Zoran Živković

VOZ

Gospodin Pohotni, viši savetnik ugledne prestoničke banke, sreo se s Bogom u vozu. U prvom razredu, razume se. Gospodin Pohotni nije često putovao vozom, ali kad god bi to činio, koristio je prvi razred, ne samo zbog toga što je jedino to odgovaralo njegovom položaju nego i zato što je tu bilo najmanje verovatno da će se naći u neželjenom društvu. Po prirodi nepoverljiv i sumnjičav, kako to i priliči njegovom zvanju, nastojao je da izbegava susrete s neznancima kad god je to moguće. Pre no što je krenuo na ovo putovanje, čak se nakratko nosio mišlju, vođen valjda nekakvim predosećanjem, da zakupi svih šest mesta u kupeu i tako obezbedi da mu niko ne smeta, ali na kraju je preovladala njegova bankarska razboritost: bilo bi to ipak preveliko ulaganje u nešto što se, uz malo sreće, moglo dobiti i besplatno.

Sreća je pratila gospodina Pohotnog približno tri četvrtine putovanja. A onda se, na jednoj maloj stanici gde se brzi vozovi inače ne zaustavljaju, u vagon prvog razreda popeo Bog i uputio pravo u kupe gospodina Pohotnog. Viši savetnik nije, naravno, odmah prepoznao Boga. Za gospodina koji je otvorio vrata njegovog kupea učinilo mu se u prvi mah, mada ne bi tačno umeo da objasni zbog čega, da mora biti neki penzionisani oficir, po svoj prilici pukovnik. Bio je to oniži čovek, još guste, premda prosede kose, negovanih brkova i blago zarumenjenih obraza. Nosio je odelo klasičnog kroja koje je vešto zaklanjalo njegovu nešto naglašeniju popunjenost.

Bog je ušao, uputio srdačan osmeh gospodinu Pohotnom i kratko se naklonio. Zatim je iz levog džepa sakoa izvadio voznu kartu, osmotrio je, pa seo na sedište uz prozor, preko puta gospodina Pohotnog, prekrstivši noge. Zagledao se u svog saputnika bez reči, ne prestajući da se osmehuje.

Da su okolnosti bile drugačije, ovakvo držanje veoma bi ozlojedilo gospodina Pohotnog. Smatrao bi ga za neuljudno, pa čak i drsko. Uistinu, na šta to liči upiljiti se u nekoga koga uopšte ne poznajete, pa se još i tako keziti. Kada je pomišljao na to da kupi karte za ceo kupe, imao je u vidu ponajpre neprijatnosti ove vrste. Ljudi umeju da se ponašaju krajnje nepristojno, čak i u prvom razredu.

Sada ga, međutim, iz nekog razloga, zurenje ovog neznanca nije razgnevilo. Baš naprotiv, moglo bi se reći. Protumačio ga je kao sasvim prihvatljiv poziv na razgovor kojim bi se prekratilo jednolično putovanje. šta, uostalom, može biti rđavo u ćaskanju dva uglađena gospodina sličnih godina, koje je slučaj uputio na to da izvesno vreme provedu zajedno na istom mestu? Zar treba da ćute do stizanja na odredište samo zbog toga što nisu formalno predstavljeni jedan drugome? Nipošto. Ne sme se robovati krutim društvenim normama.

Gospodin Pohotni odloži na sedište pokraj sebe knjigu koju je do tada čitao — Nemoguće susrete u kožnom povezu — i uzvrati saputniku osmeh. «Nadam se da vam ne smeta što je prozor spušten», reče on.

«Nipošto», uzvrati Bog. «Veoma je sparno.»

«Leti je često veoma sparno», primeti viši savetnik. Tek pošto je ovo izgovorio, uvideo je da nije bilo naročito pronicljivo. Osetio se zbog toga nelagodno. Nedostajalo mu je iskustvo u vođenju lakih razgovora. «Ako želite, možemo ga malo podići», dodade on predusretljivo.

«Ne, ne», reče Bog, «nema potrebe, sasvim je u redu ovako.»

«Bolje je putovati u druga godišnja doba», nastavi gospodin Pohotni posle kraćeg razmišljanja. «Tada nikada nije sparno, pa se prozor uopšte ne mora otvarati.»

«Da», složi se Bog, «ako ste u prilici da birate, onda treba izbegavati putovanje po vrućini.»

«Doduše, ponekad se zimi dogodi da prekomerno zagreju vagone, pa se onda ipak mora nakratko otvoriti prozor, da se kupe malo rashladi.»

«Stvarno je prijatnije kada nije previše toplo.»

«Najnezgodnije je, u stvari, na proleće i u jesen. Tada je najteže postići saglasnost među putnicima. Uvek se nađe neko ko bi da drži prozor malo otvoren radi svežeg vazduha, naročito pri dužim putovanjima, dok drugima smeta promaja.»

Bog uzdahnu. «Nije lako udovoljiti ljudima.»

Nije se imalo šta oduzeti ili dodati ovom zaključku, ali upravo je to dovelo u nepriliku višeg savetnika. želeo je da nastavi razgovor, ali izgleda da je tema otvaranja prozora već bila potpuno iscrpena. Nije znao šta bi se tu još moglo reći, a nije mu padao na pamet nijedan drugi predmet o kome bi pričali. Zbilja, šta je to što zanima penzionisane pukovnike? Nikada se ranije nije našao u društvu nekog od njih, tako da nije bio upućen u to. Mora biti da su posredi vojne stvari. šta drugo? Ali, na nevolju, gospodin Pohotni baš se nimalo nije razumeo u vojne stvari.

Bog ga je i dalje netremice posmatrao, uz smešak. Viši savetnik već je počeo da se vrpolji, kada mu se iznenada ukazao izlaz iz ove nezgode. Pa naravno! Sada je pravi čas da se upoznaju. To će nesumnjivo doprineti manje uzdržanom ophođenju. On načini naklon, možda nešto dublji nego što je to uobičajeno.

«Dopustite mi da se predstavim», reče, pruživši ruku ka saputniku preko puta. «Viši bankarski savetnik Pohotni.»

Bog je prihvati, takođe se nakloni i uzvrati jezgrovito, bez izlišnih dodataka: «Bog.»

Ako je išta začudilo višeg savetnika, i to samo na trenutak, onda je to bila jedino okolnost da se baš nimalo nije začudio kada je doznao ko mu je saputnik. Najednom mu se učinilo ne samo očigledno nego i sasvim prirodno da je puniji, prosedi gospodin u tamnom odelu naspram njega — Bog. Pa da, ko drugi? Odakle mu samo pomisao da je to nekakav pukovnik u penziji? Koješta.

Ali iako je ovo primio iznenađujuće staloženo, gospodin Pohotni ipak se našao na muci. S Bogom je još manje znao o čemu bi razgovarao nego s penzionisanim pukovnikom. Tek tu nije imao nikakva iskustva. Bilo mu je, doduše, odmah jasno da bi ćaskanje ovde bilo prilično neumesno, ali ionako se nije pokazao dovoljno vešt u tome. Takođe je osećao da ni bankarstvo nekako nije prava tema, premda se tu odlično snalazio. Ne, morao je da izabere nešto prikladnije.

«Jesam li ja mrtav?» upita on pomalo snebivljivo, konačno pustivši saputnikovu ruku.

«Mrtvi? Ne, zašto mislite da ste mrtvi?»

«Pa, verovao sam da se s vama može sresti jedino posle smrti. Tako se bar priča.»

«Pričaju se razne stvari. Ne smete svemu verovati. Ja se sa svakim čovekom sretnem najpre jednom za života.»

«Nisam to znao.»

«Naravno da niste. O tome se ništa ne zna.»

Viši savetnik klimnu lagano glavom, a onda izvadi maramicu i prevuče njome preko čela, zadržavši je potom u šaci. «Sigurno postoji razlog za ove susrete?»

«Postoji, da.»

«Je li on u nekoj vezi s onim što ljudi rade, kako se vladaju? Da li su pošteni ili ne?»

«Nije», odvrati Bog. «Sasvim je nezavisan od toga.»

Gospodin Pohotni pokuša da prikrije uzdah olakšanja, ali to mu je samo delimično uspelo. «Sme li se onda znati zašto se srećete s ljudima?»

