by Igor Štiks
Enzo jumped up in a cold sweat and put his hand to the wounded place. The sight of his own room calmed him, but just in case, he tested the spot that had moments before been an excruciating puncture. But instead of torn flesh and blood, he felt there the sharp edges of a folded paper, and, turning it over, noticed a single, ornate M on the back. Here is what was inside:
From the moment my eyes caught sight of you, they have seen nothing else, nothing except you, and you know it. You could subject me to ridicule and I would put up with it, if you were mine. You could squash my heart with your boot—oh, what more than this letter do you need?—and it would still beat, if you were mine. For this I am willing to be punished, willing to leave everything behind. Why are you cruel? Why do you torment me? Today when you came toward me in the woods, I saw your smile. I need no other confirmation of your love. If you don’t know your own heart, so be it. I have seen into it! Why did you want to make me jealous when you galloped after milady? Are my tears so dear to you? If so, only say yes and you’ll receive them beyond measure! Why do you not admit to whom you sang last night? To whom if not to me? As I write you these lines, my heart wants to explode. Now everything depends upon you. Oh, must I repeat that I would live with you even in a dungeon, in chains, with my leg crushed in a Spanish boot? Only, remember, if you’ll be mine.
Needless to say, love,
Maria
Enzo read the final (highly stylized) words and did not know what to think or where to turn. Sleep-drunk as he was after the nightmare during which his beloved Catarina had mistakenly shot an arrow through his ribs, and Mardi, glowing with happiness, had put his dagger to the test, this letter, which mentioned jealousy and song, and which threatened torture and imprisonment, disturbed him to such a degree that he angrily tore it into tiny pieces. And while the scraps were still sailing about the room, he exclaimed, exhausted, “Is somebody making fun of me? What does that girl want from me! What ‘ridicule’? What ‘heart’? What ‘proofs’? Whose ‘jealousy’? What does ‘needless to say’ mean? In God’s name, what ‘dungeons and chains,’ dammit! Someone around here is completely insane.”
5
What else could I do but avoid her? I tried not to go out. I chose deserted places for swimming. I did all this and, of course, couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I was actually waiting for an encounter like the one in the garden. I hoped she would run into me in such a place where—what’s the use, let’s be a little banal—I wrote her name in the sand, or left coded messages on trees. I believed in the compatibility of souls, and was sad when she didn’t appear for meetings to which I hadn’t invited her. In short, I was in love. I took a single sign as inevitable destiny; I was prepared to suffer. And, of course, I enjoyed it a little. You’re smiling, Bosnian, but is there anyone who hasn’t gone through it at least once in his life? If there is, then, as the Teacher would have said, he is more like an animal or some kind of deity.
The end of June drew near, bringing great events with it. While the representatives of the Central Committees of the Communist Parties were gathered at the Communist Information Bureau’s meeting somewhere in Romania (our Yugoslav representatives having been excluded, marking the beginning of the age of new victims), I tried to preserve my heart from devastation—or, so it seemed to me, to defend, as they used to say back then, my own petty interests, for to be completely honest, I didn’t really give a fig about the irrefutable laws of historical movements. The only thing that occasionally calmed me down was my father coughing in the night, but, hearing him breathing again, I would return to the world of a twosome of fantastic pleasures.
I displayed particular courage by walking under her window several times each day, hoping for a sign from her, without daring to leave off or, God forbid, toss a pebble. Yes, yes, my heart and mind were aching, so I decided to look for her among the Communist youth.
It was the twenty-eighth of June 1948. Every man has a day that’s like a fulcrum for a lever that overturns all his previous life. That day was my fulcrum. The man sitting before you and to whom you’ve been listening all this afternoon and evening is the product of it.
