ALBAHARI, David
David Albahari, born in 1948, has published seven collections of short stories and seven novels in Serbian. In 1982, his book Description ofDeath won the Ivo Andric Award for the best collection of short stories in former Yugoslavia. In 1996, his novel Bait won the NIN Award for the best novel in the new Yugoslavia. His books have been translated into fourteen languages, while he himself has translated many British, American and Austral-ian authors into Serbian. David Albahari participated in the International Writing Pro-gramme in Iowa (1986) and was International Writer-in-Residence at the Universitv of Calgary, under the auspices of the Markin-Flanagan Distinguished VVriters Programme (1994 - 95). He lives in Calgarv, Canada.
David Albahari, roden 1948. godine, objavio je sedam knjiga kratke proze i sedam romana na srpskom jeziku. 1982. godine je njegova knjiga Opis smrti dobila Nagradu Ivo Andric za najbolju zbirku kratke proze u nekadašnjoj Jugoslaviji. 1996. je njegov roman Mamac dobio NTN-ovu nagradu za najbolji roman u novoj Jugoslaviji. Njegove knjige su prevedene na četrnaest jezika, a sam je na srpski jezik preveo mnoge engleske, američke i australijske autore. 1986. godine učestvovao je na medunarodnom programu pisaca u Iowi, a 1994/5. je bio Medunarodni kučni autor na univerzitetu u Calgarvju, u Kanadi, gdje sada živi.
Sodobnost 2001 1 34
DAVID ALBAHARI
An Indian in the Olympic Square
Early in the afternoon, in the centre of the town, Fm stopped by a drunken Indian. First he asks me for some change, and when I say no, he offers to seli me some marijuana. He opens his palm and shows a pitiful joint. Naturally, in broad daylight, it looks much bigger. I teli him, in a hushed voice, to put it away, and his face for a moment becomes sharp; then he shrugs and shoves the grass into his pocket, but keeps standing before me without the slightest intention of going away. And if I move, he will be faster than me, I know, I can feel that he's anticipating my next move with his entire being. And even if I give in he'll appear behind my back. As he asks me if I can after ali give him some change, his face becomes softer. I teli him I don't have any change, but am willing to give him twenty dollars if he tells me a story he heard from his parents. It's a long sentence, but t say it out slowly, watching first doubt and then suspicion appear on his face. I suggest we go to the 01ympic Square and sit on a bench, and I start right away, but he's hesitating and doesn't move; as I walk off I accidentally jab him with my elbow. You shoved me now, but don't you dare do it again, says the Indian, understand? I nod, but he demands I say the words out loud, and keeps repeating what he said until I say: Understand. OK, says the Indian, letfs go to the 01ympic Square now. We cross the street. I ask him about his name, imagining names like Eagle's Feather or Raging Buli. John, says the Indian. He doesn't ask me what my name is, but I teli him anyway: Ljubomir. What sort of name is that? asks the Indian. The one who loves peace, I answer. The Indian shakes his head. Nobody loves peace, he says, these are tales for little children. I shrug; some things aren't worth
Sodobnost 2001 I 35
David   Albahari
arguing about. We're approaching the pawn-shop. Two Indians are standing at its door. John moves away from me and walks towards them in a gentle half-eircle. I make three or four more steps and stop. The windows of the pawn-shop are protected by iron bars. I look at the objects displayed in the window: a leather armchair with an embroidered cushion resting on it, a table lamp, a bike, a baseball glove. When I turn round I see that ali three Indians are watching me. John keeps talking, though I can't hear him, and the three of them start to laugh. I pretend Fm absorbed in the umbrellas in the window, but I can feel my cheeks burning. When I turn again, they're ali gone. I turn to the other side, peek through the window into the shop, I even look up towards the sky. I walk on past the parking lot, overtake a woman pushing a pram, and there, in the meadow surrounding the square, I spot John. He's alone again. He's swaying a little, although he's standing with his legs parted, and is waving at me. Where have you been? he asks. I watch him intently trying to figure out if this isn't some kind of a trick, perhaps the man I see is his twin brother. Do Indians have twins at aH? John, the one standing before me, has a large birthmark behind his right ear, and no matter how much I try I can't remember having seen the mark behind the other John's ear. Well, he was walking on my right, and if I looked at his ear at ali it was the left one, but Fm pretty sure I didn't do it; Fve always believed that staring at other people's ears is a rude, violent attack upon one's privacy. I managed to see the birthmark behind John's ear only because when I approached him he turned his back to me and said: Letfs find a niče spot, and meanvvhile, as he was standing in front of me, and I helplessly looked at his wide chest and strong neck, my eyes fell on the birthmark partly concealed by John's hair as black as zift. I have no idea what zift is, I must confess. It's summer and the 01ympic Square is very bright. The fountain is spraying in the middle of a shallow man-made lake. People are lying everywhere, on the grass and on the stone blocks. John is leading me towards one of the benches by the lake. As we're sitting down I ask him how he managed to disappear from in front of the pawn-shop. I didn't disappear, says John, you got lost. I try to protest, but can't find the right words. It's nothing unusual, says John, most people get lost ali the tirne, and many never find themselves again. He puts his palms on his knees. This world is a damn slippery plače, says John, and if you're left with no support God knows where you may end up. Not evervone can be an eagle, right? I nod in agreement, although I haven't got a clue what he's talking about. Perhaps I shouldVe given him some change in the first plače and let him go where he pleased. Perhaps I could stili do it, and then quickly walk across the square, past the town-hall and into the library? No, don't, says John, we have a different deal; do you know what happens to those who don't honour their deals? I stare at him in disbelief. He's once more on my right, so I can't check whether he's got a birthmark behind his right ear or not, but now I see three parallel surface scars, traces of some claws or a drunken fall onto a