«Svakako. Da bih odgovorio na njihova pitanja.»

«Na koja pitanja?»

«Na bilo koja. Sve se može pitati.»

«Sve?»

«Da. Možete da doznate od mene šta god poželite. Nema nikakvih ograničenja.»

Viši savetnik zamisli se načas. «A šta se očekuje za uzvrat?»

«Ništa.»

«Baš ništa?»

«Baš ništa. Pa nisam ja đavo. Shvatite ovo kao, recimo, ispravljanje jedne nepravde. Bog treba da bude pravedan, zar ne? Ljudima su mnoge stvari uskraćene, pa je ovo prilika da se to malo nadoknadi. Bez ikakve naknade.»

«Ah, tako», reče gospodin Pohotni. «Veoma velikodušno od vas. Ja nisam, priznajem, ranije bio prekomerno pobožan, da tako kažem, ali ubuduće, uveravam vas...»

«Nemojte prenagljivati. Sačekajte najpre da vidite da li će vam prijati ono što ćete doznati. To nije uvek izvesno, a pobožnost ume da bude veoma nepostojana. Dakle, šta biste želeli da me pitate?»

Viši savetnik stade da uvrće ovlaženu maramicu u ruci. «Sve je ovo došlo tako iznenada. Da sam bar imao vremena da malo razmislim, da se pripremim. Nije jednostavno ovako iznebuha pitati nešto Boga.»

«Ali svakako postoji nešto što biste voleli da saznate, nešto što vas kopka, čak opseda. Nemojte se nimalo ustručavati. Odgovoriću na svako vaše pitanje.»

«Teško je odlučiti se. Ima, jasno, stvari koje me zanimaju, samo...»

«Moram vam skrenuti pažnju na to da nemamo mnogo vremena. Nije ostalo još puno do vaše stanice, a ja ću izići iz voza pre vas. Savetujem vam da što bolje iskoristite ovaj susret. Drugog neće biti.»

«Pa, dobro, evo. Ja sam, vidite, pošao da procenim pouzdanost jedne firme koja je tražila zajam od naše banke. Ogroman zajam, gotovo trećinu našeg kapitala. Na meni je velika odgovornost. Ako dam preporuku da se odobri zajam, a posao propadne, bio bi to veoma težak udarac za banku, čak možda poguban. U svakom slučaju, sa mnom bi bilo gotovo. Sa druge strane, ako uskratim preporuku, a posao uspe uz pomoć neke druge banke, potpuno bih izgubio ugled. Bilo bi mi stoga od neprocenjive koristi da znam kako da postupim.»

S lica Boga nestade osmeha. «Sigurni ste da to želite da pitate?»

«Da», odvrati bez oklevanja viši savetnik. «Stvar je veoma ozbiljna. Još nikada nisam stajao pred tako važnom odlukom. U pitanju je cela moja karijera, a i budućnost banke, može se reći.»

«U redu. Kako hoćete. Mogli ste mi, doduše, postaviti i neko opštije, krajnje, čak onostrano pitanje, ali ako vas to ne privlači...»

«Privlači me, naravno», prekide gospodin Pohotni Boga. «Ja povremeno razmišljam o tim stvarima, dabome, ali, znate, u ovom trenutku...»

«Znam, znam», reče Bog, «ne morate mi ništa objašnjavati. Evo odgovora na vaše pitanje. Procenićete da treba odobriti zajam i nećete pogrešiti.»

Viši savetnik ovoga puta uopšte nije pokušao da suzbije uzdah olakšanja. Načas je čak došao u iskušenje da se prekrsti, ali to mu se ipak učinilo nekako neprilično. «Velika vam hvala. Ja ću svakako postati veoma pobožan, možete računati na to.»

«Možda. Ali nećete baš dugo to biti. Samo godinu i po dana.»

«Kako to mislite? Ništa me neće moći odvratiti. Uveravam vas da ću ostati pobožan do kraja života.»

«O tome i govorim. Preostalo vam je još godinu i po dana do kraja života.»

Gospodin Pohotni zažmirka prema saputniku. «Ali to nije moguće», oglasi se on najzad prigušenim glasom. «Hoću da kažem, potpuno sam zdrav, redovno posećujem lekara, vodim uredan život...»

«Ne mora se umreti samo od bolesti. Vi ćete izvršiti samoubistvo. Ispalićete sebi metak u slepoočnicu.»

Viši savetnik prinese maramicu ustima i drhtavim pokretima obrisa rubove usana. «Zašto bih to učinio?»

«Zato što ćete napraviti grešku koja će dovesti do propasti banke. Postaćete previše samouvereni posle sadašnjeg uspeha i u okolnostima sličnim ovim donećete pogrešnu odluku. Samoubistvo će biti jedini častan izlaz za vas.»

Ne znajući šta bi rekao na ovo, gospodin Pohotni nastavi da tupo zuri u priliku na naspramnom sedištu. Mogao je da čuje kako mu puls dobuje u ušima. A onda mu sinu jedna pomisao i on se grčevito uhvati za nju.

«Ali to se može izbeći. Vi ste me upozorili na opasnost. šta ako ne donesem nikakvu odluku? Ako se potpuno povučem iz posla?»

«Nećete moći da se oslonite na moje upozorenje, bojim se», uzvrati Bog. «Sećate se da sam vam kazao da se ne zna za moje susrete s ljudima za života. šta mislite, zašto je tako?»

Viši savetnik slegnu ramenima. «Zato što je to tajna?»

«Ne. Ne bi vredelo. Neko bi je već otkrio. Takva je ljudska priroda. Morao sam da obezbedim nešto pouzdanije. Nikom ne ostane sećanje na susret sa mnom. I vi ćete ga potpuno zaboraviti čim ja napustim voz.»

«Ali, ako dozvolite, koja je onda svrha uopšte se sretati s ljudima? Pružati im odgovore koje oni ne mogu da upamte?»

«To je najviše što se moglo postići. Izbor je bio između ostajanja u trajnom neznanju i znanja koje se plaća brzim zaboravom. Između ničega i nečega. Ja sam se opredelio za nešto. Izgledalo mi je pravednije.»

«Meni ne izgleda mnogo pravedno saopštiti čoveku da će ubrzo stradati, a onda mu uskratiti priliku da se spase. Nemojte mi zameriti, ali pre bi se od đavola očekivalo da tako postupi.»

«Naprotiv, đavo bi vas rado poštedeo zaborava zato što bi mu to pružilo priliku da se naslađuje vašom agonijom. Ali i kada biste upamtili ovaj susret, to vam ipak ne bi donelo izbavljenje. Ništa što biste vi učinili ne bi moglo da spreči neumitnost potonjih događaja. Zašto vas onda izlagati nepotrebnoj patnji koju donosi saznanje o skoroj smrti?»

Iz daljine se razleže otegnuti pisak lokomotive, a odmah potom kompozicija poče da usporava.

«Možda sam mogao da pitam nešto drugo», reče tiho gospodin Pohotni.

«Mogli ste, da. Ali sada je, nažalost, kasno. Upravo stižemo na moju stanicu.»

«Nije lako smisliti pravo pitanje koje bi se postavilo Bogu.»

«Znam. Ali, ako je to neka uteha, takođe nije lako, kao što smo već zaključili, udovoljiti ljudima.» Bog ustade i pruži ruku višem savetniku. «Zbogom, gospodine Pohotni. Bilo mi je zadovoljstvo.»

Gospodin Pohotni takođe ustade i prihvati saputnikovu ruku. «Zbogom», uzvrati on, iako mu se učinilo da ta reč nekako nije sasvim primerena trenutku.

Kada je, nekoliko minuta kasnije, kompozicija ponovo krenula, viši savetnik podiže pogled s knjige koju je nastavio da čita i upravi ga načas kroz prozor, zapitavši se zašto su stali na ovoj maloj stanici. To nije bilo predviđeno redom vožnje. No, svejedno, više neće biti zaustavljanja do njegovog odredišta. Sada je sigurno da će ostati sam u kupeu do kraja putovanja. Mudro je postupio što nije zakupio sva mesta. Uspešan bankarski savetnik mora u svakoj prilici da donosi ispravne odluke. Bio je to dobar znak pred predstojeću procenu.

