Why Are We Taking Breathing For Granted?

I wrote this article a few months – maybe even a few years ago! It’s all blurry now because of a thick blanket of smoke that seeps in under the door, slowly entering my nose, ears, lungs, it goes under my nails, skin. 

Then I thought no one would care, so I got it off my chest and parked it on the bottom of my sagging drawer that had already ate so much stuff I wrote. It swallows other things too, like letters, photographs, old passports, guitar picks, an old pocket watch, coins from exotic places, boarding passes, business cards… 

When I wrote it, though, little did I know we’d have a wildfire burning at the end of ends, the Oregon Trail’s End, Estacada, Molala, looming over Happy Valley like a blazing ghost. The Multnomah County got lucky, unscathed, its skin unburned. But we got all the smoke. And it’s where my article comes in handy…

Most of us are aware of our breathing when we start choking, and fighting for our dear life. Very few would accept it as a mortal fact, a squeeze of death that we’re to accept sooner or later. Not only because we’re afraid of dying, but also because we’re fond of living. Yet it seems to be quite hard to just live, as in just do it, just breathe. We’re programmed to think we are always getting something out of life.

Just breathing contentedly and easily, without complications, doesn’t seem to udderly satisfy us. In a harshly competing world, we’re trained to achieve something, a medal. We’re not happy to just participate, like the Olympic slogan says. We’re like wind-up toys focused on winning gold, silver, or bronze. But how does that affect the rest of the losers? Because not everyone can win! There are only three spots in the limelight, or just one. So we take turns. We let everybody win – we give them equal opportunities. In a LOO – LAND OF OPPORTUNITIES – we teach people how to fish so they never get hungry. But why aren’t they happy with their bellyful? Why are they after the biggest fish or strongest lion? Proving what? Their technique? Their ability to hunt, kill, shoot from a safe distance? Their craving for fame, the opportunity to shine five minutes in the limelight, proving that they can, that they are better than others?

So we are in it to win it, but when the fires start raging we’re all in it for the long haul – together! 

There’s a lot of immature moral reasoning out there. Before we start doing anything n life, we should ask ourselves honestly WHY? It’s often disguised under the pretext of helping others, when it’s actually about helping ourselves. And it’s okay, as long as we’re aware of our ultimate reasons, that is, if we know ourselves well enough to be aware of our true motives.

If we do something because our neglected inner child seeks undivided attention, we’re better off addressing it so. More than half of the world’s population are inner children disguised as adults, waving their invisible little hands while drowning in a timeless ocean. As everyone is busy tending to their own children, inner and outer, we live in an illusion of running out of time. To grasp it, we have come up with various techniques and, to make it worthwhile, as in get something out of it, with each technique comes the mastery of it. Thus we have an array of experts at many things that are in most cases but the enhanced attempts of our drowning inner children to get noticed and rewarded with undivided attention.

But what is it, in simple words, that devotion we crave so much and can’t live without it? What else but Love?

Getting so busy competing for attention, we have squeezed the big little “l” out of completing one another. Sadly, we don’t know any better. We’re brought up achievers and go-getters, making sure our cups are full to the brim, if ever we’re tempted to give. But until then our beliefs shape our reality. Often hooked on self-deception, we just take, take, take. First come, first served, generally unaware that we’re breathing, in and out, about 960 breaths an hour, 23000 breaths s day. Imagine if we had to pay for it, if our each breath of life was two cents worth like our precious opinions, it would amount to $165 a day.

The suggestions for an embettered vs. embittered future after COVID 19

We’re all more or less experts at something, and I hope everyone could/should come up with an idea in his field of expertise. As a medical/legal interpreter, an author, and a world traveler, I say let’s start with our language first!

The renowned father of modern linguistics, Noah Chomsky, has revealed the very important connections between linguistics and psychology, and I believe that every word we choose, the way we say it, and in which context, directly or indirectly affects our lives as well as our relationships and our environment.

From the lips of travelers, now and then one hears strange tales. Depending on where they traveled. And how…

I don’t know if I should regard myself as a traveler. I am more of a dweller, I think. Because I’d spend at least a few years dwelling somewhere and on it at the same time. Like that figure of old, I found myself once on an almost deserted island – almost, because one could find a white sandy beach just for himself – the left coast of Australia, a few hundred kilometers shy of Monkey Mia.

Yet, it could have been elsewhere. It looked like a white sandy beach in Sardinia, too. I sailed passed it years ago… But now I must break off, since all this has served as a reminder, to speak of where I am now. Another left coast of another continent called America.

How does it feel?

From a dweller’s point of view, it is not a big difference. Considering geography and history, it is quite a leap across the biggest ocean on Earth. But when and where it all ends, it doesn’t really matter, to me at least. I guess I have crossed too many lines, yellow and red, the International Date Line, the equator… And now we’re all under shelter-in-place measure. Because of the virus.

Had someone told me the world would shut down because of a virus, I’d say that all my life I expected a cataclysm, a nuclear war, or another asteroid hitting the earth and causing another ice age or hot age, when we’d be wiped off the Earth’s face like dags (Australian for dung-caked locks of wool around the hindquarters of a sheep). But this thing now is like a slow train coming around the bend and appearing bigger and bigger. Or, if your imagination is livelier, it’s like grabbing the bull by the horns while your hands are slathered with soap.

At least the verb “to grab” makes sense now. Because it always sounded obnoxious to hear someone is, say, grabbing a lunch or coffee or a person – we’ll grab you in a minute! A figurative language gradually turns into a vicarious way of living, and soon everything is pretty much about grabbing something or someone. It’s like trying to outrun time and, each moment we stop, a big tsunami tumbles behind us like a towering wall of water coming to sweep us away. Then grabbing onto anything doesn’t help much.

So, the first suggestion would be to get rid of the word, if we want to live in a better world. Or just use it when it’s absolutely necessary, like, when we need to grab someone’s hand before they fall off a cliff. Or grab the handle before we fly off it.

The languages are fascinating.

In my native, Bosnian language we also have the verb “grabiti.” But we only use it to grab, as in rake, leaves. Or when we greedily grab whatever opportunity we can in order to improve our lives, instead of embettering the world we live in, which inevitably leads to embittering someone. Because one can’t build his happiness on someone else’s misery.

So, let’s not grab our coffee next time. Instead, let’s try to enjoy it.

I suggest we should first stop being “grabbers,” and go from there.

Next time I’ll talk about nada, which in my language means hope, and in Spanish…nothing.

The Last Train to Amsterdam 4.

MAGDALENE HAD A BEAUTIFUL SMILE.

It shone together with the sun above her, making the pavement scream bright, as if it were illumined from within by its own light. I don’t know what I had said to her first, and it didn’t matter. We talked like we knew each other from another life. Even Abdullah’s non-speaking seemed natural. He stood by like one of those bodhisattvas descended right from Nirvana Moon, coming down the wrong chute.

His pearly teeth shone bright with flashes of light, matching the wild white in his sparkling eyes. His inability to communicate rendered him speechless, with a smile ready to burst out laughing.

It’s when he sounded like everybody else. But more pure, more childlike, and innocent. It put Magdalene at ease, and helped me connect with her on a deeper level. Thank God Vasko was not around to rub his shiitakemushroom nose.

She was intrigued by my music playing. A future painter, she loved art and…Tracy Chap-man. For the first time ever, I performed in public with a girlfriend sitting there gracefully proud of me. I saw myself big in her eyes, but I could not recognize the love she radiated like the sun. It just shone bright and unhindered. It almost had a bite to it, one needed shade from its glare. You wanted it to embrace and warm up to you, but too much of it burned you. And you couldn’t tell the sun to simmer down.

Another thing with Magdalene was her bike, and legs. She drove us around, as I’d sit on the back and watch the world go by. Grew up on Dutch cheese, her long legs pedaled as if they were two power pistons of a Stirling engine, reducing the friction to as low as possible. They could get us over any hump. And she smiled the whole time. I was blinded by her sun.

It took two to tango, and three to let go.

This is where Vasko’s story and mine come in combined. We were come-at-able, but nobody had enough room for more stuffed animals. In Holland people carve land out of the sea. Being vertically challenged, theydebate about building their own offshore mountain.

Why didn’t I get my own room?

Point made, but I can’t remember. Because my tourist visa ran out, perhaps. Not that one cared much, but I was not really protected by any law. I was rather breaking it.

Magdalene had her life to worry about, her paintings, her friends, African gray parrots, and other endangered species. I was more like a dream, an enchanting impression. I lived off people’s handouts and boredom.

I didn’t qualify for the dole, or Medicare. No proof of income. All I had going for me was the fountain of youth and untouchable beliefs I was raised upon. They were yet to crumble, but their very core remained glowing even dwarfed.

In a paradigm shift, winning meant losing. Ultimately, there was nothing to win or lose. The world was to change together with Time until one found ample Space to exist with spare food to eat.

An Amur tiger requires 18 pounds of meat a day and 800 square feet as its own. Pockets of intelligence have nothing to do with it.

Due to erosion, a Sika deer is forced to feed on salty kelp, eating with a growing discomfort because breaking cover was dangerous.

In this enchanting wonderful world, the red ants dismember giants alive, and thick-billed crows spell death, while small streams swell up into raging rivers…

Humans were given spiritual gifts to dig putting the whole shebang in perspective. I was given a voice to sing about taking life and unrequited love on faith.

There was no vacancy for it. People needed plenty of together time and plenty of alone time, engrossed in weighing their heavy hearts on a scale against the feather of truth and jus-tice.

But, time wasn’t on my agenda.

My voice came from a timeless realm of infinite souls. At any edge of knowledge, after every song was sung, my heart was given wings to fly. As if it were pulled by antigravity.

Around the same time I met Magdalene, I also discovered the Yugoslavian Center. The country was still unbroken after being brought together by Slavophile wishful thinking, like a cheap, old Mediterranean amphora broken up at its destination: an ancient artifact waiting for a gust of wind or a couple of naughty children to come along and stumble upon it. Otherwise, it looked nice.

A charming provincial ensemble,THE YU CENTERwas frequented by all of our ethnic groups, from Vardar to Triglav.

“Here I am!”

I walked in, smiling fancy-free and gung-ho.

“There comes our merry Bosnian!” A lady from Banja Luka had recognized me off the bat. As Selimović so truly portrayed us all, we made a virtue out of a necessity, growing smart out of spite.

They welcomed me with open arms. Not much longer after that, I was offered to give their children guitar lessons.

Magdalene loved coming there with me, laughing uninhibited while circle dancing. She was mesmerized by syncopated steps and fast paced two-bit music. A carefree and easy-going Kolo, when even the most uptight kinds were to loosen up.

She was ready for me to take her there: to my enchanted country, where everybody laughed and danced between bloody wars.

