Le Train Bleu
Content
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LE TRAIN BLEU
From the moment I looked at myself in the mirror that morning and
recognized the first symptoms of an illness, it wasn’t long before I received
the diagnosis. I recall I was wearing a yellow t-shirt at the time. Later on,
that particular detail would prove to have symbolic meaning for me. I was
bent over the sink taking my time washing the soap bubbles from between
my fingers and staring at the stream of water flowing into the drain. When I
looked up, I noticed the whites of my eyes were yellow; I passed my
fingertips smoothly over the forehead, and around my eyes. Then I rolled up
my sleeves and lifted up my shirt only to discover that my skin, too, had a
grayish yellow film. As the light from the window touched the mirror, I
glanced at myself one more time. There was no dilemma, it was clear - my
skin colour had changed! I grabbed the telephone directory and called the
nearest hospital. They told me to come immediately to the admissions desk
on the main floor.
***
The nurse was surprised to learn I was fifty-three years old. She was
convinced that I was no more than forty-five. While she was drawing my
blood she asked if I suffered from diabetes, if my liver had been checked, if I
have problems with digestion, pain, nausea or the urge to vomit. My
responses were vague. To avoid looking at my own blood, I turned to face
the wall and noticed postcards of Havana: “A warm greeting from Havana”.
When the nurse pulled out the needle and adhered a label on the tube, I
turned toward her and asked if she was Cuban. She nodded and smiled.
“I was born in Toronto. I’m a second generation immigrant”.
“And I’m a first generation immigrant”, I piped up spontaneously.
She directed me to wait in the adjoining room where someone would
summon me when the analysis was done.
***
Within a half hour she returned with a female doctor. Her smile,
which had reminded me of Anne Frank’s smile on the cover of the book I
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had read as a youngster, had disappeared. The doctor told me to follow her
into a room while the nurse went her way down the corridor. I sat opposite
her, she looked at me with some hesitation and then proceeded to tell me that
the first results were not good, that she suspected cancer of the pancreas.
Further tests would be done immediately and I would be meeting with the
surgeon that morning to discuss the details of possible surgery.
I turned my face to the wall. Why should I lie? I felt like crying. For a
long time I could only stare at the poster encouraging patients to donate their
organs before they die.
I had read somewhere that a person’s entire life passes before one’s
eyes at the moment of death. It probably also happens when someone learns
they have cancer. The instant I heard my diagnosis, one of my first
memories passed through my mind – the memory of my father calling me
from the window of our small apartment above the local post office
announcing the birth of my sister. I dropped my ball and ran in a flash
toward the door at the rear of the building. The light in the stairwell was
burned out and the top of the stairs was in complete darkness. From the
bottom of the stairs I could hear the sound of distressed clucking mixed with
the muffled cries of a child coming from our apartment door. I stopped in
my tracks. At that very instant directly a speckled hen flew above my
head[D1]. In a single attempt she reached the light – and freedom. Engraved in
my mind is the memory of that moment. Her legs tucked under her, her neck
straining forward toward the light, her wings flapping desperately, she flew
over the line of darkness in the stairwell and grounded herself on the warm
asphalt.
When I shook myself from this momentary pensiveness, the message
on the poster flickered a few more seconds before my tear-filled eyes “Your signature can save eight lives”. It was then that I thought of my
geography teacher. I really don’t know why. I recalled standing before a
map of the world, the contours of the oceans and continents had lost their
sharpness right before my eyes, like now. I feared I couldn’t answer the
question posed to me. Then I turned to the doctor and noticed that she, too,
was looking sideways, hesitant to look me straight in the eyes.
***
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The surgeon seemed to be experienced in estimating the length of
time remaining for cases like mine. It’s been fifteen months since my
surgery and medical efforts to correct what could not be corrected in my
bowels. Time is slowly slipping away. A small voice inside me said that the
doctor’s prognosis would be right on the mark, almost to the day and the
hour. Last week they graciously tied a device around my waist so that I
could self administer the flow of morphine. An excellent technological
advancement! The patient has to treat his own illness as though he is the
doctor. Little by little one develops a sense of how far to adjust the notched
brown button to numb the increasing pain.
What an appropriate name – palliative care, palliative Versorgung, de
soins médicaux palliatifs! [D2]The Swiss go one step further – they provide a
legal fast track to end human life – euthanasia in the death room [D3]- to assist
the dying in a room for dying. It almost sounds poetic, doesn’t it? Bed and
breakfast in Zurich. A simple furnished room with a sofa, bed, table and a
glass containing sodium pentobarbitol. The trick is to drink every drop of it
– alone, without coercion, to drink it willingly.
***
I’m losing consciousness more frequently, but I’m still in control of
myself. I’m trying to save my energy and rationalize how to spend my final
hours. On occasion, I can feel the life force ebbing away with every beat of
my heart. Every cell is breaking away, one by one. Life is being drained out
of me. In those infrequent moments of awareness I sensed a cynicism in
everything around me, a chaos which I was compelled to accept without
resistance as if it were an artificial extension to the countdown of the days of
my life. I didn’t ask for it, nor did I pray for it. But I was gifted with the
clear intent to get my life in order – to pay off my debts, close my bank
accounts, cancel my insurance, de-clutter my home, organize my own
funeral and set up a power of attorney. All this in order to, shall I say, check
myself out of this life.
No, I couldn’t even imagine how much the passing of false hope
could release and liberate a person. No more debilitating mood fluctuations
– everything has been replaced by the great equalizer leading me steadily
downward. It is certain that my case will not improve the five per cent
survival rate of patients who have this particular cancer.
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***
However, it was very strange how I kept repeating: “In the end
everything might[D4] even turn out well…” These words gave me peace of
mind. I caught myself thinking that people whose dreams are important to
them, who focus on them and interpret them, can view the final
disconnection and ascension of the soul as a more complex form of
continued sleep, naturally without waking - like crossing over to the other
side, to the other shore, the passage through the ceiling where the dream
pauses briefly before waking. Then something strange appeared before my
eyes - a red and white helium balloon floated by wrapped in the fluffy
clouds above Vrshich [D5]and then it glided under them. Below me I looked
again at the turquoise blue waters of the Socha [D6]winding through the green
fields near the clusters of white houses huddled near the church of the
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Now there’s a challenge for physicists - the soul in a helium
balloon…. The ropes, basket and balloon weighing this much, the soul
weighing this much….[D7] Just think of the force that pulls upward, the
density of the helium and the opposite gravitational pull downward. To lift
one kilogram of weight requires a thousand litres of helium. The soul is
useful “cargo”. [D8]How much helium would be required for its ascension?
Or, how quickly would the soul, disconnected from the body, soar to the
heavens? How to take into account the parameters of the soul’s complexity?
And would it even be measurable?
