I retained the linen I was wearing, but put on black socks, then my pointed black Bally shoes. In order to hide the seams, which were slightly cracked from standing long unused, I pulled on gray spats with a thin, darker edging. To all this I added two handkerchiefs hemmed with lace, arranging the smaller one in my coat pocket; light-blue gloves flecked with green; a light cane with a handle in the form of a silver greyhound’s muzzle; and after short reflection, a Panama hat whose wide Boer brim gave me a bohemian appearance, and which with its air of holiday relaxation compensated for the gloomy significance of my suit.
Bearing in mind an old man’s infirmity and my lack of practice in those slow actions which make up the art of dressing—the tie had to be tied in a pleated knot and pinned to the shirt front as a butterfly is pinned to a cardboard base; the buttons had to be pulled through the holes in the cuffs, which were stiffened from lack of use; the laces had to be threaded into the shoes, and the spats tugged on—and bearing in mind also my fear of being discovered, I, in fact, dressed myself quite quickly and neatly. However, I hadn’t once turned around to look in the mirror, being quite determined to view myself only when everything was in place. So at last I gathered up gloves, stick, and hat and went up to its crookedly hung, framed surface, marred by smoky streaks, to see how I looked in the suit which I had almost certainly worn last at the funeral of Constantine Negovan.
•
Of my eight fellow pallbearers, opposite me is Jacob Negovan, son and heir of the deceased. Behind us, barely keeping his dignity under the weight of the hexagonal oak coffin, wriggles Timon, representing the dead man’s absent brother Kleont, and the contractor’s first-born son, Daniel Negovan. The massive rear of the coffin is being hustled along by two of Constantine’s construction foremen with such unstoppable force that the nailed-down coffin sways as we charge down the steps of the chapel, and threatens to run away with the honorary pallbearers and descend like an avalanche on the hired musicians listlessly playing the Funeral March, and on the silent company gathered around the black and silver coach, to which are harnessed four black horses with the feathered mourning plumes fixed to their leather halters.
I can hear Timon, with the sharp-pointed ornament on the coffin lid painfully scraping his chin, telling the over-zealous bricklayers to slow down: “You’re not carrying a load of bricks on a building site, damn it!” The pressure from behind slackens off. Once again we’re carrying the coffin more slowly, though with every step we still stagger along the black carpet like an eight-masted boat pushed over a black wave by a wind from the stern.
I have no feeling for anything else but the dangerously increasing weight of the coffin; I am conscious of nothing save the orientally ornate chains, glistening in the damp October mist. From the sides of the coffin hang eight bronze handles entwined with thick gilt branches which only make it more difficult to carry the coffin, since my fist is too small to get a firm grip on them. Level with the lid, which is the color of burnt coffee, spread silver roots and palm fronds in riverlike profusion, recalling for Constantine, the architect, our Moskopolje origin; between them, gleaming islands of three-limbed, rhomboid-shaped bronze plaques alternate with silver arabesques, rolls, medallions, and gilt haloes from which the metal faces of angels shine as from a darkened window right up to the clasps, from which clustered silver lace falls motionlessly, caught up in places in loops of bulging yellow grain the size of ripe peas. I cannot see the legs, rolled in the form of scrolls, but one of them, the one beneath my handle, bangs against my bent knee at every step.
We move to one side, turning on the spot like a team of horses stuck in the mud, and place the coffin on the low catafalque, facing the gaping glass innards of the hearse. Then those on the left, headed by Jacob, come around to our side, and we line up along the right edge of the coffin so as to be able to take up the handles again immediately after the funeral oration, and lift the coffin into the coach. With my handkerchief I wipe away the sweat mixed with rain; the rain is no longer falling but is stationary in the murky air, lying on it like a veil of leaden drops. The musicians in their mournful capes press their instruments to their black chests: deadened movements of gold, from which here and there flutter damp, crumpled note sheets hung on wire hooks. In the darkened depths of the chapel somebody’s hand—probably Katarina’s—adjusts the folded-back draperies which cover the empty bier. The greasy dark yellow, brown, and mud-colored candles, cut by the funeral attendants’ scissors, smoke and hiss and choke in their wax.
Out of that murky cavern lit only by the amoebal flames, there moves toward me a wax procession of mauve flowers, oval wreaths with shaking leathery greens around their crowns of blooms, and a huge copper-bound cross on the horizontal member of which is inscribed: Constantine, son of Simeon Negovan, 1867–1936.
