18.05.2006., četvrtak
KAKO IZGUBITI FRAJERA U SEDAM DANA
Poznajete li, drage moje, one zabite njemačke gradiće u kakvima se čovjek pita zašto je željeznica tu uopće izgradila stanicu? Pripizdine su to u kojima se naizgled, beskonačnost ukočila ponad nekoliko šarenih kuća s balkonima i prozorima prepunim cvijeća; okružene nepreglednim poljima žutog krmnoga bilja, osuđene na vječnu samoću, u kojima se odjednom osjeti sva njihova bezimena tuga, jer se ne vidi čovjek, ne čuje se ptica, pa čak se ne može vidjeti ni kako se lijeno proteže kakav tusti mačak. I kroz takve sam gradiće danima putovao sa svojom dragom sve do Velikog Grada. Veliki grad ima autobusnu stanicu. Autobusna stanica je prostrana i na njoj se nalazi metalna klupica. No, što ja radim na autobusnoj stanici? ...
Želite li saznati što Porto radi na autobusnoj stanici usred Velikog Grada, odskipajte na stranice online magazina Bestseler.
Ovaj tekstić napisah za magazin Cosmpolitan prije točno godinu dana. Nakon što mi u rubrici NJEGOV STAV, rubrici tik do Miljenkove, objaviše nekoliko pričica koje, jošte, naiđoše na topao prijem kod čitateljica Cosma i... - moram priznati, dobar je osjećaj slušati žensku čeljad dok hihoće nad tvojim tekstom u tramvaju, komentira ga na kavicama u gradu - bijah zamoljen da napišem nešto i na temu gubljenja muškarca na putovanju. Napisah tekst, mala kovrčava dade zeleno svjetlo pa ga poslah urednici. Kada se na kiosku pojavio novi broj Cosma, iznenadih se ugledavši tekst njihova kolumniste o muškoj žudnji za velikim sisama. I tako prestade moja suradnja s Cosmom. Niti se oni više javljahu meni, niti ja njima. Po špici se govorkalo da je Miljac poručio urednici da u Cosmu ima mjesta samo za jednog od nas.
I tako... skroz bi zaboravio na njega da se ovih dana nisam bacio na veliko pospremanje razbacanih fajlova. Pronađite ga i vi na samo jedan klik miša udaljenosti od vaših ekrana.
A na stranicama Bestelera možete čitati i kolumnu Jezdimirov teatar muško ženskih odnošaja u kojemu se naša Jezdimirka, gle čudne li koincidencije, prihvatila teme sličnog naslova: Kako izgubiti frajera u deset dana…
Uživajte u čitanju. Ne morate na kioske po Cosmo. Besteseler je džabe.
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16.05.2006., utorak
STRIC ATIF
Prošlli vikend opet smo bili na vikendici. Nije nas bilo puno... starci, sestra, njen muž i mali, mala kovrčava i ja. Dugo me tamo nije bilo. Godinama. Sve je djelovalo zapušteno. Starci nekako radije odlaze na more. Tamo je sve kamen. Tamo je sve beton. I dok je mala kovrčava u štiklama lomila svoje lijepe gležnjeve po krtičnjacima, pokušao sam prepoznati vizure one dobro njegovane tratine koja mi je za nedjeljnih radio prijenosa zamjenjivala Maksimir, Poljud i Marakanu.
Blagovali smo u tišini, vjetar je nosio miris i latice rascvale akacije, činilo se kao da sniježi u maju. Nismo puno jeli. Ostalo je mnogo hrane. Mjera je ostala ista. Kao i svakog proljeća. Jedino se u nama nešto promijenilo. Okus kao da je izašao iz hrane, veselje iz ljudi. Okolni bregovi bili su nijemi, tihi. Nije bilo pjesme. A onda se netko sjetio da odnesemo klopu stricu Atifu.
Priču možete pročitati u zbirci Buddha u supermarketu, Naklada Ljevak.