In the YU Center I met Bane, too.

He was from Belgrade, once a drummer in the band Piloti.I would never know, had he not asked me if I were kin on buying a stolen pair of jeans.

As new!

He was an expert in getting people custom-fit clothing. He showed me a big handle paper bag he used. It was lined inside with silver duct tape. One could fill it up and walk out through any door. No alarm would sound.

Bane had a lion’s heart unafraid of anything and anybody. Off and on, it was embarrassing when he’d bluntly tell people he didn’t like to get lost, scaring them off by a kicking motion and a fidgety frown.

Taller than him, they’d duck down, their tail between their legs. The fear in their eyes felt humiliating. Bored, he’d just shoo them away like chicken, adding, “Off you go, I’m not going to dirty my hands with you!”

He was short and explosive. A drummer at heart, excited he’d come with us to watch live music. We mainly focused on him not beating some unlucky face up.

Once he brought me along to visit with one of his buddies that lived with a nymphomaniac.

The poor guy, literally in a bathrobe most of the time, wore a permanent shade of panic on his face, as if he was about to jump to death. He even uttered a few times quietly and scared, “Brother, please get me out of here…”

Then she appeared, a mean lean machine, with a wanton smile, flashing her pearly whites.

Her eyes sparkled like green limeade. Bane chuckled at the bewilderment on his buddy’s face, greeting her like a breadwinner, with a loud high five exploding in the air.

I smiled in disbelief, finding the whole thing amazing. The poor guy was serious. And he had no place to go. Fucked, literally.

Those were some of the moments with Bane that I can still recall. We had different callings, going separate ways. The next time I heard of him was when one found him floating in one of the canals. His face was sliced up, whomever he had beef with.

The next YugoI met, a Croatian, was Ljubo.

He tricked me. It was literally: Dear God, save me from Serbian bravery and Croatian courtesy!

He seemed related to Brian Ferry, sounding even better than him. He also carried himself with dignity. He wore a tie playing at a market place almost every afternoon starting at 2 p.m. A serious busker.

He had a strategy developed.

I first heard his voice drawing us along the lit shop windows, as if winding the wool into a ball. It was after most of the stores were shut and the street was eerie and naked like a shav-ed cat.

I was surprised to hear somebody singing at that time of day. Maybe it was a CD player from one of the shops still open?

No, it was Ljubo; a pair of green eyes framed by a full head of dark curly hair, singing like a nightingale that had just flown out of a cage and landed on a guitar. A parlor with a surprising brightness and volume that carried his velvety voice on invisible wings.

Mesmerized, we tossed a few coins in his case, listened to it for a while, and moved on caressed by a warm breeze of sound. We didn’t want to interrupt the magic.

The next day, at the Leidseplein, just as I was getting ready to play in front of the Bulldog, Ljubo appeared out of the blue, stand-ing next to me. I first saw his feet, as I kneeled before my guitar, getting it out of the case.

“Would you mind if I go first?… I’m flat-broke…” he said, at length, turning towards me.

I was a bit thrown off by unexpected TMI, otherwise I didn’t care. I had nothing else to do. It didn’t matter if I played then or half an hour later. Besides, I never liked the Bulldog and the people there. They mostly talked with their mouth to the side…

“Hvala, zemljače!”

A cheeky smile, hanging the little guitar around his neck as though it were a small-bodied, wooden albatross, he went toward an imaginary mic stand.

My mouth was half-open as if I were going to say something, but I did not know what. He totally got me with his Thank you, paisano!

I never thought he’d be from my country. Maybe Irish, or Scottish. As it turned out, he  lived there for a few years, learning the songs of Christy Moore, Cate Bush, Brian Ferry…

It’s how my life changed. Meeting Ljubo was like spreading a new deck of cards. I got tired of the same old routine. With Ljubo I got promoted into a real dog. My life was going up the slide. Still on the floor, but now sleeping on a real blanket. With an embroidered name on it. Mine was Mookey,a dog that was half cow and half monkey. A funny guy. His was Bonzi. Totally opposite of will tap any ass as long as honey is involved.

Ljubo was a real minstrel performing songs that told stories of distant places, memorizing the works of true bards. In a sand-in-honey voice at times reminiscent of a male version of Kate Bush, each song was hooking the random listeners with a colorful melody but holding them with actual narrative.

He always wore matching colors, his jeans had vertical lines that corresponded with his ties; the only busker around that occasionally would put a classic white shirt on. After years of busking around Europe, he had developed his own tour strategy based on different places like London, Berlin, Zurich, and Milan. Some-where in Germany, one had stuffed a hundred Deutsche Mark bill into his guitar while he was performing. He did not even realize it till he came home that night.

An incurable romantic, we often teased him about dreaming and waiting for his true love to appear sitting in a corner like “A beautiful flower ready for picking,” as he mused on. “They would swim naked beneath the mist spraying waterfalls, as the summer warm winds swirl the waters around…”

He’d reminisce about his favorite Goethe’s poem “Song of the Spirits over the Waters,” inspired by Staubbach Falls, one of the highest free falling waterfalls in Switzerland, where he wound up once. Much later on, as it turned out, he was not very welcome in Heidiland.

Meanwhile, we slept in an art gallery. On our pastel dog blankets. Courtesy of…

I forgot her name…the gallery owner.

 

 

 

 

 

MAGDALENE HAD A BEAUTIFUL SMILE. I remember it shining together with the sun above her, making the pavement scream bright, as if it were illumined from within by its own light. I don’t know what I had said to her first, and it didn’t matter. We talked like we knew each other from another life. Even Abdullah’s non-speaking seemed natural. He stood by like one of those bodhisattvas descended right from Nirvana Moon, coming down the wrong chute.

His pearly teeth shone bright with flashes of light, matching the wild white in his sparkling eyes. His inability to communicate rendered him speechless, with a smile ready to burst out laughing.

It’s when he sounded like everybody else. But more pure, more childlike, and innocent. It put Magdalene at ease, and helped me connect with her on a deeper level. Thank God Vasko was not around to rub his shiitakemushroom nose.

She was intrigued by my music playing. A future painter, she loved art and…Tracy Chap-man. For the first time ever, I performed in public with a girlfriend sitting there gracefully proud of me. I saw myself big in her eyes, but I could not recognize the love she radiated like the sun. It just shone bright and unhindered. It almost had a bite to it, one needed shade from its glare. You wanted it to embrace and warm up to you, but too much of it burned you. And you couldn’t tell the sun to simmer down.

Another thing with Magdalene was her bike, and legs. She drove us around, as I’d sit on the back and watch the world go by. Grew up on Dutch cheese, her long legs pedaled as if they were two power pistons of a Stirling engine, reducing the friction to as low as possible. They could get us over any hump. And she smiled the whole time. I was blinded by her sun.

It took two to tango, and three to let go.

This is where Vasko’s story and mine come in combined. We were come-at-able, but nobody had enough room for more stuffed animals. In Holland people carve land out of the sea. Being vertically challenged, theydebate about building their own offshore mountain.

Why didn’t I get my own room?

Point made, but I can’t remember. Because my tourist visa ran out, perhaps. Not that one cared much, but I was not really protected by any law. I was rather breaking it.

Magdalene had her life to worry about, her paintings, her friends, African gray parrots, and other endangered species. I was more like a dream, an enchanting impression. I lived off people’s handouts and boredom.

I didn’t qualify for the dole, or Medicare. No proof of income. All I had going for me was the fountain of youth and untouchable beliefs I was raised upon. They were yet to crumble, but their very core remained glowing even dwarfed.

In a paradigm shift, winning meant losing. Ultimately, there was nothing to win or lose. The world was to change together with Time until one found ample Space to exist with spare food to eat.

An Amur tiger requires 18 pounds of meat a day and 800 square feet as its own. Pockets of intelligence have nothing to do with it.

Due to erosion, a Sika deer is forced to feed on salty kelp, eating with a growing discomfort because breaking cover was dangerous.

In this enchanting wonderful world, the red ants dismember giants alive, and thick-billed crows spell death, while small streams swell up into raging rivers…

Humans were given spiritual gifts to dig putting the whole shebang in perspective. I was given a voice to sing about taking life and unrequited love on faith.

There was no vacancy for it. People needed plenty of together time and plenty of alone time, engrossed in weighing their heavy hearts on a scale against the feather of truth and jus-tice.

But, time wasn’t on my agenda.

My voice came from a timeless realm of infinite souls. At any edge of knowledge, after every song was sung, my heart was given wings to fly. As if it were pulled by antigravity.

Around the same time I met Magdalene, I also discovered the Yugoslavian Center. The country was still unbroken after being brought together by Slavophile wishful thinking, like a cheap, old Mediterranean amphora broken up at its destination: an ancient artifact waiting for a gust of wind or a couple of naughty children to come along and stumble upon it. Otherwise, it looked nice.

A charming provincial ensemble,THE YU CENTERwas frequented by all of our ethnic groups, from Vardar to Triglav.

“Here I am!”

I walked in, smiling fancy-free and gung-ho.

“There comes our merry Bosnian!” A lady from Banja Luka had recognized me off the bat. As Selimović so truly portrayed us all, we made a virtue out of a necessity, growing smart out of spite.

They welcomed me with open arms. Not much longer after that, I was offered to give their children guitar lessons.

Magdalene loved coming there with me, laughing uninhibited while circle dancing. She was mesmerized by syncopated steps and fast paced two-bit music. A carefree and easy-going Kolo, when even the most uptight kinds were to loosen up.

She was ready for me to take her there: to my enchanted country, where everybody laughed and danced between bloody wars.

In the YU Center I met Bane, too.

He was from Belgrade, once a drummer in the band Piloti.I would never know, had he not asked me if I were kin on buying a stolen pair of jeans.

As new!

He was an expert in getting people custom-fit clothing. He showed me a big handle paper bag he used. It was lined inside with silver duct tape. One could fill it up and walk out through any door. No alarm would sound.

Bane had a lion’s heart unafraid of anything and anybody. Off and on, it was embarrassing when he’d bluntly tell people he didn’t like to get lost, scaring them off by a kicking motion and a fidgety frown.

Taller than him, they’d duck down, their tail between their legs. The fear in their eyes felt humiliating. Bored, he’d just shoo them away like chicken, adding, “Off you go, I’m not going to dirty my hands with you!”

He was short and explosive. A drummer at heart, excited he’d come with us to watch live music. We mainly focused on him not beating some unlucky face up.

Once he brought me along to visit with one of his buddies that lived with a nymphomaniac.

The poor guy, literally in a bathrobe most of the time, wore a permanent shade of panic on his face, as if he was about to jump to death. He even uttered a few times quietly and scared, “Brother, please get me out of here…”

Then she appeared, a mean lean machine, with a wanton smile, flashing her pearly whites.

