by Igor Štiks
The first thing that came to Enzo’s mind was, for purely pedagogical reasons, to let his fist express his inner state, but then he recalled the delicacy of the matter at hand and, in the belief that people should be brought to their senses (and to his side) through peaceful means, pulled out a silver coin in answer to Beppo’s hopes.
“This time without effort or ornament, eh?” he said aloud, distractedly turning the white bundle over in his hands, once he had closed the door. But the mere sight of the handwriting told him that no servant was behind it.
It was her message, by God. This was the lever he had waited for. His hope rose up like a pile of dust stirred by a fierce breeze. Now you be the judge of whether something had come into the clear.
This has gone too far. You ruined my hunt. You spoiled the pleasure of listening to the important speech of gentle Francesco, my husband. You upset my evening hours. Why have you done this? Since I do not have time to wait for your reply, because the previous question is not a mere order required by rhetoric, I want you to know I see very clearly that similar things (that is, destruction, ruin, anxiety) will continue in the future. I will not allow you to do this! Which is why I ask you (and you have done me too much wrong not to obey): keep the contents of this letter secret (do not object—Beppo does not know how to read), and follow my instructions. First, when my husband is called away by pressing political matters, and when the banner is raised upon the main tower, wait until the clamor in the corridors dies somewhat, then hurry to my chambers. This should be enough for you. You understand we must discuss this matter. It is only thanks to the goodness of my heart that I feel compelled to give you yet another chance.
Catarina M.
Oh, how long were those days of counting the hours of boredom and anticipation of the moment when Mardi, that lynx rampant whose claws at last stretched forth once the trouble had come to his land, would be called to his next political engagement! They had a hard time of it, all four of them. Closed in their chambers and secretive about their intentions, they descended only at mealtimes into the dark dining room, which, because of the dark clouds that had poured rain onto the country for days on end, were lit up with heavy candles from Assisi.
The master wrote letters and awaited replies. The communication lines with Rimini were kept open at all times, even when the road became blocked by a landslide, which Mardi’s messenger came upon one morning. It had to be cleared immediately, so Enzo himself had taken part. That was the only event of those days that drew him forth from his bed and his room, in which, inspired by the hysteria of waiting for love and by doubts that bring on pain and excitement, he composed a kind of legacy in verse, which would later make him famous.
During that time, Catarina kept Maria close, and the two of them very often secluded themselves in Catarina’s chambers, which seemed to Mardi unnecessary and childish and which Catarina justified by saying that, thank God, love problems that pressed upon the honest girl required her help. We shall never cease to be amazed at the happy confusion in which Mardi and his wife’s maid lived.
Because of the numbness of social life the rain forced upon them all—which is to say, because it was impossible for her (or, it needn’t be forgotten, her mistress) to meet Enzo frequently—Maria forgot all about her previous jealousy. Incited by her insane heart, she talked excitedly to Catarina for hours about his mornings, his habits, his walks across the castle, and the secret writing to which he devoted himself completely.
I tell you there’s nothing strange in all this, Bosnian. Who could ask for more than to witness, daily, the wondrous effect your love’s soul has on the person by your side? To see that your every thought and word are clear proof of the constant presence of desire, hers open, yours thinly disguised? And considering all this, need I say it again, it’s not surprising to fall in love with that which those closest to you love most, is it? Is there anything more natural? And is there anything more normal than being afraid that someone might snatch away that which has taken root in your heart?
7
The next afternoon, while packing my bags to go, I was interrupted by an announcement over the town’s public address system. Every few minutes, it called the populace to a meeting in front of the Rector’s Palace, and through the window I could see young men with banners hurrying down the street. A song was audible; children came running, along with women and old people who had left their work to hear the officials. It was, I believed, my last day among these people, and I wanted to join them. Actually, I yearned to see her and was hoping to get an answer.
Not ten minutes later I stood amidst the mass of people under the balcony of the Rector’s Palace, waiting for Petar Nižetić’s speech. Like a madman, I looked for Petra in the crowd, pushing my way through the gathered townsfolk. I finally gave up and, still painfully aware of last night’s confrontation, found a place at some distance from the balcony, behind a tall man.
I was struck that I hadn’t seen any banners bearing Stalin’s name on my way to the square. White patches along the walls of buildings now poorly covered the signs of a bygone era; almost without warning, a veil of lime had fallen the night before.
The clamor of the crowd grew louder. The kolo dance spun round. Battle songs memorialized in songbooks from the war rang out. Nižetić, like a good director, had arranged things so that the moment this joy began to abate, he should appear on the balcony, which was supported by two famous lion heads, and from which important pronouncements had been delivered to the people of Rab for centuries.
On the wall behind him someone had displayed the tricolor flag, and before turning to the assembled people, Nižetić saluted it resolutely. Then, all tucked in and dressed up, he positioned his immense body in front of the flag’s star, as if to make it clear who was the foremost defender of the homeland and spokesman on its behalf.