Sometimes, when I find myself in that celestial[D9] mindset I recite the
words of Sumatra[D10]: “Now we are carefree, tranquil and gentle. Think how
quiet are the snowy peaks of the Urals”. And again I smile whenever I
mention the Urals because my thoughts always drift to the Julian Alps of
Slovenia. The rhythm of the poem perfectly fits the image which it creates.
Indecipherable paths of association stem from the free flow of thought. All
that aside, the path of my soul’s ascension is not irrelevant. What is
important is that my final dreams are not mundane or ordinary, that they are
glorious, that they transcend all other dreams.
Paris. A postcard handwritten one summer by my high school heart
throb. Peljeshatz, Orebich, Michelle. [D11]The gurgle of French vowels. The
trickle of the sounds that pulsated over the fullness of her lips whose
bitterness I can taste even now. I only need to strain a bit. “Jе t'aime
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beaucoup... [D12]Tu m’aimes?... Je t'aime tellement que c'est dur de me
concentrer sur autre chose que toi… J'attends de toi à Paris... Mon amour
pour toi est éternel... I live near the Bastille or, more precisely, between the
Bastille and the Gare de Lyon. We’ll go for coffee at the railway station
bistro[D13] ‘Le Train Bleu’ [D14]to watch the sun set and wave good-bye to the
travelers heading to the French Riviera”. [D15]
On the front of the postcard which hung above my desk all during my
university years was the image of the magical interior of that bistro. Then
there was my promise to come as soon as I had completed my entrance
exams to the Drama Faculty and scraped together enough money for a train
ticket. And only because of her I prepared to recite Charles Beaudelaire’s
poem “Flowers of Evil”. Stupidity, prejudice and miserliness plague our
souls and permeate our spirits. I wasn’t accepted by the Faculty. So I applied
to law school. I even failed to keep my promise, but I kept her postcard.
Here it is, even now, under my pillow.
***
Bastille Metro station. I’m climbing the stairs from the subway. And
here I am. Finally I’m here in the middle of the square. I saunter along all
evening and pass by the Opera House. I feel light-headed. [D16]The joy of
anticipation is the greatest joy. That’s why I exited at this station and not at
the Gare de Lyon – precisely to prolong the sweet anticipation, like the
expectation of a first romantic meeting. After thirty-five years of
preparation. Yes, yes….
I know I should have welcomed this important moment in better shape
than this. Not to be trivial, one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Yes,
Michelle, I’m here. I think even you would agree that it wouldn’t be good
for you to see me like this. And you? Have you gained weight like most of
your friends? Do you have problems with your hormones, thyroid,
menopause, excessive sweating or insomnia? Are you still sleeping beside
your husband in the same bedroom?
How many times have you thought of me in the past thirty-five years?
On occasion, you probably did. For certain no one covered you with kisses
or discovered that special spot behind your ears as quickly as I did, that
sensitive spot that made you breathless with desire. I am certain that our
[D17]lovemaking exceeded all your expectations. In fact, during the past few
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months it’s as though you have joined me in saying farewell to life. Stay
well, my love. I won’t need you for the remainder of this film, not even in a
supporting role. I am grateful to you for that invitation on the postcard with
the interior buffet of Le Train Bleu. It was so long ago. If it were not for that
postcard who knows if I would ever again find myself standing here?
***
Everything will happen as in a film, except without the wide screen,
and the geographic and climate previews. We know all that. The film title
spells it out. I’ll be brought into the story from the side screen at the moment
that I see the station before me, when I see people milling around in all
directions like distressed ants. The camera will then freeze at the left
entrance to the restaurant and that’s how I will be brought into the story as
the main protagonist. As I move toward the entrance, the full length of my
figure will be seen from behind. The sluggish mobility of my scrawny legs
and my thin hands will be easily discernible.
Until then, until that scene, I still have to walk the distance from the
place where the revolution started. From the Bastille. Not exactly a happy
starting point for someone who abhors revolution, rebellion, agitated masses,
tumultuous reactions, messy insurrections, heated emotions. For the longest
time I believed that rebels are the salt of blind obedience and the liberators
of spiritually lethargic humanity from the whims of the invisible and
powerful, that they are the genuine red stains in the vast grey columns of
wooden dolls nodding their heads in synchronized agreement. Today I am
convinced that rebels are clowns and court jesters, that their role in this
world is exclusively to entertain. Their presence and activities are the
calculated concessions of those against whom they are protesting so that,
thanks to the false hope of change, the suffering of the majority is a bearable
illusion.
After just a few steps I was surprised that I almost mechanically
looked at the facades of the nearby buildings and felt uplifted by their bright
ocher colour and the beautifully proportionate relief sculptures[D18] around
the windows, garrets and front doors. The engraved wooden doors and the
curtains fluttering in the window with wide-open shutters made me smile. I
am convinced this is the very spot which inspired Goethe’s theory that
“beautiful architecture is frozen music”. It’s as though I can hear the music
all around me – pianissimo and then forte. [D19]Perhaps that’s why people in
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North American cities keep their heads down or keep looking straight ahead
in the distance when they are walking along the sidewalk. Looking up yields
no new discoveries. Perhaps people here instinctively protect themselves
from unpleasant sights, from the unimaginable outcome of a lost love and
the fundamental human need for a lovely place to live or, in Goethe’s words,
from architecture which we can define as a “frozen scream”. Immersed in
these thoughts, I heard a voice behind me.
“Did you lose this ring?”
Someone behind me was addressing me in English. I turned around
and saw a rather short, plump girl, not more than twenty years old with a
pimpled face and dark skin. I immediately noticed the warmth in her black,
hazy eyes, the barely visible trembling of her bluish lips and the wide
wedding band in her extended hand. She asked her question through
clenched teeth.
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t worn a ring since my divorce two years ago.
Besides, I don’t like jewellery”.
“Please, take it. May it bring you good luck. I am an evangelist
[D20]and we aren’t allowed to wear jewellery. Here, see. I don’t wear earrings,
or anything. We don’t wear any jewellery until we get married. Take it.
There’s even a stamp on the inside of the ring. It must be costly”.
“Why don’t you sell it or pawn it? There are dozens of jewelers in this
area where you can do that without any problem”.
“As I told you, I can’t. Besides, I’m here illegally. I have no residence
permit and my visa expired. They’ll immediately ask for my documents.
You understand? And then they will call the police”.
“But I really don’t need your ring. I think I’ll be in this part of town
only a few more hours. Where I’m going next I don’t need any jewellery.
Offer it to someone else. I’m not the right person”.
“Then give me twenty euros. In two hours you will think of me. And
you won’t regret it. It will bring you good luck, trust me. Good fortune you
never dreamed of”.
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Different thoughts were going through my mind. I wasn’t yearning for
any kind of good luck since my final notice had already been signed. At least
I brightened a few hours of the day for this unknown girl. I decided to share
all the money I had with her. I took ten euros from my wallet and put them
in the breast pocket of my jacket. Digging deeply into the pockets of my
trousers and jacket, I placed in her extended hand a few bills and all the
change I had. Just as I was doing that, she dropped the ring in my hand.
