– He wanted to come back here. Dimitar wanted to skip, I’m sure, just like you – the railwayman hissed at him and then started laughing at his own expense, coughed from all that laughter and tried clearing his throat with another guzzle of gin.
Gordan gave him a dirty look.
– Pay no attention to him whatsoever. Can’t you see that’s what he wants? – the woman in the floral sundress whispered and then continued out loud – I’d really want to know… America, you said…
– I said America! – the guy was relentless.
– Yes – Gordan responded to her interest – I’ve only known it from movies, the Internet, from CDs. All my life I’ve wanted to roam around New York at night.
– Ah, like that classic… – the woman said, her voice changed, as if she’s only just began communicating with Gordan.
– Excuse me? – Gordan was puzzled.
– I was thinking of that tune, ‘Strangers in the Night’. It was quite popular in my day. We were, you know, daydreaming with it. We were walking, in our minds, beneath the New York skyscrapers… – the woman said – The image is haunting me… Black stretch limousines flying about, yellow cabs, fumes from the subway coming out through the manholes, neon lights shining over the wet asphalt, and the sounds of a saxophone are heard. Someone nearby is playing some jazz…
– Rap. East Coast hip hop is the thing now – Gordan tried to explain, but she didn’t even listen and went on:
– … And you, you’re gaping about, dazed and confused from the bright lights everywhere. You’re drenched in brightness. The neon light is dancing on your face and the city around you is radiant. You’re walking down Broadway and suddenly someone’s calling your… – she turned to Gordan – What was your name again, young man?
– Gordan.
– Right – she continues – Someone is calling out for you ‘Gordon! Gordon!’ You turn around. You can’t believe your eyes. Just two feet from you, cigarette in hand, a relaxed, slicked smile, it’s him…
– Who, then? – suddenly the man in the railway hat squeaked.
– Frank, Frank Sinatra – she tells Gordan, ignoring the old man.
– Bad Boy, ma’am. Da gangsta. That’s what they call him. He’s my favourite rapper. His music is fierce. Don’t get me wrong, but Sinatra has been dead a long time.
– For you maybe, young man, not for me – she was relentless and, with a smile on her face, continued on that same note – Whatever, let’s say it was this Boy of yours… Anyway, he’s standing in the mist and the asphalt fumes in the bright street and, while you gape in surprise, he invites you for drinks at a nearby bar, right there in the neighbourhood, in a quiet alley round the corner… Right?
– Perhaps. How did you know? – Gordan looked at her all befuddled.
– From experience, young man – the elderly lady smiled – My generation was dreaming the same dream. I’m a teacher, you know… second generation after the war. Everyone in this country dreams of the same things. My generation was longing for Harry James, Esther Williams and California. The next generation for The Beatles and London. You dream of New York and your gangster. In those days my dream was Sinatra. It’s the same pattern. There’s nothing new, young man.
– Nothing new – suddenly, but rather pensively this time, the guy under railway hat repeated – We were tripping out too. American gangsters. Not just me, the whole gang… We were imagining we were in Chicago, in those days, you know, with Eliot Ness and the Prohibition… Kid, are you sure you don’t want some gin? Take a sip, you want be sorry.
– I don’t want to! – Gordan retorted.
– Stop bothering us with your interruptions – now the woman snapped at him as well.
– Well, well, my dear, you showed your teeth too. You’re in cahoots with this emigrant, shame on you! – retaliated the old man – And that dream of yours is so passé, you know!
– … It was like then before as well; back then Paris was in vogue… – she raised her tone and continued, trying not to pay attention to the old rascal.
– And the Orient Express. A train going London-Paris-Constantinople and back. Aller-retour – the guy interjected again, calling out to Gordan – Everything’s the same, darn it, you take after us. There’s no escape. Everything boils down to one: aller-retour.
– I don’t take after anyone – Gordan rejoined – I take after myself. Not even my father. I’m more like some mad hacker from Wyoming than you.
– Right, then I’m the spit image of Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen.
– Just look at you two – Gordan exploded – like caricatures from the previous century.
The woman looked at him in shock. She was astounded by Gordan’s reaction.
– That’s right – the pig-headed railwayman started showing some nerve, not even trying to try his satisfaction that his young interlocutor had finally lost his temper – and we’ve been hanging out with hanumas, revolutionaries, pashas and beys. As for myself, I’ve mooched a smoke out of Goce Delčev’s cigarette case, and I’ve sold Kemal Atatürk a new fur cap to replace his old fez. I got it here, from the Skopje fellmongers. Have you heard of Goce and Kemal?
– And of Tito too! – Gordan shouted all out of sorts.
The old man stopped, as if befuddled.
– I don’t want to hear of him! – the railwayman sad full of malice after the puzzled break.
– The Slovenians have built a website just for him.
– What have the Slovenians built? – the capricious little fella asked with an angry, but curious falsetto.
– An Internet page – anxiously tried to explain the woman.
– A freaking page? We were supposed to read ginormous books on that bugger, not a page…
– It’s no use, young man – the woman added moralizingly, trying to resume her interrupted conversation with Gordan – there are no more fantasies. Especially in your generation. You dream, as this… man said, passé dreams of the world. Can’t you see the world is here now? Nowadays the world is where the fiercest is.
the art is inside