THE TRAIN

Translated from the Serbian by Alice Copple-Tošić

Mr Pohotny, senior vice president of a bank prominent in the capital city, met God on a train. In a First Class compartment, of course. Mr Pohotny did not take the train very often, but whenever he did he travelled First Class; it not only reflected and reinforced his social position, it also minimized the probability that he would find himself in unsuitable company. Having a mistrustful and suspicious nature, to which his profession was attuned, he took pains to avoid the company of strangers whenever possible. Indeed, before setting forth this time he had even-guided by some premonition, perhaps-briefly considered reserving all of the compartment's six seats, to ensure that no one would bother him; but his banker's common sense had triumphed over that notion. It would represent too heavy an outlay to obtain something that, with a little luck, he might get quite free.

Luck was with Mr Pohotny for almost three quarters of the trip. Then, at a small station where fast trains did not normally stop, God climbed into the First Class car and headed straight for Mr Pohotny's compartment. The senior vice president did not immediately recognize God, of course. Although he couldn't explain exactly why, he thought at first that the gentleman who opened the door to his compartment was a retired army officer, most likely a colonel. He was a short man with greying, though still abundant hair; a trim moustache; slightly florid cheeks. He was wearing a suit of classic cut that cleverly disguised his somewhat excessive girth.

God entered, and favoured Mr Pohotny with a cordial smile and a brief nod. He took his train ticket out of his left jacket pocket, examined it, sat in the seat next to the window across from Mr Pohotny, and crossed his legs. Then he looked at his fellow traveller over without a word, smiling all the while.

In other circumstances his bearing and demeanour would greatly have annoyed Mr Pohotny. He would have regarded the man as impolite, even impudent, for it is most unseemly to stare at a complete stranger, and even more to smile broadly while so doing. When he had toyed with the idea of buying up the whole compartment, it was just this sort of unpleasantness that he had had in mind. Unbecoming behaviour is all too widespread, even in the First Class.

Yet for some reason this stranger's staring failed to irritate him-quite the contrary, one might say. He took it as a completely acceptable invitation to talk, thereby shortening the dreary trip. What harm could derive from two polished gentlemen of similar age striking up a conversation, given that Fate had thrown them briefly together? Were they to remain silent until they reached their destination, simply because they had not been formally introduced? Certainly not! One should not be a slave to rigid social conventions.

Mr Pohotny deliberately laid down the book he had been reading on the seat next to him-a leather-bound edition of «Impossible Encounters»-and returned his fellow traveller's smile. «I hope you don't mind the open window,» he said.

«Not at all,» God replied, «it's very sultry.»

«It's often quite sultry during the summer,» the senior vice president remarked. Having delivered this truism, he realized that it was hardly a gem of perspicacity. He felt awkward; he was inexperienced in small talk. «If you wish, we can raise it a little,» he added obligingly.

«No, no,» God said, «there's no need, it's quite all right as it is.»

«It's better to travel in other seasons,» Mr Pohotny continued after a moment's reflection. «Then it's never sultry, and you don't have to open the window.»

«Yes,» God agreed, «if you are able to choose, it's better to avoid traveling in the heat.»

«Although sometimes in winter they overheat the cars, and then the window has to be opened for a short time, to cool the compartment a bit.»

«It's really much nicer when it isn't too hot.»

«The worst time, actually, is during the spring and fall. Then it's hardest for the passengers to reach an agreement. Someone always wants to keep the window open a bit for the sake of fresh air, particularly during long trips, while others are bothered by the draft.»

God sighed. «It's not easy to satisfy people.»

There was nothing to add to or subtract from that conclusion, but it nonetheless put the senior vice president in a predicament. He wanted to continue the conversation, but they seemed to have exhausted the topic of opening the window. Nor did a single further conversational gambit spring to mind. Truly, what are the interests of retired colonels? He had never spent any time in their company, so he had no insight into their tastes. They must be interested in military matters. What else? Unfortunately, Mr Pohotny lacked the slightest understanding of the arts of war.

God continued to stare at him, with his fixed little smile. The senior vice president had already started to fidget, when he suddenly saw a way out of this predicament. Of course! Now was the right time to make each other's acquaintance. That would certainly help to unburden their mutual reserve.

He bowed, perhaps somewhat more deeply than was customary. «Let me introduce myself,» he said, extending his hand towards the figure opposite. «Pohotny, banker, senior vice president.»

God shook the extended hand, bowed in response, and replied succinctly, without the imperfection of superfluous additions: «God.»

If anything surprised the senior vice president, even briefly, it was the fact that he wasn't the least surprised to learn the identity of his travelling companion. All at once it seemed not only obvious but even quite natural that the heavy-set, grey-haired gentleman in the dark suit across from him should be God. Of course, who else? Where had he got the nonsensical idea that he was some sort of retired colonel? Quite inappropriate!

Despite the surprising composure with which he received this information, Mr Pohotny remained somewhat embarrassed. He had even less to say to God than to a retired colonel. It was immediately clear, however, that small talk would be quite out of place; besides, he had already displayed his lack of skill at it. He also felt that banking was not the proper subject, either, however expert his approach. No, he had to find something more suitable.

«Am I dead?» he asked, a little taken aback, finally letting go of God's hand.

«Dead? No, why do you think you're dead?»

«Well, I thought people only met you after death. At least, that's what they say.»

«They say all kinds of things. You shouldn't believe everything you hear. To begin with, I meet everyone once while they're alive.»

«I didn't know that.»

«Of course you didn't. No one knows anything about it.»

The senior vice president nodded slowly. Then he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead, keeping the handkerchief in his hand once he had finished. «There must be a reason for these meetings, I suppose?»

«Yes, there is.»

«Does it have to do with what people do, how they behave? Whether they're honest or not?»

«No,» God replied. «Such considerations have no bearing upon it.»

Mr Pohotny tried to hide his sigh of relief, but was only partially successful. «Then might I know your reasons for meeting people?»

«Of course. To answer their questions.»

«What questions?»

«Any they may have. They can ask anything.»

«Anything?»

«Yes. You can ask me whatever you want. Absolutely no holds barred.»

The senior vice president thought for a moment. «And what is expected in return?»

«Nothing.»

«Nothing at all?»

«Nothing at all. I'm not the devil. Take this as, let's say, rectifying an injustice. As God, I am supposed to be just, am I not? People are deprived of many things, so this is my chance to make up for it a little. At absolutely no cost to you.»

«So, that's it,» Mr Pohotny said. «Very generous of you. I admit, I haven't been excessively devout, so to speak, but in the future, rest assured, I...»

«Don't act rashly. Wait and see whether you like what you hear. It's not always the case, and piety has a tendency to evaporate. So, what would you like to ask me?»

The senior vice president stopped twisting the damp handkerchief in his hand. «This is all so sudden. If only I had time to think it over a little, to prepare for it! It's not easy to be called upon to ask God something like this, out of a clear blue sky.»

«Surely, there must be something you would like to find out, something that intrigues you, even obsesses you? Don't hesitate a moment! I will answer any question you ask.»

«It's hard to decide. There are things that clearly interest me, but...»

«I must draw your attention to the fact that we don't have much time. Your station isn't very far away, and I will get off the train before you. I advise you to use this meeting to your very best advantage. There won't be another.»

«Well, all right, here goes. As you see, I am on my way to evaluate the reliability of a company that has asked our bank for a loan. A huge loan, almost one-third of our capital. I carry a great responsibility. If I recommend approval of the loan and it falls through, it would be a serious blow for the bank, perhaps disastrous. In any case, it would be the end of my career. On the other hand, if I turn down the loan and the job succeeds with the help of some other bank, I will completely lose my reputation. It would therefore be of invaluable assistance to know how to act.»

The smile disappeared from God's face. «Are you sure you want to ask that?»

«Yes,» the senior vice president replied without hesitation. «It is a very serious matter. I have never had to make such an important decision before. My whole career is at stake, and quite possibly the future of the bank too.»

«All right. As you wish. You might have asked me a more general, ultimate, even transcendent question, but if you're not interested in that...»

«Of course I am!» Mr Pohotny objected, interrupting God. «I think about such things occasionally, indeed I do, but, you see, at this moment...»