“Put it in your pocket. You will soon think of me. I guarantee it”.
I had no more strength to resist and stopped myself from saying
anything more. In the end, I just waved and walked toward the railway
station.
***
The sun was already setting when I stopped at the L’Europeen bar. I
was only one street away from my intended destination. From this spot I
could already discern the clock on the cupola at the right wing of the railway
station. I crossed to the other side and stopped near the rails that surrounded
the entrance to the stairwell leading to the subway station at Gare de Lyon
between the metal fence and and a whole lot of bicycle steering wheels
which were jutting above the low wall, I could see the sign on the left wing
of the building - „Le Train Bleu” .
The moment had finally come for me to enter. And I did so without
hesitation. Three soldiers of similar stature and appearance passed by. They
weren’t wearing caps and their heads were shaved behind and above their
ears. Protruding above their foreheads were almost identical gel-shaped
forms that swayed to the rhythm of their synchronized steps. I was surprised
by the polish of the semiautomatic rifles which they held diagonally across
their chests, their fingerless leather gloves, their fingers on the triggers, their
relaxed demeanor. Obsessed with terrorism, I pondered: three soldiers armed
for anti-terrorism were not foreseen for this scene when I entered the railway
station. Since they were already here, we can view them as an interesting
detail in this diversified crowd of voluntary extras moving toward the
entrance. I glanced quickly at the clock on right side of the tower. It was
precisely six thirty.
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As I approached the door which should have led to the restaurant, I
noticed a sign which read: “This entrance is temporarily closed. Please use
the main entrance inside the building on the left side and follow the blue
steps to the bistro”. I turned to the soldiers who had stopped for a moment
quite a distance away and sent them an inquiring glance; with frozen
expressions, they silently looked right through me.
I turned around. Leaning against the wall was a young man who was
wearing with untied tennis shoes. He was holding a sad looking golden
retriever on a blue leash and talking to someone on the phone at the same
time. I passed by him, waited a moment and then opened the door with some
hesitation. At first, I heard a whimpering sound and then I was struck by the
pleasant freshness of the semi-darkness. On the left side, the porter stood
behind the desk which was poorly lit by a lamp topped with a lampshade of
golden yellow fabric. He was about fifty years old and was wearing a navy
blue suit, white shirt and a yellow silk tie. His short neck made it appear as
though his head had grown directly out of his bent back. He was supporting
his left arm. On his stocky ring finger he wore a ring and another on his
stubby pinky. As he rose from behind the desk and headed toward me, I
noticed the bread crumbs in his moustache and the dimness of his eyes. He
spoke in French with an Arabic accent, and as he spoke, his upper gums
were fully visible. In a hoarse voice, he asked me:
“Where are you going? Do you have a reservation?”
“To the bistro. I don’t have a reservation. I just wanted to go up there
for a short while to have a cup of coffee, watch the setting of the sun and
look at the platform and the travelers heading south to the Cote d’Azur - if
the trains still head that way from here”.
He scrutinized me with a piercing gaze long enough to make me feel
rather uncomfortable. I rubbed my nose and scratched my right cheek.
“Where are you from?”, he asked.
“That’s not important, but I was born in Bosnia”, I replied.
Then he came so close that I could smell the onions on his breath and
the heavy smell of his cologne.
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“Take these stairs and when they stop you at the door, tell them it’s
alright, that Abdullah directed you to that entrance”.
He spoke with some authority, nodded his head, winked at me and
gently poked me in the back.[D21]
As I headed up the winding staircase to the restaurant, I held on to the
wooden railing and kept looking up toward the ceiling. On the first landing,
precisely after the seventh stair, I turned once more toward the desk where
Abdullah was sitting. His head was down and he was writing something,
unaware that I was looking at him. When I reached the double doors which
led to the restaurant, I pulled them toward me. Just as Abdullah had said, a
middle-aged waiter was waiting at the door. Without saying a word, he
smiled mysteriously. It was strange how long he focused so intently on my
face. I spoke up first.
“Good evening. Abdullah directed me to this entrance. I just wanted
to have a cup of coffee in the salon overlooking the square in front of the
station and then I’d like to stay a few more minutes in the vestibule at the
window behind you and watch the southbound trains leaving the station. Of
course, if you don’t object”.
“Abdullah, you say. I see. Dominic will show you to the Morocco
lounge. Follow him. And if you are interested in the ceiling murals and
paintings, you are welcome to take pictures of them. The walls and ceilings
are decorated with forty-one murals. Take a look at the gilded arches, the
leather sofas, the chairs, the crystal chandeliers….”
“Thank you for pointing out those interesting details, but I haven’t
taken any photos in a long time. I trust my memory exclusively and rely on
the images stored deep in my memory. I feel that photos rob a man of the
exhilaration he feels when he sees unusual beauty. Photos dilute the fullness
of my aesthetic experience”.
The waiter looked at me, obviously perplexed, shrugged his shoulders
and signaled Dominic to take me through the Big Ben bar to the Morocco
lounge. He led me to the corner table by the window directly overlooking
the square in front of the railway station. He disappeared momentarily
behind the curtain, stood on a chair and started rotating the metal pulley to
raise the window shade. He looked at me and nodded his head as if to ask if
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I was satisfied with the view and if the position of the armchair and the
window shade gave me the full view I desired. I nodded and smiled in
gratitude.
He returned a few minutes later with a large porcelain serving tray on
which he brought a cup of expresso coffee, a bag of sugar and chocolateglazed almonds. I had not noticed the footstool right next to my burgundy
leather armchair. Resting on it tranquilly was a yellowish cat. I extended my
hand over the armrest and began to pet it. I passed my fingers through its
soft fur, felt the gentle vibrations of its cheeks and heard its soft purring. As
I sat there staring out the window, I caressed the cat with my left hand. With
my right hand I brought the cup to my lips and sipped the expresso coffee. I
took a small sip and let the lukewarm liquid mix with the melted chocolate
glaze of the almonds which I then slid into my mouth.
A lady wearing a wide brimmed airy hat and a silk blouse the colour
of pink wine was sitting with her back toward me. From the other side of her
slender figure and her small oblong head wafts of bluish smoke tickled my
nostrils. It gave me an overwhelming desire to have a cigarette. Without
hesitation I approached her from behind. She gently turned her head toward
me and looked at me with clear blue eyes – as if she was expecting me. “A
true beauty not affected by the ageing process”, I thought.
“May I have a cigarette?” I asked softly.
“Yes, for sure”, she said and extended a cigarette box. When I lifted
the lid and looked inside I saw only one cigarette.
‘It’s the last one”, I said. From what I recalled from my smoking days,
one should never take the last cigarette from someone.
She responded with a wide smile: “I’m already smoking the last one”.
