Neighbours by Narcisa Vucina

a chapter self-translated from her novel “Tilda’s Secret Book” (Tildas hemmelige bog), published by Hovedland in 2018

Sarajevo, 1994

The candles cast a gloomy glow on our faces. We were sitting with our heads bowed. The mattresses stank of damp and cat piss. Nobody said anything. Every now and then one of us coughed.

Suddenly, the cellar door opened with a fast and forceful movement. Vanja stood there, smiling. She looked at us and said cheerfully: “There you all are! How nice!” We lifted our heads, as she continued: “It’s like in the old days. People were good at enjoying themselves. They took their time. Musicians and writers, who read their poems aloud, filled the cafes. People drank coffee, smoked rolled cigarettes and told stories.”

Vanja straightened as if she were about to announce a victory or some other piece of important news and said with her manly voice, “Once upon a time, a poet wanted to convince some company that there were no ugly women in the world.

Then a woman with a flat, almost deformed nose, asked ‘OK. Don’t you think I’m ugly?’

He replied, ‘Alas, no. Every woman is an angel who fell from heaven. Even you. But you were a little unfortunate and landed on your nose, squishing it a little. It doesn’t matter in the slightest.’

Vanja laughed loudly. Then quickly moved on to another topic, as though she had limited time for her performance: “I’d now like to recite a sonnet written by the great Shakespeare.”

She delivered not one, but five sonnets, in English. Most of the neighbours didn’t understand a word. Still, they gazed at her as though she were speaking a magical language that brought them happiness. I began to shake from the cold, wondering if I was going to freeze to death.

Vanja was a former high school English teacher. Her husband had lost a leg when a grenade had hit a line of people queuing for bread. When she heard about it, she ran up and down the stairwell, shouting: “Will they once again claim that we ourselves threw the grenade, that we are masochists, beasts from the Balkans? . . . But we are stronger than them. Even without tanks and rockets!”

She screamed and screamed. Eventually, she grew tired, so she sat down on the stairs, and cried: “What am I doing in this damned country? How can I support a one-legged man?”

Another neighbour, Mira, stood up and announced that she too liked poetry. Her husband interrupted her and announced proudly: “She recites poems, even when the bombs are falling. Once she drowned out the grenades with her voice.”

He took over the stage and said: “Recently, I’ve begun to wonder how many times I’ve tied my laces in my life. When I, at long last, found out, I was about to commit suicide.”

His wife added: “He wasn’t able to handle how high the number was.”

I couldn’t understand that it took a war for me to get to know these people; people I had only known superficially. Now they were standing before me, defying bombs and misery with their laughter and pride. And I was sitting, warming myself with their humour and courage, hoping it would get better.

Adi, who was sitting next to me, got up and said impatiently: “Be quiet now! I want to sleep. I have to get up early in the morning. I need to fell a tree for firewood. Have you ever tried to make tea from a tree root? It makes you nice and warm.”

Adi looked after the nearest park, with his dog and his parrot. He used to tie the dog and the parrot to a fence, mow the grass and remove dog shit from the paths, even while the snipers fired their shots from all sides. As if he didn’t hear or see anything. His eyes looked beyond this world to where no one, but him could see.

When he wasn’t doing his volunteer work, he jogged. He always wore a red t-shirt and yellow shorts—even when it was ten degrees below zero. Once I asked him where he was going. He didn’t answer but he ran even faster.

Through streets, churchyards, over hedges. He hurried off as if he would be greeted by beautiful and eternally young women at the end of his run. When he returned, he ran up the stairs and knocked on my door. At first, I was scared of him, but later I learned that he didn’t want to hurt me and that he lived in a world that was at once mysterious and terrifying.

Sometimes he asked for a few shillings for food. Or told another story about creatures I had only read about in fairy tales: “Once I heard a fairy sing. I’ll never forget her voice. Fairies live in the clouds, where they build castles; they live in forests, on water, on stars. Mountain fairies go into caves and turn into snakes. They can predict the future, they bring the dead to life and heal the sick. When they get angry, they take revenge. They shoot arrows, wound and kill. They cause storms at sea, destroy dinghies and ships. People go blind when they hear their songs or see them bathe naked.”

It was Tuesday. I was on my way to visit my best friend Flora, when Adi came running. He stopped abruptly when he saw a young girl with long red hair. Her mini skirt had got his attention. Both she and her make-up were beautiful. Her transparent tights revealed her long ivory legs. She was standing between two grenade holes in the pavement, looking like a statue that had been adorning the street for hundreds of years.