Her eyes sparkled like green limeade. Bane chuckled at the bewilderment on his buddy’s face, greeting her like a breadwinner, with a loud high five exploding in the air.

I smiled in disbelief, finding the whole thing amazing. The poor guy was serious. And he had no place to go. Fucked, literally.

Those were some of the moments with Bane that I can still recall. We had different callings, going separate ways. The next time I heard of him was when one found him floating in one of the canals. His face was sliced up, whomever he had beef with.

The next YugoI met, a Croatian, was Ljubo.

He tricked me. It was literally: Dear God, save me from Serbian bravery and Croatian courtesy!

He seemed related to Brian Ferry, sounding even better than him. He also carried himself with dignity. He wore a tie playing at a market place almost every afternoon starting at 2 p.m. A serious busker.

He had a strategy developed.

I first heard his voice drawing us along the lit shop windows, as if winding the wool into a ball. It was after most of the stores were shut and the street was eerie and naked like a shav-ed cat.

I was surprised to hear somebody singing at that time of day. Maybe it was a CD player from one of the shops still open?

No, it was Ljubo; a pair of green eyes framed by a full head of dark curly hair, singing like a nightingale that had just flown out of a cage and landed on a guitar. A parlor with a surprising brightness and volume that carried his velvety voice on invisible wings.

Mesmerized, we tossed a few coins in his case, listened to it for a while, and moved on caressed by a warm breeze of sound. We didn’t want to interrupt the magic.

The next day, at the Leidseplein, just as I was getting ready to play in front of the Bulldog, Ljubo appeared out of the blue, stand-ing next to me. I first saw his feet, as I kneeled before my guitar, getting it out of the case.

“Would you mind if I go first?… I’m flat-broke…” he said, at length, turning towards me.

I was a bit thrown off by unexpected TMI, otherwise I didn’t care. I had nothing else to do. It didn’t matter if I played then or half an hour later. Besides, I never liked the Bulldog and the people there. They mostly talked with their mouth to the side…

“Hvala, zemljače!”

A cheeky smile, hanging the little guitar around his neck as though it were a small-bodied, wooden albatross, he went toward an imaginary mic stand.

My mouth was half-open as if I were going to say something, but I did not know what. He totally got me with his Thank you, paisano!

I never thought he’d be from my country. Maybe Irish, or Scottish. As it turned out, he  lived there for a few years, learning the songs of Christy Moore, Cate Bush, Brian Ferry…

It’s how my life changed. Meeting Ljubo was like spreading a new deck of cards. I got tired of the same old routine. With Ljubo I got promoted into a real dog. My life was going up the slide. Still on the floor, but now sleeping on a real blanket. With an embroidered name on it. Mine was Mookey,a dog that was half cow and half monkey. A funny guy. His was Bonzi. Totally opposite of will tap any ass as long as honey is involved.

Ljubo was a real minstrel performing songs that told stories of distant places, memorizing the works of true bards. In a sand-in-honey voice at times reminiscent of a male version of Kate Bush, each song was hooking the random listeners with a colorful melody but holding them with actual narrative.

He always wore matching colors, his jeans had vertical lines that corresponded with his ties; the only busker around that occasionally would put a classic white shirt on. After years of busking around Europe, he had developed his own tour strategy based on different places like London, Berlin, Zurich, and Milan. Some-where in Germany, one had stuffed a hundred Deutsche Mark bill into his guitar while he was performing. He did not even realize it till he came home that night.

An incurable romantic, we often teased him about dreaming and waiting for his true love to appear sitting in a corner like “A beautiful flower ready for picking,” as he mused on. “They would swim naked beneath the mist spraying waterfalls, as the summer warm winds swirl the waters around…”

He’d reminisce about his favorite Goethe’s poem “Song of the Spirits over the Waters,” inspired by Staubbach Falls, one of the highest free falling waterfalls in Switzerland, where he wound up once. Much later on, as it turned out, he was not very welcome in Heidiland.

Meanwhile, we slept in an art gallery. On our pastel dog blankets. Courtesy of…

I forgot her name…the gallery owner.

The Last Train to Amsterdam 3.

 

MY NEXT HELPER WAS VASKO. From Macedonia.

He slept out with us only on weekdays. The weekends he spent with his German girlfriend. Tired from moving around and making ends meet, like a worn out frypan, he dangled at the end of his rope.

“Šetao sam mnogo Evropom…” he’d mutter absent-minded, rubbing his nose.

I walked around Europe a lot…

A high-school art teacher, he earned money painting menu boards and windows. He left his job in Skopje for good after he fell in love with his German girlfriend, following her all the way to Amsterdam.

During the week, when she needed time for herself, he had nowhere to go. Happy-go-lucky, he’d pay her a visit every Friday, as though we were in the army and he, a little blessing smile on his face, went home each weekend.

Otherwise, during the week, he was almost dysfunctional. Zoning out, rubbing his nose that only got bigger from it, he was at the edge of reasoning.

I had to wake him up, snapping my fingers, every time I talked to him. Sometimes, in the middle of a song, I’d call out his name, making it sound like the part of a chorus. He was in a daze, ever mulling over his past while kneading his nose, his entire face.

I missed Yen-Vu. He was twelve, but fast as a whip. With him it was all action, no talk. With Vasko I could talk, nearly turning into his field therapist. I had to watch over him all the time. On the train, while singing, I had to make sure he was there. He’d just gaze out the window, as the train emerged in the flatland suburbia.

The sky was covered with one big and light gray cloud, as though it were a shower curtain, stretching out as far as the east was from the west. The high-rises stood like petrified soldiers, all within the same region of the spectrum made of different shades of dull light brown and gray mud bricks, as if they wore drab camouflage uniforms.

Returning under the ground felt soothing and familiar. Reemerging back in the old town was like coming back home. It’s where we lived. In the very heart of it.

Another whatchamacallit one could see through glass were the ticket controllers. They started being more frequent. They could see us too, when trains would pass each other by. As us and them were two different species on the loose, one was ever ready for close encounters. We knew roaming animals could get off at any stop, changing their direction.

The ticket controllers did more than that.

They’d set up and carry out a mean ambush. Mysteriously, they’d materialize out of thin air, either waiting on one of the stops, or we could hear them yelling right behind us, as we’d hop from one car to another. Once I kept running without looking back.

The next thing I heard was a metal rainfall. It sounded familiar as though one dropped a few coins. It was hundreds of them dropped dead, echoing underground. Jolted back to consciousness, Vasko ran for his dear life, spilling all the coins we reaped that day.

The ticket controllers got them. I could hear their happy grunts as if they stumbled upon a pirate’s loot. The bewildered look on Vasko’s face, with his nose growing like a bell pepper, was self-explanatory enough.

He was older than me, and life dealt him a few extra blows bellow the belt. Or maybe not life. Rather, some of his beliefs and prospects of an artist walking across Europe, his hands mostly wedged in his pockets. They were up for grabs, unwanted by many. He was not cut out the Van Gogh style. He would never cut his ear off; instead he’d rub his nose off, as it grew like a mushroom on his face.

To walk in his shoes, I was yet to experience more close encounters with the western girls and their ways of keeping one in limbo. As long as I had my voice belting those songs out like a wind, it was impressive.

Thus the impressionists’ fame still lingered. If you want people to follow, you come up with magic, turning water into wine, beer and soda. Then you get their attention.

Try as I did, I could not find any work. After Johnson & Johnsonrejected me, together with Katherine, there was nothing else left for me but to use my voice.

Lucky? I could gather some coins. Vasko did menus and murals for restaurants, if he’d find anyone interested in it. He used to do portraits, but he lost the nerve.

The western girls got the best of him. Then he clung to them, growing tired. No one wanted a clinging tired specie rubbing its nose absent-minded, wearing it like a fungal growth on its face. Try as he did, he couldn’t stop it. Instead, he helped it grow faster.

What happened to the eastern girls and the southern ones? Why did he leave them behind?

The West is a trickster. It’s a make-believe commercial advertising on the TV by way of juxtaposing images with music to remove conscious meaning and wipe out thought. I remember an amped individual saying, “I’d rather drive a Mercedes in a rotten capitalism than a Citroën 2CV, or an equivalent, in a boring communism!” Until we found ourselves stuck here, our free education and free medicare gone.

Accordingly, Vasko walked on enough loose rope between his dreamy weekends with the German love of his life and arcane weekdays passing a hat for me, and painting cheesy menus.

He was yet to discover that Incertitude was the mother of Happiness, as based upon The Uncertainty Principle: The more precisely the position is determined, the less precisely the momentum is known in this instant, and vice versa.

Mass times velocity of an electron.

And then causality and the determination of an atom’s future ensue. One taps into motive power, which is any driving force.

Like some kind of weird neutron stars, we sure moved around—the old town Amsterdam was our stage, though our living arrangements were not enviable, unless one was a homeless rat. But theirs wasthe underworld. They were only passing through our realm that was almost fun, if one removed the garments of seeming ugliness. One was first transported into a land of dreams to live through magic feats, and then carried smack-bang into different realities.

One time, riding a streetcar, in the drizzle of the rain I saw a pink fur crawling on the side of the street. I had never seen a pink dog before. Maybe the rumors were true—Pink Panther has done dope! The tram stopped to pick more passengers, then I had a better look.

A girl in a pink, fuzzy, fake fur coat crawled  through a busy sidewalk. Had anybody stopped to lend her a hand? No one even casted a stray glance. A river of traffic was crawling along. I’ll never forget the desperate look on her face lost in the crowd, reaching out for an invisible help. I nearly got off but, in a split-second, the tram was on its way across a charming little canal. A few more side streets erased the pink girl as if she were a mirage of a displaced image.

Talking about the views, one early morning, walking around the sleepy town, we saw the most surreal show on Earth. The Dutch do not sport curtains, and the window shopping is widespread, continuing long after the red light district into the winding lanes, as if they were  the tributaries of the 88 beautiful canals that the city was known for.

The windows spotless clean, it felt as if the doors were wide open. One could see flower pots, furniture, porcelain, Dutch wooden clogs, paintings, wallpapers, Wiehler Gobelins, more doors…and people. Crossing one of the little, bulging bridges, the straight line of our sight was leveled with the first floor of a house across the street.

First we saw a bedroom with a big iron bed, then, on it, two pale scrawny bodies appeared intertwined into a hapless, grotesque union. A long blonde strawy hair covered their faces, as their limbs grew out of it, branching out like cold pasta al gorgonzola slathered with butter.

The whole thing resembled a monstrous, sick looking spider. There was no love there, no sex, nothing. Just a mass of worn out bodies still breathing. We kept walking in a mild state of shock, asking each other whether we all saw the same thing. The first thing in the morning made it look even more outlandish.