And then she winked at me rather mischievously. On the left side of
her mouth I noticed three deep wrinkles. She skillfully struck a match and
held her thin hand close to my chest. As I leaned forward to light my
cigarette, I tried to see if she had a brown box similar to mine [D22]around her
waist. I didn’t notice anything since she was sitting erect and motionless
holding the half burned match between her steady fingers. She flicked her
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wrist elegantly a few times to extinguish the flame. Then she turned around
and continued to look in the direction of the window.
I returned to my spot only to find that the cat had moved to my
armchair, so I moved her carefully and sat beside her. I sipped the last drop
of coffee and inhaled the smoke of my cigarette one final time. With two
fingers I pulled out a bill from my jacket pocket and left it beside the cup on
the porcelain serving tray.
The lady continued to sit at her place. The smoke around her head had
already cleared. Dominic was standing by the door talking with someone
inside the bar. I petted the cat once more between the ears, on the chest and
neck before getting up and heading toward the door. Dominic nodded in my
direction and let me pass.
I headed straight for the window overlooking the railway platform.
Down below people were standing or walking quickly toward the wagons
pulling their luggage on wheels behind them. Over the public address system
a muffled voice could be heard announcing the departure of the next train.
Then I noticed as the rows of people were moving forward, almost every
other traveler on both sides of the platform was speaking on a cell phone;
hundreds of simultaneous conversations with invisible parties on the other
end; rows of dissonant voices as if in sequence catching up with the latest
news, competing, overlapping and finally merging into a single chaotic
monologue; this auditory backdrop was completed by the sight of hundreds
of faces and gestures illuminated by the light of the phones. That scene
could be a fantastic idea for a young director of experimental films,
maintaining the same plot, characters and lighting, stopping occasionally to
focus on individual faces, to capture as many variations of gesticulations and
emotional turbulence; to focus the camera on the entire scene and erase the
original voices and sounds and replace them with the thunderous sound of
waterfalls. The working title could be “Blue cacophony”, or something to
that effect.
***
Stepping on the landing near the stairwell, I started making my way
down toward the entrance. Once again, I held on to the railing and
occasionally looked up toward the ceiling. At the first bend I glanced over
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the railing and saw that Abdullah was not at his place and the lamp on the
desk was still lit.
As I continued my descent, I suddenly heard the door open and in
came a tall, bow-legged young man dressed in black. He looked toward the
lamp behind the desk and then up toward the top of the stairwell. I stood still
on the twelfth step, still holding the hand rail. Appearing undecided, the
young man paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, looked around
twice and headed toward me. I was standing perfectly still. The thumping
sounds of his energetic steps grew louder and clearer. I was looking down
and when he approached me, I noticed his immaculately polished shoes with
long, pointed toes. Then I looked directly into his childlike face with its thin,
wispy moustache, his single eyebrow and pimply forehead. Most of all, I
focused on his bloodshot eyes.
“Hand over all the money you have. Do it now. No tricks.”
I wasn’t frightened in the least, nor even surprised. It was as though I
had anticipated this. I stared straight at him without looking directly into his
eyes, rather I focused on the whites of his eyes.
“I don’t have any money with me,” I replied calmly. “I just paid for
my last cup of coffee. To put it more precisely, I am the wrong person for
your story. In fact, the two of us are in two completely different films –
different genres, different themes. Our paths should not cross even in our
dreams. Let me pass. I have no more material things to offer anyone or to
engage in something. Not even for my own life”.
The young man then pulled out a knife, the blade glistening in the
dimly lit stairwell. He first brought it right in front of my eyes, and then with
a sudden jerk, he put the tip a few millimeters above my navel. Instinctively,
I sucked in my sagging abdomen causing my trousers to slip further down
my slim hips.
Even then, to my own amazement, I felt no fear. I repeated the
sentence which I had uttered to myself countless times during the past few
days: all this will turn out well in the end.
“This is a misunderstanding. You have approached the wrong
person”.
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I tried one more time to find the most appropriate expression to
explain to him as clearly as possible “that I had already checked out of life”
and that all my property and legal affairs were put in order the previous
week. And then suddenly, I remembered the ring! Almost shouting for joy, I
quickly put my hand in the right pocket of my jacket. At the same instant, I
felt the biting pain of the knife stabbing my abdomen. Out of the corner of
my eye I saw the edge of the knife as it disappeared through the fabric of my
jacket. I looked up in the hope that my eyes would meet the eyes of my
assailant who, piercing me with the knife, was testing my tolerance for pain.
Surprisingly, the situation turned upside down, and he – not I – closed his
eyes with a blissful expression on his face as in a moment of lovemaking. In
place of his bloodshot eyes, a darker shadow overtook him. What a terrible
coming together of two people from two worlds, two continents, brought
together at this place that I had yearned for a full thirty-five years.
I remembered the Cuban nurse who had taken my blood before I was
given my diagnosis and before the first pain of the vaccine. It was absurd to
even think about the different gradations, types and intensity of pain. The
first impression is the most important. What follows are just nuances of the
same thing. The true essence of pain is its beginning.
When I opened my eyes my attacker was thrusting the knife left and
right to pull it out. Then he opened his eyes, headed backward down the
stairs holding the hand rail with one hand, the knife dripping with a few
small drops of blood in the other. Now I closed my eyes again, pulled my
hand out of my pocket and dropped the ring I was holding on the wooden
floor. I first placed my right hand on my warm wound, then my left. My legs
were giving way and I sank to my knees.
At that moment I heard the sounds of flushing and the stream of water
rinsing the toilet bowl. Once, then twice. Then the sound of a light switch, a
key turning in the lock, the door opening….My hand and fingers were sticky
with warm blood. My body collapsed to the left on the edge of the stairs.
“Mahmut, what have you done, man?” I could hear Abdullah’s voice.
“What have you done? He’s ours, in a way.”
“Fuck it. How was I supposed to know? It’s not written on his
forehead.”
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“But why the knife?”
“I didn’t expect him to reach into his pocket. I was taken aback and
reacted instinctively! What do I do now?”
I kept thinking about what had been passing through my mind the last
few days: all this will turn out well in the end. I gathered my remaining
strength, rolled down the stairs and couldn’t go further than the third step. I
heard the echo of two pairs of shoes. The sound made me think of Mahmut’s
shiny shoes and I wondered if drops of my blood had remained on them.
Now those shoes were right above me.
“I just went to the washroom for two minutes when this guy came by.
He didn’t know you were ours… I’m calling an ambulance right away. Can
you hear me?” It was Abdullah’s voice. He was checking the pulse on my
neck.
I wanted to say: “Don’t worry, Mahmut. We won’t be petty. Maybe
ending this with style is better than several hours of hopelessness”, but my
mouth was already full of blood and I managed to release only a few bubbles
of the warm, red liquid. While this was happening, in another place my
balloon had already flown over the turquoise blue valley [D23]of the Socha,
Vrshich[D24]….