Adi stared at her and said admiringly: “Will you marry me, beautiful? I’ve been waiting for you for years, and now I’ve finally found you. I’ll bring you happiness. If you say no, you’ll be unhappy for the rest of your life.”

The girl took a step back, as if frightened, but when she looked at Adi again, she began to laugh. Her laughter was so loud it confused him, and he began to pound the pavement like a rooster getting ready to fight, while people crowded around them. He looked at her and said: “What is it that you don’t like about me? Do you think I’m crazy? Did someone tell you that? I know what I want. I want you. What’s wrong with that? With me, you will become a princess. I will live for you only; breathe for you, run for you, eat for you, defend you, carry you on my back . . . You must be mine. I’ve seen it in the cards from the old fortune teller. If you don’t marry me, you’ll be killed within four months . . . Do what I say, I beg you. You must listen to your destiny!”

The first reaction of those present was to snigger. Then they scolded Adi and told him to clear off and leave the girl in peace. The girl said nothing but turned on her heel and went on her way.

A month later, she was killed by a sniper. Only a few yards from where she had met Adi that Tuesday.

NABOERNE

Sarajevo, 1994

Stearinlysene kastede et dystert skær på vores ansigter. Vi sad med bøjede hoveder. Madrasserne lugtede af fugt og kattepis. Ingen sagde noget. En gang imellem hostede én af os.

Pludselig blev kælderdøren åbnet med en hurtig og kraftig bevægelse. Der stod Vanja og smilede. Hun kiggede på os og sagde muntert: ”Dér er I alle sammen. Hvor hyggeligt!” Vi løftede hovedet, hun fortsatte:
”Det er ligesom i gamle dage. De tog sig tid. Caféerne var fulde af musikere og forfattere, der læste op af deres digte. Folk drak kaffe, røg hjemmerullede cigaretter og fortalte historier.”

Vanja rettede ryggen, som om hun ville meddele en sejr eller en vigtig nyhed, og fortalte med sin mandestemme: ”En gang ville en digter overbevise selskabet om, at der ikke fandtes grimme kvinder i verden. Så spurgte en kvinde, som havde en flad, nærmest misdannet næse:

Ok. Synes du ikke jeg er grim? Han svarede:

Ak, nej. Enhver kvinde er en engel, som er faldet ned fra himlen. Det er du også. Men du var lidt uheldig og faldt på næsen, som blev lidt mast. Det betyder bestemt ikke noget.

Vanja brød ud i en højlydt latter. Hun gik hurtigt videre til et andet emne, som om hun havde begrænset tid til sin præstation: ”Nu vil jeg recitere en sonet, skrevet af den store Shakespeare.”

Hun reciterede ikke kun én, men fem sonetter, pa engelsk. De fleste forstod ikke et ord. Alligevel stirrede de, som om hun talte et magisk sprog, der bragte lykke. Jeg begyndte at ryste af kulde, og spekulerede pa, om jeg var ved at fryse ihjel.

Vanja var tidligere gymnasielærer i engelsk. Hendes mand mistede et ben, da en granat ramte en brødkø. Da hun fik det at vide, løb hun op og ned ad trapperne i opgangen og råbte:
”Vil de igen påstå, at vi selv kastede granaten, at vi er masochister, uhyrer fra Balkan? … Vi er stærkere end dem. Selv uden kampvogne og raketter!”

Vanja skreg og skreg. På et tidspunkt blev hun træt, satte sig ned på trappen, og sagde grædende:
”Hvad laver jeg i dette forbandede land? Hvordan kan jeg forsørge en etbenet mand?”

Mira, en anden nabo, rejste sig og sagde, at hun også kunne lide digte. Hendes mand afbrød hende og sagde stolt: ”Hun reciterer digte, selv når bomberne falder. En gang overdøvede hun granaterne.”

Han overtog scenen og fortalte: ”For nylig begyndte jeg at spekulere over, hvor mange gange i løbet af mit liv jeg har bundet mine snørebånd. Da jeg omsider fandt ud af det, var jeg ved at begå selvmord.”

Mira tilføjede: ”Han kunne ikke klare det høje antal.”

Jeg kunne ikke forstå, at det krævede en krig at lære disse mennesker at kende, mennesker, som jeg kun havde kendt overfladisk. Nu stod de foran mig og trodsede bomber og elendighed med deres grin og stolthed. Og jeg sad og varmede mig ved deres humor og mod, i håb om at få det bedre.