What one wakes up to goes a long way.

It might not have taken such a hold upon us, had it not curbed our appetite, postponing our breakfast until lunch. We could not escape the imaginary bad taste of a wretched white meat covered in smoked blonde hair.

Something about it, being on public display, made it look as if one of the paintings from the Rijks Museumcame alive, after undergoing a vivisection by the ghosts of Flemish Masters.

Later on, in the Atrium, surrounded by realflesh and bones, within a student restaurant, we stopped thinking about it, carried away with our youth. However, up to this day, its vivid graphics reside in my head like an unkempt tenant everybody in the building shuns and hopes not to share an elevator ride with, avoiding awkward moments of truth.

Vasko’s predicament started rubbing off on me. It was manifested in all of my relationships with people and God. Chasing his luck when it was against him, Vasko was a loser even at soul sucking. Not focusing on personal gain at all, but unintentionally draining whatever he could mentally and emotionally from a friend, he had no room for any thought of reciprocity, totally engrossed in his predicament and, thus, slowly becomingit. Otherwise, a pure heart of gold.

It started affecting my music first. I had to focus on Vasko’s wellbeing and whereabouts so much that my singing sounded worrisome. Every day spent away from his girlfriend would handicap him. I didn’t have one and my head was pretty clear. Maybe my heart was a bit sad and hollow, but nothing that a good song could not heal.

Vasko didn’t sing. He only passed the hat and contemplated deeply, rubbing his nose. I guess it was way out of his league, reducing his artistic abilities to passing a hat for somebody else. But that was just a little piece of it. The bigger chunk was his girlfriend.

What was she doing? Where was she? With whom? It felt great being liberated from such a conundrum. I could fully inhale every breath I took, grasping every motion, totally aware of the world around me. Including Vasko’s plight.

It was contagious. His anxiety waited for him patiently. Intricate and oppressive like a plague, misery enjoyed company. Through his ill-colored glasses, I started seeing radiation with wavelengths outside the visible spectrum.

The light was becoming more off-white, what with the permanent shades of a gray and cold winter, arriving full throttle on an icy gust of wind. Black was a total absence of light. The darkness was unassailable, except for the shady red light district glinting like a constellation on its own.

The novelty of Amsterdam was wearing off, though. Sleeping at the CentraalStation, one  had to keep a sharp eye out. A lot of thievery was going on. Even the penguins stole form each other, what was one to expect from men? The wilderness changed just as they began to understand it.

The winter’s harsh hand had reached out and, thus, preening one’s feathers to prevent clumping after rain seemed appropriate only to great northern owls, or those wearing someone else’s skin, in order not to spoil their chances.

One cold night we ended up sleeping on the benches in a park near the Rijks Museum, where Rembrandt’s paintings rested in peace.

One said that “he surveyed himself without vanity and with utmost sincerity…because of his empathy for the human condition.”

We thought that, being closer to it, we’d get more enlightened. The cold rain made us go as close as possible. We ended up in one of the windy passages of the very museum, zipping up our sleeping bags over our heads. It was no time for weaving silk cocoons. We could not produce our own antifreeze, unlike wooly bear caterpillars.

We did not want to wait a dozen years to become moths and get a single chance to mate before we die, either. Therefore we ended up on a genuine rock bottom, sleeping on a stone cold windy sidewalk, underneath one of the most renown places in the world. Its prominence didn’t help us. We nearly froze to death.

The next day Aoideand her sisters Melete and Mneme,the three oldest Muses, left town. After combing through the flee markets and browsing the local thrift stores, they sought out the desired tight fitting jeans, then southbound our muses went to share their stories withThe Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

They left us stubborn men behind to wallow in self-pity, wrapped in the winter’s cold arms, confusing humility with self-deprecation.

The dishwasher Abdullah helped us. Our little jinn. The one who only knew how to Fuck the Queen in English. He did well. He found an eight-by-eight room in a frosty attic, with a locked little shared toilet. The only key was behind another closed door. There a fair-haired Dutch homegirl lived.

Every morning (if she could see us, because we were not supposed to be seen), she’d open her mouth, as if a couple of mayflies were to mate there on the wing.

Unkempt and smelly, we’d flash our smiles still frozen from the night before. Some of us had runs from the Indonesian spicy food, and one would be running down the narrow stairs to a nearby café. Otherwise, pissing was easy.

We used plastic containers, emptying them out the only squeaky window. Hitting the cold air, the heat from our urine condensed a little and hence steamed, while pouring down freely. There was no shit on shingles. We had a raw deal. One could see our breath.

Vasko’s predicament rubbed off on me in different ways. I ended up having similar issues with the girls I met. They needed lots of time apart. It’s why I met three. Is it because we were all young and foolish, perpetually figuring out what kind of fray we were in?

Twenty-five years later, I’d say yes. It all looked magic, feeling both comic and tragic, as that which had been existed no more. The way I existed, as little as that which had never been, didn’t match anybody’s expectations. The least of all mine. Resting on the ever-fleeting pre-sent, unrest was the mark of my existence.

If Alice was lost in Wonderland, I was voluntarily stuck in an enchanted Borderland. Not because of drugs, I shunned them as we stumbled upon white, trembling legs peeping out of photo booths, their owners inside with rusty needles up their veins. One time we saw a guy shooting himself up in a phone booth,Weesperplein.

He smiled joyously as though it were an ode to the spring cleanse. Otherwise, there was plenty of coffee shops throughout the city with pre-rolled joints for $5 a piece.

I had my share of hashish when I was a student. Once I had blacked out in the middle of the street, afraid to make another step. I thought I was going to fall flat on my head, and sink deep into oblivion.

It seemed like an eternity before I regained my sight and saw my friends waving at me, pissing them selves laughing.

The entire student restaurant had a ball, watching me. I was planted in front of it like a petrified inflatable air dancer, swaying back and forth, scared to move. Little did they know then I couldn’t see at all. It was curtains for me. That was it. No more hashish.

It probably saved me in Amsterdam. People there had drugs for breakfast. They came from all around the world to smoke free, hardly believing their luck. The rotten smell of weed traveled along the hazy canals, following them in a swirl. It did absolutely nothing for me. I couldn’t stand it. I favored Belgian beer and Drum tobacco instead. And the girls.

I met Magdalene in the street.

I did everything in the street. It’s where we lived our only reality, taking the form of constant motion. Otherwise, we’d fall into the sun like planets that stopped moving.

One of the last sunny afternoons, before the winter had set in, Abdullah and I strolled down Oudezijds Voorburgwal.

He worked night shifts, I didn’t work at all. I carried my guitar everywhere like a wooden sword. Everything in my life happened through music. There were only a few people that had never heard me sing, and that felt weird.

That day I didn’t play. I could afford to take a day off whenever I pleased. I had no boss. No powers that be. According to average citizens, though, I had nothing. I was not even a citizen. But I had a voice that I was recognized by. A voice that carried me near and far. When not in subway, I played in front of the terraces on Leidseplein and Rembrandtsplein.

My versions of Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix, Fragile and Bourbon Street by Sting, Evil Ways by Santana, and Virginia Jail by Tracy Chapman became recognized local arias, as if I were young Verdi. At times, seeing me on the other side of the street, one would start hum-ming them and smiling. Maybe that explains why I didn’t care about meeting Ray Charles.

But let’s meet Magdalene first…

I have recently just found her on Facebook. Happily married with children, warts and all. For years I wondered what happened, couldn’t find her address, the phone number, then the war came, the exodus, as one started continent hopping like a member of a spiritual Mile High Club (No sex in lavatories, though).

Being above the clouds became a common perspective. Down to earth was in my books. I got used to the airports. They felt like home. As I mostly flew on standby, sometimes I’d spend a night or two at an airport. I’d become friends with the local staff; they gave me free coffee.

Once I couldn’t decide between Zurich and Sydney, flying out of San Francisco. Half way around it, the world became too small. I lost the concept of it. My luggage was already on a plane to Switzerland, and I was at the gate to Australia. They waited for me to make my mind up, reassuring me not to worry about my bags.

They will catch up with you in Sydney!

Wow….How cool was that? Where in the world was I going? What was I doing? What was I thinking? I had five standby coupons to go anywhere United flew the friendly skies, but no money to spend. Never rich, I had a pretty rich life that turned out not often…pretty.

And now I have finally reached that stage one referred to as a future tense long far ahead. My daydreams (what’s going to happen twenty years from now?) came true.

Now I can write about what went on twenty years ago, as it feels more real than anything in between: I had touched bottom, a rock bottom, literally sleeping on it. It’s when I had found my voice, creating my new life, my new orbit, as it were.

The Last Train to Amsterdam 2.

 

Only Tom remained sitting where he was, from the very beginning, as if practicing half-smile and serenity, like the Mona Lisa’s just-barely-there smile, generating calmness filled with silence between the other two guys that talked in different languages.

The African guy spoke his broken French with me every so often, that night having only a newspaper to spread out and sleep on.

The next day he was gone.

The Indonesian guy, Abdullah, remained our restaurant food provider for many nights to come.

When you go tribal, anything is feasible.

Anything is possible anyhow, a breeze could generate storms or calm weather. But when you belong to a tribe, it connects you with your hunter-gatherer past inscribed in your genes. As soon as you are surrounded with an honest group of people, you belong.

No matter where and when.

It is up to you to appreciate it and know whether you have reached a turning point able to recognize the change happening. Unaware, you might have been keeping it at bay.

Some people are born into tribes, both geographically and historically, and, by necessity, never inclined to leave them. They mostly take their promising context for granted, unaware of the polarity of their position and, thus, rather adding to the myth of being born in unhopeful settings. If they happened to cross a familiar horizon, they discover a new one that might look the same, but it feels different. Because now it’s their own horizon that they have earned metaphysically. If continually going per aspera, they get used to it, feeling little cause for rejoicing it. All they seem to exude then is a determined need to go back home. Those that don’t have one, whether it’s lost or it turned out dysfunctional, should build a new home. Or not even need it, as long as they have each other.

That first night, Tom introduced us to a sleepy sanctuaryjust around the corner. It was an attached little cargo terminal.

There, in the dark, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Lined up next to each other like sardines lay at least fifty sleeping bags, if not more.

We joined the line, at its closer end. Tom had at last parked his bike, done for the day, after long hours of collecting metal scrap and other unwanted stuff, trying to make a few bucks. The dole he was on was spent as soon as received. Not on drugs or girls….Gambling. A vast array of slutmachines became his game of choice. But his Mona Lisasmile would keep him relaxed through improving each new moment surrounded by a constant unimposing yet contagious serenity.

