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New snow fell hard the day before the end of the world scheduled for Friday, December 21, 2012. A true snowstorm, an announcement that the end will really come? What, if anything, is a person afraid of in the face of a possible cataclysm? From a short horror scene? Of the pain imagined at the moment of a violent death?
Today or tomorrow, everything will disappear for him anyway. It will disappear forever. One day, of course, the payment of money from the pension fund to my address will stop. Next to me, my souvenir football in the basement, my fruit trees in the yard (did I plant them in vain?), My shelf with my beloved books, my diary about life in exile, in which I am not adulterated, will disappear.
That Black Friday, around noon, the phone rang: Brankica, would come to Ann Arbor at night, with Srki, to “celebrate” Judgment Day together, he said and hung up without waiting for me to say anything.
They arrived in a Mercedes that Milo bought for Brankica as a wedding present. Brankica is Klema’s godmother from her previous life, she recently left her homeland and found refuge in America, she fell in love with Mile after her divorce from the local woman and he from her, so they married just as quickly.
Aside from Klema, she was Srki’s sole protector, there in our town’s commune of Detroit, where my wife and I were until recently. They brought us a rich “American package”: good Italian wine, quite a fair little selection of the best cheeses, some salamis reminiscent of Hungarian pickled dry sausages, salty rings, artichokes in bitter oil preservative, goose pate, ham serrano, a bottle of olive oil of the best quality. premium coffee packaging.
All of this is tastefully packed in a wicker basket with a soft straw base, decorated with beautiful red and green apples, kiwi, chocolate balls in “golden” foil, and on a special tray still warm toasted round bread. with brown bark decorated with books, wine barrels, and I guess it was Srki’s brainchild) for soccer players.
For Brankica and my wife Marija, I made a margarita with a lot of “silver” Aztec tequila; Srki and I, with a richly chopped appetizer, immediately switched to wine.
Cookies for fireplace; we are talking about inconceivable American possibilities, but also about unavoidable deprivations, and here, for those of us, like us, we are in a time of acquisitions difficult to change. Srki and I play sports, it’s inevitable. We agree that the American attitude toward sports, with a visible tendency to chauvinism, is an ordinary parade, glamorous, of course, as in other types of its “waste” of time.
In short: frivolity, superficiality, fearlessness, sterility. We also talked about other more beautiful things, about travel.
Brankica brought a travel brochure from New York, the list is there and she says, radiantly, that she will travel there with Mile on days when winter calms down a bit; her husband promised her that, she says, and Srki adds to that, truly without malice, “a promise, a crazy joy.”
“Don’t be cynical,” says Marija, so she sits down next to Brankica and, eager to travel, conveys her impressions of our stay in New York for New Year’s Eve. A highlight is the Mariot Hotel on the corner of 46th and Broadway, with our room on the 10th floor overlooking Times Square, a long walk down Fourth Street and Beverie to Bayard Street in downtown Chinatown, and an exit to the East. River.
“Nice little resting place on the water, view of Long Island; the sunset and the smell of sea salt … ”, says Marija.
Then he also boasted, “And we will both travel to Los Angeles for New Year’s Eve. At our son and his girlfriend’s house.”
“In the Los Angeles fairy tale! I really envy you! Brankica said sincerely.
In a long chat during the night, Srki and I, separated from the two of them, turned around for a moment, fell silent, and looked at the fireplace from the couch. A red-green flame plays in the depths of the fireplace.
Srki sees in it the unspoken name of his Jasmine, the only girl he ever loved, me, our black living room in whose corner a decorated Christmas tree shines, in the house of Banovo brdo …
We follow them out, greeting them as Brankica maneuvers through a narrow space somewhat cleared of snow and slowly descends toward the street, as the headlights cast grotesque shadows behind us.
I pour myself another drink and go down to the cellar with a glass; I sit on a furry green cloth next to a collection of my great football. Too bad I forgot to show them to Serbia. Wine makes me intoxicated … I hear Maria calling me from above.
– It’s past midnight.
– Nothing.
– Nothing happened.
The world and all things are in their place; they continued.
The next day, the postman delivered a special shipment from Belgrade, a long tube made of hard cardboard. In a short cover letter rolled up together with a poster on a tube, my brother writes to me: “If you received this shipment, it means we are still alive! Nothing! “The experts who interpreted the ancient Mayan calendar have created a good market for sellers of expensive shelters since Death.”
With best wishes and congratulations on the New Year, affectionately fraternal, at the end of the letter it says: “I am sending you this poster of Che Guevara from 1968, an original Milanese engraving, to be placed in a suitable place in your retirement studio “. To rejuvenate “.
I carefully unpacked the famous poster in the lower right corner that reads “WHO IS ALIVE!” and with it he filled the gap in the wall above the desk.
Zoran rosic
Dear readers, “Politika” has revived the column “My life abroad”. It is intended primarily for those of you living outside of Serbia, all over the world, who have been taken by life to new unknown places and countries.
We hope you’ve noticed we’ve changed a bit in the meantime. We sewed a new, more comfortable and comfortable digital suit, but we are still the right address where you can send your letters, reports, notes and photos.
Write us how you are abroad or in your new homeland. What does Serbia look like when you look at it from Vancouver, Oslo or Melbourne? Is there nostalgia for your new directions?
And our address is [email protected]
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