Out of that murky cavern lit only by the amoebal flames, there moves toward me a wax procession of mauve flowers, oval wreaths with shaking leathery greens around their crowns of blooms, and a huge copper-bound cross on the horizontal member of which is inscribed: Constantine, son of Simeon Negovan, 1867–1936.
Up into the movable black pulpit climbs the permanent secretary to the Ministry of Housing, G.K. He places a folded sheaf of paper on the reading stand, discreetly changes his glasses, impatiently tugs at the umbrella held over his head, coughs noisily to clear his throat, and begins the funeral speech. I can hardly hear him. Young Fedor Negovan, that irresponsible offspring of George’s, stands behind me whispering: “Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch.” I ask him to stop, but with redoubled sarcasm he goes on declaiming: “And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die.” I try to get away from his silky, thick, almost feminine alto, but cannot move because of the group of mourners pressing around the bier. “And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and every creeping thing, and the fowls of the air…” The measured posthumous praises of Mr. G.K. are corrupted at the very moment when they reach my ear by a distorted echo: “… for it repenteth me that I have made them.” I turn toward the brazen culprit as far as the compressed space allows: “Will you shut up at once!” He looks me up and down like some object he has chanced upon, placidly, knowingly. “I can, Uncle Arsénie, but it won’t help. God had the Negovans in mind, too — in fact, I think he had them especially in mind.” “I don’t care what you think.” “I’m sorry about that, Uncle,” he answers mockingly, “but at the moment you’re not in a position to choose who you talk with.” “I’d gladly box your ears!” I’m angry, and this to my discomfort inspires him: “No you wouldn’t, and you can’t even move your hand. Besides, Uncle, you’re not sure how I’d behave: perhaps I’d repay you in kind. Actually, I’ve always wanted to hit a real, authentic Negovan. You’re not the one I had in mind, but you’d do.” “Why did you come to his funeral at all?” “For pleasure.” “To see how we die?” “Yes,” he admits straightforwardly, then coughs: “But even for me, if it makes any difference to you, it’s not very pleasant. Don’t you think that bureaucratic windbag could get on with his farting? Constantine won’t be any better off because we’ve caught a cold.” He is standing on tiptoe to try to stop the wet from seeping through the cracked leather of his shoes. “Where are your galoshes?” I say maliciously. I’m not sorry for him; the voluntary poverty of a Negovan who had, so to speak, totally cut himself off from the family and become an anchorite to humiliate us publicly only makes me angry. But this is not enough for Fedor. He wants to make me worry as well. “I haven’t got them any more. Sophia made them into slippers.” I hear him cough again. “For herself, of course,” he adds. “That’s in keeping with her name.” I’m pleased that he’s given me the chance to insult him. But quietly and with evident enjoyment, he agrees: “Yes, she’s a bitch, a born bitch. That’s what attracts me. With Sophia you feel as if you’re sleeping with a garbage can.”
From the front door came the adagio notes of a soft tune, followed by the shrill ringing of the bell, which in no way made me more disposed to welcome visitors. I was of two minds as to whether to respond at all. But I didn’t have the nerve not to. Everyone knew that because of my condition there was always someone in the house, and I was afraid that my not answering the door would be interpreted as if something had happened to me, particularly if it was Mr. Mihajlović, our most kind and attentive neighbor whom Katarina had prevailed upon to drop by in her absence.
It was indeed Mr. Mihajlović standing on the threshold. I peered through the glass peephole as through the eyepiece of one of my binoculars, not daring to let him into the hall lest my clothes puzzle him and start him thinking, but deeming it even less advisable to send him away rudely. So I had to find a means of reassuring him, and if possible, of getting rid of him. I thanked him for his attention and told him that I was all right, and that his kind offices weren’t needed because I had to lie down for a while. I was fully conscious that the more I talked, the greater the risk that the dark, portly, unkempt man in a worn vest pulled over striped pyjamas would conclude that I was not all right. First, because my voice had begun to tremble and break at just the wrong moment, and because I chose words which were more and more the emaciated synonyms for what had already been said; and also because I had begun to tap my fingers on the wood in apprehension as well as irritation. Finally, I said that I was going to bed at once, that I was undressed, that in fact I had been lying down when he had rung. At last I forced him to apologize fervently for disturbing me, which apologies put a stop to the complicated explanations that I could no longer sustain. When at last he had gone, and I had shut the brass cover of the peephole, I was as exhausted as if I’d been through another heart contraction.
I put in my wallet the documents which would prove my legal ownership to Simonida’s tenants, who up to now had dealt only with Katarina and Golovan. Then I clipped my pince-nez to my vest pocket, figuring that after such strict isolation I would certainly be surprised and upset by something or other, perhaps even revolted, and looked for my pocket watch — not the Longines which I used every day, but the gold one engraved with the threefold tower of sapphires which was the property owner’s symbol.
All I had to do now was to pick out a pair of binoculars that would slip easily under my coat. The Mayer which I most often used because it was light as a feather — I could not consider because it was too cumbersome. The small Mayer, the 6×30, was too heavy, and the artillery binoculars were clad in an iron suit of armor. The Zeiss prismatic 8×80 was just right in size and weight, but its range finder was damaged. And of course in this instance none of the single-barreled ones would be of any use. It is true that one or two of them would be easy to carry: some were even collapsible — their rings could be pushed into each other like the soft folds of a caterpillar — but unfortunately they would have attracted attention by their artificial appearance, and that would have caused more harm than good. Going over the whole collection, I suddenly remembered that Katarina had just what I needed. The opera glasses which we had bought in Budapest were a beautiful little instrument made out of ivory or some darker imitation, with a chrome rim around the bone body of the eyepiece and the lens and, what was most important, a light-colored handle which, while normally folded like a carpenter’s rule, could be mounted on the body between the two barrels, and so make the whole instrument much easier to manipulate.
Of course, these pygmy-size binoculars were not particularly strong; one might even say that they were short-sighted. But since the objects which I wanted to bring nearer would hardly be farther away from me than a theater box from the stage, a longer range would have been of little use; and there was the added advantage that along with the handle it could be stuffed into an ordinary cloth bag. The only difference was that the theater box would be in the street — perhaps some bench in Kalemegdan Park, if it were near enough to Paris Street and if, of course, it were sufficiently solitary for such a tender meeting, since onstage across the street would be playing only one heroine, my Simonida. That was why it was wise to take the binoculars. When I got there I would want to look her over from close up. But my eyes, wearied by those forlorn buildings on the left bank of the Sava, would never allow me to go right up close to her intimately and examine her — not only to look at her but to scrutinize her, just as at the first meeting after a separation one takes one’s wife’s face between one’s palms and examines it at length, comparing it with hesitant, nostalgic memories.