Up into the movable black pulpit climbs the permanent secretary to the Ministry of Housing, G.K. He places a folded sheaf of paper on the reading stand, discreetly changes his glasses, impatiently tugs at the umbrella held over his head, coughs noisily to clear his throat, and begins the funeral speech. I can hardly hear him. Young Fedor Negovan, that irresponsible offspring of George’s, stands behind me whispering: “Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch.” I ask him to stop, but with redoubled sarcasm he goes on declaiming: “And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die.” I try to get away from his silky, thick, almost feminine alto, but cannot move because of the group of mourners pressing around the bier. “And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and every creeping thing, and the fowls of the air . . .” The measured posthumous praises of Mr. G.K. are corrupted at the very moment when they reach my ear by a distorted echo: “. . . for it repenteth me that I have made them.” I turn toward the brazen culprit as far as the compressed space allows: “Will you shut up at once!” He looks me up and down like some object he has chanced upon, placidly, knowingly. “I can, Uncle Arsénie, but it won’t help. God had the Negovans in mind, too—in fact, I think he had them especially in mind.” “I don’t care what you think.” “I’m sorry about that, Uncle,” he answers mockingly, “but at the moment you’re not in a position to choose who you talk with.” “I’d gladly box your ears!” I’m angry, and this to my discomfort inspires him: “No you wouldn’t, and you can’t even move your hand. Besides, Uncle, you’re not sure how I’d behave: perhaps I’d repay you in kind. Actually, I’ve always wanted to hit a real, authentic Negovan. You’re not the one I had in mind, but you’d do.” “Why did you come to his funeral at all?” “For pleasure.” “To see how we die?” “Yes,” he admits straightforwardly, then coughs: “But even for me, if it makes any difference to you, it’s not very pleasant. Don’t you think that bureaucratic windbag could get on with his farting? Constantine won’t be any better off because we’ve caught a cold.” He is standing on tiptoe to try to stop the wet from seeping through the cracked leather of his shoes. “Where are your galoshes?” I say maliciously. I’m not sorry for him; the voluntary poverty of a Negovan who had, so to speak, totally cut himself off from the family and become an anchorite to humiliate us publicly only makes me angry. But this is not enough for Fedor. He wants to make me worry as well. “I haven’t got them any more. Sophia made them into slippers.” I hear him cough again. “For herself, of course,” he adds. “That’s in keeping with her name.” I’m pleased that he’s given me the chance to insult him. But quietly and with evident enjoyment, he agrees: “Yes, she’s a bitch, a born bitch. That’s what attracts me. With Sophia you feel as if you’re sleeping with a garbage can.”
From the front door came the adagio notes of a soft tune, followed by the shrill ringing of the bell, which in no way made me more disposed to welcome visitors. I was of two minds as to whether to respond at all. But
I didn’t have the nerve not to. Everyone knew that because of my condition there was always someone in the house, and I was afraid that my not answering the door would be interpreted as if something had happened to me, particularly if it was Mr. Mihajlović, our most kind and attentive neighbor whom Katarina had prevailed upon to drop by in her absence.
It was indeed Mr. Mihajlović standing on the threshold. I peered through the glass peephole as through the eyepiece of one of my binoculars, not daring to let him into the hall lest my clothes puzzle him and start him thinking, but deeming it even less advisable to send him away rudely. So I had to find a means of reassuring him, and if possible, of getting rid of him. I thanked him for his attention and told him that I was all right, and that his kind offices weren’t needed because I had to lie down for a while. I was fully conscious that the more I talked, the greater the risk that the dark, portly, unkempt man in a worn vest pulled over striped pyjamas would conclude that I was not all right. First, because my voice had begun to tremble and break at just the wrong moment, and because I chose words which were more and more the emaciated synonyms for what had already been said; and also because I had begun to tap my fingers on the wood in apprehension as well as irritation. Finally, I said that I was going to bed at once, that I was undressed, that in fact I had been lying down when he had rung. At last I forced him to apologize fervently for disturbing me, which apologies put a stop to the complicated explanations that I could no longer sustain. When at last he had gone, and I had shut the brass cover of the peephole, I was as exhausted as if I’d been through another heart contraction.
I put in my wallet the documents which would prove my legal ownership to Simonida’s tenants, who up to now had dealt only with Katarina and Golovan. Then I clipped my pince-nez to my vest pocket, figuring that after such strict isolation I would certainly be surprised and upset by something or other, perhaps even revolted, and looked for my pocket watch—not the Longines which I used every day, but the gold one engraved with the threefold tower of sapphires which was the property owner’s symbol.
All I had to do now was to pick out a pair of binoculars that would slip easily under my coat. The Mayer which I most often used because it was light as a feather—I could not consider because it was too cumbersome. The small Mayer, the 6×30, was too heavy, and the artillery binoculars were clad in an iron suit of armor. The Zeiss prismatic 8×80 was just right in size and weight, but its range finder was damaged. And of course in this instance none of the single-barreled ones would be of any use. It is true that one or two of them would be easy to carry: some were even collapsible—their rings could be pushed into each other like the soft folds of a caterpillar—but unfortunately they would have attracted attention by their artificial appearance, and that would have caused more harm than good. Going over the whole collection, I suddenly remembered that Katarina had just what I needed. The opera glasses which we had bought in Budapest were a beautiful little instrument made out of ivory or some darker imitation, with a chrome rim around the bone body of the eyepiece and the lens and, what was most important, a light-colored handle which, while normally folded like a carpenter’s rule, could be mounted on the body between the two barrels, and so make the whole instrument much easier to manipulate.