LE TRAIN BLEU
From the moment I looked at myself in the mirror that morning and
recognized the first symptoms of an illness, it wasn’t long before I received
the diagnosis. I recall I was wearing a yellow t-shirt at the time. Later on,
that particular detail would prove to have symbolic meaning for me. I was
bent over the sink taking my time washing the soap bubbles from between
my fingers and staring at the stream of water flowing into the drain. When I
looked up, I noticed the whites of my eyes were yellow; I passed my
fingertips smoothly over the forehead, and around my eyes. Then I rolled up
my sleeves and lifted up my shirt only to discover that my skin, too, had a
grayish yellow film. As the light from the window touched the mirror, I
glanced at myself one more time. There was no dilemma, it was clear - my
skin colour had changed! I grabbed the telephone directory and called the
nearest hospital. They told me to come immediately to the admissions desk
on the main floor.
***
The nurse was surprised to learn I was fifty-three years old. She was
convinced that I was no more than forty-five. While she was drawing my
blood she asked if I suffered from diabetes, if my liver had been checked, if I
have problems with digestion, pain, nausea or the urge to vomit. My
responses were vague. To avoid looking at my own blood, I turned to face
the wall and noticed postcards of Havana: “A warm greeting from Havana”.
When the nurse pulled out the needle and adhered a label on the tube, I
turned toward her and asked if she was Cuban. She nodded and smiled.
“I was born in Toronto. I’m a second generation immigrant”.
“And I’m a first generation immigrant”, I piped up spontaneously.
She directed me to wait in the adjoining room where someone would
summon me when the analysis was done.
***
Within a half hour she returned with a female doctor. Her smile,
which had reminded me of Anne Frank’s smile on the cover of the book I
2
had read as a youngster, had disappeared. The doctor told me to follow her
into a room while the nurse went her way down the corridor. I sat opposite
her, she looked at me with some hesitation and then proceeded to tell me that
the first results were not good, that she suspected cancer of the pancreas.
Further tests would be done immediately and I would be meeting with the
surgeon that morning to discuss the details of possible surgery.
I turned my face to the wall. Why should I lie? I felt like crying. For a
long time I could only stare at the poster encouraging patients to donate their
organs before they die.
I had read somewhere that a person’s entire life passes before one’s
eyes at the moment of death. It probably also happens when someone learns
they have cancer. The instant I heard my diagnosis, one of my first
memories passed through my mind – the memory of my father calling me
from the window of our small apartment above the local post office
announcing the birth of my sister. I dropped my ball and ran in a flash
toward the door at the rear of the building. The light in the stairwell was
burned out and the top of the stairs was in complete darkness. From the
bottom of the stairs I could hear the sound of distressed clucking mixed with
the muffled cries of a child coming from our apartment door. I stopped in
my tracks. At that very instant directly a speckled hen flew above my
head[D1]. In a single attempt she reached the light – and freedom. Engraved in
my mind is the memory of that moment. Her legs tucked under her, her neck
straining forward toward the light, her wings flapping desperately, she flew
over the line of darkness in the stairwell and grounded herself on the warm
asphalt.
When I shook myself from this momentary pensiveness, the message
on the poster flickered a few more seconds before my tear-filled eyes “Your signature can save eight lives”. It was then that I thought of my
geography teacher. I really don’t know why. I recalled standing before a
map of the world, the contours of the oceans and continents had lost their
sharpness right before my eyes, like now. I feared I couldn’t answer the
question posed to me. Then I turned to the doctor and noticed that she, too,
was looking sideways, hesitant to look me straight in the eyes.
***
3
The surgeon seemed to be experienced in estimating the length of
time remaining for cases like mine. It’s been fifteen months since my
surgery and medical efforts to correct what could not be corrected in my
bowels. Time is slowly slipping away. A small voice inside me said that the
doctor’s prognosis would be right on the mark, almost to the day and the
hour. Last week they graciously tied a device around my waist so that I
could self administer the flow of morphine. An excellent technological
advancement! The patient has to treat his own illness as though he is the
doctor. Little by little one develops a sense of how far to adjust the notched
brown button to numb the increasing pain.
What an appropriate name – palliative care, palliative Versorgung, de
soins médicaux palliatifs! [D2]The Swiss go one step further – they provide a
legal fast track to end human life – euthanasia in the death room [D3]- to assist
the dying in a room for dying. It almost sounds poetic, doesn’t it? Bed and
breakfast in Zurich. A simple furnished room with a sofa, bed, table and a
glass containing sodium pentobarbitol. The trick is to drink every drop of it
– alone, without coercion, to drink it willingly.
***
I’m losing consciousness more frequently, but I’m still in control of
myself. I’m trying to save my energy and rationalize how to spend my final
hours. On occasion, I can feel the life force ebbing away with every beat of
my heart. Every cell is breaking away, one by one. Life is being drained out
of me. In those infrequent moments of awareness I sensed a cynicism in
everything around me, a chaos which I was compelled to accept without
resistance as if it were an artificial extension to the countdown of the days of
my life. I didn’t ask for it, nor did I pray for it. But I was gifted with the
clear intent to get my life in order – to pay off my debts, close my bank
accounts, cancel my insurance, de-clutter my home, organize my own
funeral and set up a power of attorney. All this in order to, shall I say, check
myself out of this life.
No, I couldn’t even imagine how much the passing of false hope
could release and liberate a person. No more debilitating mood fluctuations
– everything has been replaced by the great equalizer leading me steadily
downward. It is certain that my case will not improve the five per cent
survival rate of patients who have this particular cancer.
4
***
However, it was very strange how I kept repeating: “In the end
everything might[D4] even turn out well…” These words gave me peace of
mind. I caught myself thinking that people whose dreams are important to
them, who focus on them and interpret them, can view the final
disconnection and ascension of the soul as a more complex form of
continued sleep, naturally without waking - like crossing over to the other
side, to the other shore, the passage through the ceiling where the dream
pauses briefly before waking. Then something strange appeared before my
eyes - a red and white helium balloon floated by wrapped in the fluffy
clouds above Vrshich [D5]and then it glided under them. Below me I looked
again at the turquoise blue waters of the Socha [D6]winding through the green
fields near the clusters of white houses huddled near the church of the
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Now there’s a challenge for physicists - the soul in a helium
balloon…. The ropes, basket and balloon weighing this much, the soul
weighing this much….[D7] Just think of the force that pulls upward, the
density of the helium and the opposite gravitational pull downward. To lift
one kilogram of weight requires a thousand litres of helium. The soul is
useful “cargo”. [D8]How much helium would be required for its ascension?
Or, how quickly would the soul, disconnected from the body, soar to the
heavens? How to take into account the parameters of the soul’s complexity?
And would it even be measurable?