The friar climbed onto the chair he’d been sitting in and stood there like an orator, imitating Nižetić. He winked at me, then glanced around the whole room, gesturing for quiet to the imaginary audience.
All grew still, and he began:
“Comrades!
“Why are your vineyards empty, and why do hoes lie abandoned in your fields? Why are our nets, comrade fishermen, spread out along the jetty?
“A dark shadow has fallen upon the homeland from a place where, until yesterday, we saw only light. Thence comes the enemy, who has sent tanks against our small country with the sole desire of destroying the freedom of our people, won through the price of our blood. But we won’t be placed under anyone’s heel, Comrades! We won’t allow them to do it!”
“That’s right!” Applause. Vehement cheering. “Comrade Tito . . .”
Nižetić’s gesture for the singing to stop. Silence.
“The homeland is threatened. Our fatherland is in danger! But our freedom, which annoys our enemies, only we can defend!”
From the audience: “Long live Comrade Tito! Long live Tito!” Applause. Again some began to sing, but Nižetić, growing more nervous, cut the song short with an abrupt motion of his arm before it could be taken up by the crowd and disturb his planned course of speech.
“Under the leadership of Comrade Tito, we are ready to defend our country again, at all costs, and to the last man. Are we ready?”
The crowd answered, “Yes!”
“But you are mistaken if you believe that everyone thinks as you do. Remnants of the past may still be seen among us, in those who have not embraced the new order, and who would gladly pass judgment upon our young state. Who are they, you wonder?”
A pause. Complete silence.
“All those, Comrades, who avoid working in our communal fields during the day and listen to London and Moscow radio at night!”
Nižetić gave special emphasis to the last two words and then stopped, upon which everyone grew quiet, and tension and bewilderment took hold of the assembly.
“The imperialist politics of the Soviet Union have positioned its war machinery on our bor
ders to destroy the fruits of our people’s struggle. Yesterday they were still our brothers, but today, driven by their selfish goals, they have abandoned the political course long ago charted by Comrade Lenin and turned their backs upon our homeland. But never a slave!”
And that was the real signal for the crowd to begin chanting from all directions: “Better the grave than a slave!”
Nižetić grinned and shouted loudly and clearly, “Down with Russian imperialism and its servants! Long live Comrade Tito!”
This caused enormous delight, which lasted for some time, while the brass band began to play and the kolo dance formed again. But Nižetić’s serene figure made it clear to the gathered multitude that he had not yet finished, so the crowd obediently quieted again.
“I have told you about their servants, Comrades. They are among us, Comrades. They sit at your dinner table. They coil around your children like snakes and plot to destroy what we fought for, what we bled for. For that reason, for the cause of public security, it is the duty of all who carry the homeland in their hearts and the work of Comrade Tito in their heads to report anything they know about any suspicious case, any suspicious person, for no one is safe anymore, dear Comrades.”
This seemed to stun the crowd.
“No one!
“But is vigilance enough? Is it enough to just say it? Is it enough to just pledge oneself? Well, to that I tell you, definitely not! The homeland demands actions! Actions, Comrades! Let every able-bodied man report to the people’s authority for placement. Let every household deposit a portion of its belongings in the communal center! Let the work schedule on communal fields be increased! And let numerous other measures be undertaken, for that is the only way to defend the homeland’s fortunes. For that is the only way to build the future of our children. For that, Comrades, is the only way to stand firmly behind the words of Comrade Tito delivered at the Neretva: ‘We shall defend the sun of our freedom!’
“And so, long live Comrade Tito!”
Nižetić’s firmness enjoyed unbelievable success. The crowd seemed to boil over. Again the band took up its refrain, flags were unfurled, and, from the back rows, through all the slogans and cheering came that same song, now much more resolutely than when Nižetić had managed to silence it. “Comrade Tito . . . ,” he readily took up now, the megaphone pressed to his lips. It looked as if the celebration would continue well into the night.
The friar got down from the chair and sat on it. I laughed at his performance.
“Yes, it was dramatic,” he responded. “I barely made it out of that crowd. I headed for home. I had to finish packing, kiss my father good-bye, and leave my home behind.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about Petra. The weight of what I was leaving behind made me sit down on the wall edging the road and plunge my head into my hands. My sadness, fed by not having met her, was suddenly transformed into rash courage. A fateful idea crossed my mind, and I embraced it readily and without thinking. I nearly cried out with joy. Soon the quick blossoming of my thought filled the empty streets that led to her house, and when I think back on it today, I realize there was nothing to be done about it, for the wheel of my destiny was spinning ever faster—with the support of all my heart.
An act of God must have kept me from looking back. I was later to learn that (and my subsequent story will make it clear that I do not exaggerate) my personal downfall was hounding my tracks just then.
The silence surrounding Petra’s house gave me courage, and I knocked eagerly. She appeared at the window and at first just stood there, as if my valor had frightened her, but the expression of surprise soon vanished from her face. She glanced around cautiously and repeated in her familiar voice, “So is it yes or no?”
