Registered Letter

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Registered Letter

Registered Letter
The Emanator’s Suitcase

Translated by: Bisera Dalceska

It is not important who I am, why I am here, where I come from and what I am like and where I am right now. What is important is that I found some papers or documents, who knows what they are, and I think they are of utmost importance. I found the papers close to the park in the Municipality of Gazi Baba, Skopje, in a large yellow envelope. I did not contact any media because I do not trust them, nor does anyone know about this. I must say that I have not even told my spouse although he/she suffers from a mental disorder and will forget right away, so you cannot test me regarding this matter. Also, you will not find any trace of my fingerprints on the papers. You cannot find me in any possible way; I bought a regular toner for my printer and scanner, and for my copier that is a regular one as well. Every attempt to find me would be in vain. The reason why I would like to remain anonymous is very clear: I do not want to be proclaimed a manipulator of a sort, someone who is paid by a political party or a forger because I am sure that they will spin the news in different ways.

What I want to clarify is that I possess the original documents and I do not intend to hand them over to anyone. I will keep them as a memorabilia, it is as simple as that, and destroy them when I sense my death. If I die unexpectedly, and the documents are found, I want you to bear in mind that if I had not wanted to deliver copies of the documents I would not have done that, so I am the one in charge.Find the copies of the documents attached. The copies are absolutely true to the original and without any changes, except for a few scribbles. I have children, you probably know what it is like, they are learning to write, and I forgot them on the table in the living room.

– Oh, wonderful – the man said, put his emanation in a drawer and went out.

It was nighttime. The night welcomed him as a first grader is welcomed after the first school lesson, and surrounded him with welcoming stars. The man with a burning heat in his chest and an odd rhythm behind his ears, as a pulse, walked along the streets and made it to the park. He sat on the grass and leaned on the moon. He thought about all the insults in his life. About the one which inspires nebulas in lyrics. Afterwards, he returned home and emanated. Before he fell asleep, he heard a song, a warm distant voice. He fell asleep. The night was gone and the day rose. The sun had forgotten where this man lived. It was looking for him. It found him and decided to give him a kiss. A loud ‘smooch’ echoed in his room. The man woke up and started laughing. He was cheerful all day long. That night, when he was coming back from work, he saw that the Community had come closer to the river, near the olives. The Community knelt down and with one side of the roof started to cut the olives. One by one, it cut them all. The man saddened and went home. He was emanating. He lied down, covered himself and wanted to sleep. He was not able to. It was nighttime when he got out of bed. He put on his clothes, secretly got out of the house and went into the woods. It was midnight when he reached the pines. He saluted them as good old friends and threw himself in the tall grass. He reminisced about her over there. At times he wanted to grab her as a dragon. He locked her up in his conscience as if in a midnight church, and that was why she was the only one he dreamt about. She was the only one who could tell how quiet and affectionate he was.

One day, 7 December 1993, the man was sitting at home and reminiscing about his beloved places. In a strange hour, he heard a murmur:
– Rest in peace, troubled soul, don’t debauch at bleak dusk, in autumn.
– Let me be, devil, I’m supposed to talk about jat, jeri and jer right now – he responded.
The man declined the call of the murmur but only shortly. It was time.
He collected all of his emanations in an old leather suitcase. He put the suitcase on the living room table in his house. He went into the bedroom, took out the suit from the wardrobe and put it on. He took the glasses, cleaned them and put them on. He put his shoes on and went out. He stopped in front of the house. He looked at it, touched the rough wall and said:
-Goodbye, die slowly.
He hit the road. It was an odd ease the one which he was walking with. The road was muddy, and it was cold outside. A ghostly whisper was turning into ice on the tree branches. The winter was spreading under the ground with a secretive thought. A crane, broken by the wind, flew above him.

He walked for a long time. It was a straight road. He was not followed by anyone’s eye. He reached Slavej Mountain. He climbed the top. Then an old lady approached him and said:
-Who are you?
– Blaze Koneski – the man replied.
– Let me check – the old lady said and opened a thick black notebook.
– K-k-k-k-k. Koneski, Blaze. There you are. 19 December 1921, right?
-Yes – the man said.
The old lady noticed that after his name there are two more, Konev Blagoj and Konevikj Blagoj.
– Why are you double more people?
– Not double, but two. I am only one. It’s a long story, ma’am.
– Alright – the old lady said. – Go over there, on the plain.
The old lady tore the sheet from the notebook, went over to the man and said:
– You are dead here, son, a shadow without a memory. Now you are a name in a dusty volume and a yellowed page in a library – and he sat on the bench in front of the rubble of graves nearby that did not have crosses only damp niches. The old lady was staring at the man who stood on the plain.
The man could see the whole world. Karaorman, Struga, Ohrid, Dojran, Stip, Skopje, Kumanovo, Kalemegdan and Paris. He looked at his house. A stranger came out of it carrying the suitcase in his hand. To everyone he would meet, he would give something from the suitcase and would say:
– Here you go, it’s the last one.

The people were happy, they were waving at the man from the plain, smiling and saluting him. Everyone was waving at him. The man smiled and shouted at them:
– Sing Stojan’s song and that simple and strict Macedonian song!
He waved at them and turned into a climbing rose with leaves like soft lips.
The old lady had dozed off on the bench when the rose mumbled:
– Where have those days gone when a song would hide me? They won’t come back, but the song will.
More and more people were coming on the top of the mountain. A few days later, a man and a woman came. The old lady asked:
– Who are the two of you?

AuthorMario Stojanoski
2018-12-19T12:15:43+00:00 March 30th, 2016|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 106|0 Comments