As he left an I.T. job, his wife left him, and now he pushed his bike around Amsterdam, at his own pace, finding and connecting all sorts of forwent things and people, as if he were a branch manager of a divine Lost and Foundnetwork.

My mind was still blown away, as if designed to engage with a different world. I felt like a mouse within the wheel of an invisible mill. The whole thing was slowly sinking in, I in Amsterdam, behind the Centraal Station, in the dark of the night, preparing to go to bed.

At least Katherine gave me a foam pad, thin yet better than none. My sleeping bag was slim, but I was surrounded by my brothers in arms and, like penguins, we kept each other warm. I was the only rock star in our group, so I guess they made sure I was taken care of.

Until a thud woke me up.

Some of the junkies, in the wee hours, would literally throw themselves between us, sleeping sardines. It occurred mostly in the middle of the line, still not that far from our band. This time, a prostitute woke two young German travelers up, cussing and yelling as if in a drunken parade of Dutch soccer fans.

The baffled guys just stood there looking at her, not sure what to do. Until she pulled her pants down, as though on the game, and peed on one of their sleeping bags, laughing evil like a one-legged pirate. Appalled Germans walked off the field, as she moved in the other bag. The one that wasn’t urinated on.

The next thing that woke me up was some strange noise at my feet. Someone was there kneeling squatted, plugging his ears, cheered on by himself.

After a few seconds, he’d unplug his ears, pick a stick of wood off the ground, and try to ignite it again. Even when I raised my head a bit, he was totally oblivious, holding his breath in anticipation. Plugging his ears, with a mean smile on his face, he waited for the dynamite stick to go off.

After a few futile tries, sullen and angry he walked off swearing, stuck in his own head, as though he preferred jolts of pain to enjoying peace and quiet.

When the morning came, it was a different picture. I opened my eyes looking at the patches of the sky through the thick crown of a nearby tree.

It didn’t look like rain, but I felt a few drops falling on me. As I fully woke up, turning to the left, I saw two guys operating a water machine, sprinkling us. I looked to the right, as I’d heard agonizing cries.

Some of those bewildered junkies frantically jumped out of their nightmares half-naked. A bit of plain water had a prodigious effect.

Maybe they saw blood instead.

As we rolled up our sleeping begs, hastily collecting our belongings, I got acquainted with a guy from Wales.

Short and cheeky, missing his front teeth, he could have easily passed for a thief from my hometown, had he spoken my language.

As we pushed our stuff into the lockers, he swiftly engaged himself into chatting up a chaste, blonde German backpacker, offering his star assistance. Later on that evening, instead of a bedtime story, he told me he robbed her blind.

He also warned me to always use my small bag with documents as a pillow. I’d fall asleep hugging my guitar tight. He was not going to steal it off of me (we belonged to the same compost), but he made me aware of the silent Algerians patrolling and operating after one falls asleep.

It takes one to know one…

Although I used my backpack as a pillow, one time they managed to snatch my house keys out of the side pocket. They had no use for them, though, unless they were going to fly 854 miles south.

Apart from that, I was excited. I woke up to a city that greeted me with joy. Coke andHush was whispered in my earsas a few shaggy hippies hustled me, dancing around like yo-yos. They were not too pushy. September was still warm and, most of all, I felt free.

My stuff was in a locker, my guitar with me. I had about 200 bucks, walking down the main street exalted. Katherine was out of my system. Her father was right.

What would I do with all the stupid cows and tulips, anyway?

The days rolled by, and the money was running out, slowly but surely. One evening, as we enjoyed our spicy Indonesian delicatessen, courtesy of Abdullah, Tom came up with an idea.

“Why wouldn’t you busk in the subway?”

Wow. It was a scary thought. Specially when I realized he meant “on trains.”I had quite a bit of success at a windy crossroads in Amersfoort, but this sounded like a serious business. The train moves, many people come in and out — how many tickets do I need to buy?

No tickets. Or just one.

This was even more challenging. I was to dodge the ticket controllers, as I was in the pits.  I needed money. So be it.

I picked the right song. The Crossroads by Tracy Chapman. It had just come out and many recognized it. The symbolism was too obvious, as I was at the crossroads myself.

Hoping against hope, I put my heart and soul in it. I mused about how a world full of opportunities created opportunists, as though it were letting coyotes sneak into the backyards full of fat cats. Until a friendly hand tapped my shoulder, “You should stop playing and collect the money before people get out…”

It was true, but I couldn’t hope against reality and just stop in the middle of a song. What I needed was someone to pass a hat.

Tom took care of that.

One day, pushing his bike, he also nudged a grumpy looking boy to keep moving toward our little nest.

Yen-Vu was his name. He was twelve, just ran away from home. Korean, born in Holland, his second language was Dutch. Or first. He didn’t speak a word of English. As I didn’t know any Dutch, we made a great team. We mimed to each other, as there was no need to talk much. One was to play, sing, collect the money, and run.

I could see the reflection of my voice against the opposite running windows of trains. When the rubber wheels rumbled in bends, I had to out-sing them. As the train stopped, the door would open, and my voice walked out with the crowd. I could see it over yonder, mingling by the busy ticket counters. As the door would shut, my voice was running back each time.

It’s a game I played, going over and over the same old song until once I smelled something. I looked down the aisle and saw smoke. Yen-Vu held a cigarette between his fingers as though he were fishing off the docks.

I yelled his name out loud, then started to mime with my hands and eyebrows. He looked at me in a daring Bruce Lee fashion, his ball cap turned backward. He carried two. One for the money, one for the show.

I looked like an angry uncle with my hand outstretched as though flagging a cab. As if I could reach rainbows. We got off as soon as the train stopped. I must have looked ridiculous, miming my frustration to him.

Frowning, he showed me the hat, the one for the money. It was full. Everything else was less important. The train was gone, another one was coming. We were fucking rich.

I gave him all the small change, keeping the bigger coins. There was enough for both. It’s how we operated for a couple more weeks. Not talking.

One day, I came back from town to find him gone. Tom said his real uncle had showed up and took him home. Somewhere south. Korea or Holland, this world or the next, it was all the same. He was gone for good.

(to be continued)

FOOL MOON a.k.a Eric’s Chair

The Last Train to Amsterdam

Amsterdam was more like meeting with myself, and I was late. The next day had already started. Milling about the station like ants on a hot oven, people dashed through the exit to form two lines. One was for taxies, the other for buses. The subway was shut down.

I had to figure out my whereabouts first, as I needed to find somewhere cheap to sleep. It seemed pointless hopping on a bus and riding in circles, and I couldn’t afford a cab.

The lights were bright, and the night was still young. I turned left towards a pile of bikes that seemed abandoned and left floundering, as if they were wrestled off and then dumped in a hurry.

Behind them a voice shouted inarticulate. It emanated from a little old woman wrapped in carton cardboards. Her eyes were shooting black daggers, as she yelled at no one in particular. It sounded like the whole world was in trouble. Either for leaving her behind in a carton house, or for piling those bikes one on top of the other, as though they were all 86’d and unwanted. 

I kept moving along. Pretending she hadn’t seen me, her chin over her shoulder…her eyes focused somewhere off in the distance, she had probably already called me a few names in a language I couldn’t understand.

It sounded Chinese.

The lights were dimmed now. I walked on the stone blocks that looked smooth, as if they were made of petrified wax with veins carved into it.

Further down, along the wall, I saw another light flickering forked like a snake’s tongue. It was a candle held upright by a little porcelain angel. Lying prone on the bare floor, with his wings spread wide and his head cocked to one side, he smiled eternally as if catching the candle with his outstretched little hands in the very nick of time, just before it touched the base. Together with a yellow neon tube shining down, it was a reading light for a man hunched over a little book. It looked like a scene from a cartoon. 

He had a giraffe face with huge glasses on and a bit of hair on top that resembled a future comb over, creeping up on him. 

The candlelight made his shadow on the wall look twice as bigger. It also reflected in his glasses and bounced off the covering of the book he read. 

Its title was printed in golden letters. 

The colors were dimmed in a way that appeared more than real, as though something ancient, not of this world, was coming alive. Next to him, another stuffed sleeping bag lay on the floor. It came across more like a body bag, not zipped up all the way, a dead curl of hair peering out on its top. 

As I was passing by, he looked up and smiled like a good-natured character from the Jungle Book. He murmured something in Dutch, pointing at my guitar. I replied in English that I couldn’t understand him. His cartoon voice repeated with almost native pro-ficiency, “Why don’t you play something for us?”

I looked around in awe as though trying to recognize a familiarity. It was the risk of carry-ing a guitar around, no matter what your story was. People always asked you to play some-thing.

“Here?”

“Yes, here…”

His gesture was saying, Why not? 

He motioned me toward his feet, where his sleeping bag lay flat and vacant on stony ground. I was to sit there and pluck away, just like that, ‘round midnight, in the neon light, Centraal Station, Amsterdam, Holland.

It’s funny how life surprises us with its little plan, or no plan at all. 

“Sorry, I’m really tired. I need to find a  place to sleep…”

I glanced around, hoping that one of those flickering lights across the canal had displayed a friendly Welcome sign. 

Little did I know that I’d faced De Walletjes red-light district I was yet to discover. 

“You can sleep here.” 

He pointed at the shiny stone polished like fake marble. In the neon light, its color seemed warm and as inviting as in a fitting room. Until one would come out in the daylight and see it walked all over, trodden by millions of steps catching and missing their trains and buses. 

There was still an entire night without sleep ahead, and all sorts of dreams and nightmares were yet to be made of a fine weave fabric.

Never had I imagined spending almost two months there, born again at a railway station crisscrossed by so many different walks of life.

Now I know. It was my station. We all have one. It’s where we change fate-shuttles, some-times stuck in a rut between our past and our future, in a present that outstretches curbing them into a time warp. Then it turns the table on us, becoming an awry wheel of fortune, or a hamster one. A motion for motion’s sake. We realize that life is but a rhythmical movement, a mass moved on by a stunning force. Birth and death dancing with the stars.

When you dig your heels in, playing the hand you’ve been dealt, without bluffing your way into a flush royal, after a while you figure you’d been dealt a natural one. All you need to do is maintain interest and motivation while developing dedicated aspirations.

Twenty-three years later, it still feels like yesterday…more real than most of my existing. For many years I called it Street Waltzing With Falling Clouds. Whether it was in response to the rising global temperatures or not, at times the visible mass of condensed water hung so low that it seemed as if it were just about to plunge off the sky, like most of the marginal characters one frequented there, before they’d eventually fall off the face of the earth.

As I sat down at Tom’s feet, on that vacant part of his sleeping bag that he so graciously offered, the life started unwinding uninhibited. I took my guitar out of its holster, as he put his book down. 

“What are you reading?”