I learned that her father had kept her locked up at home ever since he’d paid us that strange family visit. Again it was Anđa—who else?—that told me. I ran into her around noon on the stage of the People’s Hall, where she was in charge of hanging banners and decorating the interior for the upcoming celebration of the Day of Uprising. She wasn’t laughing like before. She seemed a little put off, probably because of our last meeting. As I said before, I was in love and didn’t much care about other people’s feelings. That’s why I was too quick to ask her about Petra, which gave her the chance to get me back for my previous barbs.
She understood what was on my mind and toyed with me. “So you’re in love with her, what do you know!”
I defended myself as if admitting she was right would cost me my head.
She said as much, and then, seeing my unambiguous silence, added maliciously, “Maybe it will. Who knows? Besides, none other than Commander Nižetić asked me about you.”
I stood my ground. “And what did you tell him?”
“What every girl in this town knows.” She laughed, then hesitated before continuing, “That you’re . . . dangerous and . . .”
“And what?” I asked, my nerves on edge.
“Well, that you’ve been asking about her.”
“But I haven’t . . . ,” I began, defending myself clumsily.
“You said you liked her, and now you’re scared. Well, Comrade Niccolò, we have been taught to live up to our responsibilities. And as for who’s responsible and who’s not, our commander knows best, which is why he’s keeping her locked up. Because there are subversives on the loose.”
She looked at me as if she wanted to brand the word into my forehead. I started to snap back but then decided all at once to leave her presence and never set eyes on the creature again. It seemed to me then that she not only heralded misfortune, she incited it.
However, as the poet says, we search everywhere for what we lack, and therefore I set off for home, and that’s where she was. Tormented by Anđa’s malice, I found Petra waiting for me on the veranda. When I got there, she was talking with Ivanka. The surprise of seeing her was enough to make everything inside me burst into flame.
She saw me and exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting for you a whole hour, Niccolò, you naughty boy!”
I was disturbed by the bruise under her right eye, which prompted her to respond, almost proudly, “I earned this on your account.”
Ivanka ducked into the kitchen. I sat down next to Petra. I didn’t know what to say. She took my hand and ran my fingers over the purple skin beneath her eye. It was as if my hand wiped all the confidence from her face. It seemed the right moment to kiss her, but when I moved my lips closer, she pulled away.
“Sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” I said, downcast.
“It must have been me,” she said, and it seemed her answer brought her to her senses as she asked, pretending to be scared, “Or maybe it wasn’t?” Again she was the sweet demon. I lowered my eyes. She asked me to walk her at least part of the way home. She added that her father had been at work since morning and had something serious to take care of, so we needn’t be afraid. I agreed; an invitation from her easily led back to the path of misfortune.
I started off in front of her, pretending to be offended by her game. She took my hand in the middle of the street. I was defenseless against it.
Soon a man on a bicycle passed us. “That’s my father’s snitch. That guy never leaves anything to chance,” she said, almost admiring her father’s cunning. She waved at the man on the bicycle when he turned to make sure it was her, and laughed at my discomfort.
“He’ll stop you from going out again,” I said seriously, but she didn’t like where the conversation was going, so she suddenly stopped.
“You love me, Niccolò?” She tried to look into m
y eyes, but I was so confused that I didn’t know what to do, what to say. Two sets of feelings were mixed together inside me—hurt that made me defy her and infatuation that made me desire her. I wanted to torture her and embrace her at one and the same time. I didn’t know where to begin, even without knowing that I wouldn’t have the chance to do so, because at that very moment Nižetić came around the corner, out of breath and obviously informed, and rushed at us.
He grabbed her by the hand and shoved her to the side. He seized me by my shirt and took a swing, but her scream stopped him. Before pushing me to the ground, he merely said, “Stalin betrayed us, kid, and you’re playing with your life. Get lost, or you’re fucked.”
I lay in the dust, helplessly watching him drag her away. And then she suddenly broke free and shouted to me, “Yes or no?” I didn’t say anything because I could no longer hear or see anything: I was running away as fast as I could. I hid in somebody’s backyard, calming myself and waiting to gather my courage before heading home. I could not show up before my sick father in that state.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
“Worthy people!
