Afterward I returned to the attic. I lit a candle and began writing. I was convinced that I wouldn’t show this passage to Osip. I wouldn’t want him to notice how uncertain I was, how hesitant.
This is what I wrote below the earlier note, which ran:
I do not like people who squirm their way out of every situa- tion like earthworms. Without scars or scratches. Comedians.
Beneath that I had recorded the following a few evenings ago when it became obvious that Eurydice would not be coming back:
Agnosceo veteris vestigia flamme.
Enriched by a single scar.
And then:
Today I read in the paper that “Insectomort” is guaranteed to exterminate all types of vermin and rats.
Buy “Insectomort” and dispense with the ornamentation that cockroaches bring.
DETHRONE THE ATTIC!
Warm it up with the sun;
Examine the cracks in the wall in radiant sunshine.
Right after these notes, I started to write:
Tonight we had a furious storm. The raindrops banged against the windows somewhere on the third floor all night long. When the wind died down, all you could hear was the rain generally pouring down and the raspy coughing of a child whose bed was located somewhere below. That must be the little girl with tuberculosis who plays with her rag dolls on the dark, filthy stairs all day long. .
ATTIC (III)
I couldn’t get to sleep. So I relit the candle and pulled out the little sheets of paper I had used to make The Attic. Every time I touched it, the manuscript fell open to the section that I had christened in my mind “Bay of the Dolphins.” This passage reminded me of a postcard that I had sent Igor almost a year ago: “Best wishes for a Happy New Year from the Islands of the Coconut Palms.” I also remember sending him a “Poem of the Coconut Islands” along with the card. Now I had to decide whether I should include this poem, in the original language of course, in The Attic:
Tanah airku aman dan makmur
Pulau kelapu jang amat subur
Pulau melati pudjaan bangsa
Sedjak dulu kala
Melanbai-lambai njiur dipantai
Berbisik-bisik radja k’lana
Memudja pulau nan indah permai
Tanah airku!
“You’ll definitely end up including that in The Attic,” commented Igor when I translated the final stanza for him.
I clearly recall my answer to him:
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
Igor just repeated, “I’m willing to bet that you’ll put it in.”
The rasping cough and the crying of the child on the fourth floor didn’t stop. These sounds were merely overwhelmed from time to time by the rain striking the windows and the muffled bursts of wind. (To spite Igor, I shall not add this poem to the book. That’s why I tore it to shreds and chucked it into the straw. That way I’ll never be able to include it in The Attic.)
Thus unburdened, I abandoned the manuscript. Leaving my candle burning, I stared at the ceiling. Sleep simply would not come. So I got up, draped my army-issue blanket over my shoulders (I slept completely dressed) and tiptoed slowly down the rickety staircase to the ground floor. Was it by any chance pangs of conscience that impelled me to do so?
I struck a match down there and looked around for the tenant register. In the dark frame I saw at first only the flame from the match on the smudged glass. . Then, as I drew closer, I initially saw only my likeness, the ghost of my likeness. Within that dark frame, which the breath of time had coated, the outlines of my form in the match’s trembling flame seemed so hopeless, so selfish, so lost. I suddenly realized, and not without revulsion, that my face was the very thing that had concealed the entire attic, and the whole six-story world, from me until now. Despairing at this thought, I let the match burn my fingers. I didn’t even drop it when I felt my stomach knotting in pain. It hurts like hell when the flame burns down to your fingernails.
Then I lit a second match and held it up between myself and the heap of characters waiting to receive the grace of being given form.
GROUND FLOOR
Radev Katarina, Building superintendent Born1899
Flaker, Anton, engine-fitter1907
Flaker Marija, housewife1911
Flaker Marija, student1932
Flaker Ivan, schoolboy1939
Katić Stevan, railway traffic superintendent1910
Katić Anica, housewife1915
Poparić Djuro, railroad switchman1928
Poparić Stana, office assistant1913
Poparić Ljiljana, schoolgirl1945
Poparić Mašinka, schoolgirl1947
Poparić Jadranka, child1954
Poparić Jadranko, child1954
MEZZANINE
Popov Melanija, typist1934
Avramović Jovan, railroad engineer1926
Avramović Slavica, schoolgirl1949
Avramović Danica, housewife1926
Avramović Goran, elementary school pupil1950
Avramović Mirjana, elementary school pupil1951
Avramović Ljiljana, child1955
SECOND FLOOR
Angelov Kosta, engineer, retired1889
Angelov Smilja, office assistant1900
Kifer Albina, midwife 1918
Žakula Bogdan, tram conductor1900
Žakula Pavle, railway traffic superintendent1930
Žakula Melanija, student at the teachers’ academy1935
Solunac Dušan, railway conductor1901
Ilić Tihomir, policeman1931
Once again the match burned my fingertips and I tossed it away nervously. The glowing tip ricocheted off the wall in a small arc and then went out with a brief sizzle. At that point I noticed the dampness and mud that had been spreading over the stairs of late. I wanted to leave, to go back, but from somewhere the wind carried the plaintive howling of a train lost in the night. Soon the clattering of the wheels, now somewhere close by, reached my ears. My God, I thought with a shudder, because of my selfishness I never got around to writing the most beautiful poem of all! The song of trains lost in the night. The ballad of train wheels! And every night I drifted off with that song on my mind. . The great white trains brought me sleep. .
Lord, I’ve been living in that attic as if on another planet!
Have I mentioned anyplace that my attic was close to the train station? No, I didn’t say that anywhere. Don’t the trains themselves bear a bit of the blame for this situation of mine? Didn’t they poison me with vast expanses, stars, and selfishness?
Once again I struck a match and illuminated the fourth floor.
Yes, Alek. Our Mr. Alek. His little daughter has a name like a dream: Sanja.
Kovač Alek, stoker1912
His wife died recently. A year or two ago. I remember the cleaning lady telling me something about it. For a long time they had been unable to have any children, and then the woman went off to a sanatorium and that seemed to have helped or at least that’s what people said, but maybe there was another factor involved (but one should never speak ill of the dead), and she gave birth to a daughter, but it “wasn’t meant to be” and the woman died after the delivery.