(Kovač Anita, housewife19.)
A damp, dark green stain spread across the two vertical lines through the name of the deceased, sucking up the ink.
Ever since then, Uncle Alek has been drinking, and fading away. “He who drinks in silence kills himself in silence,” as the cleaning lady said of him. “Such is life. It grabs people by the soul and doesn’t let them breathe.”
I scanned the register floor by floor.
In the final glow of the match, I cast a quick glance at the listing for the attic and discerned Igor’s name at once. (It’s high time that I added my own name to the register. Igor might have to face some unpleasantness on my account, otherwise.)
Jurin Igor, student1935
“Billy Wiseass,” I said half audibly. “Astronomer. Perpetual student. Student-vagabond. Stargazer. Sleepwalker!”
After my return to the attic:
1) Copy out the list of tenants
2) Make inquiries about each one of them individually with the cleaning lady
3) Buy Sanja some chocolate (with hazelnuts) and oranges
4) Go befriend the tenants
5) Dismount from this planet.
SUNDAY; A SUNNY DAY
As I went down the stairs this morning I noticed a rusty weathercock that the wind had toppled into the courtyard overnight.
Outside the entrance I ran into my neighbor Alek.
“How’s your little daughter?” I inquired.
“Thanks for asking,” he said. “She’s better this morning. No doubt she kept you awake last night. You know, in these dilapidated old buildings the walls are so thin they’re almost transparent.”
He was loaded. His breath reeked of šljivovica.
“Not at all,” I replied. “I didn’t hear a thing. I was pretty tired and drifted right off. The murmur of the rain lulled me to sleep.”
“But I saw a light on at your place, around three, and so I thought that you were unable to sleep on account of my little girl. This infernal whooping cough is strangling the kid and the neighborhood alike. . But, if I may ask, what were you working on all night? You must be studying for your exams!”
“I’m writing The Attic,” I said by force of habit.
“Nice, nice,” he said. “Just don’t forget the little people who live downstairs from you. . And don’t ruin your eyesight with the light from that candle. I have a forty-watt lightbulb. I can give it to you. I don’t need it.”
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed, “but I write by candlelight. . How can I explain. . So that I create the right atmosphere. You see? It’s like when a blue lightbulb goes on in a train compartment. .”
“Then write by daylight. You can see the attic and the courtyard better then. . I don’t know if you can get a good look at the garden from your window. . But I’ve gotten carried away, and I have to head off to work. .”
He shook my hand and hurried off.
“Anyway, come by for the lightbulb!” he called my way in the entrance hall. “I’m telling you! This business with the candle. .”
For a moment I remained standing in front of the building, staring into the windows. The morning sun had already begun to dry the gray, damp walls so that only dark spots remained, from which fine, transparent steam was rising. White laundry, soaked by rain and by sun, waved lazily as it hung on the line stretched between the upper floors of the buildings. Pigeons on the iron balustrade along the balcony vigorously flapped their wings. Somewhere on the fourth floor a child was crying. Then this was overpowered by the singing of a young woman. I tried to determine which window the singing was coming from. The woman sang in a youthful morning voice:
You’ll never be able to gather
The season’s first quinces with me. .
Then the fluttering curtain on the fourth floor moved to the side and the woman flung the window open wide. Her upper arms shone in the sunlight and her light-colored chintz blouse allowed her breasts to come into view as she bent forward, reaching for the shutters.
When she caught sight of me, she recoiled and lowered her voice a little. Then she stuck out her tongue at me and pulled the curtain shut again. I watched the folds of the curtain billow, and the only words I could pick out from the rest of the song was: break of day.
Suddenly the entire building began to sway on its foundations, just like the curtain. I lowered my eyes, because I sensed that the woman behind the curtain was watching me.
As I walked away, I was able to make out the second part of the song as welclass="underline"
You’ll never be able to view
The break of day with me. .
BELGRADE
NOVEMBER 1959–MAY 1960
TRANSLATOR’S NOTES
Gnohti saeuton: This is garbled version of the precept Gnothi seauton (Greek), meaning “Know thyself.” It was inscribed above the portico of the Temple at Delphi.
from the first arson: Here Kiš has made a rhyming pun in the Serbian genitive case, using the phrases prvog hica (from the first hitac, or shot) and prvog lica (from the first lice, or grammatical person).
You’re wearing a new dress: Starting with this paragraph and continuing for over four pages to the phrase “Adieu, mon prince Carnaval,” Kiš is quoting/paraphrasing from the 1934 novel The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. See the chapter entitled “Walpurgis Night,” especially beginning on page 398 in the most recent English translation by John E. Woods (Knopf, 1995). While Mann writes in a mixture of French and German, Kiš uses French and Serbian. In addition, Kiš does not quote the entire section, just certain substantial passages.
life’s orphans: The Serbian term employed here is siročad života, which is indeed best translated as “orphans of life.” But in the novel by Mann, the German phrase used in the midst of the long conversation in French is Sorgenkinder des Lebens (Der Zauberberg, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1960. p. 309), an expression that admits of many translations. Woods uses the term “problem children” in the quoted translation, but I have deviated from him in this place to better follow Kiš’s version. Previous translators of Mann have rendered the phrase as “life’s delicate children” or “worry-children of life,” while more modern but overly clinical renditions might evoke the idea of “high-needs children.” Had Kiš not used a Serbian phrase that is fairly clear, this translator would indeed have concurred with Woods’s rendering, as his chosen term allows both spiritual and physical connotations.
some secret dream: An untranslatable play on words. In Serbian, san means dream, while skrit is the past participle of the verb skriti, which means to hide.
kakaform: This may refer to an imported chocolate drink powder from northern Europe, but it might also be another of Kiš’s neologisms. In that case the word would seem to be a mixture of the Serbian terms kloroform, kaka, and kakao, signifying chloroform, excrement, and cocoa, respectively. The unpleasant associations are quite plausible given the narrator’s attitudes and actions toward the female character in question.