And I wonder what my father thought about when he woke up in the morning and remembered he was alone, or on the morning he died. What was my father thinking about when he fetched his revolver from the glass cabinet on that early morning? Had he had enough of searching for answers or asking questions as he slipped the bullets into the cylinder and cocked the gun? Was he thinking of what he had left behind? I wonder as I picture him placing the barrel into his mouth, his dry lips closing around it, as I catch the taste of metal when my tongue runs along my teeth, as I hear the faint sound of the trigger or imagine how hard he must have had to pull it, and the cold metal stings my limbs, makes my bones ache, pinches them.
A light bursting from the window splits his head in two as I see him there, sitting at the table, and he looks at me, askew, over his shoulder and I wonder, Was he thinking about me, was my father thinking about me at the moment he finally refused to carry on living, in such violent fashion?
I never got an answer, but I’m sure that’s what my father was thinking.
And from time to time, when I hear his voice, I go for a long walk in the forest or down by the shore, and when I come back I take my significant other by the arm, he is a beautiful, decent man, and I embrace him and ask what he would like to eat, because I know how happy this makes him—and I go shopping with him and sit in the passenger seat of his car and he grips the upper half of the steering wheel with his bare hand, his skin taut with the cold. He is wearing a pair of sunglasses, and I look at his hand, his concave knuckles and his fingers, straight as bullets, and his white skin where the frosted light thickens like brilliant ice.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who has commented on this manuscript. My dear friends Merdiana Beqiri, Marisha Rasi-Koskinen, Virva Lehmusvaara, Krista Lehtonen, and Aura Pursiainen—thank you all for your insightful comments and suggestions. This novel would not have been the same without you.
Thank you to my family for their support, understanding, and love. Thank you for believing in me all these years. Thank you to my mother and father, especially for checking so many details on my behalf. Thank you to my sister and brothers for listening and commenting. Ju dua.
Thank you to everyone at Otava, particularly Antti Kasper and Silka Raatikainen. And to my editor Lotta Sonninen, the greatest thanks of all goes to you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pajtim Statovci was born in 1990 and moved from Kosovo to Finland with his family when he was two years old. Published in Finland in 2014, his debut novel, My Cat Yugoslavia, received widespread acclaim among critics and readers alike, and Statovci won the Helsingin Sanomat Literature Prize in the category Best Debut. The awarding jury praised the still only twenty-four-year-old author’s ability to combine the dreamlike with the realistic and to give old symbols new meaning and power. The novel has so far been translated into eleven languages.
At present, Pajtim Statovci is undertaking master’s degrees in comparative literature at the University of Helsinki and in screenwriting at Aalto University School of Arts, Design and Architecture.
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My Cat Yugoslavia Page 23