«I see, I see,» God halted him, «you don't have to explain anything. Here is the answer to your question. Your evaluation will be that you should approve the loan, and you will not be mistaken.»

This time the senior vice president did not try to suppress his sigh of relief. He was even briefly tempted to cross himself, but it seemed somehow improper. «Thank you so much. I shall certainly become very devout, you can count on that.»

«Perhaps, but not for long. Just a year and a half.»

«What do you mean? Nothing will be able to divert me away from my faith! I assure you that I shall remain devout to the end of my life.»

«That's what I'm talking about. You have a year and a half of life.»

Mr Pohotny squinted at his travelling companion. «But that's not possible,» he finally said in a hushed voice. «I mean, I'm completely healthy, I go to the doctor regularly for a checkup, I lead an orderly life...»

«People die of other things than illness. You, for instance, will commit suicide. You will shoot yourself. A single, large-calibre bullet into your right temple.»

The senior vice president raised his handkerchief to his mouth and wiped the corners with trembling movements. «Why would I do that?»

«Because you will make a mistake that will lead to your bank's ruin. In the wake of your forthcoming triumph you will become over-confident, and in circumstances similar to these you will make the wrong decision. Suicide will be your only honourable way out.»

Not knowing how to respond to this, Mr Pohotny continued to stare dully at the figure on the seat across from him, his pulse beating in his ears. But then a thought flashed through his febrile mind, and he grabbed at it.

«But that can be avoided! You have warned me of the danger. What if I don't make any decision? What if I completely withdraw from the bank?»

«You won't be able to rely on my warning, I'm afraid,» God replied. «Remember I told you that no one knows of my meetings with humans during their lives. Why do you think that is?»

The senior vice president shrugged. «Because it's a secret?»

«No. That wouldn't work. Someone would have discovered it by now. That's human nature. I had to provide something more reliable. No one remembers meeting me. You will also forget it completely as soon as I leave the train.»

«Then, if you will, what is the purpose of meeting with people? You offer them answers that they cannot remember?»

«That was the most that could be done. The choice was between leaving human beings in permanent ignorance, and giving them knowledge that is paid for by quickly being erased. Between nothing and something. I chose something. It seemed to be more just.»

«It doesn't seem very just to me, to tell a man that he will soon die, and then deprive him of the chance to save himself! Don't reproach me, but that is more what I would expect of the devil.»

«On the contrary. The devil would happily deprive you of oblivion, because that would afford him the opportunity to revel in your agony. But even if you remembered this meeting, you would still not be able to extricate yourself. Nothing you could do would prevent the ineluctable unfolding of ordained events. Why, then, expose you to the unnecessary anguish that must derive from knowledge of your approaching death?»

From a distance came the protracted whistle of the locomotive, as the train began to slow down.

«I might have asked something else,» Mr Pohotny reflected softly.

«Yes, you might have. But now it's too late, unfortunately. This is my station coming up.»

«It's not easy to find the right question to ask God.»

«I know. But if it's any consolation, it is also hard to satisfy people, as we had already concluded.» God stood up and offered his hand to the senior vice president. «Goodbye, Mr Pohotny. It was a pleasure to meet you.»

Mr Pohotny stood up and shook the proffered hand. «Goodbye,» he replied, although it seemed to him that the word was not quite suited to the moment.

When the train started moving several minutes later, the senior vice president raised his eyes from the book which he continued to read and briefly looked out of the window, wondering why they had made an unscheduled stop at this small station. But it made no difference, since there would be no more stops until his destination. Now it was certain that he would be alone in the compartment to the end of his trip. Wisely had he decided not to buy up all the seats! A successful bank vice president must make the proper decision at all times. This was a good omen for the evaluation he must shortly make.

VIOLINISTA

Profesor je znao da neće preživeti noć.

Doktor Din mu to nije kazao, naravno. Bar ne otvoreno. Ali njegovo držanje potvrdilo je ovu neumitnost.

Kao i obično, došao je da ga obiđe u 23.10, pošto mu se završila smena. Pre no što je ušao u njegovu sobu, zadržao se u predvorju odvojenom staklenom pregradom, u kome se nalazila dežurna bolničarka, gospođa Rozel. Njih dvoje provelo je nekoliko minuta prigušeno razgovarajući. Povremeno su pogledali kroz staklo prema bolesnikovom krevetu, a gospođa Rozel je jednog trenutka odmahnula pognutom glavom i prinela savijene kažiprste očima, kao da iz njihovih rubova otire suze.

Kada se obreo pred profesorom, doktor Din nastojao je da deluje opušteno i vedro. Ali gluma nije bila njegova jača strana, iako je u dugogodišnjoj praksi sigurno mnogo puta morao da se uživi u ulogu lažnog optimiste. Sitnice su ga odavale. Izbegavao je da bolesnika pogleda u oči, nalazeći razne razloge da odvrati pogled na drugu stranu. Proverio mu je puls, premda nije bilo nikakve potrebe za tim. Zatim mu je, pomalo krutim, nervoznim pokretima, zategao i izravnao prekrivač, što je takođe bilo suvišno zato što će gospođa Rozel to ionako uskoro ponovo učiniti.

Onda je stao kraj prozora i upiljio se u prolećnu prinstonsku noć. Nošena vetrom, kiša je šibala po velikom oknu, praveći nestalne, razlivene šare na njegovoj spoljnoj površini, koje su izobličavale doktorov mutno odraženi lik. Uzdahnuo je i kazao svom pacijentu da mu, u stvari, zavidi. šta bi on dao da je sada na njegovom mestu. Profesor je već u postelji, a njega od počinka razdvaja najpre dobrih pola sata vožnje po ovom nevremenu, a onda bar još jedan sat ispunjen raznim drugim obavezama, pre no što se konačno i sam nađe u krevetu. Ali tako je to. Neki ljudi imaju sreće, a neki je nemaju.

Zastao je pošto je to rekao zato što mu se učinilo da je ovaj zaključak ipak neprikladan pod datim okolnostima. Imao je, doduše, nameru da obodri profesora, da mu pruži nadu, makar i neosnovanu, ali izgleda da je nehotice preterao. Proglasiti srećnim nekoga čiji su sati doslovno odbrojani moglo je da deluje cinično, čak okrutno. Okrenuo se od prozora i prvi put pogledao pacijenta u ispijeno lice.

Izraz koji je video na njemu nagnao ga je da se oseti glupo. Gluma je ovde bila sasvim izlišna. Viđao je taj izraz i ranije, premda veoma retko. Profesor je ne samo bio svestan onoga što predstoji nego i pripravan na to. Nije očekivao nikakvu utehu niti mu je ona bila potrebna. Praznim rečima tu nikako nije bilo mesto.

Prišao je krevetu i stisnuo starčevu suvonjavu, hladnu šaku.

«Laku noć, profesore.» Morao je da uloži priličan napor kako mu glas ne bi zadrhtao.

«Zbogom, doktore.»

Blago je potapšao pacijenta po nadlanici drugom rukom. Pokušao je da mu se osmehne, ali od toga je ispala samo grimasa. Onda se okrenuo i žurnije nego što je to želeo izišao iz bolesnikove sobe. Dok je u predvorju oblačio kišni mantil i stavljao šešir, razmenio je još nekoliko reči s gospođom Rozel.

Desetak minuta kasnije bolničarka je ušla kod pacijenta da ga pripremi za počinak. Dala mu je najpre jednu plavu pilulu ovalnog oblika. Profesor ju je redovno dobijao pred spavanje, nastojeći da je brzo proguta s malo vode zato što je imala gorak ukus. Učinio je to poslušno i ovoga puta, iako mu se učinilo besmisleno. Nije hteo da dovede u nepriliku gospođu Rozel. Starala se o njemu ne samo savesno nego i s naklonošću.

Dok mu je nepotrebno doterivala već sređenu posteljinu, mrmljala je nešto o kiši koja je neprekidno lila još od ranog popodneva. Potom je prišla prozoru i navukla zavesu. Dobovanje teških kapi postalo je najednom prigušeno i udaljeno. Vratila se do kreveta i nekoliko trenutaka ćutke razmeštala žuto poljsko cveće u vazi na noćnom stočiću. Izgledalo je kao da želi još nešto da kaže, ali da se zbog nečega snebiva. Kada je najzad krenula iz sobe, ne rekavši ništa, profesoru je laknulo. Ne bi mu sada prijao razgovor s gospođom Rozel.