With a big smile he picked it up and turned it around. Its soft leather cover was imprinted with the gold letter text: De Bijbel. He then, out of his backpack, took all the food and beers he had, putting it between us. The moment that first song sounded out, it translated into a dinner bell. Like in a movie, the zombies began appearing out of the night. 

Two of them, shaking alcoholics, were from Spain; one was an African lad, hardly speaking any French. Shy, he smiled in one corner of his mouth, instead. A local blonde that turned out to be a prostitute also showed up, rolling a cigarette and talking to her chest.

Another black guy, from Surinam, sported a fat golden chain around his thick neck, a big boom box perched on his shoulder. 

As a bonus, a little guy from Indonesia just got off his dishwashing shift, bringing along some spicy leftovers. Flashing an uninhibited smile, every now and then he cheered “Fuck the Queen!”, as his white teeth contrasted the darkness around him. It was just about it, all he could master, as far as his grasp of a foreign language went. Since Holland was among the first ones that began importing blacks into North America, and their Santa, instead of elves, had slaves (his helper was called Black Pete), it was only natural Abdullah came all the way from Indonesia to make a buck, washing the white man’s dishes.

They were all drawn in by music, though. Like the ancient Sumerians, most people still “sought worldwide harmony and unison through the musical tones.” And food.

Each time the blonde prostitute crouched over to pinch some with her long, thin fingers, she’d mutter in sarcastic and contemptuous undertones. She wouldn’t even look at us, but she loved the free food. As though on a highly indiscriminate diet, she gobbled it up like a hungry seagull, making hay while the old neon shone.

The black guy, wearing a gold chain with a lock around his neck, offered her up for sale. Sex for money. Between her greedy gulps, she’d curse us all sotto voce. Partly for not having it. Money. Partly for not wanting it. Sex. With her. And mostly for being that gruesome part of mankind she served. Men. 

She also seemed to be all eaten up with it. She kept rolling her cigarettes and talking to herself. Disappearing behind the corners of the night, suddenly, like a prolific self portrait, she would reappear framed by a nearby station’s window and just hang in there smoking.

 Though I was still involved with Katherine, in my mind, life didn’t wait. It just went on doing what it knew best, replacing romantic flicks with documentary shows. I tried in vain to imagine everything grimmer than it was.

 Katherine and that woman belonged to the same tribe, both blonde, but light years apart. Katherine was affiliated with cows and tulips, yellow and red. The prostitute was owned by a black dog from Surinam. 

He had to pay his thick gold rope chain off.

He came from a different colony, obviously not caring about washing dishes, by hand or no hands. He was also smart enough never to say: Fuck the Queen! With his English charmingly broken, he provided a full complement of midstream services. In me he could only stir a sense of sorrow and disgust.

His helper was Blonde Peta.

As if everything that one deemed sacred was seared or turned into a reversible coat. Each time I sang, I could observe it all from beyond.  A world off the hook. Once people heard a voice coming out and about, the singer was taken for a juke box or a natural device. A constant singing of a whippoorwill that, according to a legend, captures departing souls. 

On one occasion, in Paris, playing at Divette du Montmartre, while squeezing between the crowded little tables, a lone mariachi, I saw a girl amorously talking to her boyfriend and secretly, under her musky armpit, handing a piece of paper to a guy behind her. 

It was in the middle of a song, and my voice was already out there, like an invisible wall of sound. The show had to go on. People were to drink their drinks and I was supposed to ease them into another round. Even if I had stopped to say something, what would it be? 

Hey, she just gave him her phone number!

I could have only kept it to myself, watching a documentary as if nobody was aware of my presence, even though the actors were real.

In Amsterdam, as the food vanished in the blink of an eye, most of the eaters were gone too, after they devoured whatever was to hand. Busy in one domain of existence, they ignored all others as insignificant.

(to be continued)

Izmedju Zidova – 3.

Život je nastavio teći dalje, kao rijeka. A Rijeka je petnaest godina kasnije i zvanično postala “grad koji teče.” Dvadeset godina nakon toga, zbog iseljavanja i negativnog prirodnog prirasta, pretvoriće se u “grad koji nestaje.” Iskusio sam to na proputovanju 2015-e. Od svih poznatih lica, jedino su još Fadil i Fadila bili tamo. I njihove dvije ćerke…

Nakon što sam obišao pola svijeta i čuo pjesmu zamamnih sirena, inače simbola obmane čiji su me glasovi vremenom uspavali i isisali mi krv, probudio sam se bio na lijevoj obali svijeta sam. Shvatio sam tada da je lutanje kao prelistavanje velike, ilustrovane knjige života. Lutajući preskačeš neka važna poglavlja, jer ti pažnju odvuku krasne, blistave slike. Kada se ponovo vratiš da pročitaš preskočene dijelove, ništa više nije isto, jer već poznaješ kraj. Shvatio sam da jedino sadjenjem sjemena nešto raste, biljka ili čovjek.

Najbolji primjer bili su mi Fadil i Fadila.

Nakon nekoliko kafa zajedno, postali su pravi par. Onda nije bilo ni džepnih ni pametnih telefona, pa je Fadil svako malo išao do govornice da provjeri šta mu radi Fadilica. Baš tako, da provjeri. Fadil nije vjerovao nikome, mozda čak ni samom sebi. Ali imao je tu sreću da ga je Fadila vjerno čekala s druge strane žice. A kad nije…onda je počinjala drama.

“Kurva, s kim li je sada? Jebaću joj majku!”

“Šta ti je, čovječe, smiri se! Možda je žena otišla u granap – možda je u WC-u!

Pokušavao sam bio na razne načine da ga urazumim, ali Fadil je hodao okolo kao gladni tigar u kavez, ne znajući da je njegov zatvor zapravo bio unutra. U njemu. Na ledjima je imao istetovirane rešetke, oko srca bila su mu ispisana razna imena, a na stomaku je imao sliku neke prkosne djevojke sa dugom, crnom kosom. Vidio sam to kad smo jednom bili na plaži. More se tada toplo talasalo i odnosilo sve brige, bar moje. Al’ ništa nije moglo smiriti Fadila dok nebi čuo Fadilin glas…

“Gdje si bila, kurvo jedna?”

Onda bi zašutao i pomno upijao svaku njenu riječ. Potom bi urliknuo k’o ranjeni slon:

“Što me, ba, lažeš?”

Nastavio bi tupo zuriti u telefon kao da je ona sjedila unutra. Imao je sreću da je bila istinski poštena, smjerna, osjećajna. Nikad mu nije spustila slusalicu, bez obzira na njegove šokantne izlive bjesa. Nisam je mogao čuti, ali nekako sam u dubini duše slutio da joj je glas i dalje bio promukao i tih, kao na početku.

Fadil je jednom čak i plakao k’o djete. Ja sam zvjerao okolo da nebi kakav naivni prolaznik naišao, da mu mahnem da nastavi dalje, jer ako bi slučajno nagazio Fadilu na rep, bio bi to kraj nečega, ili lijepog dana, ili nečijeg izgleda, ili svega pomalo. Na kraju je javni telefon platio glavom…

Pošto ništa nije moglo smiriti Fadila od sumnje da ga Fadila vara, iako je sa strpljivošću svetice odgovarala na njegove pozive, Fadil je tada upao u neku vrstu delirijuma. Njegov plač pretvorio se u režanje, a njegovo lice bilo je blijedo-crveno poput sirovog mesa. Jedino su njegove oči i dalje plutale mirne kao zelene oaze u nekoj pustinji od bola i čemera.

Kad sam čuo prasak, Fadil je još uvijek držao slušalicu u desnoj ruci, tako da sam se ja nasao u čudu. Nisam shvatio odakle je zvuk došao, dok se telefon nije zaljuljao lijevo-desno. Onda je zastao na samo jednom šarafu. Tada je Fadil ispustio i slušalicu iz ruke. Zaustavila se bila par centi od betona i onda skočila gore, pa opet dole, nekoliko puta, kao neka crna zmija.

Ja sam bio k’o obandjijan.

“Haj’mo odavde…” procjedio je Fadil kroz zube i nije me ni pogledao.

Pratio sam ga u stopu osvrćući se i dalje prema telefonu. Ostao je da visi iskrivljen kao neki metalni sat na zidu. Slušalica se i dalje njihala naprijed-nazad poput nekog klatna nesreće. Ali ja sam bio sretan da se sve na tome završilo.

Fadil se je malo-pomalo smirio. Kao da je sam taj čin uništenja nečega utišao vatru u njemu.

Ljudi su nekad kao djeca koja prave oblike kockama, slažu ih i ruše baš kao da nanovo stiču osjećaj za prostor. Najteže je tada obuzdati se i ne mješati u njihovu naizgled nelogičnu igru, jer oni u stvari tako ponovo uče da na nešto mogu uticati i to promjeniti, što im na kraju jača vjeru u život, a ponajviše u sebe.

Poslije toga Fadil je bio veoma pažljiv prema telefonima, a kad god bi Fadila poslije navratila u radnju, uvijek bi mi se nasmješila zahvalno.

Jedan je javni telefon možda nevino stradao, ali je zato “grad koji teče” nedugo nakon toga dobio dvije zlatne djevojčice, koje ga i dan danas krase.

Izmedju Zidova – 2.

 

Al’ najveća misterija za mene tada bio je susret Fadila i Fadile…

Taj dan bio je kao i svaki drugi, što se ticalo nas unutra. Znali bi kakvo je vrijeme napolju po mušterijama. Ako su ulazili vedri i nasmijani – sunčano. Ako je bilo oblačno, onda bi se oni blago, kiselkasto osmjehivali, i sve se završavalo na tome. Brusilica je drndala regardless, što bi ovdje rekli, nikad u prazno. Brdo peta i djonova se brusilo, nakon što bi ih Fadil majstorski nakalemio i izglanc’o i onda bi sve te stare cipele izgledale k’o nove. Pitao sam se često da li je bio takav majstor i u drugim poslovima, onim odranije, sezonskim, sve dok se nisam odvažio da ga pitam naglas:

“De mi reci, bogati, kako su te ufatili?”

“Misliš…kako sam pao?”

Za mene je bilo sasvim novo da čujem te podzemne žargone, kao jednom kad je rek’o:

“Uvijek sam radio bez utoke…”

“Šta ti je to?”

“Koje?”

“Pa to – utoka?”

Tada me je pogled’o k’o da sam bio neki dječak umazan čokoladom. Tek je valjda onda shvatio da smo bili dva totalno različita svijeta.

“Stvarno ne znaš?”

“Pa ne bi’ te pito…”

Njegovo se lice onda razvuklo u istinski, radosni osmijeh, kojeg on najvjerovatnije nije ni bio svjestan.