She did not wait for my answer but, a few seconds later, opened the door and hurriedly pulled me inside.
“So it’s yes after all,” she said, for the first time without hiding her excitement. Believe me, I didn’t have to say anything. She impatiently removed my clothes as if she had been planning this for a long time, as if she knew every little part of my body. She drew me into her room.
That whole afternoon the sounds of song and the murmur of the crowd floated in from outside, creating, we believed, a veil protecting our union. Night approached slowly from the east, and now I understand that all that was just dream and delirium. False belief in the favor of destiny, blindness, infatuation with happiness, which we thought had come to stay for good, but which, oh, as I would soon discover, was tailored by Petar Nižetić, who had sent his spies after me. I didn’t have the strength to tell her I was leaving. I let the role of happiness, rare and perhaps unique in my life, run its course.
Only after we heard the footsteps of the people coming home from the ceremonies did we understand that the end was drawing near. She thought it was for that night only; I was convinced it was for good.
Still, overcome by the sadness of departure and regrets about my silence, I revealed to her a part of what my father had told me the night before, only leaving out his order. At the door that opened onto her garden and led, beyond that, to my house, I told her the story about the flag, about the struggle or happiness, call it what you will. At the end I added, ominously, that it was the flag that would cover our corpses.
In place of a response, she kissed me gently on the forehead, as if she were calming a child, and then, hopeful and smiling, she added, “Don’t you think ours is already flying?”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
That state of deceptive stillness, even on the surface of unseen motion, amidst turmoil and momentous decisions, when a man often allows his thoughts to give him pause before the window or with his head sunk into a pillow; that state in which those closest to us are not, shall we say, the most important to us (let alone their concern for our behavior); that state that is merely cautious composure, came to an end early in the evening five days after the first drops of rain were noted on the castle windows. And here again the bishop of Rimini spurs along our story by inviting Mardi to an urgent nighttime assembly.
Do you think that Enzo, having heard the trumpets announcing Mardi’s departure, patiently waited for the standard to be raised, the corridors to grow quiet, and the crowd to disperse, as Catarina had clearly instructed him? Oh no! He was too exhausted by all these days of forced peace and solitude (which aided his writing but also made him feel the need for a supportive voice) and burdened by all the implications of her message—which, contrary to what you might expect, dispelled all his feeble thoughts and strengthened his resolve and the rhythm of his heart, for everything was about her, everything in him waited impatiently for the standard to be raised. He was so exhausted, I say, that he left his chambers the same moment that Maria, taking advantage of the commotion and a request from Catarina, and driven by infatuated hope and optimism, appeared in his corridor.
After giving the order for the banner to be lifted, Catarina had expressed to Maria her desire not to be disturbed in the coming hours, excusing her absence from dinner and any possible entertainment, on the pretext of a sudden headache. Maria had mistakenly taken this as an opportune moment to visit Enzo without hindrance or, should he not be there, at least leave him a new letter, and she’d hurried toward him. When she reached the corridor, she caught sight of Enzo going down it in the other direction, which, given the melancholy of his past several days, struck her as rather strange. This sudden transfiguration, this hurried departure, counseled her to discover where the man was going so resolutely.
Enzo rushed down the hallway and soon found himself in the most beautiful part of the castle, the master wing. The placement of dignitaries’ portraits indicated the growth and offshoots of the Mardi pedigree. He was amazed by the grandeur of the subjects’ brave leaps over obstacles on horseback (their faces turned to the artist), and of their upright posture beside the family coat of arms, a cross above them, children atop their knees, one hand caressing a spouse’s head, and he who had prepared himself for a thief�
�s ill deed was stung by their stern glances. He shuddered. Soon the excitement that had caused a lump to form in his throat began to give way to what he only now realized was the vagueness of Catarina’s message—which door should he knock on?
Enzo continued on and, after stopping and putting an ear to some of the rooms, spotted an almost invisible pink veil before one, which marked the entrance to her private chambers, intended for repose from the world. He lifted the veil from the floor and went inside. Had he, at that moment, looked back down the corridor, perhaps he would have noticed Maria peering around the corner, and, who knows, perhaps that would have saved him.
The room was dark. Nothing could be heard. For a moment he thought he was mistaken. But soon he caught sight of a figure by the window and impatience took hold of him. “Here I am,” he whispered.
“Did anyone see you?” interrupted Catarina abruptly.
“I don’t think so,” he stuttered.
“Don’t think! Do you realize what I’m risking by meeting you like this, Enzo?” Her tone frightened him somewhat, but her intimate use of his name encouraged him. His eyes were growing used to the darkness, and, though she tried to calm the shaking of her voice, she seemed to be trembling.
“Do you understand?” she repeated. “You well know why I asked you here. It’s clear to you that you did something unacceptable—” She broke off as if she were out of breath.