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01.05.2006., ponedjeljak
Dragi moji, primijetili ste da me nije bilo neko vrijeme. Bavio sam svime i svačime, radio na zbirci Buddha u supermarketu, pročitao i ocijenio vaših 1500 priča na Ekran pričama 04, na natječaj za Priče s bloga pristiglo ih je oko 400, napisao sam trećinu svog prvog romana... a pozvan sam i da, zajedno sa još nekolicinom poznatih vam blogera (svakako bacite oko i na prijevod lebove priče...), učestvujem u zanimljivom projektu o kojem će ovih dana biti više riječi... kao rezultat pred vama se nalazi prijevod priče Doktor Niko nema kom da piše na engleski. Priča je izašla u magazinu UV4, čitao sam je i u Močvari. Molim vas da primjedbama i komentarima pripomognete prevoditeljici i meni, kako bi što bolje ispeglali priču. U slučaju da pomenuti projekt naiđe na dobru recepciju inozemne publike, a naša zbirka Priče s bloga bude toplo primljena kod domaće, zanosim se mišlju da napravimo zajednički iskorak ka stranom čitateljstvu. čak sam i poduzeo nešto u tom smjeru... živi bili pa vidjeli ;)))
DOCTOR NIKO HAS NO ONE TO WRITE TO
At this time of the year when someone shouts in a country pub “I’ll be back you motherfuckers!”, hastily stands up overturning the chair and totters away, you know then that he’ll be back. And for your own sake you’d better find a safe place to spend the night .
At this time of the year night arrives very quickly and transforms doctor Niko into a hysterical Donald Duck.
Here beauty is just a flection from the PC screen and this male nurse is surely the last person whom doctor Niko would like to share the shift with and talk about shadow theatre. In this region, Night approaches very shyly, slipping her arm through his and brushes against his thigh her wet parts where a hedgehog calls and foxes quietly fart. In this place night opens with a low cards which then trump aces. Chequered tablecloths are matrices of an ancient mystery. Cosmogony is a dead fly on square C4.
“I’ll be back you motherfuckers!” Marinko gave a threatening growl, turned the chair upside down and tottered away from the pub followed by a salvo of derisive remarks and laughter, a folk singer’s squall and an accordion solo.
In this place, for three days now doctor Niko has been eyeing the unremoved ash on his carpet. And he knows … something is going to happen tonight. Something bad. Not good. Images will remain, not on the wall though. Late movie on a telly will be just fine, unmeasured pulse, on a railway line - she, he and a car. A signal yells stop, honey, don’t do it, even if it sounds totally right. So stupid.
“I’m going for a walk…” decides Niko, he puts on his coat and leaves the surgery. Neon light has already been flickering for three days in the hall and they just won’t change it. He floats down on its flickering, hazy, white light towards the exit door.
With a sudden BANG three policemen, a young woman in tears and a beaten-up man with a bloody arm appeared at the door.
“Good evening!”, said one policeman.
“Good evening guys.”, he answered.
“Where are you going doctor?”
“For a walk.”
“Well, not tonight I’m afraid”, the older policeman fixes him with protruding eyes. Niko shrugs his shoulders and greedily breathes in the fresh air coming through the door. But, there’s a terrible smell out there.
"For God’s sake what’s that nasty stink?", he asks.
“Well, my dear doctor…”, the younger policeman takes off his cap and with his sleeve wipes the pig dung off the Croatian coat of arms. “You see, Marinko acted like a dumb sonofabitch in the village because of this slut.”
“What have I done wrong?”, the young woman objected, her eyes full of tears.
“Shut your fucking mouth! What have you done wrong? Why the fuck did you bite? Uh?”
“What was I supposed to do? He kidnapped me…”
“What, what do you mean he kidnapped you!? He would have cooled off in half an hour and everything would have been OK.” One policeman pulls her roughly by the hand and takes her to a waiting room, he pushes her into a chair as one stubs a dog-end into an overfull ashtray. She screams with pain and starts weeping out of impotence. Niko now recognises her. The folk singer from the pub.
“What do you think you’re doing!?”, Niko yells at the policeman. “What do you think this place is? This is a hospital, not a pigsty. What happened?”
“Sorry, doctor…, Lejla had bitten his arm and Marinko pulled the trigger…”
He keeps telling him the story, but doctor Niko can hardly even hear him because down the hall comes nurse Marina. The sound of her clogs petrifies him. Nurse Marina talks to someone on her mobile; she is as white as a sheet. Then, spotting Marinko with all his bruises, she screams and runs and throws herself on her knees at his feet.
“Marinko!?”, she addresses him with a tearful voice, takes his blooded arm, cradles it with kisses and envelops it with tears. “You fool, why didn’t you kidnap me, I would have gone with you without hesitation.”
Niko’s head throbbed with the sudden rush of blood.