Sodobnost 2001 I 36
David  Albahari
barbed-wire fence, which - given that I didn't see them before - could mean that a third John is walking by my side now. Yes, says the Indian, every man exists in countless variations, but only few manage to keep them ali aligned. Most walk chaotically around the world until they fall apart completely, until they fade out of existence like a reflection on an agitated water surface. And those who don't honour their deals, I ask, what happens to those? John turns round and vvatches me carefully. It's better you don't know, he says, much better you don't know. I shrug; some things aren't worth arguing about. Anyway, Fm here for a storv, right? he says. In this čase, I say, we can start. The Indian has closed his eyes in the meantime. He might be asleep, I think, but when I lean down to hear him breathe, he abruptly opens his eyes, springs up from the bench and screams. It's not a loud scream, but a few heads turn in our direction. What's up? I ask, and open my arms. You scared me, says John. He comes back to the bench and sits down. I hate, he says, to see any white face so close up. If I don't get out of this sun soon, I say, it'11 get much darker. John starts laughing. He roars with laughter until he's out of breath and bent down in a violent coughing fit. Twenty dollars, he says, holding his face with his hands resting on his knees. What? We agreed on twenty dollars, right? Right, I answer, but only after Fve heard the story. John straightens himself up, his eyes bloodshed and filled with tears, and says: There once lived a woman called Corn. Nobody knew why she was called that, because nobody had heard the word before. They didn't know where she'd come from, and when they asked her she just pointed her hand in a vague direction and said: From there. Ali right then, said the people, if it's so, let it be so. And she lived with them, and eventually gave birth to two sons. The sons vvere growing fast, mostly because the mother from somewhere was bringing them the yellowish grains to eat that nobody else had. One day the sons decided to secreth/ follow her and find out where she got the food from. They walked behind her, walked and walked, until they came deep into a forest, to the edge of a clearing. And while they peeked through the bushes, the mother took off ali her clothes and started rubbing herself ali over the body. Every tirne she rubbed herself, her palms filled up with golden grairfs which she put into her basket. The sons vvere shocked, especially as the mother was rubbing herself over the breasts and between the legs as well. While they vvere hurrying home, they decided to kili her. But she knew vvhat they vvere up to, just as she knew that it had to be so and that nothing could change her fate. So, when she came home soon after them, she told them she knew vvhat they planned to do, and she knevv they vvere hiding knives behind their backs. She put the basket vvith the grains dovvn by the fireplace, and asked the sons to follovv her. She took them to a flat stretch of ground, and told them to dig out ali roots and ali plants they could find, and then, after they had killed her, to drag her bleeding body up and dovvn along the cleared patch. The sons did as she told them. First they dug out the vveeds and the roots, and then they attacked the mother vvith knives
Sodobnost 2001 I 37
David   Albahari
and axes, killed her, tied her arms and legs, and dragged her body from one end of the clearing to the other. And behold - wherever the mother's blood soaked the soil, a blade grew out with long, narrow green leaves and cobs full of golden grains. While they were picking them, the leaves were rustling, and the sons thought they could hear their mother's voice. We'll call the plant corn, they said, and so we'll always know that it's in fact our mother's blood. End of story, says John. I wait a vvhile, hoping he would go on and finally mention the father. A story without a father is like a sonnet without a rhyme, but I don't say it aloud. Some beliefs should be kept to oneself. It reminds me of Greek tragedies, I finally say. Are you from Greece? asks John. No, I answer, Fm from the land which no longer exists. The Indian slowly lifts his eyes tovvasds me. Thafs why you get lost so easily, he says. I shrug; some things aren't worth arguing about. John shrugs too: Give me the twenty dollars then, he says, and Fll be on my way. I take the money out of my pocket and hand him two ten-dollar bills. You might want to buy some grass after aH? asks John. In the 01ympic Square? In broad daylight? Never. Please yourself, says John, gets up and walks away. I don't look after him; I know from previous experience that I won't see him where I expect him to be. And indeed, only a moment later I can see him on the opposite side, on the other shore of the lake: he's sitting with his bare feet dipped in water, and holds in his hand a brown paper bag with the neck of a bottle sticking out. Now it's my turn to close the eyes. Which I do. Under my lids bright with the afternoon sun, instead of the 01ympic Square I can see a field in which stands the woman called Corn. She's waving at her sons, bidding them to attack her, and then, after the first blows, she points at some better spots on her body. The sons rush at her again, and the mother encourages them with carefully chosen words, seizing every opportunity to caress their muscles or run her fingers through their hair. The blood is oozing out of her body, out of the many wounds, and the sons brandish their knives again, vvith more and more strength, and the mother is laughing, tears of joy running from her eyes. Fm exaggerating with the tears, I know, but Fm sure John will understand. Then I open my eyes, get up and walk into the corn field which has covered the entire square.
Translated by Lili Potpara
Sodobnost 2001 I 38