Therefore, I have the right to assert that this town was built up by people of the mettle of Arsénie, Simeon, and his other grandson, too: Constantine Negovan, whose funeral I couldn’t put out of my mind that morning. For once again, as from Gračanička Street I made out the contours of Kalemegdan Park, I was assailed by memories of his cortege. I am walking slowly along an avenue glistening with rain between huge, looming graves, memorial stones, marble slabs, and granite crosses toward a grave dug in a wet ornamental grove; I am surrounded by a procession, vaulted by umbrellas like black silk flowers, like dark-membraned mushrooms, at a certain distance from the lacquered carriage from whose plate-glass body the coffin shines, a casket girt with silver in a jeweler’s display cabinet; I am walking to the spot where, behind the choir of the Association of Architects, the funeral attendants were lined up in their red jackets, carrying circular wreaths of rosemary, laurel, and purple roses with gilt expressions of condolence printed on their mourning bands.
The procession’s ranks have already formed, the funeral march can barely be heard above the buzz; I move off slowly, keeping myself well behind the front rows of the family in whose midst I should be. But my efforts to get away from Fedor Negovan are fruitless. Clearly, I am the Negovan he has decided to hate today. My turn at last.
“ ‘Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch, and, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of water upon the earth.’—I hope you don’t mind if I accompany you, Uncle?”
“Of course I mind! But under the circumstances I can do nothing to stop you.”
“Quite right.” He isn’t grinning in his usual manner, but I’m irritatedly aware that beneath the youthful pockmarked cheeks something pleases him. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
He sucks air in noisily and then, barely opening his mouth, spits in front of him with a dull hiss on the spot where his next step is about to fall.
“Would it be too much to ask you not to spit while you’re in my company?”
“No, but it wouldn’t make any difference. I just can’t seem to stop my own body from unloading itself inside the family circle, entouré de sa chère famille. Just look at them, the bastards: black and gold products of Levantine and Serbian brigandry. The same black morning coats and black bowlers, the same black, egg-shaped heads on their stocky black bodies, the same thin gold wives, gold ornaments, gold teeth, gold manners, gold words, and gold reserves. The Negovans have gathered in their black and gold colors to show the world that they’re still here, that they’ll be here forever even though one of their number is no longer with them!”
“Do you have any special reason for making this already sad duty even more onerous?” I ask.
“Perhaps I have, Uncle,” he answers calmly. We stopped for a moment. “I’ve decided that ordinary funerals are not good enough for a Negovan.”
“What would you suggest?”
“You ought to be burned at the stake! In the main square, urbi et orbi, for everyone to see. In front of the Prince’s statue, say. Like Sardanapalus. With your money, your wives, your servants, your horses, pictures, bonds, and your houses! With all your abilities and success.”
“And coronaries,” I add resignedly, “and gallstones.”
“And gallstones too, of course — those most precious of stones.”
I step discreetly but firmly into the front row, yet he continues brazenly: “Ashes are lasting and dry. First-class packaging. The relative is delivered after being weighed on an apothecary’s scales, and packed in a transparent cellophane box with a printed obituary — in gilt lettering, of course.” Taking my arm, he whispers: “Uncle, why don’t you carry your dead around with you?”
Completely taken aback, I ask:
“My dead? In God’s name, Fedor, what are you talking about?”
“Constantine, Uncle — Constantine Negovan. Wasn’t he killed by one of your houses?”
I decided to ignore him. On no account will I pay attention to his provocation. And I’ll see to it that I don’t present this brat with such an opportunity again.
“You like to show your teeth, don’t you, Uncle Arsénie? And not just any teeth, but your gold teeth. Even from your deathbed. Luckily, Negovans don’t die, they simply replace one another, like the green baize on a roulette table. That’s why you’re invited to pay your last respects to the ever mourned Constantine, son of Simeon Negovan, builder, model father and son, faithful husband and brother, noble relative and friend, esteemed employer and benefactor, skillful Daedalus, architect of the city of Belgrade. Crap! It’s the living Negovans you’re supposed to pay your respects to!”
“What a scoundrel you are!” I say as Timon Negovan approaches me, takes me by the arm, and inquires whether I’ve yet found a building contractor to take over Constantine’s projects. No, not yet. I’ll never find anyone to measure up to Constantine. I’ll have to do something soon, of course. There’s no place for indecision. The building season is nearing its end, the rainy season has already started, and any further delay in construction could be disastrous.
Timon agrees and walks off. Once again Fedor is behind me:
“Is there a single person here, apart from Jacob, who has come to honor Constantine? Everyone knows that our most esteemed builder was mad! He built grandiose bridges across rivers to areas that had no roads — in the belief that roads would be built as soon as bridges could carry them across the rivers! He built a leaning tower fit to rival Pisa, but so crooked that it toppled over even before its completion! He would have been ruined if you hadn’t restrained him through credits from Timon’s bank.”
Whatever Constantine built was irreproachable. However, while his bridge was truly majestic it served no useful purpose. And his tower had been undeniably crooked, and it too had no purpose. (Yes, he lacked that purposefulness which distinguishes the rest of us Negovans. In that respect, more’s the pity, Fedor was right, the late Constantine had been a good but unusual builder.)
“Well, he was original,” I concede grudgingly.
“He was more than just original, Uncle, he was mad, and you know it.”
“Do you think I’d have worked with him if he were crazy?”
“It was precisely because he was crazy that you did! He didn’t steal from you, or try to cheat you with bad construction work, or falsify accounts, or exceed time schedules. And because you were his nephew he built houses for you below cost”—(this last is a lie)—“and the houses he built were sound, strong, and solid as a rock, just like himself.” (This about the quality of his work is true.)
We are approaching the mound of earth by the grave. In front of us, through the black silk forest of umbrellas, the coffin is being carried out of the hearse and placed on the bier; the mourners range themselves around it in tight rings. Yet again I try to reason with this insolent young man, having made up my mind to complain to his father George tomorrow about his abominable behavior.