“The enemy is at the gates. The herds at our borders no longer graze in peace. The hands of outsiders harvest our grain. Soldiers dig trenches in our fields. Why is this so?
“Ever since Lombardy fell into Habsburg hands, the north of our country has been under threat, and our enemy’s ruthless greed has been aimed at us. In the name of the bishop, I warn you that our homeland is in danger. According to the most reliable sources, Habsburg spies are everywhere, perhaps even among you at this very moment. Believe it or not, they could be anyone. It is your duty to report any suspicious person, anyone coming into our country from the north, be he even your relative or a good tradesman. We shall triple the guard. All able-bodied men in their right minds are obliged to report to the nearest garrison, and every household is hereby required to pay one-quarter of its possessions to Rimini’s episcopal treasury, for the sake of our country’s defense and our children’s future, which is, as we all know, the first and most essential thing for every honest heart . . .”
While Mardi spoke to the assembled multitude, Catarina stood one step behind her husband. Enzo, as an important guest, stood to her right, and the maid, as always, two paces behind her mistress. On Enzo’s way to the main tower, Maria had intercepted him in a corridor and greeted him politely, but he had merely smiled, bowed, and continued on his way in the belief that it was for the best and that, in the end, she would cool down.
But his cold response made Maria think that perhaps the letter had slipped beneath his bed or that a gust of wind had blown it far from his sight, so she decided to investigate the matter when the occasion should present itself, or write a new letter, which would not have been a hardship for her.
As the crowd’s cries of bewilderment turned to belligerent chanting, and the sound of the drums furnished Mardi’s words with a magnificent background, Enzo attempted to touch Catarina with the side of his body, several times succeeding, while Catarina responded in a slightly more welcoming manner than she had after the hunt. Behind the sweaty back of Mardi—whose heart and throat were swollen with praise of the homeland, and for whom the people cheered excitedly, thereby confirming the everlasting value of old, never-fading clichés—Catarina avoided Enzo’s hand, looking with steadfast grace upon the masses. Only when the crowd expressed its noisy approval did they have the chance to exchange a phrase or two. Maria caught their whispers, and jealousy gripped her heart. It is important to keep in mind, so that you understand where we are in the story, that Enzo’s persistence in these moments could no longer be justified by shortness of breath or the fresh morning air or anything of the sort; no holds were barred now.
At the moment he squeezed her hand, Catarina hissed, “You would betray such a man? You would forsake his hospitality?”
“As God is my witness, I would follow that man to the ends of the earth. As God is my witness, Catarina, my soul loves all that is his. As God is the witness of my torment and love, which knows no words, heeds no explanation, seeks no consent,” whispered Enzo while with his thumb and forefinger he took hold of the wedding ring on her right hand and reached as far as the gold-studded green diamond crafted in Antwerp. This caused Catarina to pull back somewhat, as if it had suddenly become clear what she was letting herself into, and Enzo, understanding what was happening, went on quickly: “Tell me, do you want me to leave? There, set your husband on me. Throw me out of your home. By handing me over to his dogs, you would be saving my soul. But keep in mind,” said Enzo, the sweet-tongued prince, after a short pause, “this love will continue to tear my breast apart even when the last bits of me have vanished from your world. Tell me if that’s what you want, and I’ll be gone by the time the sun completes its day’s journey. I’ve given myself up to you—the decision is yours.”
His last words seemed somehow familiar to him, but he came to his senses when her ring nearly slipped from her finger. All but petrified with fear, Catarina abruptly pushed away his hand for the second time that day.
“That’s enough now,” she said too loudly, so that old Mardi turned to his wife, asking by his smile to be patient a bit longer.
6
He was sitting up in bed when I came in. You could hear the news from the radio. The room was lit by two candles, which gave his features an even more ghostly look than usual. I washed up, letting the water drip from my face.