Sometimes, when I find myself in that celestial[D9] mindset I recite the
words of Sumatra[D10]: “Now we are carefree, tranquil and gentle. Think how
quiet are the snowy peaks of the Urals”. And again I smile whenever I
mention the Urals because my thoughts always drift to the Julian Alps of
Slovenia. The rhythm of the poem perfectly fits the image which it creates.
Indecipherable paths of association stem from the free flow of thought. All
that aside, the path of my soul’s ascension is not irrelevant. What is
important is that my final dreams are not mundane or ordinary, that they are
glorious, that they transcend all other dreams.
Paris. A postcard handwritten one summer by my high school heart
throb. Peljeshatz, Orebich, Michelle. [D11]The gurgle of French vowels. The
trickle of the sounds that pulsated over the fullness of her lips whose
bitterness I can taste even now. I only need to strain a bit. “Jе t'aime
5
beaucoup... [D12]Tu m’aimes?... Je t'aime tellement que c'est dur de me
concentrer sur autre chose que toi… J'attends de toi à Paris... Mon amour
pour toi est éternel... I live near the Bastille or, more precisely, between the
Bastille and the Gare de Lyon. We’ll go for coffee at the railway station
bistro[D13] ‘Le Train Bleu’ [D14]to watch the sun set and wave good-bye to the
travelers heading to the French Riviera”. [D15]
On the front of the postcard which hung above my desk all during my
university years was the image of the magical interior of that bistro. Then
there was my promise to come as soon as I had completed my entrance
exams to the Drama Faculty and scraped together enough money for a train
ticket. And only because of her I prepared to recite Charles Beaudelaire’s
poem “Flowers of Evil”. Stupidity, prejudice and miserliness plague our
souls and permeate our spirits. I wasn’t accepted by the Faculty. So I applied
to law school. I even failed to keep my promise, but I kept her postcard.
Here it is, even now, under my pillow.
***
Bastille Metro station. I’m climbing the stairs from the subway. And
here I am. Finally I’m here in the middle of the square. I saunter along all
evening and pass by the Opera House. I feel light-headed. [D16]The joy of
anticipation is the greatest joy. That’s why I exited at this station and not at
the Gare de Lyon – precisely to prolong the sweet anticipation, like the
expectation of a first romantic meeting. After thirty-five years of
preparation. Yes, yes….
I know I should have welcomed this important moment in better shape
than this. Not to be trivial, one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Yes,
Michelle, I’m here. I think even you would agree that it wouldn’t be good
for you to see me like this. And you? Have you gained weight like most of
your friends? Do you have problems with your hormones, thyroid,
menopause, excessive sweating or insomnia? Are you still sleeping beside
your husband in the same bedroom?
How many times have you thought of me in the past thirty-five years?
On occasion, you probably did. For certain no one covered you with kisses
or discovered that special spot behind your ears as quickly as I did, that
sensitive spot that made you breathless with desire. I am certain that our
[D17]lovemaking exceeded all your expectations. In fact, during the past few
6
months it’s as though you have joined me in saying farewell to life. Stay
well, my love. I won’t need you for the remainder of this film, not even in a
supporting role. I am grateful to you for that invitation on the postcard with
the interior buffet of Le Train Bleu. It was so long ago. If it were not for that
postcard who knows if I would ever again find myself standing here?
***
Everything will happen as in a film, except without the wide screen,
and the geographic and climate previews. We know all that. The film title
spells it out. I’ll be brought into the story from the side screen at the moment
that I see the station before me, when I see people milling around in all
directions like distressed ants. The camera will then freeze at the left
entrance to the restaurant and that’s how I will be brought into the story as
the main protagonist. As I move toward the entrance, the full length of my
figure will be seen from behind. The sluggish mobility of my scrawny legs
and my thin hands will be easily discernible.
Until then, until that scene, I still have to walk the distance from the
place where the revolution started. From the Bastille. Not exactly a happy
starting point for someone who abhors revolution, rebellion, agitated masses,
tumultuous reactions, messy insurrections, heated emotions. For the longest
time I believed that rebels are the salt of blind obedience and the liberators
of spiritually lethargic humanity from the whims of the invisible and
powerful, that they are the genuine red stains in the vast grey columns of
wooden dolls nodding their heads in synchronized agreement. Today I am
convinced that rebels are clowns and court jesters, that their role in this
world is exclusively to entertain. Their presence and activities are the
calculated concessions of those against whom they are protesting so that,
thanks to the false hope of change, the suffering of the majority is a bearable
illusion.
After just a few steps I was surprised that I almost mechanically
looked at the facades of the nearby buildings and felt uplifted by their bright
ocher colour and the beautifully proportionate relief sculptures[D18] around
the windows, garrets and front doors. The engraved wooden doors and the
curtains fluttering in the window with wide-open shutters made me smile. I
am convinced this is the very spot which inspired Goethe’s theory that
“beautiful architecture is frozen music”. It’s as though I can hear the music
all around me – pianissimo and then forte. [D19]Perhaps that’s why people in
7
North American cities keep their heads down or keep looking straight ahead
in the distance when they are walking along the sidewalk. Looking up yields
no new discoveries. Perhaps people here instinctively protect themselves
from unpleasant sights, from the unimaginable outcome of a lost love and
the fundamental human need for a lovely place to live or, in Goethe’s words,
from architecture which we can define as a “frozen scream”. Immersed in
these thoughts, I heard a voice behind me.
“Did you lose this ring?”
Someone behind me was addressing me in English. I turned around
and saw a rather short, plump girl, not more than twenty years old with a
pimpled face and dark skin. I immediately noticed the warmth in her black,
hazy eyes, the barely visible trembling of her bluish lips and the wide
wedding band in her extended hand. She asked her question through
clenched teeth.
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t worn a ring since my divorce two years ago.
Besides, I don’t like jewellery”.
“Please, take it. May it bring you good luck. I am an evangelist
[D20]and we aren’t allowed to wear jewellery. Here, see. I don’t wear earrings,
or anything. We don’t wear any jewellery until we get married. Take it.
There’s even a stamp on the inside of the ring. It must be costly”.
“Why don’t you sell it or pawn it? There are dozens of jewelers in this
area where you can do that without any problem”.
“As I told you, I can’t. Besides, I’m here illegally. I have no residence
permit and my visa expired. They’ll immediately ask for my documents.
You understand? And then they will call the police”.
“But I really don’t need your ring. I think I’ll be in this part of town
only a few more hours. Where I’m going next I don’t need any jewellery.
Offer it to someone else. I’m not the right person”.
“Then give me twenty euros. In two hours you will think of me. And
you won’t regret it. It will bring you good luck, trust me. Good fortune you
never dreamed of”.
8
Different thoughts were going through my mind. I wasn’t yearning for
any kind of good luck since my final notice had already been signed. At least
I brightened a few hours of the day for this unknown girl. I decided to share
all the money I had with her. I took ten euros from my wallet and put them
in the breast pocket of my jacket. Digging deeply into the pockets of my
trousers and jacket, I placed in her extended hand a few bills and all the
change I had. Just as I was doing that, she dropped the ring in my hand.