“E, moj Eki…”

Zvučalo je to iskreno i toplo k’o da mi je bio stariji brat. Imao sam neki siguran osjećaj da me s njim nikog nebi bilo strah. Zvao me je Eki zato što bih ja uvijek prvo izgovorio taj sinonim za blagi izraz čudjenja, dok bi on i Ćera nešto uzbudjeno prepričavali, jer pola je tog njihovog jezika bilo šatrovački. Kad god bi zastali, ja nekad ne bih imao pojma o čemu su pričali, pa bih često ubacio tu staru sarajevsku poštapalicu “eki,” a oni bi onda crkavali od smijeha. Tako su me i prozvali Eki.

Meni je to, priznajem, godilo, k’o da sam odjednom postao član neke družine. Nekad je to bilo i malo nezgodno, jer bih se često opustio razmišljajući o razlici tog mog novog života i onog imaginarnog, gdje je sve spremno čekalo samo da ja završim fakultet i oplovim pola svijeta. Nekad bih kao kroz san i drndanje brusilice čuo Fadila da kaze “Eki” i pomislio da možda priča nešto s Ćerom, pa se i on nečemu čudi ko i ja. Ali on je u stvari tada dozivao mene onim svojim tihim, mačjim glasom, k’o da prede. I ako se ne bih odazvao, vidjelo bi se poslije na njegovom licu da sam nesto “zgriješio.”

Fadil je poslije osnovne škole dosta vremena proveo po popravnim domovima. Tamo je završio jednu veću – školu života, u kojoj je najveće znanje bila snalažljivost, a najvažnije bilo poštivanje odredjenog protokola. Što zvuči malo čudno, ako se nadjemo okruženi vrhunskim provalnicima, misleći da “ko laže taj i krade” i da ne postoje pošteni lopovi. Ali i oni moraju vjerovati nekome kad je u pitanju ozbiljan posao. Zato se i dešavaju krvavi obračuni kad se neki od njih nadju prevareni ili uvrijedjeni. Pogotovo ako su majstori svog zanata.

Moj je posao većinom bio odvaljivanje peta da bi Fadil mogao stavljati nove. A kad bih se ja u mislima otisnuo ka sirenama i južnim morima i počeo “zatrpavati” Fadila sakatim cipelama, i ako bi me on onda prozvao par puta, a ja ga ne bih čuo, to je instinktivno smatrao neprofesionalnošcu.

To bi ovde, u Americi, brzo rješili pristojnim glasnim uputama nemilosrdno ponovljenim bezbroj puta. Ali to nije bio Fadilov stil. On je inače malo pričao. Više je govorio očima. Kad su mu oči bile nasmijane, znao bih da je zadovoljan. Ali ako su bile hladne, i njegove misli postale bi ledena tišina, kao neka planinska jezera.

Obično bi tada bilo zgodno sjetiti se nekog vica ili nečeg smješnog ili luckastog što se dešavalo u školi, jer za njega je to bio nepristupačan teren, kao neke neprohodne šume gdje umjesto drveća rastu knjige. Ispričao bih mu kako smo tog dana imali zamjenu za profesora engleskog. Umjesto našeg dosao je bio neki sa filozfskog fakulteta i govorio nam o istoriji postanka, kako su englezima francuzi donijeli kulturu, i kako je pola engleskog jezika bilo francuski i italijanski. Fadil bi na to samo klimao glavom. Nasmješio bi se kao beba tek kad bi čuo da je profa nosio ogromnu kravatu i svaki put kad bi digao ruku u zrak, kravata bi se pomakla i ukazala bi se rupa u njegovoj kariranoj košulji, kao od metka.

“Čuj k’o od metka?”

Kao da je čuo pucanj, pogledao bi me zapanjeno svojim velikim zelenim očima i ja bih u njima onda vidio sva čuda ovog svijeta. Takve su mu oči bile i onog dana kad je u radnju ušla Fadila. Više me je bio iznenadio on nego ona. Tek kad sam je malo bolje pogledao, i njene su oči bile velike i zelene. Kosa joj je bila zlatna kao ustalasano polje zita. Fadil je gledao u nju k’o da je bio udaren strujom. Ona se onda počela zbunjeno osvrtati malo ljevo-desno, misleći mozda da još neko iza nje stoji. Ja sam se brzo okrenuo da sakrijem osmjeh, jer prostor je bio tako mali da više niko tu nije ni mogao stati. Njena bujna kosa sijala je kao sunce i zauzela skoro pola radnje. Kad je progovorila i njen je glas bio tih i mačkast, čak malo i promukao. Tek sad, nakon toliko godina, podilaze me zmarci. Izgledalo je to kao neki susret davno izgubljenog brata i sestre, toliko upečatljivo da mi se sad čini kao da nisu bili rekli ni riječi. Sjećam se samo da je i ona bila odnekud iz Bosne i da mu je polako pružila svoju slomljenu cipelu, kao stidljiva Pepeljuga. Tad je Fadil uzeo za ruku i više je nije pustio.

Ja sam preuzeo njenu slomljenu cipelu kao neku ranjenu pticu, i sjećam se da je Fadil poslije toga izgovorio riječ kafa najmanje deset puta.

“Ne mogu, stvarno…”

Promuklo je šapnula, a lice joj se najednom zajapurilo crvenije od usta, pa su joj oči sijale ko zeleni fenjeri, dok je napolju zalazilo ono manje sunce.

Još je par puta ponovila “ne mogu, stvarno,” dok Fadil nije rekao “samo pet minuta.” Onda je oborila pogled i pristala: “Dobro…ali samo pet minuta…”

Tada je i mene stidljivo pogledala, kao da je tražila podršku ili saglasnost, kao da se dešavalo nešto gdje je prestajao razum, a počinjalo sve drugo. Tada se je i Fadil okrenuo i osmjehnuo se sretno kao nikad do tad.

“Eki, ti zaključaj, vidimo se sutra…”

Zinuo sam bio da nešto kazem, ali sam samo klimnuo bez glasa. Prvo sam pomislio kako je to bio prvi put da ostajem u radnji sa brdom ciplela sam. Ali bilo je tu sad i još jedno novo, nevidljivo, malo veće brdo. Indirektno sam bio osjetio moć prave ljubavi i konačno znao da postoji. Nije tu bilo nikakvih velikih riječi. “Kafa” i “samo pet minuta.” Dodir njihovih ruku bio je dovoljan, jer Fadil i Fadila su se već gledali istim očima…

(nastavlja se)

IZMEDJU ZIDOVA (BETWEEN WALLS)

U ova teška, virusna vremena, svak’ čami izmedju zidova neke manje ili veće sobe. Svi smo satjerani u neki ćošak, po kazni ili svojevoljno, trazeći mira, jer nam i ljubav sada pomaže samo sa odstojanja. Dva metra. Zvuči kao dva metra drva. Ili dva metra štofa za neku lijepu haljinu ili večernje odjelo, koja se nemaju više zbog nečeg posebnog ni oblačiti. Oko duše nam i dalje treba topline, jer ulice su stravično prazne. Prirodno žudimo za nečim da nam napuni srca.

Jučer mi je tako došlo neko sjećanje na studentske dane, na tu moju prvu sobu gdje sam nekad sjedio izmedju debelih, hladnih zidova, i nestrpljivo iščekivao još jedno sutra, slijepo vjerujući u novi život i million neostvarenih snova. Sad sam isto tako sam u nekoj toplijoj sobi, mnogi snovi već dotrajali i slomljeni kao stara bicikla. Ostala je i dalje vjera u neki bolji život, jer ga napolju nema. Ali ima nešto u nama, neka vatra što vječno tinja, sjećanja na dobra stara vremena kad smo imali sve, pa ipak htjeli nešto više. Sunce se sad ponovo probija kroz friško oprane oblake i slobodne ptice cvrkuću kao nikad. Samo mi sjedimo u našim tvrdjavama i prokletim avlijama k’o po nekoj kazni, nekim čudom živi i dalje se nadamo nečemu boljem od nas…

Neko čita izmedju redova. Ja pišem izmedju zidova. Takva su nam sad vremena, virusna. Ali nije ovo prvi puta da kuga dodje i prodje. Samo što niko ne zna kad će se ova beštija najesti i leći sita da spava.

A možda su i ljudi krivi. Što su je budili. Ali koji ljudi? Jer ima ljudi i ljudi…

“Daj mi čovjeka, pa mi š njime oči izvadi,” vapio je Ivan Franjo Jukić. Nije oslijepio, jadnik, dok nije umro. A sad umiru mnogi, i dužni i nedužni, mada ih je većina danas dužna. Što ne znači da su ljudi oni što nisu.

Ovo je priča o insanima, onim nekadašnjim. I danas su neki od njih živi, na raznim krajevima svijeta. Kod nekih je sada noć, kod nekih dan. Sad su nam zajedničke samo daljine. Samo ono što nas je zbližilo, još uvijek živi u srcu.

Nije to bilo ništa posebno, onda. Sasvim normalno i ne tako davno, u jednoj zemlji seljaka, na brdovitom Balkanu. Tamo gdje brda dodiruju more; gdje se strme planine obrušavaju zimi s hladnim vjetrom, pa onda k’o da ti u kostima duva. Nekad misliš moga’ bi poletit’ ka ‘tica, da ti, da izvineš, nisu zaledjena jaja.

Ali nikom tada nije bilo do letenja. Nismo ti mi htjeli bit’ nikakvi piloti. Nego pomorci. I to iz Bosne. A di si vidija Bosanca pomorca? Čudili bi se onda mnogi domoroci, i Dalmoši i Riječani, a nas je opet bilo iz svih krajeva Bosne. Prijedor, Brčko, Derventa, Zenica, Sarajevo… Bilo je raje i iz Siska, Varaždina. Nisu ni oni bili baš tako blizu mora. Uglavnom, nije to ni bio neki naročit problem. Veći je bio naći smjestaj, pa ga onda platiti s ono malo mrake što su nam roditelji slali. Svi smo zato radili povremeno preko studentskog servisa i hranili se u studentskoj menzi. Najviše smo jeli solo graha, pogotovo kad se prehladimo. Fadil i ja bi donjeli glavicu bijelog luka i zobali je, česno po česno, dok je cijelu ne sredimo.

Fadil nije bio student. Za njega bi trebala ovde posebna knjiga: te kako je zaglavio u pariškom zatvoru, te kako ga je treba ganjala po Sarajevu, mahala sa štiklom u ruci, trčala bosa…

“Pa što je mahala sa štiklom?” Ja ga gledam ko blećak, izmedju nas brdo cipela. “Pa da me pukne petom u glavu, da više prokrvarim! Čuj što?”

Još ko da me gleda mrtvo s onim njegovim blijedo-zelenim očima, isto ko da sam bubnuo neku najveću glupost i ost’o živ.