“See what’s happening, Niccolò? Now they’ll turn on us,” he said, his voice sad. It did not help me recollect myself.
I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. I thought he was upsetting himself over nothing again.
“It’s time for you to leave,” he said. “You must go to Italy, Niccolò. We have no future here.”
When I said that we’d go together or not at all, that I wouldn’t go anywhere without him, he ordered me to sit on the bed. He didn’t get angry as he normally would have. He repeated once again what he had said before, asking if I’d seen what was happening around us, and so on, as if to bring me back to my senses.
“My days are numbered, Niccolò. I don’t have much time left. You mustn’t stay here. They’re going to attack us. Don’t you understand that they need scapegoats now?”
He asked me to bring him a pillow. His face was that of a man who had lost his battle with life, a man who had only enough strength left to sow the seeds of a wish or two for the future. He held my hand as if to keep me from running away while he still had the strength to speak. It was the first time in my life that I really feared losing my father. I cried in his lap like a little child, for both of us.
“Niccolò, you must leave,” he began. “There will be no one left to look after you when I die. You have nothing to stay here for. You’re not me. I had a dream to follow. Your dream is still out there, waiting for you wherever you go.”
Not until that day, that night of revelations, had I understood his despair. His attempt to convince me to leave was the attempt of a man who believed that one’s last words were sacred and that they should be respected because of the memory of the deceased. But who among us was ever ready to accept such words, to take seriously the death that would confirm them? That would be a betrayal of the loved one, after all.
“You see, when Mussolini’s troops occupied this place,” he said, “I made a vow to myself. Maybe it was irrational, but it was certainly human. Down there, under our fig tree, I buried a small barrel. Inside it, Niccolò, I placed our flag. I planned to open it and place it on the top of our house once we had attained our freedom. After four years of war, when we finally won out, I was so happy that I completely forgot about it. But I remembered it one night, sleepless like many others before now, not long after they had expelled me from the party. I found myself looking at the fig tree under which I had buried it, and realized I was crying just like you’re crying now. I turned into an exhausted and lonely man, hunched atop my own life’s work, as it were, and th
at hole seemed to me like the grave the convict has dug for himself with his own hands. Only unlike me, the convict can console himself because whatever might befall him will not happen by his own will but by someone else’s. I found it hard to think about that stupid barrel under the fig tree. The image explained my situation to me perfectly. That flag in the barrel seemed to me like happiness buried in the ground, Niccolò—the flag we would never display.”
Such were my father’s words. He seemed unable to continue. He shook his head and licked his dry lips. He lifted me from his lap and only managed to add, serenely, that the following evening, at ten o’clock, I would be taking the ship for Trieste. He left no room for disagreement. He was now a completely gentle man. There was no trace of his former fighting spirit and inflexibility. His illness had dried everything up in him.
After his speech, he could do little more than collapse. He wiped my tears and patted my wet cheek. Then, as if it, too, had become a burden to him, his hand fell.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
Right. All right then . . . So now what? Everything’s clear. Hide-and-seek’s over. What next? When the future depends on the will of a woman, it’s uncertain, isn’t it? Should I lie low? Should I press on? If I abandon everything, the insult might make her do something rash. Then again, take the bull by the horns . . . Such were the thoughts of Enzo, his mind whirling. Some things bode well, but be honest, you still don’t know anything for sure. If only something could take us into the clear, one way or another.
In less than the turning of a smallish hourglass, not two hours since old Mardi, now out recruiting soldiers in the county, had given his great speech, little Beppo, letter in hand, knocked on Enzo’s door. Enzo snatched the letter from him angrily, thinking that the maid must have decided to operate in the open now, through her fellow servants. It was a malicious and oft-exercised practice typical of her class, designed to influence public opinion behind his back and without his knowledge, in short, to force him to do something hasty, expose him to public pressure. But then he realized that Beppo had jumped aside after the letter’s violent removal and that he was not moving from the spot, as if he expected a blow and wanted to reduce its effect.