fate of Moritz Toth Page 12