Bolničarka je zastala na ulazu u predvorje i isključila neonsko osvetljenje. «Biću tu ako vam budem potrebna, profesore», kazala je tiho. «Samo me pozovite. Laku noć.»

«Laku noć, gospođo Rozel.»

Posmatrao ju je kroz staklo kako seda za omanji sto. Jedini izvor svetlosti u dvema prostorijama sada je bila svetiljka s debelim, žutim abažurom na njemu. U njenom prituljenom sjaju, bela traka kojom je bolničarka držala kosu vezanu iznad čela nalikovala je na zlatni oreol. Pognula je odmah glavu ka knjizi koju je čitala, izbegavši da još jednom pogleda bolesnika, kako je to uvek činila.

Pilula je uskoro počela da deluje. Osetio je najpre kako mu se tupi, postojani bol u stomaku rasplinjava u jedva primetnu neprijatnost, kao da mu je preko donjeg dela trupa stavljen neki glomazan jastuk. Onda se javio već dobro poznat utisak lebdenja. Najednom kao da više nije bilo postelje pod njim, nikakvog čvrstog uporišta. Počivao je usred praznog prostora, potpuno lišen težine. Znao je da je posredi samo privid, ali to nije umanjivalo opojno osećanje prijatnosti. čak ni ove večeri.

Lebdenje ne bi dugo potrajalo. Pre no što bi utonuo u san, učinilo bi mu se nakratko da mu se telo rastače u skupinu labavo povezanih kugli. Krhki spojevi među njima stali bi ubrzo da bešumno pucaju i on bi se pretopio u nepostojanje, uronivši u crno bezmerje što ga je okruživalo. Poslednja misao koja bi mu se oblikovala u svesti bila je da ovako, zapravo, mora izgledati umiranje. Pod dejstvom plave pilule umirao je svake večeri od kada je došao u bolnicu.

Ujutro bi se probudio zlovoljan. Smetalo mu je to što ga stupanje u smrt nije ispunilo strahom. Naprotiv, delovalo mu je privlačno. Gotovo kao da je želeo da umre. Nije, naravno, trebalo tako da se oseća. Ako ni zbog čega drugog, onda zato što se nadao da neće umreti pre no što dokuči odgovore na neka pitanja s kojima se nosio celog života. Bilo bi to veoma nepravedno kada bi ostao uskraćen u ovom pogledu. Ali možda je svet samo pravilno, ali ne i pravedno uređen. U svakom slučaju, za pravdu je sada preostalo sasvim malo vremena.

Rastakanje na kugle izostalo je, međutim, ovoga puta. Osujetila ga je iznenadna pojava muzike. Bila je jedva čujna, ali i sasvim izvesna. Nije mogao da odredi izvor zvuka. Izgledalo mu je da dopire odasvud. Gospođa Rozel držala je mali radio na svom stolu, ali ona ga nikada ne bi pustila ovako kasno. Uputio je pogled prema bolničarki. žena je i dalje bila zadubljena u čitanje, kao da ništa ne čuje.

Violina je tkala sporu, gotovo snenu melodiju. Nije uspeo odmah da je prepozna, iako je i sam, još od dečaštva, svirao ovaj instrument. Nešto je ipak stalo da mu se komeša u ponorima sećanja, upinjući se da izbije na površinu. Pomislio je načas, u očajanju, da se to neće dogoditi, da će i ovaj spomen, poput mnogih drugih, ostati zauvek zapretan ispod debele kore koja je optakala njegovo staračko pamćenje, ali onda se, kao da želi da mu pomogne, zvuk malčice pojačao — i jedna munja sevnula je preko provalije od šezdeset godina, vrativši ga u onaj davno zaboravljeni letnji dan u severnoj Italiji.

Gradić u kome se obreo, pešačeći sporednim putevima od Milana prema đenovi, izgledao je potpuno pust, čak i ovde na glavnom trgu, ali to ga nije začudilo. Takav su utisak ostavljala sva manja mesta u kojima bi se zatekao u vreme sijeste, između dva i četiri po podne, kada su se žitelji povlačili pred nesnosnom vrućinom u umerenu hladovinu svojih domova, iza zatvorenih žaluzina.

Nije mu ovo mnogo smetalo. što manje meštana bude sreo, to će manje poteškoća imati. Bio je stidljiv petnaestogodišnjak, a uz to je postojao i problem jezika. Njegov maternji nemački ovde gotovo niko nije razumeo, a on još nije stigao da dobro nauči milozvučni govor ovih krajeva, pun otvorenih, napevnih samoglasnika. Nastojao je stoga da se upušta u razgovore s ljudima samo kada je to neophodno, zazirući od podsmeha na račun njegovog naglaska koji im je morao delovati kao škripa nepodmazanih zupčanika.

Piazza je bila približno kvadratnog oblika, s malim vodoskokom u sredini. Odložio je platneni ranac na tle i stao da skupljenim šakama zahvata vodu iz lučnog mlaza. Ispljuskao je lice, ostavivši ga neobrisanog, a onda počeo da se lagano osvrće unaokolo, podignute glave, žmirkavo posmatrajući bela kamena pročelja. Njegove oči, navikle na jednolično sivilo severnih zemalja, ovde su ga neprekidno bolele od jarkih boja. Sve je oko njega titralo, treperilo, presijavalo se, buktalo. činilo mu se da se obreo usred nekog kristala koji upija u sebe svetlost sa svih strana, ali je više ne pušta napolje.

Tišinu je najednom narušio zvuk violine. Dolazio je s vrha zdepaste trospratnice koju je od zvonika crkve razdvajala jedna veoma uska, senovita ulica. Prozor u potkrovlju stajao je otvoren, valjda jedini takav na celom trgu, a u prostoriji iza njega neko je odabrao upravo ovaj mukli, blistavi, pusti čas da ga ispuni muzikom. Nije to bio učenik koji vežba, već iskusni violinista, majstor čijim se prstima instrument u potpunosti podavao.

Slučajni slušalac kraj vodoskoka očarano se zagledao u visoki prozor. I da nije bio vičan violini, nikako ne bi mogao da ostane ravnodušan. Odozgo se, kao s neba, u slapovima slivao sklad besprekornih sazvučja. Ponirao je duboko u njega, do samog skrovitog jezgra njegovog bića, gradeći tu rezonantne odbleske. Da bi ga što bolje čuo, zatvorio je oči.

želeo je da odagna sveprisutnu svetlost, da se usredsredi samo na zvuk, ali nije uspeo. Svetlost nije iščezla ispod spuštenih kapaka. Ne samo da je još bila tu nego je sada potisnula sve ostalo svojim moćnim sjajem. A onda je, u trenutku otkrovenja, shvatio. I dalje je video svetlost zato što je muzika govorila o njoj. Zar je, uostalom, postojalo nešto pristalije? Dočaravala mu je ono što se ni na koji drugi način nije moglo tako celovito predočiti. Nalazio se unutar svetlosti, a njene tajne počele su da se razodevaju pred njim, svodeći se na svoju zadivljujuću jednostavnost.

Ostao je tako dugo, nepomičan, slušajući svetlost. Izgubio je osećanje za vreme. Nešto se, zapravo, neobično događalo s vremenom. Kao da je usporavalo svoj tok, prvo lagano, a zatim sve više, da bi se konačno zaustavilo, zamrzlo u jednom bezvremenom zraku koji je hitao kroz čudnovato izobličen prostor. Pod silovitim pritiskom svetlosti prostor je stao da leluja, da se izvija, zakrivljuje, sve dok se nije pretvorio u vrtlog koji ga je poneo, moćno i neodoljivo, ka crnoj tački duboko u svom središtu. Tačka je postala krug, pa zjapeći otvor u tkivu stvarnosti, da bi se najzad pretvorila u bezmernu rupu najdublje noći, koja ga je usisala u sebe poput kakve iverke.

Nije mogao odmah da odredi gde se nalazi kada je došao k sebi. Pomislio je najpre da je i dalje u srcu tame, ali onda je uvideo da ona nije potpuna. Prosecali su je sunčevi zraci koji su koso dopirali, poput iskričavih kopalja, kroz uske prozore u nekom debelom kamenom zidu. Zraci su bili raznobojni zato što su prolazili kroz vitražno staklo. Nije se više čula muzika. Unaokolo je vladala grobna tišina.

