The Gluttenburg Mannequin

/, Literature, Blesok no. 112/The Gluttenburg Mannequin

The Gluttenburg Mannequin

The Gluttenburg Mannequin


Grozdan no longer has time for noticing particularities on the mannequins. That’s why he doesn’t see that Buba is barefoot, that she has no shoes, no socks. He won’t notice the white envelope peeking from Boshko’s pocket. The blue uniforms are now really expeditious. The mannequins change with incredible speed. Here’s Milica Josifovska now! Come on, you know Milica Josifovska. Our math teacher from elementary school. There is a big wooden compass next to her, an alleged educational tool, but in the case of Milica, an efficient disciplinary tool. (Grozdan is beginning to feel that Milica’s appearance in his strange experience is grotesque). The next mannequin is Sonya, his first love, the girl who made a man out of him. Or, at least that is what he thought at the time. She looks good for her age. And here is Greenie, the kid he bullied in elementary school; then Gigi, his friend from Italy whom he met somewhere on the Adriatic coast; there’s Alexey, the guide of the children’s two-week prize trip to Bulgaria; then Mirko, his colleague who passed away too young; his grandmother Budimka… Grozdan sees that an entire hidden world, concealed for centuries, is now trying to see the light of day. To present itself to him. Has he wronged them somehow? Should he apologize? Or just remember? Is there a lesson to all of this?

Suddenly a strange thought passes trough his mind. This is the department store of his hometown! The one that is now gone. What is his Na-Ma doing in Göteborg, Grüttenburg, Gratenstrassen, whatever. And what is he doing here, at just this time and place? Yes, he is the participant of a conference on investigative journalism and in the afternoon he has a presentation on the role of investigative journalism in his country. What time is it now? He can’t be late. The organizers have covered his accommodation, travel costs and fee. On top of all a chance to arrange other such presentations that can bring about another fee.

Grozdan lifts his right hand towards the top left pocket of his journalist vest (the vest, in fact, is a fishing vest, but he likes to call it a journalist vest) in order to take out his mobile phone and see what time it is. He puts his left hand in the pocket of his jeans to check if the hotel key room is there (he never leaves it at the reception desk). The Na-Ma shop window is completely bare. There are no mannequins, there is nothing else. Just the white floor tiles. White is the street sidewalk. White is the street. White is the sky. White is the air. White is the reflection of his face in the shop window.

Grozdan’s movements are slow. He feels like he’s been standing in front of the shop window for decades, for centuries. That he has been petrified there. His hand, the one supposed to retrieve the mobile phone, is heavy, as if lifting a 200 kilo weight. And just then, just before reaching the phone he is stunned to see a blue color ripping through the whiteness. The blue starts to spread through the snow-white void and it takes ages for Grozdan to realize that the blue uniforms are back in the shop window and that they are again setting up a mannequin. Slower than the slowest asteroids.

Grozdan stares transparently. The mannequin in the shop window – it’s him. He is more hunchbacked and his beard is whiter than the last time he looked at himself in the mirror. He seems confused. He’s got a fake and crazy smile on his face, like the one in the summer holiday photograph in Saranda (or it could have been another photograph, but it doesn’t matter). His entire posture is grotesque. His right hand stands raised next to the top left pocket of his journalist vest (in fact, it’s a fishing vest, but…), while his left is in the pocket of his jeans.
What’s this? What’s this?
struggles Grozdan’s mind. And he begins to hover, while the world begins to spin. The two blue uniforms are at his side. One of them holds him by the head, the other by his feet. Grozdan wants to ask what’s happening. Grozdan wants to kick. Grozdan wants to scream. Grozdan wants to run. But he can’t. His lips are fixed in a crazy smile, like the one in the photograph in Saranda. He is frozen, just like in the photograph, like a statue, like a mannequin…

The two carriers and Grozdan are already inside the department store. It is large, white and eerie. One of the blue uniforms opens an equally white door in the left corner of the empty space of the Na-Ma. There is a white room beyond the door, padded in white pillows. The floor is also padded in white pillows. The people in blue uniforms throw Grozdan onto the heap of discarded mannequins. Grozdan’s fall is infinitely long. He hovers in the still air. He manages to see Buba and Boshko, lying next to the right wall, holding hands. Buba is barefoot, but Grozdan can’t see that anymore, just like he can’t see what has slipped out of Boshko’s suit, the white envelope now blended with the white room. And then he falls next to the blonde mannequin with her hair in a ponytail, a gold bracelet around her left wrist.
Who was this lady? Who was…

And Grozdan finally slips into unconsciousness.

AuthorZvezdan Georgievski
2018-12-13T11:36:09+00:00 March 22nd, 2017|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 112|0 Comments