“Put it in your pocket. You will soon think of me. I guarantee it”.
I had no more strength to resist and stopped myself from saying
anything more. In the end, I just waved and walked toward the railway
station.
***
The sun was already setting when I stopped at the L’Europeen bar. I
was only one street away from my intended destination. From this spot I
could already discern the clock on the cupola at the right wing of the railway
station. I crossed to the other side and stopped near the rails that surrounded
the entrance to the stairwell leading to the subway station at Gare de Lyon
between the metal fence and and a whole lot of bicycle steering wheels
which were jutting above the low wall, I could see the sign on the left wing
of the building - „Le Train Bleu” .
The moment had finally come for me to enter. And I did so without
hesitation. Three soldiers of similar stature and appearance passed by. They
weren’t wearing caps and their heads were shaved behind and above their
ears. Protruding above their foreheads were almost identical gel-shaped
forms that swayed to the rhythm of their synchronized steps. I was surprised
by the polish of the semiautomatic rifles which they held diagonally across
their chests, their fingerless leather gloves, their fingers on the triggers, their
relaxed demeanor. Obsessed with terrorism, I pondered: three soldiers armed
for anti-terrorism were not foreseen for this scene when I entered the railway
station. Since they were already here, we can view them as an interesting
detail in this diversified crowd of voluntary extras moving toward the
entrance. I glanced quickly at the clock on right side of the tower. It was
precisely six thirty.
9
As I approached the door which should have led to the restaurant, I
noticed a sign which read: “This entrance is temporarily closed. Please use
the main entrance inside the building on the left side and follow the blue
steps to the bistro”. I turned to the soldiers who had stopped for a moment
quite a distance away and sent them an inquiring glance; with frozen
expressions, they silently looked right through me.
I turned around. Leaning against the wall was a young man who was
wearing with untied tennis shoes. He was holding a sad looking golden
retriever on a blue leash and talking to someone on the phone at the same
time. I passed by him, waited a moment and then opened the door with some
hesitation. At first, I heard a whimpering sound and then I was struck by the
pleasant freshness of the semi-darkness. On the left side, the porter stood
behind the desk which was poorly lit by a lamp topped with a lampshade of
golden yellow fabric. He was about fifty years old and was wearing a navy
blue suit, white shirt and a yellow silk tie. His short neck made it appear as
though his head had grown directly out of his bent back. He was supporting
his left arm. On his stocky ring finger he wore a ring and another on his
stubby pinky. As he rose from behind the desk and headed toward me, I
noticed the bread crumbs in his moustache and the dimness of his eyes. He
spoke in French with an Arabic accent, and as he spoke, his upper gums
were fully visible. In a hoarse voice, he asked me:
“Where are you going? Do you have a reservation?”
“To the bistro. I don’t have a reservation. I just wanted to go up there
for a short while to have a cup of coffee, watch the setting of the sun and
look at the platform and the travelers heading south to the Cote d’Azur - if
the trains still head that way from here”.
He scrutinized me with a piercing gaze long enough to make me feel
rather uncomfortable. I rubbed my nose and scratched my right cheek.
“Where are you from?”, he asked.
“That’s not important, but I was born in Bosnia”, I replied.
Then he came so close that I could smell the onions on his breath and
the heavy smell of his cologne.
10
“Take these stairs and when they stop you at the door, tell them it’s
alright, that Abdullah directed you to that entrance”.
He spoke with some authority, nodded his head, winked at me and
gently poked me in the back.[D21]
As I headed up the winding staircase to the restaurant, I held on to the
wooden railing and kept looking up toward the ceiling. On the first landing,
precisely after the seventh stair, I turned once more toward the desk where
Abdullah was sitting. His head was down and he was writing something,
unaware that I was looking at him. When I reached the double doors which
led to the restaurant, I pulled them toward me. Just as Abdullah had said, a
middle-aged waiter was waiting at the door. Without saying a word, he
smiled mysteriously. It was strange how long he focused so intently on my
face. I spoke up first.
“Good evening. Abdullah directed me to this entrance. I just wanted
to have a cup of coffee in the salon overlooking the square in front of the
station and then I’d like to stay a few more minutes in the vestibule at the
window behind you and watch the southbound trains leaving the station. Of
course, if you don’t object”.
“Abdullah, you say. I see. Dominic will show you to the Morocco
lounge. Follow him. And if you are interested in the ceiling murals and
paintings, you are welcome to take pictures of them. The walls and ceilings
are decorated with forty-one murals. Take a look at the gilded arches, the
leather sofas, the chairs, the crystal chandeliers….”
“Thank you for pointing out those interesting details, but I haven’t
taken any photos in a long time. I trust my memory exclusively and rely on
the images stored deep in my memory. I feel that photos rob a man of the
exhilaration he feels when he sees unusual beauty. Photos dilute the fullness
of my aesthetic experience”.
The waiter looked at me, obviously perplexed, shrugged his shoulders
and signaled Dominic to take me through the Big Ben bar to the Morocco
lounge. He led me to the corner table by the window directly overlooking
the square in front of the railway station. He disappeared momentarily
behind the curtain, stood on a chair and started rotating the metal pulley to
raise the window shade. He looked at me and nodded his head as if to ask if
11
I was satisfied with the view and if the position of the armchair and the
window shade gave me the full view I desired. I nodded and smiled in
gratitude.
He returned a few minutes later with a large porcelain serving tray on
which he brought a cup of expresso coffee, a bag of sugar and chocolateglazed almonds. I had not noticed the footstool right next to my burgundy
leather armchair. Resting on it tranquilly was a yellowish cat. I extended my
hand over the armrest and began to pet it. I passed my fingers through its
soft fur, felt the gentle vibrations of its cheeks and heard its soft purring. As
I sat there staring out the window, I caressed the cat with my left hand. With
my right hand I brought the cup to my lips and sipped the expresso coffee. I
took a small sip and let the lukewarm liquid mix with the melted chocolate
glaze of the almonds which I then slid into my mouth.
A lady wearing a wide brimmed airy hat and a silk blouse the colour
of pink wine was sitting with her back toward me. From the other side of her
slender figure and her small oblong head wafts of bluish smoke tickled my
nostrils. It gave me an overwhelming desire to have a cigarette. Without
hesitation I approached her from behind. She gently turned her head toward
me and looked at me with clear blue eyes – as if she was expecting me. “A
true beauty not affected by the ageing process”, I thought.
“May I have a cigarette?” I asked softly.
“Yes, for sure”, she said and extended a cigarette box. When I lifted
the lid and looked inside I saw only one cigarette.
‘It’s the last one”, I said. From what I recalled from my smoking days,
one should never take the last cigarette from someone.
She responded with a wide smile: “I’m already smoking the last one”.