Of course, these pygmy-size binoculars were not particularly strong; one might even say that they were short-sighted. But since the objects which I wanted to bring nearer would hardly be farther away from me than a theater box from the stage, a longer range would have been of little use; and there was the added advantage that along with the handle it could be stuffed into an ordinary cloth bag. The only difference was that the theater box would be in the street—perhaps some bench in Kalemegdan Park, if it were near enough to Paris Street and if, of course, it were sufficiently solitary for such a tender meeting, since onstage across the street would be playing only one heroine, my Simonida. That was why it was wise to take the binoculars. When I got there I would want to look her over from close up. But my eyes, wearied by those forlorn buildings on the left bank of the Sava, would never allow me to go right up close to her intimately and examine her—not only to look at her but to scrutinize her, just as at the first meeting after a separation one takes one’s wife’s face between one’s palms and examines it at length, comparing it with hesitant, nostalgic memories.
However, what I was really going to find I couldn’t possibly foresee. Although I strove sincerely, while making my final preparations to go out, not to think about Simonida, nevertheless from time to time I found myself letting my imagination run on, ordering incomplete and sometimes hardly formulated suppositions, as if cutting from an enchanted picture book damaged photographs which only partially realized all the possibilities passing through my mind. Who knows, perhaps I would find her firm, solid body decrepit, her face wrinkled and lined with creases; perhaps she had lost her freshness and inspiration. Well, all right, everybody gets old, houses too have their life span, and not even the best of care can save them from eventual decay; but Simonida could not possibly be in that condition yet. Simonida wasn’t yet fifty; next December she would be only forty-three. That isn’t old for a house. It’s the prime of life.
Why, then, was she being pulled down?
That was what I had to establish. I’d become accustomed to this problem through my experience with the two-storied Katarina. It was torn down for reasons which had nothing to do with the house itself. For just as people who have done nothing at all wrong are got rid of simply because they stand in the way of something, so houses too are destroyed because they impede somebody’s view, stand in the way of some future square, hamper the development of a street, or traffic, or of some new building. Yes, even though they are quite innocent—still in good repair and often, alas, in their prime—houses suffer execution because they hinder some more elegant construction, a building with a stronger spine, a building which lays claim to their place, their site. So Simonida didn’t have to be too old or fatally, incurably ill, for the decision to do away with her.
But what if she was? What if she were horribly ill—it couldn’t be old age—and it had been hidden from Arsénie Negovan? Arsénie had been told: Simonida is quite all right, you should see how firmly she stands, how superior she holds herself among all those youngsters, all those empty-headed upstarts of concrete, steel, and glass. Modern buildings have outgrown her but they cannot outstrip her. What mixture was she painted with that the color needed renewing so rarely? What was she built with to be so resistant? But now she has been stricken down by some mysterious disease, she’s falling apart, her stone is porous and disintegrating, her lintels are cracking, her walls crumbling, her stucco peeling like burnt skin, the wood at her heart splitting; nobody has lived in her for a long time, the occupants had to be evacuated so as not to be buried alive. But Arsénie was told—for he could see that Simonida’s rents weren’t coming in—that her tenants were in financial difficulties, and that no money should be expected from them for a long time to come; but you don’t need money, do you, Arsénie?—you collect houses, not money, you’re an owner of property, not a moneylender.
And suddenly everything had become possible. Since Katarina and Golovan—albeit for my own good—had tried to hide from me the fate which now threatened Simonida, why wouldn’t they with still greater reason have kept me in the dark for years regarding her true condition? And also of the condition of others about which, in that fateful sense, nothing had been said? Why had the money from the houses dried up all at once? It’s because of the crisis, Arsénie, I was told. Crises never affect everyone, Katarina. Outlay for repairs, Arsénie. Repairs are never carried out all at once, Katarina.
Once I had lost confidence in Katarina, I could no longer remain calm regarding other information offered me about my houses, my beloved houses.
I went up anxiously to the property owner’s map. This was a blown-up plan of Belgrade, drawn in India ink on a background of snow-white draftsman’s paper, on which the names of streets
, squares, districts, and suburbs were marked in red, other geographical features in green, and the heading typed and stuck across the upper left-hand corner where the map ended toward Umka. As a basis I had used An Alphabetical Index, Compiled from Official Data from the Municipal Land Register, T. D. No. 25728/33, which had been edited and published in 1934 by St. J. Sušić, and Belgrade Street by Street, A Guide and a Plan, 1933, by the same compiler. Changes in street names, at the time when I still took an active interest in my affairs, were written in ordinary pencil, but clearly. At each spot where I owned a house there was a tiny cardboard flag, lemon-yellow or sky-blue depending on whether the house was bought or built under my direction. Each little flag had on it information about the name of the house, the district and street where it was situated, its number, the year in which it was built, the names of its designer and builder, the size of the plot of land, the number of stories and the style of the building, its investment value, its living area, the number and category of its apartments, and last but not least its rent.
Houses Page 5