Meni je to sve bilo kao neki drugi film, jer mi je glava tad bila na fakultetu za pomorstvo i saobraćaj, a Fadil je radio preko puta, u malenoj obućarskoj radnji. Popodne sam šegrtov’o i njemu i njegovom bratu Ćeri. Oni su me, što se ono kaže, udomili. Preko njih sam našao prvu sobu u Rijeci. Moja mama je bila čula za njih preko nekih pacijenata u Sarajevu i, kad sam krenuo, dala mi je njihovu adresu i broj telefona. Tako ja završih kao pomorac-obućar, preko dana učeći astronomiju i nautiku, a popodne odvaljujući slomljene ženske potpetice. Svako malo provirila bi neka gospoja ili gospojica u radnju sa plačnom grimasom na licu: “Čujte, slomila sam petu, biste li mi je mogli po-praviti?” Rječanski naglasak bi mi zaparao uši dok sam tupo gledao u prašnjavi zid, s klještima u jednoj ruci i slomljenom cipelom u drugoj.

“Što ne kažu, brate, popraviti, ko i mi?”

“Ma stipu ba nek’ pričaju kako hoće! Neka posla!”

Ćera bi se smijuljio i dalje brusio pete što je Fadil već po-pravio.

Što se tiče Ćere, on je bio gazda. Furo je s nekom trebom iz pozorišta pa nam prepričav’o svaki dan kako je iš’o sa njom po nakim predstavama i restoranima. Jednom je guzio na nekoj plazi, pa se ona bila prepala da ih ne vide. Fadil i ja zatrpani petama i djonovima, slušamo i ne vjerujemo.

“Dješ je ba guzit’ na plazi, jesi lud, mogo vas je skužit’ neko!”

Fadilu je to malo i smetalo. U njega se znalo šta se može, a šta ne može. Proveo je bio par godina u evropskom podzemlju, pa je poštovao ta neka njihova nepisana pravila. Meni je to sve bilo simpatično, pogotovo Ćera kad kaže:

“Ma ne divi koni, ba,” namigne, pa doda: “Pokrili smo se peškirom…”

K’o da sam gledo neki Fellinijev film. Moj život je inače tada bio samo škola, cipele, klopa i spavanje.

Tu je u stvari i trebala počet’ ova priča. Od te moje prve sobe u Rijeci. Nezaboravno ime ulice Fiorello LaGuardia, dato po gradonačelniku New Yorka. Nisam ni sanjao da ću u slijedećem vijeku završiti na lijevoj američkoj obali. Sad kad pomislim, bio je to prvi i zadnji put da se sav moj život odvijao u jednoj ulici. Tu su mi bili i kuća i poso i škola, a malo dole niže, iza ugla, studentska menza.

Kad sam tog jutra stigao putničkom klasom, k’o u Balaševićevoj pjesmi, prvo iznenadjenje bilo je, naravno, dolazak u novi grad. Rijeka. Kad sam, nakon cjelovečernjeg drndanja vozom preko Zagreba, ugled’o Ćeru i Fadila, k’o da ih je neko brzinskim tramvajem bio prebacio iz Sarajeva, obuk’o u bordo mantile i zatrpo cipelama. To je bilo drugo iznenadjenje, a treće – moja soba.

Ne znam dali li se to i moglo nazvati sobom, jer umjesto vrata imala je jedan teški smedji paravan koji me djelio od familije sa troje male djece. Dali su plakali? Često. Ali su se i smijali, naizmjenično. Nekad bi se provukli iza paravana i poredali ispred mene kao mali vojnici. Gledali bi u mene kao da sam pao s Marsa, kao da su znali da sam se baš tako i osjećao. Sarajevsko dijete u nekom ludom riječkom scenariju, iza paravana, gdje je moje jedino svjetlo ulazilo kroz mali prozor izmedju teških, hladnih zidova. I moj jedini pogled bio je na ulicu Fiorello LaGuardia. Već sam znao šta se tamo dešava, tako da nisam ni gledao. Jedva bih čekao da svane novi dan, novi čas astronomije, nautike, ne toliko pomorskog prava niti, nedaj bože, strojarstva. To je za one dole, u makini! Ja sam bio budući pomorski oficir i nestrpljivo su me čekale romantične bijele luke svijeta!

U školi sam odmah upoznao sve Bosance. Četvoro njih se odmah mogu sjetiti. Mario iz Brčkog, Saša iz Dervente, Strahinja iz Zenice i Slavko iz Sarajeva. Svi smo pušili, pa smo se tako i skontali na pauzi, a i poslije u menzi, osim Saše, jeli smo svi zajedno. Saša je imao djevojku i sobu u studentskom domu, tako da je on već bio, što se kaže, na konju. Mi smo još kaskali za sudbinom.

Sve bih dao sad da mi je memorija bolja, ali mnogo toga je već nepovratno nestalo u vrtlogu vremena. Ima tu i finih godina, odavno se već nismo vidjeli. Jedini od njih s kim sam još u vezi, zahvaljujući Facebook-u, je Strahinja iz Zenice.

Sa njim sam djelio i moju drugu sobu u Rijeci.

Šta je bilo s prvom?

Pa ništa, došao Strahinja jednom kod mene i iznenadio se: “Pa ti nemaš vrata?”

Ja ga gledam blijedo, već se navik’o. Tek kad neko novi dodje u tvoj delirium, shvatiš da negdje postoji neki drugi svijet. Naravno, misliš odmah da je i bolji, jer šta mozde biti gore od tvog ludila?

Mic po mic, navuče ti mene Strahinja da se preselim u njegovu sobu. U istoj ulici! Doduše, nije bilo teško žabu nagovoriti da skoči u vodu. Već mi se plač troje djece bio popeo na glavu, nije bilo govora ni o kakvom učenju. A još plus masni vonj iz kuhinje, na to se nikad nisam mogao navići, pogotovo ne na cvrkutavu slaninu s jajima. Taj miris me uvijek tjerao na povraćanje, ne znam zašto. Ne znam ni kad sam ga prvi put osjetio, jer kod nas kući toga nije bilo. To se desilo nekad davno u nečijoj kuhinji, mozda i u nekom restoranu, i uvijek poslije toga svaki put kao da je prvi. Nema to nikakve veze sa religijom i, kad smo već kod toga, u meni se javlja pitanje: Kako to da onda, ni u Sarajevu, ni u Rijeci, nikad ništa nije imalo veze s religijom? Jer da je imalo, zar bih ja djelio moju drugu studentsku sobu sa Strahinjom? Hladni, memljivi zidovi, uobičajene studentske šale, pričali smo o svemu i svačemu, ali nikad o religiji… Koje je to uopšte vrijeme bilo? I zašto je prošlo?

Ipak, moram priznati jedno. U tu sobu se nikad ne bih vratio. Moja, kakva-takva, nije imala vrata, ali njegova nije imala staklo na jednom prozoru! Bez grijanja! I još je imala pogled na pijacu. A da bi se uopšte išta vidjelo, moralo se provući do pasa kao kroz tunel, i da ti onda glava izviri napolje kao neka satna kukavica. Inače, sve drugo bilo je isto, jer smo bili u istoj zgradi. Zidovi su i dalje bili debeli i hladni, stari, austro-ugarski. Mora da je to u neku ruku i bilo dobro, jer bi jedva čekali da svane novi dan i da idemo na prvu kafu.

Pored studentske menze bila je i mala, studentska slastičarna. Tu je i Fadil dolazio prije posla. Nezaboravna scena jednom bila je kad jednostavno naručivanje kafe umalo nije izazvalo raspad sistema. Za razliku od mene, Fadil ne samo da je imao originalni sarajevski naglasak nego je i cijela njegova pojava izgledala pomalo zastrasujuće – ako se nije osmjehivao. Imao je mačije pokrete, uvijek spreman na atomski s desna ili lijeva, a njegov glas bio je neočekivano tih i napet.

To jutro bilo je krcato i svi su naručivali nešto. Kad je Fadil rekao: “Gospodjo, kafu…” zvučalo je to poznato možda samo meni, jer sam već mnogo puta u Sarajevu bio čuo takav isti ton, bez pola izgovorenih samoglasnika. Znao sam da iza njega vreba nezadovoljstvo.

“Krafnu?” žena ga je ljubazno gledala, očekujuci da će on ili potvrdno klimnuti ili se osmjehnuti. Nimalo nije očekivala da će se njegovo lice zacrveniti i njegove zelene oči sjevnuti varnicama.

“Kafu, rek’o sam…”

Njegov glas bio je i dalje prigušen, ali sada ljut. Prodavačica se je takodjer zacrvenila i počela da zamuckuje, “Oprostite, ako zelite krafnu…”

“Ne, gospodjo, on želi kavu,” umješao sam se da nebi došlo do gužve. Fadil je već bio počeo stiskati pesnice. Jednom je šakom izbio javni telefon iz zida, lijevim krošeom, dok mu je u desnoj još bila slušalica. Bilo je to kada je mislio da ga njegova Fadila s nekim vara, ali o tome kasnije.

Žena u studentskoj slastičarni pogledala me je zabrinuto i brzo klimnula glavom, “Kavica stiže odmah…”

Fadil je i dalje frktao i zvjerao okolo kao malezijski tigar. Očekivao je bilo kakvu reakciju, spreman za napad. Sreća pa niko nije ni pomisljao da mu proturječi. Jutro je tek bilo počelo i svak’ je htio popiti svoju kafu ili kavu na miru.

Poslije toga svi su išli na posao, a mi na fakultet. Tamo su prozori bili veći, hodnici osvjetljeni, bilo je toplo. Tamo smo učili o odredjivanju položaja broda osmatrajući nebeska tijela. A poslije toga išli bi u menzu na grah, a ponekad i na biftek sa jajetom na oko. To smo mogli sebi priuštiti samo par puta mjesečno, jer je jedan biftek koštao više od deset grahova. Nekad bi ga plaćali i novcem ako bi zaradili šta povremenim studentskim radom. Obično su to bili lučki poslovi, istovaranje brodova ili neko čisćenje. Meni je lakše bilo po-pravljati cipele. Većinom su mušterije bile ženske i svaki put provirilo bi neko novo lice, nova šminka, nova boja kose. Najviše me iznenadilo koliko su važnosti pridavale svojim cipelama. Za mene jo to bilo brdo gume i kože, smrad ljepila, crna prašina. Ali one bi došle po gotov proizvod, uvijek s osmjehom, jer su znale da će ubrzo ponovo čuti poznati zvuk svojih zanosnih koraka. Kako su uopšte mogle hodati na tako visokim petama, za mene je to bila misterija veća od svih navigacijskih formula zajedno.

(nastavlja se)