And then she winked at me rather mischievously. On the left side of
her mouth I noticed three deep wrinkles. She skillfully struck a match and
held her thin hand close to my chest. As I leaned forward to light my
cigarette, I tried to see if she had a brown box similar to mine [D22]around her
waist. I didn’t notice anything since she was sitting erect and motionless
holding the half burned match between her steady fingers. She flicked her
12
wrist elegantly a few times to extinguish the flame. Then she turned around
and continued to look in the direction of the window.
I returned to my spot only to find that the cat had moved to my
armchair, so I moved her carefully and sat beside her. I sipped the last drop
of coffee and inhaled the smoke of my cigarette one final time. With two
fingers I pulled out a bill from my jacket pocket and left it beside the cup on
the porcelain serving tray.
The lady continued to sit at her place. The smoke around her head had
already cleared. Dominic was standing by the door talking with someone
inside the bar. I petted the cat once more between the ears, on the chest and
neck before getting up and heading toward the door. Dominic nodded in my
direction and let me pass.
I headed straight for the window overlooking the railway platform.
Down below people were standing or walking quickly toward the wagons
pulling their luggage on wheels behind them. Over the public address system
a muffled voice could be heard announcing the departure of the next train.
Then I noticed as the rows of people were moving forward, almost every
other traveler on both sides of the platform was speaking on a cell phone;
hundreds of simultaneous conversations with invisible parties on the other
end; rows of dissonant voices as if in sequence catching up with the latest
news, competing, overlapping and finally merging into a single chaotic
monologue; this auditory backdrop was completed by the sight of hundreds
of faces and gestures illuminated by the light of the phones. That scene
could be a fantastic idea for a young director of experimental films,
maintaining the same plot, characters and lighting, stopping occasionally to
focus on individual faces, to capture as many variations of gesticulations and
emotional turbulence; to focus the camera on the entire scene and erase the
original voices and sounds and replace them with the thunderous sound of
waterfalls. The working title could be “Blue cacophony”, or something to
that effect.
***
Stepping on the landing near the stairwell, I started making my way
down toward the entrance. Once again, I held on to the railing and
occasionally looked up toward the ceiling. At the first bend I glanced over
13
the railing and saw that Abdullah was not at his place and the lamp on the
desk was still lit.
As I continued my descent, I suddenly heard the door open and in
came a tall, bow-legged young man dressed in black. He looked toward the
lamp behind the desk and then up toward the top of the stairwell. I stood still
on the twelfth step, still holding the hand rail. Appearing undecided, the
young man paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, looked around
twice and headed toward me. I was standing perfectly still. The thumping
sounds of his energetic steps grew louder and clearer. I was looking down
and when he approached me, I noticed his immaculately polished shoes with
long, pointed toes. Then I looked directly into his childlike face with its thin,
wispy moustache, his single eyebrow and pimply forehead. Most of all, I
focused on his bloodshot eyes.
“Hand over all the money you have. Do it now. No tricks.”
I wasn’t frightened in the least, nor even surprised. It was as though I
had anticipated this. I stared straight at him without looking directly into his
eyes, rather I focused on the whites of his eyes.
“I don’t have any money with me,” I replied calmly. “I just paid for
my last cup of coffee. To put it more precisely, I am the wrong person for
your story. In fact, the two of us are in two completely different films –
different genres, different themes. Our paths should not cross even in our
dreams. Let me pass. I have no more material things to offer anyone or to
engage in something. Not even for my own life”.
The young man then pulled out a knife, the blade glistening in the
dimly lit stairwell. He first brought it right in front of my eyes, and then with
a sudden jerk, he put the tip a few millimeters above my navel. Instinctively,
I sucked in my sagging abdomen causing my trousers to slip further down
my slim hips.
Even then, to my own amazement, I felt no fear. I repeated the
sentence which I had uttered to myself countless times during the past few
days: all this will turn out well in the end.
“This is a misunderstanding. You have approached the wrong
person”.
14
I tried one more time to find the most appropriate expression to
explain to him as clearly as possible “that I had already checked out of life”
and that all my property and legal affairs were put in order the previous
week. And then suddenly, I remembered the ring! Almost shouting for joy, I
quickly put my hand in the right pocket of my jacket. At the same instant, I
felt the biting pain of the knife stabbing my abdomen. Out of the corner of
my eye I saw the edge of the knife as it disappeared through the fabric of my
jacket. I looked up in the hope that my eyes would meet the eyes of my
assailant who, piercing me with the knife, was testing my tolerance for pain.
Surprisingly, the situation turned upside down, and he – not I – closed his
eyes with a blissful expression on his face as in a moment of lovemaking. In
place of his bloodshot eyes, a darker shadow overtook him. What a terrible
coming together of two people from two worlds, two continents, brought
together at this place that I had yearned for a full thirty-five years.
I remembered the Cuban nurse who had taken my blood before I was
given my diagnosis and before the first pain of the vaccine. It was absurd to
even think about the different gradations, types and intensity of pain. The
first impression is the most important. What follows are just nuances of the
same thing. The true essence of pain is its beginning.
When I opened my eyes my attacker was thrusting the knife left and
right to pull it out. Then he opened his eyes, headed backward down the
stairs holding the hand rail with one hand, the knife dripping with a few
small drops of blood in the other. Now I closed my eyes again, pulled my
hand out of my pocket and dropped the ring I was holding on the wooden
floor. I first placed my right hand on my warm wound, then my left. My legs
were giving way and I sank to my knees.
At that moment I heard the sounds of flushing and the stream of water
rinsing the toilet bowl. Once, then twice. Then the sound of a light switch, a
key turning in the lock, the door opening….My hand and fingers were sticky
with warm blood. My body collapsed to the left on the edge of the stairs.
“Mahmut, what have you done, man?” I could hear Abdullah’s voice.
“What have you done? He’s ours, in a way.”
“Fuck it. How was I supposed to know? It’s not written on his
forehead.”
15
“But why the knife?”
“I didn’t expect him to reach into his pocket. I was taken aback and
reacted instinctively! What do I do now?”
I kept thinking about what had been passing through my mind the last
few days: all this will turn out well in the end. I gathered my remaining
strength, rolled down the stairs and couldn’t go further than the third step. I
heard the echo of two pairs of shoes. The sound made me think of Mahmut’s
shiny shoes and I wondered if drops of my blood had remained on them.
Now those shoes were right above me.
“I just went to the washroom for two minutes when this guy came by.
He didn’t know you were ours… I’m calling an ambulance right away. Can
you hear me?” It was Abdullah’s voice. He was checking the pulse on my
neck.
I wanted to say: “Don’t worry, Mahmut. We won’t be petty. Maybe
ending this with style is better than several hours of hopelessness”, but my
mouth was already full of blood and I managed to release only a few bubbles
of the warm, red liquid. While this was happening, in another place my
balloon had already flown over the turquoise blue valley [D23]of the Socha,
Vrshich[D24]….
