The noble Trifun Trifunoski (no, it is not possible for a man to hold himself back), that was the truth, on the little table there was a little, open army suitcase, full to the brim with poems, novels, plays, with all sorts of creative work. Oh God, dear God! Surely there was something in that burning soul when so unthinkingly he resigned from that happy, secure future which was already smiling on him. Curse me, he forgot the victories, the awards, as if the flattering commendations did not keep him, all at once he became a slave to something scary. Curse me, a slave. It was tragic to see this powerful, handsome man in such a degrading situation, at once I regretted that I had come so early. That man, who so easily ran millions of kilometres, over mountains, rivers, plains, who like a deer leapt over huge ponds of water, who in a wondrous manner could fly over muddy, heavy roads, through thorns, through rains, through slush, who got lost in thunder storms, it was sad, it was desperate to look at how he was rolling around in the little stinking room. His whole body was useless to him, something more powerful had nailed him, ruined. Curse me, how quickly, how unexpectedly everything changed in him, how quickly he deteriorated, lost weight, wasted away, he was totally wasted, he looked like a big, wounded bird with withered wings, its steel-grey feathers dragging through the mud. What made him go so crazy?
You just had to see him before a holiday day, for example, the first of May, May Day. Curse me, then it was as if he wasn’t on the earth, it was scary to meet his look.
“Look at Trifun Trifunoski,” one of the children would say.
“Don’t be stupid,” another would say. “Get out of his way, he’s thinking!”
“Off by heart,” would say the first child, “he looks disturbed to me.”
“He is not,” a third would join in, in defence of Trifun Trifunoski, “you’ll hear at the celebration.”
“But where is his book,” the boy would ask, “can he do it just like that, off by heart, as though he is reading something in the wind.”
Curse me, in the wind. It was a wind he knew, some strange, foreign wind. He didn’t sleep for days and nights. Sometimes, for centuries, I swear. All of a sudden you’d see him like some eternal guard circumnavigating the Home for hours, there was no place that could contain him. It could have been an ugly, harsh Spring, with snow, with storms, what do you think, could that dim his bright look, to darken the sun on May Day? Curse me, it was as if everything was against Trifun Trifunoski, the weather would go bad just around the holiday. Cold rains would fall, stacks of snow, the unexpected ice would lay all nature to waste. All the same, while the others were taken with rage, kindly Trifun Trifunoski, sunken in his secret world worked sweetly, with happiness. Curse me, it was as if he wasn’t there, as though he lived in another world. Everything was different with him, the sky was clear, blue, high, endless; happy little birds were flying, red flags were waving, a hammer and sickle blossomed on every wall, red stars, symbols of every country, at that time, he was with them, marching. Curse me, marching. So what if the north wind was whistling, Trifun Trifunoski could hear the Internationale, he was inspired with such a spirit, he was creating. Curse me, no-one could provoke such a fever in the children as Trifun Trifunoski did when he took the stage, when he started to recite one of his poems. Everything in him cheered, he sang. We listened open-mouthed, in a trance, we greedily gulped each of his words.
That’s why I hurried to Trifun Trifunoski so early, that I wanted as early as possible to reveal my own great secret. My own heart. Curse me, my whole heart. The thing that was born in me that night was the shiniest thing, most beautiful. Not a single star, not a single sun was as bright. With a beaming face I stood before Trifun Trifunoski, victorious. As soon as he saw me, with a single look he hit the nail on the head. He said:
“What do I see, little Leme, you’ve burst into song! I bet the nightingale has come out in you!”
(Curse me, the nightingale.) As calmly as I could, sweetly I answered him:
“It wasn’t a nightingale,” I said and I was taken, carried away. Losing my mind.
“Well, what?” he said inquisitively looking at me. “Sit down,” he said to me sweetly, offering me his own chair. He did not take his eyes off me the whole time, observing me. “What could it be then, Leme?” he asked carefully, a little indirectly, teacher-like.
“It was water,” I answered him directly, “wild birds. I can’t contain myself, Trifun Trifunoski!”
“Strange,” he said, “come on, read, let’s hear your wondrous composition, Leme.”
“Thank you, Trifun Trifunoski,” I wanted to say, “but I haven’t the time,” I wasn’t allowed to lose a single second, every moment was decisive for the life of Kejtin. At once, without stops, without breaks, without any punctuation, I began to read, blazing as though with a machine gun. Curse me, I sang, I cried, I crawled, I flew, I fell dying, I came to life, I laughed, I swallowed water, I sank, I was lost. I was in the sky, with the stars, in the shining gardens of paradise, I fell into deepest, darkest hell. For example, when it was necessary to say, oh, oh, my dear mother, oh, dear friend, oh, life, oh, birds, oh water, oh Home, oh, oh, oh — that amounted to someone, oh, someone stabbing you in the back with a knife. Oh, a knife. Naturally, if someone sticks a knife in your heart, you won’t be singing; rather, you will fall down, you will scream. Curse me, I screamed at the top of my voice.
“Calm down, Leme, calm yourself, you poor boy,” said Trifun Trifunoski, frightened, concerned, but he could not tell my heart to calm down, no-one could stop such a devastating, evil wind.
“Oh, I’m going blind,” was one part of the composition and fool that I was, I rolled my eyes so naturally, showing only the white of my eyes, so that they were all you could see, and poor Trifun Trifunoski thought my sight was gone. Mournfully, he said:
“You unfortunate little boy, now you will be blind and lame for the rest of your life!” And then he piled the most offensive abuses on the evil muse. “Curse you, you dark goddess, shame on you for taking this thin, weak, little bird as a target, for sending your death-bringing, poisonous, titanic arrows into this thin, little chest. Here I am, Cupid, here I am, black muse, all of me is available to you, hit me, wrestle with me,” Trifun Trifunoski offered himself up.
But with these words, it was as though he helped me, curse me, it was then that the river flowed in me. Part of what I was saying was written down and part of what I was saying had never before come into my mind.
“Oh, be quiet, be quiet, savage wave, say in this case who is right and who is wrong,” and you know, in that moment, the wave calmed, a long pause followed, the waters near the edge softly whispered, under the pretence they were weaving the fabric of truth, white, and poison, untruth, turned into small, black blisters which were pointlessly dying on the bank. “Die, die,” I was merciless. “This fire, this heart which is becoming enflamed, curse me, one clear day — grey day, it will be clear who is right, who is wrong!”
Once I finished reciting, it was as if a huge stone fell from the soul of Trifun Trifunoski.
“How do you feel now, Leme,” he asked me sighing. “Have you calmed down a little, dear heart?”
“Yes,” I said, “now I feel better, Trifun Trifunoski.”
“Let’s thank God for that,” he said. “Good. How are your eyes?”
I admit that I considered this question a little, I did not understand it but I hope that I gave a sufficiently correct answer. Looking at him goggle eyed I answered him: