Bojan Krivokapić

Translated into English by Will Firth

They brought him down from the attic. My Mišika.

I looked at his protruding tongue. I knew I was supposed to close my eyes, but I didn’t. Cries, sighs and whining all around me. A churning, chaotic mess.

I no longer had a brother.

I thought about that but felt nothing – neither horror nor sadness. I looked at myself and absorbed every detail.

A summer day. Chickens could be heard at the back of the yard. Parched earth and dust. Flies. The village had become a fatality. They tied a black headscarf on me.

It was his decision, I repeated to myself years later. You must respect the will of others was my mantra. It was easiest for me to respect it and not go against it. The will of others is sacrosanct.

Soon after Mišika, father departed, and then mother. Three candles were snuffed out in one summer. The will of God, everyone around me kept saying. The will of God the will of God the will of God. A babble throughout the village, deafening and repetitive.

Out with the black headscarf again.

Then silence, as if nothing had happened. No one spoke. The living were silent, and I was too. I didn’t ask a thing. A heavy muteness. But the images came of their own accord, whistling past: Mišika’s protruding tongue, father’s dry mouth, mother’s trembling eyelids. Fragments of memory.

I make some up, and that way I assemble the mosaic.

Our house was at 9 Ljubljanska Street.

Almost half a century ago.

Now I’m almost seventy.

Life has rolled on.

My name is Ana.

On the first night in Villa Fazanka, the Perseids were falling. The day had been scorching, and the moon was almost full, so the shower couldn’t fall on the roses, lavender and mint that had spread through the yard. And the mosquitoes were performing their ode to joy, which ultimately made any refreshing shower impossible. Granda had heard a rustling among the books and probably thought it was a mouse, so she spent the next two or three days lying in wait, probably hoping for a chance to hunt and catch it; she’s a vizsla after all. To this day, it’s not clear if it really was a mouse or if Granda, in idle phases, simply imagined the presence of an unwanted guest. The Perseids, therefore, didn’t rain down on Villa Fazanka.

The night was torrid, one of the hottest in all the years the building has stood. Sometime before dawn, the vizsla decided to give up the night shift after all, climbed onto the bed and fell asleep. Villa Fazanka was built for a German family in the early thirties of the last century in a quiet street halfway from the Mrtvaja River to a slight rise, which it would be wrong to call a hill, more of a hummock, but it still brought a vital dynamism to the landscape. The roses and lavender bushes thrive in front of the porch, there’s an old lilac tree at the side, and next to it a peach tree. None of the mentioned vegetation is there by chance, and every tree or bush conceals a bouquet of stories that bring together the house’s eight decades of existence. Chamomile, basil, coriander and various other herbs and medicinal plants grow in the yard. They seem to be winning the yearslong battle against the common grasses, if such battles are possible at all. The southernmost part of the yard is dominated by a rosemary bush that has withstood the years. It’s thought to be the oldest in the area. The porch and the yard are on the brighter side but never get direct sun. Its rays don’t enter the windows of the rooms on the other side either. The architects evidently took account of that. Villa Fazanka is known for its owner, but also for other occasional and temporary occupants. Maruška, who today is the sole owner of the proud building, was almost taken aback when she received word at her city address, about twenty years ago, that she’d inherited a large house in the north, in Pannonia. It emerged that the benefactor was her father’s half-sister, whom she only knew to live somewhere “in the north”. They had never met, and she only had a few photos of her, mostly from her childhood – just one in which she was eighteen – and none where the mysterious relative was a grown woman. Why had it come down to her? Was there no one closer and dearer? Or were there closer ones, but the owner couldn’t stand the sight of them? These were questions that had long been consigned to the lumber-room of oblivion. Maruška had just come of age and didn’t think too much, so in just a few weeks she became the new owner of one of the most beautiful houses in the north. She named it Villa Fazanka.1

1 A fazanka is a female pheasant.

The feasts of Our Lady were coming up, and with them the date of Maruška’s departure. She’d received an invitation from the Institute for the Study of Rare Birds. She was expected in ten days’ time at Research Station North, which for decades has been lashed by the icy Baltic winds. Her plane would leave from Budapest, and there were two more connecting flights. When the Cessna landed on the island, Lena, the institute director, would be waiting to meet her. She’d get into Lena’s jeep, and in less than two hours she’d be sitting in a comfortable armchair by a window that looked out into infinity, drinking tea and thinking of the weeks ahead. Perhaps this would be her last major field trip because she’d now entered the seventh decade of her life, although she claimed the years were no problem, that they didn’t mean anything to her and she didn’t feel their weight on her back. But one should also have a peaceful retirement – sunny, without constant trips and changing planes. She did long for an old age just like that, with placid days interrupted by occasional bursts of birdsong but nothing more.

Villa Fazanka and Granda would be looked after by Ana, the best keeper of the beautiful and the good. She could entrust everything to her.

Three days later, the house-sitter was at the gate with a small red suitcase. She’d come by train. She was punctual, as always. As soon as they’d hugged, Maruška said:

“I’m in a rush, here’s the taxi driver! I’ve left everything for you and explained it all, haven’t I?”

“Off you go, my dear, we two will be fine, don’t you worry,” Ana told her, as if the Institute for the Study of Rare Birds were just around the corner. Then Maruška went up to Granda and kissed her on the snout. The dog jumped into her arms and started licking her face. Maruška’s eyes filled with tears. “OK now, OK,” she managed to say. The wheels of her large silver suitcase squeaked, and a few seconds later she no longer stood before them. Without a word, Ana went to lock the gate, then she looked into the vizsla’s sad eyes, went up to her and kissed her on the snout herself. She gazed up towards the porch and took a deep breath.