“They will be able to see the sun again, Trifun Trifunoski!”
“I am glad, Leme,” he said sincerely happy, you could see he was happy, “my heart is very happy that your sight has returned to you, young man, and now we must analyse things a little, Leme.”
We look at each other straight in the eye, fierily. Curse me, fierily.
“What can be said, Leme,” he started, carefully, “you can see for yourself, unhappy Leme, it is scary, horrible! It cannot be thought of, it is pure fantasy. Leme. Fruitless, poisonous, death-bringing, my little bird. It is aimless, Leme, it has no aim. (Curse me, aim.) Let’s analyse, word for word... It’s strange Leme, very strange, dear young man, all night to wastefully, aimlessly look at the water, just like that, little fool, good-for-nothing; what sort of satisfaction did you get from that, little friend? Shivers are crawling over me, Leme, when I think of all that might have happened to you for such a hollow, wild thing. What benefit could a person expect to get, Leme, except oh, to certainly earn a fine, little cold, one to get into your bones. I bet that you froze your little brother too, Leme, the one you took to that boulder, his teeth were chattering, weren’t they, Leme?
“Yes, Trifun Trifunoski, it is true, it was cold,” I acknowledged.
“There,” he said so sweetly, helpfully, like a parent would, “you endured so much fear in those black waves and wild birds and it was all for nothing! And secondly, Leme, the most frightening thing, is that in your composition one can see a great insensitivity, young man. At least in one moment you should think of the millions of hungry people, the millions suffering, the millions drowning in blood, of your unfortunate brothers, you haven’t any conscience, dear young man, to be able to sit on that boulder to pursue your crazy happiness. Where is your oath, Leme, your youth morale, your human spirit? You have acted selfishly Leme, just like a bourgeois without taking into account the class struggle of the proletariat... Tragic, Leme,” kindly Trifun Trifunoski abruptly destroyed me from all sides.
“I am ashamed,” I said and I started to cry. I acknowledged that I had no talent, that I hate all poems, novels and all such things, I acknowledged to him that it was a moment of craziness, darkness, pain, and that it was selfish, a small pain, the pain of just one person, meaningless, one person. Curse me, just like that, of only one person.
His confusion was without bounds when he heard these words from my mouth. Curse me, he did not believe.
“I value your sincerity, Leme,” he said dryly, with concern, “but your soul is ill, black, it has to be cured, dear. What is the evil spirit in you, Leme, that’s made you so crazy, who is that evil devil?” he asked with pain.
“Kejtin,” I called to him weeping out loud. “He is dying in the cellar... He has been refusing food for three days, he wants to die, he will die. He is dying innocent, I swear, he is dying because of some disgusting person, some villain. Today is the last day, Trifun Trifunoski, tomorrow is the doctor’s examination and they will take him away, dear mother!” You know, this was the limit of my strength. Out of my mind, with my hands, with my head, with my feet I started to hit the wall of the little room, and at the same time to call out the harshest ugliest words. “Disgusting! Villain!”
Obviously the good Trifun Trifunoski had strongly struck my pain. Calming me in his arms, with his dear hands stroking my hair, I remember that he said one other thing, with fervour he said:
“Poor boy! Why didn’t you say it at once, Leme? Aaggh,” he said with pain, as though someone had stuck a knife deep into him, through to his bone, ah, that disgusting person, that villain! No, no, that cannot be permitted, no way! A brief smile flashed on his lips, lit up his face, something excited him, with some strange happiness, he comforted me, “Be comforted, Leme, your friend will return to you safe and sound,” then from his suitcase that was full of works he took a note pad full of hand written poems, drawings of flowers, stars and flags and he gave it to me. “For you, Leme,” he said, “these poems are for you, dear young man.” Curse me, I thought that he was giving them to me to calm me down. I was so ignorant and stupid!
That was the last time Trifun Trifunoski and I saw each other. The only thing that remained was the hope, that little note pad with strange poems and even stranger, inscrutable drawings...
Perhaps some of those little devils had really thought up that mountain, Senterlev. Perhaps it didn’t exist at all, someone had dreamt it up from fear, from scary despair. Curse me, I curse myself, I became a non-believer, a liar, in me were born some evil, bad feelings, unnoticeably I began to hate everything in the Home, even the children. I would show those little disgusting villains. Ah, you must think that that was so simplistic, simple, easy. Ah, you certainly don’t know! An escape from that place must be made, far, far away. You might stay on the road, you might fall on the road, and the sun might burn you as long as you do not return. Never go back again to that Home, in that deaf building. Never, never! Never to see the eyes of those people again, to leave all people! To be alone, all alone, dear boy, little man, to hide yourself in some dark, deep cave, away from everyone, from every person. You are not permitted to mix with them, their words are lies, their love is false, that’s how they smile at you, dear boy, until you fall into their hands, until they seize you, then like a little beast, they will throw you in the cafe, in the line, in the assembly line, in the cursed Home. I was full of hate, bitterness, oh, God, something frightening, mindless, was tying itself to my heart. But that’s when She came, I swear, I can swear any oath you ask of me, she said to me “What is it Leme, don’t you believe any more, woe is you, son. Believe, Leme, believe, little Leme,” she made me swear an oath on my mother to do so. Curse me, so what, perhaps that mountain did exist, the Senterlev? And it was as if everything started from new, love, hate, truth, lies, curses, prayer, goodness, swear words...
Kejtin’s illness, the strange healing
Dreams were his illness. Curse me, dreams. He wasn’t happy when they freed him. I saw how difficult it was for them to drag him out of the cellar. He wanted them to leave him there, leave him to the mice. Curse me, to the mice. He looked even more mournful, more alone. Alien. Distant. As soon as he adjusted his sight, he fell onto the ground as though mowed down. Curse me, he was dead.
“Kejtin is dead!”
“Kejtin is dying!”
“Kejtin has died!” the children were screaming, all at once, all over the Home, the scary news spread.
“Kejtin no longer is alive!”
There was no way I could understand it at all. Curse me, if ever I believed in such a thing, in those liars. How can the son of Kejtin not be alive, I thought, how can he be covered by the earth, lying still, not moving; there was no way I could understand that his heels would be wiped clean in a funeral ritual, even less could I believe that he would not be laughing. Curse me, a laugh. What would happen with the day, the night, the sun, with the stars, the wind, the water, everything, everything on the earth would become deaf, a waste. I could not understand how he could endure such calm, the earth, to not fly, to not think, to not travel.
“Liars!” I wanted to shout to them all. “Cursed liars!”
The bell rang. Curse me, death. In an hour the whole assembly line in the Home was destroyed, all of a sudden you saw children running from all directions, kind, stupid, reckless they’ll smash open their heads, everyone wants to see his death. Curse me, the death of Kejtin. Oh God, God, evil children!
He was laid out, dead, motionless in the dusty, red-hot dust of the yard.
Death.
For a while that frightening image, that hard realisation, calmed down even the wildest and the most troublemaking children. That was the first time we could so closely, so realistically see our own death. The death of a child. Frightened by that thought, made wise without a word, by something even more powerful than words, it was totally unfamiliar, that unseen thought circled above our heads; you could see that warning had the strength to influence everyone present, at once they were stunned, mute, saddened. Curse me, servile. The deceased would need a white sheet so the sun would not burn him, and a sheet was brought straight away. The deceased needs a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his lips, and with tears, comrade Olivera Srezoska hands up her own. Curse me, she is crying. I swear, I saw, I saw.