“Fuck, what a stupid woman!”, he thinks “She makes me sick!”
What makes him want to vomit is all this drama that can be expressed in three lines of verse, in three bars of music, in three bursts of rifle fire, in three seconds for Marinko to explode, to selfishly, cowardly blow himself up and disappear between her legs.
“Why does she keep giving herself to him? Why does she make herself into this cheap village slut?” But suddenly, as if she could intercept his thoughts, Marina raises her head and gives him one defiant look. Niko backs away. No, he hadn’t expected that, so much spite. “Why?” That hits him hard and he is ashamed of himself and his thoughts.
“Even so, I love her…” And there’s nothing he can do about dying every time, over and over again, when she passes by in her tight blue uniform, when she stretches like a cat during the night shift, or bends over his table while bringing him a coffee, so he would catch a glimpse of her little tits; when she naps on his bed, when she sits on his desk, examining a ladder in her stocking and looks at him, tempting him with all her feminine wiles to which he has no immunity; when she tells him NO if he approaches her, slipping his hand under her blouse; when she averts his attempts to kiss her.
He remembers how a guy he studied with was not allowed to play the piano, so he wrote that crap on the walls all over the city Piano not allowed for Aleks, letting everyone know…”So what!” now Niko is upset. “What am I supposed to do now that they didn’t allow me to write? That they forced me to study Medicine, now that I am serving as an intern in these bloody backwoods, stitching bottle wounds, treating boils on bums and operating on ingrown nails. Now that some shameless village girl doesn’t give a fuck about me.”
And what is he supposed to do? The same thing as that Marinko? Leave his signature with a Kalashnikov on the walls of a country pub? Kidnap a folk singer, throw a Kashikara bomb on a police car, barricade himself inside a shed and blow up his uncle’s pigsty with a hand-held rocket launcher Zolja. Is this the signature of the contemporary desolate man? A cry? The Scream? Munch? Because now times are not so benign as they used to be. Walls of our cities and villages are soiled not only with a spray paint, and only the songs and the women are still just as beautiful and as dangerous; like an army under the flag. Like Marina. Or the young folk singer for whom Marinko lost his mind and crapped all over the village.
And he knows very well that there are so many women he will not be able to describe.
“Therefore it’s probably better that I am a doctor, not a writer” Niko mopes.
Swollen liver which he feels under his fingers is a swollen liver - fact…, he will never be able to describe heart gangrene though. But still, how does his real handwrite look like? Is it this unreadable scribble under even more unreadable ?
“Marinko. Marinko is a writer. I am not a writer.” With his Kalashnikov Marinko covers in writing views and facades, he leaves his trace on the walls of the country pub and on nurse Marina’s belly. Something is breaking inside of him.
“Maybe I should have stayed out of this pigsty, but it’s too late now!” he es taking the pistol out of a holster from a bewildered policeman. He forces them to lay down on the floor and grabbing Marina by the hand he takes her outside and locks her in his car. He gets inside just to fire three bullets at the wall above their heads, to kiss Lejla in her cheek and hit Marinko’s painful arm with a gun.
The evening is fresh. Niko greedily slurps the air through the open window while they are trying to escape the pursuit. He roars, feverishly shifting gears, “Marinaaa!!!!”
While they are driving at full speed on the local highway, Niko is telling her how he always wanted to pull that stunt when one drives through a red traffic light on the crossroad or through a railway barrier while it is down, escapes the train by a hair’s breadth and therefore gets away from the pursuit. While Marina is stupidly screaming without stopping, her scream becomes one with the sound of locomotive, which easily transforms the car into a fragile origami crane.
“And I’ve asked them nicely to change that neon light in the hall”, occurs to doctor Niko just a moment before he will fell into a dreamless sleep.
The cell is dry and warm, perfect for writting. Niko's room-mate Milivoj is university professor. They are having long conversations about literature. Milivoj is philogist, and philogists are very often rapists, of women or texts, there is no difference at all. With his persistence of an ant and thoroughness of the forensic scientist he investigates crime scenes throughout Niko's manuscript.With lots of enthusiasm he pays attention to details, he connects the unexpected with something very certain, his book-learning and his lack of restraint which is a result of his excentric interests.
At last, same as Niko, he can be what he always wanted to be: a hermit, a scholar in his work cell. Milivoj is a loyal friend, Sancho Pansa of all Niko's stories, truly, all what one writer needs.
Finally, he has someone to write to.
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