Osetio je kako leži na nečem hladnom i tvrdom. Pokušao je da ustane, ali odnekud su se pojavile ruke i blago, ali neumoljivo potisnule ga nazad. Odozgo se ka njemu nagnula jedna prilika u smeđoj mantiji. Sveštenik je imao sedu kosu i bradu, kao i male, okrugle naočare metalnog rama. Osmehnuo mu se, a onda počeo da govori. U bujici italijanskog uspeo je da razabere samo nekoliko reči: sunce, pad, unošenje u crkvu.

Stao je ponovo da se pridiže, žurno objašnjavajući svešteniku da što pre mora da se vrati na trg kako bi do kraja čuo muziku svetlosti, to je od ogromnog značaja, s njim je inače sve u redu, ne mora da brine, doživeo je prosvetljenje, a ne sunčanicu. Ali ovaj je samo uzvraćao sleganjem ramena, kao da ništa od toga ne razume. Ovoga puta nije bilo potrebe da ga sveštenikove ruke spreče da ustane. Nije još stigao ni do sedećeg položaja, kada mu se u glavi zaljuljalo. Skoljen malaksalošću, spustio se natrag na mermerno uzvišenje uz zid crkve, gde su ga po unošenju položili.

Sveštenik je posegnuo prema čelu klonulog putnika, skinuo odande neku nakvašenu tkaninu i počeo njome da mu prevlači po obrazima i vratu. Nastavio je da priča, ali u tome je bilo još manje smisla nego ranije. Mladić je prestao da ga sluša, a očaj mu je ispunio dušu. Da je još samo malo potrajalo, da ga onaj vir nije prerano povukao sa sobom, mogao je do kraja da pronikne u svetlost. Ovako, sve što je upamtio bili su krnji odlomci, nepovezane niti, kamičci koji ne obrazuju nikakav mozaik. Ali bar je znao da mozaik postoji, da je besprekoran u svojoj svedenosti, očiglednosti, nužnosti. činilo mu se, međutim, da nema pravo na nadu da će ga ikada više videti, iako je već tog časa znao da će mu se ceo potonji život pretvoriti u neumorno traganje za njim.

Bio je već smiraj dana kada je izišao iz crkve. I dalje je osećao blagu vrtoglavicu, ali morao je da nastavi put. Piazza je sada bila puna sveta, a žaluzine na pročeljima stajale su širom otvorene. Sve osim jedne. Proveo je neko vreme pred ulaznim vratima trospratnice, čiji je najviši prozor sada predstavljao samo slepo, nemo oko. Ali na kraju nije potražio muzičara iz potkrovlja. Nije ga u tome sprečilo oskudno znanje italijanskog. Isto bi tako postupio i da je bio u prilici da koristi nemački. šta mu je, uostalom, mogao reći, na bilo kom jeziku? A osim toga, javila mu se slutnja da Violinista, zapravo, uopšte više i nije tu.

Nije bilo sjaja ovoga puta. Ovde, u polumraku bolničke sobe, nije više morao da zatvorenih očiju sluša govor muzike. Izostalo je i ushićenje koje je iskusio jednom davno. Ono ne bi ni bilo primereno njegovom sadašnjem životnom dobu, kao ni prilikama u kojima se nalazi. Pod omamljujućim uticajem plave pilule jedino je načas osetio blago strujanje radosti zbog saznanja da je svet, ipak, pravedno uređen.

Veliki mozaik ukazao se pred njim, satkan od vibrirajućih vazdušnih niti. Bio je gotovo sasvim popunjen. Znao je dobro koji kamičci nedostaju. Nije mu bilo dato da ih sam pronađe, kao što je našao ostale. Ali to više nije bilo važno. Taština je ostala negde iza njega, u maglama prošlosti. Jedino mu je bilo značajno da ih najzad ugleda u ovom kratkom vremenu koje mu je još preostalo.

Violina je stala da gradi zvučne oblike koji su se idealno uklapali u praznine. Svaki deo predstavljao je osobeno otkrovenje: zapanjujuće jednostavno, veličanstveno složeno, čudesno neverovatno, sumanuto neprihvatljivo. Sada je razumeo zašto nikada sam ne bi mogao da dođe do nekih odgovora. Naprosto su mu nedostajala prava pitanja.

Kada se slagalica satkana od tonova najzad sklopila, morao je da se suoči sa jednim njenim uznemirujućim svojstvom. Celina i delovi nisu bili usklađeni. što je oštrije video jedno, to mu je drugo postajalo mutnije. Nije mogao na oba istovremeno da usredsredi pogled unutrašnjeg oka. Ranije bi se sve u njemu pobunilo protiv ove nesavršenosti. Ali posredi je, naravno, bilo pogrešno uverenje. Svet nije ni trebalo da bude pravilno uređen. Bar ne onako kako je to on zamišljao. Violinista je svoju kompoziciju sazdao na potpuno drugačijim načelima.

Nije u prvi mah shvatio da je muzika prestala. Postao je svestan tišine tek kada se mozaik razgradio pred njim, vrativši tami prostor koji je privremeno zauzimao. Ostao je pometen nekoliko trenutaka, zureći preda se. Očekivao je da nešto usledi, to mu je izgledalo neizbežno. Možda smrt. Zar je postojao prikladniji čas za umiranje? Ali ništa se nije dogodilo. Kugle su se još čvrsto držale na okupu.

Pri pomisli na smrt obuzela ga je strepnja. To se ranije nije događalo. Sada je, međutim, postojalo nešto što mu je podrivalo pređašnju pripravnost. Nije odmah uspeo da odgonetne šta je to. A tada mu je najednom sinulo. Kada bi ovog časa umro, poneo bi sa sobom u grob konačno znanje do koga je upravo došao. Izgledalo bi, zapravo, kao da se ništa nije dogodilo, kao da ništa nije dokučio. čeznuo je za tim, doduše, da prvenstveno udovolji vlastitoj znatiželji, ali to mu se sada učinilo sebično. Ne, mora po svaku cenu da ostavi trag o onome što je doznao.

Ali kako? šta može da uradi dok leži ovde na samrtničkoj postelji. I koliko vremena još ima na raspolaganju? Svakako ne mnogo. Osetio je ledene pipke panike kako mu gamižu uz stražnji deo vrata. Stao je da se unezvereno osvrće po mraku sobe, nazirući obrise poznatih predmeta. Ništa što je video nije mu se činilo od pomoći, sve dok mu u vidokrug nije ušla osvetljena prilika bolničarke u predvorju. Srce mu je brže zakucalo. Tako je! Nema drugog izbora. Ona je poslednja nada.

«Gospođo Rozel», pozvao je povišenim, nestrpljivim glasom.

Bolničarka je podigla glavu s knjige koju je čitala, pa ustala i pohitala prema bolesniku.

Dok ju je posmatrao kako prilazi, palo mu je na um da, zapravo, ne zna kako da joj saopšti to što ima. Najbolje bi bilo kada bi imao violinu. Onda bi joj sve mogao odsvirati i tako najvernije preneti ono što je upravo čuo. Ne bi bilo nikakvih nejasnoća, dvosmislica i nepotpunosti koje idu uz reči. Sve bi bilo kristalno jasno, čak i ono što se najteže moglo pojmiti. Ali, nažalost, ovde nema violinu. Mora se, dakle, osloniti na jezik.

Nije ni na tren bio u nedoumici oko toga kom jeziku da pribegne. Zupčanici su možda zvučali škripavo, ali su se zato najpreciznije uklapali jedni u druge, ostavljali su najmanje mesta za prazan hod, trenje, otpor. Uz smešak je pomislio kako je čudnovato to da je po izražajnosti muzici najbliži jezik koji joj je po zvučnosti među najudaljenijima. Osim toga, bio je to jezik na kome se on najbolje snalazio. Nikada ne bi uspeo da nešto tako složeno iskaže na nekom stranom. I na maternjem će morati dobrano da se pomuči.