Adi, der sad ved siden af mig, rejste sig og sagde utålmodigt: ”I skal tie stille. Jeg vil gerne sove. Skal tidligt op. Jeg skal fælde et træ til brænde. Har I prøvet at lave te af en trærod? Man får det varmt.”

Adi passede den nærmeste park, sammen med sin hund og sin papegøje. Han bandt hunden og papegøjen til hegnet, klippede græsset og fjernede hundelort fra stierne, også mens snigskytterne skød fra alle sider. Som om han ikke hørte eller så noget. Hans øjne kiggede hinsides, dér hvor ingen andre end han kunne se.
Når han ikke passede sit frivillige arbejde, joggede han.
Han løb iført en rød t-shirt og gule shorts, selv når det var ti graders frost. Engang spurgte jeg, hvor han løb hen. Han svarede ikke, men løb endnu hurtigere. Gennem gaderne, kirkegarderne, over hækkene.

Hastede af sted, som om han, ved slutningen af løbeturen, ville blive modtaget af smukke og evigt unge kvinder. Når han kom tilbage, løb han op ad trappen og bankede på min dør. I begyndelsen var jeg bange for ham, men jeg fandt ud af, at han ikke ville mig det ondt, og at han levede i en verden, som på samme tid var mystisk og skrammende.

Engang imellem spurgte han efter et par skillinger til maden. Bagefter fortalte han en ny historie om væsener, jeg kun havde læst om i eventyr: ”Engang hørte jeg en fe synge. Jeg glemmer aldrig hendes stemme. Feerne bor i skyerne, hvor de bygger slotte, de bor i skovene, på vandet, på stjernerne. Bjergfeer går ind i grotter og bliver til slanger. De er synske, de kan vække de døde til live og helbrede de syge. Når feerne bliver vrede, hævner de sig. Så skyder de med bue, sårer og dræber. De fremkalder storme pa havene, ødelægger joller og skibe. Mennesker bliver blinde, hvis de hører deres sang eller ser dem bade nøgne.”

Det var tirsdag. Jeg var pa vej hjem til Flora, da Adi kom løbende. Han standsede brat op, da han så en ung pige med langt rødt hår. Hun havde lårkort nederdel på. Hun var smuk og sminket. Hendes gennemsigtige strømpebukser afslørede lange elfenbensfarvede ben. Pigen stod mellem to granathuller i fortovet og lignede en statue, der havde prydet gaden i hundreder år.

Adi stirrede på hende og sagde beundrende: ”Vil du giftes med mig, smukke? Jeg har ventet pa dig i mange år, og nu har jeg endelig fundet dig. Jeg vil bringe dig lykke. Hvis du siger nej, vil du være ulykkelig resten af dit liv.”

Pigen trådte et skridt tilbage, som om hun blev bange, men da hun igen kiggede på Adi, begyndte hun at le. Hendes latter var så høj, at han blev forvirret, og begyndte at stampe i fortovet som en kampklar hane, mens folk stimlede sammen om ham og pigen. Han sagde til hende: ”Hvad er det, du ikke kan lide ved mig? Tror du, jeg er skør? Har andre fortalt dig det? Jeg ved godt hvad jeg vil. Jeg vil have dig. Hvad er der galt i det? Sammen med mig vil du blive en prinsesse. Jeg vil kun leve for dig, ånde for dig, løbe for dig, spise for dig, forsvare dig, bære dig på ryggen … Du skal være min. Jeg har set det i kortene hos den gamle spåkone. Hvis du ikke gifter dig med mig, vil du blive dræbt i løbet af fire måneder. Gør hvad jeg siger, jeg bønfalder dig. Du skal lytte til din skæbne!”

De tilstedeværendes første reaktion var latter. Så skældte de Adi ud og sagde, at han skulle skrubbe af og lade pigen være i fred. Pigen sagde ikke noget, vendte ham ryggen og gik.

En måned senere blev hun dræbt af en snigskytte. Kun få meter fra det sted, hvor hun mødte Adi den tirsdag.

Narcisa Vucina was born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina and lives in Copenhagen, Denmark. The languages she writes in is Danish, English and Croatian. She had a Master’s degree in English from University of Sarajevo. In addition to her novel “Tildas hemmelige bog” (Hovedland 2018), she had published multiple books of poetry, including “Tre sole er ikke for meget” (Mellemgaard, 2009) and “U sanak mi se ne dade” (Mediepress, 2009).