“Where are you off to, brother, that’s a wall?!”
“Wall,” he looks at you compassionately, as though to say, “luckless wonder, what wall; I am high up, in between the white soft clouds, what do I care for your wall! Kill yourself if you have no talent, friend,” his distant look was saying. And he bangs the wall with his head, his forehead splits like a ripe melon, and red fluid flows out. Nothing hurts him, it’s not his head. Someone else is living inside him. Curse me, the talent. I swear, that talent is a horrible thing.
Everything we did, everything we worked at, even when we walked, our walk, our steps, everything we ate, our mouths, and when we slept, our ravings, all of it had some devilish connection with talent. In those days, more than once, a child would be startled in the middle of the night and would all of a sudden jump from bed, you think, he could see the sad situation he was in — something was simply driving him and flying, he leaves the sleeping hall. A bird. Curse me, there is a God, to go in that darkness and along those rotten stairs with only a few minor accidents — forehead, nose, eye, sprained leg. Oh there must have been some good angel here keeping watch all night. You see some climbing, some descending. No “good morning”, no “good night”, each is alone. Not speaking. Poets, tractor drivers, motorists, opera singers, ballerinas, musicians, choir singers, artists, river just flowing. I swear, at that time not even their own mothers would know them. How, how could you now recognise that beautiful Bosilka Kochoska who was as gentle as an ant. Oh God, her little head was lifted up, if she trips, nothing will be left of her pert, little nose, snubbed, sweet bird-like little nose. And her little legs are like that, restless she takes small steps when she walks, she walks on her toes, curse me, she is a natural ballerina, Bosilka, she takes your breath away. I swear, if you had thrown her into water at that moment, she would’ve walked, the water would’ve supported her. Curse me, she would’ve walked on water. Some of the children, tiny mongrels, bad characters, some without talent, brothers of Kejtin, devils, who, to make jokes, would address her for something, would ask:
“Comrade Bosilka Kochoska, what was your name?”
The answer was not at all important, because she wasn’t even listening properly; it wasn’t that she’d heard you — you could even ask her more stupid questions, the important thing was her bowing to the ground, when her little neck stretches out and her little pursed lips, unfamiliar, new, when she says to you in some sing-song voice:
“Please, yes, thank you!”
“No, nothing, you say, I beg your pardon!”
And she will answer you:
“Au revoir, do come again!” and saying that she makes a deep bow, wondrous, magic, she would paralyse you. And you see whether you want to or not, you stop and now, altogether seriously, you ask yourself:
“Was it her or not?” you interrogate yourself; you rub your eyes. You see you’re not as you should be, that it’s got under your skin. As they say, you are one sheep short of a flock. So you say to the wind:
“Goodbye. Until we meet again!” You’d been tricked by some shadow, you thought something scary had grabbed you. Curse me, talent is black magic, an illness.
What about what happened with Todorche Terzioski. You can see yourselves what an artistic name it is. A little ox, a greedy guts, all at once, he felt as though something was choking him. All night it was as though something was stuck in his throat, he said he could not breathe. It was gathering and growing and in the morning, at breakfast, all at once it exploded. Maddened, he jumped up from the table, he burst into song and he locked himself in a place which shouldn’t be mentioned. He was singing opera, the whole Home was booming. At first we were a bit taken aback, we were a bit frightened, we wondered what was going on. We left breakfast and we took off to see what happened.
“What’s up, Terzivche?” the dear Headmaster Ariton Jakovleski asked him delicately. “Aren’t you well?”
“No,” he sang, “I a-am we-ell, practising!”
“What are you practising, Terziche?”
“O-pe-ra-com-rade A-riton Ja-kov-le-ski!”
“Practise, practise,” said the dear Headmaster, he wiped his forehead, and with that we began to calm down a little.
After that he stayed in that cursed place for hours. What, didn’t it stink? Curse me, it was the sweetest thing for him, the most excellent. His soul was singing, could a person cool off and for the whole day, from morning to night stay bravely in a place like that. Was it some simple little passion. O, I swear, all the feelings were mixed in here, it was some frightful, deep force. Whatever you spoke to him about during those days, he couldn’t reply in a human way, normally. If you said good morning to him, he would reply in an operatic way:
“Go-go-go-od mo-o-orn-ing!” for the rest of the day he would mutter it. “Go-go-go-od mo-o-orn-ing!” It could’ve been evening, midnight, it was all the same, for him it was just good morning. Curse me, morning.
All the same, that wasn’t the only impressive change in the children. When your soul changes, you change the way you look on the outside, everything. Could they permit here such a great famous national ballerina, such an artist or poet in long frock coats made of thin worn blankets, poorly cut, and even more poorly dyed with chestnut leaves? Surely that wasn’t allowed, oh how new, colourful, strange that morning looked. If you knew nothing about the Home, you would’ve thought it was a carnival. The little girls made large colourful rosettes from their folksy, red scarves, and you see they have decorated their bust or their hair with safety pins. Curse me, red flowers. Others wove their hair with white ribbon and dropped them over their foreheads. You would see her but you wouldn’t believe it, she walks quietly, lightly, like a fairy, sorceress. The boys, too, tried to look better, more elegant. They worked on one thing for hours: they spit on their palm and you see them rubbing their uncooperative tufts of hair, taming them, as if they’d been licked by a cow. They look at themselves in small mirrors. After that, they would tie not-so-clean hankies over their moist hair, and with that, their souls somehow lighter, they slept, they dreamed. Curse me, that was peak perfection. Until the morning, it was skill and joy, and then you’d see the hair is a mess, so he would have to untangle it, then comb it, bringing hot tears to his eyes. But that is the power of talent, the poor kid starts everything afresh, he puts up with the biggest pain, bravely.
That day the dear Headmaster and comrade Olivera Srezoska and Trifun Trifunoski, and the whole Home were very elegant, in their Sunday best. The dear Headmaster had draped his army overcoat over his shoulders, for this occasion, he had on the war decorations, and Olivera Srezovska and Trifunoski were dressed in the cross country competition shirts. That was the first and last time we saw Olivera Srezovska in a shirt, free, unbuttoned. Curse me, unbuttoned. The other two instructors, comrade Koljanoski and the Meteor, acted as the orchestra. Comrade Koljanoski played the jug, an old skill, and the Meteor was able to drag out the piano accordion a bit. At the same time, all the flags were brought out along with the other things that go with such an event and you could already say the exam had started. Curse me, at that moment the bell-ringer struck the bell.
That was in the northern hall, in the freezer. The examining committee, the dear Headmaster, as president of the committee, Olivera Srezoska, as a member and Trifun Trifunoski, also a member, took their places in the most auspicious way at the examining table. At that moment, applause roared in the northern hall, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! You can imagine the children’s hearts at that cursed moment. The candidate called by the committee came out as though swamped by cold water. His teeth chattering.