Nije bilo vremena za uvode. Prešao je odmah na stvar, čim je gospođa Rozel prišla uzglavlju kreveta. Pričao je brzo, sažeto tamo gde je to bilo moguće, a opširnije gde se to nije moglo izbeći. Imao je puno razumevanja za izraz zbunjenosti i neverice na njenom licu, kao i za povremeno nemoćno sleganje ramenima. Upravo joj je otkrivao same temelje na kojima počiva Vaseljena. Srećom, uopšte nije bilo neophodno da bolničarka pokuša da shvati to što joj izlaže. Biće dovoljno da upamti njegove reči, razgovetne i suvisle, kako bi mogla da ih verno prenese onima koji će biti u stanju da ih razumeju. To bar nije bilo teško.

Opisivao je poslednji deo slagalice kada je osetio kako spojevi među kuglama najzad popuštaju. Nije se pobojao da neće imati priliku da završi. Svet je pravedno uređen, zar ne? Putevi Violiniste možda jesu skroviti, ali on svakako nije zloban. Kakvog bi, uostalom, smisla imalo da ga osujeti sada, na samom kraju, posle svega što mu je pružio? Nikakvog, naravno. Nastavio je spokojno da govori gospođi Rozel koja ga je i dalje pomno slušala. Tama je strpljivo sačekala da on stigne do kraja pre no što ga je primila u svoje okrilje. Utonuo je u nju vedro, s osećanjem postignuća. Ostavio je svetu svoju najveću tekovinu. Zar je postojalo nešto veće čemu se smeo nadati?

THE VIOLINIST

Translated from the Serbian by Alice Copple-Tošić

The professor knew he was not going to live through the night.

Dr Dean did not tell him that, of course. At least not to his face. But his demeanour confirmed the inevitability.

As usual, the doctor dropped by to see him at 23:10, after his shift was over. Before he entered the room, he spent a few minutes in the glass cubicle outside, talking quietly with the duty nurse, Mrs. Roszel. They talked in low voices, periodically looking through the glass at the sick man's bed. At one point Mrs. Roszel shook her bowed head and raised clenched fingers to her eyes, as if to wipe away tears.

When he appeared before the professor, Dr Dean tried his best to appear relaxed and cheerful, but he was not a very good actor. He must have had to undertake the role of the false optimist many times in his long career, but the small things still gave him away. He avoided looking the professor in the eye, finding various excuses to turn his glance aside. He checked his pulse, though they both knew it served no purpose. Then he tightened and smoothed the bedclothes with brusque, nervous movements, which was also unnecessary and in any case Mrs. Roszel's job, which she performed frequently and expertly.

Then he went to stand by the large window and stare out at Princeton's spring night. Gusts of rain beat against the pane, making ephemeral streaks that distorted the doctor's dimly reflected face. He sighed, and told his patient that he actually envied him. What he wouldn't give to be in his place! The professor was already in bed, but before the doctor lay a good half-hour's drive through this foul weather, to be followed by at least another hour filled with various obligations, all to be discharged before he could finally go to bed himself. But such was life. Some people were lucky and some were not.

He hesitated after saying this, because the conclusion was somehow inappropriate, given the circumstances. His intention had been to cheer the professor up and instil some hope, however unfounded, but it seemed he had inadvertently gone too far. It might have appeared cynical or even cruel to claim that someone whose hours were literally numbered was lucky. He turned from the window, and for the first time looked at his patient's haggard face.

The expression on it made the doctor feel foolish, for it told him that his acting had been as unsuitable as it was inept. He had seen that expression before, albeit rarely. The professor was not only conscious of what awaited him, but prepared for it. He did not expect any consolation, nor did he need it. This was no place for empty words.

The doctor went up to the bed and shook the old man's cold, slender hand. «Good night, Professor.» It took considerable effort to keep his voice from trembling.

«Good-bye, Doctor.»

Dr Dean gently patted the back of his patient's hand with his free hand. He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. Then he turned and, more hastily than he liked or had intended, left the patient's room. As he put on his raincoat and hat in the cubicle, he exchanged a few more words with Mrs. Roszel.

Ten minutes later the nurse went into the patient's room to prepare him for the night. She began by giving him an oval blue pill. The Professor was given one every night before sleeping, and he would try to swallow it quickly with a little water because it tasted bitter. He took it as dutifully as ever, although he felt it was a pointless exercise. Not to have done so might have been awkward for Mrs. Roszel, and she took care of him not only conscientiously but with affection.

As she needlessly straightened his bedclothes, she murmured something about the rain that had been pouring ceaselessly since early afternoon. Then she went to the window and closed the curtains. The drumming of the heavy drops suddenly became muffled and distant. She went back to the bed and spent a few moments silently arranging the yellow wildflowers on his night table. It seemed as if she wanted to say something else, but was hesitating for some reason. When she finally left the room, still without saying anything, the professor felt relieved. He did not feel like talking to Mrs. Roszel right then.

The nurse stopped at the entrance to her cubicle and turned off the strip light. «I'll be here if you need anything, Professor,» she said softly. «Just call for me. Good night.»

«Good night, Mrs. Roszel.»

He looked at her through the glass, sitting at her small desk. Now the only source of light in both rooms was a lamp with a thick yellow shade. Its dull glow made the white ribbon which kept the nurse's hair off her forehead look like a golden aureole. She had lowered her head to read a book, without taking her usual final glance at her patient.

The pill soon began to take effect. He first felt the dull, unremitting pain in his stomach soften to barely noticeable discomfort, as if a large pillow had been placed over his abdomen. Then the familiar feeling of floating began. Suddenly the bed seemed to disappear and he was lying in empty space, completely weightless. He knew it was only an illusion, but that did nothing to lessen the intoxicating pleasure of the feeling. Not even tonight.

The floating would not last long. Before he fell asleep he would experience a brief feeling that his body had separated into an assembly of weakly connected spheres. Soundlessly, the fragile links between them would start to dissolve, and he would melt into nothingness, merging with the black infinity that surrounded him. His last conscious thought would be that this must be what dying was like. Courtesy of the blue pill, he had died every night since his arrival at the hospital.

In the morning he would wake in a bad mood. It bothered him that he was not afraid of dying. Death seemed somehow attractive; it was almost as if he wanted to die, and he felt that he should not feel like that. If for no other reason, he hoped he would not die before finding the answers to several questions that had plagued him throughout his adult life. It would be quite unjust if he were denied them-but perhaps the world was only orderly, and not just. Certainly, there was very little time left for justice to be done.

This time, however, he did not break up into spheres. He was prevented by the sudden intrusion of music. It was barely audible but certainly present, though he could not determine the source; it seemed to come from all around him. Mrs. Roszel kept a small radio on her desk, but she would never play it this late. He looked in the nurse's direction. She was still engrossed in her book, apparently not hearing a thing.

A violin was weaving a slow, almost dreamy melody. He did not recognize it at once though he had played the violin since childhood, but something stirred in the depths of his memory, striving to reach the surface. For a despairing moment he thought it would fail; that the memory, like so many others, would stay bound forever below the thick webbing that enveloped his aged mind. Then the sound, as if wanting to help, became a tiny bit louder-and a bolt of lightning flashed through the gap of sixty years, taking him back to that long-ago summer day in northern Italy.

The small town in which he found himself as he walked the back roads from Milan to Genoa seemed to be completely deserted, even here on the main square, but this did not surprise him. All small places give such an impression during the siesta time from two to four in the afternoon, when the inhabitants retreat from the unbearable heat into the shuttered cool of their homes.

This did not bother him very much. The fewer local people he ran into, the fewer difficulties he would have. He was a shy fifteen-year-old, and he found the language difficult. Almost no one understood his native German, and he had only a very limited command of the melodious speech of this area, with its open, resonant vowels. So he took pains to enter into conversation with people only when necessary, shrinking from their presumed distaste for his accent that must sound to them like the screech of rusty gears.

The piazza was approximately square in shape, with a small fountain in the middle. The young man put his canvas rucksack on the ground and started to fill his cupped hands with water from the arching stream. He splashed his face with water, letting it drip, and then looked around, head raised, squinting at the white stone facades. His eyes, used to the monotonous greyness of northern lands, constantly ached from the bright colours of Italy. Everything around him was vibrating, twinkling, glimmering, bursting. He had the feeling of being trapped in a crystal that absorbed light from all sides, but did not let it out again.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a violin. It came from the top of a wide, three-storey building that was separated from the church belfry by an extremely narrow, shaded street. The window in the garret was open, probably the only one unshuttered on the whole square, and in the room behind it someone had chosen to fill this stagnant, bright, deserted hour with music. It was not a student practising, but an experienced violinist, a master whose fingers had total command of the instrument.

