The Twenty-first

/, Literature, Blesok no. 75/The Twenty-first

The Twenty-first

– The world is elsewhere – Gordan retorted – only their TV cameras are here. They like to watch us in the news. As some soap opera, in episodes. In their living rooms, for relaxation, during the breaking news. In their private homes with backyards, while their TV dinners, bought at a discount at the local supermarket, fresh out of the microwave, are getting cold. I don’t want to be a segment on CNN or NBC, as if I was some wild beast at an African safari. I want to have a life. I don’t want to be an extra in their news. And I’m sick of the likes of you too. Old, bitter, no good!
– You don’t want to? As if you had a choice! – the man started shouting at him – That’s what this world is like. Like a circus. Some of us are taming bears, wolves and wild cats, while others are looking on, munching popcorn and laughing at us.
– I beg to differ – the woman interjected – there’s no pleasure in another’s misery. The tables could easily turn.
– Haven’t they already? – the railwayman said.
– Not yet – she retorted – God help us if they do. I know what I’m talking about.
The old man was staring at her, speechless. Gordan stood up and put both straps of his backpack on one shoulder.
– It would be better if they didn’t, lady – rejoined the spiteful man – when the shoe is on their foot, we’re always screwed, pardon my French.
Gordan left them behind and decisively moved toward the stairs to the railway platform.
– Brute! – Gordan heard the woman in the floral dress behind and finally stepped out on the scorching platform.

31.
Gordan glanced at his watch. He noticed that the second hand was sluggishly moving from one position to the other like a man with heat exhaustion. The train was an hour late. A warm breeze was blowing outside when his attention was drawn by the steps on the platform stairs. One by one – she with her plaid suitcase in both her hands, he with his bags with the bottles of gin sticking out and tinkling – the woman with the straw hat and the railwayman were going up the stairs. They stopped to look about the platform and sat down on two separate benches across from Gordan.
– Could you please tell me – the woman asked the old man – what time it is exactly? The railway clock seems to have stopped.
– I don’t know – he replied – I stopped wearing a watch when I retired. Why would I? Time stands still her anyhow.
– We’re standing still – the woman said, with a somewhat anxious tone – time just stirs things up. It’s strange how the past returns here.
Sensing the old subject of their little dispute in the waiting room coming along, Gordan turned around and looked into the distance trembling in the hot air. A fly was buzzing in front of his eyes, there was not a single railwayman on the platform and the train was a no-show.
– Have you asked if the train is coming? – Gordan couldn’t help himself.
– There’s no one to ask… – the woman replied listlessly.
– I don’t know if I should stay… – noted Gordan anxiously, jumped up, waved his arm and caught the fly in his hand.
– You’re too eager to skedaddle, buddy – the railwayman started to taunt him again, taking out a cigarette from a soft pack and prepared it for smoking with gusto – Interesting, ma’am, how this youth never dream of our country. They always want to go abroad, into the big bad world…
– What the hell do you know? All you know is the Skopje-Kumanovo line and back, and you keep foaming up here – Gordan snapped at him, he took a swing and smashed the fly against the edge of the bench.
– My dear boy, I’ve travelled more than you’ve driven around Skopje and that’s a fact!
– Right, from Blace to Prdejci, round trip.
– With a pass, buddy. All through that other country. I’ve worked at the railway all my life and in those days it was impeccable, a symbol of the organized state, not this mess. I’ve been to that Maribor of yours, just so you know.
– Take it easy – the woman told Gordan taking off the straw hat and cooling herself with it as with a fan – after all, it’s rude to speak this way to your senior…
– You all just love preaching, don’t you? – Gordan couldn’t take it anymore – My father at home, the MPs, you two… You all have to put your two cents in. How come we’re stuck like this with all this wisdom flying about? You’ve seen a dozen films, you’ve learnt the names of five capitals and three celebrities, and you’ve been lecturing us on fashion and geography for years.
– On history, young man. On history… And history repeats itself – the woman with the hat said grimly.
– It repeats itself, buddy, but as farce! – Kiro said and crossed his skinny legs, revealing the old and dusty summer shoes – that’s by Marx, not entirely mine.
– Nothing repeats, only you’ve been taught on reruns – Gordan flared up again – Everything happens only once. You live once. What’s happened to you hasn’t happened to me. Everyone’s got to do their damn part. You’ve screwed up everything you’ve done. We’re standing still and that’s the way you like it. You want us to change, but everything to stay the same. That’s why we don’t take after you. We rather resemble our generation out in the world than you. We keep in touch with the whole world in English. We surf the planet. We’re damn computer whizzes…
– Big whoop! – the old man puffed a cloud of smoke.
– … we kick ass on the Internet. What do you know of the freaking Internet? Nothing. You didn’t even write your homework back in the day, let alone an algorithm today. As if you know anything about the war; you haven’t even seen gunpowder. You’re – I can tell – from that generation stuck in-between. Then: too young to be a partisan; and now: to old to be in the reserve. A railwayman from this God-forsaken train station, that’s what you are. I’ve been to war on the computer, Kiro, that’s why I’ve chosen to leave. Because I know that in every war it is someone else that activates you. I’ve shot my ass off with the joystick and I keep wondering: if these virtual wars are so brutal, what’s a real one like?
– Disgusting! – said the woman vaguely and for a second neither Gordan nor Kiro knew if she comments on the style or the contents of the report.

2018-08-21T17:22:53+00:00 December 21st, 2010|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 75|0 Comments