The chance listener next to the fountain stared, enchanted, at the high window. Even had he not been a skilled violinist himself, he could never have remained unaffected. Cascades of pure harmony streamed from above, as if from heaven. They penetrated deep inside him, to the very centre of his being, where they created resonant reflections. To devote his utmost concentration to listening, he closed his eyes.

He was trying to expel the omnipresent light to take best advantage of the sound, but without success. The light did not disappear under his lowered eyelids. Not only was it still there, it suppressed everything else with the power of its unabated radiance. And then, in a moment of revelation, he understood. The light was still there because the music was all about it. Could there be anything more fitting? What was invoked could not have been presented to him so comprehensively by any other means. He was inside the light, and its secrets started to peel away before him, finally displaying the wondrous simplicity of its essence.

He stayed there so long, motionless, listening to the light, that he lost track of time. Something very strange had happened to time. Its course seemed to decelerate, gradually at first, then exponentially, until it finally stopped, frozen in a timeless ray that rushed through strangely distorted space. Under the tremendous pressure of light, space started to undulate, turn and twist, until it was transformed into a vortex that carried him, powerfully and irresistibly, towards the black point deep within its centre. The point became a circle, then a wide opening in the fabric of reality, until it became an immense pit of deepest night, sucking him in like a speck of dust.

When he came to his senses he was at first unsure where he was. For a moment he thought he was still in the heart of darkness, but then he realized it was not total, for it was pierced by sunbeams that slanted like sparkling spears through narrow windows in a thick stone wall. The rays were multicoloured because they came through stained glass. The music had ceased.

The young man realized he was lying on something cold and hard. He tried to get up, but a pair of hands appeared and gently but firmly pushed him back. A figure in a brown mantle bent down over him; it was a priest, with greying hair and beard, wearing small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled at the young man and then began to speak. The young man could make out only a few words in the deluge of Italian: sun, fall, brought into the church.

He started to get up again, hastily explaining to the priest that he had to return to the square as soon as possible so as to hear the end of the music of light-it meant so much to him. Otherwise he was fine, there was no need to worry: he had experienced enlightenment, not sunstroke. The priest's only reply was an uncomprehending shrug, but this time there was no need for the priest's hands to stop him from getting up. He had not even reached a sitting position when his head started to swim. Overcome by exhaustion, he lay back down on the marble platform by the wall of the church, where they had laid him when they brought him in.

The priest reached for the wet cloth on the weary traveller's forehead and started to wipe it over his cheeks and neck. He was still talking, but the young man could make even less sense of it than before. He stopped listening, as despair filled his soul. If only he had stayed there a little longer! If only that vortex hadn't whisked him away so soon, he could have grasped the essence of light. As it was, he could only remember broken fragments, loose threads from the tapestry, pebbles detached from the mosaic. But at least he knew the mosaic existed and that it was flawless in its irreducible, self-evident necessity. Yet it seemed he had no right to hope ever to see it again, though he knew that he would devote the rest of his life to a tireless search for it.

It was sunset when he left the church. He still felt a bit light-headed, but he had to be on his way. The piazza was now full of people, and the shutters on the windows stood wide. All but one. He spent some time before the entrance to the three-storey building, whose highest window was now only a blind, mute eye, but in the end he did not seek out the musician in the garret. It was not his poor knowledge of Italian that prevented him, for he would have done the same thing if he could have used German. What could he say to the Violinist, in any language? Moreover, he suspected that He was no longer there at all.

There was no radiance this time. Here in the gloom of the hospital room, he no longer had to close his eyes to listen to the message of the music. The thrill he had experienced once, so long ago, was not here, nor would it have suited this period of his life or his present circumstances. All that he felt, aside from the intoxicating effect of the blue pill, was a moment of happiness coursing gently through him, stemming from the knowledge that there was justice in the world, after all.

The great mosaic appeared before him, woven from vibrating threads of air. It was almost completely filled in. He knew perfectly well which pebbles were missing. He had not been allowed to find them himself, as he had the others, but that no longer mattered; he had long ago discarded vanity. All that mattered was to see them at last, during the short time remaining to him.

The violin began to build shapes out of sound that slotted perfectly into the empty spaces. Each part represented a distinct revelation: amazingly simple, magnificently complex, wondrously unbelievable, insanely unacceptable. Now he understood why he would never have been able to find some of the answers. He simply did not have the right questions.

When the grand architecture of tones was finally complete, he had to confront its most disturbing characteristic: the whole and its parts were not in harmony. When he focused on the whole, the parts became fuzzy-and vice versa. He could not concentrate his internal eye on both at the same time. Once everything inside him would have rebelled at this imperfection, but not any longer: it was his preconceptions that had been wrong, of course. The world did not have to be orderly, at least not in the way he had imagined it. The Violinist based his composition on completely different principles.

He did not realize at first that the music had stopped. It was only when the mosaic came apart, giving way to the dark space it had temporarily occupied, that he became aware of the silence. He lay there confused for several moments, staring in front of him. Something must surely follow, this seemed inevitable. Death, perhaps? Was there any moment more suitable to die? But nothing happened. The spheres were still tightly grouped together.

At the thought of death he was overcome with fear. That had never happened before, but now something had undermined his previous readiness to die. For a while he could not identify it, but then in dawned on him: if he were to die right then, he would take the knowledge he had just gained to the grave with him. It would be as if nothing had happened, as if he had not finally comprehended. He had longed for it primarily to satisfy his own curiosity, but now that seemed selfish. No, he had to leave a trace of what he had learned, at whatever cost.

But how? What could he do, lying here on his deathbed? And how much time did he have left? Certainly not much. He felt a cold wave of panic creep down the back of his neck. He started to look feverishly about the dark room, perceiving the outlines of familiar objects. Nothing he saw seemed of any help, until the lighted figure of the nurse in her cubicle came into his field of vision. His heart started to beat faster. That was it! There was no other choice. She was his last hope.

«Mrs. Roszel,» he called, his voice raised and impatient.

The nurse lifted her eyes from her book, then got up and hurried to her patient.

As he watched her approach, it crossed his mind that he didn't actually know how to tell her what he had to say. The best thing would be if he had a violin. Then he could play it all to her, transmitting what he had just heard with utmost fidelity. There would be nothing of the vagueness, ambiguity or imperfection that went with words. Everything would be crystal clear, even the most difficult aspects. But there was no violin, unfortunately. He had to rely on language.

He did not hesitate for a moment about the language to use. The gears might sound rusty, but they fit together most precisely, leaving the least room for idle motion, friction, resistance. He thought with a smile how strange it was that this language, which was the closest to music in terms of expressiveness, was farthest away in terms of sonority. In addition, it was the language he felt closest to. He would never have been able to express something as complex in a foreign language. Even in his mother tongue he would have considerable trouble.

There was no time to waste on an introduction so he went straight to the point as soon as Mrs. Roszel reached the head of the bed. He spoke quickly, concisely when that was possible, more extensively when that could not be avoided. He was full of sympathy for the expression of bewilderment and disbelief on her face, and for her periodic helpless shrug of the shoulders. What he was revealing to her was the very foundation which upheld the universe. Fortunately, she did not need to try to understand what he was saying. It would be enough to remember his words, clear and coherent, so as to transmit them faithfully to those who would be able to understand them. That, at least, was not difficult.

He was describing the last part of the puzzle when he felt the links between the spheres finally loosen. He was not afraid that time would run out before he finished. There was justice in the world, was there not? The ways of the Violinist might be subtle, but He was certainly not malicious. What would be the sense in stopping him now, at the very end, after everything He had offered him? None, of course. The professor continued to speak softly to Mrs. Roszel, who was still listening carefully. The darkness waited patiently for him to reach the end before it engulfed him. He fell into it cheerfully, with a feeling of accomplishment. He had given the world his greatest legacy. Had he dared hope for anything greater?

© Zoran Živković
© Alice Copple-Tošić

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